Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

10

King Henry did not want to believe me on the French reports of the new alliance between King Ferdinand and King Louis, but his own sources soon confirmed it. Once he was convinced that his father-in-law had betrayed him, he was eager to fall in with the duc de Longueville’s suggestion. I accompanied the Lady Mary on the day she was taken into her brother’s confidence. I watched her face as he told her she would one day be queen of France.

“I had not heard that Charles of Castile had conquered the French,” she remarked, fiddling coyly with her pomander ball.

King Henry laughed. “Saucy wench! You know perfectly well that he has done no such thing.”

“How else can I become queen of France?”

“By repudiating your marriage to Charles and entering into a betrothal with King Louis.”

Mary toyed with one of the many rings she wore, a small one with a blue stone. “King Louis is quite old, is he not?”

“Fifty-two, I believe.”

“The same age at which Father died.”

“What are you thinking, Mary?” the king asked his sister.

“That I may not be queen of France very long if I marry an old man like that.”

“Perhaps not, but you can do your country good service while he lives. You do not intend to be troublesome over this, do you?”

“I am yours to command,” she assured him, but there was a look in her eyes that worried me.

“Good,” said King Henry. “Now, for the present, you must tell no one about this change in plans. Your entanglement with Charles of Castile cannot be broken off just yet, not until the new alliance between France and England has been negotiated. To that end, you must behave in public as if you desire nothing more than to be queen of Castile.”

He presented Mary with a portrait in miniature of King Charles and suggested that she carry it about with her wherever she went. She hugged it to her bosom all the way back to her own apartments. The way her face was working, I expected tears, but as soon as we were alone in her bedchamber, she burst into gales of laughter.

“Oh, this will be fun, Jane! I will fool them all.”

“You seem remarkably calm at the thought of taking an old man into your bed.”

“His age means that he is not likely to live long after the wedding. When he’s dead, I will choose a man more to my liking for a second husband.”

I eyed her warily. “What man?”

But she only shook her head and smiled mysteriously, refusing to give me a name. She did not need to. I was certain she was thinking of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

“It is likely your brother will have his own ideas about your remarriage,” I warned her. “If King Louis is considerate enough to make you a widow, what is to stop your brother from using you to seal some other alliance?”

“I will think of a way to prevent him,” she assured me. “Now help me change my clothing. Tonight is St. Valentine’s Eve and I must look my best for the lottery.”

The church considered St. Valentine’s Day only a minor holiday, but at court it was an excuse for a great deal of revelry. The names of every gentleman at court—and most of the noblemen, too—were written down on bits of paper. Then each lady and gentlewoman drew a name and that man became her companion all the next day. He was required to buy her a gift and behave toward her as did a knight to his lady. In the best tradition of courtly love, he would put her on a pedestal and worship her from afar—at least as far away as the lady wished to keep him!

We gathered for the drawing in the queen’s presence chamber.

“I cannot wait to see what courtier will be my valentine,” Bessie Blount whispered in my ear. “I hope he is well favored. And rich,” she added as an afterthought.

“What man courts you will depend upon the luck of the draw.” Hiding a smile, I turned to examine my embroidery by the light of the nearest candelabra.

“Do you think so?” Bessie worried her lower lip and her big blue eyes filled with concern. “I have heard that some ladies find a way to cheat.”

“If those ladies are your betters, best make no mention of it.”

“But it is not…” She struggled to find the right word: “Sporting.”

“Ah, Bessie. If you value fairness, you are in the wrong place.”

“And if I value love? True love? Is that not what St. Valentine’s Day celebrates?”

“True love, too, is in short supply at court.”

It was in fashion for courtiers to say they had fallen in love with this woman or that, and to sigh after the unattainable, but it was all a game to them. Men pursued women to marry them for their fortunes, to win their favor and influence, or to entice them into coupling. None of those goals had anything to do with affection.

A fanfare sounded, announcing the beginning of the lottery. A huge wooden box, brightly painted, was carried in by liveried servants. The Lady Mary followed, seemingly distracted by something she held in her hand. She heaved a great sigh as she reached the table where the box had been placed. She murmured a single word: “Charles.”

At my side, Bessie echoed the sigh. “See how she pines for her betrothed. Truly, she has fallen in love with his likeness.”

It seemed the king’s plan was working. I was the only one who realized that the princess’s actions were all for show.

Mary dropped the little portrait of her betrothed, letting it dangle carelessly from a chain suspended from her waist. Then she dipped her hand into the box, drew out a name, and smirked. “I have chosen my lord of Suffolk for my valentine,” she announced. “Now come all who would find their true loves. The lottery has begun.”

When the Lady Mary pined in public for “Charles,” it was not Charles of Castile she spoke of. She might stare at that miniature of the young king, but her thoughts were all for a different Charles—Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Mary continued to be infatuated with her brother’s handsome friend from childhood.

If she thought she’d be allowed to marry Brandon someday, she was sadly mistaken, but I did not intend to tell her so again. She would realize soon enough that although the king might elevate one of his boon companions to a dukedom, he would not waste the hand of a royal princess on one of his own subjects, not when he could use her as a diplomatic pawn.

Urged forward by Bessie, I took my turn to dip my hand into the lottery box. The name I drew was Nicholas Carew. I had not expected to be matched with the duc de Longueville. His name had not been placed in the lottery, nor had the king’s.

“Hard luck,” Bessie commiserated, peering at the scrap of paper. “Nick is handsome but very poor.”

“We will do well enough together…for one day.” I had known Nick since he was a little boy, younger than I, at Eltham. “What name did you draw?”

She made a face. “The Earl of Worcester.”

“He is wealthy,” I reminded her.

“But he is older than almost everyone at court, except perhaps Sir Thomas Lovell, and married besides. And he has terrible bad breath. He always smells of onions.”

“He can afford to give you a very nice Valentine’s Day gift,” I reminded her, “and is unlikely to demand much in return.”

Mollified, Bessie left my side to return to her place among the queen’s women. I shook my head as I watched her tuck the slip of paper into her bodice. She was smiling sweetly.

Had I ever been that innocent? I felt as though I should run after her with a warning to guard her virtue well if she ever hoped to catch a husband, wealthy or otherwise.

A low, venomous voice spoke from just behind me, tearing my attention away from Bessie Blount. “She’s no better than a whore.”

I did not need to turn to recognize the speaker as Meg Guildford, Harry’s wife. I also knew she’d meant me to overhear her comment.

“He was supposed to be mine,” her sister Elizabeth whined.

I frowned. I had assumed Meg was talking about me—it would not be the first time she’d called me names, both behind my back and to my face. But surely her young sister did not mean she wanted to take my place as the duc de Longueville’s mistress. Then I remembered the slip of paper I still held in my hand. It was drawing Nick Carew as my valentine that had made Elizabeth Bryan jealous.

Thinking to offer a trade, I turned toward them. Nick would most assuredly be happier that way, since everyone at court knew how besotted he was with Elizabeth. But before I could open my mouth to speak, the two sisters brushed past me, noses in the air. They twitched their skirts aside as they passed, as if they feared to do otherwise would dip them in muck.

It was a very unsatisfying Valentine’s Day all around. Nick ignored me to stare at Elizabeth. Bessie’s gift from her valentine was a caged bird, hardly what she’d hoped for. And even Charles Brandon was a disappointment. Well aware of the king’s plans for Lady Mary, Brandon was careful to keep her at arm’s length. His gift to her was unexceptional—a pair of embroidered sleeves.

WE WERE AT Greenwich again in April, having spent a few weeks at Westminster and another two at Richmond, when word arrived that the village of Brighton, on the coast, had been burnt to the ground by the French. The story spread through the court like wildfire and rumors fanned the flames. The news reached the duke’s apartments in record time when Ivo Jumelle burst in without ceremony to blurt out what he’d heard.

Longueville, the Lady Mary, and I had met there to pass the afternoon conversing in French. The princess had once been fluent in the language, thanks to me, but French had not been much spoken at court since the beginning of her brother’s reign.

“They say an invasion force has landed,” Ivo gasped out. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed. “Do you suppose they have come to rescue us?”

Longueville did not trouble to hide his displeasure. “What fool has launched an attack? He will ruin all. It is peace we need now, not war.”

“I will go to my brother,” the Lady Mary said. “The king will know what is truth and what is speculation.”

When she had gone, the duke and I stared at each other in shared consternation. He had come to trust me in the months since he’d begun negotiating in secret with King Henry for a marriage between the Lady Mary and King Louis. More than once he had used me as a go-between with Henry.

As far as most people knew, the old alliance still held, even though King Ferdinand had indeed signed a treaty with France in March. Only in Henry’s changed attitude toward his wife and queen, Ferdinand’s daughter, had there been any hint of how incensed he was by this betrayal.

Changing policy to ally England with France was a delicate undertaking and one to which many in England would be opposed when they heard of it. I had been sworn to secrecy, one of only a select few in England who knew what was afoot. The others were Longueville and the king; the Lady Mary; Will Compton; Guy Dunois; and the king’s almoner, Thomas Wolsey, newly consecrated as bishop of Lincoln.

“It may be much ado over nothing,” I murmured. “You know how rumors exaggerate.”

“There is something behind the tale. England and France are still at war, for all the negotiating we have done,” Longueville said.

I looked out through the window at a fine April day and wondered at how quickly such beauty could be marred. Many at court, the queen included, thought it a mistake to trust any Frenchman. This news would only reinforce their opinion.

Guy came into the chamber, the troubled expression on his face proof he’d heard the rumor.

“How bad is it?” the duke demanded.

“Bad enough, although it could be worse. The town of Brighton was attacked and burnt to the ground, but someone managed to light a warning beacon on the Sussex Downs to alert the neighboring villages. They sent archers to drive away the French rowing boats that were trying to land.” Guy hesitated, then added, “Those ships were galleys that were flying Admiral Prégent de Bidoux’s colors.”

I felt the color drain out of my face. “Bidoux? The one they call Prior John?”

“You know the name, I see,” Longueville said.

“I know it.” It had been only a year earlier that this French admiral from Rhodes had last engaged our English fleet in battle.

“Sit down, Jane.” Guy all but shoved me onto a stool. “You’ve gone the color of whey.”

“Bidoux is a monster. A vile villain.”

“In war—”

“No!” I would not allow Longueville to make excuses. “Your French admiral, this Bidoux, cut out the heart of an English lord to keep as a trophy! It was an atrocity not to be tolerated. Because of it, King Henry invaded France, hungry for French blood. He settled for taking prisoners of war.”

“Bidoux is hailed as a hero in France.” Longueville held himself stiffly, unwilling to admit to any fault.

“And he is reviled here as a devil. Do you think Lord Edward’s friends have either forgotten or forgiven what happened to him? This raid will add fuel to the hatred all good Englishmen already feel toward your countrymen. Have a care, Your Grace. The king was not the only close friend Lord Edward had at court. Charles Brandon, the new Duke of Suffolk, is another.”

“And so were you, I think,” Guy said in a soft voice.

Longueville either did not hear him or chose to ignore what he said. “I am the king’s guest. I am in no danger.”

“I would not be so certain of that.” I rose and stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at me. “Even if you are protected by your rank and position, the rest of your retinue is not. Keep Ivo close, my lord. Young as he is, he’d be easy prey.” And Guy, I thought. He’d be a target, too. My heart tripped at what might be done to him if some of the king’s courtiers caught him alone.

Longueville dismissed the danger as a minor annoyance. He’d convinced himself this was but a temporary setback in peace negotiations and nothing to be troubled about. No amount of argument on my part could convince him otherwise. When the king sent for him, he viewed it as a positive sign.

“You must have a care, too, Jane,” Guy said when the duke had gone. “Those who sympathize with the enemy are often more hated than the enemy himself.”

“How well I know it, but I doubt that anyone will attack one of the Lady Mary’s gentlewomen with anything more lethal than sharp words.”

His lips twisted into a wry grimace. “In your own way, you are as arrogant as the duke.”

“What use is there in fearing shadows?” Brave words but inside I was quaking. Unwilling to acknowledge my anxiety, I swept out of the duke’s lodgings, head held high. I went straight to my own rooms. I had entered the inner chamber before I realized there was someone lurking in the darkest corner. I gave a squeak of alarm before I recognized Will Compton.

“Did Longueville know about this attack on Brighton in advance?” Will’s eyes were cold as ice.

“No. Longueville desires peace. He wants this marriage between King Louis and the Lady Mary to succeed. He hopes to arrange for a ceremony here in England with himself standing as proxy for his master. He called the raid the act of a fool.”

“The king is furious.”

“As he should be, but not with the duc de Longueville.”

Will seized my upper arm in a painful grip. “Some may seek the most convenient target for their wrath.”

“Do you count yourself in their number, Will?” I was trembling with fear, but I forced myself to challenge him. I glanced pointedly at his hand. I would have bruises where his fingers bit into my flesh.

Scowling, he released me, but he did not apologize.

“I lost the same friends you did to the French,” I reminded him, remembering that before Lord Edward, there had been Tom Knyvett.

“And yet you do not hesitate to spread your legs for the enemy.”

Fighting the instinct to shrink back and cower, I stood up straighter. “At the king’s command! Since the night of the masque at Havering-atte-Bowe, I have been King Henry’s creature and you, above all men, know it.”

“You have taken pleasure from your duty.”

“Mayhap I consider it my due, as I have had little other recompense!”

But Will Compton was no longer listening. He stood silent for a moment, and then began to laugh. Of a sudden, he picked me up and whirled me around, kissing me soundly on the lips before he set me back on my feet. “Ah, Jane! You are an inspiration.”

“I—I am what?”

Still grinning, he seized me by the shoulders, bringing his face close to mine. His eyes danced with excitement. “Do you not see? By quarreling with you, my anger at the French was diverted into a safer channel. I exploded, but with fireworks instead of cannon fire. That is what the entire court needs—a means to vent their anger and frustration without doing any real harm.”

I thought him mad. “I can scarce pick fights with each and every courtier.”

“But the king, at my prompting, can invite the duc de Longueville and his bastard brother to compete in the May Day tournament.”

With one last kiss, this one a resounding smack in the middle of my forehead, he left to set things in motion.

BY THE DAY of the tournament, I was almost ill with worry. No one would dare harm the duke, but Guy would be fair game. Nervous jitters attacked my belly and I felt an incessant dull pounding at my temples. Both were made worse by the noise and smell of the crowd of spectators.

From the purpose-built, covered grandstand that was the royal gallery, I had a clear view of the double tier of bare wooden benches, solidly but plainly constructed, that occupied the far side of the field. They could be had, for a price, by anyone who wished to attend the tournament. They were full to bursting with spectators gaping and pointing at the splendors of the king’s new tiltyard.

Even in my troubled state, I could understand why they so admired the construction, which had been completed only a few days earlier. Inside the high wall that enclosed the whole were not only the lists with their wooden barriers and the tents of the competitors, but the gallery itself. At each end was a high octagonal tower—an octagonal stair turret, in truth—surmounted by pointed pinnacles of fanciful design. At their center the queen sat under her canopy of estate and in front of rich blue hangings embellished with gold designs. Cushions of cloth-of-gold padded even the lesser seats in her vicinity.

“Is it not splendid?” Bessie Blount whispered as the grand procession began. She’d chosen to sit beside me when others shunned my company. In spite of my jangled nerves, I could not help but smile at her simple delight in the spectacle.

“This is but a poor echo of the pageantry in old King Henry’s time,” I told her. “In those days, all the participants entered in fancy costumes and riding in pageant cars. They placed their names on a ‘tree of chivalry’ located near the head of the tilt. The tree was painted with leaves, flowers, and fruit, and beneath it, hung upon rails, were the shields of all the knights.”

Once every jouster had been in costume, acting the role of Amadas or Lancelot or some other knight of olden times. The tournaments had been presented as allegories as elaborate as those in any masque. There was still pomp and ceremony, color and spectacle, but that element was missing. It was considered old-fashioned.

Footmen, drummers, and at least a dozen trumpeters came onto the field, along with forty mounted members of the king’s spears and all the king’s pages. The sun glinted off the gold chains the spears wore and the silver in their horses’ trappings. The jousters, fully armed and with visors down, came next, challengers and answerers, each surrounded by gentlemen on foot who were dressed in satin and velvet. Tawny, scarlet, crimson, even silver and gold blossomed among the greater mass of gray and russet and servants’ blue.

“I cannot tell one knight from the other,” Bessie complained.

The gaily caparisoned mounts lacked heraldic devices, nor were there any to be seen on spear or helmet or breastplate. I could only pick out the duc de Longueville by the fluttering scarf he wore wound around his forearm. It was the one I had given to him as my favor only a few hours earlier. I had given Guy my little dragon pendant. I hoped it would serve as a good luck charm, a protection against injury.

“Mayhap it was deemed safest not to identify each knight,” I murmured. During a mock battle, it would be far too easy to exact private vengeance on an opponent, to maim or even to kill.

“I have never attended a tournament before,” Bessie confided. She’d been bouncing up and down with excitement since the moment she arrived and kept swiveling her head in order to see everything at once. “This is called a tiltyard. Is there an event called the tilt?”

“A tilt is any fight between a pair of competitors using lances.”

I had to raise my voice to be heard above the noise. Interspersed with cheers and shouts were derisive catcalls aimed at the French jousters. Spirited wagering on the outcome of various matches also accounted for a good deal of racket.

“There will be four parts of the tournament,” I continued. “First, opponents fighting on foot at the barriers, using swords across a waist-high wooden fence. Then hand-to-hand combat with a variety of weapons—two-handed swords and pikes and axes. The tourney is next, fought by small teams on horseback, with swords. And finally there is the joust between mounted knights with lances. Each knight will run several courses and dozens of lances will be broken before they are done.” I could only pray no heads would be splintered in the process.

A sudden hush fell as two men dressed as hermits suddenly appeared from the area underneath the grandstand, an area closed in to provide storage for jousting equipment between tournaments. The hermits bowed before the queen and waited for her to acknowledge them.

“Mayhap the fashion in pageantry has not passed away after all,” I murmured, recognizing the king and Charles Brandon.

In truth, everyone knew who they were. And everyone pretended not to know. King Henry wore a white velvet habit with a hat of cloth-of-silver and a long silver beard made of damask. His companion, all in black velvet, sported false hair of similar color and design.

When enough time had passed for the crowd to admire his disguise and speculate about who he might be, the king threw off habit, beard, and hat to reveal shining black armor beneath. He tossed the garments to the queen, who caught them with apparent delight. Brandon did the same, gifting the Lady Mary. Her cheeks pink with pleasure, she accepted the robe and gave him a length of green ribbon. He kissed the bit of fabric and tucked it into the breastplate of the pure white armor revealed when he removed the black habit.

“The king looks very grand,” Bessie whispered, “but does he not risk injury to participate?”

“He does, a lesson he learned early. The Earl of Kent, who was charged with teaching the young prince to joust, broke an arm just demonstrating the sport.” Bessie’s face paled and I hastened to reassure her. “His Grace is very good. He has trained in the lists since he was a boy of sixteen and he excels at breaking lances. There was a time when he would practice every day.”

I had gone to watch him sometimes, with the Lady Mary. When they lacked real opponents, he and those companions his father approved—Harry Guildford, Will Compton, Ned Neville, Charles Brandon, and the rest—had charged at detachable rings set on posts and tilted at the quintain, an effigy on a revolving bar.

“How do they decide who wins the tournament?” Bessie asked.

“The jouster’s aim is to dismount his opponent, but that rarely happens. Next best is to shatter the lance on his head or body. The heralds keep the score sheets. Marks are awarded according to which parts of an opponent’s armor are struck, even if the lance does not split. The helmet scores highest, closely followed by the breastplate.”

She shuddered. “That sounds passing dangerous to me.”

I had been struggling not to think about that aspect of things, glad of Bessie’s questions to help keep my mind off my fears that someone dear to me might end up dead before the day was through. The throbbing pain in my head had subsided to a dull ache, but my stomach remained queasy.

“The knights break their lances across a high barrier to prevent collisions. They did not always do so. The contest was running volant—without lists—the day Ned Neville nearly killed Will Compton during a tournament.”

Bessie’s eyes widened. She was silent for a moment, then asked if the lances themselves were sharp.

“They are hollow, and fluted, and they have blunted points. They are designed to shatter on impact.”

The force of two jousters colliding could shower long wooden splinters in every direction. They could blind a man. They could kill. While Will Compton had almost died at the hands of a good friend, I did not like to think what might happen when an opponent was filled with hatred and bent on revenge. Picturing Longueville and Guy in all their fine armor, lying side by side in a puddle of blood, I shuddered.

The tournament began to a roar of approval from the crowd. All through the first two events men brandishing drawn swords shouted and whooped. The crowd cheered every time the flat of a sword clanged against armor. And as every hit reverberated, I shivered inside, thinking of what was to come.

When the tourney added horses to the mix, there was even more noise from thudding hooves and equine screams. The crowd greeted every foray by the king’s team with enthusiastic cries of approval.

Although the ground was hard packed—a layer of sand deep enough to rake topped by a thick layer of gravel sealed with plaster—the horses stirred up great clouds of dust. It coated everything, spectators included. Throat clogged, vision obscured, I strained to see what was happening on the field and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized the tourney had concluded with no serious injuries.

The joust came next. Longueville rode out, matched against the king. He held his lance strongly braced in his right hand and charged without faltering. The horses raced toward each other, and within seconds both lances shattered with a crash like a thunderclap. I was certain I saw Longueville’s armor bend from the impact, but he rode off as if nothing had happened.

Brandon took on Guy Dunois with a result nearly as spectacular. I let out a breath I had not been aware of holding when I realized that Longueville’s half brother was no novice at this sport either. I should not have been surprised that Guy was competent. He was efficient, clever, and skilled at whatever he undertook to do. For just a moment, the memory of his kiss came to mind.

I quickly banished it by shifting my attention to Charles Brandon. There was something in Brandon’s manner that I did not like. Lord Edward had been one of his particular friends in the old days, and Brandon was just arrogant enough to think he could use this tournament as an excuse to seek revenge. Would he? And would it be ruled an accident if he killed his opponent?

The challengers and the answerers were evenly matched. The king had taken care to assign knights of equal ability to each team. He had always preferred a fair fight in which to test his own mettle. Indeed, few things irritated him more than facing an unworthy opponent in the lists. I tried to take comfort from that knowledge, telling myself that I had no cause for alarm, but I could not quite quell my fears.

Lance after lance broke to loud applause and cheers. Once again dust filled the air, making it almost impossible to see the barriers. A part of me was grateful to be spared that sight. By then the wood was liberally caked with spatters of spilled blood.

“I thought there would be more falls.” Bessie had been quiet for so long that I had almost forgotten she was there.

“Gentlemen warriors are trained from childhood to keep their seat. At Eltham, even as a young boy, King Henry was wont to practice leaping onto his horse from either side or the back while the horse was running. He could grab the mane of a galloping horse and jump into the saddle while wearing helmet, breastplate, and cuisses.”

Only after close to a hundred lances had been broken did I begin to relax. The tournament was almost over. No one had been killed.

Then a soft, spring breeze carried Meg Guildford’s venom-laced words to my ears: “Harry told me there were plans for a fight to the death. Only a direct order from the king put a stop to them.”

“There is still the mêlée,” her sister said in a cheerful voice. “Anything can happen then.”

Seeing me cringe, Bessie leaned close to whisper, “What is a mêlée?”

“It is the general battle on horseback at the end of a tournament. Rival parties of knights fight using either long spears or blunted swords.”

“Is it more dangerous than what has gone before?”

“It can be.”

I remembered one time in the last reign when the mêlée had turned into a near riot. It had been necessary to call in the king’s guard to quell it. I prayed matters would not go that far today.

“At most tournaments,” I said to Bessie, “the rules are carefully laid down in advance and a marshall is present to enforce them. That prevents most serious mishaps and injuries.”

Once again the king fought the duc de Longueville. Once again there was no clear victor. Then Guy rode out to face the Duke of Suffolk for a second time. I felt a chill run down my spine.

Charles Brandon was the most skilled jouster among the king’s friends. Years of practice had made him a formidable opponent. When he’d been a young man, I remembered, participating in tournaments had kept him poor. That was no doubt why he’d decided to marry a wealthy widow rather than his pregnant mistress…or me.

The armor Guy wore had come from the king’s own armory. I could not shake off the frightening notion that it might have been tampered with. There was no reason to think so. There had been no sign of trouble in the earlier bouts. The armor was cunningly jointed and padded. At most, even if a competitor took a solid hit from a lance or a sword, he should come away from a tournament with no more than a few bruises. But when Brandon and Guy took their positions at opposite ends of the course, my fingers strayed to my rosary.

A rare moment of absolute silence fell over the crowd. In the stillness, I heard Guy’s visor slam shut. His warhorse, also borrowed from the king, pawed at the ground. Then there was nothing but the thundering of hooves as the two combatants galloped toward each other.

Wood thudded against metal. Guy’s spear shattered into three pieces against Brandon’s breastplate. A second later, Brandon’s lance struck Guy’s helmet just at the edge of the eye opening in the visor. Guy’s head jerked back.

I was on my feet, my hands pressed tight against my lips to hold back a cry of distress. Had the visor been properly fastened? Even if the tip of the lance had not penetrated, if so small a thing as a splinter worked its way inside, it could do most terrible damage.

All around me spectators stood, cheering for the Duke of Suffolk. Shouts of “Finish him off!” and “Kill the Frenchman!” filled the air.

Guy swayed in his saddle but kept his seat. His horse carried him to the other end of the course and disappeared behind the row of tents set up for the combatants. Trembling, I sank onto my cushion.

Under cover of the noise, Bessie leaned close to my ear. “You should go to him.”

I shook my head. “Women are not permitted to interfere in tournaments.” Neither would it be a good idea to call more attention to myself when feelings ran so high against the French. Will’s idea had worked, but only to a point. Many in the crowd still wanted blood.

“If you will not go yourself, then send one of the Lady Mary’s pages to inquire after your friend.” Kindhearted to a fault, Bessie found one of the boys for me. Under cover of the end of the tournament—without a mêlée—and the announcement that the Duke of Suffolk was champion of the day, a young lad in livery slipped away from the grandstand unnoticed.

While I waited anxiously for his return from the tents with news, Queen Catherine, who was the avowed enemy of all things French, announced that 114 lances had been broken that day. She presented Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, with a jewel-encrusted gold ring.

Guy’s reward was a visit from the king’s surgeons and apothecaries.

“YOU ARE FORTUNATE not to have lost an eye!” I said to Guy as he lay on the field bed. He had been moved from Longueville’s pavilion to the duke’s lodgings, into the tiny, windowless cubicle he’d claimed for a bedchamber when he’d first taken up residence at Greenwich Palace

Guy made no reply.

“His ears are still ringing,” Ivo Jumelle said. “He cannot hear you.”

“I intend to remain until I am certain everything necessary has been done for him.”

I moved closer to the bed, noting that although it had the usual tester, ceiler, and bed curtains, the bedstead folded to make it portable. The duke had brought into captivity all the furnishings he’d taken with him on campaign.

Guy’s face was a trelliswork of scratches, gouges, and bruises. There was swelling around both eyes and along the line of his jaw. I swallowed convulsively as I realized it was not just his sight that the lance had endangered. The wooden tip had slid upward beneath the visor, beneath the fringe of hair that covered Guy’s forehead, nicking the center of that expanse. A tiny bit more force and it would have penetrated deeply enough to kill.

Without warning, I collapsed at the foot of the bed, my knees too weak to hold me upright any longer. With fingers that felt cold as ice I reached for Guy’s hand.

“It distresses you that he is injured?” Ivo watched me with an unnerving intensity, head cocked to one side like a curious bird.

To show too much concern was unseemly, but I was strangely reluctant to release my grip. Then Guy squeezed my fingers and I forgot all about the boy’s presence. Ivo was the duke’s servant, no doubt some gentleman’s son, but of little consequence himself.

Guy’s eyes slitted open. His gaze caught mine and held. I stared back, trying to read his emotions, but the damage to his face made that impossible. When he finally spoke it was only to ask for something to drink.

After I helped him take several swallows of barley water, I settled myself on a stool pulled close to the head of the bed. “Sleep now, Guy.” I told him. “Rest is the best cure for injuries.”

“Your good luck charm kept me safe.” His hoarse voice was gravelly but strong.

“Not safe enough.”

“You must take it back. To protect you.” To please him, I retrieved the dragon pendant from his discarded clothing.

“You need not keep watch over me.”

“I know I need not. I wish to stay.” I settled once more on the stool.

“The duke—”

“Longueville is with the king and has no need of me.”

I hid my disgust. The duke had abandoned his half brother, who had bled and might have died for him. He was off carousing with King Henry and his companions, celebrating a successful afternoon in the lists. The enmity between English knights and French had been defused, as Will had predicted, by spilling blood. Guy’s blood.

“Talk to me, then,” Guy said. “Take my mind off the throbbing.”

“Is the pain too great? The apothecary left a vial of poppy syrup.”

“Have you ever had a bad tooth? I feel as if I have a whole head full of them.”

I dosed him with poppy syrup first, then began to talk, recalling random memories of Amboise in our shared childhood. “It seems to me,” I said, “that there was a constant parade of workmen coming and going along that winding road that led from the village up to the château.”

“The workmen built that, too—a continuous circular ramp that runs all the way from town to castle, wide enough for wagons.”

“The moat had no water in it,” I recalled.

“King Charles’s courtiers used it as a tennis play.” He winced.

“Is the pain—?”

He waved away my concern. “It will pass, and already I grow sleepy. What else do you remember about Amboise?”

“Courtiers’ houses lay clustered below the walls of the fortress. When I was very small, my father and I used to walk past them and make up stories about the people who lived there.”

“I remember him, I think.” Guy’s words began to slur and I sensed that he would soon fall asleep. I smoothed his brow with one hand, relieved when the skin felt no warmer than was normal.

Amboise. What else did I recall? We could see Tours cathedral in the distance, off to the west, and the forest of Blois in the opposite direction. The main route to reach either was the river Loire. Water traffic had been as steady along that byway as it was on the Thames, with a constant procession of barges and ships bringing all manner of merchandise to the royal court.

“There was a zoo,” I murmured. “I had forgotten that. King Charles kept lions in captivity. And once we went to see a rope walker perform on a rope strung between two towers of the château. He did somersaults and danced and hung by his teeth, all high above the ground.”

I glanced at Guy, wondering if he remembered that day. He was deeply asleep. He lay with one arm flung wide and the other resting on his chest. His face, in repose, looked younger. Even the bruising seemed less severe.

Although I knew I should leave, I remained where I was, watching over him through the evening. Only once, when I heard low voices beyond the door, did I step away. Ivo was the only one there when I peeped out. Frowning, he was turning an oilskin-wrapped packet over and over in his hands.

“For the duke?” I asked in a whisper.

He shook his head. “For me. From my father. This is the first letter he has sent to me since we were captured, although I have written faithfully to him.” Looking cautiously pleased, he broke the seal.

I left him in private in the outer room, where he and Longueville’s four other attendants slept on pallets, to read his father’s letter, but the door did not completely close behind me. A moment later I heard Ivo mutter something to himself, an oath, I thought.

I went to the door. “Ivo? Is something wrong?”

“No, Mistress Jane.”

I studied his pale face. “Something is troubling you.”

“It…it is just that my father has asked me to do something I do not wish to do.” The paleness vanished beneath a wave of color. My questions plainly embarrassed him and he was too polite to remind me that what the letter contained was none of my business. I apologized for disturbing him and returned to Guy’s bedside.

I stayed the night. There was no need, but it was no trouble and I doubted anyone would remark upon my presence in his room when my own lodgings were so near at hand. I fell asleep, head pillowed on arms resting on one side of the field bed.

I woke to discover that my headdress had fallen off. Guy’s fingers rested gently on my hair.