Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

I have delivered your token to my Lady Sussex, who doth heartily thank your ladyship for the same. Her ladyship is somewhat acrased, and as far as I can learn she is not well pleased with Mrs. Anne; and though the matter be forgiven I do perceive she hath not forgotten it.

—John Husee to Lady Lisle, 26 May 1539

8

On the twenty-first day of May, Cat Bassett returned to court. She came at the invitation of the king, but without Lady Rutland, who was due to give birth to yet another child in only two months’ time. King Henry was hosting a banquet that evening for a group of his late wife’s gentlewomen. Cat was not quite certain how she’d come to be included in their number. She could only suppose that it was because, had Queen Jane lived, Cat would have had the place Anne Parr vacated to marry Will Herbert.

A yeoman of the guard escorted Cat to the lodgings she was to share with her sister. She’d been looking forward to the chance to spend time with Nan. They’d not seen each other since shortly after Queen Jane’s death.

She heard the racket well before they reached their destination—laughter, high-pitched feminine voices, and the clink of glassware. Grinning, the yeoman of the guard opened the door for her and took his leave.

There was scarcely space in the room for another person to squeeze in. Cat recognized three former maids of honor—Nan and Jane Mewtas and Anne Herbert. She also knew Joan Denny slightly, since Joan was a distant Bassett cousin, but the other woman was a stranger to her.

“Cat!” With that exclamation of delight, Nan drained the last of the Malmsey from her goblet, tossed it carelessly aside, and rushed forward to embrace her sister.

Hugs from Anne, Jane, and Joan followed. They’d been imbibing freely and their greetings were effusive.

“Do you know Kathryn Latimer?” Nan asked, presenting Cat to a tiny woman smaller in stature than any of the others. “She is Anne’s sister.”

Dashing off to refill goblets, Nan abandoned them. Cat frowned. Her sister had always been exuberant, but there was a fevered quality about her now, a hectic energy that was not quite natural.

The conversation in the bedchamber ranged from new dance steps, to the fashion in hats, to the relative merits of various precious stones.

“I have a passion for jewels, especially diamonds,” Lady Latimer confessed.

“Rubies suit me better.” Nan held her right hand out in front of her, the better to admire the ring she wore on one finger. The ruby, mounted in white enamel, was an expensive bauble. Cat wondered who had given it to her sister.

“Jewelry is all very well,” Jane Mewtas said, “but I would trade a handful of emeralds to have Kathryn’s beautiful soft skin.”

“You need not impoverish yourself to learn my secret,” Kathryn said with a chuckle. “Twice a week, I fill a leaden bathtub with milk and soak in it for an hour.”

Astonished cries greeted this revelation. Joan Denny looked alarmed. “If frequent immersion in water can endanger the health, surely it is even more of a risk to bathe in milk.”

“No harm has ever come to me,” Kathryn assured her, “although I have noticed that my new kitten seems extremely fond of me right after I emerge from the tub.”

Cat joined in the general laughter that followed, much taken with her new acquaintance. Kathryn Latimer was a little older than the others, and quieter. Especially when compared to Nan, Kathryn seemed to be a very calm and contented sort of person.

That might have made her dull, but when the conversation turned to hunting, Kathryn’s hazel eyes lit up with pleasure. “I miss riding out to hunt when we are in London,” she admitted.

“Kathryn is an excellent shot with a crossbow,” her sister boasted.

“The king means to hunt tomorrow,” Nan said. “I hope he will invite some of us to ride out with him.”

“It seems likely he will ask at least one of us,” Jane Mewtas said with a giggle and a knowing look that sparked Cat’s curiosity. The polite laughter and speculative glances from the others were even more intriguing, and Nan’s expression made Cat think of cats and cream.

They all supped together that evening and afterward all but Lady Latimer adjourned to the king’s banquet. “I was not invited, since I have never lived at court or attended upon a queen,” she explained to Cat, “although I did visit a time or two when my mother was in Queen Catherine’s service. I do not mind. In truth, I am glad to make an early night of it in the lodgings Will Herbert secured for me for the duration of my visit with Anne. I must leave in the morning to return to the house my husband leases in the Blackfriars section of London. We live there while Parliament is in session.”

Kathryn Latimer seemed genuinely happy with her lot in life. She was a fortunate woman, Cat thought. Few females of her acquaintance enjoyed true contentment. Cat herself was better situated than most, but even she had moments when she longed for a husband and children. She liked living with Lord and Lady Rutland, but she did not want to stay there forever.

The banquet found King Henry in a jovial mood. Throughout courses of fruits and cheeses and sweet wines and the dancing afterward, he laughed and joked. And he appeared to take special pleasure in partnering Cat’s sister. At the end of the last pavane, he lingered with Nan in a secluded corner, unaware that Cat stood close enough to overhear their conversation.

“Will you accompany me when I go hunting tomorrow?” King Henry asked.

“Alas, Your Grace, I cannot, for I have no horse.”

“You may borrow one of mine.”

“I have no saddle, either.”

“That, too, will be supplied.”

“You are most generous, Your Grace.”

“You will lack for nothing, I promise you.” King Henry raised Nan’s hand—the one wearing the ruby ring—to his lips. He kissed each of her fingers in turn. “Until tomorrow, sweeting.”

Cat watched him walk away, then looked at her sister. She could tell nothing from Nan’s expression, but she had her suspicions. As soon as they were alone in the double lodgings they’d been assigned—two spacious rooms with fireplaces and a private privy—she drew in a deep breath and asked the obvious question: “Are you the king’s mistress?”

“Not yet.”

Something in Nan’s tone made Cat look more closely at her sister. “Do you want to be?”

“I’d have influence. A good marriage at the end of it.” She shrugged.

“What happened to Margaret Skipwith?”

“Married off to Lord Talboys.”

Cat frowned. “Isn’t he Lady Clinton’s son?”

“He is.” Nan grinned. “Appropriate, don’t you think, marrying off one mistress to an earlier mistress’s child?” Lady Clinton, previously Lady Talboys, had been born Bessie Blount. Prior to her first marriage, she’d given birth to the king’s bastard, the late Henry FitzRoy.

“Will the king send for you tonight?” Cat asked as her sister began to undress for bed. Cat took over the duties of a tiring maid, since she saw no sign of Constance. She supposed Nan had dismissed her for the night.

“I do not think so.” Nan gave a short, humorless laugh. “You see, Cat, His Grace is bent on courting me.”

Cat did not know what to say to that. Surely Nan did not think the king would marry her.

“But what of you, Cat?” Free of her own garments, Nan unlaced Cat. “Have you any suitors? The last I heard, the Bayntons thought our dowries insufficient to make a match.”

“I am certain Mother will tell me when she’s found someone.”

“Perhaps Ned Corbett?” Nan took a gold toothpick from a small, jeweled case and began to clean her teeth.

Cat could not stop the wave of heat that rushed into her face. She suspected that it was accompanied by a revealing wash of red.

“Oh ho!” Nan exclaimed, confirming it. “So he did show an interest.”

“He was kind to me after Queen Jane died, but nothing came of it. The only times I see him now are when he brings me letters from Calais.”

Nan did not look as if she believed it, but she did not pursue the subject. Instead she asked if there had been any more talk of sending Cat to the Duchess of Suffolk.

“None at all, and happily no more discussion about sending me to Lady Hertford, either. I prefer to remain where I am. Lady Rutland treats me like one of her own daughters. Lady Hertford, I am told, is almost as hard for her waiting gentlewomen to please as Mother is.”

Nan washed her mouth with mint sodden in vinegar, then rubbed powder made of ashes of rosemary onto her teeth with a soft cloth and rinsed with plain water.

“I do not think the Hertfords were enthusiastic about having me join their household in any case.” Cat mixed vinegar and chamomile with water and used the solution to cleanse her face, neck, and arms. “Mother’s attempts to win their favor were unsuccessful, although that was not her fault.”

“Why? What happened?” Finished with her own ablutions, Nan climbed into bed, leaving the curtains open while Cat cleaned her teeth and freshened her breath. Cat snuffed out the candle and joined her sister under the covers.

“Well?” Nan demanded. The darkness and close quarters were conducive to sharing secrets.

“I had the story from Master Husee. Mother sent two gifts to the Earl of Hertford.”

Even after his sister’s death, Queen Jane’s brother was someone Lady Lisle wanted to cultivate. She’d begun corresponding with him the previous November, right after they’d both been part of the same company entertained by the king at court.

“One was a linnet in a cage,” Cat said, “and the other a stool decorated with crewelwork. The ship on which they were sent sank off Margate. The cargo was rescued and there was no loss of life, but the stool was damaged by saltwater, and the colors of the crewelwork had faded. As for the bird, it was brought safely to shore and taken to a house in Billingsgate. Master Husee was only waiting for a convenient time to deliver it to Lord Hertford.” A chuckle escaped Cat, hastily stifled. “It is not funny.”

Nan poked her in the ribs. “Tell. Tell.”

“The household contained a cat. The cat ate the linnet.”

“Oh, dear.” Silent mirth made Nan’s shoulders shake. “Oh, my. So neither reached the earl?”

“Oh, in the end, he received a much better gift. Mother sent Arabella to replace the linnet that was lost.”

“No! Not Arabella. She loves that bird.”

“She loves finding favor with influential courtiers more. Master Husee said she told the earl, in a letter, that Arabella was the best linnet in all of Calais and that it would be a long time before she was mistress of such another.”

“She is willing to sacrifice much for advancement,” Nan murmured, yawning hugely.

She was not the only one, Cat thought, as her sister rolled over and pulled the covers up to her chin. And it was surely a mixed blessing to be favored by the king.

DURING THE MONTHS after Clement Philpott and Sir Gregory Botolph arrived in Calais, Ned Corbett formed the habit of spending most of his free time in their company. Gambling at the Rose, a tavern just outside the walls of Calais, was a favorite pastime. There they could talk almost as freely as the ale flowed, but there were limits.

The garrison in Calais was a dumping ground for troublesome younger sons, and many of them had bones to pick. On this particular June evening, a hotheaded soldier owed money by the Crown told his troubles to anyone who would listen, cursing all those responsible for holding back his pay.

“Were he in London, he’d be charged with treason for that tirade,” Ned remarked.

“He’d be in greater trouble if he complained about changes in the liturgy,” Philpott muttered, “and a dead man already if he had Plantagenet blood in his veins.” He threw the dice and muttered an oath when he lost yet again.

“Did you hear that the old Countess of Salisbury has been taken to the Tower?” Botolph asked.

Ned had not, although he’d known that Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury, Cardinal Pole’s mother, had been under house arrest somewhere in the countryside since the previous November, even before her oldest son, Lord Montagu, was executed for treason.

Aloud he said only, “I doubt the king will execute a woman.”

Botolph snorted. “He beheaded Anne Boleyn.”

“That harlot got what she deserved,” Philpott said.

“Did she?” Botolph’s eyes glinted with deviltry. “Or did His Grace simply claim she did in order to rid himself of an encumbrance to his marriage with Jane Seymour?”

Ned stayed out of the debate. He doubted anyone would ever know the whole truth of the matter. Neither was he entirely comfortable discussing such things in a public place, even one like the Rose.

“Careless words are dangerous.” With that warning, as he steered his two friends toward a table in a back corner where, noisy as the tavern was, there was less risk of being overheard. Ned signaled for the waiter to refill their flagons.

Calais was a breeding ground for dissension. Because the border with France lay close at hand on one side of the Pale, and that of Flanders, one of the Low Countries, on the other, there were many living in Calais whose sentiments veered toward extremes in both politics and religion. Some were papists. Others wanted radical reform within the English church—much more far-reaching changes than had already been made.

“Lady Salisbury’s son was condemned for nothing more than writing letters,” Philpott mumbled into his ale. “An outrage!”

“But they were letters to a man who has sworn to overthrow the rightful king of England,” Ned reminded him.

“They were letters to his brother. And your rightful king has been excommunicated by the pope.”

“God will sort things out.” Botolph took a deep swallow of ale, then winked at Ned. “The real reason our friend here is so melancholy is that he has troubles closer to home. Note the long face, the sad eyes, the short temper.”

“My luck is out,” Philpott admitted.

“At cards, dice, or love?”

“All three. Mistress Philippa has refused my suit. I cannot understand it. I am a fine, upstanding gentleman.”

“What is so difficult to comprehend? Philippa Bassett thinks she can do better.” Botolph chuckled. “And Mary Bassett knows she can.”

“Do you mean to say that sickly Mistress Mary has a lover?” Philpott sounded amazed.

“I cannot say. I am bound by the sanctity of the confessional.”

Ned scowled at them both. “Have a care what you imply, lest you impugn a good woman’s reputation.”

“Oh ho! Listen to the chivalrous knight!”

Ned ignored Philpott’s mockery, but Botolph’s smirk bothered him. He wished Mary had chosen one of the older priests as her confessor. She was, at long last, free of her recurring bouts of fever, and the identity of her lover should be no one’s business but her own.

Ned liked Sir Gregory Botolph. Everyone did. He was a stirring speaker and an engaging companion. He had acquired the nickname “Gregory Sweet-lips” since coming to Calais because he could so easily persuade others to his way of thinking. But in private, Botolph had none of the virtues of a man of God. He gambled and swore and drank to excess and even kept a mistress in the town.

“Perhaps you’ll have better success with Lady Lisle’s newest waiting gentlewoman,” Botolph suggested to Philpott.

“She’s comely enough, but has she a decent dowry? She’s some kin to John Husee, is she not? He’s a nobody, the son of a vintner.”

“Mary Hussey is not related to John Husee at all,” Ned said. “She is one of the daughters of Lord Hussey of Sleaford.”

For a moment, Philpott brightened. Then, remembering, his face fell. “He was executed for rebellion against the Crown.” Some two years earlier, there had been an uprising in Lincolnshire. Yet another ill-thought-out scheme to overthrow King Henry. It had been put down quickly and brutally. “What was Lady Lisle thinking, to take a traitor’s get into her household?”

“Of the benefits of charity, no doubt.” Botolph leaned back against the wall, cradling his flagon between his hands. “All of Lord Hussey’s lands and goods and chattels were seized by the Crown, even clothing and jewelry.”

“With Lord Hussey dead and his title forfeit,” Philpott mused, “his daughters will have been left destitute. Why else would a baron’s daughter enter the service of a mere viscountess?”

“Still,” Botolph mused, “if the old order is ever restored to England, the man married to Mary Hussey would have a claim to her father’s title.”

Briefly, Ned wondered if Botolph imagined Cardinal Pole leading an army against King Henry. Then he decided that the priest was simply amusing himself by baiting their credulous friend. It would not be the first time Botolph had led Philpott into expressing seditious sentiments. Had one of Lord Cromwell’s spies been present to overhear, they’d both have been under arrest for heresy. It was neither wise nor safe to speculate about the return of the Catholic Church to England.

“I do feel sorry for the girl,” Philpott allowed. “Imagine being at Lady Lisle’s beck and call!”

“Sorry enough to marry her?” Botolph asked.

Philpott looked tempted. He scratched his beard, took another swig of ale, and studied the stained and cracked boards of the table. Then he sighed. “So long as any taint of treason clings to her, there is too much risk that it will attach itself to whatever man she marries.”

Botolph took a long swallow of ale and gave Philpott a considering look. Ned could tell he had some further deviltry in mind. “Ah, well,” he said as the sounds of a scuffle reached them from the far side of the tavern, “without a dowry to attract a husband, I doubt she expects to be honorably wed. I wonder if she would accept a suitable gentleman as her protector? She’d make an excellent mistress, would she not?”

Philpott brightened at this suggestion. With Botolph egging him on, he began proposing schemes, each more preposterous than the last, to get Mary Hussey into his bed.

As if, Ned thought, any girl in her right mind would settle for Clement Philpott as either lover or husband. Ned barely knew the girl, but he hoped, for her sake, that she had higher standards than that.

He was about to say so when what had merely been a noisy dispute over a reckoning suddenly erupted into a fistfight. When a stool sailed past Ned’s head, nearly clipping his ear, he came to his feet with a bellow. His two companions beside him, he waded into the fray. He had no idea which side anyone was on. It did not matter. He threw punches with indiscriminate abandon. To Ned’s mind, there was no better way to end a night at the Rose than a full-scale tavern brawl.

A FEW DAYS later, in the second week of June, Ned stood in front of the Mewtas house, staring at the overhanging upper stories. Sun glinted off dozens of clear windowpanes, proof of the owner’s wealth and position. Still, it was a small place compared to Sussex House, and Peter Mewtas and his wife had pedigrees no more exalted than Ned’s own. Why was Nan living with them? If John Husee had the right of it, her decision to stay on in Tower Street had caused a rift with the Countess of Sussex. What advantage had there been to Nan in alienating her greatest benefactor?

He’d never find out by standing in the street. Squaring his shoulders, Ned marched up to the door. He was admitted by a servant and shown into an upstairs room. He stopped short at the sight of Nan, seated in a Glastonbury chair, positioned so that the sun bathed her in light and picked out the golden highlights in her light brown hair.

“Mistress Nan,” he said, inclining his head. “You look … radiant.”

“Master Ned.” A faint smile lifted her lips and her eyes were so merry that he suspected she’d watched his arrival through the window and arranged herself in that sunbeam on purpose to disconcert him.

She seemed more self-assured than when he’d last seen her, although she’d never lacked for confidence in herself. Her clothing was expensive, but not ostentatious. Only one gemstone glinted on her fingers, but it was a very fine ruby. He wondered who had given it to her.

“I have letters for you from Calais.” He handed them over and watched her set them aside, along with her needlework.

“Have you already delivered messages to Cat?”

“Not yet. Shall I give her your regards?”

Nan’s eyes abruptly narrowed. “She is not for you, Ned Corbett. Leave her alone.”

“Jealous, Nan?” He took a step closer, trying to read her expression without success. “Cat has nothing to fear from me. You quite ruined me for lesser women, Nan. I tried. Believe me, I tried! But after being with you, I could not bring myself to court your sister.” Resentment crept into his tone. “She is an admirable woman, I am sure, but I could not stop comparing her to you. She lacks your spirit, your vitality, your allure.”

“What nonsense you talk!” But she looked pleased. She gestured toward a second chair. “Make yourself comfortable while I read these and decide if I must answer them today.”

She’d want him to write for her, he supposed. Instead of sitting, he circled the room, taking a closer look at his surroundings, seeing chairs where stools and benches were more usual. Turkey carpets had been placed on the tops of tables, but also on the floor, a great extravagance. And an exquisite piece of arras work depicting the fall of Troy hung on one wall.

Sounds from the street drifted in—the cries of hawkers, the squeak of cartwheels, and the clatter of hooves—but the house itself was silent. “Where are your chaperones?” he asked abruptly. Aside from the servant who’d admitted him, there seemed to be no one else in residence.

“I do not have any. That is one of the reasons I enjoy living here.”

“Not even the faithful Constance?”

Nan looked up from the letter she was reading. “Constance is somewhere about. I do not require someone in constant attendance upon me.”

Ned examined an ornate clock given pride of place on a sideboard. “Whatever Master Mewtas does for the king, it pays well,” he murmured.

Nan gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged and continued his perambulation, stopping to study a portrait hung atop a second, smaller tapestry. Master Holbein’s work, he thought. “You know already,” he said absently, admiring the realistic look of the sitter.

“If you mean that absurd story Mother told me, about Peter Mewtas being sent to assassinate Cardinal Pole—”

“Oh, it’s quite true.” Ned had heard the tale firsthand at the Rose.

“Even if it is, the plot failed. Cardinal Pole is still alive and very much a thorn in King Henry’s side. You must not paint my friend’s husband as a hired killer, Ned. He is a gentle, considerate man, and he is high in the king’s favor.”

“And that, as we both know, is all that matters.” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice.

Nan caught his arm as he passed her chair. “Dear Ned. I am sorrier than you know that we have no future together, but it is far too late for me to change my course.”

“Is it?” He was not entirely sure what she meant, but the reminder of what they’d once shared spurred him to action. He hauled her up out of the chair and into his arms and kissed her before she could protest.

At the first touch of his lips to hers, he realized he’d been deceiving himself to think he’d accepted her rejection and moved on. He should have known he still wanted Nan and no other. Why else would he have failed to pursue Nan’s sisters?

As for Nan, she responded with all the fervor Ned remembered. But the first rush of passion did not last. He felt her lips compress under his mouth, firming into a thin, hard line. She squirmed, attempting to break his hold, and pushed at his chest with both hands. When he did not release her at once, she stomped on his foot.

As abruptly as he’d embraced her, Ned let her go. Nan stumbled backward a few steps, her French hood askew and the fine linen partlet at her throat rucked up where his fingers had been at it. Her hands shook as she hastily put herself to rights.

“We must never do that again,” she whispered.

“Why not? You enjoyed it … until you remembered that I have neither wealth nor title.” He reached for her.

She shied away. “Ned, stop. Please.”

More than the words, the catch in her voice and the shimmer of incipient tears in her eyes kept him silent. He turned away from her, striding to the window to put some distance between them. His fist struck the casement hard enough to bruise his knuckles and he welcomed the pain. Anything to distract him from the fact that he’d just made a fool of himself.

Nothing had changed. She was still set on her path. His lips twisted into a wry smile. He’d probably not be so attracted to her if she’d been any different. He turned to find her watching him with wary eyes.

“There’s something you should know, Ned.”

“Go on.”

“The king … the king has singled me out. Even if I wished to … be with you again, I would not dare show you any special favor. For your own safety. The king does not like to share.”

“The king? King Henry?” He had not expected this.

Her lips twitched. “Have we some other king I do not know about? Yes, King Henry. He has had his eye on me since I first came to court.” Defiant now, she tossed her head and stood with her arms folded across her chest, daring him to criticize.

“So, you are his mistress.”

“Strangely, I am not. Not yet.” She dropped her arms and her gaze, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“But you’re willing.” It was not a question. One did not refuse the king.

Nan drew in a deep breath. “There is much to be gained from being in the king’s favor. He gave me this.” She showed him the ruby and enamel ring she wore. “And this.” From a velvet purse suspended from her belt, she withdrew a miniature portrait of the king. “And he presented me with a palfrey and a saddle because I had no horse of my own to ride with him to hunt.”

“And where is the king now?” Ned demanded. “Why are you not at his side?” He knew part of the answer already. King Henry was off on his annual summer progress.

“I have encouraged His Grace to court me,” Nan said, “but not to claim me.” Again, she sighed.

“It is not like you to be indecisive.” Ned was beginning to lose patience with her. Did she want to bed the king or not? And if she was not as ambitious as he’d supposed, then what did she want?

“You want me to become his mistress?” She sounded incredulous.

Ned forced himself to think logically. He had always been good at separating self-interest from sentiment. Ordinarily, Nan was, too. And although he had not realized it at the time, when they’d been together he’d treated her as a friend as well as a lover. It was the friend she needed now. It could not be easy waiting upon the whim of the most powerful—and most dangerous—man in England.

“I am willing to let His Grace have you for a little while.” He grinned at her. “When he tires of you, I’ll still be here.”

He could tell she thought he was jesting. His declaration coaxed a smile from her. Let her believe what she would, Ned decided.

“Know I wish you well,” he said, “whatever you do. And now, if you wish to dictate a letter to Calais, my pen is yours to command.”

NAN DID NOT pretend to understand why Ned Corbett suddenly wanted to be her friend, but she was happy to make a place for him in her life. Although she doubted that she would ever trust him enough to tell him about his son, she could talk to him about everything else, from the foibles of her family in Calais to her desperate need to regain her place at the royal court.

He stopped in again the next time he was in London, the only bright spot in the long weeks while the king was on progress. He made no more attempts to kiss her. They simply talked. He told her of the rivalries and feuds that were a daily part of life in the lord deputy’s household—particularly the animosity between Sir Gregory Botolph and the other chaplains—and somehow made it all seem lighthearted and amusing.

At last, in early August, Nan, together with Jane Mewtas and a great number of other ladies and gentlewomen, was invited to travel to Portsmouth to view the royal fleet. The expedition required four days of travel—London to Guildford, Guildford to Alton, Alton to Winchester, Winchester to Portsmouth. Nan spent the entire time in a state of nervous anticipation. She was sure of her goal now. She could not tolerate being away from court, ignored and forgotten. Just as soon as she could manage it, she meant to become King Henry’s mistress.

But the king did not join his guests on their tour of several great warships. He was not even in Portsmouth. He had arranged the expedition as a “treat” for them.

“I do not understand why men are so fascinated by ships,” Nan grumbled. “There are many things I would find far more interesting than boarding one great, lumbering vessel after another.”

They stood at the rail of the Harry Grace à Dieu, the largest of the king’s warships. At least the view was impressive. Across the Solent, the Isle of Wight rose up out of the water. Nan could make out fortifications, but most of the place appeared to be forested. She wondered what it would be like to live on an island that small.

A stiff breeze carried the scent of lavender along with the smells of the sea and ships, warning Nan of the approach of King Henry’s former mistress. Margaret Skipwith, Lady Talboys, was wont to drench herself in that perfume, one Nan had once been fond of herself. Jane glanced over her shoulder, saw Margaret, and quickly ceded her place at the rail.

“I suppose you think it a great honor,” Margaret said in a low voice that reached no farther than Nan’s ear.

Nan kept her gaze on the distant shoreline. “It was kind of His Grace to arrange this outing for us.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw fury race across Margaret’s face as Nan deliberately misinterpreted her comment. Just in case the other woman contemplated pushing her overboard, Nan tightened her grip on the rail.

“You will not suit him at all. He does not like women who are too tall.” Margaret was several inches shorter than Nan.

“From what I have observed, he likes women of all sizes and shapes.”

“He prefers golden hair.” What showed of Margaret’s hair at the front of her French hood was fair, but more like ripened wheat than gold. Her eyes were narrow slits, green in color and green with envy, too.

Nan smiled serenely. “I can always achieve that color with the help of yellow powder, but I believe he likes me just the way I am.”

Margaret’s fingers dug into Nan’s forearm with painful force. Nan tried to shake her off, but her grip was too strong. “You were well compensated, Lady Talboys,” Nan said through gritted teeth. “It is my turn now.”

“Compensated? I was married off to a boy of sixteen.” Margaret’s disgust was plain in her voice and in her face, only inches from Nan’s.

A boy who then took immediate control of his inheritance, Nan thought, five years earlier than he would otherwise have been able to. She had heard all the details from Anne Herbert and had no sympathy for Margaret. She’d gotten a wealthy, titled husband and the age difference was trifling. Margaret was only a few years older than her spouse. “Most women would be well pleased with such an arrangement,” she said. “I would be myself.”

“Then you are a fool!” Margaret released her and was about to stalk off in high dudgeon when Nan turned the tables and caught her arm. “Is the king such a wonderful lover that you cannot bear to lose him?”

Margaret’s eyes widened at the blunt question. A series of emotions played across her face—anger, disdain, and, finally, what looked like fear. Belatedly, she seemed to realize that confronting Nan in a public place had been unwise. They were standing apart from the others, but a stray breeze could easily carry their words, and no one watching was in any doubt as to the subject of their quarrel.

“He does not need you,” Margaret said in a harsh whisper. “He has me.” And with that, she walked rapidly away.

Nan stared after her, absently rubbing her arm. Was Henry Tudor that good in bed? Or was it only her influence with him that Margaret sought to keep? Nan’s hands clenched into fists as another possibility struck her. She stared, unseeing, at the colorful bevy of gentlewomen on the deck of the ship. Could it be that Margaret Talboys had fallen in love with the king? Poor creature. If that were so, now that His Grace had found her a husband, she had no chance at all of keeping him to herself.

“Nan Bassett!” Joan Denny, wife of the chief gentleman of the king’s privy chamber, trotted toward her. “There you are, Nan. Come along. We are to be taken ashore now.”

Nan complied, dismissing Margaret Skipwith from her thoughts. Joan’s conversation ran in domestic channels. She chattered for the most part about her newly acquired house in Westminster. “It is almost like living in the country,” she boasted. “The air is fresh and there is room to take long walks. And yet we are hard by Whitehall, convenient to wait upon the king.”

Nan had no desire to rusticate and little interest in gardens, but she nodded politely at all the right moments. Joan’s husband, Anthony Denny, owned a goodly number of properties now, a direct result of the dissolution of the monasteries.

“Still, I am fond of our London house,” Joan said. “Aldgate is a prosperous part of the city and we have interesting neighbors. One of them is Hans Holbein, the portrait painter. Did you know he has been sent to Cleves? The king will not make the final decision to marry the Lady Anna until he has seen for himself what she looks like. Master Holbein is expected back at the end of the month with her likeness.”

It had been Master Holbein’s portrait of Christina of Milan that had so delighted the king after an earlier mission to paint prospective brides, and Nan had a sample of his work herself, the miniature the king had given her.

“Have you ever had your portrait painted?” Joan asked.

Nan shook her head.

“You should consider it. A likeness in small makes an excellent gift. It keeps the giver always in the recipient’s thoughts.”

EARLY THE NEXT morning, in company with Jane Mewtas, Nan set off on the return journey to London. At Guildford, a letter from Lady Lisle caught up with them.

“She thinks I am at court,” Nan said when she had read the missive. “She wants me to ask the king to pardon some man from the West Country, although she does not say what crime he committed or why he has prevailed upon her to intervene.” She barely managed to keep the irritation out of her voice. She’d never heard of the fellow and had no idea whether or not he deserved a pardon.

“Well, you are not at court, and there’s the end of it,” Jane said. “Write to your mother and tell her that you cannot help.”

“She will be furious with me.”

“She is in Calais and you are here. You will not be able to hear her curses.”

“True enough, but I cannot simply refuse. I must give her some reason or she will hound me about it for weeks.” Lady Lisle was an indefatigable letter writer.

“Tell her you do not expect to see the king again until His Grace comes to Grafton or to Ampthill and that you are in doubt whether you will see him then.”

Nan cocked a brow at the other woman. “Am I in doubt? I thought we were going to Grafton.” The king’s summer progress would stop there and, although that meant accommodations in the neighborhood would be hard to come by, Peter Mewtas had friends who lived nearby.

“I may decide not to make the journey, and you cannot go without me. I am tired of all this rushing about. And I think I may be breeding.”

“But—”

“If you are looking for excuses to give to your mother, Nan, then that one will do nicely.”

“You truly mean to stay in London?” Nan was taken aback by the idea. Even when the king was at Whitehall, visiting the court would be difficult without a respectable gentlewoman for company. Nan would be obliged to wait for the king to come to her. In the meantime, as a married noblewoman, Lady Talboys could visit the court and keep her own rooms there, too.

The prospect was intolerable. She had come so far. She would not abandon hope now. Nan set her mind to finding a way around this newest obstacle to her ambition.