“My mother? Yes. At Collyweston, on progress.”
Instantly, he brightened. “Skyp would have been there then. Ask Skyp.”
“Alas, I cannot.” Skyp, the Countess of Richmond’s fool, was long in his grave.
“Always wore high-heeled shoes, did Skyp,” Goose said. “Reached above his ankles.”
Boots, not shoes. Poor Goose could not even keep articles of apparel straight. And yet, in spite of my doubts about the fool’s memory, I asked another question. There was always a chance he would recall what I wished to know. “What priest would have given her last rites, Goose? What physician would have attended her?”
“Master Harding, clerk of the queen’s closet, was a priest.” Goose put both hands on his head. “Black round cap and black gown. A dull fellow.”
“What happened to him?”
“Went on pilgrimage and died in the Holy Land.”
Dumbfounded, I stared at him. I had heard of only one other Englishman who’d gone on pilgrimage in all the years I’d been at court. “With Sir Richard Guildford?”
“Aye. Aye. That’s the one. Reached Jerusalem only to die there.”
I felt as if I’d taken a blow to the midsection. Had Mother Guildford deliberately tried to mislead me? If Harding had traveled with her husband, she must have known his name. Could she have forgotten he tended my mother? It seemed unlikely. She remembered other things well enough. And she must also have known the names of all those ladies who’d returned to court to serve the new queen.
Goose picked up his pack and started to wander off, but at the door he turned back to me, eyes bright with curiosity. “If she died at Collyweston, would she not have been attended by the Countess of Richmond’s servants?”
“Who was the countess’s physician? Who was her confessor?”
But Goose’s moments of clarity had been flashes of lightning in the dark of night. Even as I watched, he went dull eyed and slack jawed. His wits dimmed by age, he could recall no more, not even my name.
It was left to me to puzzle out who among the ladies still at court might remember my mother and be able to tell me what physician and priest were with Maman when she died.
SINCE I COULD do nothing to pursue my inquiries until we left the Tower of London and rejoined Queen Catherine’s court, I set aside my questions for the nonce. The queen, sadly, had suffered another miscarriage shortly after leaving the shrine at Walsingham. She had sent word to the Lady Mary that Mary was to stay where she was. In the king’s continued absence, Catherine’s word, as regent, was law.
It was no hardship to remain in the Tower of London. The duc de Longueville’s company amused Mary and delighted me. The princess gave orders that he be allowed to go anywhere he chose within the Tower, save for her privy lodgings, without a guard. He gave her his parole not to try to escape.
After that, we spent a great deal of time in his company. The Lady Mary laughingly called me her duenna, charged with guarding her reputation while she dallied with the well-favored duke.
Afternoons and evenings passed quickly, filled with laughter and fine food, good music, and, because the princess commanded it, dancing. The duke often chose me as his partner, although I danced with Guy, too. It was from Guy that I learned that the duc de Longueville was King Louis’ distant cousin.
“I wonder if King Henry knows that,” I mused as we whirled in a circle with the movements of the dance. “Prisoners’ ransoms are set according to kinship as well as rank. The amount should be much higher for a king’s cousin.”
“Distant cousin,” Guy repeated. The steps of the dance took us apart, then brought us together again. “And even more distantly related to King Charles.”
“Then you must be, too,” I said without thinking.
“I do not count.” He chuckled. “Although it was through a bastard line that the Longuevilles descend from kings.” I could see he was well aware of the irony of that.
When I danced with Guy, we talked and sometimes joked.
When I danced with the duc de Longueville, the mere touch of his hand created a subtle longing to be held more closely in his arms, to be alone with him.
I took care never to be out of sight of the princess. Although she did not know it, she also served as my duenna.
Then came the evening when another strong thunderstorm blew in. The princess took to her bed, and I slipped away from her lodgings to let myself into the privy gallery. Within moments, the duke joined me.
“Mistress Popyncourt. I thought I might find you here.” The duke’s voice was deep and smooth, and when his hands came up to caress my shoulders I abandoned myself to the sensation. We were quite alone. No guards. No princess. No Guy.
In silence we watched until the storm passed. His hands slid from my shoulders to my waist, but he made no further overtures. In the eerie quiet that followed the noisy display of flashes and bolts, I felt him sigh.
“In that direction, far to the south, is our homeland,” he said.
“I was born in Brittany, not France,” I reminded him, and reminded myself that Brittany had been a separate entity at the time. Only after losing a war with France had Duchess Anne agreed to marry King Charles and unite the two.
“Brittany is part of France now,” the duke said, following my thought. “That makes you French.”
“I am English,” I insisted. Jane, not Jeanne.
“Are you?” The duke’s lips twitched, as if my assertion amused him. “I am not certain one can change one’s heritage.”
“I do not remember much about France,” I said. “I was only eight years old when I left. My mother brought me to England because my uncle was already here. He had come to this country with Henry Tudor, after King Henry’s exile in Brittany. The Lady Mary’s father,” I added, lest he should confuse the two King Henrys.
For a long time, I had avoided thinking about my earliest memories. It had been too painful to dwell on what I had lost. My father had died. My mother had died. I’d been taken away from everyone else I knew and cared for. And since it hurt to remember, I had lived entirely in the present. I had turned myself into a complete Englishwoman and a loyal servant of the Crown.
Longueville turned me in his arms till we faced each other yet kept a respectable distance between our bodies. His eyes were in shadow in the dimly lit gallery, but I could see his mouth most plainly. “A pity your mother did not take you to Brittany instead. We might have met sooner.”
“I suppose her family there had all died.”
“And your father’s family?”
“He came from Flanders. I know nothing of his kin.”
More questions. I wondered if I would ever answer them all.
“Are there many Bretons at the English court?” the duke asked.
“Fewer than in the last reign. My uncle remains, as does Sir Francis Marzen.” At that moment, I could think of no others.
Longueville’s thumb brushed my cheek. “Such a serious expression. Do you wish you might return someday?” He toyed with a lock of my hair that had somehow come loose from beneath my headdress.
Caught off guard by the suggestion, I took a step away from him.
He chuckled. “England and France will not always be enemies, Jane. You could return to Amboise.” He touched a fingertip to my lips. “You must forgive me. I asked Guy about you. My country seat is not far from Amboise, at Beaugency. Dunois Castle has been ours since my ancestor, the Bastard of Orléans, gave his support to Joan of Arc against the English.”
“Yet another time when England and France were at war. I do not think it would be wise for me to visit your homeland, my lord.”
“Will you go with your princess when she marries Charles of Castile?”
I nodded. I felt no great enthusiasm at the prospect. Charles of Castile had lands in Spain and in the Netherlands. I could not imagine living in either place.