Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (33 page)

“Would you have wed me for my money, then?”

“I thought to marry you for your powerful kin, but it was not to
be.” What sounded like genuine regret in his voice distracted me for a moment from the words themselves. When I comprehended what he had said, I frowned.

“Sir Rowland Velville is scarcely a great magnate and seems unlikely ever to be one. Only you appear capable of rising so far and so fast.”

He took my comment as a compliment and I had sense enough to say no more. If he held me a little too tightly when we came together in the movements of the dance, forcing my body to rub against his, I pretended not to notice.

When at last it was time to remove our masks, the king approached his wife with cap in hand and threw off his visor with a flourish. A look of genuine surprise on her face, the queen rose from her chair, clapping her hands in delight.

“You have given me much pleasure,” she said, speaking to him alone, “in this goodly pastime.” Taking his face in both hands she kissed him full on the lips.

The courtiers cheered and applauded.

Laughing, Queen Catherine, arm linked through her husband’s, came down off her dais to thank each of us for entertaining her. She affected further surprise as each dancer in turn unmasked. Her smile faltered a bit when she recognized me. I had never been one of her favorites. But when she came to Bessie Blount, I saw something else, something far more ominous, flicker in her eyes.

Face taut, she managed a graceful compliment and passed on to Elizabeth Carew. Bessie shot a panicked glance my way. The queen
knew
.

That night and the next and the next, King Henry slept with his queen, leaving Bessie to sob into her pillow, convinced that His Majesty was through with her. “She pleases him better than I do,” she wailed.

“He needs a son, Bessie. That is all it is. If you want him, he’ll come back to you. Be patient, and above all do not rail at him for his neglect. He cannot bear to be criticized.”

W
E HAD BARELY
settled in at Eltham, where we were to celebrate Twelfth Night, when word came from France that King Louis was dead.

My first reaction was relief. I no longer had to fear for my life if I left the safety of the English court. Even better, with a new king on the throne in France, the prohibition against my journeying to that country could be lifted. I knew little about the new king, François I, except that he was young and yet another Longueville cousin, but I thought I might even find myself welcome at the French court.

I did not rush straight to King Henry to ask permission to leave England. It would be at least six weeks before the French succession was settled. By custom, the widowed queen must spend that length of time in seclusion. If, at the end of it, it was certain that Mary was not with child by the late king, her brother would doubtless demand that she return to England. If she was carrying Louis’ heir and gave birth to a boy…clearly it was too soon to make any plans.

A memorial service was held for King Louis at St. Paul’s, in London. That was the extent of royal mourning in England. In fact, King Henry commanded that
The Pavilion on the Place Perilous,
the masque we had been rehearsing for Twelfth Night, go on as planned…with one change. Bessie Blount’s role was given to another.

Once again, I consoled my bedfellow while she wept.

“He is through with me, Jane. I know it! He has taken away my part in the pageant to please the queen.”

“Perhaps, but not for the reason you imagine. Your part has been given to the imperial ambassador’s wife.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Think, Bessie. Why include her? She’s nobody.”

“She’s married to an ambassador.” Bessie sat up and dried her eyes. “You think the king is trying to sweeten him?”

“King Henry must already be thinking of new alliances he can make by using his sister as a pawn. The Imperial ambassador is the ideal candidate to act as a go-between to reopen negotiations for Charles of Castile.” So much for Henry’s promise that Mary might choose her own husband when Louis died!

I was certain my interpretation of the king’s motives was correct when the Imperial ambassador himself was also invited to participate in the masque, replacing Harry Guildford. Teaching two foreigners their roles was a challenge. By the time the pageant wagon, carrying a pavilion made of crimson and blue damask surmounted by a gold crown and a rosebush, rolled into the hall, I felt as nervous as if this were my first disguising.

We ladies were hidden behind the draperies while the “lords,” portrayed by the ambassador, Nick Carew, Charles Brandon, and the king, manned brickwork towers at each corner. Six minstrels perched on the stage as well, and more armed knights—members of the King’s Players—marched alongside. Two of the Children of the Chapel preceded the pageant wagon and by means of musical verses explained what was to come.

It was an ambitious endeavor. Never before had anyone attempted to hold a tourney indoors. Granted, it was a small one, but it still required a show of skill extraordinary in the extreme. The four knights were attacked by six “wild men” appareled in “moss” made of green silk. Master Gibson had created strange and ominous-looking weapons for them to carry and I had painted their faces so that when they scowled they showed most terrible visages.

After a heroic struggle, long enough to have everyone in the hall cheering for their champions, the four knights drove the wild men away and it was time for the ladies to descend from the pavilion to dance with them. Once again, masks were the order of the day, but we wore our hair long and loose. Bessie’s beautiful golden tresses would have been immediately recognizable. I took note of the queen’s quietly satisfied smile as she realized that her rival was not among the dancers.

Bessie, by her own choice, had remained in our lodgings. If she could not dance with the king, she said, she did not want to join in the revels at all.

We unmasked after several dances and, as usual, everyone affected to be surprised that the king was one of the knights. In short order after that, we all returned to the pavilion—four ladies and four knights—to be conveyed out of the hall.

Once the silken draperies were drawn closed, the quarters were cramped. I was unsurprised when Charles Brandon took advantage of the enforced intimacy to run his hands over my breasts. I ignored the overture.

When the pageant wagon came to a halt some distance outside the great hall, we all climbed off. Meg and her sister had been delegated to escort the ambassador and his wife back to the queen’s presence, and I meant to go with them, but as I straightened from smoothing my skirts I realized that Brandon had taken the king aside. They seemed to be arguing.

Curious, I lingered, pretending that I had a rush caught on my shoe.

“I swear on my life,” I heard Brandon say, “that if you send me after her, I will do no more than bring her home to you.”

“On your life be it,” replied the king. Impatience, and mayhap some stronger emotion, creased his face into a frown. He waved
Brandon away, looked around for the yeomen of the guard assigned to him, and saw me instead. “Jane.”

“Your Grace.” I hastened to make my obeisance.

He studied my face. He had caught me off guard and I had no time to conceal what I’d been thinking. “My sister…confided in you? You know what man it is she wishes to wed?”

Keeping my eyes averted, I nodded.

“Brandon?”

“Yes.” I wavered, then whispered, “She will be most distressed if you do him any harm.”

A beringed hand appeared in front of me. I took it and he lifted me up, obliging me to meet his troubled gaze. “She was always a great one for reading the romances,” he murmured. “
The Romaunt of the Rose, The Romance of Bertrand—
”

“
The Canterbury Tales. Ogier the Dane,
” I contributed, hoping to lighten his mood. “
Legenda Sanctorum.
” The last was a collection of saints’ lives, translated into English. The Lady Mary’s copy, which had come to her from her grandmother, was bound in red velvet with a silver clasp.

A reluctant smile blossomed on the king’s ruddy face. “You always were quick witted, Jane. It is no wonder my sister is so fond of you. You will be glad of it when she returns, I have no doubt.”

“I will, Your Grace.” Of that much, at least, I was certain.

I
N LATE
F
EBRUARY
, word reached the English court from Paris that the widowed queen of France had married Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

The king was furious. The king of England, that is. The new king of France, François, had not only approved of the match but facilitated it, mayhap in part to tweak the nose of a fellow monarch.

For months after that no one knew for certain if King Henry would allow his sister and the man who had been one of his closest friends to return to England, or what kind of reception they would receive if they did. I suspected the king’s anger stemmed not so much from being outmaneuvered as because he had lost a marriage pawn. He truly loved his sister, and his admiration of Brandon went back to the days when his father was still king. I could not imagine that even Henry Tudor would hold this grudge forever.

In the interim, however, those around him kept their opinions to themselves. It was not a good time for me to ask permission to travel to France.

By May Day, matters seemed to have resolved themselves. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were on their way home and would arrive within the week. The entire court was in high spirits as we rode out from Greenwich, the queen’s ladies all mounted on white palfreys. We traveled two miles into the country early on May Day morning. “Robin Hood” had invited the king and queen to a banquet in the greenwood.

After some pageantry and an archery contest, we adjourned to a special arbor fashioned of boughs and covered with flowers and sweet herbs. It was large enough to contain a hall, a great chamber, and an inner chamber, and in this setting, the “outlaws” and their ladies served a breakfast of venison and other game washed down with wine.

When he had eaten, the king rose and moved among his guests, stopping near me to engage a member of the new Venetian embassy in conversation. “Talk with me awhile,” the king invited, speaking in French. “I am told that you have met the new king of France. Is he as tall as I am?”

The ambassador seemed taken aback by the question but recovered quickly. “There is but little difference, Sire.”

“Is he as stout?”

“No, he is not.”

“What sort of legs has he?”

“Spare, Your Majesty.”

“Hah!” The king, pleased by this answer, pulled aside the skirt of his doublet and slapped a hand on his thigh. “Look here! I have also a good calf to my leg.”

Curious as to what that had been about, I sought out Will Compton and repeated the conversation I had overheard. “Is there some reason he singled out the Venetian?” I asked.

“The best of reasons. The fellow leaves on the morrow for France. He can now be counted upon to tell the new French king what he has observed in England, in particular the splendor of the court and the physical prowess of King Henry.”

“I would have thought King François knew all that already. He has met any number of English noblemen, including the Duke of Suffolk.” The sour expression on Will’s face reminded me that he had never been fond of Charles Brandon. “Is there any word yet of when the king’s sister will reach England?”

“Any day now.”

“And what reception will she be given?”

Will made a derisive sound. “What sort do you imagine? She has already sent all the jewelry she got from old King Louis to her brother as a bribe and Brandon has agreed to pay a huge fine for marrying her out of hand. They’ll be welcomed back with open arms.”

“J
ANE
!” T
HERE WAS
no mistaking the delight in Mary Tudor’s voice as she entered the room I shared with Bessie Blount. She rushed into my arms and hugged me tight. “Is it not wonderful! I have my Charles at last.”

As Will had predicted, in the end there was little trouble over the clandestine marriage. The queen of France and her new husband arrived in Dover and were escorted to a private meeting with King Henry at the royal manor of Barking in Essex. Then they came to Greenwich to be remarried by an English priest.

“I am delighted to see you so happy, Your Grace.” Both Bessie and Nan, the tiring maid we shared, slipped out of the room, leaving me privacy for our reunion.

“Do not be so formal with me, Jane. We are old friends, you and I. And although I will always bear the title Queen of France, I now think of myself as plain Lady Suffolk. Why, we are very nearly equals.”

“Scarcely that.”

“Nevertheless, you are my dearest Jane and from now on I command you to call me Mary when we are alone.”

“I would be pleased to, and even more pleased if you will allow me to rejoin your household.”

At once her smile dimmed. “Charles is…we—” She broke off with a rueful laugh. “We are
poor,
Jane. Almost everything we own is now pledged to the king. We will have to go to Charles’s country house in Lincolnshire when the court leaves on its summer progress because we can live there more cheaply. It would not be fair to take you in when I must dismiss so many others.”

Seeing my crestfallen look, she took my hands in hers. “We are
friends,
Jane. And I am certain you do not wish to leave the court. I do not wish to myself. Only having my dear Charles with me will make our exile to the country bearable.”

Hiding my disappointment, I changed the subject. We talked for hours. I told her about pageants and petty rivalries at court. She recounted her adventures as queen of France, skimming over her marital duties and the long days of solitude after King Louis’
death. Those weeks shut up in a dark room, wearing white and expected to keep to her bed had nearly driven her mad, but her only respite had proven nearly as nerve-wracking as the isolation.

“The new king visited me,” she confided. “He is a handsome fellow, except for that huge nose of his, and he knows it. He tried to take liberties.”