“Lapdogs. They can scarcely be considered dogs at all. Why, such creatures are as annoying as ferrets, and less useful.” He winked, surprising a laugh out of me. We both knew why some people wore pet ferrets wrapped around their necks like a ruff—ferrets ate lice.
While we had been talking, the storm had passed. Pinpoints of light now dotted the early evening sky as stars began to come out. “I should have returned long since to the princess,” I murmured.
“It is early yet. Stay awhile. Do you ride, Mistress Popyncourt? Last year I purchased a splendid courser and two brood mares from Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua. He is famous as a breeder of horses. Never have I owned better-trained animals.”
“I enjoyed riding when I was younger,” I told him, “but now Queen Catherine insists that we ladies use Spanish sidesaddles.” I made a face. Shaped like chairs, these saddles did not permit much freedom of movement.
His voice deepened. “King Henry treated me well when I was brought to him as a prisoner, but his queen seems disinclined to follow his lead.”
“She is Spanish. She is suspicious of anyone born in France.”
“Except for you, Mistress Popyncourt,” he said. “Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I was born in Brittany, not France.”
“Ah,” he said, understanding the distinction at once.
A nearby candle guttered, throwing the gallery into deeper shadow. I sensed the duc de Longueville bending toward me and felt a delicious prickle of anticipation at the center of my being. His lips—soft, full lips—lightly brushed my mouth.
From behind us came the sound of a throat clearing. Loudly. It was Guy. The yeoman of the guard would not have dared hint that a nobleman had overstepped the bounds of propriety. Longueville stepped back so abruptly that I felt chilled.
“Your Grace?”
“I have kept you here far too long, Mistress Popyncourt, but I am certain we will meet again…if you so desire.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and I felt the imprint of his lips through the thin leather of my glove.
I stared blankly after the duke until he and Ivo had gone. Guy stayed behind. Belatedly, I remembered that my original intention had been to speak privately with him. I frowned, recalling the look my childhood friend had given me.
“You are not my keeper, Guy Dunois,” I said.
“That does not mean you do not need one.”
“I have lived at court for many years. I am accustomed to flirting with courtiers, noblemen and gentlemen alike.”
“Not French noblemen,” Guy muttered.
I saw no reason to be alarmed by the duke’s interest in me. Neither did I want to quarrel. “It was you I wanted to talk to, Guy.”
“You have an odd way of showing it.”
The sound of shuffling feet told me that the remaining guard grew impatient. He had waited to escort Guy back to his quarters. The prisoners of war were confined in considerable luxury, but they were still prisoners.
“It is late.” More time than I’d realized had passed while I engaged in pleasant conversation with the duke. “Mayhap we should talk another time.”
He sketched a mocking bow. “As my lady wishes.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I sought Guy in the duc de Longueville’s lodgings in one of the many towers that made up the Tower of London. I encountered Ivo first. A gangly youth not yet grown into his feet, he directed me to a small inner chamber. When his voice broke halfway through this short speech, splotches of color stained his pale face.
In the room Ivo had indicated, I found Guy hard at work scribbling numbers in a ledger at a writing table. Papers were strewn across the table’s surface along with a scattering of quills and bottles of ink.
“Are you a clerk, then?” I asked.
Guy looked up in annoyance. Tiny spectacles slid down his nose. He removed them, closed the account book, and set the spectacles on top of it. “I serve as His Grace’s steward. I manage his estates when we are at home. And my own.”
“You have done well for yourself?”
“Well enough. What is it you want, Jeanne?”
“Jane.”
“His Grace is at the tennis play,” he said. Then he lapsed into a disapproving silence.
“I did not come here looking for the duke.”
I glanced around the antechamber. Ivo had left and no one else had come in. If I wanted to learn more about the rumors Guy had heard of my demise, this was the time to ask. Yet now Guy seemed strangely unapproachable.
“Are you wroth with me?” I blurted out.
He shrugged. “I have seen too many women enthralled by an excellent physique and a surfeit of charm. My half brother has a wife and children back in France. He has naught that is honorable to offer you.”
Nettled by his words, I spoke without thinking. “Have you not heard of courtly love? A woman may derive great pleasure simply from being in a man’s company.”
“That is not the kind of pleasure the duc de Longueville has in mind. Be careful, Jane, lest you end up as his plaything.”
I scowled at Guy, pretending to be insulted. At the same time, my heart beat a little faster and a heady excitement began to build inside me. Had the duke spoken of me? One part of me knew I should heed Guy’s warning. Another urged me to seize the chance, mayhap my only chance, to step out into a storm of passion.
For years I had avoided engaging in anything more than mild flirtation with the men of King Henry’s court. Charles Brandon’s abrupt loss of interest in me had been proof that none of them would take me to wife without a dowry, and I’d had no interest in becoming some English courtier’s mistress.
This was different. Longueville was a nobleman, his rank high enough to protect me from the scorn that might otherwise come my way. That he had a wife did not trouble me. I was never likely to meet her. What mattered was that I was drawn to him, as I had not been to any other man I’d met. And he, if Guy’s intimations were to be believed, returned my interest.
Curiosity and lust are a potent combination. I started to speak, then thought better of it. Longueville was England’s enemy, a prisoner of war. He would return to France as soon as he was ransomed.
So would Guy.
If I wanted answers about my past, I must ask my questions while I had the chance. I placed both hands on the table and leaned forward until we were quite close. “I want to speak to you of days gone by.”
His expression gave nothing away. “As you wish.”
I cleared my throat, still oddly hesitant to begin. “Have you all you need to be comfortable here?” I asked instead.
“All save the duke’s ransom.” He indicated the closed ledger. “We are housed in luxury but your king allots us only forty shillings a week to live on.”
I was surprised by the paltry amount and said so.
He shrugged. “Prisoners are expected to augment that sum from their own funds, but the duke’s only recourse would be to sell off his wardrobe and jewels, and that he will not do. We are reduced to living on pottage, brown bread, and cheese.”
“When the king returns, you will be given accommodations at court until the duke’s ransom is arranged. That will entitle you to three cooked meals a day.”
“You will pardon me if I remain skeptical.”
“The duke has been permitted to keep six servants,” I reminded him.
“With funds barely sufficient to keep one in food and candles. The constable of the Tower tells me that stipends for prisoners have not been increased in decades.”
Guilt assailed me. As one of the Lady Mary’s attendants I regularly had my choice among dishes of beef, mutton, veal, capon, cony, pheasant, pigeon, lamb, and chicken, not to mention a plentiful supply of butter and fruit and pastries. “I wish I could help, but I receive no stipend at all, only a tiny annuity scarce sufficient to purchase New Year’s gifts for the members of the royal family.”
That silenced Guy’s complaints about money and all else. He rose and offered me his stool. I shook my head and we stood facing each other.