I wondered if the king would understand my longing for my Coriander. I sighed deeply. Understanding and acceptance were two different matters. In spite of his obvious affection for his wife, His Grace no doubt shared the Lady Mary’s conviction that any partner would do to provide physical release. The king was quick enough to turn to other women when he could not go to the queen.
To give and receive pleasure was a marvelous thing. In his own way, I thought, Longueville had come to care for me. In spite of the princess’s warnings, I had no intention of giving him up.
To take my mind off missing the duke, I surveyed the chamber, in search of familiar faces. Everywhere I looked, courtiers and ladies were exchanging pleased and knowing glances. The queen’s miscarriage had been a blow, but it had taken place almost a month earlier. Another attempt to beget an heir was not only desirable, it was necessary.
With the king and queen occupied, we were granted an additional boon. We were left to our own devices. It was at that moment that I belatedly recalled there was someone with whom I had been anxious to speak. I scanned the crowded room, looking for my uncle, sure that he must be somewhere in the sea of bright colors and noisy chatter. At last I would have the opportunity to ask him about his twin sister. I would insist he tell me all he knew of my mother’s last days in France and of her brief life in England.
Sir Rowland Velville, however, was nowhere to be found.
Harry Guildford was there. So were Will Compton and Ned Neville from our old band of children of honor. Will had completely recovered from his tiltyard accident three years earlier, except for a small bump on the bridge of his nose to remind him of the place where it had been broken.
Charles Brandon was also present. The Lady Mary had already made her way to his side, heedless of the speculation that might arise from her obvious preference for his company. I had to admit he looked exceedingly fine, even in boots and a cloak that were mud spattered from hours of rapid travel over bad roads.
In contrast with the energy that seemed to radiate from Brandon, Harry Guildford lounged with one shoulder propped against a window casement. The bored and slightly melancholy look on his face reminded me that, although his mother-in-law, Lady Bryan, had remained with the queen, his wife had been sent to Staffordshire to visit friends. After all, neither Meg nor her sister, Elizabeth, had any official post at court. That meant it would be some days yet before Harry could retire to his marital bed.
I brushed a kiss of greeting across his lips. No sparks flew. I hadn’t expected any. I would have linked my arm companionably with his had I not noticed the condition of his doublet. The fabric was so stiff from the ill effects of traveling that it would have abraded my skin right through my sleeve. He carried the faint stench of the road, too. I took a small step away from him.
“Have you seen my uncle?” I asked.
“Sir Rowland is still in Calais.”
“Why?”
“He’ll sail from there direct to Anglesey. At long last he’s to take up his post as constable of Beaumaris Castle.”
“He is going to Wales?”
Harry laughed at my expression of disbelief. “It is not exile, although given Velville’s uncertain temper, there are some who’d think that a fine idea. He was appointed constable just before the old king died, but he did not receive a grant of denization until last year. Then the war came. This is the first chance he’s had to claim his prize.”
I frowned. I was surprised that King Henry—both of them—had waited so long to grant my uncle the same rights as an Englishman born and bred. He had, after all, lived in this country since he was a boy of eleven.
“Come, Jane,” Harry chided me. “Forget Velville. You never liked him anyway. We are home. We have won. I’ve pageants to plan, masques to prepare. Will you assist me?”
Glad to see him more cheerful, I agreed.
“The king intends to bring his French prisoners to court,” Harry informed me, unaware of how much pleasure his news gave me. “We must devise an entertainment suitable to welcome them.”
Linking my arm through his, I assured him that I would be able to help him with that.
MY REUNION WITH my lover did not take place for some time. The king fell ill only a few days after his arrival at Richmond, delaying matters. Then the queen, who had nursed her husband herself, objected to the idea of the French prisoners living at court. To make matters worse, an outbreak of the plague in London prevented us from moving closer to the city. I was too far away to make clandestine visits to the Tower.
It was late November before the king fully recovered and at last persuaded the queen that the noble duc de Longueville must be invited to live at court until his ransom was paid. Resigned to the inevitable, Queen Catherine changed tactics. She would personally welcome the duke by inviting him to her own manor of Havering-atte-Bower. As soon as the court took up residence at this huge, rambling estate in Essex, she commandeered the services of the king’s master of revels, Harry Guildford, to produce a disguising to entertain the duke.
I was assisting him with his preparations—supervising the decoration of a miniature castle—when word reached me that my lover had arrived at Havering. I abandoned my task without a backward glance, unable to wait another moment to see him again. We had been separated for nearly six weeks.
I caught a glimpse of Longueville as soon as I left the barn Harry had appropriated for the construction of pageant wagons. The duke was walking with Guy toward the bower that had given the manor its name. It was a beautiful spot, a garden atop a hill that boasted a stunning view of the valley of the Thames.
I took a secondary path, climbing rapidly. My heart raced as much from anticipation as from the exertion. It had been so long since I had seen my lover, touched him, pleasured him, and had him pleasure me. It seemed an eternity.
A deep, booming laugh—the king’s laugh—brought me to an abrupt halt just before I crested the hill. Longueville had not gone to the bower for the view. He had gone there to meet in private with King Henry.
I knew I should retreat but I feared to step on a twig or dislodge a stone, attracting their attention. No good could come of that! I hesitated, unable to decide what to do.
“You are good company, Longueville,” I heard the king say. “Did I not tell you that when we met in France?”
“You did, Your Grace, just before you set my ransom at an exorbitant sum.”
The king chuckled. “I would be inclined to pay half of it myself, save that would more quickly deprive me of your presence.”
“You flatter me, Your Grace.”
“You must consider yourself my honored guest while you are in England. A member of my family. Have all your needs been seen to?”
“All, Your Grace.” Longueville lowered his voice so that I could hear nothing of what seemed to be a lengthy speech…except my name.
Still as a deer scenting danger, I waited, barely daring to breathe. The king might not object to the duke’s acquisition of a mistress, but he had always been adamant that not the slightest taint of corruption come in contact with his sister, not even at secondhand.
I heard only the low murmur of the king’s voice, his words too faint for me to catch. I crept closer, sheltered by an evergreen hedge, until I could see the king and the duke sitting companionably together on the long stone bench in the bower. Guy stood nearby, within earshot, as did the courtier who had accompanied the king to this rendezvous—Charles Brandon.