“The best of reasons. The fellow leaves on the morrow for France. He can now be counted upon to tell the new French king what he has observed in England, in particular the splendor of the court and the physical prowess of King Henry.”
“I would have thought King François knew all that already. He has met any number of English noblemen, including the Duke of Suffolk.” The sour expression on Will’s face reminded me that he had never been fond of Charles Brandon. “Is there any word yet of when the king’s sister will reach England?”
“Any day now.”
“And what reception will she be given?”
Will made a derisive sound. “What sort do you imagine? She has already sent all the jewelry she got from old King Louis to her brother as a bribe and Brandon has agreed to pay a huge fine for marrying her out of hand. They’ll be welcomed back with open arms.”
“JANE!” THERE WAS no mistaking the delight in Mary Tudor’s voice as she entered the room I shared with Bessie Blount. She rushed into my arms and hugged me tight. “Is it not wonderful! I have my Charles at last.”
As Will had predicted, in the end there was little trouble over the clandestine marriage. The queen of France and her new husband arrived in Dover and were escorted to a private meeting with King Henry at the royal manor of Barking in Essex. Then they came to Greenwich to be remarried by an English priest.
“I am delighted to see you so happy, Your Grace.” Both Bessie and Nan, the tiring maid we shared, slipped out of the room, leaving me privacy for our reunion.
“Do not be so formal with me, Jane. We are old friends, you and I. And although I will always bear the title Queen of France, I now think of myself as plain Lady Suffolk. Why, we are very nearly equals.”
“Scarcely that.”
“Nevertheless, you are my dearest Jane and from now on I command you to call me Mary when we are alone.”
“I would be pleased to, and even more pleased if you will allow me to rejoin your household.”
At once her smile dimmed. “Charles is…we—” She broke off with a rueful laugh. “We are poor, Jane. Almost everything we own is now pledged to the king. We will have to go to Charles’s country house in Lincolnshire when the court leaves on its summer progress because we can live there more cheaply. It would not be fair to take you in when I must dismiss so many others.”
Seeing my crestfallen look, she took my hands in hers. “We are friends, Jane. And I am certain you do not wish to leave the court. I do not wish to myself. Only having my dear Charles with me will make our exile to the country bearable.”
Hiding my disappointment, I changed the subject. We talked for hours. I told her about pageants and petty rivalries at court. She recounted her adventures as queen of France, skimming over her marital duties and the long days of solitude after King Louis’ death. Those weeks shut up in a dark room, wearing white and expected to keep to her bed had nearly driven her mad, but her only respite had proven nearly as nerve-wracking as the isolation.
“The new king visited me,” she confided. “He is a handsome fellow, except for that huge nose of his, and he knows it. He tried to take liberties.”
“I thought he was newly wed.”
“So he is, to a lumpish girl named Claude, my stepdaughter. And he has a mistress, the young wife of an elderly Paris barrister.” She gave a light laugh, but it conveyed no pleasure.
I shifted closer to her on the padded bench we shared and helped myself to a slice of candied apple from the bowl she held in her lap. The treat had been a gift to Bessie from the king. “How did you deal with him?”
“I told him the truth, that I loved Charles and wished to wed him. Then I burst into tears and said that I did not trust my brother to keep his promise. It was not at all difficult after that to convince the king of France to help us. It was a chance, you see, for him to score points against Henry. They are like little boys, the two of them, setting themselves up as rivals.”
“Little boys with great power,” I reminded her. “If you had returned unwed, your brother would have found some way to thwart your plans.”
Color flooded Mary’s face and her hands curled into fists. “Henry will not make decisions for me ever again!” I caught the bowl just as she was about to hurl it across the room.
When her temper cooled, I asked after the duc de Longueville.
“Oh, Jane, what you must think of me!” She fumbled in the purse suspended from her belt and produced a letter. This time the seal was unbroken.
I waited until I was alone to read Guy’s missive. It was short and to the point and written on Longueville’s behalf: Should I choose to leave England, King François had no objection to my presence in France.
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED before I found an opportunity to speak privily with King Henry. It was evening and, as usual, there was music and dancing. The king partnered me in a pavane. I waited until the dance was done, then placed one hand on his forearm when he tried to take his leave.
“Jane?” Mild annoyance shimmered just beneath the curiosity in his voice.
“Sire, I have a boon to ask.” I spoke quickly, fearing we’d be interrupted. The music had already started up again.
Thunderclouds darkened his expression before I was halfway through my request. My heart sank. I had been too hasty. I should have waited longer. And I should have approached him through channels, perhaps recruiting Will or Harry to speak on my behalf.
“You wish to go to France?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
“A visit only, Your Grace. I lived there once, you know.”
Mentally kicking myself for reminding him that I was not a native Englishwoman, I clamped my lips tightly together. To say more would only make matters worse.
“Do you still miss your lover?” Again the silken tone was deceptive, but I knew how I must answer that question.
“No, Your Grace. I do not.” It was, after all, the truth.
The king shook his head, his eyes full of suspicion. I did not dare remind him that when Mary was wed to King Louis he had wanted me to go to France.
“You are forbidden to leave England,” King Henry said. “You will not go to France or to any foreign land unless I give you leave.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Repressing a sigh, I made my obeisance and backed away. Tears swam in my eyes but I refused to let them fall.
EVERY SUMMER THE king went on progress. The route varied so that he could visit different subjects each time. The houses he would stay in were announced well in advance. When I realized that the upcoming progress would pass near Fyfield, the house belonging to James Strangeways and his wife, I made plans of my own. Not all the answers I sought were to be found in France.
James Strangeways’s wife had been born Lady Catherine Gordon, the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, and had been married off by King James IV—the same James who later married Margaret Tudor, the same James killed at Flodden Field—to the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, in the belief that he was the rightful heir to the English throne. Lady Catherine had accompanied her first husband when he invaded England and had been captured. Instead of being imprisoned, however, she had become one of Queen Elizabeth of York’s ladies, just as my mother had.
She and my mother, so I had been told, had befriended each other.
I had seen Lady Catherine at court when I was a child, and she had assisted with the preparations for Princess Margaret’s wedding to the Scots king, but I did not think I had ever spoken to her. Certainly she had never sought me out. Still, I hoped she would agree to talk to me.
I was curious about her, aside from her connection to my mother. As I recalled the story, she had been kept apart from her husband, but otherwise well treated. She’d stayed at court even after Warbeck’s execution. Following Queen Elizabeth’s death, she had married Strangeways, a gentleman usher to the king, and been granted the rural manor of Fyfield in Berkshire. Since then, Lady Catherine had remained in the country.