Inspiration obliged me. I managed a credible sniffle, then a sob.

The king gaped at me. “Are you crying? Stop it at once.”

Pretending to struggle against my emotions, I spoke in a choked voice. “I cannot help myself, Your Grace. I have served you loyally and well. I sent word to you of everything the duke said. But I…care for him. We were to be together in France. He would have treated me with honor.”

Plainly discomfited by the notion, King Henry gave my shoulder a few awkward pats.

“I do not mean to trouble you with this, Your Majesty. You have so many more important things to do. Perhaps I should go to my uncle, my only living relative. Surely he will take me in.”

“To Velville? In Wales?”

“We…we are not close. He has never shown any particular affection toward me. But he is all the kin I have.” I let my voice trail off and tried to look pathetic.

“That will not do.” The king’s smile was magnanimous. “You must stay here. Forthwith, you will enter the queen’s service.”

THE COURT WAS at Eltham Palace throughout October. Catherine of Aragon believed in keeping her attendants busy and I was glad of it. If she resented having me thrust upon her, she did not show it. That made adjusting to my changed circumstances easier, as did Bessie Blount’s friendship. I invited her to share the double lodgings the king had generously allowed me to keep.

In the middle of the month, King Henry received a letter from his sister. She complained bitterly about her new husband. King Louis had dismissed all of her English ladies and menservants except for a few of the youngest maids of honor. In particular Mary lamented the loss of Mother Guildford.

What the king replied to this I do not know. I was not in his confidence. I took heart, however, from the fact that a number of English gentlemen would soon be in a position to see for themselves that their princess was well treated. A great tournament was to be held in Paris to celebrate Queen Mary’s coronation. The Dauphin had issued a challenge to English knights to come and fight. Harry Guildford had already left, leading a detachment of yeomen of the guard. So had Charles Brandon. Of the king’s closest friends, only Will Compton remained in England.

Will had wanted to go. He had been prevented by the sudden onset of pains in his legs, a condition that manifested itself just before the knights were to leave from Dover. He had been unable to walk for a week.

“Some say Compton was bewitched,” Bessie confided in a whisper as we sat side by side in the queen’s presence chamber to work on yet another altar cloth.

“What nonsense,” I replied.

She cast a wary eye on the other ladies in the circle, then lowered her voice even more. “Elizabeth Bryan told me that her sister, Meg Guildford, heard a rumor that the Duke of Suffolk used sorcery to prevent Compton from traveling to France. They are great rivals, as you well know, and equally impressive in a tournament.”

“What nonsense,” I said again. “And how foolish of someone to spread such a story at court.” The talk might cause trouble for Charles Brandon, but as Duke of Suffolk he was a very powerful man. Accusations against him would likely cause even greater difficulty for the person who invented the tale, if he—or she—were ever identified.

My next stitch went askew. My mother must once have been in a similar situation. The accusation that she’d poisoned King Charles might have been difficult to prove, but it would have been even more difficult to refute, especially for someone who possessed neither title nor wealth as protection.

ON THE LAST day of October, I returned to my lodgings a little earlier than usual. I had been excused from my duties with the queen in order that I might pack for the next day’s move to Greenwich Palace. We were scheduled to remain there for the remainder of the year. When I entered the outer chamber, I made no particular effort to be silent, but my footfalls made no sound on the rushes. The two people in the inner room remained unaware of my presence. I heard Bessie’s soft laugh and a murmured response that was clearly masculine.

I started to back out as quietly as I had come in, but froze when Bessie’s guest spoke a bit more loudly and I recognized his voice. It was the king. I knew I should leave, and quickly, but surprise held me immobile.

“Say you will come to me when I send for you, sweet Bessie. Mere kisses are not enough for me any longer. I must have all of you.”

Her reply was too faint for me to make out, but I doubted she was refusing him. I heard a rustle of fabric, then silence.

“Oh, Your Grace,” Bessie cried. “You must not. Not here. Jane could come in at any moment!”

“Jane will not betray us, my little love.”

No, Jane would not, I thought bitterly. Not when Bessie was the only one who had never reviled me for giving myself to a foreign duke. And not when King Henry provided everything I had.

Was this why he had allowed me to stay at court? Did King Henry think Bessie Blount would benefit from having someone older and wiser to guide her in the art of being a great man’s mistress?

Slowly, I backed out of our lodgings and settled myself on a nearby window seat to wait for the king to leave. He did so a few minutes later.

“Bessie?” I called, entering our rooms once again.

“Here.”

I found her on the bed, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiler.

“The king wants you,” I said.

Her pink cheeks flamed rose red. “You saw him leave.”

“I heard you talking just before that.” I climbed up onto the high bed and sat beside her, tucking my legs beneath me.

“What am I to do, Jane? He says he will send Sir William Compton to fetch me. That all I have to do is follow where Compton leads. But, Jane—I do not know how to…what to…I am a virgin!” The last word emerged on a wail of distress.

“Do you wish to lie with the king?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” She sat up, a dreamy look in her eyes and a shy smile tilting up the corners of her rosebud mouth.

I surveyed her with a critical eye, then leaned closer and sniffed. Bessie used a light marjoram scent, but beneath it I caught a whiff of sweat. “The king was raised with very high standards of cleanliness. There is a bathtub here at Eltham. Avail yourself of it before we leave for Greenwich. And find a soap made from olive oil, not one of the ones the laundresses use.”

Her eyes widened. “But…but is that not unhealthy? To immerse one’s self in water?”

“It has not hurt the king, nor the princess…the queen of France. Nor has careful attention to their teeth.” My former mistress had the most even teeth of anyone I knew and took particular pride in the fact that they were the color of ivory. She owned no fewer than three sets of tooth cloths and picks. “Further, you must put on your newest clothing after you bathe, and beneath all your other garments, wear a little piece of fur next to your skin.”

“Why?”

“To attract any vermin to that one spot.” I touched the side of my bodice. “I have one here. It is a practice the king follows, as well.” All of us who were educated at Eltham did the same.

Impulsively, Bessie embraced me. “I would be lost without you, Jane. How am I ever to thank you?”

“Be happy,” I said before I thought.

When she beamed at me, I bit back all the warnings crowding into my brain. She was willing, I reminded myself. And even if she had not been so enthusiastic about going to the king’s bed, what choice did she have?

What choice did any of us have about anything?

IN DEFERENCE TO the queen’s sensibilities, the king chose to use Will Compton’s house in Thames Street for his first assignation with Bessie Blount. This took place in early November, shortly after the move from Eltham to Greenwich.

In spite of dismal weather, Bessie and I left the palace on the pretext of a trip to London to visit the shops. Our presence was not required by the queen and in theory we were free to go where we wished, but it seemed a poor ruse to me. If not for my growing fondness for Bessie, I most assuredly would not have ventured out on such a day.

After a cold, damp five-mile trip by wherry, we were hustled up the river stairs, through a back door, and along a passage to a bedchamber. A fire blazed in the hearth, giving off welcome warmth. A dozen quarriers had been lit—square blocks of beeswax with a wick, similar to those that illuminated King Henry’s chambers at court. A luxurious, fur-trimmed robe for Bessie to change into had been left on the bed.

Relegated to the role of tiring maid, I helped her out of her damp cloak and the elaborate court dress beneath, removed her headdress, and brought her water for a last wash before she donned the sumptuous robe. I brushed her long, golden hair till it shone, and then produced a mixture of white wine and vinegar boiled with honey with which she could freshen her breath.

When all was ready, we had naught to do but wait for the king to arrive. Bessie kept a tight hold on my arm, her hand icy with last-minute nerves. I had told her all I could to help her through the afternoon. The rest was up to King Henry. As soon as His Grace arrived, I left them alone together, following the sound of voices to Will’s hall.

“Come, Jane, join us in a game of chance.” Will had already suborned the two yeomen of the guard who had accompanied the king into playing with him. They sat on stools around a small gaming table, tankards of ale at their elbows and coins at the ready to wager.

“Without the knight marshall of the household to oversee matters?” I asked in mock horror. “I am not sure I can trust you not to cheat.”

Will took no offense, only grinned at me and used one foot to push the remaining stool in my direction. “We need no official to bring us cards or act as bookmaker.”

“Perhaps I prefer dice.” The queen, for all that she was very pious, gambled with as much fervor as everyone else at court. I meandered closer. “The knight marshal’s dice are brought to the table in a silver bowl. Did you neglect to furnish yourself with one?”

Will shuffled cards, his pride pricked by that sally. He lived well for a simple country knight, and if the rumors I had heard were true, he was building a veritable palace for himself in the Cotswolds. After Charles Brandon, King Henry favored Will Compton above all men and had given him many gifts to prove it.

“You may choose the game, Jane. What will it be? Mumchance? Gleek? Click-Clack? Imperial? Primero?”

I pretended to give the matter deep thought, but I’d been lucky of late at primero and hoped to be so again. Compton dealt three cards to each player. I looked at my hand and calculated quickly. In primero, each card had three times its usual value. Hiding my smile, I settled in to play. An hour later I had won all the two yeomen of the guard had to wager and was in a cheerful frame of mind.

“A pity you cannot afford to play for higher stakes,” Will commented as I raked in my winnings. “You will never grow rich wagering pennies.”

“Nor will I be reduced to selling my clothing.”

The two yeomen of the guard laughed and wandered off, no doubt to rid themselves of all the ale they had consumed. Left alone with Will, I felt a sudden awkwardness descend. I could not help but wonder how long the king usually spent disporting himself with a mistress, but that was not the kind of question I could ask, not even of an old friend.

I sent a sidelong glance his way and discovered that he was staring at me intently. I quickly looked away, a frown on my face. I picked up the cards and idly began to shuffle them.

“The king hoped at least one of his own people would remain in France,” Will said.

I stifled a laugh. “I do not know why he expected me to continue to spy for him. Or how. I would have been hard pressed to send intelligence back to England.”

“Had you other plans?” Will’s voice was so smooth and uncritical that I almost confided in him.

I caught myself in time, lest a desire to do other than King Henry’s bidding be misconstrued as treason. “If I had not been refused entry in the first place, I would doubtless have been sent home with the rest of the French queen’s English household.” In spite of Mary’s passionate and tearful protests, not even Mother Guildford had been allowed to remain at the French court.

“You were fond of Longueville.” It was not a question.

“I was. So was the king,” I added, in case this, too, should be misunderstood.

“And when you came to England, years ago, it was from France.”

“I was born in Brittany.” I grew tired of reminding people of that but they never seemed to remember. “My mother was one of Duchess Anne’s ladies.” I looked up at last, into sympathetic, even pitying hazel eyes.