“Mademoiselle Jane! It is bad manners for a lady to lift her train with her hands. You must sway in such a way as to shift the train out of the way before you step back.”
Frowning in concentration, I tried to follow his instructions, but there was so much to remember. What if I tripped on my own gown and tumbled to the floor? Everyone would laugh at me.
My heart was in my throat as Harry and I continued to execute the gliding, swaying steps of the pavane. I felt a little more confident after he squeezed my hand and gave me a reassuring smile. Somehow, I managed to finish the dance without calling further attention to myself.
“Merci,” I said when the music ceased. “I am most grateful for your help.”
Harry executed a courtly bow. “My pleasure, mademoiselle.”
BY AUGUST, WHEN I had been at Eltham for some six weeks, I could converse much more easily in English, although I still had trouble with some words. I spent several hours every morning in the nursery, playing with the Lady Mary and speaking with her in French. She was an exceptionally pretty child with blue eyes and delicate features. Slender, she gave promise of being tall when she grew to womanhood. Her hair was golden, with a reddish tinge.
In the afternoons, I attended the Lady Margaret, conversing with her in both French and English. Unlike her little sister, Margaret was dark eyed, with a round face and a thick, sturdy body. Her best features were her fresh complexion and her auburn hair.
Both royal princesses seemed to like me, although the other girls among the children of honor regarded me with suspicion because I did not speak their language. Margaret was sometimes temperamental and had a tendency to pout, and Mary was prone to tantrums. But I quickly learned how to avoid being the object of their wrath. The other girls resented me for that, too.
I also learned to play the lute and the virginals and to ride. One day we rode as far as another of King Henry’s palaces on the Thames. It was only a few miles from Eltham.
“What is this place?” I asked, looking across an expanse of overgrown gardens to a huge complex of buildings. Scaffolding rose up in several places. Busy workmen swarmed like bees over one tower.
“It is called Pleasance,” the Lady Margaret said.
“Pleasure Palace?”
My innocent mistake in translation produced immoderate laughter, especially from the two oldest children of honor, Ned Neville and Will Compton, and from Goose, Prince Henry’s fool.
“It was named Pleasance because of its pleasing prospect,” Will said, “but there is pleasure to be had within those walls, too, no doubt of that.”
“I was born here,” Prince Henry said. “It is my favorite palace. I wish Father and Mother had not gone on progress. If they had come here, we could visit them.”
“They cannot stay at Pleasance until the renovations are finished,” Margaret said.
Translating this exchange, I frowned. I had not seen my mother since we parted at Westminster on the morning after our meeting with the king. “What does going on progress mean?” I asked, unfamiliar with the English word.
“The entire court moves from manor house to castle to palace, visiting different parts of the realm,” Harry Guildford explained.
“Sometimes they take us with them.” The Lady Margaret sounded wistful.
“Not this year,” Prince Henry said. “And they will not be back at Westminster Palace until the end of October.”
That meant I would not see Maman again for some time. Resigned, I dedicated myself to perfecting my English and mastering music, dance, and horseback riding. In September we all moved to Hatfield House, a palatial brick manor house in Hertfordshire, so that Eltham Palace could be cleaned and aired.
On a crisp, cloudless day a week later, when I had been one of the children of honor for nearly three months, the Lady Margaret and I strolled in the garden while we held our daily conversation.
“I was frightened for my life,” she confided, speaking of her reaction to the great fire at Sheen, another of her father’s palaces, the previous Yuletide. The entire royal family had been in residence at the time. They had been fortunate to escape unhurt.
“Fire is terrifying,” I agreed. “A house burned down in Amboise once when I was living there. Everyone was afraid that the sparks would ignite the entire town. All the men formed a line and passed buckets of water along to douse the flames. My friend Guy helped, too, for all that he was only a very little boy at the time.”
It had been weeks since I had thought of Guy, or any of my other friends in France. A little ripple of guilt flowed over me. Had they forgotten me, as well?
Deep in thought, I rounded a bit of topiary work trimmed to resemble a dragon, one of King Henry’s emblems. A few steps ahead of me, the princess stopped in her tracks. “What man is that?” She squinted at a figure just emerging from a doorway, her vision hampered by the distance.
My eyesight being more acute, I immediately recognized my uncle, Sir Rowland Velville. He strode rapidly toward us along the graveled path.
“Your Grace,” he greeted the Lady Margaret, bowing so low that his nose nearly touched the toe of her shoe. “I beg your leave for a word in private with my niece.”
“You may speak with her, but in our hearing,” Margaret said in an autocratic voice.
My uncle bowed a second time. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He turned to me, still as formal as he had been with the Lady Margaret. “Your mother, my beloved sister, has died, dear Jane.” He showed not a trace of emotion as he delivered his devastating news. “It happened suddenly, while she was on progress with the court.”
Stunned, I gaped at him, at first unable to form words, almost unable to think. The enormity of what he’d said was too much for me to grasp.
As if from a great distance, I heard the Lady Margaret speak. “Of what did she die, Sir Rowland?”
“A fever of some sort. I cannot say for certain. I had gone on to Drayton, in Leicestershire, with the king, while the women remained where they were for a few days longer.”
Fighting a great blackness that threatened to swallow me, I sank down onto a nearby stone bench. I suppose that the sun shone as brightly as ever, but for me its light had dimmed. “No,” I whispered. “No. She cannot be dead. You must be mistaken.”
“I assure you, I am not. I was present when she was buried at Collyweston.”
Tears flowed unchecked down my cheeks, but I scarcely felt them. I was only dimly aware that the Lady Margaret had left us. “No,” I said again.
“The king himself bade me bring this news to you, Jane.” I could hear a slight impatience in his voice. “Why would I lie to you?”
“You…you would not.” I accepted the handkerchief he proffered.
“I brought you this.” He gave me the small, enameled pendant that had been Maman’s favorite piece of jewelry. Like the topiary work, it was in the shape of a dragon. I sobbed harder.
“She had little else. She sold most of her jewels to pay for the journey to England. But you need not be concerned about your future. You are one of the king’s wards now. He’ll look out for you.” I suppose Uncle meant to be comforting, but his words did nothing to lessen my sense of loss.
Having discharged his duty, my uncle left me sitting alone on a stone bench in the garden at Hatfield House. I do not know how much time passed as I cried my heart out. But when I had no more tears to shed, I looked up to find Will Compton leaning against a nearby tree.
At sixteen, Will was the oldest of Prince Henry’s children of honor. He had been sent to the royal nursery at Eltham when the prince was still a baby. He was a tall, lanky lad with friendly hazel eyes. They were dark with concern.