Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (40 page)

T
hree days later, Guy and I left Lyons, traveling overland as far as Roanne, where the Loire becomes navigable, then boarding a longboat with a cabin for the next part of the journey. A
sapinière,
a raft made of fir trunks, conveyed our horses and the henchmen Guy had hired for protection on the journey.

The Loire flows northward, and we might have gone all the way to Amboise by water, but our destination was somewhat short of there. “It never occurred to me to ask my uncle about Papa,” I confessed as we sailed past vineyard after vineyard on a fine June day. “I do not think they ever met.”

Idly, I watched the wind turn the sails of a windmill perched on the crest of a hill. I felt a curious contentment, in spite of all that remained unsettled. No doubt this was due to spending my nights
with Guy. I had agreed to pose as his wife on our journey, for safety and for convenience.

“He was Flemish,” Guy remarked after a time.

We both knew that did not necessarily mean that Papa had been born in Flanders. The term was loosely used to refer to anyone who hailed from the lands controlled by Burgundy—Franche-Comté, Luxembourg, Hainaut, Picardy, Artois, the Somme towns, Boulogne, Belgium, and the Netherlands. The Burgundian court spent time at equally far-flung locations from Bruges and Lille to Brussels and the Hague.

“He was a merchant,” I said after another long lull in conversation spent enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face and the sight of the blue water of the Loire lapping against banks of golden sand. “He met my mother when she was in the household of Anne of Brittany. She was fifteen when they were married. They loved each other very much.”

Guy slid an arm around my waist as we stood at the door of our cabin. Poplars and willow trees now dotted the landscape. On the river, dozens of other boats plied the water, as they had all along the way. I abandoned speculation and relaxed against him, too happy to allow worries to intrude on my peace of mind for long.

At Orléans we resumed our journey by road. I noticed that several other vessels had also put passengers ashore. I thought one man looked familiar, but I could not think where I might have seen him before. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his long, narrow face or his clothing. Unable to remember, I dismissed him from my mind.

Guy had friends living just outside Orléans and chose the comfort of their manor house over a room at an inn or beds in an abbey guesthouse. We were made welcome, even though the family was
away from home, but the housekeeper, knowing that Guy was not married, took care to install us in separate wings of the house.

It was just as well, I decided, settling into a sinfully soft bed. After several long days of river travel and the even longer journey that had gone before, I was so exhausted that I fell instantly asleep.

I was roused sometime later by the smell of smoke. At first I thought I was dreaming. I’d had nightmares more than once about King Louis’ declaration that I should be burnt. Then I began to cough, and realized that this was real.

Opening bleary eyes, I fought against a confusion of my senses. The room should have been full dark. I had snuffed out the candle before getting into bed, there had been no fire in the hearth, and the shutters had been closed against the dangerous things that live in the night air.

Flickering light showed beneath the door. Fire!

I rolled out of bed, landing awkwardly. Although I fought to stay on my feet, I ended up in a heap on the floor. Pushing myself up on my hands and knees, I realized of a sudden that the air lower down was less smoke filled and easier to breathe than that above. Remaining as I was, I started to scuttle toward the door.

I stopped at the sight of flames licking along the edges of the wood. The fire beyond was leaping higher and higher, cutting off any possibility of escaping that way.

The bedchamber had two windows, both opening onto a courtyard, but it was a long way to the ground.
Fool,
I chided myself. Any injury I sustained from a fall was less likely to be fatal than burning to death. Pressing myself even closer to the floor, I crawled toward the casement.

Curls of smoke seemed to chase me across the room. I tried holding my breath, but that only made my eyes water. Making a mask with the hem of my chemise filtered out the worst of it, but it
was almost impossible to press the linen over my mouth and nose and crawl at the same time.

I began to wheeze. My progress slowed. I resorted to traveling like a snake, inching along on my belly, but I began to despair of ever escaping.

Then my hand struck the chest beneath the window. All I had to do was find strength enough to stand up and open the shutters. With an effort of will, I hauled myself onto the chest and lifted the latch. Cool air greeted me, and a shout from below.

“Jump, Jane!” Guy was there in the courtyard, both arms lifted toward me. “Jump and I will catch you.”

I dragged one leg over the casement, then the other, thankful neither bars nor glass panes blocked the way. My chemise snagged on something, but I tugged until I heard the linen rip. The crackle of flames behind me overcame my fear of letting go. Trusting in Guy’s promise, I hurled myself out and away from the burning building.

My weight took us both to the ground, jarring the arm I had broken only a few months earlier, but one look over my shoulder banished any thought of complaint. The entire chamber was engulfed in flame. Had I hesitated, I would be afire, too.

Guy’s arms tightened around me. He buried his face in my throat. “By all that is holy, Jane. I do not think I could have borne to lose you.”

Embracing him in return, I murmured incoherent words of thanks…and of love…but we had no time to indulge in tender exchanges. The entire house seemed likely to go up in flames. The blaze was already well past the point where it could have been contained by a few buckets of water.

We made our way to the stable, found the henchmen Guy had hired, and led our horses to safety. Some of my packs had been left
with the mule and I hastily dressed in the first clothes I found. We spent the remainder of the night in a nearby field, watching the manor house burn. It was destroyed utterly, but at least there was no loss of life.

The next morning, after a brief return to Orléans to buy clothing and supplies to replace what we had lost, we set off again on the road south. Still dazed and disoriented by the night’s terrors, I did not realize for some time that the hired guards who escorted us were more numerous than they had been when we set out from Lyons. At least three more burly specimens had been added to their ranks.

“Do you expect to encounter robbers?” I asked Guy.

“I no longer know what to expect.” He turned in the saddle to study my face.

I forced a smile. He was not fooled, but I could tell that he was hesitant to speak. “What troubles you, Guy?”

“Have you any notion how the fire started?”

I shook my head and told him what little I remembered. “An ember?” I suggested. “Or someone careless with a candle?” Accidents with fire were not uncommon, although most people took sensible precautions to prevent them.

Guy continued to stew about it as we rode, the steady plodding of horses’ hooves the only sound in the morning stillness. Belatedly, I came to the same conclusion he must already have reached: It might
not
have been an accident.

“In early March, at court,” I said slowly, “I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my arm. I was unconscious for a time and had difficulty remembering afterward what had happened.”

His breath hissed in sharply. “So this is the second near-fatal accident you have suffered. Was anyone nearby when you…fell?”

“I had been talking with Ivo Jumelle when I lost my footing.”

“Jumelle!” The anger in his voice seemed out of proportion and
he required several minutes to bring himself under control and speak calmly. “I told you that your father bought land with a partner, Jane, but I neglected to tell you his name. It was Alain Jumelle, Seigneur de Villeneuve-en-Laye et de Saint-Gelais, a member of the minor nobility. Ivo Jumelle is his youngest son.”

“Are you saying
Ivo
tried to kill me? But why? And how would his father know I had returned to France?”

“Why? After the reports of your death and that of your mother, Alain Jumelle laid claim to all the lands he and your father had purchased together. That you are still alive means he may now have to give up a considerable portion of his current wealth. As for how he knew you were no longer in England—Alain Jumelle was one of those waiting in the duke’s anteroom at Lyons for an audience with Longueville on the day you came to the French court.”

I gasped. “A horse-faced fellow?”

Guy nodded.

No wonder he had reacted with such surprise upon hearing my name. And then I remembered something else, the man with the long, narrow face I’d seen disembarking in Orléans. He’d seemed familiar to me. Now I knew why.

Alain Jumelle had been in the duke’s antechamber in Lyons. He’d been a stranger to me, but he’d known who I was as soon as he heard the name Popyncourt.

T
HE LAND MY
father had purchased with Jumelle included a fine manor house. The entrance gate had been set into the center of a thick wall ten feet high and was wide enough to admit a cartload of hay. We rode through into a large and spacious courtyard at least an acre square. When a groom rushed out of the stables to our right to take our horses, I glanced nervously at Guy.

“What if Alain Jumelle is here?”

“We will throw him out.”

“But he is still half owner of the place. And what if the servants are loyal to him?”

“Then we will throw them out, too. He tried to murder you, Jane. That is grounds to call for him to forfeit everything in your favor. Besides, we have might on our side.” Behind us, swords rattled in scabbards as our hired henchmen dismounted.

Guy strode up to the entrance to the manor house and called out in a loud, carrying voice. “This is Mistress Jane Popyncourt come to reclaim her inheritance from her father. All those who wish to remain in her service will be generously rewarded.”

By the time we had climbed the eight steps leading to the door, it had been flung open to reveal an aged crone, her hair snowy white and her blue eyes faded and bulging. I stared at her. That small mole above her right eyebrow seemed familiar, and the way her front teeth protruded over her lower lip.

“I know you,” I murmured as she led us inside. There was no sign of Ivo or his father, or of anyone else.

“I was your governess, child,” the old woman said, “till your mother came and took you away. And a good thing she did, too.”

“You are Sylvie Andrée, the woman the
gens d’armes
arrested?”

“They were not just any ordinary soldiers,” she said with a cackle. “Sent by the king’s
prévôt de l’hôtel
they were, to question me about a crime at court.”

Finding it suddenly hard to breathe, let alone speak, I croaked out a question: “What crime?”

“Why King Charles’s murder, of course. Done in with a poisoned orange, he was.”

“That is a foolish rumor,” Guy snapped. “You should not repeat such things.”

She wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Your elders know better,
boy. Do you think me a fool? I know what I know and what I know is that King Charles’s enemies killed him and then covered up the crime.”

I leaned forward and placed my hand on her forearm. “Was my mother the king’s enemy?”

“Why bless me, child! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You were questioned,” I reminded her. “They came looking for my mother and they took you instead.”

“Ah, well. That is the way of things.”

I exchanged a look with Guy, both of us wondering if the old woman’s wits were wandering. “Why were they looking for my mother?”

“Have you not guessed?” She gestured with her free hand to indicate the luxury that surrounded us—fine tapestries, ornately carved chests and chairs, Turkey carpets, and Majolica vases. “The almighty Alain Jumelle, Seigneur de Villeneuve-en-Laye et de Saint-Gelais. He told King Louis she was to blame. Well, she did hand King Charles that orange, that’s true enough, but how was she to know it was poisoned?”

“Jumelle wanted my mother out of the way,” I said slowly, “so that he could claim lands that should rightfully have been hers. She feared he would be believed, so she ran before the
gens d’armes
came.”

“Jumelle had the new King Louis’ ear.” The old lady nodded sagely. “Your mother was right to be afraid, right to run. But when she left all of a sudden, that convinced King Louis that she was guilty.”

“Then King Louis was not responsible for King Charles’s death either?”

“Oh, no. No one knows who killed him. I myself suspect the Italians. They are experts in the use of poisons, you know.”

“If you knew so much about the king’s death at the time,” Guy said, humoring her, “why did you not speak out?”

“Do you think me a fool?” she repeated. “I said I knew nothing of any of it, and they believed me because I had been in the Popyncourt household only a short time. They let me go and I came back here, to Master Popyncourt’s lands.”

I exchanged a look with Guy. Sylvie seemed harmless enough, but she also appeared to be somewhat simpleminded.

“You came back here, even knowing that Jumelle would be your new master?” Guy asked.

She tapped the side of her nose. “I let him think he’d bought my silence. And then, once word came that you and your mother were dead, there was no reason for him to worry about what I knew.”

“Her story makes sense,” I told Guy after Sylvie had gone off to roust the other servants and give them orders concerning fresh linens and hot food. “Parts of it, at least. I suppose that, years later, Alain Jumelle heard my name in connection with Longueville’s.”

I was remembering that Ivo had told me he wrote home regularly but rarely had any reply. I remembered, too, how he had looked at me after he’d received a letter from his father. I wondered what it had said about me.