A clerk stood to one side of the bedchamber, writing down the description and value of each offering. All the gifts would afterward be displayed in the presence chamber—jewelry and money, clothing, and gold and silver plate. And, after each gift had been presented with due ceremony, the king’s servants handed out gifts of plate in return. Cups and bowls chased with the royal cipher were each weighed according to rank. Each person at court, even the most menial kitchen wench, received something.

When the usher of the chamber announced the Lady Mary’s gift, I entered the bedchamber and walked toward the enormous royal bed. I felt unaccountably nervous, in part because there was a strange look on the king’s face as he watched me approach. When I stood directly in front of him, His Grace waved the clerk out of earshot.

“Come closer, Jane.”

Obeying, I made a deep obeisance and held out a jeweled and enameled pin for the king’s hat, together with a matching ring.

King Henry barely glanced at them. His voice low and intense, he demanded to know why I had learned nothing of importance as yet from the duc de Longueville.

A chill went through me at his tone. When I dared peek at his face through my lashes, I wished I had not. His small eyes had narrowed to slits. There was no affection, no benevolence in that expression. He was angry…at me.

“Sire, I cannot conjure intelligence out of nothing. The duke does not speak to me of such things. I doubt he knows what King Louis intends. He tells me he has never spent much time at the French court.”

The king’s growl cut me off. My head bowed, I held my silence, hoping this storm would pass. After a moment, King Henry gave a gusty sigh. “The war with France continues, Jane. Persuade Longueville to talk to you of the battle in which he was captured. Mayhap that will loosen his tongue about other matters.”

“There may be another way,” I said hesitantly, “but I am loath to try without Your Grace’s permission.”

“Explain.” I could hear the eagerness in his voice as he leaned closer.

We were surrounded by his attendants. I could only hope no one was close enough to catch my whispered words. “If I were to express a desire to return with him to France when he is ransomed, he might believe it safe to confide in me.”

Scarcely daring to breathe, I waited for a reaction. I had lied to the king before, but never to this degree. What if he should guess my real reason for making such a bold suggestion? I had restrained myself for weeks…months, asking no more questions about my mother, but that did not mean I had given up my quest to learn all I could about her. I wanted to go to France with the duke and stay there long enough to discover the truth about Maman’s sudden decision to flee with me to England.

Pondering my suggestion, the king hesitated so long that I wondered if he was building up steam to boil over. I did not dare look at him. The volatile temper of the Tudors was legendary.

“It is a good plan, Jane.”

If I had not been holding myself so stiffly, I would have sagged with relief. “I have leave to deceive him, then? Your Grace will not believe the tale if there are rumors of my disloyalty?”

“Do and say whatever you must. Your sovereign can tell truth from lies.”

Dipping my head again, I prayed he could not, but I left the royal bedchamber with a lighter heart.

AT YULETIDE MORE than any other time of year, the households of the king, the queen, and the princess mingled at court. The twelve days of Christmas began at sundown on the twenty-fourth day of December and continued until the beginning of Epiphany on the sixth of January. The period from sundown on the fifth through the day of the sixth was Twelfth Night and celebrated with a banquet and mumming.

We were all in our finest apparel, even the liveried servants, who had been given new garments for the new year. The queen’s pages wore gold brocade and crimson satin in checkers while her adult male attendants were dressed in gray broadcloth and gray, white, and scarlet kersey. The king’s yeomen of the guard had new scarlet livery, replacing the green and white coats they had worn in the old king’s reign.

The gentlewomen and ladies of the court vied with each other to dress in their finest. That they were exempt from the sumptuary laws meant their excesses knew no bounds save the good sense not to outshine the king and queen. In honor of Twelfth Night, the duc de Longueville wore a short doublet of blue and crimson velvet slashed with cloth-of-gold.

I sighed as I looked around the great hall.

“What is it, my pet?” Longueville asked.

“Alongside all this splendor, I look very plain indeed.” I wore the best that I had—dark green velvet, the sleeves puffed and slashed to show yellow silk beneath. In any other company, I would have looked very grand.

His eyes sparkled as he flashed me a smile. “Perhaps this will help.”

I felt him slide something onto my finger and when I looked down, I was wearing a ruby ring. I wondered how he had obtained it, knowing as I did the state of his finances, but I did not ask. I held my hand out, admiring the way the stone reflected the light from the candles.

“It is beautiful, Louis. You are most generous.” I was not too proud to accept the expensive gift. Indeed, if I did not live up to the king’s expectations and was not allowed to return to France with my lover, the sale of such a bauble might be all I had to provide for myself.

He lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I would shower you with such jewels if I could.”

The ring was soon remarked upon…in whispers. Such an expensive gift proclaimed louder than words that the duke had staked his claim on me. Anyone who had not previously suspected that I was his mistress would know it now.

As the evening wore on, one after another the queen’s ladies snubbed me. Even the princess’s gentlewomen pointedly avoided my company. Only young Bessie Blount, naturally friendly as a puppy, braved the censure of the others to exchange greetings with me.

If I had not had the Lady Mary’s friendship and the king’s support, I might well have kept to my lodgings. As it was, I knew I must be brazen and pretend nothing had changed. I lifted my chin, pasted a smile on my face, and attempted to enjoy the festivities. I was saddened, but not surprised, when Harry Guildford also stayed well away from me.

Everyone rose as the lord steward carried a cup full of spiced ale into the torchlit presence chamber. He called out the traditional greeting: “Wassail, wassail, wassail!” and then presented the cup to the king. King Henry sipped and handed the cup to the queen, who looked fine indeed, wearing her long hair loose over her shoulders, as only queens and unmarried girls are permitted to do. The king’s blue-gray eyes sparkled as he watched her pass the wassail cup to his sister. After that, all the courtiers in attendance took their turns while the Children of the Chapel sang.

As soon as the wassail cup had made its rounds, confections and spices of all sorts were served, first to the king and queen and then to the rest of the court. In the past there had been as many as a hundred dishes at a Twelfth Night banquet. Last to be served was always the cake made of flour, honey, spices, and dried fruit. By that time, I no longer had any appetite. I toyed with the slice in front of me, mangling the pastry.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Guy gestured toward the cake. Once again we had been seated together, as befit our station. To sit next to Longueville, given his rank, would have been a breach of protocol.

I looked down and there, lying in the ruins of the cake, was a bean. The bean. I stared at it in horror. Whoever found this prize became King or Queen of the Bean for the rest of the evening and the last thing I desired was more notoriety.

Nick Carew, seated on my other side, had not touched his cake. He was preoccupied with sending longing glances at Elizabeth, Meg Guildford’s beautiful, chestnut-haired sister. I plucked the bean from my crumbs and shoved it into the center of his portion of cake. Moments later, Nick discovered the prize. He made a most excellent King of the Bean. His first act was to call for the evening’s entertainment to begin.

There were no great set pieces required for this revel, although Master Gibson had made the costumes and sent them to Richmond from London by barge. He’d dressed six gentlemen in white jackets and black gowns and minstrels and a fool in yellow sarcenet painted with hearts and wings of silver. But the centerpiece of the spectacle consisted of two women clad in silver—Meg and her sister—who represented the goddesses Venus and Beauty.

There was less story than usual to this piece, but the servants and ordinary folk seated on benches around the outside of the chamber were enthralled when the gentlemen performed a Morris dance. There followed an interlude performed by the Children of the Chapel and then Venus and Beauty sang to the accompaniment of a lute. By the last verse, everyone was familiar enough with the chorus to join in, even Guy, who did not understand a word of it.

“‘Bow you down,’” we sang, “‘and do your duty, to Venus and the goddess Beauty. We triumph high over all. Kings attend when we do call.’”

Bowing down to kings, I thought, was a much wiser course for the rest of us.

A second interlude was performed by the King’s Players, but it was overlong. There were restless stirrings in the crowd and the king left before the end of it. The queen departed soon after.

Nick Carew, as King of the Bean, and Master Wynnsbury, who was Lord of Misrule for this one last night, called for dancing. I looked wistfully back over my shoulder as I slipped out of the hall, but I had no real desire to execute intricate steps while hostile glares bored into my back.

A WEEK LATER, a somber-faced Guy interrupted my intimate supper with the duc de Longueville. “A special messenger has just arrived from the French court.” He handed the duke a sealed letter.

Longueville broke the seal and read. For just a moment, he had the self-satisfied look of a cat with a mouse, but he hastily rearranged his features into solemn lines before he told us what the letter contained. “Anne of Brittany, queen of France, is dead.”

An overwhelming sadness filled me. Queen Anne had been much admired, even loved, by my mother. I felt her loss on a deep and personal level.

“This provides a great opportunity.” Longueville assessed me with a long, hard look. “The English king has two sisters, does he not?”

“You know he does.”

“The younger is very dear to him, the flower of his court, and promised to Charles of Castile. But the elder, Margaret, is newly the widow of the king of Scotland. What could be more providential than that? Tell me all you know about her, Jane.”

“She is regent of Scotland. Her young son is the king.”

“Is she comely?”

“She was pretty as a girl, but I have not seen her for six years.” A woman quickly lost her looks when she began bearing children.

“Was she as beautiful as her younger sister?”

“She had…a different sort of beauty.” Margaret had been stocky as a girl. I suspected she’d grown heavier with age. Mary was a sylph and likely always would be. “Your Grace, you cannot think to marry Queen Margaret to the king of France.”

“Why not? Alliances are formed by royal marriages, are they not? This one could bring peace for generations to come.”

“But she has a duty to Scotland. She is regent.”

He dismissed those responsibilities with a careless wave of the hand. “Some suitable Scots nobleman will be found to fill the post.”

“Her son cannot leave Scotland. Would you deprive him of his mother?” Such separations were common, but that did not make them any less painful for those involved.

“She will have other children. King Louis’ children.”

“I should think,” I said stiffly, “that you might give them each time to mourn before you force them into another marriage.”

Incredulous, Longueville laughed at the very idea. “You are softhearted, sweeting. Let them commiserate with each other if they must grieve, but I would be surprised if that were necessary. Their earlier marriages were made for political reasons, and so will this one be.” His words held no hint of sympathy for his bereaved monarch, his own distant cousin, let alone for my erstwhile playfellow Margaret Tudor.

“King James of Scotland was young and handsome, or so I have heard.” I had also heard reports that he and Margaret had never taken to each other, that she’d been too strong willed to suit him, but saw no need to tell Longueville that.