12
Mary Tudor, queen of France, left England without me at four o’clock on a chilly early October morning. During a brief respite from the wind and rain, the English fleet caught the early tide. I watched them sail away, numb from more than the cold. I do not know how long I stood there, but when I turned away, the king was watching me.
Our paths crossed again later that same day. He stopped to glower down at me as I made my obeisance. He spoke in a voice too low for the courtiers hovering nearby to hear. “You disappointed me, Jane. I had hoped you would remain with my sister and send reports back from France.”
“Your Grace?”
When he continued on, I took several steps in pursuit. He stopped, looking back at me over his shoulder. His face was terrifying easy to read—annoyance, impatience…and the promise of retribution if I angered him further.
“I have no place at court now that your sister is gone, and nowhere else to go.”
Until that moment, he had given no thought to my plight. A speculative light came into his eyes as he looked me up and down. It was the same look I’d seen on his face when he’d first examined some Mantuan horses he’d been sent as a gift.
He was assessing the benefits of acquiring me!
In haste, I dropped my gaze. I had only moments to think of a way to divert his attention before he proposed something I did not want to agree to. He always strayed when the queen was great with child…and he always sent his mistresses away as soon as he was allowed back into his wife’s bed. If I was not to go to France, I wanted to stay at court. What other home did I have?
Inspiration obliged me. I managed a credible sniffle, then a sob.
The king gaped at me. “Are you crying? Stop it at once.”
Pretending to struggle against my emotions, I spoke in a choked voice. “I cannot help myself, Your Grace. I have served you loyally and well. I sent word to you of everything the duke said. But I…care for him. We were to be together in France. He would have treated me with honor.”
Plainly discomfited by the notion, King Henry gave my shoulder a few awkward pats.
“I do not mean to trouble you with this, Your Majesty. You have so many more important things to do. Perhaps I should go to my uncle, my only living relative. Surely he will take me in.”
“To Velville? In Wales?”
“We…we are not close. He has never shown any particular affection toward me. But he is all the kin I have.” I let my voice trail off and tried to look pathetic.
“That will not do.” The king’s smile was magnanimous. “You must stay here. Forthwith, you will enter the queen’s service.”
THE COURT WAS at Eltham Palace throughout October. Catherine of Aragon believed in keeping her attendants busy and I was glad of it. If she resented having me thrust upon her, she did not show it. That made adjusting to my changed circumstances easier, as did Bessie Blount’s friendship. I invited her to share the double lodgings the king had generously allowed me to keep.
In the middle of the month, King Henry received a letter from his sister. She complained bitterly about her new husband. King Louis had dismissed all of her English ladies and menservants except for a few of the youngest maids of honor. In particular Mary lamented the loss of Mother Guildford.
What the king replied to this I do not know. I was not in his confidence. I took heart, however, from the fact that a number of English gentlemen would soon be in a position to see for themselves that their princess was well treated. A great tournament was to be held in Paris to celebrate Queen Mary’s coronation. The Dauphin had issued a challenge to English knights to come and fight. Harry Guildford had already left, leading a detachment of yeomen of the guard. So had Charles Brandon. Of the king’s closest friends, only Will Compton remained in England.
Will had wanted to go. He had been prevented by the sudden onset of pains in his legs, a condition that manifested itself just before the knights were to leave from Dover. He had been unable to walk for a week.
“Some say Compton was bewitched,” Bessie confided in a whisper as we sat side by side in the queen’s presence chamber to work on yet another altar cloth.
“What nonsense,” I replied.
She cast a wary eye on the other ladies in the circle, then lowered her voice even more. “Elizabeth Bryan told me that her sister, Meg Guildford, heard a rumor that the Duke of Suffolk used sorcery to prevent Compton from traveling to France. They are great rivals, as you well know, and equally impressive in a tournament.”
“What nonsense,” I said again. “And how foolish of someone to spread such a story at court.” The talk might cause trouble for Charles Brandon, but as Duke of Suffolk he was a very powerful man. Accusations against him would likely cause even greater difficulty for the person who invented the tale, if he—or she—were ever identified.
My next stitch went askew. My mother must once have been in a similar situation. The accusation that she’d poisoned King Charles might have been difficult to prove, but it would have been even more difficult to refute, especially for someone who possessed neither title nor wealth as protection.
ON THE LAST day of October, I returned to my lodgings a little earlier than usual. I had been excused from my duties with the queen in order that I might pack for the next day’s move to Greenwich Palace. We were scheduled to remain there for the remainder of the year. When I entered the outer chamber, I made no particular effort to be silent, but my footfalls made no sound on the rushes. The two people in the inner room remained unaware of my presence. I heard Bessie’s soft laugh and a murmured response that was clearly masculine.
I started to back out as quietly as I had come in, but froze when Bessie’s guest spoke a bit more loudly and I recognized his voice. It was the king. I knew I should leave, and quickly, but surprise held me immobile.
“Say you will come to me when I send for you, sweet Bessie. Mere kisses are not enough for me any longer. I must have all of you.”
Her reply was too faint for me to make out, but I doubted she was refusing him. I heard a rustle of fabric, then silence.
“Oh, Your Grace,” Bessie cried. “You must not. Not here. Jane could come in at any moment!”
“Jane will not betray us, my little love.”
No, Jane would not, I thought bitterly. Not when Bessie was the only one who had never reviled me for giving myself to a foreign duke. And not when King Henry provided everything I had.
Was this why he had allowed me to stay at court? Did King Henry think Bessie Blount would benefit from having someone older and wiser to guide her in the art of being a great man’s mistress?
Slowly, I backed out of our lodgings and settled myself on a nearby window seat to wait for the king to leave. He did so a few minutes later.
“Bessie?” I called, entering our rooms once again.
“Here.”
I found her on the bed, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiler.
“The king wants you,” I said.
Her pink cheeks flamed rose red. “You saw him leave.”
“I heard you talking just before that.” I climbed up onto the high bed and sat beside her, tucking my legs beneath me.
“What am I to do, Jane? He says he will send Sir William Compton to fetch me. That all I have to do is follow where Compton leads. But, Jane—I do not know how to…what to…I am a virgin!” The last word emerged on a wail of distress.
“Do you wish to lie with the king?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” She sat up, a dreamy look in her eyes and a shy smile tilting up the corners of her rosebud mouth.
I surveyed her with a critical eye, then leaned closer and sniffed. Bessie used a light marjoram scent, but beneath it I caught a whiff of sweat. “The king was raised with very high standards of cleanliness. There is a bathtub here at Eltham. Avail yourself of it before we leave for Greenwich. And find a soap made from olive oil, not one of the ones the laundresses use.”