The second time was much more pleasurable.
The third was even better.
Soon, coupling with the duke became so passionate and intense I found myself slipping away to his bed every moment I could spare from my duties with the princess. He was always glad to see me. In truth, we were finding it hard to be apart.
With the king still in France and Queen Catherine occupied first with repelling the Scots invaders and then recovering from her miscarriage, no one troubled to inquire how one of the princess’s ladies passed her time. The prisoners of war were all but forgotten by the outside world.
The intensity of my dear Coriander’s attentions made me happier than I had ever been. In spite of my best efforts to remain heart-whole, I fell under his spell, enthralled by how he made me feel and what he seemed to feel for me in return.
A picture of our future together began to emerge. I would travel with him to France as his beloved mistress, accepted even by the wife who had already given him four children. Since their alliance had been arranged by their families, it had nothing to do with either liking or passion. He convinced me that she would have no objection to my presence in their lives.
Then, on a crisp October afternoon, just as I was contemplating slipping away to the duke’s lodgings for an assignation, a messenger arrived. The Lady Mary read the letter he brought, then gave us all orders to pack our belongings.
“Queen Catherine is in residence at Richmond Palace. She has sufficiently recovered from her miscarriage to desire my company.”
Excited chatter broke out among the princess’s ladies. We had been living in the Tower of London since early September and were ready for a change. It was rare we stayed in any one place so long. It was best to move every few weeks so that the buildings we vacated could be thoroughly cleaned before our next visit.
“What of the prisoners of war?” I asked, already suspecting what this summons would mean.
The princess’s gaze was rife with pity when she looked up from the queen’s letter. “They must remain in the Tower.”
ONCE WE WERE settled at Richmond Palace, I seized the opportunity to resume my search for answers about my mother. Queen Catherine had no objection when I offered to lend my hand at embroidering an altar cloth, and I managed to position myself in the sewing circle between Lady Pechey and Lady Verney, two of the women Goose had named as former members of Queen Elizabeth of York’s household. I knew who they were, even though I had rarely spoken to either, and then just pleas-antries.
Lady Pechey, like Lady Marzen, had not married until after my mother’s death, but unlike Lady Marzen, she had been at court before she wed. Nervously, I cleared my throat. “I wonder, Lady Pechey, if you knew my mother?”
She looked down her high-bridged nose at me, sniffed, and continued stitching—tiny, perfect stitches that would never need to be redone. Honing that skill had left her with a marked squint. “Why would you think so?”
“Her name was Joan Popyncourt. You were at court when she entered Queen Elizabeth’s service.”
“I do not recall.” Back stiff, demeanor unfriendly, she avoided looking at me.
“Joan Popyncourt,” Lady Verney mused on my other side. She had been listening to the conversation, as I’d hoped she would. An older woman, in her fiftieth year with a deeply lined countenance and hands disfigured with age, she had reportedly been one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorites.
“Perhaps you remember my mother, Lady Verney?” I could not keep the eagerness out of my voice.
“She died soon after she joined us,” Lady Verney said. Deep in thought, she stared up at the ceiling studded with Tudor emblems: gold roses, portcullises, the red dragon of Wales, and the greyhound of Richmond. After a few moments, she shook her head. “No, I do not believe I recall more than that.”
“I had hoped she might have had time to make friends with some of the other ladies in the queen’s court.”
Lady Verney did not know anything about that either.
On subsequent days, I asked the same questions of the others Goose had named. Lady Weston could tell me nothing. Mistress Denys said it was a great pity I could not ask her husband.
“He was King Henry’s groom of the stole,” she reminded me with a wink. “He had an intimate knowledge of everything that affected His Grace.”
I had to smile at that. The groom of the stole attended the king when he used the royal close stool—a glorified chamber pot!
Lady Lovell was my last hope. A buxom woman with blunt features and a round face, she had a brusque manner but she heard me out. “You wish to know about your mother’s days at the English court?” she said when I had stuttered out my questions. “Why?”
“Because I never saw her again after I was sent to Eltham. No one even told me she was ill.”
“You were a child.”
“I am not a child now. I should like to know if she had friends, if she was well cared for, if—”
“Queen Elizabeth would not have let a dog suffer. She was all that was good and kind. I am certain everything possible was done for your mother.”
Walking together in the great hall at Richmond, we passed under the eyes of kings. A series of large portraits had been painted in the wall spaces between the high windows by Maynard the Fleming in old King Henry’s reign. Two lines of these, showing Brutus, Hengist, King William Rufus, King Arthur, and others—all depicted wearing golden robes and brandishing mighty swords—led up to the dais and a similar portrait of King Henry VII.
“He sent my mother to the queen,” I said, indicating the painted monarch. “Maman knew no one else in England save her twin brother, Sir Rowland Velville.”
“Yes. I remember hearing that she was his sister. A ferocious jouster, Sir Rowland, but that’s the best I can say for him.” My uncle’s short temper was almost as legendary as the king’s.
Lady Lovell stopped in front of one of the big bay windows that overlooked a courtyard. Beyond the turrets and pinnacles and a profusion of gilt weather vanes and bell-shaped domes, I could just glimpse a part of the deer park that completely surrounded Richmond. Everything had been built to old King Henry’s specifications after the old palace on this site, a place called Sheen, had burned to the ground the Christmas before I arrived in England.
“There was one person who befriended her,” Lady Lovell said. “Or, rather, they befriended each other. She is no longer at court.”
“Is she still living?”
“Oh, yes. She’s plain Mistress Strangeways now, but she and her husband own considerable property in Berkshire.”
I felt my eyes widen as I realized whom she meant: Lady Catherine Gordon, the daughter of a Scottish earl, who had once been married to Perkin Warbeck, the notorious pretender to the throne. She’d been captured along with her husband when Warbeck invaded England. He’d been executed, after making a second attempt to escape, but she had remained at court as one of Queen Elizabeth’s ladies. A few years ago, I’d heard that she had remarried. Her second husband, James Strangeways, was one of King Henry’s gentlemen ushers.
That she and my mother should have been friendly made perfect sense. What more natural than that two newcomers, two foreigners, be drawn to each other? When I left Lady Lovell’s company I felt more optimistic than I had since I’d begun asking questions about my mother. Berkshire was not close enough to reach on my own, but eventually the court would travel to Windsor Castle. I should be able to slip away and visit Lady Strangeways then.
My high spirits were short lived. I’d no sooner reached the Lady Mary’s lodgings than she declared herself in need of exercise and swept me off with her to the timber-framed, two-story galleried walks built around Richmond’s gardens. They gave a splendid view of knots, wide paths, statues of the king’s beasts, and fountains, but the princess was intent on speaking privily with me and paid no attention to her surroundings.