Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (59 page)

Hours later, dazed and dizzy, Nan lay in bed and watched the midwife bathe her newborn son in a lukewarm mixture of ten parts water, one part milk, mallow, and sweet butter. The solution was supposed to defend the baby’s body from all noisome things.

“Is he healthy?” Nan’s throat felt raw and the words came out as a croak.

“He is perfect.” Mother Gristwood removed him from the bath, dried him, and swaddled him tightly in the linen bands she had ready for that purpose. When she had made the sign of the cross over him, she brought him to the bed and placed him next to Nan.

He
was
perfect. Now that he was swaddled, Nan could not count fingers or toes, but his tiny face was round and pink and he had a tuft of pale hair.

“It is likely superstition,” Mother Gristwood said, “but some believe that if a child lies at his mother’s left side near her heart before she gives suck, she draws into herself all the diseases present in his body.”

Nan looked up in alarm.

Mother Gristwood chuckled. “Have no fear. You will expel whatever evil you attract by the flux and issue of your womb, without any hurt to yourself.”

For a few golden moments, Nan held her infant son and imagined what it would be like to keep him, to build a life with him and his father. Tears welled in her eyes. Such a future was impossible. She had refused Ned’s offer. There was no going back. And in her heart, she knew she did not want to. Her course had been mapped out years before. She was not destined to marry a poor man.

“Time to take him to his parents,” Mother Gristwood said.

“In a moment.” Nan hugged the small, squirming body, fighting for self-control.

He was hungry. Mistress Carver had been given the name of a wet nurse, but she would not be able to send for the woman until after she discovered the foundling on her doorstep. Nan’s breasts ached with the need to feed her son, but when Mother Gristwood reached for the child, Nan let him go.

“I have left strengthening broths and caudles for you,” the midwife said, “as well as plasters and ointments to reduce inflammation and quell the bleeding. Expect afterpains and a bloody flux, both of which may continue for more than a month. A woman who has just had a child has no business traveling for at least a week.”

“But I must leave by tomorrow at the latest. My mother expects me to meet her.”

Mother Gristwood fixed her with a cold, implacable stare. “Would you risk your life? That is what it amounts to if you make a journey of any length before your body has time to heal.” With that last admonishment, she swept out of the room.

Kate appeared at Nan’s side with a restorative drink in a pewter goblet. “You were foolish to suggest traveling so soon and mad to think you could serve as the boy’s godmother. You must have nothing to do with him, nothing to do with his new family.”

Nan swallowed the medicine, but in spite of Kate’s advice she
knew she could not simply hand her baby over to strangers and forget she’d ever given birth. Somehow, she must find a way to see her son again.

“A
SLIGHT INDISPOSITION?
” Honor Lisle repeated John Husee’s words in a tone that dripped disdain.

“A megrim, or so her cousin told me.”

“Ungrateful chit. She has no proper respect for me.” Honor had neither forgotten nor forgiven Nan’s reaction to the pearls she’d sent. Even after several months, the insult still rankled. “And she need not think I will travel to London to see her.”

“I am sure I do not know what Mistress Anne is thinking, my lady,” John Husee temporized.

Honor sat at one end of the parlor of the Angel, the inn where the Lisles were lodged in Dover. She occupied the room’s only chair. Her man of business hovered nearby, nervously wringing his hands, while her husband and her other daughter, slim and elegant in clothing the Countess of Rutland had given her, stood talking at the opposite side of the room.

“I will not coddle the girl,” Honor muttered. “I have weightier matters on my mind.”

“As to that,” Husee said, “there is something you should know before you meet with the king.” Honor made an impatient gesture with one heavily beringed hand to indicate that he should continue. “Your husband’s cousin, Sir Geoffrey Pole, was arrested yesterday and taken to the Tower of London. He is charged with corresponding with his brother without making the king privy to his letters.” Husee leaned closer. “Madam, if you have, by any small chance, even for the most innocent of reasons, written to that same gentleman, I would advise you to inform the king of it of your own volition and to cease all future contact.”

Honor frowned. Sir Geoffrey Pole had more than one brother, but the only one of interest to the king was Reginald,
Cardinal
Pole. His position
in the Roman Catholic church had forced him into exile on the Continent. The cardinal’s place in the succession increased the threat he posed to King Henry. He and his brothers were descended from King Edward IV’s younger brother.

“I do not see why Pole’s arrest should affect me or my husband,” Honor Lisle told Husee. “Arthur has no claim on the throne.”

She had more pressing matters to concern her. There were problems with money—never enough. Arthur was in dire need of an annuity. Honor’s youngest son, James Bassett, also required an income. And how was John Bassett, the oldest of her boys, to support his new wife and the child they were expecting in the manner Frances Plantagenet deserved?

There was the dispute over Painswick Manor, too. That matter would have been settled long ago if not for the interference of that upstart Thomas Cromwell.

Honor was an old hand at courtiership. Social gatherings, private meetings over business, the exchange of tidbits of news—all those were familiar ground. Familiar, too, was the snail’s pace at which things proceeded. Nothing could be accomplished quickly and, in a court without a queen, there were far fewer opportunities for a woman to influence the king’s decisions. All the same, Honor had high hopes for this visit to Dover. King Henry himself had sent for them and today they had been summoned to the castle east of the town to meet with His Grace.

When she’d dealt with the remaining business Husee had brought to her, Honor ordered their horses brought around. With the king in residence, all of Dover’s inns were filled to capacity. The Angel was an excellent hostelry, but it had no stabling of its own. They had a long, frustrating wait before they could set out.

The last time Honor had visited the royal apartments in Dover Castle, she had been in attendance upon Anne Boleyn. Not yet queen, the king’s notorious concubine had been about to accompany His Grace to France. Honor had embarked on the voyage with mixed feelings. Her
religious upbringing required that she side with Queen Catherine of Aragon and deny the possibility of divorce. But the ambitions she harbored for herself and her family were powerful. To win and keep royal favor, she’d been prepared to be flexible. She still was.

Together with her husband and daughter, Honor entered the king’s apartment by way of a spiral staircase in the southwest corner. The chamber was well lit and boasted an enormous fireplace decorated with old King Edward IV’s badge of the rose
en soleil.
Honor’s spirits soared. It seemed to her that they were being shown special favor … until she recognized one of the other people in the room. Thomas Cromwell emerged from a dark corner to stand at King Henry’s elbow. Several persons in Cromwell’s livery accompanied him.

Honor had not expected to be alone with the king. There were always attendants about. But she had planned to complain to His Grace about Cromwell’s meddling. That was impossible now, and Honor suspected their long-anticipated “private” meeting with the king would be both public and disappointingly brief.

“But where is Mistress Nan?” the king asked when he had welcomed Honor and Cat with light kisses. “We looked forward to seeing both of your daughters again, Lady Lisle.”

“A trifling indisposition, Your Grace, but sufficient to prevent her from traveling.”

“What a pity,” said the king.

At a nudge from his wife, Arthur attempted to raise the issue of Painswick. And he hinted delicately at the matter of an annuity. His Grace ignored both overtures. When he dismissed them a few minutes later, nothing whatsoever had been settled.

Dissatisfaction made Honor’s manner curt when a lad in Cromwell’s livery followed them out into the passageway and tried to speak to her. She continued on without acknowledging his presence. Cat, however, out of courtesy, stopped to listen to what he had to say.

“That did not go so badly,” Arthur said as Cat caught up with her mother and stepfather.

Honor opened her mouth to contradict him, then closed it again. Let him retain his foolish optimism. She knew better. She did not object, either, when he suggested climbing up to the roof of the keep before they left the castle. He wanted to show Cat the view.

From that height, they could see the town and port, the shallows known as the Downs, and miles of undulating countryside. “That is St. Margaret’s Bay below,” Arthur said. “At low tide you can walk under the base of the cliffs, but there is always the risk of being cut off.”

“Is that Calais?” Cat asked, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. At the far side of waters that leapt and sparkled, the distant coastline shimmered, more illusion than reality. Only about twenty-five miles separated England from the Continent.

“It is,” Arthur said. “On rare occasions, one can see these very chalk cliffs from the walls of Calais, and sometimes even make out the shapes of men walking on the battlements.” He peered intently toward the far shore. For a few minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the cries of gulls and guillemots.

Losing interest, Cat drifted over to the spot where her mother stood. “Our Nan has made another conquest,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“That boy. The one who followed us when we left the king’s presence. He was most anxious about my sister’s health. He heard you tell His Grace she was ill and wished reassurance that it was nothing serious and that she would recover.”

“He looked to be thirteen or fourteen at the most. Somewhat young to have formed a romantic attachment.”

“Still growing,” Cat agreed, “and awkward with it. Color flamed in his face when he said Nan’s name. He’s encountered her somewhere and been taken with her beauty. We should not be surprised. Half the retinue at Calais fell under Nan’s spell during the short time she lived there before leaving for England.”

Belatedly, Honor thought to ask who the lad was.

“He’s Lord Hungerford’s son and heir,” Cat said.

“That does nothing to recommend him. I have no high opinion of his father. He was elevated to the peerage through Cromwell’s influence.” Honor frowned. What was it she’d heard? Some rumor about Hungerford’s mistreatment of his wife? She could not quite call the details to mind.

When a salty breeze came up, lifting the lappets on her headdress and making her skirts billow around her ankles, Honor dismissed both Hungerfords from her thoughts. It was past time to return to the inn.

There were letters waiting for her at the Angel. One came from Arthur’s daughter, Frances, in Calais. Honor’s entire body went tight with dread as she read what the girl who was both her stepdaughter and her daughter-in-law had written.

“Mary is gravely ill.” For Cat’s benefit, she added, “Your sister has been plagued by an intermittent fever ever since she returned to Calais in March. It is some sort of ague. I hoped it would pass, but Mary was in her fourth week of daily fevers when we left and Frances reports that she has taken a sudden turn for the worse.” Honor had only been gone a few days. She’d never have left if she’d thought Mary’s fever would rise. In most cases, agues became less severe over time.

“You should be with her,” Cat said. “Everyone in the household at Calais looks to you for treatment of their ailments. Even some of your friends in England write to you for advice when they are ill.”

“But I have obligations here,” Honor objected. “And I am not sure how much more I can do for our Mary. I have tried every cure I know for agues and fevers and none has worked for more than a short time.”

Cat looked thoughtful. “I have heard of something they use in the Fenland called ‘the stuff.’ It is opium poppy juice coagulated into pellets. Perhaps you can locate a supply here in Calais. It is said to be a sovereign remedy for all sorts of agues.”

Arthur, who had been listening to the exchange without comment, at last spoke up: “If you can obtain some of these pellets, you had best deliver them to Calais yourself.”

“But, my dear—”

“No, sweetheart. I can manage well enough here on my own, and Mary needs you.” He frowned. “Unless you think Nan has more need for your skills?”

Honor snorted. “Nan has no need of anyone or anything. That wretched girl is the most independent creature I have ever met.”

A
S SOON AS
Nan was able to travel, she, Kate, and Constance joined her cousin Mary and the rest of the household at the Earl of Sussex’s house at Mortlake. News from court reached them there only belatedly, but provided many happy hours of speculation. When it came time to return to London, Nan and the others were still marveling over King Henry’s demand to personally inspect seven or eight potential French brides. He’d suggested bringing them together under a marquee to be pitched on the border between France and the English Pale of Calais. The king and queen of France had been invited to chaperone. King Francis had angrily rejected the suggestion, ordering his ambassador to inform the king of England that it was not the custom in France to send damsels of noble and princely families to be passed in review as if they were horses for sale.

In the nearly two months she’d spent at Mortlake, Nan had devised a plan that would allow her access to her son. At her first opportunity, she slipped away from her cousin’s house and made her way to Cheapside, the widest thoroughfare in London. All along the way the houses and shops were the most fashionable … and the tallest … in the city. Some rose as many as five stories.