Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (25 page)

“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.

W
E 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.