Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

Whereas I desired you in my last letters to send and provide me my money in English groats, I now pray you provide it in Flemish money if ye can—that is, in Parmesan ducats or French crowns.

—Sir Gregory Botolph to Edward Corbett, 26 March 1540

11

On the seventeenth of March, Sir Gregory Botolph returned to Calais. When he’d paid his respects to Lord and Lady Lisle, he sought Ned out. “What a journey!” he exclaimed. “The ship from England was wind-driven onto the French coast and I was obliged to make the twelve-mile journey from Boulogne on a borrowed horse.”

Ned hesitated. Boats bound for Calais could not control the direction of the wind. It was not uncommon to put ashore in France or Flanders instead. But if John Husee was right, Botolph had never been in England at all.

“Did you see the French king in Boulogne?” he asked. “I’ve been told he and his court are to celebrate Palm Sunday there.”

“Are they? That explains why the town was so crowded. I did not linger. Nor have I had a proper meal in days. Praise God it is almost time for dinner.” Leaving Ned with the distinct impression that he wished to avoid talking about his journey, he trotted off toward the dining chamber.

The noonday meal was a formal affair under Lady Lisle’s regime. Places were assigned by rank, above and below the salt. Sir Gregory Botolph’s customary seat at table had no particular advantage over those given to the other two chaplains, except that it was better protected from drafts by a tapestry showing scenes from the story of Holofernes that hung on the wall behind. For that reason, one of the other priests had appropriated it during Botolph’s absence.

With Botolph glaring at him, Sir Richard started to rise. Sir Oliver, the senior chaplain, stopped him with a gesture and spoke to Botolph. “Have you returned only to disrupt good order, Sir Gregory?”

“Not only for that reason, Sir Oliver.” Botolph swung one leg over the bench and nudged Sir Richard out of his way.

“You are the most mischievous knave that ever was born,” Sir Oliver declared.

“It is a gift from God.”

“You have a glib tongue,” Sir Oliver complained.

“The better to lead men on a righteous path,” Botolph answered. Not without reason he was known as Gregory Sweet-lips.

“If you go on as you have been,” Sir Oliver warned, “you will surely be hanged.”

“Hanged, you say?” Botolph looked startled. “On what charge? If it is my orthodoxy you question, I believe burning is the fate of martyrs.”

“You know well enough what charge.”

Ned stared at Sir Oliver. It sounded to him as if Husee was not the only one who knew about the plate Botolph had allegedly stolen when he was a canon in Canterbury. Hanging was the punishment for the theft of items worth more than twelvepence.

Sir Oliver’s glower was intended to intimidate, but Botolph only laughed and, apparently unperturbed by the other man’s hostility, ate with a hearty appetite.

It was Ned who brooded throughout the meal.

Ned thought it even more peculiar when, the next day at dinner, Botolph entered the dining chamber to find Sir Oliver in his place and Sir Richard seated where Sir Oliver usually sat and, instead of making some flippant remark or rude comment, simply took Sir Richard’s regular seat on the long bench and ate his meal in silence.

The following day, a Saturday, at nine in the morning, Mary Bassett’s Gabriel, the young seigneur de Bours, arrived in Calais, ostensibly to deliver a letter to Lord Lisle from the constable of France. He was a good-looking lad with an aquiline nose and vivid blue eyes. He had visited Calais once before, in mid-Lent, but on that occasion he’d stayed only long enough to dine. This time he planned to spend the night.

De Bours went with the family to morning services—Lady Lisle heard Mass every day, not just on Sunday. Afterward, as the congregation was leaving the lord deputy’s private chapel, Ned saw Sir Gregory Botolph take Lady Lisle aside. Curious, he moved close enough to overhear what they were saying.

“My lord husband is content that you depart,” Lady Lisle said, “and you have my blessing to go.”

“I will remember you both in my prayers.” Botolph’s voice and bearing were somber, but only until Lady Lisle walked away. Then his face split into a jubilant grin.

“So, you are leaving again,” Ned said.

“Escaping. I have permission to travel to the Low Countries and attend the University of Louvain.”

“Is that wise? You’ll be branded a papist if you study at Louvain.”

“There are worse things, my friend.”

Perhaps it would be best if Botolph left Calais, Ned thought, but did he really intend to matriculate? “How do you mean to reach Louvain?”

“I traded a bolt of tawny damask for a nag and a saddle. It was a good bargain. I bought the cloth cheap and I am owed thirteen shillings and fourpence on the exchange, to be paid in coin at a later date.”

“When do you leave?”

“Now that I have both a horse and my lord’s permission, I am of a mind to set out at once. If I stay, I will be obliged to eat another meal with Sir Oliver and Sir Richard. Unfortunately, I must delay until Philpott’s return from England.”

“Take your meals in town,” Ned suggested.

Botolph laughed. “But then folk would reckon Lord Lisle was displeased with me. I believe I will go to Gravelines and wait for Philpott there. The only drawback is that if I keep my nag there, I will have to pay for stabling, and I have little ready money.”

That was a difficulty Ned could appreciate. “Leave the horse in Lord Lisle’s stable till such time as you depart for Louvain. Gravelines is only ten miles distant, just over the Flemish border. A man does not require more than sturdy shoes and a passport to take himself there. I will send the horse to you when you have need of him.”

“That’s settled then. I will go at once and pack.” He clapped Ned on the back. “And you, my friend, must go in and dine and tell me later how my absence is taken.”

“They will be too busy gawking at Mistress Mary’s suitor to notice.”

Botolph caught Ned’s arm when he would have started toward the dining chamber and pulled him back inside the deserted chapel. It was cold out of doors but more frigid still within the stone walls. Ned shivered and wrinkled his nose. With the scented candles snuffed out, the place had a dank, unpleasant odor.

“I would have one more favor of you, in strictest confidence.” From inside his doublet, Botolph withdrew a packet wrapped in paper and bound with thread. By the sound it made when he hefted it, there were coins within.

“I thought you said you had no money.”

“None I can spend. These coins are broken, ready to be melted down. You must swear not to show them to anyone but Philpott. When he returns, give them to him.”

“And what is he to do with them?” Broken coins still had value, but those who tried to spend them were looked upon with suspicion.

“Philpott will have the gold made into three rings. One of them will be yours, for your trouble.”

Greed overcame caution. Ned slipped the small package into a pocket. It was not until that evening, after Botolph had left Calais, that he unwrapped it for a closer look. Inside were papal crowns issued in Rome. Possessing such money was dangerous, and the coins, even if they had not been broken, could not be spent in England or in Calais. Ned hastily rewrapped them. When it was full dark, he hid the packet beneath a floorboard in the stall occupied by Botolph’s nag.

The next day was Palm Sunday. Mary Bassett’s French suitor stayed until after dinner. Soon after he left, Mary came searching for Ned. She looked so radiant that he could not help but smile. “All went well, I trust, Mistress Mary?”

“Very well.” She blushed becomingly. “I will burst if I do not tell someone. We have agreed to marry. When Gabriel returns he will bring a formal request for my hand from the head of his family.”

“Then, surely, you do not need to keep your secret any longer. You should prepare your mother and stepfather for what is to come.”

“Not yet. And you know I would not have confided in you, except that you already know how much I hoped this day would come.” She blushed prettily.

“I will not betray you,” Ned promised. He’d do his best not to betray anyone’s secrets.

ON THAT SAME Palm Sunday, in London, Wat Hungerford was sent on an errand by Lord Cromwell. He approached the house of John Husee without any particular sense of foreboding. Husee himself proved to be a nondescript sort of man and he seemed only mildly surprised to receive a letter from Wat’s master.

“Wait, in case I wish you to take a reply.” Husee broke the seal and began to read. His eyes had gone wide before he was halfway down the page. By the time he came to Cromwell’s signature, his face was beet red and his hands were shaking so hard that he dropped the letter.

Wat bent to retrieve it. He could not help but see a few lines when he picked it up, enough to tell him that Husee was Lord Lisle’s factor in London and that Cromwell had written to suggest that he leave Lisle’s employment at once.

Husee seized the page before Wat could read more. “There will be no reply!”

Wat prudently retreated. Out in the street again, he took his time walking back to Lord Cromwell’s house. He knew Cromwell thought Lord Lisle should be removed as lord deputy of Calais, and that he had his own man in mind to replace the viscount, but why would Cromwell want John Husee to resign from his post? He mulled that over for a while and decided that Husee, as Lisle’s man of business, was likely responsible for keeping his irresponsible master out of financial difficulties. Yes, that made sense. Deprive Lisle of sensible advice, and his position would be that much weaker.

Lord Cromwell was good at exploiting weaknesses. Time and time again, Wat had seen that firsthand. In Lord Lisle’s case, however, it bothered Wat a great deal to know in advance of that nobleman’s impending downfall.

He detoured around a steaming pile of horse dung in the street and continued on, his thoughts shifting to the reason he had always taken a particular interest in anything connected to Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle—Mistress Anne Bassett.

She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Wat had thought so from the first moment he’d seen her—the day of Prince Edward’s christening. He’d decided on the spot that he was going to marry her someday. The fact that he was four years younger than she was did not strike him as a serious obstacle, and since she had not married anyone else in the interim, he was optimistic that he would, in time, make his dream a reality.

She’d danced with him once. He treasured the memory.

Because Lord Lisle was Mistress Anne’s stepfather, Wat resolved to keep his ears open and his eyes peeled for any further machinations on Lord Cromwell’s part. If his master moved against the viscount, Wat would warn Mistress Anne. Even if he lost his place with Lord Cromwell as a result, it would be worth it. He’d save her family. She would see that he was just like the chivalrous knights in the stories. He would be her champion.

WHEN CATHERINE CAREY left the ranks of the maids of honor to marry, she was replaced by Lord Bray’s sister, Dorothy, a pretty, dark-haired girl with a turned-up nose. Within a week, Dorothy had discovered the spiral staircase that linked the ground and first floors of the queen’s apartments. They were there so that food and other goods could be delivered without intruding upon the queen’s privacy, but they also provided a way for members of the household to leave without being seen. Within two weeks, Dorothy had put them to use to sneak out to meet her lover—Anne Herbert’s brother, Will Parr. Nan glanced up from her embroidery late on Palm Sunday afternoon and was just in time to see Dorothy slip away.

Beside Nan on the padded bench, another of Queen Anna’s maids of honor sat and stitched. Like Nan, Catherine Howard had noticed Dorothy’s stealthy departure. When her eyes met Nan’s, they shared a look that said Dorothy Bray was a foolish girl.

Abruptly, Catherine’s expression changed to one of intense dislike. Startled, Nan broke contact and fixed her gaze on the needle in her hand, but she could still feel Catherine staring at her.

“Dorothy Bray has made a poor choice,” Catherine said after a moment. Nothing in her voice betrayed strong emotion.

Nan kept her own tone light. “Lord Parr seems pleasant enough.”

“He has two counts against him. He has no great fortune and he already has a wife.”

“Becoming the mistress of a married man is never wise.” Nan wondered where this conversation was headed. Did Catherine know Nan had seen her with the king?

“His Grace is fond of you, Mistress Bassett.” The sibilance of Catherine’s whisper made Nan think of snakes hissing.

“So I would hope, Mistress Howard. I should not like King Henry to think ill of me.”

“In that case, you should be careful how you behave in his presence.”

“I do not understand you.” Nan’s hand paused over her needlework.

“I should take it very badly indeed should I hear you had returned to his bed.”

Forcing herself to continue stitching, Nan slowly turned her head to look at the other woman. “I am the king’s to command, Catherine. If he sends for me, I must obey.”

“I will turn him against you if you try to usurp my place.”

Surely, Nan thought, it was the other way around. Catherine Howard had been much in King Henry’s company this past month, while Nan had received little more than casual greetings from His Grace. Catherine’s threat did not make sense … unless she had not yet become the king’s mistress.

Why would she withhold her favors? The moment Nan asked herself that question, she knew the answer. Catherine Howard was angling to be queen.

Slanting another glance at her fellow maid of honor, Nan saw that Catherine was pouting, like a toddler deprived of a toy. She was childlike in other ways, too—impulsive, self-centered, set on having her own way regardless of the consequences.

Nan did not like Mistress Catherine Howard. She gave herself airs. She snubbed the other maids of honor when they invited her to play cards with them or go to listen to the king’s musicians practice the latest songs. Catherine spent most of her free time, when she was not with the king, in the company of Lady Rochford.

The older woman seemed an odd choice to Nan. Lady Rochford was reputed to have brought about the downfall of Queen Anne Boleyn by telling Lord Cromwell that the queen had committed incest with her brother, George Boleyn—Lady Rochford’s husband. That Lady Rochford had not shared in the Boleyns’ disgrace gave credence to the tale. She had been one of Queen Jane’s ladies and now served Queen Anna. Perhaps, Nan thought, Catherine saw her as a source of privileged information about the queen’s intimate relations—or lack of them—with the king.

A sharp pain in her shoulder made Nan jump. Catherine Howard had stabbed her with a needle!

“Pay attention to me, you stupid cow,” Catherine hissed. “The king is mine. I will not tolerate any interference in my plans.”

“You are welcome to him,” Nan whispered back, sliding to the far end of the bench as she clapped one hand protectively over her wounded arm. “I am content with my place as a maid of honor to the queen of England.”

She glared at the other woman. Catherine was not a clever girl, nor had she been well educated, but she had a kind of animal cunning. She was ambitious and determined. Nan suspected it had not taken much effort for the Duke of Norfolk to convince her to set her cap for the king.

“Do you swear that is true? You do not want him for yourself?”

“You have my word on it. If you succeed in your quest, I will serve you every bit as loyally as I do our current mistress.”

The irony in that statement seemed to elude Catherine Howard. “See that you do, Nan Bassett.” Rising in as regal a manner as someone of Catherine’s tiny stature could manage, she swept out of the room.

Nan went back to her embroidery, glad that it was the king’s favor she needed to keep and not the queen’s.

* * *

ON THE TUESDAY after Palm Sunday, Ned faced Lord Lisle in the latter’s study. “I have come to request a license to go to Gravelines on the morrow,” he said.

“What business do you have in Flanders?” Lisle was already reaching for the form used for passports.

“Sir Gregory Botolph has asked me to take certain of his possessions to him there.” Botolph wanted his nag and some other belongings he had left behind.

Quill poised over paper, Lisle looked up in surprise. “Do you mean to say that Sir Gregory has traveled no farther than Gravelines? He should be halfway to Louvain by now.”

“He has been awaiting Clement Philpott’s return from England.”

“Then the man’s a fool. Why waste money on lodgings in Gravelines when he might as easily have stayed here?”

“I believe he wished to avoid Sir Oliver,” Ned said.

As Lord Lisle wrote out the passport Ned needed to cross the border, Ned steeled himself to broach another subject. “My lord, I understand that Master Husee has left your service.”

“Bad news travels quickly. I only received his resignation this morning.”

“I wondered, my lord, if you have someone in mind as his replacement? You will recall that I have served in London in Master Husee’s place on occasion and that I am familiar with your business dealings in England.”

As if he wished to avoid meeting Ned’s gaze, the lord deputy bent over the passport to sign his name. “I need you here,” he mumbled.

Ned swallowed his disappointment and asked for the loan of a horse for the trip to Gravelines. Bright and early the next morning, he and Browne rode out of Calais, Ned on the gelding he’d borrowed from Lord Lisle’s stable and his servant on Botolph’s nag.

Two hours and ten miles later, they located Botolph at the Sign of the Checker in Gravelines. Ned had planned to turn right around and return to Calais, as he was on duty in the marketplace early the next morning, but Botolph forced a delay by sending Browne on an errand.

When he’d gone, leaving Ned and Botolph alone in the latter’s well-appointed chamber, Ned sent the other man a speculative look. “Do you intend to explain why you got rid of my manservant?”

“I have a confession to make.” He poured wine into goblets and handed one to Ned, gesturing for him to sit.

“Hearing confessions is your profession, not mine.” But Ned took the bench by the window.

Botolph dropped into a Glastonbury chair and stretched his legs out toward the hearth. “I did not go to England.”

Ned tasted the wine before he spoke—hippocras, richly spiced. “I suspected as much after talking to John Husee some weeks ago.” He felt a brief surge of resentment that Lord Lisle did not consider him worthy to be Husee’s replacement. “Where did you go, then?”

“First to the French court, which was then at Amiens. There I was given money for my journey by the pope’s ambassador to France. I was able to hire good horses all the way to Rome.”

Ned did not believe him. “You were not gone long enough to make a trip to Rome and back, especially at this time of year.”

“The weather was in my favor.”

Ned frowned into his goblet. The gold crowns Botolph had given him in Calais did lend credence to the claim, but Botolph was skilled at spinning elaborate fabrications. Look at how he’d had poor Philpott convinced that he was about to be married to a Lutheran lass. “Why would you want to go to Rome?”

“To see Cardinal Pole. I offered him my services.”

Ned began to have the uncomfortable feeling that Botolph was serious. He should walk out now, before he heard any more.

But in the next moment, Ned realized he was already in too deep to escape. Cardinal Pole was a traitor to England. If Botolph was telling the truth, he’d committed treason by treating with Pole. And Ned, now that he knew that much, was guilty by association. He might as well satisfy his curiosity.

“If you went to Rome, why didn’t you stay there?” He took another swallow of wine.

“Because Cardinal Pole and Pope Paul need me here. I met with them in the Holy Father’s own chamber and I have been given a mission by His Holiness, as well as two hundred crowns with which to accomplish it. In herring time, when Calais is crowded with fishermen bringing their catch to market, we will return the English Pale to the true church.”

The fanatic gleam in Botolph’s eyes, the fervor with which he spoke, almost convinced Ned that it could work. But what few details Botolph provided revealed that the scheme hinged on subverting men of the garrison. Although there was some discontent over matters of religion, those men were loyal to king and country. They would never open the gates to England’s enemies. Precisely who would take control of Calais, Botolph would not say.

“By herring time all will be in readiness.” Botolph sat back, a satisfied look on his face, and polished off his goblet of wine.

“Herring time is six months away,” Ned objected. The Calais herring mart ran for two months, from Michaelmas, at the end of September, until St. Andrew’s tide. During that time, over three hundred herring boats brought their catch into port. “You will be hard pressed to keep your plans secret for that long. You’ve already risked both the plot and your own neck by talking so freely to me.”

This scheme was every bit as foolish as those that cropped up at regular intervals to restore the Catholic Church to England by overthrowing King Henry. He’d heard enough. Too much. Ned rose and started for the door.

“You will not betray me, my friend. You are loyal,” Botolph called after him. “Besides, you know what will happen to you if you tell anyone.”

Ned stopped, his hand on the latch. He’d be charged with treason because he knew of the plot. Warning Lord Lisle would accomplish nothing except putting himself in prison right alongside Botolph. He turned back. “Listen to reason, friend. This scheme has no chance of success. If you persist, you’ll end up burnt for a heretic, or hanged, drawn, and quartered as a traitor.”

“Only if you betray me. My death would be on your conscience, Ned.”

Ned began to pace. “You will betray yourself when you return to Calais and try to bribe members of the spears.”

“That is why I will not go back, nor ever into England again so long as King Henry sits on the throne. I will send others in my place while I remain safe in the emperor’s dominions.”

Ned stared at Botolph in disbelief as the other man rose from his chair and refilled his goblet. “You intend to sacrifice your friends? That is monstrous.”

Botolph turned, the wine in his hand. He gave Ned a considering look. Then he laughed. “Did you truly believe me? I thought surely the plot was so far-fetched that you would see right through the jest.”

Anger rippled through Ned. His fists came up and he took a step toward Botolph. “A joke? What if someone had overheard? We’d both be in prison for plotting against the Crown.”

“Where is your sense of humor, Ned? You’d be laughing right along with me if it were Philpott I’d cozened with my tale.”

Ned didn’t know what to believe, although it was true Botolph took unholy pleasure from playing just this sort of trick on his friends. Slowly, he unclenched his fists and reached for his wine goblet. “If you did not go to Rome, where were you?”

Botolph’s expression turned serious again. “This is the true confession. When I was a canon in Canterbury, I did something … ill-advised. Sir Oliver learned of it, and for the enmity he bears me, would see me hanged if he could.”

Ned took a long swallow of wine. This, at least, he could believe, but Botolph had not answered his question. “Where did you go?”

“Louvain, to make arrangements for my studies there. And now, Ned, I would think it a great kindness if you would collect the debts owed to me, and a few more things that I left behind in Calais and send them to me here.”

Ned couldn’t believe his ears. “After such a trick, why should I do you more favors?”

Botolph smiled engagingly and exerted the full force of his personality. “Because we are friends, you and I and Clement Philpott. Friends help each other.”

CLEMENT PHILPOTT HAD returned to Calais while Ned was in Gravelines. At his first opportunity, Ned gave Philpott a condensed account of Botolph’s return to Calais, his quarrel with the other chaplains, his departure for Gravelines, and Ned’s own journey there with Botolph’s nag. He left out the wild tale of rebellion in herring time. He told himself he’d been a fool to fall for such a fantastic story.

Philpott set off into Flanders to take Botolph the money Botolph’s brother had sent. Botolph, meanwhile, had sent Ned a letter telling him he was about to leave and asking Ned to retrieve a shirt he’d sent out to be laundered and to collect his blue livery cloak, his pillow, his ring, his sarcenet tippet, the good scabbard for his sword, and his knife, as well as the money he was still owed in the exchange of cloth for nag and saddle. Ned was shaking his head in disbelief by the time he got to the list of other debts Botolph was owed. He wanted Ned to send the money to him in groats, but only after using some of the coins to buy him an ell of the finest colored kersey.

When Philpott returned to Calais the next morning, he brought another missive from Botolph. In this one, Botolph requested that his debts be repaid in ducats from Parma or in French crowns. He also wanted Ned to send him the books he’d left behind.

“And he asked to borrow your servant,” Philpott added. “He wants Browne to go with him as far as Bruges, as it is unwise for a gentleman to travel alone.”

Since Ned was already planning to send Browne as far as Gravelines to deliver Botolph’s money and the other items, he agreed. It hardly mattered if his man rode on a little farther.

“And he said you had some coins for me,” Philpott added.

Belatedly, Ned remembered the broken papal crowns. After that, try as he might, he could not quite shake the niggling fear that Botolph might have been serious about herring time.

AS MARCH TURNED into April and April advanced, it became abundantly clear to Nan that Catherine Howard would succeed in pushing out Queen Anna. The king rarely left Catherine’s side and was clearly besotted with her.

On the twenty-third of April, Lord Lisle arrived at court. He paid his respects to the king, but then he retreated to his lodgings, pleading the sudden onset of illness. Nan, worried about him, visited him the following evening. Her stepfather was the oldest man she knew and, in spite of his usual robust good health, he could not live forever.

She was relieved to find him in good spirits in spite of being propped up in bed and wrapped in furs. He greeted her with a thunderous sneeze. His eyes were red and watery. He’d rubbed his nose raw and used handkerchiefs littered the counterpane. Nan kissed his cheek in greeting, then stepped back a prudent distance.

“I sound worse than I feel.” Lisle swabbed his dripping nose. “This is only a nasty catarrh. A few days’ rest and I will be back to my old self.”

“I devoutly hope so, my lord.” When he fell into a fit of coughing, she found a pitcher of spiced ale on the sideboard, filled two cups, and handed him one of them.

“I have incentive to recover quickly.” He sipped and gave a contented sigh. “I have every expectation of being elevated in the peerage during this visit to court. An earldom, Nan—what do you think of that?”

“That you have served the Tudors long and well and deserve a sign of royal favor.” Nan perched near Lord Lisle’s feet, sinking down into the soft feather bed.

“Honor will be pleased. She and your sisters are in good health. So is my daughter, Frances, and the child she gave birth to last May.”

The baby, Nan recalled, had been christened Honor Bassett. Mother and child remained in Calais while Nan’s brother continued to study law at Lincoln’s Inn. It was a sensible arrangement, as the marriage had been. Frances’s union with her stepbrother kept her inheritance in the family. According to Ned Corbett, the two got along as well as any married couple.

That reminded Nan that she had not seen Ned for some time and that, during his last visit, they’d quarreled. When she’d heard that John Husee had left Lord Lisle’s employ, she’d-half expected that Ned would be appointed to fill his place, but the post was still vacant.

Thinking of Ned—to be honest, missing Ned—inevitably reminded Nan of the son she had borne him. It had been even longer since she’d seen young Jamie. With both Cousin Kate and Catherine Howard suspicious of her, she’d not dared risk a trip into London. She’d consoled herself with the knowledge that even if Jamie were her legitimate child and his father some wealthy nobleman, she’d not be able to spend much time with him. Cousin Mary rarely saw her boy. Even the Countess of Rutland, who regularly journeyed to Belvoir Castle with Cat in tow, had a limited amount of time to spend with her children.

“The young seigneur de Bours has been to visit,” Lord Lisle said when he’d recovered from another bout of coughing. He frowned. “That is a matter I must broach with the king as soon as I recover. The lad wants to marry your sister. A letter from his uncle, as head of the family, formally proposing to open negotiations, arrived just after I left Calais. Your mother sent it on to me in Dover. I must have the king’s approval before I can go forward in the matter.”

“I cannot think why His Grace should object to Mary’s betrothal. She has no Plantagenet blood in her veins.”

“True. Perhaps I can leave the business until later. I have a great deal more to speak about with His Grace. These are difficult times in Calais.” His fingers fumbled with the fur he kept wrapped around himself. His brow furrowed, adding new creases to a face already deeply lined with age.

“Has something in particular happened?” Nan sipped the spiced ale, untroubled by any premonition of disaster. There was always unrest in the Pale.

“A most nefarious plot against the Crown,” her stepfather said.

“Treason?” That, too, was all too common. Someone always seemed to be fomenting rebellion or preaching sedition.

“Of the worst sort—betrayal by members of my own retinue.”

Suddenly uneasy, Nan slid off the foot of the bed and set her cup on the sideboard. “Who has betrayed you, my lord?”

Lisle rattled off a list of names, but Nan heard only one—Corbett.

Her heart stuttered and she couldn’t remember how to breathe. Ned … and treason?

“Sir Gregory Botolph conceived the dastardly plan. The depositions contradict each other on numerous points, but it seems certain that Botolph went to Rome, met with Cardinal Pole, and conspired with him to open the gates of Calais to England’s enemies during herring time, when the town is crowded with strangers.”

“Enemies?” Nan echoed in a choked whisper.

Lisle’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “No one was too clear about what army would come. The French, perhaps. Or the emperor’s men. Someone allied with the pope, that much is certain. When Clement Philpott first came to me with his story, I did not believe him. But when those he accused were questioned, they confirmed everything he told me.”

“Where is … Philpott now?” Nan did not dare ask after Ned. If she spoke his name, the tremor in her voice would betray the depth of her concern for him. She clasped her hands together to hide their trembling.

“Philpott, Corbett, and the rest are in the Tower of London. After they were examined in Calais and gave their depositions, they were brought over to England in the greatest secrecy. I suppose the torturer will have a go at them now, although I suspect they have already confessed everything they know.”

Nan squeezed her eyes shut, but nothing could block out the horrible images crowding into her mind. She had heard terrifying stories about men stretched on the rack until they would admit to anything just to put an end to the pain. She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. It would not do to let the extent of her agitation show. Any association with a traitor could put a man, or a woman, at risk of being accused of that same crime.

When she had regained a measure of control, she asked, “Are all those arrested equally guilty?”

Lisle blew his nose before answering. “Corbett admits to no more than a single meeting with Botolph in Gravelines and to helping the fellow retrieve money owed him and a few belongings he left behind in Calais. But Corbett did not just convey those things to Botolph. He ordered his manservant to accompany the villain partway to Louvain. He helped Botolph escape the king’s justice.”

Nan blinked at him, and only with difficulty grasped his meaning. “Do you mean to say that all these men are imprisoned in the Tower of London while Sir Gregory, who devised the scheme, remains free?”

“Exactly so. He is at large somewhere in the Low Countries. Flanders, perhaps. No one knows. The king’s agents are trying to track him down. In the meantime, because I brought this treasonous plot to light, Lord Cromwell assures me that I will remain high in royal favor. As soon as I am well again—for you know how His Grace abhors sickness!—I will present myself to King Henry. An earldom is in the offing as my reward for diligence. I am sure of it.”

Nan tried to match his smile, but she was glad the light was dim in the bedchamber. She had a feeling the expression on her face was closer to a grimace. If Lord Lisle did not see the flaw in his logic, she was not about to point it out to him. She had no doubt that Clement Philpott had also expected to benefit from exposing the plot.

Nan suspected that her stepfather would return to Calais with no greater honors than he already possessed. That the plot had been conceived on his watch would count against him in the king’s eyes, and Cromwell would likely use the debacle to have him replaced as lord deputy.

She felt pity for her stepfather, but she did not fear he’d come to any real harm. What Ned Corbett faced, however, terrified her. When she had coaxed Lord Lisle into telling her all he knew of the prisoners, she made her excuses and returned to the maidens’ chamber.

Her eyes blurred, blinding her as she fumbled her way out of her clothing and into her bed. Her heart felt as if it had been rent in two. She wanted to wail and tear at her hair, but she was not alone in the dormitory. She could only lie still, silent tears coursing down her cheeks, until she finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.