A memorial service was held for King Louis at St. Paul’s, in London. That was the extent of royal mourning in England. In fact, King Henry commanded that The Pavilion on the Place Perilous, the masque we had been rehearsing for Twelfth Night, go on as planned…with one change. Bessie Blount’s role was given to another.
Once again, I consoled my bedfellow while she wept.
“He is through with me, Jane. I know it! He has taken away my part in the pageant to please the queen.”
“Perhaps, but not for the reason you imagine. Your part has been given to the imperial ambassador’s wife.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Think, Bessie. Why include her? She’s nobody.”
“She’s married to an ambassador.” Bessie sat up and dried her eyes. “You think the king is trying to sweeten him?”
“King Henry must already be thinking of new alliances he can make by using his sister as a pawn. The Imperial ambassador is the ideal candidate to act as a go-between to reopen negotiations for Charles of Castile.” So much for Henry’s promise that Mary might choose her own husband when Louis died!
I was certain my interpretation of the king’s motives was correct when the Imperial ambassador himself was also invited to participate in the masque, replacing Harry Guildford. Teaching two foreigners their roles was a challenge. By the time the pageant wagon, carrying a pavilion made of crimson and blue damask surmounted by a gold crown and a rosebush, rolled into the hall, I felt as nervous as if this were my first disguising.
We ladies were hidden behind the draperies while the “lords,” portrayed by the ambassador, Nick Carew, Charles Brandon, and the king, manned brickwork towers at each corner. Six minstrels perched on the stage as well, and more armed knights—members of the King’s Players—marched alongside. Two of the Children of the Chapel preceded the pageant wagon and by means of musical verses explained what was to come.
It was an ambitious endeavor. Never before had anyone attempted to hold a tourney indoors. Granted, it was a small one, but it still required a show of skill extraordinary in the extreme. The four knights were attacked by six “wild men” appareled in “moss” made of green silk. Master Gibson had created strange and ominous-looking weapons for them to carry and I had painted their faces so that when they scowled they showed most terrible visages.
After a heroic struggle, long enough to have everyone in the hall cheering for their champions, the four knights drove the wild men away and it was time for the ladies to descend from the pavilion to dance with them. Once again, masks were the order of the day, but we wore our hair long and loose. Bessie’s beautiful golden tresses would have been immediately recognizable. I took note of the queen’s quietly satisfied smile as she realized that her rival was not among the dancers.
Bessie, by her own choice, had remained in our lodgings. If she could not dance with the king, she said, she did not want to join in the revels at all.
We unmasked after several dances and, as usual, everyone affected to be surprised that the king was one of the knights. In short order after that, we all returned to the pavilion—four ladies and four knights—to be conveyed out of the hall.
Once the silken draperies were drawn closed, the quarters were cramped. I was unsurprised when Charles Brandon took advantage of the enforced intimacy to run his hands over my breasts. I ignored the overture.
When the pageant wagon came to a halt some distance outside the great hall, we all climbed off. Meg and her sister had been delegated to escort the ambassador and his wife back to the queen’s presence, and I meant to go with them, but as I straightened from smoothing my skirts I realized that Brandon had taken the king aside. They seemed to be arguing.
Curious, I lingered, pretending that I had a rush caught on my shoe.
“I swear on my life,” I heard Brandon say, “that if you send me after her, I will do no more than bring her home to you.”
“On your life be it,” replied the king. Impatience, and mayhap some stronger emotion, creased his face into a frown. He waved Brandon away, looked around for the yeomen of the guard assigned to him, and saw me instead. “Jane.”
“Your Grace.” I hastened to make my obeisance.
He studied my face. He had caught me off guard and I had no time to conceal what I’d been thinking. “My sister…confided in you? You know what man it is she wishes to wed?”
Keeping my eyes averted, I nodded.
“Brandon?”
“Yes.” I wavered, then whispered, “She will be most distressed if you do him any harm.”
A beringed hand appeared in front of me. I took it and he lifted me up, obliging me to meet his troubled gaze. “She was always a great one for reading the romances,” he murmured. “The Romaunt of the Rose, The Romance of Bertrand—”
“The Canterbury Tales. Ogier the Dane,” I contributed, hoping to lighten his mood. “Legenda Sanctorum.” The last was a collection of saints’ lives, translated into English. The Lady Mary’s copy, which had come to her from her grandmother, was bound in red velvet with a silver clasp.
A reluctant smile blossomed on the king’s ruddy face. “You always were quick witted, Jane. It is no wonder my sister is so fond of you. You will be glad of it when she returns, I have no doubt.”
“I will, Your Grace.” Of that much, at least, I was certain.
IN LATE FEBRUARY, word reached the English court from Paris that the widowed queen of France had married Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.
The king was furious. The king of England, that is. The new king of France, François, had not only approved of the match but facilitated it, mayhap in part to tweak the nose of a fellow monarch.
For months after that no one knew for certain if King Henry would allow his sister and the man who had been one of his closest friends to return to England, or what kind of reception they would receive if they did. I suspected the king’s anger stemmed not so much from being outmaneuvered as because he had lost a marriage pawn. He truly loved his sister, and his admiration of Brandon went back to the days when his father was still king. I could not imagine that even Henry Tudor would hold this grudge forever.
In the interim, however, those around him kept their opinions to themselves. It was not a good time for me to ask permission to travel to France.
By May Day, matters seemed to have resolved themselves. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were on their way home and would arrive within the week. The entire court was in high spirits as we rode out from Greenwich, the queen’s ladies all mounted on white palfreys. We traveled two miles into the country early on May Day morning. “Robin Hood” had invited the king and queen to a banquet in the greenwood.
After some pageantry and an archery contest, we adjourned to a special arbor fashioned of boughs and covered with flowers and sweet herbs. It was large enough to contain a hall, a great chamber, and an inner chamber, and in this setting, the “outlaws” and their ladies served a breakfast of venison and other game washed down with wine.
When he had eaten, the king rose and moved among his guests, stopping near me to engage a member of the new Venetian embassy in conversation. “Talk with me awhile,” the king invited, speaking in French. “I am told that you have met the new king of France. Is he as tall as I am?”
The ambassador seemed taken aback by the question but recovered quickly. “There is but little difference, Sire.”
“Is he as stout?”
“No, he is not.”
“What sort of legs has he?”
“Spare, Your Majesty.”
“Hah!” The king, pleased by this answer, pulled aside the skirt of his doublet and slapped a hand on his thigh. “Look here! I have also a good calf to my leg.”
Curious as to what that had been about, I sought out Will Compton and repeated the conversation I had overheard. “Is there some reason he singled out the Venetian?” I asked.