Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (70 page)

Not the king. He’d had no opportunity to catch more than a glimpse of Catherine Howard before he wed Anna of Cleves. The Duke of Norfolk was more likely. He’d already helped put one niece, Anne Boleyn, on the throne of England. It was reasonable to assume that he’d provided pretty little Catherine with beautiful clothing in the hope that she would catch the king’s eye. And she had.

Belatedly, Nan saw Catherine’s sojourn with the dowager Duchess of Norfolk in a new light. She recalled several occasions, during the weeks before the Dutch maids of honor were dismissed, when King Henry had
crossed the Thames with only a few of his gentlemen and spent the day in Lambeth.

Then there were the gifts Catherine had received. Nan had seen them in the maiden’s chamber. Small things—quilted sleeves, a painted brooch—but Catherine had never said who’d sent them. No doubt there had been other presents—jewels, perhaps a painted miniature of King Henry, maybe even a horse.

When Catherine laughed and the king joined in, Nan turned and fled back toward the maiden’s chamber. She had left it too late. The king had found someone else to ease his disappointment in the queen.

The dormitory was deserted when Nan reached it. Grateful for the solitude, she flung herself onto the window seat and stared out at the winter-brown landscape. March was not yet half gone. She shivered and thought about stirring the embers in the hearth and adding wood to the fire, but suddenly lacked the energy to get up and do so.

Was the king’s interest in Catherine Howard a passing fancy, or was Catherine’s goal the same as her own, to marry the king? That girl was no innocent. Nan was sure of it. And she doubted that the king would offer marriage without first sampling the wares. When he discovered she was not a virgin, he was unlikely to make her his queen.

So, Nan decided, it was only a matter of time before he tired of his new love. And then what? Nan was no longer so certain she could rekindle his interest in her. Even if she did, it might not lead to marriage.

Nan had never been given to introspection, but she forced herself to examine her reaction to discovering Catherine Howard with the king. Now that the shock had worn off, she knew that what she was feeling was not jealousy. Rather, it was a sort of rueful relief.

It was a pity that her opportunity had been lost, but she was no worse off than she had been and she’d been spared the onerous task of pretending, night after night, perhaps for years, that the king was a wonderful lover.

Perhaps she’d had a lucky escape. Tom Culpepper, whose duties
included changing the king’s dressing, had told her that the ulcer it covered never healed. In fact, His Grace’s doctors advised him to keep it open beneath the bandages. Nan shuddered, remembering the nauseating odor she’d caught a whiff of once or twice.

“The king is still fond of me,” she murmured. “I am still a maid of honor, still at court. And so long as those things are true, I can still hope to catch the eye of a wealthy and eligible nobleman.”

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.

O
N 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.