“Until he was brutally slain by English troops at the Battle of Flodden,” the duke said. Irritated, he rose from the table and walked to the coffer where he kept quills, ink, and parchment.

I had yet to follow the suggestion that I ask Longueville about his own experiences in battle. I did not think it would improve his temper to remind him of the ignominious defeat the French troops had suffered at what the English called the Battle of the Spurs. That, Harry had told me, had been all they’d seen of the French cavalry as they galloped away across the field at Guingates in an attempt to escape the victorious troops led by King Henry and his allies.

The longer I remained Longueville’s mistress, the more I realized that he was no gallant knight and had never been. He might be kind to me, gentle with me, but he’d give me away in a heartbeat if he saw an advantage in it. If I did end up traveling with him to France, I would do well to remember that.

“Is Queen Margaret as unpredictable as her brother?” Longueville asked.

Mayhap I was concerned for her without reason, I thought. All I had to do to discourage the match was to tell the truth. “She is, and she has the Tudor temper, too. I remember once, when she was already styled queen of Scotland, although she had not yet gone north to consummate the marriage, she flew into a rage over a pair of sleeves.”

At his lifted eyebrow, I explained.

“All the Tudors love fine clothing. You have seen that for yourself. After the death of Arthur, Prince of Wales, the entire family wore black, but as that summer wore on, the princesses were allowed a bit of color in their wardrobe. Princess Margaret acquired two sets of sleeves, one of white sarcenet and another pair in orange sarcenet. The orange sleeves were her favorite item of dress, and when they were accidentally left behind when the court moved from Baynard’s Castle to Westminster, nothing would do but that Queen Elizabeth’s page of robes be sent back to fetch them. He was rewarded for doing so, but first he had to endure a tirade of abuse for forgetting them in the first place. A Tudor in a temper is a formidable sight, terrifying and ludicrous all at once.”

“Even the Lady Mary has this failing?”

I nodded, though it felt disloyal to make the admission. “Even she. The princess has been known to scream and throw things in a manner more suited to a two-year-old child than a woman in her eighteenth year.”

I hoped such tales might make the duke reconsider, but he seemed more set on his matchmaking than ever. I had, however, regained his goodwill. He asked for additional stories about Margaret’s early life and in return spoke more freely in front of me, outlining his plan to approach King Henry to ask for his help in marrying off his widowed sister.

When I left the duke’s lodgings, I went directly to the great hall. Word of Queen Anne’s death had already spread among the courtiers but had created only a minor stir. Had the king of France died, that would have caused consternation. Since Louis was still alive, life went on unchanged. The dancing and dicing and games of cards continued, unaffected by the news from France.

I found Will Compton without difficulty, and relayed my information in a hurried whisper. He scarce seemed to hear me. He kept glancing toward the doorway, as if he expected someone to make an entrance.

“Will? Is aught amiss?”

He shook his head, but I did not believe him. A sense of foreboding settled over me when I saw Dr. John Chambre arrive. Even if I had not recognized his hawk nose and his habitually grim expression, he would have been marked as one of the king’s physicians by his long, furred gown in royal livery colors.

He made his way directly to Will, but nodded to me in polite greeting. “Mistress Popyncourt. You look well.”

Impressed that he’d remembered who I was, I thanked him for the compliment. When he started to follow Will from the presence chamber, I was struck by a sudden thought. I caught at his trailing sleeve. “Sir, a moment? May I speak with you privily?”

Here was one more person who might know something about my lady mother.

“You must wait and talk to him later,” Will said, and hurried the doctor away.

I soon understood why they had been so distracted. The king had fallen ill again. For two weeks, as Dr. Chambre hovered and the queen set herself the task of nursing her husband back to health, the duc de Longueville could get nowhere near His Grace. His plan to negotiate for Queen Margaret’s hand on behalf of King Louis fell into abeyance.

I shared his frustration, but not for the same reason. Now that I had remembered Dr. Chambre, I was anxious to speak with the royal physician but he was much too busy with his patient to have time for me. It was nearly a week later, after the king was well on his way to recovery, that the respected physician remembered my request and found his way to my lodgings.

Although Nan was a slow-witted girl, just bright enough to carry out her duties as my maid, I sent her away as soon as the doctor appeared. I had learned to be careful what I said when others might overhear.

He frowned. “It is customary to keep another female about during an examination, but I suppose you wish this kept secret.” My blank expression had him narrowing his eyes. “You did wish to consult me on a private matter?”

Obviously he thought I was pregnant. Or worse, diseased. Heat crept up my neck and into my face. “It is not…I did not…I only wanted to ask you if you tended my mother during her last illness!”

“I have no notion who your mother was.”

“She was Mistress Popyncourt. Joan Popyncourt. She joined Queen Elizabeth’s household in June of the thirteenth year of the reign of King Henry the Seventh and traveled with the court into East Anglia on progress. I am told she died that September at Collyweston.”

“I was not yet at court then,” Dr. Chambre said.

My spirits sank.

“Collyweston, you say?” He rubbed his chin as he considered. “That was the home of the Countess of Richmond, King Henry the Seventh’s mother. The physician who attended your mother was most likely Philip Morgan. At least he was the doctor who looked after the countess during her final years.”

The Countess of Richmond had been a force to be reckoned with in my youth. She had written the rules and regulations by which the royal nursery functioned. By the time I arrived at Eltham, she’d only rarely visited, but I could remember how she’d swoop down on her grandchildren, a scrawny figure in unrelieved black. She had been very pious, always muttering prayers. And she had not liked me. Once I had overheard her telling Mother Guildford that I should be sent away to a nunnery.

“Do you know where I might find Doctor Morgan?” I asked.

“In his grave, most like. Or mayhap he returned to his native Wales.” Dr. Chambre chuckled. “Some would say those two fates are the same.”

“I have been told my mother was ill before she ever came to court.”

His interest sharpened. “What ailed her?”

“Mother Guildford told me it was a wasting sickness, mayhap consumption.” The disease was common enough. It had killed King Henry VII and some thought it had been the cause of Prince Arthur’s death, as well.

I thought I saw a spark of pity in the doctor’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to be certain.

“She was Sir Rowland Velville’s twin sister,” I added.

“Ah. I know Sir Rowland. But I fear I cannot help you, mistress. I was still a student when your mother died.”

Dr. Chambre had already reached the door when I thought of one last question. “If it was the Countess of Richmond’s physician who cared for my mother, would it have been the countess’s confessor who gave her last rites?”

He paused, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it must have been.”

“Do you remember who he was?”

A short bark of laughter answered me. “Oh, yes, Mistress Popyncourt. He went on to greater things. The countess’s confessor was John Fisher. He’s bishop of Rochester now.”

My hopes of being able to question the priest dashed—one did not gain audiences with bishops easily, even minor ones—I thanked the doctor for his time. When he had gone I sank down on my luxurious bed, disconsolate. Even if I did convince the bishop of Rochester to speak with me in private, he would not tell me anything. He was not permitted to speak of what he heard in the confessional.

With that realization, I began to despair of ever learning more about my mother’s time in England or her reason for bringing us here. Those few people who had come in close contact with her all seemed to be dead or in distant parts…or suffer from passing-poor memories.

To me she remained vivid. I could not understand why she had not made a deeper impression on all those who had met her. Even if she had been dying—a thing I still found difficult to accept—she should have been memorable. Especially if she’d been ill. If the other ladies had shunned her, fearing infection, surely they should recall doing so.

Unless she had deliberately effaced herself.

The air soughed out of my lungs. It appeared that there were only two people left to approach who might know something—my uncle and Lady Catherine Strangeways. To talk to either of them, I would have to arrange for an extended absence from court.

Although I was not sure why, I was reluctant to put my questions in writing. Even if both of them could read and did not need to share the contents with a secretary or a priest—something of which I was not certain even in my uncle’s case—it was far too easy for letters to fall into the wrong hands.

Counseling myself to be patient, I continued to spend my days with the Lady Mary and my nights with the duc de Longueville.

THE COURT HAD moved on to Greenwich Palace by the time the next emissary arrived from France. The duc de Longueville met with him and returned to his lodgings in an expansive mood. I had been sitting near the window with my embroidery while Guy idly played the lute. We both sprang to our feet when the duke came in.

“What news, my lord?” Guy asked. Even though the two men were brothers, Guy never used the duke’s first name. I rarely did myself, and Longueville seemed content to be deferred to.

“The most excellent kind. The new envoy is here to arrange my ransom. Talks have already begun with King Henry’s representatives.”

“Will matters be settled quickly, then?” I asked.

“That will depend upon our success at negotiating another matter.”

“A marriage,” I guessed.

“A marriage…between King Louis the Twelfth of France and the Lady Mary.”

I sat down hard on the window seat, momentarily robbed of speech.

Guy voiced what I was thinking: “I thought Queen Margaret—”

“King Louis has heard that Mary is the most beautiful princess in Christendom. He sees no reason to settle for second best.”

Heard from Longueville himself, I thought.

“Have you forgotten?” I asked. “The Lady Mary already has a husband. She was married by proxy years ago to Charles of Castile.”

He dismissed that ceremony with a careless wave of one hand. “They have not taken final vows, nor has their marriage been consummated.” The latter was what sealed the bargain. Until husband and wife slept together, they were wedded only on paper. With the cooperation of the church, such alliances—at least among princes—could easily be severed.

“What makes you think King Henry will go along with this plan?” I asked.

To my surprise, he told me.

More than an hour passed before I could leave the duke’s apartments without arousing suspicion. When I did escape, I headed straight for the king’s lodgings.

Hindered by long skirts, it took longer than I wished to race across one of Greenwich’s three courtyards and reenter the palace through a side door to the great hall. Still, the shortcut had saved me some time. I paused only long enough to brush snow from my face and headdress and catch my breath.

A body stitchet of boiled leather is not designed to permit rapid movement of any kind, and mine was tightly laced. As soon as I had recovered sufficiently, I sped up the stairs that led to the king’s apartments. I did not slow down as I passed through the great watching chamber and I ignored the guards standing at attention at regular intervals around the room. I all but ran through the curtained door that led into the king’s presence chamber.

Seeing neither the king nor Will Compton, I slowed my pace only a little and advanced on the door to the privy chamber. A halberd appeared in front of me just before I could open the door, barring my way.