“It is well you did. I appear to have lost my new maidservant.” I made a helpless gesture with one hand, almost losing my grip on my clothing as I did so.
Guy hesitated. “I will go in search of her.”
“Far simpler to tie my laces yourself.” Straightening my spine, I turned my back on him, dropped the sleeves, and hoisted the kirtle. “The points at my waist first, if you please.”
Once again, Guy proved more than adequate as a tiring maid. I began to suspect that, in common with the duke, he might have had considerable practice dressing—or rather, undressing—women in court dress.
When I was suitably attired for the Christmas Day festivities, we went together to the great hall. We separated there, Guy to sit with the duke’s men, while I joined the Lady Mary’s other attendants. I pretended not to notice the intense scrutiny I received.
That day seemed interminable. I held my head high and ignored the countless conversations that abruptly ended as I approached and the whispers that began as soon as I’d passed by. That it was Christmas made it a little easier to endure the snubs. Rank perforce gave place to revelry, and there was a good deal going on to distract the court’s attention from speculation about me.
Master Wynnsbury was in rare form. In common with the king’s fools, the Lord of Misrule could say what he would to anyone, even the king. He was wise enough not to abuse the privilege, but he knew King Henry’s taste. He kept up a steady stream of ribald tales and jokes about bodily functions, fare that would not ordinarily have been approved of in the presence of the queen and princess. Both royal ladies showed great forbearance and endured the tasteless jests without demur. The king roared with laughter at every one.
The king’s banquet was the last event of a long day. There was only one table, set up in the shape of an inverted U with Longueville, the queen, the king, and the Lady Mary seated at the top. A select group of courtiers occupied the two long sides, each man paired with a lady. To my relief, I was seated between Guy Dunois and Ned Neville.
“Your maidservant has been located,” Guy whispered as we were served the first of twenty different sorts of jellies sculpted into the shapes of animals and castles. It was more common at banquets to dismiss the servants and serve ourselves, but I suspected King Henry was attempting to impress the duke.
“I am in your debt.” I waved the jelly away, knowing there would be more delectable selections ahead.
“She says she became lost among the passageways.”
“That is more than possible. Pleasure Palace is a maze if one does not know it well.”
He lifted his eyebrows at the name and I found myself flushing as I explained why I’d called it that.
“She was a child and knew no better.” Already well on his way to being cup-shot, Ned leaned in front of me to grin at Guy.
My color deepened. He made it sound as if I had been someone’s mistress even then. I covered my embarrassment by biting into a sweet biscuit.
Out of consideration for me, Guy ignored Ned’s comments as well as his boisterous behavior. He seemed set on putting me at my ease—a good thing, since we sat at table for hours. Every sort of wine from Burgundy to Canary was served, along with confections in animal shapes, marchpane, “kissing comfits” of sugar fondant, fruits dipped in sugar and eaten with special sucket spoons, and the mounds of syllabub called Spanish paps. Servants brought in bowls of water in which to wash our hands between courses, but after enough wine, it was more fun to lick the excess sugar off our fingers.
At last the hippocras and wafers were served, signaling the end of the banquet. Scarcely a caraway-seed-covered apple was left by the time the king finally rose to call for dancing. Stifling groans, the members of his court joined in. The musicians played tune after lively tune, and it was dawn before anyone escaped to bed.
By then, I welcomed the solitude of my lodgings. I slept the whole day through, and if servants crept in to collect the candle stubs that morning, I was blissfully unaware of their presence.
9
The court made frequent moves from one palace to another even in winter. We were at Richmond again in time for the New Year’s Day giving of gifts. Some said the tradition went back to pagan days. It did not, in spite of the name, mark the start of the new year. The year of our Lord fifteen hundred and fourteen would not officially begin until Lady Day, the twenty-fifth of March.
On the morning of the first of January, I was on duty as one of the Lady Mary’s attendants. My first task was to deliver her New Year’s gift to the king. Members of the royal household crowded the presence chamber, waiting for their names to be called, but as the representative of the second lady in the land, I was passed directly through to the privy chamber. Only Sir Thomas Bryan, the queen’s vice-chamberlain, was ahead of me. He had brought Her Grace’s gift to the king, her husband.
Sir Thomas glanced at me then quickly away, but not before I caught a glimpse of his disapproving expression. I repressed a sigh. He knew. And if he knew, so did his daughter, Meg Guildford, and Meg would have lost no time in telling Harry. I had no idea how my old friend would react to the news that I had given myself to a French prisoner of war, but I suspected he would not be pleased.
A fanfare sounded, breaking in on my gloomy thoughts. The usher of the chamber waved Sir Thomas forward and called out the customary words: “Sire, here is a New Year’s gift coming from the queen. Let it come in, Sire.”
When the door to the royal bedchamber opened, I caught a glimpse of the king. Fully dressed, he sat at the foot of his bed. His father had followed the same practice, waiting there to receive gifts from every member of the court. They were presented in order of rank, from the queen through the noblemen through the lords and ladies of lesser titles. Even those courtiers who were away from court sent gifts through representatives.
My own present for King Henry would be a pair of gloves I had embroidered myself. The gift was similar to those I had given him in years past. He always seemed pleased. I was the one who wished I could afford better. This year in particular, I regretted that I did not have the funds to give him a truly memorable gift.
A clerk stood to one side of the bedchamber, writing down the description and value of each offering. All the gifts would afterward be displayed in the presence chamber—jewelry and money, clothing, and gold and silver plate. And, after each gift had been presented with due ceremony, the king’s servants handed out gifts of plate in return. Cups and bowls chased with the royal cipher were each weighed according to rank. Each person at court, even the most menial kitchen wench, received something.
When the usher of the chamber announced the Lady Mary’s gift, I entered the bedchamber and walked toward the enormous royal bed. I felt unaccountably nervous, in part because there was a strange look on the king’s face as he watched me approach. When I stood directly in front of him, His Grace waved the clerk out of earshot.
“Come closer, Jane.”
Obeying, I made a deep obeisance and held out a jeweled and enameled pin for the king’s hat, together with a matching ring.
King Henry barely glanced at them. His voice low and intense, he demanded to know why I had learned nothing of importance as yet from the duc de Longueville.
A chill went through me at his tone. When I dared peek at his face through my lashes, I wished I had not. His small eyes had narrowed to slits. There was no affection, no benevolence in that expression. He was angry…at me.
“Sire, I cannot conjure intelligence out of nothing. The duke does not speak to me of such things. I doubt he knows what King Louis intends. He tells me he has never spent much time at the French court.”