Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (5 page)

“I always knew our father loved Mary best,” she said when I started to speak, “but I thought you would be loyal.”

“The king of Scots may not permit you to keep any of your household,” I reminded her. Although James IV had agreed to let her bring a goodly number of English men and women with her, she had been warned of the possibility that he would dismiss most of them after she arrived in Scotland.

“I am a princess of England,” Margaret declared. “I shall do as I like.”

After Margaret Tudor left England for Scotland, I tried not to think about her. My “sister,” as Will Compton would have it, had stopped speaking to me—in either English or French—well before her departure.

I devoted myself to the Lady Mary and was pleased when, over the course of the next two years, she began to turn to me for advice. I became her “dearest Jane,” but I never let myself forget how quickly that might change. When she asked for honesty, I gave her only as much as I thought she wanted to hear.

I
CELEBRATED MY
sixteenth birthday at Pleasure Palace in January of the twentieth year of the reign of King Henry the VII. By then I had lived in England for some seven and a half years and, while the Lady Mary feared thunderstorms, I had developed a liking for the wild weather that sometimes battered the English Isles at that time of year.

For three long days and nights in the middle of the month, a gale that had swept across the Narrow Seas and into the south of England raged unchecked. It uprooted trees and sheered tiles off rooftops. From the Lady Mary’s apartments, which looked out upon a garden with a fountain, an apple orchard, and part of the two-hundred-acre park her father had enclosed for hunting, I was able to watch branches waving madly but could see little else.

Curiosity finally drew me to the opposite side of the palace, to the passageway beneath the king’s apartments where we had once rolled hoops. There the windows overlooked the rapidly rising waters of the Thames. From that vantage point I had a clear view of a surface that had been frozen solid only a few days earlier. Now the river had overflowed its banks, flooding the lowest-lying areas. In
awe, I watched stairs designed to give access to Greenwich Palace at any stage of the tide vanish beneath the roiling water.

I was so intent upon the sight that I did not at once realize I was no longer alone. I heard footfalls approaching and then a man spoke.

“Why, it is Mistress Popyncourt,” said Master Charles Brandon, stopping beside me.

I recognized him at once. He had been taking prizes in tournaments for the last four years, ever since one held at Richmond Palace to celebrate the betrothal of Princess Margaret to the king of Scots. He was also the most handsome man at court. All the Lady Mary’s ladies thought so. Tall and broad shouldered, he had hair of such a dark red it sometimes looked black and eyes the color of agates.

I was a little surprised that he knew me by name. My features were not sufficiently distinctive to make me stand out in a court filled with beautiful women. I could boast of nothing more than a trim figure, medium height, brown hair and eyes, a pale complexion, and a small, thin nose.

Master Brandon wore livery—clothing of a particular dusky brown-orange called tawny that was decorated with a badge that featured a silver falcon crest. He was master of horse to the Earl of Essex, but his demeanor was not that of any man’s servant. His bearing betrayed a proud, independent spirit. I had heard that he was a man who liked to have his own way and I had no trouble believing it.

“What brings you to this part of the palace, mistress?” he asked.

“I wished for a better view of the storm.”

“It is a fierce one.” The wind still howled and rain lashed the windows, although the thunder and lightning had passed on. “I
am told that in London the gale ripped the brass weathercock out of its socket atop the spire of St. Paul’s and blew it clear across the churchyard. It struck the sign over the door of an inn three hundred paces away and smashed it to bits.”

“Some might call that an evil omen,” I murmured.

“Do you believe in signs and portents?” He chuckled. “Then mayhap it is good luck that brought me here at this hour.”

When he slipped his arm around my waist, I belatedly realized that the gleam in his eyes was desire. He had warm feelings toward me and was happy to have found me alone in this secluded place. I responded by sending him an encouraging smile.

In common with every other young woman at the royal court, I had read the tales of chivalry and romance. Sometimes I daydreamed of being swept off my feet by a bold knight and carried off to his castle. I imagined marriage and children and a return to court when my “brother,” Prince Henry, took the throne as Henry VIII and had likewise wed. I saw myself taking charge of his nursery, for surely such a big, strapping lad would produce a goodly number of sons and daughters.

Charles Brandon, I thought, might make a very suitable husband. He had no fortune yet, but he was a favorite of both King Henry VII and the Prince of Wales. Brandon seemed destined for a successful career at court. And so I did not protest when he lowered his head and kissed me.

The experience was not what I had been expecting. He gave me a wet, sloppy kiss and seemed to be trying to slide his tongue into my mouth. I allowed this, out of curiosity, but I found it unpleasant when he began to press small, smacking kisses on my cheek and throat. Over his shoulder, I could see the river. When something on the surface of the water caught my eye, I stiffened and made a little sound of surprise and consternation.

Brandon released me with unflattering speed. “Do you hear someone approaching?”

I ignored his question, leaning closer to the window until my nose almost touched the expensive glass pane and my palms rested flat against the casement. A wherry was approaching the submerged water stairs. The fitful light of several lanterns on land and one aboard the tiny craft itself revealed a heroic struggle as the boatman attempted to make a landing.

My breath caught as the boat’s single passenger stood up, waving his arms about. This made the boatman’s task even more difficult. One of the oars he’d been using to steer his small craft disappeared beneath the water. At any moment, I expected to see the passenger follow. It did not look as if the boat itself would stay afloat long enough to reach the safety of the shore. I clutched my rosary.

At my side, Master Brandon also watched the drama unfolding on the riverbank. “There! The boatman has managed to catch hold of something.”

“And look—help is coming.” A detachment of the king’s yeomen of the guard had appeared, all in their livery and carrying halberds. They pulled the wherry onto the shore. The passenger scrambled out, still waving his arms about in an agitated fashion, but I lost sight of him when the guards surrounded him. A moment later, they were marching him toward the palace.

Charles Brandon was no longer beside me. He was sprinting down the passageway toward the stairs that led to the king’s apartments, no doubt hoping to be the first to bring news of the stranger’s arrival to the king. No one, I realized, would have been so foolish as to risk life and limb on the swollen river unless he had urgent business at court. The king might well look favorably upon the courtier who gave him advance warning.

Certain I would eventually learn who the man was—it was difficult to keep secrets at court—I returned to the Lady Mary’s apartments. The warmth of her rooms was welcome after the chill damp of the passageway. Although nothing could successfully ward off winter’s icy grip on Greenwich Palace, woolen tapestries covered the interior walls of the princess’s privy chamber. A fire blazed in the hearth. In addition, two green-glazed ceramic stoves on wheels had been placed close to the half circle of women seated on the floor in front of the Lady Mary. Bay leaves and juniper added to the sea coal made the smoke fragrant, and the heat from these stoves warmed busy fingers as they plied their needles.

I moved to join the others, but Mother Guildford intercepted me. She seized my arm and pulled me into the relative privacy of a window alcove, out of earshot of the ten-year-old princess and her ladies.

There was a striking family resemblance between Lady Guildford and her son. Like Harry, his mother had a round face dominated by a large nose and a cleft in the chin. Unlike him, she had a caustic tongue. Her voice was low and stern and as icy as the cobblestones in the courtyard. “What have you been up to, Jane? Your face is most unbecomingly flushed.”

“I went to look at the river.”

Her eyebrows shot upward. “And where, pray, did you find a window that overlooks the Thames?”

“In the passage beneath the king’s lodgings.”

Servants had closed the green-and-white-striped satin curtains to conserve the heat in the Lady Mary’s chambers, but even curtains lined with buckram could not keep out the bitter, penetrating iciness of a severe frost. The oak flooring was covered with fitted rush mats, making it considerably warmer than stone or tile. But inside my shoes and two pairs of stockings my feet felt like blocks
of ice. I glanced with true longing at the thick footcloth on the floor in front of the long, padded bench where the Lady Mary sat. As befit her station, she had the hearth to heat her back and the braziers to warm her front.

“You should not have been in that wing of the palace,” Mother Guildford said.

“Why ever not?” I asked, distracted by my desire to move closer to the heat. “We often played there as children.”

Mother Guildford’s face hardened. Her displeasure was an almost palpable force in the confined space. “We?”

Suddenly wary, I nodded. “The Lady Margaret and Prince Henry and some of the children of honor.” There had been games of blindman’s buff and shovelboard as well as that memorable race with hoops.

“Then my son was among them,” Mother Guildford said. “Were you with Harry today?”

“No, madam.” But I felt heat creep into my face as I remembered the time I had spent with Charles Brandon in the deserted passageway.

“Harry’s not for you, mistress.” Mother Guildford’s sharp reproof made me jump.

“And I do not want him!” I replied. Indignant, I drew myself up straighter and thrust out my chin.

The idea of a romantic attachment between the two of us was laughable. Harry was a friend. Nothing more. Still, it annoyed me that Mother Guildford thought she could do so much better for her son. I was as gently born as he was, even if my father
had
been a merchant. More to the point, given what
Harry’s
father had been up to, Lady Guildford and her son were fortunate to still be at court.

The previous July, Sir Richard Guildford had been arrested over irregularities in the accounts he controlled as master of ordnance.
He’d spent five months in Fleet prison awaiting trial. Just before Christmas, without explanation, the king had ordered his release, but everyone at court knew that he had not been cleared of wrongdoing, nor had he been pardoned. He had retreated to his country estates, where he still awaited His Grace’s pleasure.

“You worry me, Jane.”

The hint of genuine concern in Mother Guildford’s voice diffused my irritation, but then I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes heavenward. I did not need anyone to look out for me. I had been fending for myself from a very early age.

“You have grown into an attractive young woman. You have been noticed.”

“What is wrong with that, madam?” I preened just a little. “Everyone comes to court in search of advancement, if not for themselves, then for their families.”

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “True enough. We all look to marry higher than we were born. But marriage is a business arrangement, best negotiated by one’s father.”

An all too familiar ache settled into the center of my chest at the reminder that I had neither mother nor father to look out for me. Squaring my shoulders, I stared the Lady Mary’s governess straight in the eye. “Lady Guildford, I have no desire to wed your Harry, but if I did, I do not see why we would be such an unsuitable match.”

Mother Guildford did not enlighten me. Instead she said, “You are sixteen, Jane. That is a dangerous age.”

“Dangerous to whom?”

Her eyebrows shot up at my tone. “To you, my dear. You must not wander about the palace alone. It is neither wise nor safe.”

I blinked at her in genuine surprise, unable to imagine what danger could possibly escape the notice of the king’s guards.

Mother Guildford sighed and patted my arm. “You are young in
many ways, Jane, and innocent, but you are old enough to marry. That you have no one to make arrangements for you to wed concerns me deeply.”

“I am one of the king’s wards.”

“You are His Grace’s dependent. His servant.” Voice even, words blunt, Mother Guildford gave no quarter. “You inherited nothing when your mother died, because she brought nothing of value with her when she left France. This places you in an awkward position, Jane. Gentlemen seek a rich dowry when they contemplate taking a wife, and you have none save what the king decides to give you.”

Already well aware of these hard facts, I resented her all the more for reminding me of them. I preferred to concentrate on the pleasures of life at court.

“If you are to remain in the princess’s household unwed, then you must have a care for your virtue. Any man, even the most honorable, will take advantage of a woman if he’s given half a chance.”

I made a small, involuntary movement before I managed to hold myself still again. What Mother Guildford said was true enough. Master Brandon’s kisses were proof of that, and he was not the first courtier to show an interest in me.

“I am always careful of my reputation,” I lied. “And no courtier would dare accost one of the princess’s ladies.”

“You were observed kissing Master Brandon.”

For a moment I thought someone had seen us together earlier that day. Then I realized that she meant the kiss Charles Brandon had given me when we’d encountered each other in the garden the week before. I had been with several of the princess’s ladies. Brandon had been accompanied by his constant companions, Tom Knyvett and Lord Edward Howard. He had not singled me out. He’d kissed all of us in greeting, as had the other two men.