Nick Carew, as King of the Bean, and Master Wynnsbury, who was Lord of Misrule for this one last night, called for dancing. I looked wistfully back over my shoulder as I slipped out of the hall, but I had no real desire to execute intricate steps while hostile glares bored into my back.
A WEEK LATER, a somber-faced Guy interrupted my intimate supper with the duc de Longueville. “A special messenger has just arrived from the French court.” He handed the duke a sealed letter.
Longueville broke the seal and read. For just a moment, he had the self-satisfied look of a cat with a mouse, but he hastily rearranged his features into solemn lines before he told us what the letter contained. “Anne of Brittany, queen of France, is dead.”
An overwhelming sadness filled me. Queen Anne had been much admired, even loved, by my mother. I felt her loss on a deep and personal level.
“This provides a great opportunity.” Longueville assessed me with a long, hard look. “The English king has two sisters, does he not?”
“You know he does.”
“The younger is very dear to him, the flower of his court, and promised to Charles of Castile. But the elder, Margaret, is newly the widow of the king of Scotland. What could be more providential than that? Tell me all you know about her, Jane.”
“She is regent of Scotland. Her young son is the king.”
“Is she comely?”
“She was pretty as a girl, but I have not seen her for six years.” A woman quickly lost her looks when she began bearing children.
“Was she as beautiful as her younger sister?”
“She had…a different sort of beauty.” Margaret had been stocky as a girl. I suspected she’d grown heavier with age. Mary was a sylph and likely always would be. “Your Grace, you cannot think to marry Queen Margaret to the king of France.”
“Why not? Alliances are formed by royal marriages, are they not? This one could bring peace for generations to come.”
“But she has a duty to Scotland. She is regent.”
He dismissed those responsibilities with a careless wave of the hand. “Some suitable Scots nobleman will be found to fill the post.”
“Her son cannot leave Scotland. Would you deprive him of his mother?” Such separations were common, but that did not make them any less painful for those involved.
“She will have other children. King Louis’ children.”
“I should think,” I said stiffly, “that you might give them each time to mourn before you force them into another marriage.”
Incredulous, Longueville laughed at the very idea. “You are softhearted, sweeting. Let them commiserate with each other if they must grieve, but I would be surprised if that were necessary. Their earlier marriages were made for political reasons, and so will this one be.” His words held no hint of sympathy for his bereaved monarch, his own distant cousin, let alone for my erstwhile playfellow Margaret Tudor.
“King James of Scotland was young and handsome, or so I have heard.” I had also heard reports that he and Margaret had never taken to each other, that she’d been too strong willed to suit him, but saw no need to tell Longueville that.
“Until he was brutally slain by English troops at the Battle of Flodden,” the duke said. Irritated, he rose from the table and walked to the coffer where he kept quills, ink, and parchment.
I had yet to follow the suggestion that I ask Longueville about his own experiences in battle. I did not think it would improve his temper to remind him of the ignominious defeat the French troops had suffered at what the English called the Battle of the Spurs. That, Harry had told me, had been all they’d seen of the French cavalry as they galloped away across the field at Guingates in an attempt to escape the victorious troops led by King Henry and his allies.
The longer I remained Longueville’s mistress, the more I realized that he was no gallant knight and had never been. He might be kind to me, gentle with me, but he’d give me away in a heartbeat if he saw an advantage in it. If I did end up traveling with him to France, I would do well to remember that.
“Is Queen Margaret as unpredictable as her brother?” Longueville asked.
Mayhap I was concerned for her without reason, I thought. All I had to do to discourage the match was to tell the truth. “She is, and she has the Tudor temper, too. I remember once, when she was already styled queen of Scotland, although she had not yet gone north to consummate the marriage, she flew into a rage over a pair of sleeves.”
At his lifted eyebrow, I explained.
“All the Tudors love fine clothing. You have seen that for yourself. After the death of Arthur, Prince of Wales, the entire family wore black, but as that summer wore on, the princesses were allowed a bit of color in their wardrobe. Princess Margaret acquired two sets of sleeves, one of white sarcenet and another pair in orange sarcenet. The orange sleeves were her favorite item of dress, and when they were accidentally left behind when the court moved from Baynard’s Castle to Westminster, nothing would do but that Queen Elizabeth’s page of robes be sent back to fetch them. He was rewarded for doing so, but first he had to endure a tirade of abuse for forgetting them in the first place. A Tudor in a temper is a formidable sight, terrifying and ludicrous all at once.”
“Even the Lady Mary has this failing?”
I nodded, though it felt disloyal to make the admission. “Even she. The princess has been known to scream and throw things in a manner more suited to a two-year-old child than a woman in her eighteenth year.”
I hoped such tales might make the duke reconsider, but he seemed more set on his matchmaking than ever. I had, however, regained his goodwill. He asked for additional stories about Margaret’s early life and in return spoke more freely in front of me, outlining his plan to approach King Henry to ask for his help in marrying off his widowed sister.
When I left the duke’s lodgings, I went directly to the great hall. Word of Queen Anne’s death had already spread among the courtiers but had created only a minor stir. Had the king of France died, that would have caused consternation. Since Louis was still alive, life went on unchanged. The dancing and dicing and games of cards continued, unaffected by the news from France.
I found Will Compton without difficulty, and relayed my information in a hurried whisper. He scarce seemed to hear me. He kept glancing toward the doorway, as if he expected someone to make an entrance.
“Will? Is aught amiss?”
He shook his head, but I did not believe him. A sense of foreboding settled over me when I saw Dr. John Chambre arrive. Even if I had not recognized his hawk nose and his habitually grim expression, he would have been marked as one of the king’s physicians by his long, furred gown in royal livery colors.
He made his way directly to Will, but nodded to me in polite greeting. “Mistress Popyncourt. You look well.”
Impressed that he’d remembered who I was, I thanked him for the compliment. When he started to follow Will from the presence chamber, I was struck by a sudden thought. I caught at his trailing sleeve. “Sir, a moment? May I speak with you privily?”
Here was one more person who might know something about my lady mother.
“You must wait and talk to him later,” Will said, and hurried the doctor away.
I soon understood why they had been so distracted. The king had fallen ill again. For two weeks, as Dr. Chambre hovered and the queen set herself the task of nursing her husband back to health, the duc de Longueville could get nowhere near His Grace. His plan to negotiate for Queen Margaret’s hand on behalf of King Louis fell into abeyance.
I shared his frustration, but not for the same reason. Now that I had remembered Dr. Chambre, I was anxious to speak with the royal physician but he was much too busy with his patient to have time for me. It was nearly a week later, after the king was well on his way to recovery, that the respected physician remembered my request and found his way to my lodgings.