“Sir Rowland Velville, my mother’s twin brother.” I related the tale as my uncle had told it to me, omitting only Uncle’s speculations about my mother’s murder.
When I had finished the story, the king sat thoughtfully stroking a recently barbered chin. I waited in an agony of suspense, knowing I had taken a huge risk. I’d had no choice but to confess, but that was little consolation when my own life, and that of my uncle, would be forfeit if King Henry decided we were a threat to his throne.
“You went to Wales with my sister’s connivance.” This seemed to amuse him.
“She knows nothing of—”
A wave of his hand cut short my attempt to defend the Duchess of Suffolk. “I know full well you would not have told her. You never meant to tell me.”
“No, Your Grace. And my uncle would not have shared his secret had he not been in his cups.”
A derisive snort greeted that comment.
“I never guessed, although your father was always kind to me,” I said. “He treated me more like family than a servant, but I never thought to ask why.”
A sudden change in his expression silenced me. I bit my lip. Had I said too much?
Then he rose and with a cold stare and steely voice said, “You will never speak of this again. Swear it, Jane. On your life.”
“I swear.” With all the courage I could muster, I looked up at him, letting him see the sincerity in my eyes.
His gaze bored into mine, assessing, weighing, judging. The smile that blossomed on his face had nothing of humor in it. “You will do one more thing for me, Jane.”
“Anything, Your Grace.”
“You will say nothing at all of this night. Ever. If the rest of the court believes that you gave yourself to me, you will not disabuse them of that notion.”
THAT LAST PROMISE cost me dearly. Those among the queen’s ladies who had been friendly no longer spoke to me. Even Bessie Blount, when she returned to court just before Queen Margaret’s arrival, believed that I had replaced her in the king’s bed. The look of reproach in her eyes made me think of a puppy that had been kicked by a heartless master.
Harry Guildford’s scorn was the hardest to bear, but I kept my word to the king. How could I not? He held my very life in his hands. In the end, I was replaced with Bessie Blount in the masque. Before I had the chance to renew my acquaintance with Margaret Tudor, Queen Catherine dismissed me from her service. I packed up all my belongings—pitifully few for a life spent at court—and sought shelter at Suffolk Place. Even there, news of my folly preceded me.
“Charles informs me that you have bedded my brother,” Mary said when I was shown into her presence. I could not tell if she was horrified or amused. Her expression gave nothing away.
“I cannot speak of it.”
Her brows lifted.
“I cannot, Mary. I beg you, do not ask me about the king.”
“How disappointing.” Her smile was rueful. “I had hoped for details.”
The next few days passed pleasantly enough, often in the nursery of Mary’s young son, another Henry. I had not given up the hope that I might be allowed to leave England, but if I tried to cross the Narrow Seas without permission, I knew that the attempt would most assuredly lead to my arrest. Instead, I once again broached the subject of a place in the Suffolk household. My request was met by silence. I looked up from my embroidery to find that Mary was avoiding my gaze.
“Charles says we must retire to the country again after the entertainments to welcome Margaret are done. We spent more money than we should have to celebrate our son’s christening.”
I waited, but I could guess what was coming.
“I cannot take you with us, Jane. Nothing has changed in that regard. But I will write to the king on your behalf, reminding him of all your years of service to our family. He must settle an annuity on you. I shall tell him so.”
She was as good as her promise and within the week King Henry sent word that I was to go to Will Compton’s house in Thames Street at a certain day and time. Without much enthusiasm, I caught a wherry from the quay at Suffolk Place and bade the boatman take me across the river to Compton’s water gate. A servant let me in and conducted me to the same chamber where Bessie had first bedded the king. My spirits dropped even lower as I entered. I wondered if Will was about to ruin what little was left of our friendship with an offer to set me up as his mistress. I stopped short when I realized that the room’s only occupant was not Will Compton.
“Your Grace.” I made the deepest obeisance I could manage.
“Jane. Rise.”
King Henry was smiling. I did not trust that look. He gestured toward a stool while he settled into a chair. There were comfits set out on the table between us and he selected a sugared almond while I sat and arranged my skirts. When he offered the box to me, I shook my head.
“Will you take these, then?” He offered me two papers.
At first I did not understand the significance of either. Then I realized that one was a letter of credit, such as travelers use to convey money from one country to another. The amount was £100, a goodly sum. My heart began to beat a little faster. I’d heard that the king’s council had finally talked him out of his plan to invade France, that peace was again a possibility, but I had not dared let myself hope he would change his mind about letting me leave England.
I looked at the second document. “This is written in Latin. I cannot read it.”
“It is a ‘protection,’ issued for one year under the privy seal at Greenwich—a form of letter of passport designed to give the bearer free passage between London and Calais. I have reconsidered your offer, Jane. If you still wish to journey into France, you have leave to go. In return I expect regular intelligence about King François. Your friend the duc de Longueville can provide you with entry to the French court. You parted on good terms, did you not?”
I remembered Longueville’s promise to set me up as his mistress at Beaugency. “We did, Your Grace.”
“Then you should have no difficulty persuading him to help you.” His tone of voice and the wink that went with it told me plainly that he expected me to bribe the duke with my body.
Bitterness welled up inside me, but on the surface I was careful to display only what King Henry expected to see: gratitude and submission. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“If you allow the rumor that you were my mistress to spread, that may smooth your way to higher things.” There was a sly look in his eyes as he made the suggestion.
“Yes, Your Grace. No doubt it will.” The bitterness turned to simmering anger. Rumors of King François’ satyrlike appetites had reached the English court within a few months of King Louis’ death. “How am I to deliver the intelligence I gather for you?”
“It will be only natural that you speak, from time to time, with the English ambassador. In addition, you may write to your good friend the queen of France.” Seeing my momentary confusion, he chuckled. “My sister Mary, not Queen Claude. What would be more natural than for you to share your experiences with your former mistress? Compton will supply a code for you to use.”
Although I thought it doubtful the king of France would confide in me, even if I did gain access to his court, I told King Henry what he wanted to hear. Then I asked where King François was at present.
“Still in Lyons.”
I had no intention of going there, for it was a goodly distance from Amboise, but King Henry’s next words changed my mind.
“The duc de Longueville is also in Lyons,” he said, “along with a bastard brother.”
He claimed he did not know which one.
THREE WEEKS LATER I arrived in Lyons. I traveled there in the retinue of a Genoese merchant, Master di Grimaldo, who had been visiting a cousin in London—the elderly banker Francesca de Carceres had married. Now di Grimaldo had business with the king of France. I did not inquire into its nature. I was too happy to have found an escort for my journey.