I remembered then that the keeper King Henry had assigned to care for the savages from the New World had dressed the remaining two in gentlemen’s attire and attempted to teach them English. Instead of learning the language, they had stopped speaking entirely. Everyone assumed their silence was because they were little better than dumb animals, incapable of being educated. But unless I was much mistaken, I had just seen the gleam of intelligence, as well as a hint of amusement, in the eyes that had been watching me.

“After so many years at court, both men must understand English tolerably well,” I mused aloud. “No doubt they can speak it, too…if they want to.”

“Hard to learn a foreign tongue,” Goose said.

“Not so very difficult.” A laugh caught in my throat. Like the dwarf and the giantess and the rest of the king’s curiosities, those savages had been taken from their homeland, brought to a foreign country where they did not understand the language, and kept at court to serve at the whim and pleasure of the royal family. For the first time I realized that the same could be said of me.

Pondering this revelation, I slowly made my way back to my stool and resumed my seat. The king had just announced that his daughter would perform on the lute. I welcomed the distraction.

The tune she played was familiar to everyone at the English court. It had been written to celebrate Henry Tudor’s marriage to Elizabeth of York and the end of civil war. The lyrics asked what flower was most fragrant and colorful and followed that question with a host of possibilities, each with their attributes—marjoram, lavender, columbine, primrose, violet, daisy, gillyflower, rosemary, chamomile, borage, and savory. It the end, the rose was declared to be above all other herbs and flowers, the “fair fresh flower full of beauty,” whatever its color. The song concluded with the words “I love the rose, both red and white.”

As the courtiers applauded both the sentiment and the princess’s performance, Princess Mary handed her lute to me and signaled for a manservant to bring in a rectangular box with a keyboard and thirty-two strings.

“Do you know why that instrument is called a virginal?” King Henry asked his guest. “It is because, like a virgin, it soothes with a sweet and gentle voice.”

King Philip smiled appreciatively. Prince Henry looked bored. He grew restless whenever he was not the center of attention and fidgeted throughout his sister’s rendition of “The Maiden’s Song.” As soon as she lifted her hands from the keyboard, he leapt from the dais and called for the musicians to play a canary—a pavane designed to demonstrate a dancer’s skill. Then he turned to me.

“Come, Jane. Let us show them how it is done.”

He did not give me time to think, but caught my hand and pulled me to my feet. As the music began, he danced me to the far end of the hall, then withdrew to the point he’d started from, so that we were left facing each other from opposite ends of the room.

Panic swamped me. I swallowed hard. What should I do next? I’d memorized dozens of complicated floor patterns, from pavanes to passamezzos to salte vellos, but in that moment I could not remember any of them.

In the canary, first the gentleman and then the lady perform solo variations on the steps, dancing toward each other and then retreating. I had a choice between using steps I’d been taught by our dancing master or inventing new ones. Most people favored the latter course, priding themselves on the ingeniousness of what they created. Watching Prince Henry caper, clearly showing off, I realized that relying on learned steps was better. The simpler I kept my dance, the more my partner’s skill would shine.

The Prince of Wales was as enthusiastic a dancer as he was an archer, a wrestler, and a tennis player. He excelled at all sports. In dancing, he had been known to throw off his gown and perform in doublet and hose, the better to execute high leaps. He did not go that far on this occasion, but his energetic capering was both skilled and athletic.

Everyone applauded when the performance drew to a close. Afterward, I was in great demand as a partner and the prince asked his sister-in-law to dance. He had been showing off for Catherine, I thought. It was an open secret among those of us who had been raised with the royal children that he was enamored of his late brother’s widow.

They made an attractive couple. Catherine was some six years older than Henry, but she was so tiny that she looked younger. His attitude toward her was both loving and protective.

Later, after the two kings withdrew, taking the prince with them, the dancing continued. By the time another hour passed, I was on the brink of exhaustion. I retreated to a secluded corner to rest, and it was there that Charles Brandon found me.

“Mistress Popyncourt,” he said.

“Master Brandon.” I expected him to ask me to dance. Instead he suggested that we go out for a breath of fresh air and to talk awhile.

When a servant had fetched my cloak, Charles wrapped it closely around me, tying the laces with his own hands. Then he took my arm and guided me along one passage and through another with the sureness of one who knew Windsor Castle well. We emerged in one of the smaller courtyards.

I shivered. It was much colder out of doors than it had been inside. Charles chuckled and slipped an arm around my waist to guide me over an icy patch.

“Prince Arthur once remarked that it was a great pity there were no galleries or gardens to walk in at Windsor,” he said. “I fear there has been little improvement in that regard since his death.”

Each step we took on the frozen cobblestones produced a crunching sound as a thin layer of ice cracked under our weight. A pale sun still lit the sky, but its beams held no warmth. I was powerfully tempted to burrow against Charles’s side to absorb his heat.

“Did you go into Wales with Prince Arthur after his marriage to Princess Catherine?”

He shook his head. “My uncle, Sir Thomas Brandon, believed I would do better to stay at court. He is the king’s master of horse, you know. He trained me to participate in tournaments. My very first performance in the lists brought me to the attention of the Earl of Essex and secured me a post in his household.”

That joust had also brought him to the attention of every lady at court. “I remember,” I admitted.

“You noticed me?”

“How could I not?” I teased him. “It was my uncle, Sir Rowland Velville, that you unhorsed so spectacularly.”

“Is that how you came to be in Princess Mary’s household?” he asked. “Did your uncle sponsor you at court?”

I nodded.

“Sir Rowland came to England with King Henry, I believe, although he was only a boy at the time.”

“You are surely too young to remember that!” He was no more than twenty-one. That was one reason his performance in the tournament had been so startling. Boys did not even begin their training in the lists until they reached their sixteenth year.

“Both my father and uncle were in exile with the king,” he said. “My father died in the Battle of Bosworth, where King Henry won his throne.”

“I am sorry.”

“I do not remember him. I was a babe in arms when he died.”

“I lost my father when I was young, too, and my mother, as well.”

We had circled halfway around the small courtyard and come to another door. Charles led me inside and along a corridor, and when we came to the end, he ushered me into a chamber tucked in beneath a stair.

“Whose lodgings are these?” I asked as he lit a candle. My nose twitched at the musty odor that clung to the bedding. There was no window to let in fresh air.

“The room is assigned to a friend of mine, but he is not at court at present. He will not mind if we borrow his accommodations.” He helped me out of my cloak, and before I could think better of it, caught me by the waist and lifted me onto the bed. A moment later he was sitting beside me and leaning in for a kiss.

I put a hand out to stop him. His chest felt like iron beneath my palm. “You invited me to walk and talk, Master Brandon.”

“So I did. But is that what you really want, Jane? Just to talk?” He ran one hand along the curve of my cheek. His touch made me shiver.

“It would be prudent to do no more than that.” Greatly daring, I added, “Charles.” I placed my hand over his and moved it from my face to the coverlet between us.

This seemed to amuse him. “Well, then, Jane, what shall we talk about?”

“You could tell me your intentions, for if you mean to court me, Charles, you should know I have no dowry.”

“But you are much beloved by the king. I know that to be true.”

I frowned. First Francesca and now Charles seemed to have the mistaken notion that I could somehow influence the king. “I serve his daughter.”

He slid an arm around my shoulders. The embroidery on his sleeve scratched the underside of my chin. “Mayhap you have more value than you know.”

Uncertain how to respond to this statement, my lips parted slightly in preparation for speech. Before I could form words, he took advantage of my hesitation to steal a kiss. This one was not as sloppy as the ones in the passageway at Greenwich. I liked it better. I would have kissed him back had someone not chosen that moment to rattle the latch on the door.

We sprang apart. Charles cursed.

“Jane?” Harry Guildford called, his voice muffled by the thickness of the oak door. “I saw you go in there. My mother is looking for you. If you have any sense you will take yourself back to your own lodgings before she finds you.”

CANDLEMAS, THE SECOND day of February and the traditional beginning of spring, dawned to fresh snow on the ground and an icy wind whipping up the newly fallen flakes. After freezing them into stinging pellets, it flung them into the face of anyone foolish enough to venture outside.

The interior of Windsor Castle was little better. Cold drafts crept right through the walls to chill every chamber. The maidservant I shared with two more of the Lady Mary’s gentlewomen went out early to fetch glowing coals for the brazier and a bowl of washing water free of ice. A quick splash was sufficient for my ablutions.

With King Philip and all his retinue in residence, the castle was crowded. The most favored courtiers, together with their servants, occupied double lodgings—two rooms, each with a fireplace and a stool chamber. Those less important resided in single lodgings—one room with a fireplace—and were obliged to use the public latrines. Others shared cramped quarters and were fortunate if they had a brazier and a bed instead of pallets on the floor.

I wondered if the little, windowless room Charles Brandon had taken me to had been his own poor lodging. That would explain how Harry had known to look for me there. I did not believe for a moment that he’d just happened to see us as we entered the chamber.

My two bedfellows and I had a slit for a window but scarcely space enough to house the bed and the truckle for the maid to sleep on and our traveling chests. I lost no time dressing in my warmest clothing. As I adjusted my headdress, I wished I had some excuse not to go to the Candlemas ceremony, followed by Mass in St. George’s Chapel. The hall and chapel would be even colder than this bedchamber and I had seen the ritual designed to drive out evil spirits many times before. The only difference this year was that two kings instead of one would carry lit tapers, hallowed by the archbishop of Canterbury, in procession around the great hall.

Just as we were leaving, one of my garters came loose. “I will follow directly,” I promised, and stopped to retie the ribbon holding up my stocking.

Left alone, I found myself gazing with real longing at the bed. A lump marked the location of the spaniel one of my bedfellows kept as a pet. Braveheart, she called him. I usually ignored the annoying little creature, but I envied him the warmth of those blankets and fur coverlets.

The Lady Mary would not miss me, I thought. She had a bevy of young women surrounding her. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Mother Guildford. Nothing escaped her notice, and of late she had paid particular attention to my comings and goings. Resigned, I left the chamber and slowly made my way along the deserted passageway.

I had not gone far when I saw a gloved hand emerge from behind a tapestry. When I stopped and stared, it beckoned to me. The thought crossed my mind that the hand might belong to Charles Brandon. Was he waiting there, in an alcove just large enough to hide two people from passersby?