Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (31 page)

I surveyed her with a critical eye, then leaned closer and sniffed. Bessie used a light marjoram scent, but beneath it I caught a whiff of sweat. “The king was raised with very high standards of cleanliness. There is a bathtub here at Eltham. Avail yourself of it before we leave for Greenwich. And find a soap made from olive oil, not one of the ones the laundresses use.”

Her eyes widened. “But…but is that not unhealthy? To immerse one’s self in water?”

“It has not hurt the king, nor the princess…the queen of France. Nor has careful attention to their teeth.” My former mistress had the most even teeth of anyone I knew and took particular pride in the fact that they were the color of ivory. She owned no fewer than three sets of tooth cloths and picks. “Further, you must put on your newest clothing after you bathe, and beneath all your other garments, wear a little piece of fur next to your skin.”

“Why?”

“To attract any vermin to that one spot.” I touched the side of my bodice. “I have one here. It is a practice the king follows, as well.” All of us who were educated at Eltham did the same.

Impulsively, Bessie embraced me. “I would be lost without you, Jane. How am I ever to thank you?”

“Be happy,” I said before I thought.

When she beamed at me, I bit back all the warnings crowding into my brain. She was willing, I reminded myself. And even if she had not been so enthusiastic about going to the king’s bed, what choice did she have?

What choice did any of us have about anything?

I
N DEFERENCE TO
the queen’s sensibilities, the king chose to use Will Compton’s house in Thames Street for his first assignation
with Bessie Blount. This took place in early November, shortly after the move from Eltham to Greenwich.

In spite of dismal weather, Bessie and I left the palace on the pretext of a trip to London to visit the shops. Our presence was not required by the queen and in theory we were free to go where we wished, but it seemed a poor ruse to me. If not for my growing fondness for Bessie, I most assuredly would not have ventured out on such a day.

After a cold, damp five-mile trip by wherry, we were hustled up the river stairs, through a back door, and along a passage to a bedchamber. A fire blazed in the hearth, giving off welcome warmth. A dozen quarriers had been lit—square blocks of beeswax with a wick, similar to those that illuminated King Henry’s chambers at court. A luxurious, fur-trimmed robe for Bessie to change into had been left on the bed.

Relegated to the role of tiring maid, I helped her out of her damp cloak and the elaborate court dress beneath, removed her headdress, and brought her water for a last wash before she donned the sumptuous robe. I brushed her long, golden hair till it shone, and then produced a mixture of white wine and vinegar boiled with honey with which she could freshen her breath.

When all was ready, we had naught to do but wait for the king to arrive. Bessie kept a tight hold on my arm, her hand icy with last-minute nerves. I had told her all I could to help her through the afternoon. The rest was up to King Henry. As soon as His Grace arrived, I left them alone together, following the sound of voices to Will’s hall.

“Come, Jane, join us in a game of chance.” Will had already suborned the two yeomen of the guard who had accompanied the king into playing with him. They sat on stools around a small
gaming table, tankards of ale at their elbows and coins at the ready to wager.

“Without the knight marshall of the household to oversee matters?” I asked in mock horror. “I am not sure I can trust you not to cheat.”

Will took no offense, only grinned at me and used one foot to push the remaining stool in my direction. “We need no official to bring us cards or act as bookmaker.”

“Perhaps I prefer dice.” The queen, for all that she was very pious, gambled with as much fervor as everyone else at court. I meandered closer. “The knight marshal’s dice are brought to the table in a silver bowl. Did you neglect to furnish yourself with one?”

Will shuffled cards, his pride pricked by that sally. He lived well for a simple country knight, and if the rumors I had heard were true, he was building a veritable palace for himself in the Cotswolds. After Charles Brandon, King Henry favored Will Compton above all men and had given him many gifts to prove it.

“You may choose the game, Jane. What will it be? Mumchance? Gleek? Click-Clack? Imperial? Primero?”

I pretended to give the matter deep thought, but I’d been lucky of late at primero and hoped to be so again. Compton dealt three cards to each player. I looked at my hand and calculated quickly. In primero, each card had three times its usual value. Hiding my smile, I settled in to play. An hour later I had won all the two yeomen of the guard had to wager and was in a cheerful frame of mind.

“A pity you cannot afford to play for higher stakes,” Will commented as I raked in my winnings. “You will never grow rich wagering pennies.”

“Nor will I be reduced to selling my clothing.”

The two yeomen of the guard laughed and wandered off, no doubt to rid themselves of all the ale they had consumed. Left
alone with Will, I felt a sudden awkwardness descend. I could not help but wonder how long the king usually spent disporting himself with a mistress, but that was not the kind of question I could ask, not even of an old friend.

I sent a sidelong glance his way and discovered that he was staring at me intently. I quickly looked away, a frown on my face. I picked up the cards and idly began to shuffle them.

“The king hoped at least one of his own people would remain in France,” Will said.

I stifled a laugh. “I do not know why he expected me to continue to spy for him. Or how. I would have been hard pressed to send intelligence back to England.”

“Had you other plans?” Will’s voice was so smooth and uncritical that I almost confided in him.

I caught myself in time, lest a desire to do other than King Henry’s bidding be misconstrued as treason. “If I had not been refused entry in the first place, I would doubtless have been sent home with the rest of the French queen’s English household.” In spite of Mary’s passionate and tearful protests, not even Mother Guildford had been allowed to remain at the French court.

“You were fond of Longueville.” It was not a question.

“I was. So was the king,” I added, in case this, too, should be misunderstood.

“And when you came to England, years ago, it was from France.”

“I was born in Brittany.” I grew tired of reminding people of that but they never seemed to remember. “My mother was one of Duchess Anne’s ladies.” I looked up at last, into sympathetic, even pitying hazel eyes.

“You must have been disappointed, then, not to be allowed to go with the Lady Mary.”

“Has the king assigned you to test my loyalty?”

The blunt question surprised a laugh out of him. “No, he has not. Be of good cheer, Jane. You may yet have your heart’s desire. King Henry has been talking of a meeting with King Louis come spring. If the entire court travels to France, the queen will perforce take all her ladies with her, even you.”

I smiled and pretended to be pleased by the notion, but all I could think was that the king of France thought I should be burnt. I did not dare go back, not even under King Henry’s protection.

“H
E WAS SO
gentle with me, Jane. So tender.” Bessie whirled around in a circle, her face wreathed in smiles.

“I am happy for you,” I said.

“And I think I pleased him.” She blushed becomingly. “He praised my eyes and my hair and my breasts.”

“Bessie.” I caught her hands in mine and waited until she looked at me. “You must never forget that King Henry takes mistresses when the queen is with child and he is denied her bed. When he can return to it, he will lose interest in you. He is, in his way, a faithful husband.”

Her smile was one of pity. “But he is mine to keep for a while,” she said. “How many women can say they have bedded the king of England?”

I
T WAS LATE
November when Meg Guildford sought me out at court with surprising news. “Harry’s mother desires your company, Mistress Popyncourt,” she said. Her mouth was pursed with disapproval, making her look as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.

I dropped my needle in surprise. “She has returned to England?”

“She has. Will you come with me or not?”

I went. Mother Guildford was in full spate when we arrived at the double lodgings Meg and Harry occupied at court, complaining to Meg’s sister, Elizabeth, of King Louis’ many sins. She did not even pause for breath when Meg and I entered the room.

“He suffers from gout and God knows what else. Both hands and feet are crippled, and he can barely keep his seat on a horse. He needs the help of three servants to get him into the saddle. He is confined to bed for days at a time, and he is the most nervous fellow you would ever want to meet.”

“The king’s portrait showed a pleasant enough countenance,” I interrupted, remembering a strong face, weather beaten and sagging a little with middle age, but with striking features—large eyes and a long, thin nose.

“That was painted years ago. Now he looks a decade older than he is. Swollen cheeks. Bulbous nose. Decayed teeth. He is plagued by a catarrh, and he gulps his spittle when he talks. They say he was a tall man once, but you would not know it to look at him now.”

“I gather you did not get on with him,” I murmured.

She rounded on me and I heard both sisters suck in their breaths. Then, surprising all of us, Mother Guildford laughed. “You have changed little since I saw you last, Jane Popyncourt.”

“Have you news of the Lady Mary?”

“The queen of France, you mean.”

“Yes. The queen of France.”

“Only what all hear, that she sits beside her new husband’s bed, tending to him with loving kindness as he receives envoys from England.” Her face was a study in conflict, her dislike of King Louis at war with pride in Mary Tudor. “He sent me away on the day after the French wedding ceremony. Said I meddled.”

“That was nearly two months ago. Have you spent all this time traveling home?”

“On King Henry’s orders I went no farther than Boulogne, in case I should be called back. I spent weeks waiting there, hoping King Louis could be persuaded to change his mind. That foul old man! I should have heeded the omens.”

“The storm before you sailed, do you mean?”

“That one and the other tempest that struck when our ships were in the midst of the crossing from Dover. The fleet was scattered. The ship we were aboard ended up grounded on a sandbank.”

“My poor lady,” I murmured. “How terrified she must have been of the thunder and lightning.”

“That was the least of it,” Mother Guildford declared. “Her Grace was lowered into a rowing boat to be taken ashore, but even that small craft could not land. One of her entourage had to carry her through the surf in his arms. The queen of France! She arrived damp and bedraggled, hardly an auspicious beginning.”

“I am sure her new subjects took the weather into consideration. We have heard that there were pageants to welcome her and much rejoicing that the war was at an end.”

“The French put on a passable display,” Mother Guildford grudgingly admitted. “Both the Duke and the Duchess of Longueville came to greet their new queen,” she added, slanting her eyes in my direction. “The duchess is a striking woman. Very handsome. She and Longueville seemed most affectionate toward each other, as is only to be expected after such a long separation.”

That her comments failed to provoke a jealous reaction seemed to increase the old woman’s animosity toward me. She went on to provide elaborate descriptions of the journey to Abbeville and the official wedding ceremony held there, waxing vituperative and vitriolic once more about her dismissal from the queen’s service.

“Only a few minor attendants and six maidens too young to have had any experience at court remain with Queen Mary,” she complained. “I was replaced by a Frenchwoman, a Madam d’Aumont, about whom I know nothing.”

Mother Guildford’s litany of grievances was still going strong when I excused myself to return to my duties with Queen Catherine. Belatedly, she remembered that she had sent for me. She slid a sealed letter out of one of her long, loose sleeves.

“The Duke of Longueville’s man sends you this.” She fixed me with a gimlet-eyed stare, no doubt hoping for some telling reaction when she handed it over.

I thanked her politely and carried the letter away with me.

I stopped at the nearest window alcove after leaving the Guildfords’ lodgings and broke the seal, noticing as I did so that it showed signs of having been tampered with. I was not surprised, nor was I alarmed. Guy must have known that anything he wrote to me could be read by others.

He had written on the tenth of October, just before Mother Guildford’s departure from Abbeville. He began by expressing his sadness that I had been denied the opportunity to visit France. He made no mention of how the duke felt about that development. Then he said that it would be some time yet before he could travel to Amboise.

I read that sentence again. Amboise, not Beaugency, the duke’s home, nor yet Guy’s own lands, but Amboise, where I had hoped to go to ask questions about my mother. Did he mean to ask them for me?

A rustle of fabric had me hastily refolding the letter before I finished reading it.

“You are ill advised to fraternize with the French,” said Mother Guildford. “If you have the sense God gave a goose, you will live
righteously from this day forward. No good ever comes of illicit love, nor yet from seeking to live above your station.”

“I am no longer in the schoolroom, madam, nor under your control. And I am no longer convinced that you have my best interests at heart.”

“Ungrateful girl!”

“Hardly a girl any longer, madam. And not best pleased to have been lied to.”

“What are you going on about now?”

“You, madam. You told me Queen Elizabeth’s ladies from my mother’s time had scattered, and you implied that most were dead. In truth, a goodly number of them now serve our present queen.
And
you must have known the name of the priest most likely to have heard my mother’s confession, for he went with your husband to the Holy Land and died there with him.” Once started, I could not seem to stop myself. “Was my mother really ill when she first came to court, or was that another lie?”