“I do not understand,” I said.

“I will explain everything in good time, Jeanne,” Maman said.

“Jane,” Uncle insisted.

“Jane, then,” she continued. “Be patient, my child, and all will be revealed. But for the present it is best that you do not know too much.”

“And in the meantime,” my uncle interrupted, “you will both be provided for. Come. I am to take you to the king.”

“Now?” The word came out as a hoarse croak. Maman’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Now,” he insisted.

At my uncle’s urging, we gathered up our possessions and soon were aboard a wherry and headed upriver on an incoming tide. I sat between him and my mother in the pair-oared rowing boat.

The vessel’s awning kept the sun out of our faces, but it did not obscure my view. Attempting to see everything at once, I twisted from side to side on the cushioned bench. We had boarded the wherry just to the west of London Bridge and so had a good distance to travel before we passed beyond the sprawling city of London with its tall houses and multitude of church steeples. When at last we rounded the curve of the Thames, the river broadened to reveal green meadows, riverside gardens, and a dazzling array of magnificent buildings that far outshone anything the city had to offer.

“That is Westminster Abbey,” my uncle said, pointing. “And there is the great palace of Westminster, where the king is waiting for us.”

Once we disembarked my uncle escorted us to the king’s privy chamber. I caught only a glimpse of bright tapestries and grand furnishings before a liveried servant conducted us into the small complex of inner chambers beyond.

“Why is it so much darker here?” I whispered, catching hold of my mother’s sleeve.

“Hush, my darling.”

“Show some respect,” my uncle snapped. “Do you not realize what a great honor it is to be allowed to enter the king’s ‘secret’ lodgings?”

We moved briskly through one small chamber and into another. There the servant stopped before a curtained door.

“Make a deep obeisance,” my uncle instructed in a harsh whisper. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Address the king as ‘Sire’ or ‘Your Grace’ when you do speak to him. And do not forget that you must back out of the room when you are dismissed.”

My eyes wide, my lips pressed tightly closed, I crept farther into the room. Like a little mouse, I felt awed and terrified by the prospect that lay before me—my first meeting with my new liege lord.

In those days, King Henry did not stoop, as he would toward the end of his life. He was as tall as my uncle, a thin man but one who gave the impression of strength. His nose was long and thin, too. He was dressed most grandly in cloth-of-gold and crimson velvet. His black velvet bonnet, sporting a jeweled brooch and pendant pearl, sat atop reddish brown hair. It was just starting to go gray. Beneath was a clean-shaven face so exceedingly pale that the red wart on his right cheek stood out in stark contrast.

I stared at him, my mouth dropping open, as fascinated as I was awestruck. King Henry regarded us steadily in return. For a considerable time, he said nothing. Then he dismissed his servants and sent my uncle away, too.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” he said to Maman, speaking in French.

“Thank you, Sire,” she said. “I wish I could remember her more clearly, but I have always been told that she was a most beautiful woman.”

This was the first that I had heard of my grandmother’s beauty. Maman rarely spoke of her parents. I knew only that her mother had died when she was a very young girl and that afterward her father had sent her to the ducal court of Brittany to enter the service of the duke’s daughter, Anne.

“I was sorry to hear of the death of your husband,” the king said.

“Johannes was a good man, Your Grace.”

“A Fleming, was he not?”

“He was. A merchant.”

There was a small, awkward silence. Maman was of gentle birth. She had married beneath her. I knew a little of the story. Maman had wed at fifteen and given birth to me the following January. Then she had returned to the Breton court. The following year, when Duchess Anne married King Charles, she had become part of the new French queen’s entourage. Papa had often shared the houses she found for me near the court, but sometimes he had to go away to attend to business. He imported fine fabrics to clothe courtiers and kings.

“Plague?” the king asked, suggesting a likely cause for my father’s death.

Maman shook her head. “He had purchased a new ship for a trading venture. It proved unseaworthy and sank when he was aboard. He drowned.”

“A great pity. Did he leave you sufficient to live upon?”

Maman’s reply was too low for me to hear. When they continued their conversation in quiet voices, I heard their words only as a gentle whisper in the background.

My gaze wandered around the room. The chamber boasted no tapestries and had no gilded chests or chairs, but it did contain a free-standing steel looking glass. I longed to peer at my own face, but I did not dare move from where I stood. On a table next to the looking glass, a coffer overflowed with jewels. I also noticed books. I had never seen so many of them in one place before.

The restless movements of King Henry’s fingers, continually twisting the fabric of the narrow silk scarf he wore knotted around his waist, brought my attention back to the king. I strained to hear what he and my mother were saying, but I could only catch a word or two. The king said, “my wife” and then, “my protection.”

King Henry glanced my way and deliberately raised his voice. “It is well that you are here. I give you my word that you will have a place at court as long as you both shall live.” A slow smile overspread his features. For some reason, he seemed mightily pleased that my mother and I had come to England.

“On the morrow,” the king said, addressing me directly, “you will be taken to the royal nursery at Eltham Palace. Henceforth you will be one of the children of honor. Your duties will be both simple and agreeable—you are to engage my two young daughters, the Lady Margaret and the Lady Mary, in daily conversation in French so that they will become fluent in that language. Margaret is only a few weeks older than you are, Jane,” the king added. “Mary is just three.”

“I will do my best to serve them, Your Grace,” I promised.

“I am certain that you will,” he said, and with that the audience was over.

We spent that night in the great palace of Westminster, sharing a bed in a tiny, out-of-the-way chamber. I was certain good fortune had smiled upon us. I believed Maman and I would be together, serving in the same royal household. It was not until the next day, when I was about to board one of the royal barges for the trip downriver, that I learned the truth. Maman could not accompany me to Eltham. King Henry had made arrangements for her to remain at Westminster Palace. Like Lady Catherine Gordon, she was to be a lady-in-waiting to his wife, Queen Elizabeth of York.

“We will see each other often,” Maman promised as she kissed me farewell. “Queen Elizabeth is said to be devoted to her children. I am told she pays many visits to Eltham and that her sons and daughters regularly come to court.”

I clung to this reassurance as I was sent off on my own, speaking no English and knowing no one. My uncle, who had his own lodgings at court, escorted me to my new home, but he did not tarry. As quickly as he could, he scurried back to Westminster Palace.

AT THE TIME I entered royal service at Eltham Palace, the king had four children. Arthur, the Prince of Wales and the heir to the throne, lived elsewhere. He was not quite twelve years old. Shortly before I arrived, King Henry’s second son, also Henry, who was seven and held the title Duke of York, had been given his own household staff within the larger establishment at Eltham. Nurses and governess had been dismissed. Male tutors had taken charge of the young prince’s education.

The two princesses, Margaret and Mary, shared a household staff. They also shared some of Prince Henry’s tutors, so that all the children of honor, boys and girls, came in daily contact with each other. That was why, within a few days of joining their ranks, I was one of a dozen students being taught how to dance the pavane.

“Is all your dress fastened in place?” the Italian dancing master asked.

For my benefit, he repeated the question in French.

Most of the boys in Prince Henry’s entourage had been taught French and spoke it fairly well, if with a peculiar accent. I turned to a boy named Harry Guildford, who had been assigned as my partner, and whispered, “Why is he so concerned about our clothing?”

Harry Guildford was an affable lad a year my senior. His round face was remarkable for its large nose, the cleft in his chin, and his ready smile. The twinkle in his eyes reminded me of my friend in Amboise, Guy Dunois, except that Harry’s eyes were gray instead of blue-green.

“All manner of clothing can drop onto the floor in the course of a dance, if the movements are too energetic. That is why we must always check our points before we begin.”

By points, he meant the laces that tied sleeves to bodices, breeches to doublets, and various other garments to each other. I could not imagine why anyone would be careless in fastening them in the first place, but I tugged at my sleeves and skirt to make sure all was secure. I had been given a white damask gown with crimson velvet sleeves, as well as gold chains and a circlet—a sort of livery.

“It is particularly vulgar for a lady to drop a glove while dancing,” our tutor continued, “as it causes gentlemen to bestir themselves and run like a flock of starlings to pick it up.”