Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (14 page)

“Maman must have feared pursuit,” I murmured. “We did not stay with friends. And I had to promise not to speak to anyone on the journey. She would not even let me say farewell to you, Guy.”

I tried to tell myself that Maman had been frightened away by the fear of
false
accusations, that she’d fled because she could so easily have been blamed for something she had not done. Mayhap she had started the rumors of her death herself. There was irony in that, seeing as she did die not many months later.

“I want to know the truth, no matter how terrible it is.”

“That may never be possible.” Guy’s arms came around me. “It was all a long time ago,” he whispered. “Fifteen years. What can any of it possibly matter now?”

W
HEN
K
ING
H
ENRY
VII was alive, he enjoyed no sport better than tennis, not even a good tournament. He built tennis plays at all his principal residences and until a few years before his death was as enthusiastic a player as he was a spectator. A game was already in progress when the Lady Mary’s entourage arrived at that free-standing structure in the Tower of London.

Once the princess was settled in the upper gallery, furnished
with cloth-of-gold cushions and a chair under a canopy of estate, I approached the window overlooking the covered tennis court and peered down at the players.

The duc de Longueville looked up at me, his black eyes alight with pleasure. He acknowledged the Lady Mary’s presence by sketching a bow before the game resumed. The duke served a small, hard, white-kid-covered ball, sending it winging across the fringed cord that divided the court in two.

I could not stop myself from staring at him. His shirt, dampened by perspiration, clung to his broad chest. As was common with most men when they played tennis, he wore only silk drawers ornamented with gold cord. From their hem to his soft, square-toed shoes, his excellently shaped legs were bare.

So absorbed was I in assessing his figure that I barely recognized Longueville’s opponent as Guy Dunois, similarly attired. To return a ball, Guy threw himself into the air, nearly crashing into a wall. The ball flew straight into a window frame on the opposite side of the court.

Although I had watched tennis matches for years, I still did not understand the game. The rules are complicated—a deliberate attempt, I suspect, to assure that only educated men can play. I did know that when one player failed to return the ball, points were scored according to how far from the center cord that ball had come to rest.

I leaned forward in order to see better. When the ball struck the wire mesh directly in front of me with a resounding twang, I jumped back.

The Lady Mary whooped with laughter. She was in a jovial mood that put me in mind of her brother the king. “Shall we wager on the outcome?” she asked when she had her mirth under control. That, too, smacked of King Henry.

I held my hands spread wide. “I have no money with which to gamble, Your Grace.”

“Risk something you value, then. Your pendant.” She pointed to the tiny enameled dragon I wore suspended from my waist.

Most people did not notice it alongside my rosary and my pomander ball. But the Lady Mary knew it was there, and she knew what it meant to me. The bit of jewelry was one of the few things I had by which to remember my mother. I clasped a protective hand around the little dragon, feeling the edges bite into my palm through my glove.

Caught up in the match, Mary did not notice my distress. “I wager ten pounds against your bauble,” she said, “on the duc de Longueville to win.”

A sudden tightness in my chest left me fighting tears. Certain that I would lose, I ran one finger over the small keepsake, caressing the smoothly cold surface of the tiny dragon body, feeling the protuberances of its head and wings and feet. Then my hand moved to the rosary beside it and I murmured a brief prayer.

Since my conversation with Guy, I had been unable to stop thinking about my mother and how little I knew of her. She had married at fifteen. I remembered her telling me that when Papa died only a few months before we left France. And she had married for love. She had told me that, too, for Papa was not a Breton, nor even a landowner, but rather a Flemish merchant who did business in both Brittany and France.

Maman had been raised in the household of Duchess Anne of Brittany, later Queen Anne of France, after her own mother died. If she ever spent much time with relatives on either side of her family, she had never spoken of it to me. After I met my uncle, Sir Rowland, I pictured the rest of the Velvilles as distant as he was.

As play continued, I focused on Guy. If he had been
Longueville’s companion for fifteen years, surely he would have received training in jousting, hunting, hawking, and all other sports. The duke had been the captain of a company comprised of a hundred gentlemen of the French king’s horse at the time he was taken prisoner. Since Guy was here with him, he must have been one of that hundred. A soldier, then.

He was shorter than the duke—only a few inches taller than I—and had a slighter, more wiry build than his half brother. As I watched, Guy leapt halfway across the court to return the ball, scoring a point. For a moment I let myself hope he might prevail, but despite Guy’s considerable athletic prowess, the duke far outshone him.

Longueville handled his racquet as if he had been born holding one. Moreover, he was a nobleman and Guy’s master. I knew too well how unwise it was to try to outshine the sun. No matter how much energy Guy exerted, he was unlikely to win the match. In the end, he would not even try to emerge victorious. He would give the duke a good game but make certain Longueville won.

When the match reached its inevitable conclusion, the Lady Mary beckoned to me, commanding my presence at her side. She looked well pleased with the outcome until she glimpsed my face. She caught my hand before I could finish unclasping my pendant.

“This wager was a foolish impulse on my part. I would never deprive you of something you treasure so dearly.”

“Then I am in your debt, Your Grace.”

I might have said more, but her attention had already shifted to the court below. “He is a most well-favored fellow,” she murmured.

Following her gaze, I felt again the fierce pull of desire. To prevent taking a chill, the duc de Longueville had donned a rumpled crimson velvet tennis coat decorated with strips of dark blue satin.
His face, sweat streaked and glowing with health and vitality, lifted toward the royal box. Once again, he bowed to the Lady Mary.

The princess sent a sidelong glance my way. “I vow,” she murmured, “he is almost as toothsome as Charles Brandon.”

A mischievous little smile played around her mouth. Two years earlier, when Mary was sixteen and had admired Brandon’s prowess in a tournament, I had confided in her, telling her of his brief courtship of me when I was her age. I also told her I thought myself fortunate to have escaped the entanglement heart-whole.

She’d been fascinated by her brother’s friend ever since.

Longueville and Guy had just left to wash and change their clothing when a great shout went up outside the tennis play. A messenger in the queen’s livery appeared a moment later, bearing a letter to the Lady Mary from Queen Catherine. She did not have to read it to know there had been an English victory. All around us people were cheering as the news spread.

“Our army engaged the Scots at a place called Flodden,” Mary said as she skimmed the letter. “Queen Catherine herself was not on the battlefield, but she claims the triumph as her own.”

We’d heard already how Catherine had inspired the troops. Soldiers had joined her cavalcade all along the way north, swelling ranks that had once been outnumbered by the Scottish invaders. Pride in my countrymen and my queen filled me with a fierce joy…until I saw Mary’s face change. Tears welled in her eyes, although she did not permit them to fall.

“What is it?” I stepped closer, shielding her from prying eyes.

“King James the Fourth of Scotland is dead.”

I thought at once of Margaret, Mary’s sister and my one-time playfellow. The king of Scotland was her husband. His death left her a widow at twenty-three. Would she grieve for him? Given what I knew of Margaret, and the reports that had come out of
Scotland over the years, she would be as upset by her loss of influence as by James’s death. Scotland had a new king now, James V, Margaret’s son. The boy was still an infant. The country would have to be ruled by a regent for many years to come.

Mary’s breath caught as she read on. “Catherine lists half the nobility of Scotland here.”

“Prisoners?”

“Dead. Killed in the battle.”

I stared at her in shock. Noblemen were supposed to be captured and held for ransom. I’d believed that the French admiral who had butchered Lord Edward was an exception, but it seemed the English generals could be just as brutal.

“Catherine has ordered James’s body embalmed and sent to Richmond Palace,” Mary whispered. “She writes that she plans to send James’s blood-stained coat to Henry as proof of how good a steward she has been for his realm in his absence.”

I could imagine King Henry’s reaction to that. He’d think she was trying to belittle his own accomplishment. She’d killed a king—his sister’s husband. All he’d done was capture a duke.

Sickened by the reports of carnage, and by the pleasure most people seemed to take in them, I wanted nothing more than to retreat from public view. It was not to be. The Lady Mary was expected to speak to the crowd gathered within the Tower precincts. She and all her household had to appear to rejoice at the news of England’s great victory over the Scots.

6

T
he night after we received word of the Battle of Flodden, the Lady Mary suffered from nightmares. The next night, she ordered me to keep her company. It was not uncommon for one of her ladies to sleep with her for warmth, but what she wanted from me was distraction.

Closed into the high, curtained bed, the covers pulled up to our chins, we were as private as anyone could ever be at court. In the room beyond, several more of her women slept on pallets on the floor. If we spoke too loudly, we would be overheard.

“I do not wish to think of blood and battle,” the princess said. “Tell me what you have learned from your French friend.”

I hesitated, uncertain it would be wise to admit that my mother had been thought capable of killing a king. I did not believe for a moment that she had done so, but the royalty of any country are bound to be sensitive about such matters.

Mary pouted. “I thought we were friends. You can trust me to keep your confidences.”

I lay on my back, staring up at the brocade ceiler over our heads. “It appears that my mother wished to disappear. She spirited me out of France and somehow the rumor started that she and I had both died after leaving Amboise. In truth, we came here to England to begin a new life.”

“Anyone would prefer England to France.” Mary sounded smug.

“What troubles me is that I do not know why we had to hide where we were going. Maman promised me that she would explain, but she died before she could keep her word.”

“Is there no one else you can ask?”

“My uncle must know something of her reasons, but he is with King Henry. It could be months yet before I have the opportunity to talk to him.”

As we’d had reports of the war with Scotland, so, too, had we received news of King Henry’s campaign against the French. After the battle in which the duc de Longueville had been captured, the English had gone to Lille, where they were entertained by Archduchess Margaret, the regent of the Netherlands. Diplomacy had replaced combat, and among the matters being discussed was a date for the Lady Mary to consummate her marriage to Charles of Castile. His title might come from a Spanish kingdom, but Charles himself had been raised by the Archduchess of Flanders. She was his aunt, the sister of that same King Philip who had once visited England. Charles had another aunt, too—our own Queen Catherine.

“Is there no one else who knew your mother when she first arrived?” Mary asked. “She was one of my mother’s ladies, was she not?”

“Yes, for a few months before she died.” My voice was flat, hiding the turmoil inside me.

“A few weeks is long enough to make friends. Oh! I know! You must talk to Mother Guildford. Do you not remember? Before she took charge of my household, she was in Mother’s service. She must have known your maman.”

I grimaced, thinking my expression hidden, but Mary knew me too well.

“Stop making faces. Mother Guildford is exactly the person you need. She has an excellent memory and she knows
everyone
. She should. Before she was in my mother’s household, she served my grandmother.”

“Which one?”

“Father’s mother, the Countess of Richmond.”

Perhaps, I thought, that was where Mother Guildford acquired her sour temperament. I remembered the countess as being irascible on her best days, and she had always seemed to go out of her way to make me feel inferior…when she took notice of me at all. But Mary was right. Mother Guildford was the most likely person to remember who had befriended a newcomer at court some fifteen years earlier.

Two days later, accompanied by a groom, I set out on horseback for Mother Guildford’s little house near the Blackfriars’ Priory, in London. She lived there in strained circumstances. Her husband’s death in Jerusalem on pilgrimage had left her deep in debt. Her only income, so her son Harry had told me, came from fifty marks a year in dower rights and the rent Charles Brandon paid to live in what had once been his uncle’s house in Southwark, the London suburb on the south side of the Thames. No one seemed to know why, but Sir Thomas Brandon had willed the property to the widow of his old friend Sir Richard Guildford. Perhaps he had felt sorry for her.

Mother Guildford received me in a small parlor at the upper end of the hall. It smelled of cedar and the strong, unpleasant odor of gout wort. “Why have you come now?” she asked. “It cannot be for the pleasure of my company or you would have found time to visit me long since.”