King Henry was fond of tennis, loved to joust, and excelled at games of chance, but he was also an enthusiastic bowler. The bowling alley was a turf-covered area bounded by hedges. Ladies usually watched the play from a gallery, but I chose to cross the close-shaven grass to a vantage point much nearer the players. I stood in the shadow of the tiltyard wall to observe the king and three of his companions play at bowls. The steady clack of wood on wood and the occasional bursts of applause were interspersed with sounds of low conversation and laughter from the players.
Stooping, the king balanced the first of two heavy, highly polished wooden balls called “bowls” on his palm and sighted the stake at the far end of the alley. His target was called a “mistress.” Dipping his right knee, he made his cast. A cheer went up from the spectators when it came to rest a scant inch from where he’d aimed it.
Charles Brandon bowled next, then Will Compton and Ned Neville, who were on the opposing team. All four of them took turns casting while Nick Carew kept score on a tablet and awarded points based on whose bowls ended up closest to the mistress.
After the first match, which the king won handily, I stepped into the alley. “Your Grace, your game is dull.”
King Henry turned, glowering. “Dull, mistress? When your king is playing?”
“Ah, me—I misspoke. What I meant to say is that it could be made much more interesting.” I sidled closer to him and daringly brushed one hand across his sleeve. I could feel the other players, the scorekeeper, and the pages who handed out the bowls all staring at me, but I ignored them, just as I ignored those few courtiers and ladies in the gallery. The queen was not among them. I had made sure of that before I began my play.
“Interesting in what way?” King Henry asked. He was more intrigued than irritated now, as I’d hoped he would be.
“You might make use of a real mistress,” I suggested, glancing toward the stake that bore that name, then back up at the king through lowered lashes.
Charles Brandon caught my meaning first and responded with a burst of ribald laughter. “A worthy target indeed!” he declared, slapping his thigh as he chortled. “And also, mayhap, the prize for the winner.”
“I am told that at some foreign courts noblemen play chess with courtiers as the pieces,” I said when King Henry’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Would it not be a fine new game to substitute a living woman for a mistress made of wood?” Sauntering casually down the length of the alley, I positioned myself in front of the far stake.
Inside, I was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, but that only made me try harder to maintain a surface calm. I could afford no hesitation, no appearance of second thoughts. I put my hands on my hips and called out, “Come, gentlemen. Send your balls my way.”
In appreciation of the risqué invitation, all four players responded with good-natured laughter. The king obliged me. His first cast was a good one and the second bowl very nearly struck my foot. When Brandon took his turn, I moved at the last moment, distracting him, and his first bowl skimmed past me and into a hedge. The second curled around to lie next to the king’s two attempts.
“A kiss for the winner,” I called, and I managed to affect Ned’s aim by lifting my skirts above my ankles. His cast went wildly astray.
Will Compton glowered at me as he prepared to take his turn. I was beginning to enjoy myself. For the rest of the match, I kept up a steady flow of banter, using as many words with double meanings as I dared. I had always known that the king had a low sense of humor, but I had never catered to it before.
When the game was over, it came as no surprise that His Grace had won. He advanced upon me to claim his prize. “Come share a kiss, Your Majesty,” I called, and smiled invitingly. I grasped his broad shoulders as our lips met and clung to them afterward to keep him close while I whispered in his ear. “If we were in private,” I promised, “I would be willing to share so much more.”
I meant the idea I’d had to spy on the French, but I knew full well that was not how the king interpreted my words. From the look in his eyes, he would soon send for me.
“WILL, WAIT! YOU go too fast.”
Slowing his long strides, Will Compton cast a contemptuous look over his shoulder. “You were the one in a great hurry only a few hours ago. You set out to capture the king’s attention and now you have it. I wish you joy of it!”
Although I winced at the acid in his tone, it was far too late to change my mind. We were already in the privy gallery. At the far end lay the door that led to the king’s bedchamber.
“I cannot run in these shoes,” I protested when Will resumed his brisk pace. The cork-soled crimson velvet pantoufles on my feet were backless slippers more decorative than sturdy.
“Kick them off, then.” Radiating impatience, he stopped to glare at me. “You were wont to go about in stocking feet when we were younger.”
“Why are you so wroth with me?” Hands on hips, I stood my ground on the rush matting that covered the floor of the privy gallery. “It is not as if the king has never before sent for a woman, nor are you unaccustomed to escorting such females to him.”
“God’s bones, Jane! Have you no shame? Had you not thrown yourself in his path, the king would be with the queen this night, as he should be, endeavoring to get a son on her.”
“It is barely twelve weeks since his daughter’s birth,” I protested. “The king always turns to other women when his wife is with child and, as you well know, it is customary to allow a highborn lady several months to recover after she is delivered of a living child.”
We had stopped beneath a portrait of Henry VII. The bright green-and-gold-striped silk curtain usually drawn in front of portraits to keep the paint from fading had been pulled back to reveal a frame of black ebony garnished with silver and the canvas it contained. Will gestured toward it. “He’d be ashamed of you, Jane. He treated you as another daughter, favoring you above all the other gentlewomen at court.”
“And he died without making provision for me.” Staring at the portrait, I found it difficult to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
It was a good likeness, better than the one at Richmond. It had been painted before illness inscribed lines of pain into my grandfather’s face. The artist had accurately depicted the unsmiling lips, the pronounced cheekbones, and the straight, thin, high-bridged nose. He’d also given him the same autocratic air he’d so often exhibited in life. The portrait showed the unusual blue-gray color of the king’s eyes, as well, as large and deep set as I remembered them. For a moment I imagined a look of stern disapproval in his gaze.
Hastily looking away, I caught sight of a peculiar expression on Will Compton’s face. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, eyes troubled, his earlier irritation had been replaced by confusion. “What are you up to, Jane?”
“Why do you care?”
“I should like to make sense of your behavior. After all, if it is only that you miss having a man in your bed, that lack might easily have been remedied, and in ways that would have given you more pleasure than a few nights as the king’s mistress.”
“The pleasures of Pleasure Palace?” I quipped.
Will’s lips twitched.
I had taken pleasure at Greenwich with the duc de Longueville. He had been my first lover, my only lover. I glanced apprehensively toward the door to the king’s bedchamber.
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to quell the fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach, I managed a tentative smile. Will had been an ally in the past. A friend. We had known each other for eighteen years. He could help me now, or hinder me. I could allow him to believe me wanton, even promise to share my favors with him…or I could tell him as much of the truth as I dared.