Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (23 page)

His eyes sparkled as he flashed me a smile. “Perhaps this will help.”

I felt him slide something onto my finger and when I looked down, I was wearing a ruby ring. I wondered how he had obtained it, knowing as I did the state of his finances, but I did not ask. I held my hand out, admiring the way the stone reflected the light from the candles.

“It is beautiful, Louis. You are most generous.” I was not too proud to accept the expensive gift. Indeed, if I did not live up to the king’s expectations and was not allowed to return to France with my lover, the sale of such a bauble might be all I had to provide for myself.

He lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I would shower you with such jewels if I could.”

The ring was soon remarked upon…in whispers. Such an expensive gift proclaimed louder than words that the duke had staked his claim on me. Anyone who had not previously suspected that I was his mistress would know it now.

As the evening wore on, one after another the queen’s ladies snubbed me. Even the princess’s gentlewomen pointedly avoided my company. Only young Bessie Blount, naturally friendly as a puppy, braved the censure of the others to exchange greetings with me.

If I had not had the Lady Mary’s friendship and the king’s support, I might well have kept to my lodgings. As it was, I knew I must be brazen and pretend nothing had changed. I lifted my chin, pasted a smile on my face, and attempted to enjoy the festivities. I was saddened, but not surprised, when Harry Guildford also stayed well away from me.

Everyone rose as the lord steward carried a cup full of spiced ale into the torchlit presence chamber. He called out the traditional greeting: “Wassail, wassail, wassail!” and then presented the cup to the king. King Henry sipped and handed the cup to the queen, who looked fine indeed, wearing her long hair loose over her shoulders, as only queens and unmarried girls are permitted to do. The king’s blue-gray eyes sparkled as he watched her pass the wassail cup to his sister. After that, all the courtiers in attendance took their turns while the Children of the Chapel sang.

As soon as the wassail cup had made its rounds, confections and spices of all sorts were served, first to the king and queen and then to the rest of the court. In the past there had been as many as a hundred dishes at a Twelfth Night banquet. Last to be served was always the cake made of flour, honey, spices, and dried fruit. By that time, I no longer had any appetite. I toyed with the slice in front of me, mangling the pastry.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
Guy gestured toward the cake. Once again we had been seated together, as befit our station. To sit next to Longueville, given his rank, would have been a breach of protocol.

I looked down and there, lying in the ruins of the cake, was a bean.
The
bean. I stared at it in horror. Whoever found this prize became King or Queen of the Bean for the rest of the evening and the last thing I desired was more notoriety.

Nick Carew, seated on my other side, had not touched his cake. He was preoccupied with sending longing glances at Elizabeth, Meg Guildford’s beautiful, chestnut-haired sister. I plucked the bean from my crumbs and shoved it into the center of his portion of cake. Moments later, Nick discovered the prize. He made a most excellent King of the Bean. His first act was to call for the evening’s entertainment to begin.

There were no great set pieces required for this revel, although Master Gibson had made the costumes and sent them to Richmond from London by barge. He’d dressed six gentlemen in white jackets and black gowns and minstrels and a fool in yellow sarcenet painted with hearts and wings of silver. But the centerpiece of the spectacle consisted of two women clad in silver—Meg and her sister—who represented the goddesses Venus and Beauty.

There was less story than usual to this piece, but the servants and ordinary folk seated on benches around the outside of the chamber were enthralled when the gentlemen performed a Morris dance. There followed an interlude performed by the Children of the Chapel and then Venus and Beauty sang to the accompaniment of a lute. By the last verse, everyone was familiar enough with the chorus to join in, even Guy, who did not understand a word of it.

“‘Bow you down,’” we sang, “‘and do your duty, to Venus and the goddess Beauty. We triumph high over all. Kings attend when we do call.’”

Bowing down to kings, I thought, was a much wiser course for the rest of us.

A second interlude was performed by the King’s Players, but it was overlong. There were restless stirrings in the crowd and the king left before the end of it. The queen departed soon after.

Nick Carew, as King of the Bean, and Master Wynnsbury, who was Lord of Misrule for this one last night, called for dancing. I looked wistfully back over my shoulder as I slipped out of the hall, but I had no real desire to execute intricate steps while hostile glares bored into my back.

A
WEEK LATER
, a somber-faced Guy interrupted my intimate supper with the duc de Longueville. “A special messenger has just arrived from the French court.” He handed the duke a sealed letter.

Longueville broke the seal and read. For just a moment, he had the self-satisfied look of a cat with a mouse, but he hastily rearranged his features into solemn lines before he told us what the letter contained. “Anne of Brittany, queen of France, is dead.”

An overwhelming sadness filled me. Queen Anne had been much admired, even loved, by my mother. I felt her loss on a deep and personal level.

“This provides a great opportunity.” Longueville assessed me with a long, hard look. “The English king has two sisters, does he not?”

“You know he does.”

“The younger is very dear to him, the flower of his court, and promised to Charles of Castile. But the elder, Margaret, is newly the widow of the king of Scotland. What could be more providential than that? Tell me all you know about her, Jane.”

“She is regent of Scotland. Her young son is the king.”

“Is she comely?”

“She was pretty as a girl, but I have not seen her for six years.” A woman quickly lost her looks when she began bearing children.

“Was she as beautiful as her younger sister?”

“She had…a different sort of beauty.” Margaret had been stocky as a girl. I suspected she’d grown heavier with age. Mary was a sylph and likely always would be. “Your Grace, you cannot think to marry Queen Margaret to the king of France.”

“Why not? Alliances are formed by royal marriages, are they not? This one could bring peace for generations to come.”

“But she has a duty to Scotland. She is
regent
.”

He dismissed those responsibilities with a careless wave of the hand. “Some suitable Scots nobleman will be found to fill the post.”

“Her son cannot leave Scotland. Would you deprive him of his mother?” Such separations were common, but that did not make them any less painful for those involved.

“She will have other children. King Louis’ children.”

“I should think,” I said stiffly, “that you might give them each time to mourn before you force them into another marriage.”

Incredulous, Longueville laughed at the very idea. “You are softhearted, sweeting. Let them commiserate with each other if they must grieve, but I would be surprised if that were necessary. Their earlier marriages were made for political reasons, and so will this one be.” His words held no hint of sympathy for his bereaved monarch, his own distant cousin, let alone for my erstwhile playfellow Margaret Tudor.

“King James of Scotland was young and handsome, or so I have heard.” I had also heard reports that he and Margaret had never taken to each other, that she’d been too strong willed to suit him, but saw no need to tell Longueville that.

“Until he was brutally slain by English troops at the Battle
of Flodden,” the duke said. Irritated, he rose from the table and walked to the coffer where he kept quills, ink, and parchment.

I had yet to follow the suggestion that I ask Longueville about his own experiences in battle. I did not think it would improve his temper to remind him of the ignominious defeat the French troops had suffered at what the English called the Battle of the Spurs. That, Harry had told me, had been all they’d seen of the French cavalry as they galloped away across the field at Guingates in an attempt to escape the victorious troops led by King Henry and his allies.

The longer I remained Longueville’s mistress, the more I realized that he was no gallant knight and had never been. He might be kind to me, gentle with me, but he’d give me away in a heartbeat if he saw an advantage in it. If I did end up traveling with him to France, I would do well to remember that.

“Is Queen Margaret as unpredictable as her brother?” Longueville asked.

Mayhap I was concerned for her without reason, I thought. All I had to do to discourage the match was to tell the truth. “She is, and she has the Tudor temper, too. I remember once, when she was already styled queen of Scotland, although she had not yet gone north to consummate the marriage, she flew into a rage over a pair of sleeves.”

At his lifted eyebrow, I explained.

“All the Tudors love fine clothing. You have seen that for yourself. After the death of Arthur, Prince of Wales, the entire family wore black, but as that summer wore on, the princesses were allowed a bit of color in their wardrobe. Princess Margaret acquired two sets of sleeves, one of white sarcenet and another pair in orange sarcenet. The orange sleeves were her favorite item of dress, and when they were accidentally left behind when the court moved from Baynard’s Castle to Westminster, nothing would do but that
Queen Elizabeth’s page of robes be sent back to fetch them. He was rewarded for doing so, but first he had to endure a tirade of abuse for forgetting them in the first place. A Tudor in a temper is a formidable sight, terrifying and ludicrous all at once.”

“Even the Lady Mary has this failing?”

I nodded, though it felt disloyal to make the admission. “Even she. The princess has been known to scream and throw things in a manner more suited to a two-year-old child than a woman in her eighteenth year.”

I hoped such tales might make the duke reconsider, but he seemed more set on his matchmaking than ever. I had, however, regained his goodwill. He asked for additional stories about Margaret’s early life and in return spoke more freely in front of me, outlining his plan to approach King Henry to ask for his help in marrying off his widowed sister.

When I left the duke’s lodgings, I went directly to the great hall. Word of Queen Anne’s death had already spread among the courtiers but had created only a minor stir. Had the king of France died, that would have caused consternation. Since Louis was still alive, life went on unchanged. The dancing and dicing and games of cards continued, unaffected by the news from France.

I found Will Compton without difficulty, and relayed my information in a hurried whisper. He scarce seemed to hear me. He kept glancing toward the doorway, as if he expected someone to make an entrance.

“Will? Is aught amiss?”

He shook his head, but I did not believe him. A sense of foreboding settled over me when I saw Dr. John Chambre arrive. Even if I had not recognized his hawk nose and his habitually grim expression, he would have been marked as one of the king’s physicians by his long, furred gown in royal livery colors.

He made his way directly to Will, but nodded to me in polite greeting. “Mistress Popyncourt. You look well.”

Impressed that he’d remembered who I was, I thanked him for the compliment. When he started to follow Will from the presence chamber, I was struck by a sudden thought. I caught at his trailing sleeve. “Sir, a moment? May I speak with you privily?”

Here was one more person who might know something about my lady mother.

“You must wait and talk to him later,” Will said, and hurried the doctor away.

I soon understood why they had been so distracted. The king had fallen ill again. For two weeks, as Dr. Chambre hovered and the queen set herself the task of nursing her husband back to health, the duc de Longueville could get nowhere near His Grace. His plan to negotiate for Queen Margaret’s hand on behalf of King Louis fell into abeyance.

I shared his frustration, but not for the same reason. Now that I had remembered Dr. Chambre, I was anxious to speak with the royal physician but he was much too busy with his patient to have time for me. It was nearly a week later, after the king was well on his way to recovery, that the respected physician remembered my request and found his way to my lodgings.

Although Nan was a slow-witted girl, just bright enough to carry out her duties as my maid, I sent her away as soon as the doctor appeared. I had learned to be careful what I said when others might overhear.

He frowned. “It is customary to keep another female about during an examination, but I suppose you wish this kept secret.” My blank expression had him narrowing his eyes. “You did wish to consult me on a private matter?”

Obviously he thought I was pregnant. Or worse, diseased. Heat
crept up my neck and into my face. “It is not…I did not…I only wanted to ask you if you tended my mother during her last illness!”

“I have no notion who your mother was.”

“She was Mistress Popyncourt. Joan Popyncourt. She joined Queen Elizabeth’s household in June of the thirteenth year of the reign of King Henry the Seventh and traveled with the court into East Anglia on progress. I am told she died that September at Collyweston.”

“I was not yet at court then,” Dr. Chambre said.

My spirits sank.

“Collyweston, you say?” He rubbed his chin as he considered. “That was the home of the Countess of Richmond, King Henry the Seventh’s mother. The physician who attended your mother was most likely Philip Morgan. At least he was the doctor who looked after the countess during her final years.”

The Countess of Richmond had been a force to be reckoned with in my youth. She had written the rules and regulations by which the royal nursery functioned. By the time I arrived at Eltham, she’d only rarely visited, but I could remember how she’d swoop down on her grandchildren, a scrawny figure in unrelieved black. She had been very pious, always muttering prayers. And she had not liked me. Once I had overheard her telling Mother Guildford that I should be sent away to a nunnery.