The king’s amused chuckle drew my attention quickly back to him. Even seated, King Henry was a giant among men. The top of Longueville’s head only came to the level of His Grace’s broad shoulders. The midday sun had made a halo of the king’s bright hair, picking out both the red and the gold. He wore his locks trimmed short, in the French fashion. The same barber who kept him clean shaven regularly used curling tongs to make the ends curve under all along the line of his strong jaw.
I squinted to see more clearly—the reflection from the jewels sewn onto the collar of the royal cloak glittered in the sunlight—and stretched my ears to hear better. The two men appeared to be engaged in friendly conversation. If the king was angry that I had become Longueville’s mistress, he gave no sign of it.
“Indeed, she is most delightful,” I heard the duke say, “and an excellent diversion for a poor captive.”
I felt my skin grow hot.
“She is a pretty piece,” the king agreed. “I wonder how it is that I never noticed she had grown into such a beauty.”
“If you want her for yourself,” Longueville said, “it would please me greatly to cede her to Your Grace.”
Shock rocked me back a step, hands pressed to my lips to prevent me from crying out in protest. The chill that went through me had naught to do with the cold of that late November day.
The lover of my imagination, the one who cared deeply for me, would never offer my favors to another man, not even a king.
“Keep her for the present, my friend,” King Henry said. “Enjoy her as part of our good English hospitality. Time enough for me to take another look at her after you return to France.”
8
I never thought the duc de Longueville loved me. I was not such a fool. Nor did I love him, except in the carnal sense. I had known all along that he would not be mine to keep. But I had believed that the man I’d called my Coriander had a certain fondness for me, as I did for him. I had thought the intimacies we shared meant more to him than a convenient means of physical release.
I should have known better.
Had I learned nothing in more than fifteen years at court?
Men took their pleasure where they found it. One woman was the same as another. Even when they married where they wished, choosing mutual affection over a rich dowry or a powerful alliance, it was the rare husband who remained faithful.
The king himself was proof of that. He had wed Catherine of Aragon because he had panted after her like a puppy dog for years. They’d been enraptured with each other at first, but less than a year had passed before he’d betrayed his wedding vows with one of his wife’s married ladies. He had certainly not been faithful to her while he was away at war. According to Harry, King Henry had found himself a Flemish mistress named Étienne de la Baume during his visit to Archduchess Margaret’s court at Lille.
I made my way back toward the barn in a state of mingled anger and distress. Longueville’s words had hurt me beyond measure. How dare he offer me, like a bauble or a joint of beef, to another man, even if that man was the king!
At first I tried to pretend nothing was amiss. I joined Harry Guildford and Richard Gibson, his deputy master of revels, in a discussion of how best to make our small version of the White Tower of the Tower of London more impressive. Carpenters and painters had devoted the better part of the last three days to constructing the lightweight wooden frame of a castle that resembled the keep. With my own hands, I had helped cover it with gilt paper that would shimmer in candlelight. At the time, I had thought to create a spectacular setting in which to show myself off to my lover.
That hope aside, we were all painfully aware that the spectacle would fall far short of the usual court masque. “It is no Golden Arbor of Pleasure,” Harry lamented, citing one of his greatest successes, a masque performed some two or three years back.
“Aye, that was most memorable.” Master Gibson chuckled to himself. “Do you recall? We constructed that pageant wagon at the bishop of Hertford’s place in London and it was so heavy that it broke right through the floor. I was obliged to apply for additional funds to make repairs.”
Master Gibson, a tall, lanky fellow with thinning straw-colored hair, had been leader of the King’s Players in the last reign. A yeoman tailor by profession, he’d become principal costume designer and producer of court entertainments under Harry Guildford. Whenever a disguising was to be staged, it was Gibson who requested material from the wardrobes, rented houses to serve as workshops, and hired carpenters, scene painters, and tailors. For the last Twelfth Night pageant he had built the Rich Mount, a set piece that had taken nearly a month to construct.
I had first come to know Master Gibson when he made my costume to play Maid Marian in the king’s dawn raid on his wife’s bedchamber. He had not had much notice beforehand and had coped surpassing well, but presenting a masque at Havering-atte-Bower on the spur of the moment presented a far greater challenge, one that could not be overcome with a few yards of green cloth.
The queen’s manor was located inland, making it difficult to transport set pieces and machines to the location. They were customarily conveyed by barge from workshop to palace along the Thames, roads being unsuited to the movement of such large objects. Deprived of easy access to existing structures, we were left with no choice but to build our own scenery.
It was some time after my return from the bower before I became aware that both Harry and Master Gibson were staring at me. “What ails you, Jane?” Harry demanded. “I have asked you the same question three times over.”
“I do beg your pardon, Harry. I-I was thinking.” I squared my shoulders, prepared for opposition. “I do not wish to participate in the disguising.”
“But there is no time for anyone else to learn your part,” Master Gibson objected. “And Purity is an important role in the masque.”
A hand clamped down hard on my arm. As Master Gibson shook his head, no doubt lamenting the flightiness of waiting gentlewomen, and resumed work on the pageant wagon, Harry pulled me aside.
“This is not like you, Jane. Why have you changed your mind?”
“I do not wish to call attention to myself tonight. Do not fret. I will find someone else to wear my costume. Mistress Blount is about my size.” She was also the most lively of the queen’s younger maids of honor, quick witted and agile. She would have no difficulty mastering my part in the evening’s entertainment.
“But why?” Confusion and concern warred with irritation in Harry’s voice.
I looked away, reluctant to explain that the substitution would allow me to avoid dancing with the duc de Longueville at the end of the masque.
After a moment, he released me. “Go on, then. Teach her the lines and the steps and pray she is a quick study. Both the king and the queen expect this entertainment to run smoothly.”
COLOR AND NOISE assaulted me as I moved through the crowd that evening. Courtiers and ladies garbed in white, green, and yellow satin engaged in spirited conversations while musicians added to the tumult. I caught a glimpse of the queen at the far side of the room, brilliant as a jewel in silver damask. Her ladies drifted like bright flowers around her feet, some in white cloth-of-gold and others in violet satin. The Lady Mary was in popinjay blue.
Nearby were the king and the Duke of Longueville. Having no desire to come to the notice of either of them, I sought the very edge of the crowd. The rich crimsons, yellows, and greens of a Venetian tapestry showing St. George defeating the dragon gleamed dully in the light cast by hundreds of wax tapers. Wearing pale green slashed with yellow myself, I attempted to blend into that background.