10
King Henry did not want to believe me on the French reports of the new alliance between King Ferdinand and King Louis, but his own sources soon confirmed it. Once he was convinced that his father-in-law had betrayed him, he was eager to fall in with the duc de Longueville’s suggestion. I accompanied the Lady Mary on the day she was taken into her brother’s confidence. I watched her face as he told her she would one day be queen of France.
“I had not heard that Charles of Castile had conquered the French,” she remarked, fiddling coyly with her pomander ball.
King Henry laughed. “Saucy wench! You know perfectly well that he has done no such thing.”
“How else can I become queen of France?”
“By repudiating your marriage to Charles and entering into a betrothal with King Louis.”
Mary toyed with one of the many rings she wore, a small one with a blue stone. “King Louis is quite old, is he not?”
“Fifty-two, I believe.”
“The same age at which Father died.”
“What are you thinking, Mary?” the king asked his sister.
“That I may not be queen of France very long if I marry an old man like that.”
“Perhaps not, but you can do your country good service while he lives. You do not intend to be troublesome over this, do you?”
“I am yours to command,” she assured him, but there was a look in her eyes that worried me.
“Good,” said King Henry. “Now, for the present, you must tell no one about this change in plans. Your entanglement with Charles of Castile cannot be broken off just yet, not until the new alliance between France and England has been negotiated. To that end, you must behave in public as if you desire nothing more than to be queen of Castile.”
He presented Mary with a portrait in miniature of King Charles and suggested that she carry it about with her wherever she went. She hugged it to her bosom all the way back to her own apartments. The way her face was working, I expected tears, but as soon as we were alone in her bedchamber, she burst into gales of laughter.
“Oh, this will be fun, Jane! I will fool them all.”
“You seem remarkably calm at the thought of taking an old man into your bed.”
“His age means that he is not likely to live long after the wedding. When he’s dead, I will choose a man more to my liking for a second husband.”
I eyed her warily. “What man?”
But she only shook her head and smiled mysteriously, refusing to give me a name. She did not need to. I was certain she was thinking of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.
“It is likely your brother will have his own ideas about your remarriage,” I warned her. “If King Louis is considerate enough to make you a widow, what is to stop your brother from using you to seal some other alliance?”
“I will think of a way to prevent him,” she assured me. “Now help me change my clothing. Tonight is St. Valentine’s Eve and I must look my best for the lottery.”
The church considered St. Valentine’s Day only a minor holiday, but at court it was an excuse for a great deal of revelry. The names of every gentleman at court—and most of the noblemen, too—were written down on bits of paper. Then each lady and gentlewoman drew a name and that man became her companion all the next day. He was required to buy her a gift and behave toward her as did a knight to his lady. In the best tradition of courtly love, he would put her on a pedestal and worship her from afar—at least as far away as the lady wished to keep him!
We gathered for the drawing in the queen’s presence chamber.
“I cannot wait to see what courtier will be my valentine,” Bessie Blount whispered in my ear. “I hope he is well favored. And rich,” she added as an afterthought.
“What man courts you will depend upon the luck of the draw.” Hiding a smile, I turned to examine my embroidery by the light of the nearest candelabra.
“Do you think so?” Bessie worried her lower lip and her big blue eyes filled with concern. “I have heard that some ladies find a way to cheat.”
“If those ladies are your betters, best make no mention of it.”
“But it is not…” She struggled to find the right word: “Sporting.”
“Ah, Bessie. If you value fairness, you are in the wrong place.”
“And if I value love? True love? Is that not what St. Valentine’s Day celebrates?”
“True love, too, is in short supply at court.”
It was in fashion for courtiers to say they had fallen in love with this woman or that, and to sigh after the unattainable, but it was all a game to them. Men pursued women to marry them for their fortunes, to win their favor and influence, or to entice them into coupling. None of those goals had anything to do with affection.
A fanfare sounded, announcing the beginning of the lottery. A huge wooden box, brightly painted, was carried in by liveried servants. The Lady Mary followed, seemingly distracted by something she held in her hand. She heaved a great sigh as she reached the table where the box had been placed. She murmured a single word: “Charles.”
At my side, Bessie echoed the sigh. “See how she pines for her betrothed. Truly, she has fallen in love with his likeness.”
It seemed the king’s plan was working. I was the only one who realized that the princess’s actions were all for show.
Mary dropped the little portrait of her betrothed, letting it dangle carelessly from a chain suspended from her waist. Then she dipped her hand into the box, drew out a name, and smirked. “I have chosen my lord of Suffolk for my valentine,” she announced. “Now come all who would find their true loves. The lottery has begun.”
When the Lady Mary pined in public for “Charles,” it was not Charles of Castile she spoke of. She might stare at that miniature of the young king, but her thoughts were all for a different Charles—Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Mary continued to be infatuated with her brother’s handsome friend from childhood.
If she thought she’d be allowed to marry Brandon someday, she was sadly mistaken, but I did not intend to tell her so again. She would realize soon enough that although the king might elevate one of his boon companions to a dukedom, he would not waste the hand of a royal princess on one of his own subjects, not when he could use her as a diplomatic pawn.
Urged forward by Bessie, I took my turn to dip my hand into the lottery box. The name I drew was Nicholas Carew. I had not expected to be matched with the duc de Longueville. His name had not been placed in the lottery, nor had the king’s.
“Hard luck,” Bessie commiserated, peering at the scrap of paper. “Nick is handsome but very poor.”
“We will do well enough together…for one day.” I had known Nick since he was a little boy, younger than I, at Eltham. “What name did you draw?”
She made a face. “The Earl of Worcester.”
“He is wealthy,” I reminded her.
“But he is older than almost everyone at court, except perhaps Sir Thomas Lovell, and married besides. And he has terrible bad breath. He always smells of onions.”
“He can afford to give you a very nice Valentine’s Day gift,” I reminded her, “and is unlikely to demand much in return.”
Mollified, Bessie left my side to return to her place among the queen’s women. I shook my head as I watched her tuck the slip of paper into her bodice. She was smiling sweetly.
Had I ever been that innocent? I felt as though I should run after her with a warning to guard her virtue well if she ever hoped to catch a husband, wealthy or otherwise.
A low, venomous voice spoke from just behind me, tearing my attention away from Bessie Blount. “She’s no better than a whore.”