Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (38 page)

“It is barely twelve weeks since his daughter’s birth,” I protested. “The king always turns to other women when his wife is with child and, as you well know, it is customary to allow a highborn lady several months to recover after she is delivered of a living child.”

We had stopped beneath a portrait of Henry VII. The bright
green-and-gold-striped silk curtain usually drawn in front of portraits to keep the paint from fading had been pulled back to reveal a frame of black ebony garnished with silver and the canvas it contained. Will gestured toward it. “He’d be ashamed of you, Jane. He treated you as another daughter, favoring you above all the other gentlewomen at court.”

“And he died without making provision for me.” Staring at the portrait, I found it difficult to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

It was a good likeness, better than the one at Richmond. It had been painted before illness inscribed lines of pain into my grandfather’s face. The artist had accurately depicted the unsmiling lips, the pronounced cheekbones, and the straight, thin, high-bridged nose. He’d also given him the same autocratic air he’d so often exhibited in life. The portrait showed the unusual blue-gray color of the king’s eyes, as well, as large and deep set as I remembered them. For a moment I imagined a look of stern disapproval in his gaze.

Hastily looking away, I caught sight of a peculiar expression on Will Compton’s face. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, eyes troubled, his earlier irritation had been replaced by confusion. “What are you up to, Jane?”

“Why do you care?”

“I should like to make sense of your behavior. After all, if it is only that you miss having a man in your bed, that lack might easily have been remedied, and in ways that would have given you more pleasure than a few nights as the king’s mistress.”

“The pleasures of Pleasure Palace?” I quipped.

Will’s lips twitched.

I
had
taken pleasure at Greenwich with the duc de Longueville. He had been my first lover, my only lover. I glanced apprehensively toward the door to the king’s bedchamber.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to quell the fluttering
sensation in the pit of my stomach, I managed a tentative smile. Will had been an ally in the past. A friend. We had known each other for eighteen years. He could help me now, or hinder me. I could allow him to believe me wanton, even promise to share my favors with him…or I could tell him as much of the truth as I dared.

“I have need to speak privily with him, Will,” I blurted out. “That is all I want, just to talk.”

He frowned.

“This was the only way I could think of to arrange a private meeting given my standing. I had to
pretend
I wanted him to bed me.”

Will’s frown rearranged itself into an expression rife with suspicion. For a moment I feared he would call the guards. He was responsible for the king’s safety. If he perceived me as a threat—

“He expects to swive you, Jane. He does not take kindly to being thwarted.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Will
was
still my friend. His concern was for my well-being.

“You need not remind me of His Grace’s temper. I will be careful.”

We covered the remaining distance to the end of the privy gallery without further speech. A yeoman usher, resplendent in scarlet livery, stood waiting to open the door. I hesitated on the threshold. What if I had miscalculated? Would the king insist upon taking me to bed even if I was not willing?

I repressed a shudder at the thought—in light of our blood relationship.

The door opened and I passed through.

Henry was waiting for me, a light in his eyes that told me Will’s concern was well founded. “Ah, Jane.” He opened his arms and the loose robe he wore gaped open, too.

Averting my eyes from the nakedness beneath, I kept my gaze
on his face.
My uncle’s face,
I reminded myself. Younger than I he might be, but he was my grandfather’s son, just as Sir Rowland Velville was.

“I have thought of this often, Jane,” the king murmured.

If he had been anyone but who he was, I might have been tempted. It
had
been a long time since I had enjoyed a man’s embraces. He poured wine and offered me the cup, spoke gently and in a coaxing tone. And in his eyes, I could see the spark of genuine interest. I was not just any female body. He knew who I was and he wanted me.

“Your Grace—”

“It must be Henry when we are private like this. I like to hear my name whispered soft and sweet.”

But I shook my head. Setting aside the goblet, a beautiful thing of crystal chased with gold, I faced him. “I have deceived you, Your Grace. I came to you under false pretenses.”

Brow knit in consternation, eyes narrowing, he regarded me warily. “What are you saying, Jane?”

“Forgive me, Sire. I could think of no other way that would allow me to speak with you in absolute privacy.” I went down on my knees before him, head bowed, praying that he would not throw me out of his bedchamber before I could plead my case.

He seized me by both elbows and jerked me upward. My head whipped back but I ignored the sharp flash of pain in my neck and the even more agonizing ache from his grip on my barely healed arm. My eyes met his angry gaze and held there. I knew I had only seconds to explain myself.

“Let me go to France!” I blurted out. “I will gather intelligence for you and warn you of King François’ plans.”

His already ruddy skin flamed redder. At any moment I expected his eyes to shoot flames as he gave me a hard shake.

“P-please, Your Grace! Hear me out! I have an excuse to go, one no one will question. My mother left the court at Amboise, and France, under mysterious circumstances. My inquiries into her past will allow me to move freely, to stay as long as you need me to—”

He released me so suddenly that I stumbled. To prevent a fall, I caught myself on a nearby cupboard, using my left hand and jarring the newly healed bone once again. For a moment the pain was so intense that I could not speak.

I saw the king’s brow furrow and realized he had forgotten that I had been injured. For a breathless moment we stared at each other. Then he turned his back on me. I did not need to see his face to know that he was still angry. The set of his massive shoulders told me that.

“Leave now,” he ordered as he stalked away.

Backing toward the door, I strove to control my emotions. I wanted to rail at him. I feared I was about to burst into tears. My head was bowed, eyes on the floor, but I heard the swish of fabric when he turned.

“Wait.”

I froze. Slowly, I lifted my head to look at him. He was still furious with me, but there was something else in his eyes, something that made me shiver with dread.

“You deceived me, Jane.”

His voice had gentled, but I was not fooled into thinking he had mellowed toward me. “I crave your pardon, Your Majesty.” I dropped my gaze again, but it was too late.

His ornate, gilded slippers appeared on the rush mat in front of me. He lifted my chin using the side of one hand. Candlelight reflected off the big ruby he wore on the second finger and I stared at it, noticing for the first time that the gold band was etched with
dragons. Why had I never realized what that meant? Mother’s pendant, the one thing she had left behind for me, had been crafted in the shape of that same royal emblem—the red dragon of Wales. I wondered if the pendant had been a gift to her from her father.

“You might persuade me to change my mind,” the king murmured.

His tone left no doubt about how I might do so. He was still irritated with me, but he’d remembered why he’d ordered me brought to him in the first place.

“I cannot do that, Your Grace.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” Before I could answer, he shot more questions at me. “Do you fancy yourself in love with the duc de Longueville? Is that the real reason you want to leave England?”

“No, Your Grace, I do not love him, nor do I pine for him. Indeed, I have had no communication whatsoever with him since he left England.”

His hard stare bored into me, but I had told him the truth and he could see that. A slow smile overspread his features and I swallowed convulsively. This interview had not gone at all the way I’d planned and I had a feeling matters were about to get worse.

“Then you are free to share your favors with whatever man you choose.” The king all but purred the words. “Come, Jane, we will—”

“I cannot.” To reinforce my refusal, I took a step back.

Before I could retreat farther, he caught my right arm in a bruising grip. Once again his voice went cold while his eyes filled with the heat of anger. “You dare deny your
king
?”

“I must deny my
kinsman
!”

He dropped his hand as if touching me had burnt him. “Explain yourself.”

“We cannot become lovers, Your Grace. It would be a sin.” His
implacable expression prevented me from stopping there. With a sinking heart, I told him the rest. “You are my uncle, Sire. My mother was your half sister.”

The blank, unblinking stare that greeted this news frightened me far more than his earlier show of temper. I did not know whether to say more or hold my tongue. Either course seemed full of risk. In a whisper, I added, “Your father sired bastards, Your Grace, during his exile in Brittany.”

Abruptly, the blue eyes came into focus again. “Bastards? More than one?”

“Twins, Your Majesty.”

“Velville,” the king muttered, and I knew he must be making the same comparisons I had, seeing his father’s features in my uncle’s face.

King Henry sank into an upholstered chair and waved me onto a nearby stool. For a long moment he simply stared at my face, looking there for the heritage I’d claimed. Whatever he found, it made him contemplative.

For the moment, his anger seemed to have passed, but I did not trust his uncertain temper. I waited for him to speak first.

“So, Jane, you are my niece, even though you are older than I am.” It was not a question. He had accepted my claim.

I answered him anyway. “So I am told, Your Grace.”

“By whom?”

“Sir Rowland Velville, my mother’s twin brother.” I related the tale as my uncle had told it to me, omitting only Uncle’s speculations about my mother’s murder.

When I had finished the story, the king sat thoughtfully stroking a recently barbered chin. I waited in an agony of suspense, knowing I had taken a huge risk. I’d had no choice but to confess, but that was little consolation when my own life, and that of my
uncle, would be forfeit if King Henry decided we were a threat to his throne.

“You went to Wales with my sister’s connivance.” This seemed to amuse him.

“She knows nothing of—”

A wave of his hand cut short my attempt to defend the Duchess of Suffolk. “I know full well you would not have told her. You never meant to tell me.”

“No, Your Grace. And my uncle would not have shared his secret had he not been in his cups.”

A derisive snort greeted that comment.

“I never guessed, although your father was always kind to me,” I said. “He treated me more like family than a servant, but I never thought to ask why.”

A sudden change in his expression silenced me. I bit my lip. Had I said too much?

Then he rose and with a cold stare and steely voice said, “You will never speak of this again. Swear it, Jane. On your life.”

“I swear.” With all the courage I could muster, I looked up at him, letting him see the sincerity in my eyes.

His gaze bored into mine, assessing, weighing, judging. The smile that blossomed on his face had nothing of humor in it. “You will do one more thing for me, Jane.”

“Anything, Your Grace.”

“You will say nothing at all of this night. Ever. If the rest of the court believes that you gave yourself to me, you will not disabuse them of that notion.”

T
HAT LAST PROMISE
cost me dearly. Those among the queen’s ladies who had been friendly no longer spoke to me. Even Bessie Blount, when she returned to court just before Queen Margaret’s
arrival, believed that I had replaced her in the king’s bed. The look of reproach in her eyes made me think of a puppy that had been kicked by a heartless master.

Harry Guildford’s scorn was the hardest to bear, but I kept my word to the king. How could I not? He held my very life in his hands. In the end, I was replaced with Bessie Blount in the masque. Before I had the chance to renew my acquaintance with Margaret Tudor, Queen Catherine dismissed me from her service. I packed up all my belongings—pitifully few for a life spent at court—and sought shelter at Suffolk Place. Even there, news of my folly preceded me.

“Charles informs me that you have bedded my brother,” Mary said when I was shown into her presence. I could not tell if she was horrified or amused. Her expression gave nothing away.

“I cannot speak of it.”

Her brows lifted.

“I cannot, Mary. I beg you, do not ask me about the king.”

“How disappointing.” Her smile was rueful. “I had hoped for details.”

The next few days passed pleasantly enough, often in the nursery of Mary’s young son, another Henry. I had not given up the hope that I might be allowed to leave England, but if I tried to cross the Narrow Seas without permission, I knew that the attempt would most assuredly lead to my arrest. Instead, I once again broached the subject of a place in the Suffolk household. My request was met by silence. I looked up from my embroidery to find that Mary was avoiding my gaze.

“Charles says we must retire to the country again after the entertainments to welcome Margaret are done. We spent more money than we should have to celebrate our son’s christening.”

I waited, but I could guess what was coming.

“I cannot take you with us, Jane. Nothing has changed in that regard. But I will write to the king on your behalf, reminding him of all your years of service to our family. He must settle an annuity on you. I shall tell him so.”

She was as good as her promise and within the week King Henry sent word that I was to go to Will Compton’s house in Thames Street at a certain day and time. Without much enthusiasm, I caught a wherry from the quay at Suffolk Place and bade the boatman take me across the river to Compton’s water gate. A servant let me in and conducted me to the same chamber where Bessie had first bedded the king. My spirits dropped even lower as I entered. I wondered if Will was about to ruin what little was left of our friendship with an offer to set me up as his mistress. I stopped short when I realized that the room’s only occupant was not Will Compton.