Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (37 page)

It is with poison,
I thought. Then another realization struck me.

“Surely if what you say is true, she’d have ordered me slain, as well.”

“Not so long as you were ignorant of your heritage.”

“So you have been protecting me all these years?”

He winced at the skepticism in my voice, then forced a laugh. “Think what you will. I know what I know.”

I tried to convince myself that this was a tale told by a drunkard, an invention. Except for the part about King Henry being my grandfather. The more I looked at Uncle Rowland’s face, the more I knew that much was true.

I sank back down on the bench, too confused to think of any other questions to ask. We sat there in silence, save for the sound of Uncle lifting the tankard and swallowing. And then a question did occur to me.

“How did she know? The Countess of Richmond—who told her about Maman?”

Uncle shrugged.

“Who told her?” I shouted at him, on my feet once more. “You must have some idea!”

Grudgingly, he gave me a name. “I warrant it was Sir Richard Guildford. He was with the king in exile in Brittany, but he was in service to the countess originally.”

Harry’s father. The same Sir Richard Guildford who had written to his son that he wished to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land because he had a great sin on his conscience.

“He’s dead now,” Uncle said, “and so is the countess. But I am certain there are others who’d like to see our line end. Be very careful, Jane, when you return to court.”

I
LEFT
W
ALES
the day after I heard my uncle’s story. Although I was convinced that he believed everything he’d told me, I was still uncertain as to how much of it was true. I could not understand why, if the countess had been responsible for my mother’s death, she had allowed my uncle to live. Surely, as a man, he posed more of a threat to the succession than any woman.

Uncle claimed that Henry VIII did not know he had a half brother. If that was true, why had he sent my uncle to Wales? At least an answer to that question was not hard to come by. Uncle had always been difficult to get along with, and the older he got, the more quarrelsome he became. He’d never been popular at court. Why wouldn’t the king seize on any excuse to send him away?

So, if King Henry did not perceive Sir Rowland Velville as a threat to the Crown, was anyone really trying to kill him? Was anyone trying to kill me? By the time I returned to Suffolk Place, I had convinced myself that neither one of us was in any danger. Too much drink had addled my uncle’s mind. The people who wanted him dead were figments of his imagination.

Traveling to Wales and back had taken well over a month. It
was already the third week in April in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and sixteen by the time I returned to Suffolk Place.

“Was your uncle any help?” Mary asked when she came to my chamber to welcome me from my journey. “Did he know why your mother left France?”

I shook my head, suddenly struck by the enormity of what I had learned. Mary Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk, although she was five years younger than I, was my aunt. The king was my uncle.

“A wasted journey, then. What a pity. You should have stayed here and been comfortable.”

“Has Queen Margaret arrived yet?” I asked. Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scotland…another aunt.

“She is expected to enter London on the third of May,” Mary said. “I wonder how much she will have changed.” Margaret had been fourteen the last time we’d seen her and Mary only eight.

I wondered if the two sisters would find they had much in common. They both had new babies, as did the queen. I supposed that would give them something to talk about. I doubted Margaret would have anything at all to say to me.

As Mary cheerfully continued to describe plans for the reunion of her siblings, I realized that my uncle’s secret was the one thing I could never share with her. Nor could I ever reveal his suggestion that the Countess of Richmond had been responsible for my mother’s death.

I’d spent much of my return journey and since thinking about that accusation. It was possible my uncle was right. The countess had been fully capable of doing whatever was necessary to reduce the number of potential claimants to the throne. She did, after all, orchestrate her son’s return to England and make sure he had sufficient allies to defeat King Richard III. She’d also arranged the marriage between her son and Elizabeth of York, to ensure that the
succession would go unchallenged. If she had discovered that the king had another child, an
older
child, she might well have acted precipitously to eliminate that threat.

And Uncle was right. Sir Richard Guildford was the most likely person to have told her who Maman was when she was at Collyweston. A casual comment, perhaps. Not realizing that Maman had a twin brother, the countess had acted in haste to remove a potential threat. And then? Guilt? Regret? There was evidence of both in the countess’s sudden increase in religious fervor and Sir Richard’s pilgrimage. He’d have known he shared some of the blame.

I doubted I would ever know the full truth. Both Sir Richard and the countess were dead.

I responded absently to Mary’s comments while I considered Mother Guildford. She had gone out of her way to discourage my questions and make me think no one knew more than she was telling me. She had lied when she’d implied that Maman died of consumption. Did that mean she know Maman’s real heritage—and mine, too? Had she had a hand in the murder herself? Or had she only learned of it later from her husband?

I wanted to confront her, to demand the truth, but I knew better than to do such a foolish thing. She was a strong-willed woman. She’d never admit to any wrongdoing. She might even try to get rid of me, to protect her late husband’s reputation.

I could not tell anyone, I realized. My secret was too dangerous. My uncle and I might be in real danger if the truth came out.

Although my arm was still sore, it had mended adequately to allow me to return to Queen Catherine’s service a few days before Queen Margaret was scheduled to arrive. As soon as I was settled, I asked after Ivo Jumelle. Not because I thought he’d seen anything suspicious when I fell, but because I hoped he might have heard something more about Guy.

“The envoy he served has been recalled and took the young man away with him,” Harry Guildford told me.

“He was not here very long.” I stepped close to Harry, following the pattern of a complicated dance that was to be part of a masque to entertain Queen Margaret.

“Ran off in fear, no doubt, after hearing that King Henry is talking of another invasion of France.”

“Why? I had not heard that France has done anything to provoke an attack.”

“King Henry sees the new French king as a rival since they are so near in age and physical prowess. François acquitted himself well in his war in Italy. Now Henry is determined to prove himself the better commander.”

I thought that a very foolish reason for starting a war. Then it occurred to me that I might disguise myself as a soldier and travel to France that way. The possibility so distracted me that I faltered in the steps we were rehearsing.

Harry caught me around the waist and lifted me high. “Pay attention,” he cautioned me. “If one of us puts a foot wrong, we’ll all go tumbling down.”

I tried to concentrate, but it was difficult. I discarded the idea of dressing as a man, but only because I’d had a better idea. I’d thought of a way to persuade King Henry to send me home to Amboise. All I had to do was find a way to speak with him in private.

That would be a problem. The king could meet privily with anyone he wished if
he
chose to arrange the assignation. For me to whisk him behind an arras or into an empty antechamber would not be as easy. He was always surrounded by counselors, courtiers, or guards.

“By the saints, Jane!” Harry stopped the practice and waved the
others away. “What ails you? If Bessie Blount were here, I’d bring her in to replace you even if it is the last moment.”

“She will be back soon enough,” I said. “In the meantime you must make do with me.” Bessie had left court to visit her mother, who was ailing, while I was in Wales. A pity, I thought. Her absence deprived me of the easiest means of access to the king.

Then it struck me. There
was
a way to get King Henry alone. I might not be able to enter the royal bedchamber in Bessie’s company, but I could contrive to be invited there in her place.

15

I
considered trying to arrange a rendezvous with the king during a pavane or a galliard, but the movements brought partners together only briefly before drawing them apart again, making conversation difficult. I would flirt, then, I decided, but save my more devious machinations for the bowling green.

King Henry was fond of tennis, loved to joust, and excelled at games of chance, but he was also an enthusiastic bowler. The bowling alley was a turf-covered area bounded by hedges. Ladies usually watched the play from a gallery, but I chose to cross the close-shaven grass to a vantage point much nearer the players. I stood in the shadow of the tiltyard wall to observe the king and three of his companions play at bowls. The steady clack of wood on wood and the occasional bursts of applause were interspersed with sounds of low conversation and laughter from the players.

Stooping, the king balanced the first of two heavy, highly polished wooden balls called “bowls” on his palm and sighted the stake at the far end of the alley. His target was called a “mistress.” Dipping his right knee, he made his cast. A cheer went up from the spectators when it came to rest a scant inch from where he’d aimed it.

Charles Brandon bowled next, then Will Compton and Ned Neville, who were on the opposing team. All four of them took turns casting while Nick Carew kept score on a tablet and awarded points based on whose bowls ended up closest to the mistress.

After the first match, which the king won handily, I stepped into the alley. “Your Grace, your game is dull.”

King Henry turned, glowering. “Dull, mistress? When your king is playing?”

“Ah, me—I misspoke. What I meant to say is that it could be made much more interesting.” I sidled closer to him and daringly brushed one hand across his sleeve. I could feel the other players, the scorekeeper, and the pages who handed out the bowls all staring at me, but I ignored them, just as I ignored those few courtiers and ladies in the gallery. The queen was not among them. I had made sure of that before I began my play.

“Interesting in what way?” King Henry asked. He was more intrigued than irritated now, as I’d hoped he would be.

“You might make use of a
real
mistress,” I suggested, glancing toward the stake that bore that name, then back up at the king through lowered lashes.

Charles Brandon caught my meaning first and responded with a burst of ribald laughter. “A worthy target indeed!” he declared, slapping his thigh as he chortled. “And also, mayhap, the prize for the winner.”

“I am told that at some foreign courts noblemen play chess with
courtiers as the pieces,” I said when King Henry’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Would it not be a fine new game to substitute a living woman for a mistress made of wood?” Sauntering casually down the length of the alley, I positioned myself in front of the far stake.

Inside, I was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, but that only made me try harder to maintain a surface calm. I could afford no hesitation, no appearance of second thoughts. I put my hands on my hips and called out, “Come, gentlemen. Send your balls my way.”

In appreciation of the risqué invitation, all four players responded with good-natured laughter. The king obliged me. His first cast was a good one and the second bowl very nearly struck my foot. When Brandon took his turn, I moved at the last moment, distracting him, and his first bowl skimmed past me and into a hedge. The second curled around to lie next to the king’s two attempts.

“A kiss for the winner,” I called, and I managed to affect Ned’s aim by lifting my skirts above my ankles. His cast went wildly astray.

Will Compton glowered at me as he prepared to take his turn. I was beginning to enjoy myself. For the rest of the match, I kept up a steady flow of banter, using as many words with double meanings as I dared. I had always known that the king had a low sense of humor, but I had never catered to it before.

When the game was over, it came as no surprise that His Grace had won. He advanced upon me to claim his prize. “Come share a kiss, Your Majesty,” I called, and smiled invitingly. I grasped his broad shoulders as our lips met and clung to them afterward to keep him close while I whispered in his ear. “If we were in private,” I promised, “I would be willing to share so much more.”

I meant the idea I’d had to spy on the French, but I knew full well that was not how the king interpreted my words. From the look in his eyes, he would soon send for me.

“W
ILL, WAIT
! Y
OU
go too fast.”

Slowing his long strides, Will Compton cast a contemptuous look over his shoulder. “You were the one in a great hurry only a few hours ago. You set out to capture the king’s attention and now you have it. I wish you joy of it!”

Although I winced at the acid in his tone, it was far too late to change my mind. We were already in the privy gallery. At the far end lay the door that led to the king’s bedchamber.

“I cannot run in these shoes,” I protested when Will resumed his brisk pace. The cork-soled crimson velvet pantoufles on my feet were backless slippers more decorative than sturdy.

“Kick them off, then.” Radiating impatience, he stopped to glare at me. “You were wont to go about in stocking feet when we were younger.”

“Why are you so wroth with me?” Hands on hips, I stood my ground on the rush matting that covered the floor of the privy gallery. “It is not as if the king has never before sent for a woman, nor are you unaccustomed to escorting such females to him.”

“God’s bones, Jane! Have you no shame? Had you not thrown yourself in his path, the king would be with the queen this night, as he should be, endeavoring to get a son on her.”