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?”

I set my cup on the floor amid the woodruff-scented rushes and sent a slow smile his way. “That was not my only reason for the journey. I also wanted to know if you…if we—”

He cut short my stumbling effort to ask him if he loved me by pulling me into his arms and kissing me again. His cup fell to the floor, spilling its contents, but neither of us noticed.

“There is so much I have to tell you,” I gasped when he allowed me to come up for air.

“Later.”

We did not speak again for a long time.

Unlike his half brother, Guy was a considerate lover. He made sure of my pleasure before he took his own. And when we were spent and lying naked together in his narrow bed, I felt no shame, no confusion, only wonderment.

“It would be best if no one at court knew you were here,” he said when we finally rose and began to dress. Once again he assumed the role of my tiring maid.

“Do you plan to keep me hidden?”

He did not smile at my teasing. I felt a flash of alarm when I saw a look of concern cloud the clear blue-green of his eyes.

“I will not go back to the duke. You need have no fear of that!”

“It is not the duke alone who would threaten our happiness. This court is a dangerous place for any woman. Have you somewhere to stay in Lyons until I can arrange to leave Longueville’s service?”

“Master di Grimaldo has offered me lodging and I accepted for a night or two, being uncertain what I would find at court. He is a respectable gentleman,” I added as Guy’s eyes narrowed, “and looking forward to returning to his wife and seven children in Genoa.”

Satisfied, Guy spirited me away from court by a series of back ways and escorted me to Master di Grimaldo’s lodgings. Only when we were in sight of the place did he tell me the one thing he had been holding back. “I did discover something odd during my inquiries, Jane.”

“Information about my mother?”

He shook his head. “This matter concerned your father. He owned land between Orléans and Salbris. I was able to visit the region only briefly. I had scarcely arrived when I was ordered away to join the duke’s forces in support of the king’s effort to conquer Milan.”

“Papa owned property in France? Neither he nor Maman ever spoke of it.”

“It is possible your mother did not know. From what I was able to learn, the purchase was made with a business partner only a few months before your father’s death.”

I frowned at that. “I wonder if Papa made a poor investment, spending his fortune on land that could not turn a profit. That might explain why Maman and I were obliged to accept charity from King Henry.”

“We will find out,” Guy promised. “As soon I can make arrangements, I will take you there. We will visit your father’s estate on our way to Amboise.”











16

Three days later, Guy and I left Lyons, traveling overland as far as Roanne, where the Loire becomes navigable, then boarding a longboat with a cabin for the next part of the journey. A sapinière, a raft made of fir trunks, conveyed our horses and the henchmen Guy had hired for protection on the journey.

The Loire flows northward, and we might have gone all the way to Amboise by water, but our destination was somewhat short of there. “It never occurred to me to ask my uncle about Papa,” I confessed as we sailed past vineyard after vineyard on a fine June day. “I do not think they ever met.”

Idly, I watched the wind turn the sails of a windmill perched on the crest of a hill. I felt a curious contentment, in spite of all that remained unsettled. No doubt this was due to spending my nights with Guy. I had agreed to pose as his wife on our journey, for safety and for convenience.

“He was Flemish,” Guy remarked after a time.

We both knew that did not necessarily mean that Papa had been born in Flanders. The term was loosely used to refer to anyone who hailed from the lands controlled by Burgundy—Franche-Comté, Luxembourg, Hainaut, Picardy, Artois, the Somme towns, Boulogne, Belgium, and the Netherlands. The Burgundian court spent time at equally far-flung locations from Bruges and Lille to Brussels and the Hague.

“He was a merchant,” I said after another long lull in conversation spent enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face and the sight of the blue water of the Loire lapping against banks of golden sand. “He met my mother when she was in the household of Anne of Brittany. She was fifteen when they were married. They loved each other very much.”

Guy slid an arm around my waist as we stood at the door of our cabin. Poplars and willow trees now dotted the landscape. On the river, dozens of other boats plied the water, as they had all along the way. I abandoned speculation and relaxed against him, too happy to allow worries to intrude on my peace of mind for long.

At Orléans we resumed our journey by road. I noticed that several other vessels had also put passengers ashore. I thought one man looked familiar, but I could not think where I might have seen him before. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his long, narrow face or his clothing. Unable to remember, I dismissed him from my mind.

Guy had friends living just outside Orléans and chose the comfort of their manor house over a room at an inn or beds in an abbey guesthouse. We were made welcome, even though the family was away from home, but the housekeeper, knowing that Guy was not married, took care to install us in separate wings of the house.

It was just as well, I decided, settling into a sinfully soft bed. After several long days of river travel and the even longer journey that had gone before, I was so exhausted that I fell instantly asleep.

I was roused sometime later by the smell of smoke. At first I thought I was dreaming. I’d had nightmares more than once about King Louis’ declaration that I should be burnt. Then I began to cough, and realized that this was real.

Opening bleary eyes, I fought against a confusion of my senses. The room should have been full dark. I had snuffed out the candle before getting into bed, there had been no fire in the hearth, and the shutters had been closed against the dangerous things that live in the night air.

Flickering light showed beneath the door. Fire!

I rolled out of bed, landing awkwardly. Although I fought to stay on my feet, I ended up in a heap on the floor. Pushing myself up on my hands and knees, I realized of a sudden that the air lower down was less smoke filled and easier to breathe than that above. Remaining as I was, I started to scuttle toward the door.

I stopped at the sight of flames licking along the edges of the wood. The fire beyond was leaping higher and higher, cutting off any possibility of escaping that way.

The bedchamber had two windows, both opening onto a courtyard, but it was a long way to the ground. Fool, I chided myself. Any injury I sustained from a fall was less likely to be fatal than burning to death. Pressing myself even closer to the floor, I crawled toward the casement.

Curls of smoke seemed to chase me across the room. I tried holding my breath, but that only made my eyes water. Making a mask with the hem of my chemise filtered out the worst of it, but it was almost impossible to press the linen over my mouth and nose and crawl at the same time.

I began to wheeze. My progress slowed. I resorted to traveling like a snake, inching along on my belly, but I began to despair of ever escaping.