Although Nan was a slow-witted girl, just bright enough to carry out her duties as my maid, I sent her away as soon as the doctor appeared. I had learned to be careful what I said when others might overhear.
He frowned. “It is customary to keep another female about during an examination, but I suppose you wish this kept secret.” My blank expression had him narrowing his eyes. “You did wish to consult me on a private matter?”
Obviously he thought I was pregnant. Or worse, diseased. Heat crept up my neck and into my face. “It is not…I did not…I only wanted to ask you if you tended my mother during her last illness!”
“I have no notion who your mother was.”
“She was Mistress Popyncourt. Joan Popyncourt. She joined Queen Elizabeth’s household in June of the thirteenth year of the reign of King Henry the Seventh and traveled with the court into East Anglia on progress. I am told she died that September at Collyweston.”
“I was not yet at court then,” Dr. Chambre said.
My spirits sank.
“Collyweston, you say?” He rubbed his chin as he considered. “That was the home of the Countess of Richmond, King Henry the Seventh’s mother. The physician who attended your mother was most likely Philip Morgan. At least he was the doctor who looked after the countess during her final years.”
The Countess of Richmond had been a force to be reckoned with in my youth. She had written the rules and regulations by which the royal nursery functioned. By the time I arrived at Eltham, she’d only rarely visited, but I could remember how she’d swoop down on her grandchildren, a scrawny figure in unrelieved black. She had been very pious, always muttering prayers. And she had not liked me. Once I had overheard her telling Mother Guildford that I should be sent away to a nunnery.
“Do you know where I might find Doctor Morgan?” I asked.
“In his grave, most like. Or mayhap he returned to his native Wales.” Dr. Chambre chuckled. “Some would say those two fates are the same.”
“I have been told my mother was ill before she ever came to court.”
His interest sharpened. “What ailed her?”
“Mother Guildford told me it was a wasting sickness, mayhap consumption.” The disease was common enough. It had killed King Henry VII and some thought it had been the cause of Prince Arthur’s death, as well.
I thought I saw a spark of pity in the doctor’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to be certain.
“She was Sir Rowland Velville’s twin sister,” I added.
“Ah. I know Sir Rowland. But I fear I cannot help you, mistress. I was still a student when your mother died.”
Dr. Chambre had already reached the door when I thought of one last question. “If it was the Countess of Richmond’s physician who cared for my mother, would it have been the countess’s confessor who gave her last rites?”
He paused, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it must have been.”
“Do you remember who he was?”
A short bark of laughter answered me. “Oh, yes, Mistress Popyncourt. He went on to greater things. The countess’s confessor was John Fisher. He’s bishop of Rochester now.”
My hopes of being able to question the priest dashed—one did not gain audiences with bishops easily, even minor ones—I thanked the doctor for his time. When he had gone I sank down on my luxurious bed, disconsolate. Even if I did convince the bishop of Rochester to speak with me in private, he would not tell me anything. He was not permitted to speak of what he heard in the confessional.
With that realization, I began to despair of ever learning more about my mother’s time in England or her reason for bringing us here. Those few people who had come in close contact with her all seemed to be dead or in distant parts…or suffer from passing-poor memories.
To me she remained vivid. I could not understand why she had not made a deeper impression on all those who had met her. Even if she had been dying—a thing I still found difficult to accept—she should have been memorable. Especially if she’d been ill. If the other ladies had shunned her, fearing infection, surely they should recall doing so.
Unless she had deliberately effaced herself.
The air soughed out of my lungs. It appeared that there were only two people left to approach who might know something—my uncle and Lady Catherine Strangeways. To talk to either of them, I would have to arrange for an extended absence from court.
Although I was not sure why, I was reluctant to put my questions in writing. Even if both of them could read and did not need to share the contents with a secretary or a priest—something of which I was not certain even in my uncle’s case—it was far too easy for letters to fall into the wrong hands.
Counseling myself to be patient, I continued to spend my days with the Lady Mary and my nights with the duc de Longueville.
THE COURT HAD moved on to Greenwich Palace by the time the next emissary arrived from France. The duc de Longueville met with him and returned to his lodgings in an expansive mood. I had been sitting near the window with my embroidery while Guy idly played the lute. We both sprang to our feet when the duke came in.
“What news, my lord?” Guy asked. Even though the two men were brothers, Guy never used the duke’s first name. I rarely did myself, and Longueville seemed content to be deferred to.
“The most excellent kind. The new envoy is here to arrange my ransom. Talks have already begun with King Henry’s representatives.”
“Will matters be settled quickly, then?” I asked.
“That will depend upon our success at negotiating another matter.”
“A marriage,” I guessed.
“A marriage…between King Louis the Twelfth of France and the Lady Mary.”
I sat down hard on the window seat, momentarily robbed of speech.
Guy voiced what I was thinking: “I thought Queen Margaret—”
“King Louis has heard that Mary is the most beautiful princess in Christendom. He sees no reason to settle for second best.”
Heard from Longueville himself, I thought.
“Have you forgotten?” I asked. “The Lady Mary already has a husband. She was married by proxy years ago to Charles of Castile.”
He dismissed that ceremony with a careless wave of one hand. “They have not taken final vows, nor has their marriage been consummated.” The latter was what sealed the bargain. Until husband and wife slept together, they were wedded only on paper. With the cooperation of the church, such alliances—at least among princes—could easily be severed.
“What makes you think King Henry will go along with this plan?” I asked.
To my surprise, he told me.
More than an hour passed before I could leave the duke’s apartments without arousing suspicion. When I did escape, I headed straight for the king’s lodgings.
Hindered by long skirts, it took longer than I wished to race across one of Greenwich’s three courtyards and reenter the palace through a side door to the great hall. Still, the shortcut had saved me some time. I paused only long enough to brush snow from my face and headdress and catch my breath.
A body stitchet of boiled leather is not designed to permit rapid movement of any kind, and mine was tightly laced. As soon as I had recovered sufficiently, I sped up the stairs that led to the king’s apartments. I did not slow down as I passed through the great watching chamber and I ignored the guards standing at attention at regular intervals around the room. I all but ran through the curtained door that led into the king’s presence chamber.
Seeing neither the king nor Will Compton, I slowed my pace only a little and advanced on the door to the privy chamber. A halberd appeared in front of me just before I could open the door, barring my way.
“You have no business in there, mistress.”