The last part of the trek was through mountainous terrain that seemed most foreign to me. Master di Grimaldo held the opposite opinion. “This countryside reminds me of parts of my beautiful Italy,” he told me, “and surely Lyons is the most lovely of all French cities.”
It did boast fine stone houses, well-ordered streets, and bustling businesses. Built on a strip of land between two rivers, it was a natural center of commerce.
Master di Grimaldo had been more than kind to me on the journey. He had provided me with food, shelter, and lessons in the workings of the French court. The organization of the royal household was similar to what I was familiar with in England, but not exactly the same.
I did not plan to seek an audience with King François. In truth, I hoped to avoid him entirely. But to locate the duc de Longueville and, I hoped, Guy Dunois, I knew I would have to brave the court.
That prospect seemed daunting at first. The maison du roi included more than five hundred individuals and the queen’s household over two hundred. The king’s mother also had her own retinue, as did the one child Queen Claude had so far produced, a girl named Louise. The princess had been born at Amboise the previous August, only a few days after her father won the great battle at Marignano.
More unsettling than the sheer numbers was the presence of hundreds of men of a military bent. From the Garde Écossaise to the companies of archers, to the gentilhommes de l’hôtel, uniforms and armament were everywhere at the French court. So were the prévôt de l’hôtel and his staff. With his three lieutenants and thirty archers, the prévôt was the one responsible for investigating and punishing crimes committed within a five-mile radius of the king’s person. The gens d’armes who had searched for my mother and arrested my old governess had likely been members of this band. Until I had talked to Guy, I was wary of coming to the attention of the current prévôt.
I had convinced myself that Guy was still alive. In all the months since Ivo Jumelle had told me that one of the duke’s half brothers had been killed at Marignano, I had clung to this belief, but now that I had reached Lyons, doubts niggled at me. Had I come all this way for nothing? Would I end up obliged to spy for King Henry after all?
Access to the royal court proved surprisingly easy. It appeared that anyone who was decently dressed—and I wore my finest clothing for the occasion—was allowed in. When I accosted an archer, he directed me to the rooms the duc de Longueville used to conduct business connected to his post as governor of the province of Dauphiné.
The antechamber reminded me of Guy’s workplace in the Tower of London, even to the smell of the marjoram flowers and woodruff leaves in the rushes. Several gentlemen were assembled there, apparently awaiting the duke’s arrival. Only one displayed any interest in me, and then only after I told the duke’s secretary my name. Such a startled look crossed the fellow’s long, horselike face that I might have pursued the matter had the curtains behind the secretary not been pushed apart at just that moment.
Guy Dunois appeared in the opening. My awareness of everything and everyone else faded away. My world narrowed until it included only one other person. My eyes locked with Guy’s, and I saw in those blue-green depths a reflection of my own longing, my own dreams.
I do not remember leaving the antechamber, but by the time I found my voice, we were in the inner room with the curtains closed behind us.
“I feared you were dead,” I whispered as Guy drew me into his arms. “We heard the duke had lost one of his half brothers.”
“Jacques.”
Before I could tell him I was sorry for his loss, he was kissing me—deep, drugging kisses that left me in no doubt about how he felt. “I’d have come for you,” he whispered, holding me closer. “I’d have found a way to return to England. I’ve been here at court seeking a place in the next embassy.”
“No need now.” I touched my fingertips to his lips, cutting off any further explanations. “I came to you.”
He lowered his head, as if to kiss me again, then stopped. “How? Why?” His voice was hoarse, choked with emotion, but before I could reply, it changed. His next words were accusing: “I heard you ask for the duke.”
“How else was I to find you?” I broke free and backed away, but I knew he had no reason to believe me. We had been separated a long time. He’d had no communication from me. I’d had no way to acknowledge those two brief messages he had sent to me.
Letters singularly lacking in any hint of deeper feelings for me, I reminded myself. I should be the suspicious one. In all the time we had been apart, anything could have happened. He might even have acquired a wife.
I took a deep breath and looked away from him. The chamber was sparsely furnished—a bench, a table, a chair. Papers sat in neat stacks on the tabletop, with quills and ink near at hand for the secretary. I thought of the petitioners waiting just beyond the curtain. Clearly the duke was expected.
“I do not want to see Longueville,” I said.
“You planned to come to him. He promised to establish you at Beaugency.”
“You know the only reason I wanted to visit France back then. I wanted to learn the truth about my mother.”
“Then?” he echoed. “And now?”
“I came to find you.”
A slow, satisfied smile overspread his features. It lasted but a moment before consternation replaced it. “You cannot stay here, not if you truly wish to avoid Longueville.”
“I do.”
“Then come with me.”
I went willingly and a short time later found myself in a tiny cubicle of a room that was clearly Guy’s bedchamber. The only place to sit was on the camp bed.
“I do not know where to begin,” I said. “I have so many questions.”
“I can guess some of them.” Guy produced a bottle of wine and two cups from a chest and poured generous portions, then sat beside me. “You want to know what happened when Longueville and I returned home, and why you were not permitted to accompany the new bride to France.”
“I know why. Or rather, I think I do. I believe King Louis confused me with my mother. She and I shared the same name.”
“Jeanne,” Guy murmured. I liked the way it sounded when he said it. “It is possible. Longueville asked for an explanation, but the king never gave him a satisfactory answer, only some nonsense about his fondness for the Duchess of Longueville. King Louis said it was not meet for the duke to set his English mistress up at court when his wife was already there.”
“Longueville never intended to do so. He meant to establish me at Beaugency.”
Guy shrugged. “And I do not believe that King Louis was particularly concerned about Longueville’s wife or how she would feel about your presence in France. But it is pointless to argue with a king.”
In other words, Longueville had not cared enough to risk the king’s displeasure. I was not surprised. I doubted that the duke had ever thought of me as more than a convenience.
“Have you learned any more about why my mother left France?” I asked abruptly. “There must have been some reason King Louis did not want her to return.”
“Nothing. It was a long time ago. Even though King François has kept many of King Louis’ retainers, few of them were also at court so long ago as King Charles’s reign. I went to Amboise, but no one there could tell me anything about Sylvie Andrée.” At my blank look, he added, “She was the governess the gens d’armes took away.
“Perhaps the prévôt—”
“He is new. He knows nothing of Sylvie Andrée or Jeanne Popyncourt.”
I sighed.
“Will you return to England once you are convinced there is nothing more for you to discover here?”