Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (11 page)

Bessie Blount, who had fallen behind, reached the landing. Her face becomingly flushed and her eyes wide, she stared at the halberd. The guard’s cheeks also flamed. He was new at court as well, since all the experienced men had gone off to war with the king.

Moments later, I entered the royal bedchamber where the queen was being dressed. The air was thick with mingled scents—musk and rosewater, jasmine and civet, rosemary and lavender. Queen Catherine stood beside the bed wearing only her chemise and a
verdugado
. The undergarment was made of canvas into which bands of cane had been inserted at intervals from the waist downward. The bands gradually widened as they approached the hem.

As I made my obeisance, one of the ladies of the bedchamber put a linen petticoat over the queen’s head. It fell into place, masking the lines of the
verdugado
’s ribs. I was obliged to wait while other highborn tiring maids added an underdress and overskirt and arranged the queen’s long, thick, red-gold hair atop her head. Queen Catherine did not acknowledge me until her gable headdress was firmly anchored in place.

“Come forward, Mistress Popyncourt.”

I obeyed, casting a surreptitious glance at the royal bed as I passed it. It was a massive structure fully eleven feet square and positioned beneath a gold and silver canopy suspended from the
ceiling by cords. The hangings were of the finest silk, drawn back to reveal lawn sheets, wool blankets, feather bolsters and pillows, and coverlets of silk, velvet, and fur. Across the one made of crimson velvet lay a sinfully luxurious black night-robe trimmed with sable.

One of the tiring women reached for it, but the queen commanded that she leave it be. Then she sent everyone away save for myself and Maria de Salinas, her most trusted lady-in-waiting.

Uneasy in my mind, I watched them go. The queen had never singled me out for attention before and I could not think why she should now unless—could it be that she had recognized me as Maid Marian after all this time?

“Where were you born, Mistress Popyncourt?” the queen asked.

“In Brittany, Your Grace, of a Breton mother and a Flemish father.” I was surprised she did not know that, but perhaps she had never bothered to ask about me before.

“Not France?”

As the queen’s hatred of all things French was well known, my nervousness increased. “No, Your Grace. At that time, the duchy of Brittany was still independent.”

I refrained from adding that when Brittany had been absorbed into the kingdom of France, I had gone there to live. In the earliest days I could remember, I’d thought of France as my homeland.

“Is it true that you are a…
huérfana
?” At times, unable to remember the correct English word, the queen still expressed herself in Spanish.

“Orphan,” Maria de Salinas supplied. The queen’s favorite lady spoke better English than her mistress.

“Yes, Your Grace. My parents died when I was a child.”

Queen Catherine used both hands to adjust her headdress, wincing as if the weight of it made her head ache. Although no
official announcement had been made, it was widely speculated that she was again with child. I prayed that was so. As of yet, King Henry had no heir for his throne.

“How old were you when you came here?” the queen asked.

“I arrived in England in the summer of my eighth year.” With each question, I breathed more easily.

“And then?”

“I was installed in the royal nursery at Eltham for the purpose of speaking French in daily conversation with the Lady Mary and the Lady Margaret, the king’s daughters.”

“Margaret,” the queen muttered, scowling.

I said nothing. Margaret’s husband, King James, had allied himself with Louis of France. There were rumors that he was about to cross the border from Scotland into England at the head of an army.

“You will have heard of the king’s great victory over the French,” the queen said.

“Yes, Your Grace. The French troops fled before our greater English force.”

Moving toward a nearby Glastonbury chair, the queen waited for Maria de Salinas to plump the cushions before she sat. Relief suffused her features, making me more certain than ever that she was with child.

“His Grace has sent me a gift,” the queen said. “A French prisoner of war. He bids me treat this man, a duke, as our honored guest. In all, seven prisoners arrived here this morning, the duke and his six servants. I must meet with him and inform him that he is to be held in the Tower of London until both Scotland and France are defeated. He will be treated well. He will have the use of the royal apartments there. But he cannot be allowed to live at court while we are still at war.” Her eyes, which had gone
unfocused as she spoke, suddenly fixed on my face. “You must tell him this, Jane. My French is better than it was, but I must be certain of everything—what he learns from me and what he says in return. I rely upon you to translate every word, each…nuance. You will be my ears, Jane, and my voice.”

“It will be my pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Come, then.” She rose and walked toward the door to the privy chamber. Maria de Salinas made little shooing motions, urging me to hurry after her.

The privy chamber led into the presence chamber. The rise and fall of voices ceased at the queen’s entrance. Courtiers made a leg and ladies sank into their skirts as she made her way to the dais and the chair of state that sat under a canopy of cloth-of-gold, just as it had in old King Henry’s day. Seating herself with a rustle of stiff, jewel-encrusted fabric, the queen gestured for me to stand just behind her.

“Bring the prisoners in,” she commanded.

Expectant, everyone waited, eyes on the door to the great watching chamber.

A yeoman of the guard stepped through first. “Louis d’Orléans, Duke of Longueville, Marquis of Rothelin, Count of Dunois, and Lord of Beaugency.”

I stared. I could not help myself. The duke’s hair, blue-black as a raven’s wing, glistened in the sunlight pouring in through the chamber windows. His face was sculpted in bold, hard lines—a strong jaw and a noble nose. He was ten years older than I, thirty-three when I first saw him that day, and in prime physical condition. He entered the presence chamber with long, confident strides, all hard, lean muscle and flowing movement.

Following him came his servants, but I paid them no mind.

Although the duke carried his bonnet in his hand and bowed to
the queen, there was nothing servile about him. He approached the dais with as much presence as any monarch, his back held straight and his shoulders squared. He commanded the attention of every person in the room.

For just a moment, as he stopped in front of the queen, his gaze slid sideways to focus on me. His eyes were a bright, metallic black, as striking in color as his hair. A shiver racked my entire body. In an instant my accustomed composure shattered.

Even after the duke looked away from me to make a second, lower obeisance to the queen, I continued to stare at him. A curious sensation began to make itself felt deep inside me.

When he spoke, it was in a resonant rumble that fell pleasantly on the ear.

“The Duke of Longueville,” I heard a courtier whisper.

“He will command a rich ransom,” came an answering voice.

Since I was there to serve as translator, I forced all other considerations from my mind. Yet I could not stop myself from smiling at the duke as I conveyed the queen’s wishes. And when I had told him where he was to be lodged, I felt compelled to reassure him.

“The Tower of London is a palace as well as a prison, my lord. You will be housed in great comfort. You will be lodged in the very rooms the king and queen occupied on the night before their coronation.”

When the audience was over, the guards were told to escort the prisoners to the barge that would transport them downriver from Richmond to the Tower of London. The queen dismissed me at the same time and I exited the presence chamber just behind the Frenchmen, passing with them into the great watching chamber where yeomen of the guard stood at attention at regular intervals along walls hung with tapestries and furnished with carpet-covered sideboard tables and many-tiered buffets.

It was a room designed to inspire awe. The guards were an impressive sight all on their own. Each of them wore a sword and carried a fearsome-looking gilt halberd, both blades glittering almost as brightly as the gleaming cups, dishes, and goblets set out on the tables and buffets. Gold and silver, jeweled and enameled, every item had been selected to proclaim the wealth and importance of King Henry VIII of England.

I noticed none of it. All my attention was on the duke. I did not want him to leave. Was this lust, one of the sins the priests warned us about? I had certainly never felt such a powerful attraction to any man before.

My musings were cut short when a voice beside me spoke in French. One of the duke’s servants had turned back. Although he now stood only inches away, I had not been aware of his approach.

“The queen called you Mistress Popyncourt,” he said in a low voice almost as deep as his master’s. “Is your Christian name Jeanne?”

“I am
Jane
Popyncourt.” I corrected him without thinking. To insist upon the English version of my name was ingrained in me by then.

“Jeanne. Jane. It is all the same, I think.” His eyes, a distinctive shade of blue-green, twinkled at me.

Frowning, I stared at him, taking note for the first time that he was a man about my own age. His hair was a light chestnut color, his features regular, and his face clean shaven. Something was familiar about his smile.

“Guy? Guy Dunois?”

“At your service, mistress.” He sketched a bow.

It was indeed the friend of my youngest days in Amboise. A rush of warmth filled me at being so unexpectedly reunited with him.

“Move along now.” One of the yeomen of the guard chastised him with a clout on the arm. “You’re not to be bothering the ladies.”

I drew myself up as I had so often seen my mistress do and looked down my nose. “A moment, sirrah. It is the queen’s bidding that I translate everything these prisoners have to say.”

Since he had plainly seen me perform this service for Queen Catherine, he could scarcely argue. I let him fume, returning my full attention to Guy. “I cannot believe you are here.”

“I came with my brother.”

My gaze shot to the doorway, but the duke had gone. Only a brown-haired, blue-eyed youth in Longueville’s livery remained, anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to decide whether to stay behind with Guy or hurry after his master.

Guy, I remembered now, was the bastard son of the Count of Dunois and Longueville. I had a vague recollection of Guy telling me he hoped to enter his half brother’s service when he was older. It had been a reasonable ambition. Bastard sons often went on to serve their fathers or half brothers in positions of trust, as stewards and secretaries and the like.

“I never expected to see you again,” I told Guy.

“Nor I, you. Especially after word reached Amboise that you were dead.”

Guy’s stark words had me gaping at him, jaw slack and eyes wide. “Dead?”

He nodded. “You and your mother both. How came you to be here in England?”

“My mother wished to join her brother, Sir Rowland Velville, at the court of King Henry the Seventh.”

That was the same answer I always gave, the answer I believed to be the truth. But for the first time, seeing the doubtful look on
Guy’s face, I wondered if there might have been more to our hasty departure from France than a sudden desire to be reunited with my uncle.

“Who told you we had died?” I asked.

“It was a long time ago. What does it matter now?”

“Do you mean you do not remember, or that you would rather not say?”

“No one person told me, Jeanne. Everyone in Amboise said it was so. And there was other talk, too.”

“Of what sort?”

He shrugged. “Gossip. Nothing more.”

“Master Dunois,” the boy interrupted. “His Grace cannot go to the Tower without us.”

Guy barely glanced at the lad. “Go and tell my lord the duke that I will be with him in a moment, Ivo. Will we be allowed visitors?” He addressed the question to me.

“The king has given orders that his prisoners are to be treated as honored guests. I will find a way to speak with you again. I have so many questions.”

“So do I, Jeanne,” Guy said, and bade me farewell.

I wanted to call him back, to ask about this “other talk” he had mentioned. I did not like the sound of that. But guards were waiting to take the duke and his servants to the Tower and I had no choice but to let Guy go.

5

R
umors also flew in the days following the arrival of the French prisoners of war, but most had to do with Scotland, not France. A Scots army had invaded England. It was variously reported to be forty thousand, sixty thousand, even one hundred thousand strong.

However great the Scottish force, it had to be stopped. Queen Catherine was spurred on by the memory of her late mother, Queen Isabella of Castile, who had personally led the army that drove the Moors out of Spain. Catherine set herself to rally the people to defend the realm. She rode north at the head of a band of citizens of London and gentlemen and yeomen from the home counties to join the army already defending northern England. The cannon from the Tower went with her.

The Lady Mary and her household stayed behind, taking up residence in the royal apartments in the Tower of London for
safety. The duc de Longueville and the other French prisoners were thus temporarily displaced and reassigned other quarters nearby. Our move to the Tower pleased me greatly. I was eager to question Guy further. And I had no objection to seeing more of the handsome duke.

“It is difficult to remember that you have not always lived here at court, Jane,” the Lady Mary remarked when I asked her permission to visit Guy Dunois, “but how do you know one of the duke’s men?”

“We were children together before I came to England. Guy’s mother’s house was but a stone’s throw from the one my mother leased whenever the French court was at Amboise.” No royal court stayed in one place long. The French king moved from château to château along the Loire and made occasional visits to Paris and other cities.