Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (49 page)

“What is it you want of me, my lord?” The stranger’s voice sounded subdued, almost subservient.

“I have a task in mind,” Cromwell said. “One you are well suited to perform, since you seem to revel in conspiracy for its own sake.”

“I am determined to advance myself. Is that so unusual?”

Cromwell gave a short bark of laughter. “You are an unscrupulous, irresponsible rogue, completely unsuited to being a clergyman.”

“And yet that is what I became. Younger sons have little choice.”

“Especially younger sons who are the black sheep of otherwise respectable families. Do not try to work your smooth-tongued charm on me. Save it for the purpose I have devised.”

To Wat’s frustration, Cromwell lowered his voice again. The boy caught only a few words of the ensuing dialogue, although those he did overhear intrigued him. Lord Cromwell said, “Calais,” and later, “the lord deputy’s wife.”

After some little while, filled with more mumbling, the stranger said, “It will be as you wish, my lord,” and took his leave. Wat thought he detected a note of sarcasm in the words, but if Lord Cromwell noticed, he did not comment. A few moments later, Cromwell also left. The study became noticeably darker.

Wat stepped out from behind the arras. The movement stirred dust in the air and he sneezed. Horrified, he froze. Had Cromwell heard? Would he return to investigate?

When nothing happened for several minutes, Wat thought he was safe. Belatedly, he realized the enormity of what he had done. He had witnessed Lord Cromwell coercing a priest into entering his employ. Whatever the man was to do, it involved Calais, the last English outpost on the Continent. Even though Wat had not understood most of what he had overheard, he knew too much. If he’d been caught …

Wat did not want to think about that. He took deep breaths to steady himself, then crept out of the study and back to his own bed. Best to forget what he’d heard, he decided. Just as he always put what he knew about his own father out of his mind.

*  *  *

A
T COURT,
N
AN’S
days passed with mind-numbing sameness until, at last, the queen’s labor began. Her women rejoiced, but when it continued throughout the following day and the next night and into the day after that, worry replaced elation. No one dared voice the thoughts that were on all their minds—what if the queen should die? What if the child were stillborn?

“Where is the king?” Nan asked Anne Parr. “Does he know what is happening?”

“No doubt he does, and no doubt that is why he is at his hunting lodge at Esher and not here. He is close enough that he can reach Hampton Court quickly when he needs to, but far enough away that he does not have to see”—she broke off as another agonized scream rent the air—“or hear the queen’s suffering.” She lowered her voice. “The king has an aversion to illness of any kind. He will never go near anyone who is sick.”

“He must protect himself from contagion,” Nan said, defending His Grace, but at the same time could not help thinking him cowardly. He could scarcely catch what ailed the queen.

When more than fifty hours had passed and the queen’s labor was well into its third night, a royal visitor did arrive, but it was the king’s eldest daughter, not His Majesty. Even though she had never seen the Lady Mary Tudor before, Nan had no difficulty in recognizing her. Her clothes alone announced her status. Over the cloth-of-gold kirtle, the Lady Mary wore a violet velvet gown. Her headdress sparkled with precious gems. At her throat a jeweled
M
was set with rubies, diamonds, and a gigantic pearl.

At twenty-one, thin, and of middling stature, Mary Tudor was in no way beautiful, but she had a presence that was unmistakably royal. That did not surprise Nan. The Lady Mary had spent most of her life—until Mistress Anne Boleyn came along—being groomed to rule England.

Mary Zouche, who had once been a maid of honor to the Lady Mary’s mother, scrambled to her feet and sank into a curtsy. After the
slightest hesitation, everyone else followed her lead. Mary Tudor
was
the king’s child, even if both she and her four-year-old half sister, Elizabeth, Anne Boleyn’s daughter, had been disinherited and declared illegitimate by their father. The king claimed his marriage to Queen Jane was the only one that was legal.

The Lady Mary stared at Mistress Zouche with large, pale hazel eyes. She seemed to be trying to place the maid of honor. After a moment, Nan realized that Mary Tudor’s intent gaze was actually a symptom of poor eyesight.

“Rise,” said the Lady Mary in a surprisingly deep voice. “All of you. Mistress Zouche, how does the queen fare?”

When Mary Tudor drew Mary Zouche aside to hear her answer, Nan’s attention wandered to the older woman who had accompanied the Lady Mary. The woman and Bess Jerningham were whispering together in a most familiar manner.

“Who is that?” Nan asked Anne Parr.

“Lady Kingston. She is Bess’s mother. When she was still Lady Jerningham, she was one of Catherine of Aragon’s ladies. This past year, she joined the Lady Mary’s household.” Now that she was looking for it, Nan saw the strong physical resemblance between the two women. Both had large brown eyes, wide mouths, and small, turned-up noses.

“My mother served Queen Catherine, too,” Anne added in a low voice. “Mother devoted her life to royal service. Although she sought rich marriages for my sister and brother, she trained me to follow in her footsteps.”

“Then you can find a wealthy and influential husband for yourself at court, as she must have done.”

Anne chuckled. “My father died when I was two, so I do not remember him, but as far as I can tell his most outstanding accomplishment was to take the part of one of the Merry Men when King Henry disguised himself as Robin Hood and crept into Queen Catherine’s bedchamber early one morning to demand that she rise and dance with him. Father had no title and no great wealth, either.”

Her interest caught, Nan studied her friend. “Did your mother succeed in making good matches for your siblings?”

Anne nodded. “She arranged for my sister, Kathryn, to marry old Lord Burgh’s son. After he died, Kathryn wed Lord Latimer. And our brother is married to the Earl of Essex’s only child. Will has every expectation that the king will grant him that title when his father-in-law dies. But what of you, Nan? Have you brothers and sisters?”

“Three of each, and none of them wed, although my oldest brother is betrothed to my stepfather’s daughter, Frances Plantagenet.”

Anne’s eyebrows lifted.

“My stepfather, Lord Lisle, is Arthur Plantagenet, a natural son of King Edward the Fourth. My stepfather has three daughters by his first wife—Frances, Elizabeth, and Bridget.”

“And your own sisters?”

“Philippa is the eldest, Catherine next, and we have a younger sister, Mary, who is being brought up in the household of a French gentlewoman of my mother’s acquaintance.”

“The same family you were sent to?”

“Kin to them.”

Nan’s French upbringing had not produced the rich results her mother had hoped for, since England and France were again at odds. It had been Nan’s charge to win and keep Queen Jane’s favor. She was to promote her siblings and find a rich, titled husband for herself. But what if the queen and her baby did not survive childbirth? Who would advance the Bassetts then? Who would be worth cultivating?

Nan’s gaze went to Mary Tudor. Would Catherine of Aragon’s daughter be reinstated as King Henry’s heir? If there was even the slightest possibility of that, then Nan would do well to meet the once and future princess and make a good impression on her.

It was not difficult for Nan to persuade Anne Parr to present her to Lady Kingston. As soon as Nan mentioned that she was Lady Lisle’s daughter, Lady Kingston embraced Nan like a long-lost cousin. Both Lady Kingston and her second husband, who was constable of the Tower
of London, were among Honor Lisle’s correspondents. After a few minutes of conversation, Lady Kingston presented Nan to the Lady Mary.

Mary Tudor’s myopic hazel eyes fixed on Nan’s face in a most disconcerting fashion. Nan wondered what the other woman was thinking. Most likely, she was reviewing what she knew about Nan’s family. Would she hold it against Nan that Lady Lisle had been one of Anne Boleyn’s attendants during the visit Anne made to France before she became queen? Or would she remember hearing that Nan’s mother still clung to the old ways in religion? Doubtless, the Lady Mary knew both these things.

Another agonized scream from the queen’s bedchamber put an abrupt end to Nan’s hope of having a conversation with the king’s daughter. Turning to Lady Kingston, the Lady Mary ordered the older woman to investigate. Then she retreated to the far side of the privy chamber, well away from any member of Queen Jane’s household.

The waiting resumed. It lasted until nearly two o’clock in the morning on the twelfth day of October, when Queen Jane at last gave birth to a healthy, fair-haired baby boy. Nan was ecstatic. All would be well now. Soon she would have the life she’d dreamed of.

King Henry rode in all haste from Esher to Hampton Court, arriving just at dawn. Nan was present in the royal bedchamber, now flooded with light, when the king lifted his new son from the cradle and held him in his arms for the first time. There were tears in His Grace’s eyes.

“His name shall be Edward,” Henry VIII proclaimed. “For my grandfather, and because he was born on the eve of St. Edward’s Day.”

The king lavished praise upon his exhausted wife, but as far as Nan could see, Queen Jane was far too tired to care what her husband thought. Nor did she react when he gave orders for every courtyard and hallway near the nursery to be washed down and swept daily.

“The king has a surprising passion for cleanliness,” Nan observed when His Grace had departed.

“He has good reason to fear contagion,” Anne Parr said. “He had another son once. Catherine of Aragon’s child. The boy lived only eleven days before he fell ill and died.”

Nan did not quite see what washing and sweeping had to do with keeping a baby healthy, but she knew already that the king was more fastidious than most people. She’d heard from the other maids of honor that he took regular baths, in spite of the risks associated with immersing one’s self in water. And he washed his hands far more often than was usual.

“Did you hear?” Anne asked, interrupting Nan’s musings. “The queen wants everyone in lion tawny velvet or black velvet turned up with yellow satin for the christening.”

Nan stared at her, appalled. “Do you mean to say that I will need
another
new gown?”

Anne nodded. “And in three days’ time, too.”

Nan groaned. If the queen commanded it, it would be done, but Master Husee was not going to be pleased.

O
N THE EVENING
of Monday, the fifteenth day of October, in the hours before the christening, nearly four hundred persons gathered outside the queen’s apartments. Presently, they would be allowed in to pay their respects. Then they would move on into the Chapel Royal for the actual ceremony.

Arranged in a half circle behind Queen Jane, who reclined on a daybed covered with crimson damask lined with cloth-of-gold, the maids of honor stilled, smiled, and held their poses. Nan wore a new gown of black velvet trimmed with yellow satin. She loved the feel of the soft fabric. For all that Master Husee had been obliged to rush the needlewomen who made it, the workmanship was as fine as that on any of her companions’ clothing.

Although she was otherwise motionless, her gaze roved. The same crimson that decorated the daybed was repeated in the mantle the queen
wore around her shoulders. Nan envied her its ermine trim. Even at court, where servants dressed according to the rank of their masters, that particular fur was not for the likes of a mere gentlewoman.

When Nan’s gaze came to rest on Her Grace’s hair, she nearly sighed aloud. Queen Jane wore it uncovered and flowing free. In spite of her extreme paleness—or perhaps because of it—those long tresses, so light a brown as to be almost blond, gave her an ethereal beauty. In contrast, her maids of honor still wore their ugly, old-fashioned, unflattering gable headdresses.

A familiar scent tickled Nan’s nose. Belatedly, her attention shifted to the king as he took his seat on an ornately carved and elaborately upholstered chair at the queen’s side. He was so close to Nan that, had she dared, she could have reached out and touched him. Propping one foot on a stool, King Henry took his wife’s right hand in both of his, the picture of husbandly devotion.

Careful not to attract unwanted attention, Nan looked her fill. She found the king’s person just as appealing now as she had during their first encounter. Only with a supreme effort of will was she able to redirect her attention toward the door.

The first guests to enter were those of highest rank. Sequestered as she had been, Nan had not had many opportunities to match courtiers’ names to their faces. Now she struggled to commit features to memory as each person was announced.

The Lady Mary was there, resplendent in a richly embroidered cloth-of-silver kirtle. She was the newborn Prince Edward’s half sister and was to be his godmother. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk and the Duke of Norfolk came in next. Aside from the prince, who would hold the titles Duke of Cornwall and Prince of Wales, the baby’s godfathers, Norfolk and Suffolk, were the only two dukes in England. Neither of them was royal.

Nan stared at the Duchess of Suffolk. Blue eyed, with fair coloring, she was only two years Nan’s senior, while the duke was in his fifties. It was not uncommon for an old man to take a young wife, especially if she
had wealth as well as beauty, but it could not be pleasant for the bride. Nan shuddered delicately before she remembered that if she was successful here at court, she might well end up with a husband just as old and fat as Charles Brandon. But rich, she reminded herself. And titled. She suspected she could put up with a great deal to be a duchess.

She stole another glance at the Duke of Norfolk. His wife was not with him. Nan had heard that she was confined to a manor house in Hertfordshire because she’d dared object, loudly and in public, when the duke installed his mistress at the family seat of Kenninghall.