Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

11

The court moved from Greenwich to nearby Eltham in early May. Once I knew Guy would recover from his injuries, and could travel with us, I was happy enough to go. In our new lodgings I had, as before, two rooms for my own. When I was not on duty with the princess, I spent long, lazy afternoons escorting the duc de Longueville and Guy around the place where I had passed so much of my childhood. We ventured into every corner of the old redbrick palace, from the royal lodgings in the donjon in the inner court to the great hall to the grassy mount overlooking the moat where the royal swans glided, their collars glinting in the sun.

We promenaded along Eltham’s tiled floors, pausing to gaze out the glazed windows toward the forested deer park that surrounded the place. We laughed and talked of inconsequential things. By mutual consent, we avoided visiting the tiltyard.

Early on a morning in mid-June, we three rode from Eltham to Greenwich together. There Longueville and Guy went aboard the barge already occupied by the king, the queen, and the princess. King Henry was a splendid sight in breeches and vest of cloth-of-gold and scarlet hose. He wore a whistle on a gold chain around his neck, the insignia of supreme commander of the navy. Beside him stood Queen Catherine, visibly pregnant.

I boarded a smaller barge, along with the lesser ladies of the court.

Even a small royal barge offered every comfort, from bread and cheese to stave off hunger to soft cushions to sit upon. The chatter of the other gentlewomen was loud and good humored as we set off for Erith, a village located on the Thames between Greenwich and Gravesend. It was home to a royal dockyard. Soon barges filled the river from one bank to the other, creating a magnificent pageant. The weather was perfect for such an expedition and for the launching of His Grace’s great warship, the thousand-ton Henry Grace à Dieu.

“See that man standing with the king?” I overheard Meg Guildford ask her sister, Elizabeth. “He is the new ambassador from King Louis.”

“Another one?”

“A significant one,” Meg said. “Harry says he’s too important to have been sent just to arrange a ransom, even for a duke.”

“Why is he here, then?”

Meg whispered her answer, but I could guess what she’d said when Elizabeth gave a little squeal of excitement.

I moved away, standing apart so that I could watch the two sisters and also the men on the king’s barge. The creak and slap of twenty-four oars and the steady drumbeat that kept the rowers’ rhythm smooth and steady momentary blocked out the rise and fall of feminine voices. Small waves broke against the side of the barge as we moved through the water.

I had met the new ambassador from France earlier that morning. Meg was correct. He had not come to negotiate Longueville’s ransom. He was in England to make a formal offer for the Lady Mary.

The negotiations had been conducted in secret for months, offer and counteroffer. The last I’d heard from Longueville, King Henry held firm, saying he would not sign a peace treaty or seal it with his sister’s hand in marriage for less than 1,500,000 gold crowns; English control of Thérouanne, Tournai, and Saint-Quentin; and an annual pension of 50,000 ecus. King Louis had balked at those demands.

Carried on the freshening breeze, a female voice I did not recognize said, “I heard the king said he’d accept an offer of 100,000 crowns per annum if King Louis would take the older sister instead of the younger.”

So, the “secret” was out. I wondered if the king himself had leaked the news in order to gauge reaction at court. Skirting the brazier where sweet herbs burned to mask the most offensive of the odors wafting up from the water’s surface, I moved closer to Meg, hoping to hear what else was generally known.

A gust of wind caught at my skirts, making them billow perilously close to the embers. I had to twitch the fabric out of danger and sidestep, but neither sister noticed.

“I hear the queen of Scotland is not only willing but eager for the match,” Meg said.

Elizabeth smirked. “I hear she’s grown stout and coarse featured living in that heathen land.”

“All the more reason not to be choosy,” one of the queen’s maids of honor chimed in. Several of them clustered close, a flock of brightly colored birds pecking at the crumbs of rumor.

“King Louis should have no cause to complain of her were she big as a sow,” Meg said. “He is an old man, gouty and toothless.”

“He is a man,” Elizabeth countered. “He’ll want the Lady Mary.”

“But will she want him?”

“What does that matter? She will do her duty and wed as her brother wills. And why should she object to becoming a queen of France? France is a much more important place than Castile.”

A gasp from one of the queen’s damsels reminded Elizabeth that Catherine of Aragon’s mother and then her sister Juana had been queens of Castile. To belittle them insulted the queen of England. Elizabeth flushed becomingly.

Meg simply surveyed the company aboard the barge to assure herself that none of the Spanish-born members of the queen’s household was aboard. Her gaze rested briefly on me, then moved on. “The Lady Mary will do the king’s bidding,” she asserted.

“But will she not mind being bedded by a man old enough to be her grandfather?” It was the irrepressible, golden-haired Bessie Blount who asked. Together with the chestnut-haired Elizabeth Bryan, they outshone every other woman at court for beauty, saving only the Lady Mary herself.

“If she does, she will be clever enough to conceal her distaste. Besides, being so old and infirm means he will die all the sooner,” Meg added callously, unknowingly echoing the Lady Mary’s own philosophy. “Then she will be free.”

I said nothing, but still I had my doubts about how much freedom the princess would have. Widowhood had not made Queen Margaret free, not when her name could still be bandied about as it had been during negotiations with France. A princess was a matrimonial prize and little more. I supposed all women were. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s wife. Someone’s mistress. Our connection to men defined all of us.

“Is the king of France a grandfather in truth?” Bessie had sidled closer to whisper her question to me.

“Queen Anne could produce no living sons for either of her royal husbands, but she gave Louis two daughters. The eldest, several years younger than the Lady Mary, has just been married off to François d’Angoulême, King Louis’ heir. He is the king’s cousin.”

“I do not understand. If King Louis has a daughter, should she not rule after him? England had a queen once. Matilda. Or was it Maud?”

“Not in France.” Overhearing the question, Meg broke in, happy to have the opportunity to parrot back another of the history lessons she’d learned from Harry. “Only kings are allowed to rule there and only sons can inherit a noble title.”

Bessie glanced at me for confirmation. I nodded. In truth, matters were scarce better in England. A girl might inherit both lands and a title, but either her father or her guardian decided who she married and, once wed, her husband took control of both.

A short time later, we reached Erith and the Henry Grace à Dieu. We boarded the ship and were taken on a tour by the king himself. After we’d admired all five decks, High Mass was celebrated onboard. Festivities followed.

“The most magnificent pageant ever seen on the Thames,” Guy said, joining me at the rail some time later. “That’s what they are saying about our journey here today.”

“I do not doubt it. I can never remember another time when every royal barge was on the water at the same time.”

“And now the king has another vessel fit to wage war. She carries more than two hundred bronze and iron cannon. Remarkable,” Guy said.

A sidelong look at his face revealed nothing but a bland countenance. “Surely peace is at hand.”

“Is it? The king just let slip—intentionally, I am sure—that an English fleet set sail for Cherbourg last week. Their orders were to retaliate for the burning of Brighton,” he added.

I looked up at the masts and spars rising above the deck on which we stood and then down at the gleaming cannons showing through the gunports below. So beautiful…and so deadly.

I told myself that the king would not be so foolish, not after all the months of negotiation, but I should have known better. A week later, we learned that on the very same day we’d gone to Erith with so much pomp and circumstance and good cheer, English troops landed just west of Cherbourg and burned down twenty-one French villages and towns.

SIX WEEKS AFTER the launch of the king’s warship, the duc de Longueville and I watched the Lady Mary leave for the royal manor of Wanstead. Once there, she would officially repudiate her marriage to Charles of Castile. Members of the Privy Council would bear witness and convey the news of what they had seen to the king.

“The Lady Mary is nervous,” I confided, “but she has rehearsed her speech many times. She will make no mistakes.”

King Henry had written much of what Mary would say. Although he would pretend to be surprised by her words, he knew full well that she would charge Charles of Castile with breach of faith and say that evil counsel and malicious gossip had turned the prince against her. Claiming she had been humiliated, Mary would then refuse to keep her part of the bargain, rendering the contract null and void. She would declare that she was severing “the nuptial yoke” of her own volition, without threat or persuasion from anyone, and end by petitioning King Henry’s forgiveness and affirming her loyalty to her brother.

“In all things I am ever ready to obey his good pleasure,” I murmured, quoting from the speech I, too, had memorized. It was all diplomatic pretense, but it would clear the way, at long last, for a peace treaty between England and France.

Longueville swung away from the window, a scowl darkening his countenance. “I have misgivings about this proxy wedding between the Lady Mary and King Louis,” he said.

Attempting to cajole him out of his ill humor, I ran my hand up the tawny velvet of his sleeve. The fabric felt soft and warm against my skin. “You do not have to assume all of the king’s duties as bridegroom,” I teased him. “Only say the words on his behalf.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “It would be no hardship to swive the Lady Mary.”

“My lord!”

Lost in thought, he barely heard my indignant protest. I could not fathom what ailed him. He should have been elated by the success of his negotiations. He had been angling for months for a ceremony here in England with himself standing in for King Louis.

“Your princess was married to Charles of Castile. A proxy wedding was celebrated then, too.”

“Are you afraid negotiations will break down even now?” I asked.

“Everything seems to be within our grasp. We have the commission to sign a treaty of alliance and a marriage contract. King Louis has agreed to pay King Henry 1,000,000 crowns at the rate of 26,315 crowns twice a year.”

“What does England give up, aside from her fairest lady?”

His smile was rueful. “The Lady Mary’s dowry is 400,000 crowns, half to be in the form of jewels and apparel that go with her to France and half to be credited to the sum King Louis has agreed to pay your king. Mary will receive dower properties worth 700,000 ducats and will be permitted to keep them for the rest of her life, regardless of where she lives.”

My eyebrows lifted of their own accord. Even the French, it seemed, expected their new queen to outlive the old man who would be her husband. I wished I could be so certain. Too many women, even queens, died in childbed. My mistress’s future was far from secure.

Longueville continued to frown as he poured himself a goblet of wine. As an afterthought, he poured a second for me. “We have worked long and hard for this, Jane, but nothing is ever certain. What if your king changes his mind? If the proxy marriage to Charles of Castile can be set aside, so can this new one.”

“King Henry has given you his word of honor.”

A skeptical lift of both brows told me how little value that had.

“Well, then, what do you suggest?”

“It is consummation that makes a marriage final,” he said slowly.

I choked on the sip of wine I’d just taken. “You cannot…swive the princess!”

“I had in mind a symbolic consummation, blessed by a priest.” He saluted me with his cup and drank deep.

KING HENRY ROARED into his sister’s bedchamber at Greenwich on the morning of Sunday, the thirteenth day of August, fury radiating from every pore. He strode past her cowering, bowing attendants and came to a halt directly in front of her, stance wide, hands on hips, and fire in his eyes. Solid and immovable as a mountain, he looked her up and down, giving a curt nod of approval as he surveyed her kirtle of silver-gray satin and checkered gown of purple satin and cloth-of-gold. Jewels sparkled at her throat, on her fingers, and in her hair.

“You are dressed and ready. Why are you not in the great banqueting hall? Your wedding guests have been waiting nearly three hours.”

Only I was close enough to see the fine trembling of the princess’s hands. Her voice was low but steady. She had rehearsed this speech, too, but unlike the repudiation of her betrothal at Wanstead, this time she had written it herself.

“Your Grace,” she began, “while it is true I have sworn to yield to your good pleasure in all things, this treaty you have made with France offers me precious little for my pains.”

For a moment I thought he was about to explode. “Pains?” he bellowed in a voice so terrifying that it sent everyone save the three of us scurrying from the chamber. “You will be queen of France! What more can you want?”

“I want to be happy!” Her voice was almost as loud as his, her temper as high. Just that quickly, she abandoned her carefully prepared arguments. “How can you not understand that? You married whom you loved. You wanted Catherine from the moment you first saw her when you were a boy of ten, and she was about to marry our brother Arthur.”

He started to speak but she wagged a warning finger in his face. “In public you claimed that our father, on his deathbed, bade you marry her, but we both know that is not true. You wed her because no other woman would do. That she was a princess of Spain had naught to do with it.”

His nostrils flared—always a warning sign—and his eyes narrowed to slits, inviting an unfortunate comparison to an enraged boar. That her words were nothing but the truth did not move him. If his sister refused to go through with the French marriage, it was his consequence that would suffer.

The Lady Mary’s agitation was so great that she seemed unaware she might be in danger. No one else would dare lay hands on her, but her brother the king could beat her with impunity. I sidled closer, not daring yet to intervene but hoping I might be able to pull my mistress out of harm’s way if King Henry tried to strike her.

“I have demands of my own,” she announced. “We will negotiate now, or there will be no proxy wedding.”

“The time for negotiation is past,” her brother said through clenched teeth. “The treaty was signed six days ago. Your betrothal has been announced in London.”

Greatly daring, she thumped him in the center of a chest covered in checkers of cloth-of-gold and ash-colored satin. “A very quiet announcement! No fanfare. No bonfires. No fireworks.”

“And no demonstrations of protest,” he muttered. “Be grateful for small favors.”

“I have heard the terms of this treaty,” the Lady Mary continued. “King Louis is to pay you a million gold crowns in renewal of the French pension he once paid our father.”

The king nodded, a small, triumphant smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Payments begin in September…by which time you will be in France.”

She ignored that. “We are to keep Tournai and Thérouanne.”

Another nod acknowledged those terms. This time the expression on his face was a smirk.

“And I am to be delivered to Abbeville in France at your expense.” She sent a ferocious scowl in her brother’s direction. “Like a parcel!”

“That is the way such things are done.” The king had gained a modicum of control over his anger and now attempted to cajole his sister into cooperating. “Come, Mary, all will be well. Old King Louis will not live long.”

She’d have none of it. “But while he lives, I am his to command.” A moue of distaste showed her opinion of that!

“Women are chattel under the law,” the king reminded her. “The property of their fathers first and then their husbands.”

“You are my brother.”

“I am your king!” Temper building once more, he took a menacing step toward her.

My heart in my throat, I stepped between them. “Your Grace, I beg you be calm. No purpose is served by quarreling.”

“I suppose I have you to thank for her knowledge of the treaty.” King Henry gave me an ugly look that promised retribution.

“The terms are common knowledge, Your Grace.” My voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. I cleared my throat. “The Lady Mary has a proposal for you, Your Majesty.” Deliberately, I used the form of address just coming into fashion. King Henry was said to secretly prefer it to “Your Grace.”

“Speak, then.” He made an impatient gesture. “Your delay has already caused too much speculation among our guests.”

“My request is a simple one,” the Lady Mary said. “I will marry the king of France, I will be a dutiful wife to him, and I will bring honor to England by my every action…if you will give me your word that when King Louis dies, I may marry to please myself.”

The king stared at her, momentarily taken aback by the demand. Then his eyes narrowed again, this time in suspicion. “Has any man had you? By St. George, if one of my courtiers has dared—”

“Do you think me a fool!” the Lady Mary snapped. “I value my honor as much as you do. More, mayhap, as I am loath to waste my maidenhead on an old man.”

“Louis is only fifty-two,” the king said with calculated nastiness. “He could easily live a decade more.”

“Then I will be his faithful helpmeet for those ten years, but when I have done my duty, I want my reward.”

In the distance, a bell rang the hour. A pained look on his face, the king regarded his sister, seeing in her stance, in her eyes, a reflection of his own stubbornness. Did he realize, I wondered, that it was his friend the Duke of Suffolk Mary thought to one day wed?

“Very well,” the king said at last. “You have my promise.”

His sister threw herself into his arms, kissing both his cheeks. Radiant with joy, she turned to me next. “You have borne witness, Jane. I am to be permitted to choose my own husband when I am widowed.”

Although he seemed resigned to the bargain he had made, the king’s impatience returned. “Now that we have settled your distant future, may we move on to present duties?”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Her laughter was infectious. Even the king smiled faintly. He had always been fond of his younger sister. I was certain he hated the thought of sending her away forever, even as he gloated over the success of his negotiations with the French.

A short time later, I slipped into the back of the great banqueting hall, hung with cloth-of-gold embroidered with the royal arms of England and France, to join the others gathered to witness the wedding. All the principal noblemen of the realm were there, along with numerous foreign dignitaries invited by the king. I recognized several ambassadors and two papal envoys. The Spanish ambassador was conspicuous by his absence.

Heralded by fanfare, the king and queen entered. Queen Catherine, serene in her pregnancy for all that she still despised the idea of a French alliance, wore ash-colored satin and a little gold Venetian cap. The king’s clothing matched hers for color but was patterned in checkers of cloth-of-gold and satin. The whole was liberally appliquéd with jewels.

The Lady Mary came next, attended by several noblewomen of the realm. They were followed by the French delegation. The duc de Longueville’s robes matched the bride’s, as was the French custom. I remembered that from my childhood. The king and queen were supposed to appear in public as “a pair of brilliant jewels.” I had more than once, though from a distance, seen King Charles and Queen Anne clad in identical colors.

Longueville’s face was solemn, his expression a trifle strained. He must have guessed that something was wrong to cause such a long delay. I had not dared to warn him about what my mistress had planned. Neither did I intend to tell him anything of what had transpired in the Lady Mary’s apartments. In this matter, I had only one loyalty, and that was to my princess.

The archbishop of Canterbury presided over the wedding ceremony, giving a long Latin address that few understood. One of the French envoys made a formal reply, after which the bishop of Durham read the French authorization for the proxy marriage. Then, holding the Lady Mary’s hand in his, Longueville spoke King Louis’ vows in French. She replied in the same tongue, her voice calm, clear, and sure. Longueville placed a ring on the fourth finger of her right hand and they exchanged a kiss, thus sealing the bond.

Once the marriage schedule had been signed, the formalities should have been complete, but Longueville’s insistence that no way be left open to renounce this marriage had resulted in the addition of one more element. The whole company proceeded to a bedchamber. There, behind a screen, I helped the Lady Mary change into her most elaborate nightdress. When she was ready, she climbed onto the bed.

Longueville had also changed his clothing and now wore naught but a red doublet and hose. He rolled the latter up far enough to bare his leg to the thigh. That done, he positioned himself alongside his new queen. Delicately, she plucked at her skirt until one foot and ankle emerged. Carefully and deliberately, Longueville touched his bare leg to her naked foot. A shout of triumph went up from the witnesses as the archbishop declared the marriage consummated.

Smiling broadly, Longueville rose from the bed and led the crowd of spectators from the chamber. Only I remained behind to help the queen of France resume her checkered gown and a cloth-of-gold cap that covered her ears in the Venetian fashion. As soon as she was dressed, the celebrations resumed.

The Lady Mary had kept me awake most of the night before. Worried about her coming confrontation with her brother, she’d needed someone to talk to. The result was that I felt too exhausted to face the remaining festivities. I sought the peace and privacy of my own lodgings instead.

On my way there, I had to pass the duke’s rooms. I could scarce fail to notice the unusual amount of activity within, nor could I stop myself from entering to investigate. I found Guy bent over a huge traveling chest, checking the contents against a list.

Curious, I came up beside him and peered inside. “These are Longueville’s clothes!” I recognized the slashed taffeta doublet and the leather cape with the collar of marten.

“Why are you surprised? You knew he would leave when his ransom was paid.”

“But…but I assumed he would accompany the princess…the queen, to France.”

Guy refolded a black satin doublet and a pair of black hose and tucked them in around a casket covered in green velvet. “This evening the king will come here to drink French wine and sign the remaining legal documents, including one that states that the duke’s ransom has been received. We leave for France tomorrow.”

I could not take it in. I had not expected to be separated from Longueville and Guy so soon. I had assumed, foolishly perhaps, that they would remain with us during all our preparations and leave for France when we did.

“You will see him again soon enough.” Guy spoke sharply, as if out of temper with me.

“That is not…I simply…” My voice trailed off and I made a gesture of helplessness, uncertain as to what I did mean.

“If you have nothing to contribute, I have work to do.”

His curt dismissal hurt my feelings, but I did not let him see it. “I will leave you to it, then. How early do you depart?”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “When did you ever know the duke to rise before eight?”

Like the king, Longueville rarely went to bed before midnight, but those of us who served royalty often had to be up and about earlier, no matter how late we had stayed up the night before. By the hour of seven, when the morning watch of the yeomen of the guard relieved the night watch in the king’s presence chamber, attendants on duty for the day with king, queen, or princess had long since dressed and broken their fast.

Still in disbelief that he had not told me personally of his leaving so soon, I vowed to rise before dawn the next day, to be sure I did not miss the duke’s departure.

IN THE MORNING I had no difficulty locating the French party. The duke and his six servants were leaving with ten horses and a cart bearing presents to the value of two thousand pounds, including the gown King Henry had worn the previous day. Its value, Guy informed me, had been estimated at three hundred ducats.

“Presents for the king of France or for Longueville?” I asked.

“For the king, for the most part.” But my question provoked a smile.

Although clearly impatient to be on his way, when the duke caught sight of me he left off giving instructions to young Ivo and crossed the courtyard. Drawing me a little aside, he bent his head and kissed me full on the lips. “I was disappointed not to find you waiting in my bed when I returned to my chamber last night.”

“I was not certain I would be welcome.”

My words were true enough, and he might have come in search of me, had he truly desired my company. But in all honesty, I had been glad to sleep alone. It was becoming more and more difficult to pretend to feelings I no longer had. I looked forward to returning to France, but not as the duke’s mistress. I would be the queen’s lady. I would not be dependent upon either Longueville or Guy.

“Ah, well,” the duke said, “soon we will have all the time in the world. When you come to France, I will show you wonders.”

“My duties to the new queen will keep me busy.”

“Do you truly wish to remain in her service? I can offer you something better, Jane. At Beaugency.”

It was as well that he chose to kiss me again, for I did not know how to reply. For months now, I had gone to his bed more from duty than desire. Like a wife, I thought, as Mary Tudor sprang to mind.

With a final clinging touch of lips to lips, Longueville left me, returning to his preparations for departure. I had thought to discourage his attention once we left England. I’d assumed he’d lose interest quickly. After all, he’d once offered to give me away. Now I was not so certain of that.

“You will like Beaugency.” Guy still stood nearby. His sour expression had returned.

“He has a wife in France,” I murmured. “He must go back to her.” The statement sounded naive even to my own ears.

Guy shrugged. “The duchess does not care what he does or with whom he does it. Since she has already borne him four children, three of them sons, she considers that she has fulfilled her obligations as a wife.”

Did that mean she had a lover of her own? I was not quite brave enough to ask that question, but I ventured another. “Where does she live?”

“At the French court when she can, or on the lands that came with her upon their marriage.”

“At…court.” I frowned. I was certain, then, to meet her when I arrived with the new queen. In spite of Guy’s assurances, the prospect made me uneasy.

“I will not be at court or at Beaugency,” Guy said without looking at me. “I plan to tend to my own lands.” He started to turn away, but I caught his sleeve.

To my surprise, tears filled my eyes. “I have grown accustomed…I will miss you.”

Guy reached out to caress my cheek, then took my face between his palms. “I want to remember you,” he whispered. “The golden gleam in your eyes—”

“They are brown.”

“With golden flecks, and your hair is the deep, rich color of ginger.”

“It, too, is brown.” But I had to smile. “What next? Poetry to the dimple in my lady’s chin?”

He laughed, dispelling the last of the awkwardness between us. “You have no dimple.”

An hour later, I watched the little cavalcade ride away, but I had the strangest feeling I had not seen the last of Guy Dunois.

THE FRENCH KING sent gifts to his bride. Dozens of them, and a special attendant whose duties were to familiarize Queen Mary with French manners and customs and help prepare her trousseau—King Louis did not intend to permit his bride to arrive in France wearing Flemish fashions. There were lessons, fittings, sittings, too, since the king also sent his favorite court painter, Jean Perréal.

Perréal brought with him a portrait of Louis, the first Mary had seen. Instead of the elderly, sickly looking creature she had been led to expect, it showed a well-favored man of middle age. His face wore a sober expression but did not have the appearance of someone who was grievous ill. Nor did he look likely to die anytime soon.

King Louis’ other gifts, borne into the great hall on a handsome white horse, proved more pleasing to the new bride. Two large coffers contained plate, seals, devices, and jewelry. First among the last was the chief bridal gift, the Mirror of Naples, a diamond as large as full-size finger with a huge pear-shaped pendant pearl the size of a pigeon’s egg. King Henry at once sent it out to be valued. The experts reckoned it was worth sixty thousand crowns.

Shortly after the Frenchmen arrived, Mother Guildford returned to court. She had been appointed to take charge of Queen Mary’s maids of honor. The new queen of France was overjoyed to have her, remembering her as a doting governess during the years she had been in charge of the nursery at Eltham. I was less enthusiastic, especially when she made a point of taking me aside to lecture me.

“Well, girl, you have ruined yourself. I always feared you would.”

“I cannot see how. I am as high in favor at court as ever I was.” Longueville’s parting gift to me had been to ask that I be allowed to keep my private lodgings until I left for France. The king had agreed.

She stared pointedly at my belly. “No consequences?”

I pretended not to know what she meant, meanwhile struggling to hold on to my temper. Fortunately, Mother Guildford had too many other duties to bother much about me. There were to be over a hundred people in the queen of France’s permanent household, some thirty of us female. Queen Mary also would take along her own secretary, chamberlain, treasurer, almoner, physician, and the like.

AFTER SEVERAL HECTIC weeks, we at last set out for Dover. Dresses, jewelry, and other goods came with us, transported in closed carts drawn by teams of six horses. They had fleurs-de-lis—the emblem of France—painted on the sides and were emblazoned with Mary’s arms and her newly chosen motto, La volantée de Dieu me suffit—“To do God’s will is enough for me.”

Queen Mary traveled in a litter borne by two large horses ridden by liveried pages. The litter was covered in cloth-of-gold figured with lilies, half red, half white. The saddles and harnesses were also covered with cloth-of-gold.

I rode on horseback, as did many others. I was glad of it. Litters, even those padded with large cushions and hung with rich curtains, were devilishly uncomfortable. The carts called charetas, drawn by two or more horses harnessed one before the other, were even worse.

Once at Dover Castle, foul weather and high winds postponed our departure. Every time the storm abated, the wedding party prepared to embark, only to be turned back by the return of furious winds and lashing waves. There were occasional stretches of calm weather, but they lasted barely long enough for messengers to cross the Narrow Seas.

More than a week after our arrival in Dover, when one such lull gave promise of safe passage to France, I made my way through a scene of utter chaos in search of my mistress. I had to step around boxes and trunks and over garments made of cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver and other precious fabrics. We had been stranded for so long in Dover that, out of sheer boredom, Queen Mary had ordered all her new clothes unpacked. She had passed the time trying them on and admiring herself in the polished metal of an ornately framed mirror.

Now everything had to be packed away, and quickly, before the weather changed again—sixteen gowns, including a wedding dress, in the French fashion; six gowns in the Milanese style, with matching hats; and eight gowns of English cut. Each came with its own chemise, girdle, and accessories. The new queen also had fourteen pairs of double-soled shoes and hundreds of pieces of jewelry—gold chains and bracelets; carcanets of diamonds and rubies; pearled aiguillettes; golden, gem-studded frontlets; brooches, rings, and medallions.

I found the queen of France examining the contents of a golden coffer that stood open on a table in her bedchamber. A faint frown marred the perfection of her features. Mary Tudor might be accounted the most beautiful princess in Christendom—long golden hair, lively blue eyes, pale complexion, all flattered by a gown of blue velvet over a kirtle of tawny-colored damask—but just at present she was clearly out of sorts and still a little pale and wan from her reaction to the previous night’s thunderstorm.

“Leave us,” she ordered, dismissing the ladies-in-waiting hovering in the background. They left with ill grace. Sisters, wives, and daughters of noblemen all, they shot baleful glances my way in passing.

I ignored them, pretending to focus on the scattered contents of a small, ornately carved jewel chest. I was still accorded the courtesy title “keeper of jewels” and from force of habit counted two thick ropes of pearls, four brooches, three rings, and a diamond and ruby carcanet.

Only after the door closed with a solid thunk did I realize that Queen Mary had something to say to me that she wished to keep private. That did not bode well. “Your Grace?”

She heaved a heartfelt sigh, then took both my hands in hers. “There is no easy way to tell you this, Jane. It is hard news for both of us.”

“What is, Your Grace?”

“You have been forbidden to travel with me into France. You must stay behind in England.”

This announcement was so unexpected that at first I could think of nothing to say. I felt as if time had stopped, as if all my senses were wrapped in wool. Only after a long silence did I manage to stammer out a question. “But why, Your Grace?”

“The list of my attendants was sent to King Louis for approval. He crossed through your name.”

Struggling to comprehend the enormity of this setback, and to conceal how badly it rattled me, I asked who else he had rejected.

“Only you, Jane.” She squeezed my hands once and let go.

Bereft of that small comfort, the full impact of her words hit me with the force of a battle-ax. If I could not go to France with the queen, I might never discover the truth about my mother. I would be left behind, adrift and friendless. I would never see Guy again.

“I do not understand,” I whispered.

“Nor do I.” Mary spread her hands wide. “Henry thinks someone must have let slip that you were the duc de Longueville’s mistress while Longueville was in England.”

Although I allowed my outward demeanor to show little of my reaction, beneath the surface my emotions continued to be chaotic. The numbness that had engulfed me upon first hearing the news had worn off. In rapid succession I felt a rush of helplessness, a wave of frustration, and, finally, the welcome surge of anger. I ruthlessly suppressed any sign of this last. It was all well and good for one of the Tudors to make a display of temper. A lowly waiting gentlewoman did not have that luxury.

I hid my distress as best I could. There was nothing I could do to change what had happened. All Longueville’s fine designs for me, all my plans to investigate my past, had come to naught. And I would never see Guy again. I hastily pushed that thought away, and with it the deep sense of loss thinking it produced.

Taking my exterior calm at face value, the queen offered up what else she knew. “The king of France sounded most particular in his dislike of you, Jane. Has he any reason to mistrust you or your family?”

Surprised by the question, I almost blurted out what Guy had told me about the gens d’armes who had come looking for my mother. I caught myself in time. “I can think of none, Your Grace.”

“It is what King Louis said when he struck your name off the list that makes me wonder. By one account, his words were these: ‘If the king of England ordered Mistress Popyncourt to be burnt, it would be a good deed.’ And then he claimed that you would be an evil influence on me and said you should not be allowed in my company.”

“Burnt,” I whispered. Everything inside me turned to ice at the word. The king of France did not just want me to stay in England. He wanted me dead.

“A second witness reports that King Louis told Henry’s ambassador this: ‘As you love me, speak of her no more. I would she were burnt.’ Then the king claimed he acted only out of concern for my welfare and crossed out your name.” Mary gave a disdainful sniff. With complete lack of concern for their value, she began to toss the scattered bits of jewelry back into the open coffer.

The sound of the lid slamming shut echoed in the stone chamber. It resounded in my thoughts, as well, and with a snap almost as loud, a piece of the puzzle fell into place. My name, in French, was the same as my mother’s. Had Maman lived, she would be a woman barely forty, not yet too old to take a man of the duke’s age into her bed. Had King Louis mistaken me for her?

“It appears I have been wedded to a tiresome old prude who meddles in the love affairs of his nobles,” Mary grumbled.

I said nothing. My thoughts were still spinning. Mistress Popyncourt should be burnt? Lust did not lead to execution. The nobility of France were far more likely to honor long-term mistresses with important household posts than banish them.

I would she were burnt.

Burning was not the punishment for harlotry. It was a fate reserved for heretics, for witches, for wives who murdered their husbands…and for servants who killed their masters.

I felt myself blanch. A lady-in-waiting who poisoned her king fit into that last category all too well. I was certain I was right. King Louis had me confused with my mother, and he believed the rumor that she had poisoned King Charles.

I frowned. Louis had benefited from Charles’s death. Why should he drive Maman out of France? Why would he wish to keep her away?

A logical reason was not so very difficult to imagine. He would do both if Maman was a threat to him, if she knew, mayhap, that he had poisoned King Charles. Had he tried, all those years ago, to blame her for his crime?

“If I please King Louis sufficiently, perhaps he will allow me to send for you later.” Mary’s expression brightened at the thought.

“I will pray for that outcome, Your Grace, but I think it most unlikely that the king will change his mind.”

Even if he realized that I was not my mother, he would never allow me to set foot in France. He could not take the risk that Maman had confided in me.