Royal Inheritance

Edith frowned. “No one ever said.”

“But you must have speculated.”

My pleading look weakened her resolve. “A guess only. That perhaps you were . . . kin to someone important. I never heard who your mother was.”

“A laundress. That’s all. A servant far lower than you are yourself.”

“Then if not your mother . . .” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened. Suddenly, she was afraid. “It is not for me to say more. Ask Master Malte if you have questions.”

“Does my father pay your wages?”

She would not meet my eyes. “I have a stipend from the Crown,” she whispered.

I quailed at confronting Father with my suspicions. I needed to know the truth, but to ask if the king had fathered me would be to accuse John Malte of lying. I was loath to do such a thing. I told myself that my resemblance to the princess was pure chance. And we’d most certainly had different mothers. Why, then, should I suppose that our father was the same man?

We were still at Ampthill when, unexpectedly, Princess Elizabeth was sent back to Ashridge, where Prince Edward had remained when the court moved on. No one seemed to know why, but the king was said to be furious with his youngest daughter.

“I expect she asked an impertinent question,” Father said when I asked him about Her Grace’s sudden departure. “Childish curiosity is natural, but sometimes it has unforeseen consequences.”

“A question about what?” I persisted, fearing his answer but feeling driven to ask.

Father glanced over his shoulder to make certain we would not be overheard. “About her mother, I expect. The king does not permit anyone to speak of either Anne Boleyn or Catherine Howard in his presence. The first was the child’s mother, the other her cousin and, briefly, her stepmother. It is only natural that she should mention one or the other of them to her father, never anticipating how violent the king’s reaction would be.”

“Is there not a third possibility?” I avoided meeting Father’s eyes as I asked my question. “Perhaps the princess asked her father about me. We look alike, Father. You cannot have failed to notice. Everyone else seems to have remarked upon the resemblance.”

The snip of scissors ceased, leaving the workroom in silence. I could feel his gaze on me, but I did not dare look up.

“No one makes such observations in my hearing, Audrey. Or in the king’s. Whatever you have heard foolish people say, you are my daughter.”

“I told myself I was imagining things!” I flung my arms around him and burst into tears. Of course John Malte was my father! Any other conclusion was absurd.

“There, there, child.” He produced a clean square of linen and mopped my cheeks. Then he kissed me on the forehead. “No more crying. You should know better than to believe half the things you hear at court. And if anyone is brash enough to repeat such foolish ideas to your face, you must tell them flatly that they are wrong. You are Audrey Malte, the royal tailor’s daughter.”

I gave one last sniff and blew my nose. “Even if it is the queen who says—”

“Even if it is the queen, but in Her Grace’s case, you must say so most politely.”

That made me smile, and I hugged him again.

With a newfound self-confidence, I returned to the queen’s apartments the next day. I had been in the habit of bringing Pocket with me, since several of the other ladies had lapdogs. This time I also carried my lute and asked Queen Kathryn if I might play for her a tune of my own composing.

After that, things changed for the better. The queen’s household grew accustomed to my presence. The maids of honor, who were the closest to me in age, began to include me in their pastimes. No one made any further references to my appearance.

The progress continued, stopping at Grafton and then moving on to Woodstock. There the court remained until mid-October, before returning to London by way of Hertfordshire.

I enjoyed much of my time on progress, but I was exceeding glad to go home.

21

Stepney, October 1556

Did they truly think you were the king’s daughter?” Hester seemed more amazed than impressed by the idea. “You are no princess.”

“No, I am not, but indeed they did. And I . . . wondered. But when Father told me it was a foolish notion, I believed him. I wanted to believe him. John Malte was the best father any girl could wish for.”

“My father is all that is wondrous.” Hester’s certainty made her sound both older and younger than her years.

Audrey shifted uneasily, wondering how to proceed with her story. She and Hester sat the edge of the brick wall that marked one side of a garden within the garden. The knotted beds were outlined in low, close-growing plants—hyssop and germander and thyme. The open spaces in the simple pattern—elaborate knots forming coats of arms were not to Audrey’s taste—were filled with primroses, but this late in the year they were no longer blooming.

After a little silence, Hester asked another question. “What did the queen believe?”

Audrey applauded her daughter’s acumen. Courtiers, like sheep, followed the lead of those in charge. “In the hearing of many of her ladies, Queen Kathryn took pains to remark that there were a great many redheads about. And it was true. When I looked more carefully around me, I saw every shade from carrot to auburn peeking out from beneath women’s French hoods and men’s bonnets.”

She smiled to herself, remembering the queen’s many kindnesses to her during that long-ago progress. Kathryn Parr, for all that she had been raised up to such a high position by her marriage to the king, remained a country-bred gentlewoman. She was considerate of the members of her household. She saw herself as a peacemaker and strove to bring together those who were at odds with one another. And she loved to give presents almost as much as she loved to receive them. She had presented Audrey with a book of prayers and a new collar for Pocket when the progress ended.

“Although I was happy to return to London,” Audrey said aloud, “there were some things about being part of the court that I missed. Having so many people about was sometimes overwhelming, but at the same time there was always someone to talk to, or challenge to a game of cards. There was always music. The Bassano brothers, the same Italian musicians who played at Durham House when Jack took me there to meet the Earl of Surrey and his sister, went along on progress that summer as part of the queen’s entourage.”

Hester turned toward her mother as a sudden thought struck her. “Was everyone in good health when you returned?” she asked. “Did they escape falling ill of the plague?”

“Everyone was well, although Bridget was much put out that I had spent nearly three months with the royal court while she’d sweltered in the London heat. I tried to tell her that it was just as uncomfortably warm in the country but she did not believe me.”

“That is because it is not true,” Hester said with a giggle.

“I did not want her to feel any more put upon than she already did.”

“Why didn’t your father send the rest of the family to Berkshire? I thought the king granted him property there.”

“Father was granted the rents on property in Berkshire, but the lands and houses themselves already had tenants. Besides, I do not think Mother Anne would have gone, or Bridget, either, for all her complaining. Even more than I was, they were city bred.” She gestured toward a decorative pool that had been dug nearby. “They were accustomed to rats and mice, and flies breed everywhere, but they’d have found the sight of frogs repulsive and I cannot imagine how they would have reacted to being wakened by loud birdsong and a cock crowing to announce the dawn.”

“There are roosters in London.”

“But other sounds, to which city dwellers become accustomed, drown out their raucous early morning greeting.”

Audrey sat a little longer, still enjoying the feel of the sun on her face, but the afternoon was already fading and the air was chillier than it had been. She realized, of a sudden, that she had worn herself out with talking.

“It is time to go in. We will continue this on the morrow.”

“Oh, no! Not yet. First you must tell me where Father was all the time you were with the court.”

“He was in Calais by then, with Sir Thomas Seymour.”

“But he came back to England. He must have. You and Father married and I was born.”

“That was much later.” Audrey sighed. So much of her story remained untold, but she was committed now to finishing it. “I must rest for a little, Hester. Tomorrow will be time enough to continue my tale.”

“During my session with Master Eworth?”

“After, I think.” The portrait painter had heard more than he should have already.

But on the morrow, there was no opportunity for private speech. Jack Harington returned that evening from his latest visit to Hatfield, the Hertfordshire manor house some twenty miles north of London where Princess Elizabeth and her recently reorganized household resided.

“We leave for Catherine’s Court by the end of the week,” he announced.

Hester was ecstatic. She loved their home in Somersetshire and was delighted at the prospect of spending time with her father. Audrey was less sanguine about this sudden change in plans. Jack’s original intention had been to remain in Stepney through the coming winter.

“What have you done?” she demanded of her husband the moment they were alone together in their bedchamber.

“Naught that concerns you, my dear. Have you given orders for the maids to pack your belongings and Hester’s?”

“I have, as you requested, but what are we to tell Master Eworth? Hester’s portrait is not yet complete.”

“Eworth will have to finish it from memory. We cannot delay our departure.”

Worse and worse, Audrey thought. There was something amiss and his refusal to speak of it with her meant that it was deadly serious. Once she’d have thought he was protecting her. Now she suspected he simply did not trust her to obey him if she knew the whole truth.

Crossing the room, she placed one hand on his arm, frowning when she saw how bony her fingers looked against the dark fabric of his doublet. Jack shook her off and refused to meet her eyes.

He had done something foolish, she thought. Something that could imperil them all.

Throwing tact aside—it had rarely proven useful to her in the past—she moved in front of him, forcing him to look at her.

“Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?” she demanded. “You’ve been a prisoner in the Tower twice already for meddling in the succession. If you are suspected of treason a third time, Queen Mary will order your execution without a second thought.”

In these troubled days, when Queen Mary and her Spanish husband could clap a man—or a woman—into gaol for a careless word, it was sheer folly to tempt fate by plotting against them. Every attempt to replace King Henry’s eldest daughter as queen had failed. First, supporters of the Lady Jane Grey had attempted to usurp the throne. Then there had been an ill-conceived rebellion led by Sir Thomas Wyatt the Younger. Arrests and executions had resulted from both. Following Wyatt’s disastrous uprising, and as a direct result of it, Jack had found himself in the Tower.

She could not fault her husband’s loyalty to Princess Elizabeth, or to the religious faith in which they’d both been reared, but so long as Mary sat on the throne, either allegiance might have deadly consequences. The fires of Smithfield burned bright to consume so-called heretics. A dank, cold cell in the Tower awaited those judged to be traitors, followed by the most terrible and ignominious death imaginable—to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, the severed parts afterward displayed to strike fear into all who saw them.

A shudder racked Audrey’s thin frame. Only a few months earlier, the so-called Dudley Conspiracy had come to light. Jack had sworn he was not involved with the conspirators and she’d believed him, but he was plotting something now. She was certain of it.

“You cannot help the Lady Elizabeth if you are in prison, or if you are dead.”

“Would you have me run away? Go into exile in France or the German states?”

“Others have, there to wait for the queen to die. Mary has borne no child and likely will not, given her age. In time, Elizabeth will succeed her half sister.”

“How much time? We have already waited three long years.”

“As long as it takes! Think of your daughter, Jack, if not of me! If you are condemned, your estate is forfeit. She will be left destitute.”

“You have kin who will take you in.” His cold voice held no hint of the laughing young man Audrey had once known.

“I’d rather beg in the street than throw myself on Bridget’s mercy.”

“You—”

“There is no one else, Jack. No one. Father, Mother Anne, and Muriel have all gone to their reward. My family consists of you and Hester and I will fight for what is best for our child.”

He drew in a deep breath and ran the fingers of one hand through his thick, dark hair. He’d grown a beard since she first knew him, a luxuriant thing with a mustache above. He tugged on it, as if debating with himself how much to tell her.

“Have I ever betrayed you?” she asked.

He sighed again. “No. But the less you know, the better. All this may come to nothing.”

“They why do we flee London? For that is what you are doing, Jack. Running away.”

“Running to,” he corrected her. “To safety.” The rueful sound he made was not quite a chuckle. “I should think you’d be pleased about that.”

“So you have done nothing yet to incriminate yourself?”

“Naught but listen.”

That meant it was Princess Elizabeth who was planning something dangerous, Audrey thought. “Has she asked you to assist her?”

“No, she has not.”

Audrey thought some more. It was no secret that Queen Mary wanted her half sister to wed the Duke of Savoy. Once married, King Henry’s troublesome younger daughter, Mary’s heir so long as she bore no child of her own, would fall under the control of a husband who was not only Mary’s ally and a good Catholic, but a foreigner. He could take the princess out of England and keep her away.

“I pray every night for a return to the Church of England and an end to Spain’s influence,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “but treason is a fool’s game.”

“Do you not think I’ve learned that? I’ve seen far too many men I admired go to their deaths because they acted against those in power. My one desire is to keep Elizabeth safe from harm. She has only to survive to one day succeed her sister, peacefully and without civil war. There has been enough blood spilt.”

So passionate was this declaration that Audrey found herself unable to argue with it. She slid her arms around her husband’s waist and simply held him for a long moment. Then she pulled away and announced in a brusque and businesslike voice that she would have the household ready to leave Stepney within two days.

Two hectic weeks later, they were settled in at Catherine’s Court. During that time, there had been no opportunity for Audrey to share further confidences with her daughter. She had warned Hester not to speak of what she had already learned. She felt strangely reluctant to have Jack find out what she had begun. She did not think he would approve.

Audrey was still in her bedchamber, breaking her fast with bread and cheese and ale, when Hester burst into the room. “Father has gone off with his steward to tour the estate!” she announced. “He will not be back for hours and hours.”

Her daughter’s excess of energy made Audrey feel tired just looking at her, but what the child wanted was abundantly clear. And she was correct. This was the perfect time to resume her narrative.

22

April 1544

Another war with both France and Scotland seemed imminent in the days just before my sister Bridget married John Scutt. Like Father, he was a royal tailor. A few years earlier, he had been master of the Merchant Taylors’ Company.

He had been courting Bridget for the best part of two years, giving her all the traditional gifts a young lover sends to his future bride. But he was not a young lover. He was nearly fifty to Bridget’s seventeen and had been married twice before. He had a daughter, Margaret, who was eight years old. But he was very wealthy.

Bridget greedily accepted everything he offered—coins, rings, gloves, purses, ribbons, laces, slippers, kerchiefs, hats, shoes, aprons, hose, whistles, crosses, lockets, brooches, gilt knives, silk smocks, a pincase, garters fringed with gold, and even a gown with satin sleeves. As we had all been encouraged to since earliest childhood, she’d stitched linens against the day she’d marry. She had accumulated a goodly supply and Father was prepared to provide anything else that was necessary for her to set up housekeeping.

“But will you be happy with Master Scutt?” Muriel asked her as we dressed her for the ceremony in a new russet wool gown with a kirtle of fine worsted. It was a lovely spring morning. Even London’s air seemed fresher than usual. Our bedchamber was filled with the mingled scents of rosemary, to strengthen memory, and roses, to prevent strife.

Bridget laughed and tossed her long yellow hair, worn loose down her back like a veil on the occasion of her wedding. “He is besotted with me and I mean to keep him so.”

“But he is so old,” her sister persisted.

“If he cannot keep me satisfied,” Bridget confided in a whisper, “I know how to find those who can.”

“Really, Bridget,” Mother Anne chided her, “you should not say such things, not even in jest.”

“Are you certain I am jesting?”

“You had better be. You may not have experienced it yet, but Master Scutt has an evil temper when he feels he has been wronged. You would be wise never to provoke it.”

Bridget only laughed some more. I was the one who worried. Although it rarely deterred any female from marrying, it was common knowledge that after the exchange of vows a husband took control of every facet of his wife’s life. He owned everything that had once belonged to her. She was beholden to him for the clothes on her back and the food on their table. Worse, he could beat her if he chose, and no one would intervene. Once they were one in the eyes of God, he acquired ownership of all her possessions and also of her person. She was as much his chattel as a sheep or a cow.

Muriel and I had spent the last several days before the wedding knotting yards of floral rope. This now hung on every wall of the house. As Bridget’s attendants, we had one more duty. We set to work stitching ribbon favors to her bodice, sleeves, and skirt.

“Baste loosely,” Mother Anne warned us. After the ceremony, these favors would be tugged free by the wedding guests.

When she was ready, Bridget smirked at herself in the looking glass. She did look very fine, even though she wore only two pieces of jewelry. The “brooch of innocence” was prominently displayed on her breast. A gold betrothal ring glinted on one finger. Muriel handed her a garland made of rosemary, myrtle leaves, and gilded wheat ears to carry to the church. That done, we three set out to walk the short distance west along Watling Street from Father’s house to St. Augustine’s church.

The entire way was strewn with rushes and roses and our neighbors had turned out in force with makeshift instruments, everything from saucepan lids and tin kettles with pebbles inside to drums made of hollow bones. It was an old, old tradition—the noise was supposed to keep evil influences away.

The ceremony was one I’d witnessed many times before. I scarce listened to the droning words but the scene itself affected me strongly. In my mind’s eye, I did not see Master Scutt. Jack Harington stood there, plighting his troth, far more toothsome, and with more teeth left, too. In Bridget’s place, I imagined myself, face radiant, heart slamming against my ribs in anticipation of spending the rest of my life with the man I loved.

“Love, honor, and obey,” I whispered along with my sister, “till death us do part.”

I snapped back to reality when the wedding sermon began. It dealt with the duties of wedlock. The groom was urged to be tolerant, the bride faithful. I wondered if Bridget had any intention of keeping that vow. Most assuredly, she would never stop flirting with any man who appealed to her.

But for the present, the new husband and wife were in harmony. They passed the bride cup around to all the guests. Sops—small pieces of bread—floated in the wine. Before each person drank, he or she dipped a sprig of rosemary into the contents of the cup.

Afterward, everyone returned to Father’s house. A great feast had been prepared, but first Muriel and I had another tradition to uphold, that of breaking a cake over the bride’s head and reading her future in its pieces. It is possible that I enjoyed this act a bit more than I should have, and left a great many more crumbs than necessary ground into Bridget’s long yellow hair, but the chunks that fell to the floor foretold much that was desirable—a son and heir and great wealth. Pleased, Bridget contented herself with finding occasion to pinch me—twice—during the festivities.

It was difficult not to be in a convivial mood. Food and drink were plentiful. Gifts were generous, both from the guests to the newly wed couple and from the bride to those who’d come to see her wed. I did not know all of them. Some were friends of John Scutt and others kin to Bridget’s late mother. I was about to slip away to help Muriel and Mother Anne prepare for the last event of the day when Father beckoned to me.

“This is Audrey, Richard,” he said to the young man standing beside him, a gangly, dark-haired youth who was a stranger to me. I judged him to be a year or two younger than I was. “Audrey, this is Master Richard Darcy. He is about to begin his studies at Cambridge.”

I attempted to make polite conversation by asking him what he would study there. The expression on Darcy’s face put me in mind of a rabbit Pocket had flushed out of the bushes at Ashridge. Did he think I would bite?

He managed to stutter out a reply but it made little sense. I thought he might be rattling off the names of Greek and Latin authors. None was familiar to me.

My effort to talk to him about the wedding was even less successful, but it gave me an excuse to escape. “I must go and help my sister now,” I told him. “It is time for the bedding.”

“Oh, er, yes,” he mumbled, and the rims of his ears turned bright red.

I could not resist. “We’ll put her to bed stark naked,” I said, “and when Master Scutt is brought in, he’ll have been stripped of his clothing, too. They have to consummate their marriage, you know, or it will not be legal.”

He looked everywhere but at me. Then he made a choking sound and fled.

I was smiling as I hastened to the bridal chamber. It was the room where Father and Mother Anne were accustomed to sleep, the best in the house.

Once the bride and groom were tucked under the covers together, Bridget’s blue garters were presented to Master Scutt’s groomsmen and all the pins she’d worn during the day were thrown away. Then Muriel threw one of Bridget’s stockings over her shoulder. She laughed with delight when young John Horner caught it. He’d be next to marry, or so tradition said, and we all knew that his father had been talking to ours about betrothing him to Muriel.

Once Bridget and her new husband drank their posset, we left them alone. I yawned, ready to seek my own bed as soon as all the guests had left the house, but Father waylaid me, drawing me into the window embrasure where we could speak in private. He looked as tired as I felt.

“What did you think of young Darcy?” he asked.

I made a face.

He laughed. “It is early days yet, but consider that he might be a suitable match for you.”

“I do not like him!”

“You have scarce had a chance to get to know him. What is wrong with him?”

He was not Jack Harington, but I could not say that to Father. “I do much dislike his chin,” I said instead. It was the sort that sloped backward toward his neck. I frowned, trying to remember where else I had seen a face with such a feature.

Father sighed. “If you continue to find him distasteful when you get to know him better, I will not force the issue, but will you promise me to give him a fair chance? He’s young yet, and timid in the presence of a pretty girl. He will doubtless improve on further acquaintance.”

At least, I thought, Darcy was not as old as John Scutt. Nor, I supposed, was he as wealthy. “How can a mere stripling like that one provide for me?” I asked.

“It is my duty to make certain that you want for nothing. If you marry, his father will make a settlement of land on the two of you and I will do the same. Indeed, whatever man you wed, you will have a respectable dowry, Audrey, as befits your father’s wealth and position.”

Unspoken was the supposition that any prospective husband, or his family, would match or surpass Father’s contribution to the marriage. That meant that Father would never consider Jack, even though he liked him. Jack had no land of his own and no wealthy father to grant him any. He was no better than a servant in the household of Sir Thomas Seymour, who was himself a younger son.

I knew it was foolish to pine for what could never be. And if I was honest with myself, I had to admit that Jack had never expressed an interest in courting me. We’d been friends. He’d opened up new worlds for me. But more than a year had passed since I’d last seen him. For all I knew, he had forgotten my very existence.

“I know you want only the best for me, Father,” I said, resigned. “I will try to be fair-minded when it comes to Master Darcy.”

23

Soon after Bridget’s wedding, Father purchased leases for lands and manors in Somerset valued at nearly two thousand pounds. He had some idea of spending summers in the country, where there was less danger from the plague. Mother Anne would not hear of it.

“I was born in London and I’ll die in London,” she told him.

“What would we do with ourselves, locked away in some remote manor house?” Muriel wanted to know. Away from her newly acquired betrothed, she meant.

I was wholeheartedly in agreement with them. Only years later did I come to appreciate the joys of country life. That summer, the one during which I celebrated the sixteenth anniversary of my birth, I fed on the energy created by the sheer number of people living inside the old London wall. The wards and parishes throbbed with it.

Even on those days when all we women did was sit by the window, our needles busy on a piece of embroidery or a hem, all manner of things happened just beyond the panes. London is never quiet, never still. Bells toll the hour. Hawkers shout to sell their wares. Riders swear, attempting to make their way through a crush of pedestrians. Carts clatter past, filled with wares from every part of England. All that summer, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen sauntered by Father’s shop, surveying the goods on display.

When we ventured out of the house, I found city life even more stimulating. Blue-coated apprentices mingled with black-clad clergymen, serving maids with staid dowagers. There was bustle and confusion and excitement. We had to be on our guard because pickpockets went everywhere to ply their trade, but that was part of the thrill. A retreat into peace and quiet and safety held little appeal.

In that year, the plague was not the threat people feared most. Invasion by French troops appeared to pose a far greater danger to life and property. We were at war again with our ancient enemy. In mid-July, the king himself left England to lead his troops into battle. His Grace named Queen Kathryn as regent during his absence.

The queen took up residence at Hampton Court, where Prince Edward already had his household, and sent for the two princesses to join them. I was not summoned. I had not expected to be. Nor did Father go to court. With the king gone, there was no employment there for the king’s tailor.

John Scutt, Bridget’s new husband, was royal tailor to the queen. He traveled back and forth by boat throughout the last half of July and all of August. When he was at home in London, he shared the latest court news with his young wife. Sometimes Bridget repeated what he told her. At others she hugged it close to her chest, delighting in knowing something Muriel and I did not.

On one late August evening when the air held the threat of rain, Bridget slipped through the yard and into our house by way of the kitchen. I’d seen Master Scutt return from Hampton Court less than half an hour earlier. Add to that the cat-swallowed-the-linnet expression on Bridget’s face as she burst into the hall and it took no astrologer’s horoscope to predict that she had a secret she was eager to share. I exchanged a speaking glance with Muriel, who knew our sister’s ways as well as I did.

Father and Mother Anne had gone to a supper at the Merchant Taylors’ Hall. So, I presumed, had Master Scutt. The merchant tailors often held meetings and social gatherings there. I do not remember what the occasion was for this one, but in consequence Bridget, Muriel, and I found ourselves alone save for Pocket, and he was sound asleep on a cushion. Edith and the other maidservants remained belowstairs, leaving us to serve ourselves comfits and wine and fresh fruit.

“You will never guess what I just heard.” Bridget’s smirk made me want to strike her.

“That is very true. Perhaps you should simply tell us.” I had been composing a new tune for the lute when she arrived. Now I set that instrument aside and folded my hands in my lap. That seemed the safest place for them if I was to resist the urge to slap my sister’s face.

Bridget wandered with apparent aimlessness from chair to table to window. She ran her hand over every surface, every piece of plate and glass beaker—as if she was trying to evaluate their cost. She had always been acquisitive. Since her marriage she seemed inclined to put a price on everything . . . even information. “What is it worth to you?”

I started to say “nothing” but Muriel spoke first.

“A penny.”

“Not enough.”

“Sixpence, then.” When I looked at her askance, she spread her hands wide to indicate how helpless she was to resist. “Look at her, Audrey. She’s bubbling over like a pot on the boil.”

“And sooner or later she’ll tell all without the necessity of payment. She will not be able to stop herself.”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, Muriel sent Bridget a resentful look. “I suppose you still want the sixpence?”

Bridget held out one hand, palm up, and waited until Muriel paid her. Her fingers curled tight over the silver coin, as if she feared her sister would try to snatch it back. Only after she’d tucked it securely into the purse she wore attached to her belt did she speak.

“The queen means to go on progress next month through Surrey and Kent.”

“There is a royal progress every year,” I said impatiently. “That is not news worth sixpence. I’d value it at less than a farthing.”

“She will take the royal children with her.”

“A penny’s worth. No more.” And not enough to account for Bridget’s barely suppressed glee.

“Master Scutt has seen the itinerary.”

I said nothing to this. A list of stops proposed for the progress did not interest me and I had vowed never to ask why, months after their wedding, Bridget did not yet call her husband by his Christian name. I did not want to be privy to the intimate details of their marriage.

“The queen will stay at Mortlake, Byfleet, Guildford, and Beddington,” Bridget continued, “and at other great houses, too. Her Grace will honor friends at Allington Castle and Merewood with brief visits.”

I pantomimed a yawn. Bridget’s answering scowl pleased me very much.

“Do not tease her, Audrey, I beg you.” Muriel looked truly distressed. “Bridget may decide not to tell us anything exciting, after all.”

“She cannot have a very important secret. If it had to do with the king or the queen, the gossips of London would already have caught wind of it.” Nothing spread faster in the city than a rumor.

Two bright spots of color appeared on Bridget’s cheeks. “At Merewood the queen’s host will be Sir Richard Southwell,” she blurted.

I paused with a comfit halfway to my mouth. My appetite for the sweet abruptly vanished. “Sir Richard Southwell is nothing to me.”

“Is he not? He made a great impression on you the first time you saw him. Do you remember, Muriel? Audrey came home from visiting her fine friends at Norfolk House all aghast at having been in such proximity to a man who had gotten away with murder.”

Muriel shivered. “I remember. You did not like him, Audrey. And you did not like that he had been pardoned.”

“Be that as it may, Sir Richard Southwell has naught to do with me.” I might not have been able to recall telling my sisters about that initial encounter with him, but I was certain I had never mentioned meeting him again at Ashridge. I had tried very hard to forget it had ever happened. Just thinking about the fellow left a bad taste in my mouth.

“Master Scutt,” Bridget announced, “says that Sir Richard will be coming to London soon to talk to Father.”

“Does he need a new suit of clothes?” I threw out the question with what I hoped was a careless air, but my heart was starting to beat a little faster. Bridget was leading up to something and, knowing Bridget as I did, it was not news that would please me.

“He needs a wife for one of his bastard sons.”

“Too late. Muriel is betrothed to young Master Horner and Father has already picked out a likely prospect for me. A Cambridge scholar, no less.”

Bridget laughed. “Is his name Richard Darcy?”

I nodded. Never mind that I’d not cared for him the one time we’d met. I’d take him, gangly arms and legs, tongue-tied mumblings, and all before I’d consent to marry the merry-begot of a murderer.

Bridget’s eyes glittered with a malice she did not trouble to conceal. “Richard Darcy, sister dear, is Sir Richard Southwell’s bastard son.”

24

I told Father I would never wed Richard Darcy. I even told him why.

He assured me that, given time enough, I might well change my mind. “Get to know the lad,” he urged me, as he had after Bridget’s wedding. “Marriage to a gentleman, Audrey, is not to be scoffed at.”

“He is no gentleman. Sir Richard got him on a mistress. And he cannot be the heir so long as there are legitimate children.”

“The late Lady Southwell bore Sir Richard only a daughter,” Father said, “and so young Richard is his eldest son. He will come into a goodly patrimony. Besides that, his father has often said that he will marry the boy’s mother when he can and make her the new Lady Southwell.”

“If he is already a widower, why has he not done so ere now?”

Father looked uncomfortable. “She has a husband yet living.”

“I am surprised Sir Richard does not simply murder him.”

“A man should be forgiven one mistake,” Father chided me. “The king himself pardoned Sir Richard.”

“Perhaps the king made a mistake!”

Father’s eyes went wide. Then he looked uneasily around to make certain no one had overheard my outburst. We were in the shop, but the apprentices had all been sent out on various errands and there were no customers. Father kept his voice low regardless. “You must never say such a thing again. The king is always right.”

Shaken by how tense he had become, I hastened to apologize. “I beg your pardon, Father. I misspoke.”

He pretended to believe me. And he ignored the rest of what I’d said. Negotiations for the match with Richard Darcy went forward. I reminded myself, having witnessed the process with my older sisters, that it could take as much as two years to work out all the details of a marriage contract. I had plenty of time to talk Father out of marrying me to Sir Richard Southwell’s son.

King Henry returned to England at the end of September.

In October, quite by accident, I saw Jack Harington again. He was standing in front of the Sign of the Green Cap, a bookseller’s shop, absorbed in a book of Latin poetry. More than a year and a half had passed since I had last set eyes on him. He was much changed in appearance but I recognized him at once.

I had time to take his measure before he noticed me. He was better dressed than he had been in the old days, but he had lost weight. His face, in spite of a newly acquired beard, had a pinched look. His eyes, when he sensed the intensity of my gaze and glanced up, had the sunken appearance that came from too many nights without sufficient sleep.

My first thought was that he had been out carousing but I was quickly disabused of that notion. Dissipation has a different look. I’d seen it in the Earl of Surrey and some of his friends but it was utterly lacking in Jack Harington. Whatever had left Jack with that bleak expression, it had not been wine and women.

“Mistress Audrey.” He returned the volume to the bookseller’s stock, displayed on a wooden pentice. At night, the books were removed and the pentice used to cover the open front of the shop.

The act of doffing a cap and bowing meant nothing of itself, but what I saw in his expression warmed me. He was genuinely glad to see me.

“Master Harington. I did not know you were back in England.”

“Only just. Have you come to make a selection?” He gestured toward the offerings; everything from broadsides to Bibles vied for space with Greek plays—in Greek—and printed copies of sermons.

“Only if there are songbooks.”

“I’ve not seen any.”

“How disappointing, but I am not surprised. At the two other booksellers I’ve visited this morning, I found naught but liturgical service-books containing plainsong with Latin words.”

“I am pleased to hear that you have continued with your music.”

“How could I not, when I had such an enthusiastic tutor? But I suspect that my life since last we met has been very dull compared to yours. Will you tell me of your travels?”

Belatedly slapping the hat back onto his head, he said, quite firmly, “I will.”

Then he made so bold as to take my arm and lead me a little apart from the noise and confusion of the street. Edith kept pace with us, disapproval writ large on her countenance. I ignored her. Jack’s manner thrilled me and his touch sent tingles of pleasure throughout my body.

There were no convenient benches to sit upon so we kept walking, wending our way through quiet alleys and lanes to avoid the main thoroughfares. I did not care where we went. I was happy just to be in Jack’s company.

“I have found some measure of success in Sir Thomas Seymour’s service,” he confided as we walked. “As Sir Thomas prospers, so will I. He keeps me close and employs me as a messenger when he has important communications to send. I deliver his letters and return with the replies. Princes, generals, margraves—I have met them all.”

“Where did you go first?” I asked. “You were bound for the Low Countries when you left England.”

“To Brussels, to the court of Mary of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands. She is a most remarkable woman.”

“I know nothing of foreign princes,” I admitted. “Who is she?”

“You will recall that King Henry’s first wife was Catherine of Aragon, a Spanish princess. This Mary is her niece, and the sister of Emperor Charles V. It was Mary’s brother who appointed her to rule over the Low Countries upon the death of another aunt, Margaret of Austria.”

“Are the regents always women?” I was remembering that, until he’d returned a few weeks earlier to reclaim the reins of government, King Henry had entrusted Queen Kathryn to rule England in his absence.

“It is somewhat unusual, but then Mary of Hungary is an unusual woman. She is always flinging herself upon horseback and riding off to one place or another. Her courtiers can barely keep up with the pace she sets. Why, once she made the seventeen-day ride from Augsburg to Brussels in just thirteen days!”

I made an appreciative sound but, in truth, I had no notion what this accomplishment entailed. My journeys, save for that one year when I’d been summoned to join the royal progress, had all been short ones. When I traveled, it was most often by water. In all my sixteen years, I had never ridden a horse by myself, but only on a pillion behind a man’s saddle.

“Sir Thomas enjoyed Brussels, as did I, but he was ordered back to Calais after only a few months. That he was appointed marshal of the army made up for any disappointment. The invasion of France should have taken place then, but first King Henry had to deal with the Scots.”

“I am glad you were spared battle,” I said in a fervent voice.

He stopped walking to stare at me. “But I was not. I will not say it was the glorious experience the poets write of, but I survived and Sir Thomas prospered. We saw a good deal of action during the ensuing four-month period. More to the point, Sir Thomas’s activities so impressed His Grace that King Henry made him master of ordnance when English troops finally did launch their assault on France.”

“More fighting?” I thought I understood the changes in him now. How terrible it must have been to see men die . . . and to kill.

His face took on a shuttered look. “More fighting. But Sir Thomas is now made vice admiral. We are based in Dover but will be much at sea these next few months, keeping the coastline safe.”

“Is the war nearly over?”

“So they say, but peace has to be negotiated and reparations made. Many brave men were lost and more were most grievously wounded, among them Tom Clere and the Earl of Surrey. Clere saved the earl’s life by flinging himself in front of him during the attempt to storm Montreuil.”

“But Clere still lives?”

Jack nodded. “He’s been brought back to England, but he suffered serious injuries. He may never fully recover.”

Poor Mary Shelton, I thought. She and Tom had hoped to wed one day. Although it had been a long time since I had heard from her, even longer than it had been since I’d last seen Jack, I still held her in my heart with great fondness. She had always been kind to me.

“Enough talk of death and illness,” Jack said. “Tell me—do you still write songs?”

I prattled on about my few accomplishments, but even in the midst of frivolous conversation, Jack had a gravity about him that had not been present when he was a gentleman of the Chapel Royal.

“What about you?” I asked. “Have you written any new poems?”

“A few.”

“And do you find time to sing and play music?”

“Very little of it.” The regret in his voice was palpable, but he shook off impending melancholy to ask me if I’d ever heard of an instrument called a kettledrum. “It is something like a naker, but larger and tuned by making the drumhead tight. Sir Thomas arranged for several of them to be shipped back to England from Nuremberg as a gift for the king. His Grace likes nothing better than a new musical toy.”

We had come, by chance or design, to the Eleanor Cross in Cheapside. Circling it were wide steps leading up to the monument itself. While heavy traffic flowed around us, here was a quiet central pool where weary shoppers could rest for a moment before moving on. Jack spread his cloak on the middle step for me to sit upon and stood next to me, using his body to shield me from the impertinent stares of passersby. Edith plunked herself down a few feet away, a disgruntled look on her face.

“You have grown up since I last saw you.” Jack sounded so tentative that it made me bold.

“I was of an age to marry even before you left.”

He looked away, lips tightly compressed. Did he regret going? Because of me? I knew it was foolish to keep hope alive, but I’d dreamed too many times of seeing Jack again. In my imaginings I always found a way to win his heart.

“I have a suitor,” I blurted out. I suppose I was trying to make him jealous.

Instead, his voice took on a teasing note. “Only one? The young men of London must be blind.”

“Only one, and I’d gladly do without him.”

Suddenly Jack’s attitude changed. He was not just concerned. He was ready to do battle to defend my honor. His hand was already on the pommel of his sword. “What has he done?”

I hesitated only a moment. “It is his father I cannot abide. You know him. Sir Richard Southwell.”

A forbidding frown appeared on Jack’s expressive face at the mention of that name. “Tell me.” He moved to sit beside me and took my gloved hand in his.

I tried to explain. As had been the case when I talked to Father, I could see that Jack did not entirely understand my aversion to Sir Richard.

“A feeling?” he asked.

“He makes my skin crawl. I do not trust him. And I do not like him. And besides, he only wants me for his son because he thinks—” I broke off, appalled.

“He thinks what?”

We were in a public place. Even if we were private, I knew I’d hesitate to answer. If Jack had not already speculated about my father’s identity, I did not want to give him a reason to do so now.

“It is not important. He is wrong.”

“It is not Sir Richard you’d be marrying but his son,” Jack said.

“And children tend to grow to resemble their parents.” I felt myself flush and started again, this time more careful to avoid dangerous waters. “Marriage is for life, Jack. Any woman takes a great risk when she gives herself to a man.”

“Marriage is a business arrangement best left to parents to negotiate.”

“So all young people are taught. That does not make it true. If it is, then why are second marriages, when the choice is made by the couple themselves, so much more successful?” I was thinking of Father and Mother Anne. I did not know if they’d married for love, but at least no one had arranged the match for them.

“You can always say no,” Jack said. “I do not believe your father would force you into marriage.”

I took a deep breath and kept my eyes on my clasped hands. “He might be more inclined to refuse Sir Richard if someone else offered for me. Someone I’d want to marry.”

Slowly, Jack released his grip on my fingers and I could feel him withdrawing in other ways. He did not want me.

The pain of that realization brought tears to my eyes, but it also made me angry. “Would it be so very bad to be wed to me?”

“You will make some man a wonderful wife.” So earnest was Jack’s tone of voice that I could not help but believe him. That only intensified the hurt. “Some man” was not Jack Harington.

“Have you never thought of me that way?” Even though I knew the answer would add to my suffering, I could not seem to stop myself from asking.

“We have been friends, Audrey. That means more to me than you can possibly know.”

I sprang to my feet. “I warrant you never gave me a passing thought all the while you were gone. I am nothing to you!”

“I thought of you. Far too often for my own good.” He came after me as I descended the steps and plunged into the crowd. Edith, caught off guard, stumbled after us. She had the presence of mind to scoop up Jack’s cloak as she went.

I had turned down a side street before Jack caught my arm and pulled me to a halt. His face was only inches from mine. “I have nothing to offer a wife—no house, no land, no fortune.”

“I have a very fine dowry. Father said so.”

“There is no question but that you do, and that only proves my point. Marriages are made for practical reasons and have little to do with feelings.” Sorrow and regret were plain to read in his expression but he forced a smile. “You are not being asked to marry Sir Richard, only his son. Consider that you may find you manage very well together.”

“I want to do more than manage!”

My vehemence attracted unwanted attention and I felt heat rise into my face as a shopkeeper and his customer stuck their heads out of his door to gawk. I lowered my gaze to stare at the cobbles. There was so much I wanted to say to Jack. I was certain that if he’d just listen to my arguments, I could convince him that he and I should wed. We had a love of music and poetry in common and—

And, to my dismay, I could think of nothing else we shared. Worse, since it had been so long since we’d seen each other, I had to admit that I had no real notion of what his life was like. Oh, he’d told me a little of his travels abroad with Sir Thomas, and it was clear he despised the wastefulness of war, but he had not really said anything about what he had experienced. Nor had he admitted to tender feelings for me.

“It is time to go home, Mistress Audrey.” Edith was out of breath, but her voice was firm.

I felt Jack’s grip shift to my elbow. I went where he steered me, lost in my own misery. A bleak future stretched before me, one without Jack Harington in it.

Far too quickly, we reached Watling Street. Jack stopped just outside the door of Father’s shop. Edith, for once showing a trace of sympathy for my feelings, continued on, leaving us together.

“I doubt that I will see you again. As vice admiral, Sir Thomas will be much at sea and I will go with him. I return to Dover on the morrow.”

“I give you leave to forget all about me,” I whispered.

At the faint rumble of a laugh, I looked up and met his eyes. “You have a permanent place in my memory, Audrey. Never doubt it.”

They were pretty words, but I wanted more. Perhaps I had learned something from Bridget after all. Without giving myself time to think about what I was going to do, I acted. I went up on my toes, seized Jack by the collar of the cloak he’d donned again after Edith returned it to him, and planted my mouth firmly over his.

I had kissed men before, but only in friendly greeting. I had no idea what to expect from an embrace fueled by passion.

For a moment, Jack’s lips were cold and hard beneath mine. He held himself stiff and still. And then, in an instant, everything changed. His lips softened. They moved over my mouth, onto my cheeks, my forehead, even the tip of my nose before coming back to where they’d started. At the same time, he pulled me against him so that our bodies meshed from chest to toe. His arms wrapped themselves tight around me. His hands caressed everywhere they touched. When I heard a low moan of pleasure, I could not tell which of us had made the sound.

There was no doubt about the source of the shout that had us springing apart, faces flushed and eyes wide. Father’s roar must have been heard as far away as St. Paul’s. He emerged from his shop red-faced and glaring. I had never seen him so furious.

“Father, I—”

“Go upstairs at once,” he bellowed at me.

“You are not to hurt him!” I shouted back, seeing that his hands were raised to throttle Jack. “The kiss was my doing.”

“To your chamber, Audrey. Now.”

This time I obeyed, but I stole one last glance at Jack as I went. The expression on his face warmed my heart. It was not the look one friend gave another. In spite of the imminent threat that Father might thrash him, he wore a silly grin. My kiss had finally forced him to accept that he had feelings for me.

25

1545

I did not see Jack again for many months, or hear from him, either. In the interim, Muriel wed John Horner. Father temporarily abandoned negotiations for my marriage to Richard Darcy, but only because he had other matters to concern him. Richard Egleston, who had been Father’s apprentice and was married to Mary, Father’s first wife’s daughter by her first marriage, had begun a campaign to replace Father as the king’s tailor. He claimed Father was too old to perform his duties. This was arrant nonsense, but Egleston had made powerful friends among the other artisans at court, some of whom had long been envious of Father’s favor with the king, and they supported his suit.

In April, Bridget gave birth to a son she named Anthony. Anthony Denny, who had been knighted by the king and was now Sir Anthony, was one of the boy’s godfathers. Bridget often brought the baby with her when she came to visit Mother Anne. On these occasions she regaled us with all the news her husband, John Scutt, had lately brought home from court. Most were tidbits Father had been too preoccupied to mention.

“It is all the talk at court, or so Master Scutt tells me.” Bridget handed little Anthony to Mother Anne to make much of and fixed her bright-eyed stare on me. “The Earl of Surrey’s squire left all he had to Mary Shelton. She was his mistress, they say, for it is certain they never married.”

“They planned to wed.”

The news that Tom Clere had succumbed to his wounds saddened me. I had never known him well, but I had seen him with Mary and knew they loved each other deeply. I had hoped he’d recover from the injuries he received in France. He’d lingered nearly seven months.

How terrible his suffering must have been. Had he known all along that he was slowly dying, or had there still been some hope for his recovery? Either way, how devastating his death must have been for poor Mary.

Bridget felt no such stirrings of sympathy. “She should have married him long since, then, old as she is! And since Clere did come home from the war, why not wed on his deathbed? Then she’d have inherited as his wife and have avoided all this furor.”

I had no answer to give her. Mary was more than ten years my senior. What was more surprising was that her father had not arranged a marriage for her. I wondered if he was still living. I had no idea. I had never asked.

Having failed to pick a quarrel with me, Bridget moved on to other scandals. I soothed myself by stroking Pocket, who lay curled in my lap. He licked my hand. He was no longer young. I’d had him more than seven years. He’d gotten fat and lazy and spent most of his time sleeping in front of the fire.

Father, upon being questioned, recalled that Tom Clere had been buried at Lambeth only a few days previously. The Earl of Surrey had written his elegy.

Thoughts of Mary Shelton and her lost love haunted me all the rest of that day and half the night. The next morning I sent a message of sympathy to Norfolk House. An invitation to visit arrived later the same day.

Little seemed to have changed at Norfolk House in four years, except that everyone was older and I was much more finely dressed than I ever had been as a girl. The exception was Mary Shelton. Black-clad, her face showed the ravages of long sleepless nights of weeping.

“Come, Mary,” the Duchess of Richmond said in a bracing voice. “Greet our guest.”

Lady Richmond, at least, was just as I remembered her, right down to the spaniel on her lap. I did not suppose it was the same one, but it might have been.

Mary required a moment to recognize me. “Audrey?” Her pale blue eyes narrowed. “How long has it been? You are a woman grown, and the resemblance is even more remarkable.”

Taken aback, I blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“She is rambling again,” the duchess cut in. “Come and see Father’s new garden.”

We went outside, with Edith and several other waiting women trailing behind, but while Lady Richmond sang the praises of the Duke of Norfolk’s head gardener, who had coaxed violets, periwinkle, and bluebells into flowering, I stole sideways glances at Mary. She showed no interest at all in the early variety of rose the duchess was showing me. After a moment, she withdrew a piece of paper from the pocket concealed in her black damask skirt. She did not unfold it. Merely looking at it made her cry. As tears streamed down her cheeks, a tiny sob escaped her.

The duchess whirled around with a sound of disgust, dropping the rose. “Give that to me!”

When she would have snatched the paper out of her companion’s hand, Mary clutched it to her bosom and backed away. “It is precious to me.” She sent a pleading look in my direction, over Lady Richmond’s shoulder. “Do not let her take it, Audrey. It is a copy of the elegy my lord of Surrey wrote to honor Tom.”

“And you know it by heart,” the duchess snapped. “As do I!”

“It is a beautiful poem!” Again Mary looked to me for help.

I wanted desperately to do something to ease her despair. “I have not heard this poem. Will you recite it for me?”

Smiling through her tears, she did so:

Norfolk sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead;

Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, thou hight.

Within the womb of Ormond’s race thou bred,

And saw’st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.

Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chose;

(Aye me! whilst life did last that league was tender).

Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,

Landrecy burnt, and batter’d Boulogne render.

At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure,

Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;

Which cause did thee this pining death procure,

Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.

Ah! Clere! if love had booted, care, or cost

Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.

“It is a fine tribute,” I said, although I had not understood most of the references.

“Better than any of the three poems his lordship wrote when Sir Thomas Wyatt died.”

The duchess rolled her eyes. “Well, then. You have recited the elegy. Put the paper away and come and sit in the shade of the rose arbor. We will talk of happier things. It is what Clere would have wanted,” she added when Mary began to protest. “He much disliked excessive mourning and well you know it.”

Mary’s grief and unhappiness could not so easily be set aside, but when she entered the duchess’s service she had sworn to obey her mistress. With at least the appearance of meekness, she did as she had been told.

The garden was lovely, colorful, and soothing to look at. Delicate scents filled the air. The faint buzz of insects and the distant shouts of watermen on the Thames were the only sounds to intrude on the peaceful quiet.

“Do you still write poetry?” the duchess asked me, breaking the silence.

“I have not done so lately, Your Grace.”

“But you still sing, I warrant.” She sent one of her maids indoors to fetch a lute. “Will you play something cheerful? One of your own compositions, perhaps?”

I did so, and after that one of the king’s songs. Then the duchess persuaded Mary to sing with us a piece written to be performed in three parts. By the time we had achieved some semblance of harmony, the faintest of smiles played upon Mary’s lips.

I returned to Norfolk House the following day, at the duchess’s invitation. To my astonishment, she had also invited Jack Harington.

“Come and tell us of your exploits.” She patted the cushion beside her on the window seat. A steady rain fell beyond the panes, discouraging us from venturing outside.

“There is not much to tell, my lady. On a ship, a great deal of boredom broken only by short periods of sheer panic. In truth, I prefer to fight on land.”

“That anyone should wish to fight at all is madness,” Mary said with something of her old blunt outspokenness.

Jack sent a sympathetic look her way. The duchess ignored her.

“Will our troubles with France ever be over?” I asked. “I thought the war ended months ago when the king came home.”

“King Henry returned, but not his troops,” Jack said. “The French do not give up easily. Their fleet continues to harry our coast.”

“There’s talk at court of a curfew in London,” the duchess remarked.

“And perhaps a special watch of citizens from nine at night until four in the morning,” Jack agreed. “Everyone needs to be on the lookout for French agents. They are more than capable of planting explosives that could set the entire city on fire.”

The very thought terrified me. Wooden buildings and thatched roofs burn quickly. It would not take much to start a conflagration that would spread from house to house, street to street until there was nothing left of London but ashes.

Seeing the color drain from my face, Jack leapt to his feet and took my hands in his, murmuring comforting words. Mary’s eyebrows lifted but she made no comment.

We both stayed to dine and later that day, after the rain stopped, Jack escorted me home. He did not speak of the kiss we’d shared when last we’d been together. Nor did he give any indication that he intended to see me again. He left me at the gate to the yard—out of sight of father’s shop—without lingering. His parting words were a reminder that he was the vice admiral’s man and therefore was expected to remain close to Sir Thomas in Dover. They would be there for some time to come. Sir Thomas had been named acting warden of the Cinque Ports.

“How far away is Dover?” I asked Edith after Jack had left us.

She gave me her usual disapproving look and answered in a taut voice. “It is a journey of two or three days. Not one to be undertaken on a whim or without proper escort.”

I knew already that I could follow Watling Street, which had started life as one of the old Roman roads, nearly all the way there, but for the nonce I was forced to accept that it would be some time before I saw Jack Harington again. This did nothing to lessen my determination to be reunited with him at some point in the future.

As usual, I remained in London throughout the summer.

In July, a ship called the Hedgehog blew up on the Thames at Westminster. The explosion could be heard everywhere in the city. We were fortunate indeed that the fire did not spread to any houses.

The very next day, in Portsmouth, where the king and the Earl of Surrey and the English navy had been gathering to repel the expected invasion by a French armada, a much more important ship, the king’s own Mary Rose, sank in the Solent. King Henry, it was said, watched helplessly from the ramparts of Southsea Castle as almost all aboard were lost. In an entire summer, the French fleet did less damage to morale.

Shortly thereafter, the Duchess of Richmond returned to Kenninghall. She took Mary Shelton with her.

In all, it was difficult year, filled with bad weather and bad luck. A great tempest struck Derbyshire, Lancashire, and Cheshire. A dearth of corn and victuals affected every county. There was famine, and the sailors manning those ships at Portsmouth suffered from an epidemic of the bloody flux followed by an outbreak of the plague. The only good news was that the French fleet turned tail and sailed back to France.

I prayed nightly that Jack would remain safe in Dover with Sir Thomas Seymour, but in September Sir Thomas was relieved as acting warden and took up new duties with the fleet in Portsmouth. Jack stopped at the house in Watling Street on his way through London, but only long enough to pay his respects. Father and Mother Anne were present throughout his visit and he said nothing to indicate he had any interest in asking for my hand in marriage.

Father saw him on his way. By the time he returned to the hall, Mother Anne and I had resumed work on a large piece of embroidery held in a wooden frame.

“Sir Richard Southwell has settled Horsham St. Faith and other properties in Norfolk on his son,” Father announced.

“A gentleman’s portion.” Mother Anne looked approving. “And young Richard will be entering the Inns of Court ere long. The law is a respectable profession, and lucrative, too.”

I feigned a yawn. Country gentleman, courtier, or solicitor, it made no difference to me. I did not intend to marry the offspring of a murderer.

Determined upon resistance, I ignored every effort to change my mind. Lectures from Mother Anne did not move me. Father tried logical arguments, stressing the advantages of marriage to a comfortably well-off husband. I affected deafness.

It would not be so very bad, I thought, to continue just as I was and never marry. I filled my days with music and reading, sewing and works of charity in the parish. I had Father and Mother Anne close at hand and sisters nearby. I had Pocket, who loved me unreservedly. I told myself I was both happy and content.

I lied.

26

December 1545

King Henry spent the last part of the year in Surrey, moving between Nonsuch, Petworth, Guildford Castle, and Woking, but when he came to London for the opening of Parliament, he sent for me. It was the first time I’d seen him since that long-ago progress, more than two years earlier, when I had met Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth.

Once again we met at Whitehall, this time in the privy gallery that overlooked the gardens. The king, even more obese than when we’d last met, sat in a wheeled chair. He had no reason to rise when I entered and made my curtsey, but I had to wonder if he could. All that had once been muscle had turned to fat. His Grace had always had small eyes, but now they were nearly swallowed up by the abundant fleshiness of his face. A faint, unpleasant odor clung to him, in spite of the strong sweet perfume he wore.

“How is that little dog we gave you, eh?” the king asked.

Father had prudently retreated. The king’s attendants also moved out of earshot.

“Pocket is well, Your Grace.” I did not think I should mention that my dog, like my king, showed the effects of overindulgence in rich food. Early on, Pocket had learned to beg table scraps from me and my sisters. Even Bridget had tossed him choice bits of meat and bread.

For several minutes, the king spoke of trivial matters. I was considering how to broach the subject of Father’s post as royal tailor, in the hope of preventing its loss to Richard Egleston, when King Henry placed one bloated hand on my arm. His words, although gently spoken, had the force of a command.

“It is our wish that you wed young Richard Darcy.”

I bit back my first response, well aware of the folly of outright refusal. “I am too young yet to wed,” I temporized.

The king chuckled. “Many girls your age are not only married but mothers twice over.”

Greatly daring, I answered him. “And many wait until they are five and twenty, with a good dowry saved up and a chest full of linens ready for their new home.”

Maidservants like my Edith, if they wed at all, did not do so until they were able to afford to leave service entirely. Some never reached that point. Or they failed to find anyone to marry them.

“You may wait awhile if it is your wish, Audrey,” the king said. “It is true that you should come to the marriage with a proper dowry. It is a father’s duty to provide one. We will talk with Malte about that, never fear. But marry young Darcy you must. I have promised his father.”

I could not bring myself to agree, but I dropped into a subservient curtsey in the hope that the king would not ask for more. His Grace seemed satisfied. When I rose, he waved me away. Father was waiting to lead me back outside.

“His Grace is not well,” I said as we made our way to the water stairs.

“No, he is not. He must use what he calls ‘trams’ to get around inside the palace and there is a winching device in use to hoist him up flights of stairs.”

“His Grace should lose some weight.”

Father stumbled on the uneven walkway and I had to catch his elbow to keep him upright. “Pray do not tell him so. I should hate to see you sent to the Tower.”

“His Grace does not hesitate to tell me how I should proceed.”

“That is his prerogative. He is your liege lord. You owe him obedience.”

“I will not marry Richard Darcy.” I grew tired of repeating this, but no one ever listened.

“If you think to wed young Harington instead, abandon that idea at once. He is no fit match for you.” Father signaled for a boatman to bring his watercraft closer and offered a hand to help me climb in.

I ignored it and managed by myself, muttering under my breath that if that were the case then I would not marry at all. I’d said that before, too, and had not been believed. Every woman was supposed to want a husband and children.

We made the journey back to London in stilted silence. I did not want to talk anymore about marriage or betrothals or dowries. I recognized Father’s right to make such arrangements for my future, but what business was it of the king’s who I wed or when? That Sir Richard Southwell had somehow influenced King Henry made everything worse.

Home again, I said as much to Edith as she helped me out of the elaborate clothing I had put on for my visit to the court: “Why should His Grace care who I marry?”

“The king has known you since you were a little girl,” Edith said. “He is fond of you and wants what is best for your future.”

“He should let me decide that.”

“Choosing a girl’s husband is her father’s responsibility. A daughter has a duty to obey her father and we must all obey our king. In this case, your obligation is one and the same. You must marry Richard Darcy.”

One and the same.

Those words stuck in my mind, taunting me during the long, sleepless night that followed, forcing me to remember the suspicions I had chosen to forget. On the day I’d seen my own features reflected in those of Princess Elizabeth I’d wondered if I’d been told the truth about my parentage. Young as I was, I’d been aware of the speculative glances, the knowing looks. I’d shoved my suspicions aside when Father insisted that I was his child, but what if he had only meant I was his by adoption? He called Mother Anne’s Elizabeth and his first wife’s daughter, Mary, his children, too.

I had no doubt but that he loved me and thought of me as his daughter, as he did Mary, Elizabeth, Bridget, and Muriel. And yet two, perhaps three, of us were not his kin at all.

Was King Henry my real father? Was that why he had rescued me from the man my mother married? Was that why he had taken an interest in my upbringing all these years, giving me Pocket to care for, sending tutors to me, inviting me along on one of his progresses when the danger of plague in London was higher than usual? Was that why he sought to force my marriage to the son of his old friend, Sir Richard Southwell?

There was no one to answer my questions. Father would simply repeat that I was his daughter. I wished I had thought to ask the king, but I knew full well that even if I had thought of doing so, I’d never have dared. To blurt out such an impertinent question, whether or not I had royal blood running through my veins, might well send me to the Tower.

If King Henry had wished to acknowledge me as his bastard, he would already have done so. He had not hesitated to claim Henry FitzRoy and had gone on to create him Duke of Richmond and marry him to the Duke of Norfolk’s daughter.

Rolling over, I punched my pillow into a more comfortable shape. What did I expect? Sons, even those who were illegitimate, were valued. A bastard girl-child had no worth. If the king was my father, I should consider myself fortunate that he’d done as much for me as he had.

Who knew? I wondered. Some might think they knew. Sir Richard Southwell certainly did, else he’d not have been interested in an alliance between me and his son. On the surface, I was only a merchant tailor’s daughter. Father was wealthy, but not excessively so. A match with a country gentleman’s heiress would have been far more appropriate for young Master Darcy.

And Jack? Did he suspect? Was that why he thought he wasn’t worthy to court me?

Then an even more insidious thought crossed my mind. What if Jack did guess and because of that was tempted to change his mind? How would I ever know if he truly loved me or was just interested in me because of my supposed connection to the king?

27

Catherine’s Court, November 1556

You were confused, Mother,” Hester said.

“I was indeed,” Audrey said with a faint smile.

They were still in her bedchamber, where they had spent almost the entire day. Jack would return soon.

“Father loves you for yourself,” the girl said with such confidence that Audrey almost believed her.

“I am tired now, Hester. I would rest awhile.”

“How can you be tired? We’ve done nothing but talk.”

“Reliving my memories is exhausting, I assure you.” She felt passing frail and sapped of strength, as if a good wind could blow her away.

Reluctantly, Hester departed.

Audrey slept.

Somewhat restored, she supped with her husband that evening, feigning an interest in his talk of land and tenants.

“How long do you mean to remain here?” she asked when the last course had been set before them. The cheese and fruit were fresh and flavorful but she had little appetite.

“As long as is necessary.”

“What does the princess mean to do? What is it you want no part of?” Although she applauded his common sense in avoiding trouble, she feared he might already be implicated in whatever scheme was afoot.

“She talks of leaving England for the greater safety of France.”

Stunned, Audrey simply stared at him. France? Their ancient enemy? The place where Tom Clere had been mortally wounded and so many brave English lads had died?

Jack had no difficulty reading her thoughts. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Spain wants to invade France. The French king will gladly take in an English princess. The question is whether they will treat her as an honored guest or as a prisoner once they have her.”

“And if she stays in England?”

“She is in constant danger from her sister the queen. You know already that King Philip wants to marry her to his kinsman, the Duke of Savoy. The princess knows what great folly it would be to agree, but her continued refusal may send her back to the Tower.”

Audrey shuddered. “Are you truly safe here, Jack? Will they come after you if they turn on the princess? They must know how much time you have spent of late at Hatfield House.”

“They . . . they will accept another reason for that. If it comes to it, I’ll give it to them.”

Audrey closed her eyes and prayed for strength. It was not as if she had not known about Isabella Markham for some time now. The princess’s maid of honor might not have been Jack’s mistress, but he was most certainly in love with her. Audrey had seen the poems he’d written to the other woman.

“Good,” she said, and excused herself, pleading a headache and saying she would go straight to bed.

She let Edith give her a posset to help her sleep. To her surprise, when she awoke the next day she felt strong enough to agree when Hester suggested they spend the morning on horseback. It would provide another opportunity to continue her tale. It would also be an excellent way for Audrey to avoid speaking to her husband.

Hester was an avid horsewoman. Her father had presented her with a gentle mare as a New Year’s gift the previous January. Since they did not keep their own horses at Stepney, Hester and Fleetfoot, as she had named the mare, had been separated for several months. To make up for her absence, Hester brought several apples to feed to the animal under the watchful eyes of one of the grooms.

“Mustn’t give her too many now, Mistress Hester,” he warned, an avuncular smile on his weathered face. Hester had always been able to charm the servants.

“Saddle her, Parks,” Audrey instructed him, “and saddle Plodder for me.”

The ambling gait of the aging palfrey was all Audrey could manage, even riding astride as they did in the country. She had never learned to be comfortable on horseback, but she could think of no better way to secure the privacy she needed to confide in her daughter. Parks would have to come along for propriety’s sake, but he could ride well behind them, out of earshot.

When they reached the hill that overlooked the house and outbuildings, Audrey resumed her story.

28

June 1546

During the following year I did not see Jack at all, nor was I invited to court by the king. Talks between Sir Richard Southwell and my father continued, although neither seemed in any hurry to formalize the betrothal. The boy they intended for my husband was still at Cambridge.

I, too, continued my studies. I taught myself to read and write musical notation. I had been composing songs to amuse myself for some time but now I had a way to record my music for posterity.

In June, quite unexpectedly, I encountered Mary Shelton again. There was a gathering at the Merchant Taylors’ Hall, which is situated near Bishopsgate Street. I had been suffering from a wretched headache all that day. The noisy crowd inside the hall made it worse and I begged to be excused from the festivities. With Edith accompanying me, I left through a side door. What chance took me in that direction, I do not know, but as I emerged onto the street, I recognized Mary just passing by with her own maid and a groom.

She had been shopping, for the maid was juggling a half-dozen parcels and the groom carried a large bolt of cloth. Instead of mourning, she wore bright colors, and on one finger was what was unmistakably a wedding ring.

When we had exchanged delighted greetings, she invited me to accompany her back to her brother’s house, where she was staying while in London. The ache in my head having miraculously vanished, I accepted with enthusiasm.

We did not have far to go. Sir Jerome Shelton lived within the close of what had once been the priory of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate.

“Is this where your namesake was a nun?” I asked when we had settled into a luxuriously appointed chamber with cakes and ale and dismissed the servants.

Mary laughed. “It was. Poor old thing. These days she is obliged to live out in the world, and on a paltry pension of four pounds per annum, too.”

“She could marry, I suppose.”

But Mary shook her head. “It is forbidden for the former religious to wed. A foolish ruling, if you ask me. But no one did.” She sipped thoughtfully, then put her goblet aside. “You are doubtless wondering how I could wed another with Tom so recently dead. I will save you the trouble of finding a tactful way to ask. I wanted children. I have for a long time, and it is problematic to conceive one without a husband. Having near to hand an older cousin, a widower of whom I am very fond, I married him.”

“But, Mary,” I blurted out, “if you longed for children, why did you never marry Tom Clere?”

She fiddled with the ribbons she’d just removed from one of her parcels, avoiding my eyes. But after a moment, impertinent though my question had been, she answered it.

“I could not. After the debacle at court with Southwell, I foolishly agreed to a match my father arranged for me with a Norfolk gentleman. Because I hadn’t the sense to refuse that legal entanglement, our pre-contract prevented me from marrying anyone else while he lived. He’s dead now,” she added, “but he did not have the courtesy to leave this world until my Tom was no longer in it, either.”

I had always appreciated her candor and tried to answer it in kind. “Children will bring you the happiness you deserve.”

“So I do hope. And I am content with my choice of a husband.”

“Is he here with you?”

“He remains at Ketteringham, his country estate, while I, and his heir”—she patted her still flat belly—“spend the summer in London, badgering the courts to confirm the grant of lands in Hockham Magna that Tom Clere left to me in his will.”

I thought better of pointing out that her new husband could fight her legal battles for her. “In truth,” I said instead, meaning every word, “I envy you. I would like to have children someday, but I do not care for the father my father proposes for them.”

“Somehow I thought you and Jack Harington would marry one day.”

“That was my hope, too, but he . . . that is, I do not even know where he is.” I sighed deeply. “He could be dead for all I know.”

“He is not dead. He’s in Calais, which may amount to the same thing,” she added with a grin. “This endless war with the French takes all the best men away. Always excepting gentleman farmers like my new husband. Even the king is melancholy.”

“You have been to court?”

“To visit friends only. I would not live there again for all the world. Do you know that there are now rumors that His Grace tires of Queen Kathryn and would rid himself of her to marry another.”

“A seventh wife!” I clapped my hands over my mouth and felt my eyes widen above my fingers. The words had slipped out unbidden, but that did not make them any less dangerous. It is never wise to criticize a king.

“Have no fear,” Mary assured me. “I’ll not betray you.” Although we were alone, she nevertheless leaned closer and lowered her voice to continue confiding what she’d heard at court. “It is said the king has tired of the queen’s endless lectures on the subject of religion. Her Grace is a confirmed evangelical, advocating all manner of reforms in the church beyond those King Henry has already enacted. He has caused to be issued a new proclamation prohibiting possession of heretical books—the same books known to circulate within Queen Kathryn’s chambers. What happened in Anne Boleyn’s day is happening all over again!”

“But surely Queen Kathryn has not been unfaithful to His Grace!” I thought of that sweet-natured, kindly woman and could not fathom it.

“I meant that Anne was an advocate of Lutheranism and encouraged her ladies to read forbidden tracts smuggled into England by her silkwoman and other friends of reform.”

I was confused, and said so. “The king himself reformed the church. That is why he is now head of the Church of England.”

“There are reforms and then there are reforms. Just as there are many rival factions at court, each party has its own agenda. Did you know that after Queen Jane died, the king briefly fixed on me as a replacement?”

“You might have been queen?”

“You need not sound so astonished.”

“Did you want to be queen?”

“No. Nor did I wish to become a pawn in some political game of chess.” She reached for her goblet, her expression suddenly hard. “If our old friend, Sir Richard Southwell, had had his way, I’d have seduced King Henry into marriage and returned power to the Howards and their clients. He has never forgiven me for failing to cooperate.”

The square of cake I’d just picked up crumbled in my hand. “He is a very bad man.”

She nodded. “And although he claims always to put the Duke of Norfolk’s interests at the forefront, his only true loyalty is to himself. You must never allow yourself to fall under his control, Audrey, else he’ll find a way to use you for his own ends.”

I did not see how he could benefit from an alliance with my family, other than by securing the use of my dowry, but I had every intention of following her advice. “I want nothing to do with him,” I assured her.

We talked of more pleasant matters for a time—fashion and food for the most part. When she asked if I had been to court of late, I admitted that I had not.

“Then come with me on the morrow. I mean to pay a visit to the duchess. She’s had lodgings at Whitehall these last few months, while she’s been attending on Queen Kathryn. She will be happy to see you again.”

I accepted with pleasure.

29

Whitehall, June 10, 1546

We found the Duchess of Richmond in an antechamber in the queen’s apartments, a comfortable little room set aside for quiet pastimes. Several other ladies-in-waiting sat on stools around a low table playing a game of cards. The duchess had been reading. She hastily put her book aside when Mary and I came in, and rose to embrace us warmly, each in turn.

We had scarce begun to exchange news when the Earl of Surrey appeared in the doorway. A ferocious scowl contorted his otherwise pleasant features.

Ignoring everyone else, he stalked toward his sister. Mary and I quickly rose from our places on either side of the duchess and backed away as the earl loomed over her. He did not seem to notice.

“Did you know of this?” His face turned a mottled red as he bellowed the question.

“Know of what, Brother?”

“Father’s grand plan for an alliance with the Earl of Hertford.”

Mary and I exchanged puzzled looks. The Earl of Hertford was Edward Seymour, oldest brother of the late Queen Jane and of Sir Thomas Seymour, Vice Admiral of England. The Duke of Norfolk had not been notably friendly toward any of the Seymours since Jane supplanted Anne Boleyn, Norfolk’s niece, as queen.

Despite her brother’s anger, the duchess remained calm. “Father does not confide in me, Harry. What is he plotting now?” A deep furrow marred the smoothness of her high forehead.

Surrey continued to glare at her. “He means to have you wed Sir Thomas Seymour.”

I gasped. So did two of the ladies playing cards. The duchess’s already fair skin turned whiter still. Beside me, I could feel Mary’s tension as if it were my own.

“There’s more. He proposes that my two sons marry two of Hertford’s daughters.” Vibrating with outrage, his voice rose to a shout. “Who are these Seymours but upstart country gentlemen! Father must be mad to treat with them.”

“They are the brothers of a queen and the uncles of our future king,” the duchess reminded him.

“We have as much royal blood in our veins as Prince Edward!” Surrey raged. “Better you should become the king’s mistress and play the part in England that the Duchess d’Étampes does in France than be married to a Seymour.”

This time the gasps were louder and there were more of them. The earl was oblivious to his audience as he continued to berate his sister. I did not follow most of his rant. I am not certain anyone could have. The shifting allegiances of the court were near impossible to track, even by those close to the center of power. That the duchess had the misfortune to be part of her father’s newest scheme to gain influence at court appeared to be sufficient to bring Surrey’s wrath down on her head. Clearly overwrought, his words were ruled by emotion rather than logic.

“Who is the Duchess d’Étampes?” I whispered to Mary.

“The chief mistress of King Francis of France,” she whispered back.

We retreated farther from the fray but others moved closer, reluctant to miss a word of the earl’s tirade. His ill-considered outburst was the talk of the entire court within an hour. Wagering was heavy that his rash words would have dire consequences the moment they were repeated to the king, but those who thought the earl would be clapped in gaol lost their money. Nothing happened as a result of the incident—no marriages, no alliances, and no arrests.

Or so it appeared at the time.

30

Hampton Court, August 1546

Mary Shelton had been correct about the risk Queen Kathryn had run by preaching to the king. The story was all over London in early August. King Henry had gone so far as to issue an order for the queen’s arrest. Then he had changed his mind. When one of his ministers appeared at court, warrant in hand, King Henry berated him loudly and with as much profanity as he ever allowed himself for daring to suggest that Queen Kathryn was aught but a loving and loyal spouse. To make up for the insult, His Grace showered the queen with gifts. She, having learned her lesson, stopped trying to influence the decisions he made as head of the Church of England.

A few weeks later, on the eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day, a delegation sent by the French king traveled by water to Hampton Court to sign the peace treaty between our two countries. The war was finally over. There were to be ten days of banquets and masques and hunting trips to celebrate.

King Henry sent for his royal tailor. Once again, Father was ordered to bring me along to court.

Tents of cloth of gold and velvet had been set up in the palace gardens at Hampton Court to house some two hundred French gentlemen. Two new banqueting houses had also been erected and were hung with rich tapestries. Awed by all these trappings, I wondered if I would have the courage to carry out the plan I had conceived the moment Father told me that the king wanted to see me.

I meant to demand the truth. His Grace owed me that much, did he not? If the speculation was untrue, then he should be glad to deny it. And if I was his daughter . . . my imagination stopped there. I did not expect anything from him beyond confirmation or denial, but would King Henry believe that? Daily, he was petitioned by hundreds of subjects, all of whom wanted something—lands, money, pardons. I sought knowledge, a far more dangerous thing.

When the king did not send for me, the news that he was to appear at an open-air reception seemed to present me with an opportunity to remind His Grace of my presence. I dressed with great care and left the palace—Father had been assigned both double lodgings and a workroom—to make my way through the grounds.

I stopped some little distance away from the marquee beneath which King Henry stood. His Grace had lost some of his girth since our last meeting. That should have made him appear healthier. Instead he just looked frail.

His clothing was as magnificent as ever, his jewels as plentiful and as sparkling, but he leaned heavily on the shoulder of Archbishop Cranmer, who stood beside him. From time to time, he even allowed the High Admiral of France, the French nobleman who had come to England to sign the peace treaty on behalf of the French king, to support him.

Both the Earl of Hertford and Vice Admiral Sir Thomas Seymour were in close attendance on His Grace. As soon as I recognized the latter, I looked around for Jack Harington. I did not see him at once, but only because of the size of the crowd. I found another familiar face first—that of Sir Richard Southwell.

He had not yet noticed me. Coward that I was, I considered creeping away before he did. Although our encounters had been few and far between, each one had left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I did not relish enduring another conversation with him.

I did not move quickly enough. The young man at his side turned his head my way. With a start, I saw that he was Richard Darcy, the boy Father intended me to marry. Darcy tugged on his father’s sleeve. A moment later, two coldly analytical stares pinned me where I stood.

“This way,” said a familiar voice behind me, and my heart began to race as fast as a cinquepace.

Jack Harington tugged on my arm, drawing me into the concealment of a very large yeoman of the guard. As swiftly as we could, given the crush of people, we fled toward the safety of the palace. I did not look back. If Southwell and his son were following us, I did not want to know it.

“Father’s workroom,” I hissed when we’d slipped through the nearest entrance. “No one will disturb us there.”

“Nor will we be private,” Jack whispered back.

When my steps faltered, he pulled me onward. He said no more but steered me away from the place where Father and two of his apprentices worked and into a deserted passageway. We paused by a window that overlooked the expanse of garden we’d just left. Sir Richard Southwell was still there. He had not pursued me.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I waited for Jack to speak. For the longest time, he did not. He simply stared at me, as if he were trying to memorize my appearance. All the while he looked deeply troubled.

Finally, I grew impatient. “What ails you, Jack?”

“I have begun to think I was wrong.” He reached out to finger a lock of my hair. It had come loose during our precipitous flight. With great care, he tucked it back into place. Everywhere he touched, I felt a line of fire.

“Wrong about what?” I spoke in a breathy whisper. Was he going to declare himself at last?

“About how beautiful you are.”

I frowned. I did not want praise. I wanted love. “I am eighteen years old and not yet betrothed,” I said bluntly.

“You soon will be. They will wear you down.”

I stepped back from him, a spurt of anger burning through my besotted state. “I cannot be forced to wed someone I do not like.”

“You can be coerced. As can I.”

“You are to marry?”

He must have heard the stunned surprise in my voice because a faint smile began to play around his lips. “No, Audrey. I mean that I have been warned to stay away from you.”

“By Sir Richard Southwell?”

“By Sir Thomas Seymour.”

I frowned. “But . . . Sir Richard is Surrey’s man, not Seymour’s.”

“Is he? There are forces at work at court that you know nothing about, Audrey. A struggle for power that will affect us all. You must have a care for yourself. Hold out too long, and there could be terrible consequences for all those you hold dear. For John Malte, mayhap. Or for your sisters.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “And yes, mayhap for me. No one is safe from the king’s whim, not even the highest peer in the land.”

I blinked at him in confusion. The highest peer in the land was the Duke of Norfolk. Surely Jack did not mean to say that the duke was in danger. “Say what you mean in plain English, Jack.”

“If you anger Sir Richard sufficiently, he will turn vindictive, and he has King Henry’s ear. He has never hesitated to destroy those who stood in the way of something he wanted.”

“Perhaps I, too, have the king’s ear.”

Jack went very still. “Is it true, then?”

I looked away. So, he had wondered if I was a royal merry-begot. “I . . . I do not know. No one will tell me.”

We stood that way, unmoving, staring into each other’s eyes, until the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps broke the spell. A liveried page, scurrying past on some errand, barely spared us a glance, but his appearance was enough to remind us that to be seen together by anyone at this juncture would be most unwise.

“Know this,” Jack said before he left me. “If I were in a position to marry any woman I wished to, it would be you, Audrey.”

Then he was gone.

He hadn’t said he loved me.

Neither had he said that he did not.

Two days later, in Father’s company, I had my long-awaited audience with the king. There was no opportunity to speak with His Grace in private. He called us to him only to inform us that he intended to grant us, jointly, the lordship and manor of Kelston, the lordship and manor of Easton, the capital messuage of Catherine’s Court, and four hundred ewes. The properties were located in Somersetshire. They’d been monastic lands once, forfeited by the nunnery of Shaftesbury when it was dissolved. They were valued at slightly over thirteen hundred pounds.

“It is an exceeding generous gift,” I said to Father after we’d backed out of the presence chamber and returned to our lodgings.

“I am being pensioned off, Audrey,” Father said. “I am to leave my post at court before the end of the year.”

As a young child, I might have believed that was all there was to it, but I knew better now. The king’s largesse was too great. Royal retainers rarely received annuities amounting to more than one hundred pounds.

“How much of this grant is to be included in my dowry?” I asked.

“You will be a considerable heiress,” Father allowed.

“And so this is all part of the king’s plan to push me into marriage with Richard Darcy.”

“I do not understand why you are so opposed to the young man.” For once, Father let his annoyance show. “He has no flaws that I can see.”

“And if he turns out like his father? Unfaithful to me? Begetting bastards right and left? Murdering men in sanctuary?”

“Sir Richard Southwell has his faults, but he is not without good qualities. He has served the king long and well and continues to do so.”

Father’s words lacked conviction, but the stubborn tilt of his jaw warned me that there was no profit in further argument.

31

The next day, Richard Darcy sought me out, sent by his father. He seemed as reluctant as I was to spend any time together. We passed a quarter of an hour in stilted conversation, most of it concerning his studies at Cambridge and his desire to make something of himself when he entered one of the Inns of Court.

“Do you like music?” I asked him.

“I am not particularly musical. When I have time for amusements, I prefer to hunt. I am a good shot with a crossbow.”

“Have you ever written poetry?”

He looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Whatever for? It is difficult enough to copy out what others have written and I only do that when my tutors insist upon it.”

“Master Darcy,” I said. “I bear you no ill will, but I will never tie myself to you with the bonds of matrimony.”

“I do not much care for you, either,” he said.

“Oh. Well . . . that is good.”

His quick smile almost made me like him.

Father and I remained at court until the king left on a hunting progress on the fourth day of September. I did not see His Grace again, but I was thrust repeatedly into Richard Darcy’s company. Every time, as I had on that first occasion, I told him bluntly that I would never be his wife.

“You will, you know,” he said on the last day. “Father will not give up. He says you are too rare a catch.”

“I cannot think why. My father is naught but a simple merchant tailor.”

If I had not been watching for his reaction, I might have missed it. As it was, I saw the slight widening of his eyes and heard the quick, indrawn breath.

“That is not what your father thinks, is it?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“You need to spend more time at court, Master Darcy. You would learn to be more convincing when you tell a lie.”

He looked over his shoulder toward the door of the workroom. We’d been left alone there except for Edith. She sat in a distant corner and appeared to be absorbed in her mending. I had no doubt but that she could overhear what we said to each other, but I did not care.

“Father believes you are the king’s child,” Darcy admitted.

Although the idea was scarcely new to me, this was the first time anyone had said the words aloud. I started to utter a denial but before I could say a word, Darcy spoke again.

“It is the color of your hair. Father says he knows of only two other people who share it. One is Princess Elizabeth. The other is King Henry. And then there are your eyes. Was Anne Boleyn your mother, too?”

Taken aback, for this was an idea that had never once crossed my mind, I blurted out the raw truth. “My mother was a laundress at Windsor Castle who gave birth to me out of wedlock.” I drew in a steadying breath and then added, with slightly more dignity, “I am a bastard, Master Darcy. A merry-begot.”

“So am I.” He said it as though it did not matter, but I suspected that it did. “Still, I am Father’s heir. And I am not Richard Darcy any longer. Father says I’m to call myself Richard Southwell the Younger.”

“I liked you better with your original surname,” I muttered.

“The Darcys of Essex are my mother’s family.” He elaborated on that subject, but I had stopped listening.

I’d been struck by an intriguing notion. I wondered that I had never thought of it before. The one person who must know who had fathered her child was that child’s mother. To learn the truth about myself, all I had to do was find Joanna Dobson, née Dingley, and ask her.

There was a difficulty, however. I had no idea what had happened to my mother. I did not even know if she was still alive. I had not seen her for fully fourteen years, not since the day the king placed me in John Malte’s care.

32

September 1546

I was still trying to think of a subtle way to ask Father for information about the woman who had given birth to me when an odd incident occurred. A foundling was left at our gate. Some poor woman abandoned her child where it was certain to be found by the maidservant who went out to empty the chamber pots.

Such events were not unheard-of. The hope was that the rich merchant who lived within the gate would take pity on the abandoned infant and give it a home. In this case, the baby was a little girl only a few weeks old. She had pale skin and blue eyes and was still bald. She was also covered in flea bites and stank most abominably. Mother Anne ordered Lucy to bathe her.

“Well, my dear,” Father said to Mother Anne. “What shall we do with her?”

I was not included in their discussion. I was not even supposed to be privy to it. But I had been about to enter the hall when Father spoke. I paused at the top of the stair, just out of their sight. Simple curiosity compelled me to remain where I was.

“I suppose you want to adopt her,” Mother Anne said. “You have always been a great one for taking in strays.”

At first I thought she meant the occasional dog or cat who came our way and was put to work catching rats in Father’s warehouse. Then a more personal interpretation of her words occurred to me. I felt myself blanch. Was that why Father had accepted responsibility for me fourteen years earlier? Because he saw a little girl who needed a loving home? Because he felt sorry for me?

I told myself I must be mistaken. I had no doubt of Father’s affection for me. Or Mother Anne’s. But shaking off doubt was not an easy process. With an effort, I kept my focus on the conversation in the hall.

“I am too old to take on the care of another young child,” Mother Anne said.

Had I imagined the slight emphasis on the word another?

Father did not answer. He could not. One of his ever more frequent fits of coughing rendered him incapable of speech.

“You are not fit now, either, John,” she added. “You know this to be true.”

“It is nothing,” he whispered. “This catarrh will pass.”

A little silence fell.

“Let us send the child to Muriel,” Mother Anne suggested after a time. “She has taken to motherhood far better than Bridget did. She has room in her heart for a second baby, and milk enough to feed it, too.”

This proved to be an excellent solution, although Father continued to take an interest in the infant who’d been abandoned on his doorstep. He worried about her. He worried, it seemed to me, about everyone and everything in his life, the more so since he no longer went to court.

Day by day, his catarrh worsened. The bouts of coughing weakened him and made him dizzy, forcing him to take to his bed. One morning, soon after that overheard conversation, he called me to him, along with Mother Anne and the apprentices. He’d already sent for John Horner and John Scutt. When they arrived, we all gathered around his bed.

“I have spent the night writing out my will,” Father announced.

At his words, silent tears began to flow down my cheeks. Mother Anne moaned aloud.

“This is to protect you, my dears. A precaution only.”

I watched him sign it and saw Master Horner and Master Scutt add their signatures to his as witnesses.

A great sense of calm seemed to come over Father. When the others left, Mother Anne and I remained. We sat one on each side of the bed, clasping Father’s icy hands. The expression on Mother Anne’s face told me that she feared Father’s death was imminent.

Of a sudden, his hand went limp in mine. His eyes were closed. I could see no movement of his chest beneath the coverlet. In a panic, I leapt up, upsetting my stool.

“Father!” I cried.

The anguish in my voice roused him. His eyes opened. He even managed a weak smile. “I am not dead yet, child, only resting.”

“You gave me such a scare!”

Pocket, who had tumbled off my lap when I sprang to my feet, barked in agreement.

“Put the little dog on the bed. He comforts me.”

With Pocket lying next to him, licking his hand and being petted, Father did seem better, until another spasm of coughing gave the lie to appearances. It took him a long time to recover his breath. I stayed with him while Mother Anne went off to fetch more barley water and a soothing lozenge.

“There are things I must tell you,” he whispered as soon as she left us.

Not now, I thought. If I am not John Malte’s daughter, I do not want him to tell me so.

This man, who had given me nothing but love, who had acted in my best interests even when I did not agree with him as to what those were, was my true father, no matter who had coupled with the black-eyed laundress who had given birth to me.

I berated myself for failing to notice how frail Father had become during the last few months. No wonder he had stopped fighting to keep his post at court. Since our return to Watling Street from court, since he’d fallen ill, he seemed to have aged a decade. The hand I once more took in mine trembled. Veins bulged in the paper-white, paper-thin skin.

“I may yet live for many years, Audrey,” Father said, “but a wise man makes provision for his family. That is why I made my will. Everything that the king intends to grant us jointly will go to you when I am gone, as will my manor of Nyland in Somerset. I have left property to your sisters as well, and to their sons. John Scutt and Bridget will serve as executors.”

He went on to enumerate several smaller bequests. He was generous. He even left five pounds to the foundling so recently abandoned at our gate. That made me smile, but my expression changed to one of shock when he added that he’d made a bequest to my natural mother of twenty pounds.

“I . . . I had wondered if she was still living,” I murmured. “Where is she, Father? Where is Joanna Dobson?”

His hand tightened painfully on mine. “There is no need for you to know that, Audrey. She is no longer part of your life.”

“And yet you would include her in your will.”

“She gave me you.”

“Did she? Or was it the king who gave me to you? Is—?”

“Stop badgering your father!” From the door, Mother Anne’s voice snapped like a whip, making me cringe and shrink away from her.

“Anne, I—” That was all Father managed to say before yet another fit of coughing overtook him. Pocket fled.

“He will recover,” Mother Anne said in a fierce voice. “If he stays in bed and drinks strengthening broths, all will be well. But he is far from well yet. Go away and let him mend.”

Banished from the bedchamber, I took comfort in my lute and in playing with my little dog. Father and Mother Anne were my parents, I told myself, no matter whose blood flowed in my veins. But the need to know the truth about myself continued to gnaw at me. Now that I was certain that my mother was still living, I knew I must find her.

Fourteen years earlier, she and her husband had lived and worked in Windsor Castle. That was a long time ago, but I was sure someone there would remember where they’d gone.

All I had to do was find a way to get to Windsor.

33

Although Father continued to suffer from a nagging cough, his recovery was swifter than anyone expected. He was up and about a few days after he made his will and, just a week after calling us all in to witness the signing, he announced that he intended to pay a visit to the local barber-surgeon to ensure that he remained in good health.

“This is the seventeenth of September,” he informed us, “the traditional day to be bled as a preventive against dropsy.”

“You do not have dropsy.” Mother Anne glanced up from the beaker of ale with which she’d broken her fast. “You do not even suffer from tympany.”

“Nor do I wish to become afflicted with either ailment.” And with that, taking only a bit of bread and cheese to sustain him, he left the house.

“What is tympany?” I asked when he’d gone. I had already finished eating and was tempted to follow Father to make sure he returned home safely. Being bled always made me dizzy. I worried that it would affect Father the same way, especially as he’d been so weak during his recent illness.

“Tympany is wind colic.” Mother Anne pushed aside her trencher with more force than necessary. “If your father wishes to avoid wind after meals and excessive gas in the abdomen, then I will make him a draft to drink an hour before eating. There is no need for him to be bled.”

As she left the room, I could hear her muttering to herself. The list of ingredients—coriander, conserve of roses, galanza root, aniseed, sugar, even cinnamon—sounded more like a receipt for cookery than physic.

Father returned an hour later, unsteady on his feet and white as parchment. “The humors have been restored to their natural balance,” he assured me as I assisted him to climb the stairs. “Dropsy is caused by superfluous cold and moist humors. That is why it was necessary that I be bled.”

I make no pretense of understanding the theory of humors. To me it sounds as mad as predicting the future by the stars. All I cared about was that Father not fall ill again. Our household might have escaped, summer after summer, from the ravages of the plague, and been spared other dread diseases, too, but I knew full well that life, like a candle, could be snuffed out in an instant.

Father’s dizziness abated but he began to pass water an immoderate number of times a day. Mother Anne was worried enough to consult a physician about that condition. This doctor charged an angel for just one visit. He examined Father’s urine, prepared an astrological chart, and gave him a purge. Then he made him drink cold water until he vomited. To complete the cure, Father was supposed to eat four eggs prepared with powdered red nettle and sugar every morning. This he refused to do. For a time, his health improved.

In October, the royal grant we had been promised was duly issued, more than doubling Father’s wealth.

We were not cut off from news of the court, even though neither Father nor I went there anymore. John Scutt was still the queen’s tailor and Bridget still took pleasure in repeating every juicy tidbit he shared with her. In this way, I learned that King Henry had been ill.

“The king and queen are at Windsor now,” Bridget announced in mid-October, “but the king is not hunting, as is his wont. It is said he’s not well enough to stand the exertion.” She rolled her eyes. “I do not see that His Grace ever exerts himself overmuch. Master Scutt told me once that King Henry is accustomed to shoot at deer from a fixed standing. And even when he did ride down game on horseback, armed with darts and spears, he used a purpose-built ramp to mount his horse.”

“You must not be disrespectful of the king,” Mother Anne warned her.

“Is it disrespectful to speak the truth?”

“It can be,” I murmured.

Bridget, who had never been to court herself, paid no attention to our warnings. She prattled on, repeating the latest rumors. I assumed that what her husband told her had some basis in fact. The stories she picked up in the marketplace were less reliable, but she repeated those, too. Unable to tell the wheat from the chaff, Bridget was always certain they were all true.

It was from Bridget that I first heard that Sir Thomas Seymour was in residence at Seymour Place, a house in the parish of St. Clement Danes. The king had given it to him, so Bridget said, for his good service to the Crown.

I knew where Seymour Place was located. It was situated on the Strand, just beyond Temple Bar on the way to Westminster. Although this was outside the city gates, I reckoned that it would not be a very great journey from Father’s house. It was, in fact, nearer to Watling Street than Norfolk House and even easier to reach by wherry.

On the pretext of a shopping expedition to buy new shoes, I set out with Edith at an early hour. I walked rapidly to Paul’s Wharf, where I hailed the first boat I saw. Edith had been sworn to secrecy but she was a reluctant accomplice and was already out of sorts because she’d had to trot to keep up with me.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she muttered as the small rowing boat took us smoothly past Baynard’s Castle, Puddle Wharf, and the former monastery of Blackfriars. The old city wall ended there, but Temple Bar marked the true city limit, the point where, on land, Fleet Street became the Strand.

By water, the riverside façades of Bridewell, Whitefriars, the Inner Temple, and the Middle Temple led up to Temple Bar. Beyond that there were many great houses. The one the king had granted to Sir Thomas Seymour had once belonged to the Bishop of Bath. It had already been a very grand place, complete with orchards and gardens and tenements, when Sir Thomas began making improvements. The rebuilding had been ongoing ever since.

I told the boatman to deposit me at the private water stairs between Milford Lane—a narrow way across from the church of St. Clement Dane—and Strand Bridge Lane.

“Are you sure, mistress?” He pointed to two men who appeared to be on guard there. “They are wearing the king’s livery. They may not let you disembark.”

“Do as I say!” I snapped at him because, in truth, I was not at all certain I would be able to talk my way onto the property.

A challenge came the moment the rowing boat put in at the foot of the privy stairs.

I had just room enough to step out of the boat and did so, hauling Edith after me. “I am here to see Master John Harington, the vice admiral’s man, on urgent business.” I did not give my name.

One of the henchmen sneered, but the other, peering more closely into my face and having served at court for some time, saw more than his companion. He escorted me, with Edith dogging my heels, into the main building. Instructing a servant in Seymour’s livery to make sure neither of us wandered off, he left us in an antechamber.

“Has Sir Thomas been in residence long?” I asked when the silence began to fray my nerves.

“Since the King’s Majesty went to Windsor, mistress.”

As the fellow did not seem to mind answering questions, I asked another. “Is this a large household? Aside from the builders, I mean.”

“Comfortably so, mistress. There are twenty-four liveried servants like myself in daily attendance on Sir Thomas.”

“A goodly number.”

“He is Prince Edward’s uncle.”

Before I could ask anything else, Jack Harington entered the room and dismissed the talkative servant. He waited until his footsteps faded away before he spoke.

“What in God’s name do you think you are doing, Audrey? You could ruin your reputation by coming here.”

“Seymour Place is scarce a bawdy house! And I would not have come if I were not so desperate for your help.”

At once his hard features softened. “What has happened? Is it Malte? I heard he was ill.”

“No. No, Father is much better. It . . . it is something else.” Now that the moment had come, I found it harder than I had expected to confide in him.

“Let us walk in the gardens,” he suggested. “It is as private there as here, but with less potential for scandal.”

I gathered my courage in the time it took us to leave the house. As we strolled arm in arm along the carefully laid-out alleys, across decorative bridges, and through banks of flowers, Edith trailing a discreet distance behind, I began at the beginning, with the day King Henry rescued me from my mother and that man Dobson. I recounted each incident that had led me to believe John Malte was not my father, ending with the king’s extremely generous grant of land.

“It was not just a pension for Father, Jack. His Grace named us jointly. How can I interpret that in any other way? The king wished to provide for me because I am his daughter, not John Malte’s.”

Jack said nothing.

“You’ve suspected the same thing. You had only to look at the color of my hair.”

Still nothing.

“Sir Richard Southwell believes it. Why do you think he is so anxious to marry me to his son.”

Jack caught my arm and pulled me down, rather more roughly than was necessary, to sit beside him on a convenient bench. Once I was seated, he released me at once. He was always careful not to touch me more than was necessary. It was as if he feared that close contact would weaken his self-control. For my part, I tried to behave as he wanted me to, although I wished with all my heart that I could be the sort of woman to tempt him out of his reticence.

“What if Southwell learns you were here with me?” he asked. “Have you thought of that? He’s not a man to be trifled with, Audrey.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“In a word—yes. You should be, too.”

“And that is precisely why I am not going to marry his son.”

“You could do worse.”

“You?”

Frustrated, he pulled off his bonnet and used it to thwack a nearby shrub. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end. I had to fight the urge to reach up and smooth it down again.

“Yes, me. I’d marry you in a minute, Audrey, if I had the means to support you. But I have no land, no money, and no great prospects. All was going well. Sir Thomas uses me as a messenger and seems to trust me. But it appears that, after all, he is in no position to advance himself, let alone his servants.”

His declaration warmed me, even as his determination not to marry me for my dowry made me want to slap him. Abruptly, I changed the subject.

“I had a reason for coming here, Jack. I need your help to get to Windsor.”

His astonished expression was almost comical. “To Windsor? Why? You cannot imagine you will be allowed to speak to the king!”

“His Grace might see me. He has favored me before. But that is not my reason for going there. I hope to find my mother. My real mother. Don’t you see, Jack? She is the only one who can tell me for certain who my father is.”

“Is she still at Windsor? It has been years, Audrey. Is she even alive after all this time?”

“I am certain she is. Father made a will when he was ill. He left her twenty pounds.”

Jack stared out across the Thames. There were a few scattered houses on the other side. Beyond, in the direction of Westminster, I could just glimpse the highest towers of the archbishop’s palace at Lambeth, hard by Norfolk House.

“Sooner or later, I will doubtless be sent to Windsor with messages. Let me ask your questions for you.”

But I shook my head. “I need to go myself. I need to see her face when she answers me.”

“If she answers you.” He sat with his head bowed, his elbows on his knees and his arms dangling between them. His strong hands crushed and mangled the bonnet they held. “Let me find her for you first.”

“No, Jack. I must—”

“It will be difficult enough for you to devise a excuse to be gone from home long enough to travel from London to Windsor and back again. I can save you the addition of days of searching.”

I had not thought through that part of things. I could not simply go haring off on my own. I would have to invent some story Father and Mother Anne would believe. “Very well. As to the other, I could say that the Duchess of Richmond has invited me to stay with her at Norfolk House. Father will not question that. I’ve spent a night or two there in the past.”

“The duchess is at Kenninghall, as is the Earl of Surrey.” His frown deepened. “No. Your plan is unwise.”

“If Father finds me out, I will face the consequences, but I must talk to my mother.”

Jack hesitated. “It is not that. Or, rather, not only that. The truth is, just now is not a time when you want to have anything to do with the Howard faction.”

“But I will not. Not in truth. My stay at Norfolk House will be a lie.”

“A lie that could come back to haunt you.” He placed both hands on my shoulders, holding me so that I was obliged to meet his eyes. “I cannot explain, Audrey, but you must trust me on this. Find some other excuse that will allow you to go to Windsor when the time comes. Leave the duchess and her brother and their father out of it.”

What choice did I have but to agree? His refusal to explain why he was so insistent on this point troubled me, but I have never pretended to understand the power struggles that are so much a part of the life of the court. I recalled that the Seymour faction and the Howard faction had been at odds ever since Jane Seymour replaced Anne Boleyn as King Henry’s queen, but Jack had remained, or so I thought, on friendly terms with both Sir Thomas Seymour and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.

We took leave of each other at the privy stairs. When I turned to wave one last time, from the middle of the river, Jack had already disappeared from view. With a sigh, I shifted my attention to the route ahead. I saw that it would not take us long to make the journey back to Paul’s Wharf because the tide had turned in our favor. Those boatmen rowing upriver now had to work harder. I gazed with sympathy at several small watercraft going the other way. Then my focus sharpened. I recognized the passenger aboard one of them. It was Sir Richard Southwell.

He was not looking my way, for which I was grateful. I planned to keep my face averted, but I could not resist another peek in his direction to see where he was bound. It was with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach that I saw his boat make for shore just beyond Temple Bar. As I had myself only a short time earlier, he disembarked at the privy stairs of Seymour Place.

This could not be a casual visit. Southwell, although he served the king, as we all did, was supposed to be the Duke of Norfolk’s man, a loyal advocate for the Howard faction at court. He’d never been a particular friend to any of the Seymours, not to the Earl of Hertford nor to Hertford’s younger brother, Sir Thomas. When I added Southwell’s presence at Seymour Place to Jack’s enigmatic warning, his words seemed doubly ominous. I returned to the house in Watling Street in a most agitated frame of mind.

34

Windsor, early December 1546

Seen from the river, Windsor Castle rises ominously against the paleness of the southern sky. It loomed over the tilt boat that had brought us all the way from London for ten shillings apiece. The steersman and four oarsmen made the trip every few days, taking passengers back and forth on a river that was tidal as far as Teddington. It was slow going against the tide and faster with. By this water route, travelers could reach Windsor in a little more than ten hours, but at this time of year there was not that much light in a day. We had stopped for the night at Shepperton and covered the last fourteen miles the next morning.

The opposite shore of the river was heavily wooded, making it seem almost as forbidding as the castle. I felt certain there were dangerous animals hidden in the trees, everything from wild boar to wolves. That winter was almost upon us made the landscape seem even more bleak. The swans, usually so much in evidence, were ominously absent.

“There are no wolves in England,” Jack assured me when I shared my concerns with him, “although there may once have been. Nor are there lions, bears, tigers, or leopards, except in the royal menagerie. Even there, these days, only four lions and two leopards remain, safely confined behind wooden railings. The worst you will find here in the wild are foxes and badgers and the occasional boar. Far more dangerous are the animals that live indoors, wearing fine clothing and smiling.”

I tugged my warm, fur-lined cloak more closely around me, glad of its warmth and the protection of its hood. The chill from the water had turned my booted feet to ice and the stiff breeze blowing toward us from the shore pierced straight through all my layers of clothing.

As he’d promised, Jack had gone ahead to Windsor to make inquiries. He’d had no difficulty finding my mother. She lived in one of the small houses built right up against the castle walls. We would not have to venture inside them and risk being recognized.

In the time it had taken to make the remaining arrangements, the danger of meeting anyone we knew had decreased. The king was no longer in residence at Windsor Castle. His Grace had left for Oatlands in mid-November with what was called his “riding household,” a much reduced number of attendants. The rest of the courtiers had thus been freed from their duties and could go where they would.

If everything went as Jack planned, we would talk to my mother and be on our way back to London again in a matter of hours. By sunset, another tilt boat would have carried us a goodly distance downriver. After one more night in an inn, we’d continue on to the city. I had spent two nights away from home before without arousing suspicion. What I had never previously done was lie to Father about where I would be. I’d told him that I was going to stay with Lady Heveningham—Mary Shelton—at her brother’s house in the parish of St. Helen’s Bishopsgate.

With Edith close beside me, I followed Jack toward the ramshackle dwelling where my mother lived. It was set a little apart from the others, nearer to the river than most.

I smelled it before I saw it. My mother still earned her living as a laundress. A wooden bleaching tub sat beside the privy for the collection of urine. Not far away, in a larger tub, discolored sheets and table linen soaked in a thick green mixture of water and summer sheep’s dung.

I stopped.

“Audrey?” Jack sounded concerned. I knew that if I changed my mind, he would escort me back to London without demur.

“It has been many years since I thought about how much hard work is involved in producing clean laundry.”

“You were very young when the king rescued you. I am surprised you remember anything at all.”

“I can still recall how tired my mother was at the end of each day. Making soiled linen clean again is a long and backbreaking process.” I moved closer to the tub. “Soaking it is only the beginning.”

“Here, you! Leave that be!” My mother stood in the doorway, a basket full of dirty shirts and shifts balanced on one hip and a belligerent look on her face.

If not for her dark eyes, I would never have recognized her. Her complexion, always on the swarthy side and sometimes sunburnt, had turned sallow and unhealthy looking over the years. Her arms were as muscular as ever, from all the hard work she did, but the rest of her had gone soft and fleshy. Even her hair, although she could not yet have passed her fortieth summer, showed signs of age. Where it was visible, hanging in limp clumps that escaped from beneath a greasy kerchief, the brown had gone as grizzled as any crone’s.

Her eyes narrowed. “So you’ve come back, have you?”

“You know who I am?” It was a foolish remark, but the only thing I could think of to say to her.

“It would be hard not to know you with that hair.” Abruptly, she turned her back on me, pretending to check on the linens in the buck tub.

Tension radiated from her like heat from the sun, making me wonder if my sudden appearance alarmed her. I had no idea what the king had said to her, or to Dobson, on that long-ago day when he’d given me to John Malte to raise. Had she been paid to relinquish me? Or punished for mistreating me? Or had King Henry simply snatched me away to prevent me from being beaten again?

“I mean you no harm,” I said.

“Then go away.”

“I have come a great distance to speak with you. I . . . I have questions.”

She glanced at me over her shoulder. Slowly, her expression changed. Her gaze swept over me from head to toe, taking in my well-made clothing, my few pieces of jewelry, and the fact that I had both a gentleman and a maidservant in attendance.

I sighed. It was all too obvious that she was calculating my worth. “I can pay you for information.”

Father had always been generous with what he called “pin money” and I had saved a modest sum over the years, especially after Bridget married and left the house and could no longer help herself to what was mine. I had been able to pay my own fare, and Edith’s, for the tilt boat and afford lodgings at the inn. I still had several gold and silver coins in the purse concealed beneath my kirtle.

Behind me, I heard Edith’s familiar mutter of disapproval. Jack reached out to me. The brief touch of his hand on my arm steadied me and gave me the courage to continue what I had begun.

“How much?” my mother asked.

“Two gold angels.”

“You have done well for yourself, girl, if you carry that much money about with you.”

When I did not respond, she abandoned her work and led us into the little house. It was dark and dirty inside, smelling of unwashed bodies and wood smoke. A fire burned fitfully on the hearth but provided little warmth. She did not offer us refreshment but there was a bench to sit upon. I settled myself there while she plopped herself down on a three-legged stool.

“Nothing but ill luck has befallen me since the king took you away,” she said before I could ask my first question.

I considered my surroundings, taking note of the lack of anything that might indicate that the odious Dobson shared them with my mother. “Where is your husband?”

“Long gone. After the king took away his post in the castle, what else was he to do? He blamed me.”

“When it was all my fault?” I finished before she could say the words.

Looking sulky, she picked at a chipped fingernail and refused to meet my eyes.

“I want to know what the king said to you that day.” That was not all I wanted to know, but it was a place to start.

“He was angry because Dobson struck you.” Suddenly defensive, she glowered at me. “A father has a right to deal with a child as he will.”

“Dobson was not my father.”

“He was your stepfather. It was not your place to defy him.”

“Nor the king’s?” I took a breath and blurted out the question I most needed to have answered. “Is he my father? Am I King Henry’s child?”

The change in her was immediate. Her irritation with me was replaced by a far stronger emotion, one there was no mistaking. It was fear I saw in her eyes before she averted her gaze.

It had not occurred to me before coming to Windsor that by telling me the truth my mother might place herself in danger. I had not anticipated the possibility that she might have been threatened to keep silent about my paternity. Or bribed. Or both. Did she fear that if she made such a claim about the king, even if she only confided in me and in private, she could be taken up for treason?

“I swear I will not repeat to anyone what you say to me.” I leaned forward to take her rough, work-worn hands in mine.

She looked past me at Edith and Jack. “Tell them to go away.”

“Leave. Please,” I said without glancing over my shoulder. I heard the faint rustle of Edith’s skirts and the shuffle of Jack’s boots as they honored my wishes. The door closed behind them with a thump.

My mother freed herself from my grip and crossed her arms over her bosom. Even in the dimly lit hovel I could tell that she was glaring at me. “You were never anything but trouble! I should have gone to the village wise woman and done away with you before you ever drew breath.”

It hurt me that she hated me so much, especially when it was far too late to change anything that had happened. I rebuilt the shield around my heart and plunged ahead. “Who was my father? What man did you lie with in the year before my birth?”

“I did couple with the king.” For a moment Joanna—it was easier to think of her by her Christian name than to regard her as my mother—allowed herself to look smug. The expression faded quickly. She had harbored too much resentment for too many years. “He was mad for Anne Boleyn in those days and she would not let him into her bed. I had something of her coloring in my dark hair and in my eyes. The king wanted to swive her but she held him off. So he bedded me. Called me Nan once or twice while he was at it. Men!”

“Then I am his child?”

I’d thought myself prepared for this moment, but I had not. If the king was my father, why had he never acknowledged me? Why had he given me away? Why had Father—John Malte—lied to me? That last was the most hurtful thought. The suspicion was not new, but it pained me that I might finally be obliged to accept the truth of it.

“You . . . might be,” Joanna said.

“You are in some doubt? How can that be?”

At the astonishment in my tone, she gave a bitter laugh. “How do you think? The king was not the only one who bedded me. I liked coupling in those days. I went with any man who asked me and a great many did. How do you think King Henry found me, eh? He followed one of his courtiers to my bed.”

“Did . . . did you lie with John Malte?”

“I may have. I hear he claimed you were his get.”

“He was well rewarded for doing so by the king.” This time it was bitterness that laced my words. “But surely, even with so many men, when you discovered that you were to have a child, you must have considered which one was most likely to have fathered me.”

“Oh, I had one or two likely prospects—the ones who had money.”

“And then I was born and you saw that I had bright red hair. That must have put an end to your doubts.”

“Ah, there’s the pity of it. The king was not the only redheaded man I let into my bed. There was another.”

“Who?”

“Let me see your money first.”

I reached through the purpose-cut placket in my skirt and into the purse suspended from my waist, feeling for the shape and weight of the angels. I extracted one. “The other when you answer me.”

“Even if you do not like the answer?”

With a sigh, I produced the second coin. I was prepared to pay even more if it would loosen her tongue.

“I do not remember his name. I am not certain I ever knew it. He was a toothsome fellow newcome to court and he was generous with his gifts. He was at Windsor, mayhap, to present a petition to the king. Then he was gone and I never saw him again. But he had a head of flaming red hair, not unlike your own.”

Her face gave nothing away. If she had invented this red-haired man out of whole cloth, I had no way to prove it. Fear of what the king might do to her if she named him as my father might have prompted her to lie, but it was equally possible that she had just told me the truth. If she had, I would never have an answer to the question of who had fathered me.

“If he was long gone before my birth, that still left King Henry,” I said slowly. “He knew nothing of my existence until he found me crying that day. Why did you not approach him when I was born? Why did he not know about me?”

“The king went away from Windsor, too. And how was I to make my way to him even when he came back again?” She spat. “I am a laundress. I’ve no business in the king’s lodgings. And once I was burdened with a squalling brat, no more courtiers came begging for my favors. I had to settle for Dobson.”

All my fault, I thought. Again.

“I regret that your life has been so hard.” I rose from the bench, resigned to the fact that I had learned all I would from her.

Unexpectedly, Joanna said, “Malte’s a good man. He looks in on me now and again. He even gave me money when Dobson left me and took all that I had saved.”

“But is he my real father? He does not have red hair.”

“Mayhap he had a red-haired grandmother.” She snorted a laugh.

I turned to leave. I was almost at the door of the hovel when she spoke again.

“You have far more already than most girls ever get. It would do you no harm to remember your poor old mother from time to time, or to share your good fortune.”

I was a fool to do so, but I detached my purse and handed it to her. Then I left her house without looking back. I did not even wait to make sure Jack and Edith were following me. I kept walking until I reached the waiting tilt boat.

35

Catherine’s Court, November 1556

Was the king your father or not?” Hester demanded.

“I was not yet certain.” They were within sight of the stable and the horses, scenting hay, perked up and moved faster.

“If he was, then Bridget Scutt is not my aunt at all.” Hester sounded delighted by that. “Instead I have two other aunts, and one of them is the queen. Will you take me to court, Mother? I would like to meet Aunt Mary.”

“Queen Mary,” Audrey corrected her, beginning to be alarmed. Hester was too young to realize that the queen might take exception to a claim of shared royal blood. “No more of this, Hester. I would not have us overheard.”

The girl had sense enough to obey, but Audrey could see she was bubbling over with excitement. Questions threatened to burst out of her at any moment, no matter who was within earshot.

Audrey dismounted too quickly and had to grasp Plodder’s mane to steady herself.

“Is aught wrong, mistress?”

She waved off the groom’s concern but reached for Hester’s hand. “Help me into the house, child. I find I am in need of rest after all that exertion.”

As soon as they reached Audrey’s bedchamber, Hester resumed begging to visit her newly discovered aunts. “If not to court, then let us go to Hatfield. Father has been there often. I am certain we would be welcome.”

Audrey was equally certain they would not. Moreover, she was suddenly beset by the conviction that it had been a terrible mistake to tell Hester anything at all about her heritage. The girl was too young to understand the danger.

She eased herself into the cushioned chair by the window and stared out at the landscape they’d just ridden through. She missed the London skyline already. How curious, she thought, since they’d be no safer in Stepney.

Hester flung herself down onto a pillow at her mother’s feet. “When, Mother? When can I meet them?”

“You do not even know for certain that those two royal ladies are your kin.” Audrey’s voice was sharper than she’d intended, making Hester wince. She moderated her tone. “Let me finish my tale, my darling girl. Then we will talk about where you can and cannot go and why.”

“But—”

“I understand your desire. Believe me, I do. But matters are never as simple as they seem. Will you allow me to tell you what happened next?”

A deep, sulky sigh answered her, but it was accompanied by a nod.

“On the way back to London, I shared with my companions what Joanna Dobson had told me. I was surprised when Edith remarked that Joanna was much to be pitied. She said that before she came to me, she had experienced for herself just how difficult it was to be young and female at the royal court. A noblewoman might not need to fear for her virtue, she said, and most gentlewomen were safe enough, but servants have no powerful relatives or position to protect them. They are considered fair game. Edith had felt safe only so long as she kept close to her mother, and her mother’s presence only served to ward off the danger because she was in service to Lady Frances, the daughter of one earl and wife to another.”

Hester frowned at this. “I remember that you said your father—John Malte—kept warning you against wandering off by yourself. And that he hired a neighbor to go with you to court, before the king sent Edith to you.”

“Even the plainest girl will have the men flocking after her if she is on her own.” Audrey smiled a little. “That day, leaving Windsor, Edith’s revelations made Jack uncomfortable. He mumbled something about how few women there were at court. Even among the servants, men outnumber women a hundred to one. But he had to admit that perhaps Edith had the right of it. And in the end, I agreed that Joanna might be more to be pitied than reviled. I realized that John Malte must feel the same. Why else would he leave her a bequest in his will? But I still had my doubts about her truthfulness. I suspected her of lying about my paternity.”

Hester lifted her head from Audrey’s knee. “There must have been a way to learn more. Surely someone among the king’s men, someone who was at court before you were born, knew the truth.”

“That occurred to me, too, and I said so to your father. My determination to go on asking questions worried him a great deal. He warned me that I must not pursue my inquiries openly, not when they concerned the king. That, I told him, left me with only the king himself to ask.”

“What did Father say to that?”

“That if His Grace had meant to claim me, he’d have done so long ago. I’d once thought the same, but now I was of a different opinion. My memory had been jostled. I found myself recalling more about the day His Grace rescued me. It was the same day upon which Anne Boleyn was created a marquess in her own right. By the time King Henry learned of my existence, he was deeply committed to marrying her. To acknowledge me then would have angered her, and Queen Anne was legendary for her temper. I think perhaps King Henry was a little afraid of her.”

“Did you convince Father of your reasoning?”

“I chose not to debate the matter with him. Besides, by then I had begun to realize that something else was bothering him. I’d sensed it throughout our journey to Windsor. I knew that furrow in his brow.”

Hester grinned. She was familiar with it, too, and with what its appearance betokened.

“When I tore myself away from my obsession with finding out who’d fathered me and considered Jack’s behavior, I realized that he’d been relieved to leave London behind for a few days. But most curiously, now that we were on our way back, he was passing anxious for the journey to end. It was as if he knew something of importance had happened while we were gone.”

Within moments of returning to the house in Watling Street, her suspicions had been confirmed. Bridget had already been by to report the latest news from court, relayed to her by Master Scutt.

“Father was on the verge of going to Sir Jerome Shelton’s house himself to fetch me home,” she told Hester. “The first words out of his mouth when I walked in were: ‘Has Lady Heveningham been questioned?’ My blank stare must have told him I had no notion what had happened. He looked relieved, but then he ordered me to stay away from Mary, and from anyone else I had ever met through the Duchess of Richmond and her brother . . . with one exception.”

“Why was he so upset?” Hester asked.

“While I was at Windsor, the Earl of Surrey had been arrested on suspicion of treason. Sir Richard Southwell had laid evidence against him before the Privy Council.”

36

December 12, 1546

That Sunday, I went with Edith and Bridget to watch the Earl of Surrey be led through London on his way to the Tower. I vow, every citizen, every apprentice, and every stranger in London turned out to witness his disgrace.

Jostled by the crowd, I soon became separated from the others. I kept one hand on the purse I’d acquired to replace the one I’d given Joanna. The pickpockets were also out in force.

It was not idle curiosity that made me want a close look at the earl. I wished to make certain he was not accompanied by other prisoners, perhaps his sister, perhaps even Mary Heveningham. And, irrational though it was, given that Jack Harington had long since shifted his allegiance to the Seymours, I worried that he might be among them. I’d not heard a word from him since returning to London.

The earl’s name was on everyone’s lips, along with ever more creative accounts of his arrest. I had heard the true story, thanks to Master Scutt. Ten days earlier, even as I was making my way to Windsor Castle and back, Surrey had dined at Whitehall Palace. The captain of the king’s halberdiers, pretending he had a private matter to discuss with the earl—that he wanted Surrey to intercede with his father, the Duke of Norfolk—lured Surrey away from the crowded hall. Once the earl was separated from his own men, other halberdiers seized him and carried him away to the river stairs. A boat was waiting there to take him to Blackfriars landing and thence to Ely Place in Holborn and the Lord Chancellor, who informed him that he was to be held there, a prisoner, by the king’s command.

Now charged with treason, Surrey was being taken from Ely Place to the Tower. He had been stripped of all the trappings of his rank. All his possessions, even his bay jennet, had been seized by the Crown. Thus, even though he was nobly born, the son of a duke, he was being made to walk the mile-and-a-half distance—straight through London itself.

There was no fanfare as he approached the spot where I stood waiting. No silk banners waved. The only entourage accompanying him consisted of a contingent of burly guards.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that he was the only prisoner. If anyone else had been arrested, they had at least been spared the indignity of public humiliation.

Surrey himself was almost unrecognizable. In plain garments undecorated with jewels, he stared straight ahead, his countenance stoic. Onlookers, who had been noisy and boisterous as he approached, fell silent in his wake. It was usual to pelt prisoners conveyed through the city in carts with rotten produce and stones. No one threw anything at the earl.

Here and there, men removed their caps as a mark of respect. Others looked away from the sight of the once-proud nobleman brought low. This was not a day to remember Surrey’s drunken rioting and window-breaking. Men instead recalled his role in the French war—his heroism and military prowess. Only the presence of the earl’s armed escort prevented them from attempting a rescue. As it was, some shouted out words of encouragement to the prisoner.

Beside me, an old woman began to wail. Others echoed the lamentation, until the entire city seemed to be in mourning for the Earl of Surrey. Suddenly nervous, the guards hustled their prisoner on his way. Around me, the cries died down, but they were taken up farther along the route. Inarticulate sounds close at hand were replaced by muttered words.

“He’s bound for the headsman’s ax,” one man said.

Public executions were a popular form of entertainment, but this fellow did not sound happy about the prospect.

It terrified me. In a panic, I broke free of the press of people and fought my way back through Cheapside. Surrey had been arrested before, but this time was different. This time the charge was treason and he was bound for the Tower, not the Fleet. I could not help but think of what had happened to two other prisoners in that terrible place—Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. They had died there, condemned by the same king who had once loved them both. Was Surrey truly about to join his kinswomen in facing the headsman?

I was nearly home, just turning from West Cheap into Friday Street, when Edith and Bridget rejoined me.

“Did you hear?” Bridget’s eyes were bright with excitement. “The Duke of Norfolk arrived in London from Kenninghall this morning and now he is also under arrest. He’s being taken to the Tower by water even as his son is marched there.”

I felt as if a cold hand clenched around my heart. Thinking about Surrey’s fate had been bad enough, but this was infinitely worse. “And the rest of the Howards? What of them?” The Duchess of Richmond had been at Kenninghall with her father.

“Mayhap they’ll be made prisoners, too. The king has sent troops to seize all of the duke’s possessions. They belong to His Grace now, for traitors forfeit all they own.”

“The Countess of Surrey is at Kenninghall.” There was a tremor in Edith’s voice, reminding me that her mother would be there, too, in attendance on the countess’s children. “Lady Frances is expecting another child in February.”

I reached for Edith’s hand and squeezed it.

As is ever the case, no one knew exactly what the Privy Council heard from the many witnesses they deposed, but that did not stop the good citizens of London from speculating. Within hours of her arrival in Lambeth, word that the Duchess of Richmond had been summoned to testify against her brother had reached the marketplace. Rumors flew. She meant to have her revenge on Surrey for thwarting her marriage to Sir Thomas Seymour. She was bound for the Tower herself. She had tried to throw herself on the king’s mercy—he was her father-in-law, after all—and he had sent her away without an audience.

Edith received a more reliable report from her mother, who wrote from Norfolk to tell her that the Countess of Surrey had been allowed to leave Kenninghall for one of the duke’s smaller houses, although that one too now belonged to the king. Most cruelly, Lady Surrey’s children had been taken away from her. Surrey’s heir had been given into the keeping of Sir John Williams while the three girls and the younger boy had been placed with a loyal East Anglian landowner. Edith’s mother had been obliged to choose between her much-beloved Lady Frances and the young Howards. In the end, she’d remained with her youthful charges.

Throughout all this turmoil, I waited desperately for some word from Jack. He had to have known what was afoot. Why else had he been so tense during the journey to Windsor and back?

But no message came.

Then a new rumor began to circulate. The king was said to be ill, so sick that he might not have long to live. This was good news for the earl and the duke. If the king died, he could not sign their death warrants. But it was a report that distressed me greatly and made my own need more urgent.

When I heard that the king had returned to Whitehall, I lost no time hailing a wherry and going thither. If he was dying, I had little time left.

Once at the king’s palace in Westminster, I asked for Sir Anthony Denny. He had been knighted at the time of the invasion of France and more recently had been promoted to the post of groom of the stool, placing him in intimate contact with the king on a daily basis. It had occurred to me that if he did not know the truth of my parentage, he must surely suspect it.

I was made to wait in an antechamber, but after only a short delay, Sir Anthony came to me there, adding strength to my supposition.

“I must speak with the king, Sir Anthony.”

“If you have evidence to lay against the Earl of Surrey, you must take your information to the Lord Chancellor.”

“Why should you think such a thing?” I was thunderstruck by his assumption. “It is a private matter I wish to discuss—a question I must ask His Grace. I . . . I beg you, Sir Anthony. Help me if you can.”

He responded to my plea with a cold look. The temperature in the small chamber, already chilly, seemed to plummet. “Your association with the Howard faction is well-known.”

“I have naught to do with factions.”

Thawing a trifle, he said, not unkindly, “That is wise of you. You would be wiser still to avoid anyone who might carry the taint of the earl’s treason.”

Something in his manner alarmed me. “You must speak plainly, Sir Anthony, for I do not understand you.”

“You are a known associate of the Duchess of Richmond.”

“She has been kind to me in the past. We share a love of poetry.”

“And Lady Heveningham?”

Although I knew defiance was unwise, I could not stop myself from blurting out, “She is my friend.”

“Sir Richard Southwell is a dangerous man to thwart.” Sir Anthony sounded more exasperated than condemning. I thought I detected a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

“I will not be forced into marriage out of fear.” I spoke quietly, but with as much firmness as I could muster.

“Not even fear for those you care for? Southwell has already suggested that Lady Heveningham be questioned. It would be a simple matter to add your name to that list. Or even someone who has long since entered the service of the Seymours.”

Jack. Sir Anthony knew it had been through Jack Harington that I’d been introduced to the Earl of Surrey’s literary circle.

“There must first be evidence of wrongdoing, must there not? If a man—or a woman—is innocent, how can they have anything to fear?”

When Sir Anthony gave a derisive snort, my heart sank. I knew better, too. If the king wished to rid himself of someone, be it wife or courtier, innocence or guilt mattered little. His Grace had always been kind to me. He had saved my life. He had given me Pocket. He had sent Jack to me.

And he had ordered me to marry Sir Richard Southwell’s son. I had heard stories of King Henry’s cruelty. Of his temper. I knew them to be true, even if I had never witnessed either for myself.

I wondered, for just a moment, if I did want to know who had fathered me. But once the king died, I would have no choice but to spend the rest of my life uncertain of my heritage. I had to find a way to ask him before I lost my chance.

“Is His Grace truly ill? Is the king dying?”

Sir Anthony shushed me, his eyes darting from side to side to make sure no one had overheard. “Above all others, that is the question you must not ask.”

“Then let me ask another. Who am I, Sir Anthony? Who is my father? If you do not know, then I must speak to the king in private.”

“That is an extraordinary request from a young woman who has no official standing at court.” He tried to sound officious and failed.

My determination did not falter. I waited, holding his gaze, letting him see that I would not be swayed.

He cleared his throat. “His Grace will see no one at present but a few favored courtiers and his doctors. He will admit no petitioners. He has even banned his wife and his daughters from his presence.”

“But Yuletide is fast approaching. Surely—”

“Not this year. The queen and the rest of the court have been ordered to spend the season at Greenwich. His Grace means to go to Hampton Court, taking with him only a few trusted gentlemen. Go home, Audrey. There is no place for you here.”

37

The king did not return to Whitehall until the tenth of January. Although His Grace did not attend it, the Earl of Surrey’s trial was held at the Guildhall on the thirteenth. The proceedings lasted eight hours. When he was sentenced to death, the earl was beside himself. He jumped up and shouted, “The king wants to get rid of the noble blood around him and employ none but low people!”

No one had any doubt that he meant the Seymours, but his words did not help his case. Only a royal pardon would save him, and King Henry continued to keep to himself, still refusing to see anyone but a few select courtiers and his physicians. Even the Privy Council no longer met at court. Instead they convened at the Earl of Hertford’s London house.

As no females were allowed into the king’s lodgings, not even the queen, I had little hope of seeing His Grace, but that did not stop me from trying. I could scarce haunt the court, although petitioners did flock there every day. A young woman, even one with a maidservant for company, would attract too much attention. I managed an occasional foray, but feared that if Father discovered where I’d been, he would lock me in my chamber. He would be within his rights to beat me for disobedience, although he never would.

Distressing Father was something I wished to avoid. Although he worked every day in his shop with his apprentices, he tired easily. The racking cough that had plagued him a few months earlier had never entirely gone away. And more than once I’d seen him stagger and grasp a table or a chair for support, clinging to it until he felt steady again. I could not tell if he was dizzy or nauseous or both. He would not admit to either.

There were times when I caught Father watching me, as if he had something he wished to say, but he never put his thought into words. I could only guess what stopped him, but my supposition made sense to me. If he had sworn an oath to the king never to reveal my true father’s name, then he would not break that vow, no matter how much he might want to.

That January was one of the coldest anyone could remember. The Thames did not freeze solid at London, as it had once when I was eight or nine, but the roads were covered in ice. Winds howled straight up the river from the sea.

Very early on one of those frigid mornings, the Earl of Surrey was taken out of his cell and out of the Tower and up Tower Hill to where the scaffold is. I saw it once, though not in use, since women rarely attend executions. It rose some four feet above the ground, a wooden platform reached by nine steps. I am told it was draped in black on the day Surrey died.

With the Howards in disgrace, I knew that the Seymours must be in the ascendant. If the king died with Prince Edward still so young, someone would have to act as regent. The queen was the most likely candidate, since she had governed in the king’s stead when he invaded France. But Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, had positioned himself to play an important role in any new government. He was, after all, young Edward’s uncle. Sir Richard Southwell, having betrayed the Howards, now stood firmly in Hertford’s camp.

I considered appealing to Sir Thomas Seymour for help in reaching the king. Even though I’d still heard nothing from Jack, I was certain he would help me again by speaking to his master on my behalf. But I hesitated to entangle him any further in my affairs, especially if Sir Anthony Denny was not the only courtier to suspect that I had feelings for him. Sir Richard Southwell had betrayed Surrey and tried to convince the authorities to question Mary Heveningham. He’d throw Jack to the lions in an instant if he thought it would help clear the way for his son to marry me.

Instead, I concentrated on wooing Sir Anthony. I wrote to him. I sent him small tokens—a songbook, an artificial flower, and finally a pair of sleeves I had embroidered myself. I’d intended them as a gift for Jack, but winning Sir Anthony’s favor took precedence.

I was discouraged when I learned that the Earl of Surrey had also appealed to the king’s groom of the stool, dedicating to Sir Anthony one of the translations of the Psalms he had made during his imprisonment in the Tower. It had been accompanied by a groveling prefatory lyric but neither had done him any good.

In contrast to the earl’s plea, my persistence was rewarded. Sir Anthony Denny came to Watling Street, just as he had so many years before. He spoke first to Father and then to me. But this time when I set out for Westminster I left Father behind and Edith, too. Sir Anthony proposed to spirit me into the royal bedchamber and he did not want any witnesses.

“The king appears to be having one of his good days,” Sir Anthony told me as we slipped through passages I’d never known existed. We were in the “secret lodgings” behind the king’s official bedchamber, the rooms where His Grace could be truly private. “King Henry arose this morning and allowed himself to be dressed, but he is far from well. One of the symptoms of his illness is the rapid shifting of his moods. You will have to be careful what you say. Do not, at all costs, annoy him.”

I saw what he meant about the state of the king’s health as soon as I rose from my obeisance and got my first good look at His Grace. The king’s face was a pale shade of gray. With his slightest movement, beads of sweat popped out on his brow. Although he was seated, I could see that his clothes hung loosely on him, as did his skin. He had lost a good deal of fleshiness during his illness. His leg, in which an ulcer had been cauterized not long before, was propped up on a footstool. It was heavily bandaged and gave off an offensive smell.

“It is well you have come, Audrey,” His Grace said. “We are prepared to acknowledge you.”

“Your Grace?” I could scarcely believe my ears. Was it to be this simple?

“Your mother was an attractive woman in her day. She . . . reminded me of someone.”

I remembered what Joanna had said of her resemblance to Anne Boleyn. I also remembered that the late queen’s name was never to be spoken in the king’s presence. Father had warned me about that.

“She said nothing of your birth,” the king continued, reaching for the box of comfits on the table beside his chair. “A more ambitious woman might have tried—well, no matter. No one could fail to recognize that color of hair for what it is.”

I wondered if I should tell him what Joanna had said about the other redheaded man. I decided against it. The king seemed to have no doubt but that he was my father.

“Your Grace, John Malte—”

“Malte is a good and loyal servant. It was best for you that he raise you, for we could not claim you then, no matter how much we might have wished to.” He offered me the box. “Take one. Green ginger. Good for settling the stomach.”

I scarcely tasted the sweet. And it was my mind that roiled.

With the knowledge I had gained in the intervening years, I understood the king’s reasoning. He had been at a precarious point in his relationship with his future queen when he discovered me weeping in the passageway. Anne Boleyn would not have taken kindly to the news that His Grace had fathered another child, especially if she learned that Joanna bore such a close resemblance to herself.

I did not condemn the king for the choice he’d made. I’d had a good life as the daughter of his royal tailor. Part of me wished I truly was Malte’s child. If I were simply Audrey Malte, Sir Richard Southwell would never have taken an interest in me.

“Mayhap we will let it be known that you are my child,” King Henry said. “We would use our influence on your behalf. What boon would you like, child? What do you desire above all things?”

“To marry where I choose.” The words were out before I could stop them.

The king frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Are you not already betrothed?”

“No, Your Grace. There has been no formal contract.”

He indicated a floor cushion and I sat. In this position, much nearer the king’s bad leg, I had to take shallow breaths to keep from gagging.

“Tell me, Audrey, if you were permitted to choose, what man would you have?”

His kindly demeanor and sympathetic tone of voice lulled me into answering honestly. “Master John Harington, Your Grace—the gentleman you yourself sent to me as a tutor.”

In the blink of an eye, the king’s expression changed from benign to thunderous. A ferocious scowl replaced the avuncular smile. “Harington? No. He will not do. Fancies himself a poet like Surrey. Traitors all around us,” he muttered.

Frozen in horror, I stared at His Grace. Sir Anthony had warned me, but I had never expected the king’s mood to shift this rapidly. I dared not utter a word for fear I would once again say the wrong thing.

“We had heard of the earl’s musical and literary gatherings. So innocent. Or so they seemed. In truth, he met allies in order to conspire against us.” The king leaned forward until his face was only inches from mine. Spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You were part of that circle. You and Harington. Deceitful child! You would use your royal blood to usurp me, just as Surrey tried to claim the throne for himself.”

“No!” Horrified by the accusation, I sought the words to defend myself but I had no idea what to say. “Your Grace—”

“You’ll get no more from us than you have already. We will never acknowledge you as our daughter. You have betrayed us!”

He seemed on the verge of charging me with treason, and Jack along with me. I do not know what would have happened next if Sir Anthony Denny had not intervened. He had been waiting at a discreet distance but had been near enough to see the sudden shift in the king’s demeanor.

He’d had long years of experience dealing with the king. Somehow, speaking in such a low voice that I could not make out his words, he calmed his royal master. When Sir Anthony signaled me to leave, I made my escape.

I was shaking so badly that I could barely manage a curtsey. My legs trembled as I backed out of the royal presence. I collapsed against the wall of the passageway as soon as a closed door separated me from His Grace.

I do not know how long I huddled there, afraid of the king’s wrath but also fearful of getting lost if I tried to find my own way out of Whitehall. When Sir Anthony finally came for me, he took me by the shoulders and led me to a small room nearby. He made me sit and sip some aqua vitae.

“The king will take no action against you, Audrey. I promise you that.”

“Why was he so angry, Sir Anthony? I am no threat to him. Surely a bastard has no claim to the throne.”

“Did your tutors teach you history along with music and dancing?”

I shook my head. I’d read stories of King Arthur and I knew that we’d fought many wars with France over the centuries, but I was woefully ignorant about most of England’s past.

“The king’s father’s claim to the throne came to him from his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and she was descended from a son, born out of wedlock, to one of the sons of King Edward the Third. John of Gaunt later married his mistress and legitimized their children. They and their descendants were barred from the succession, but when the first Henry Tudor enforced his claim by winning the crown in battle, he proved that it was not impossible for the progeny of a royal bastard to gain the throne of England.”

“Is that why Sir Richard wants me to wed his son? He’s mad if he thinks his grandchildren might one day usurp some future king. King Henry has three children born in wedlock and surely they will have offspring of their own.”

“Even failing that, there are others in line to inherit, all legitimately born. I do not know what Sir Richard thinks. I can only attempt to explain the king’s reasoning.”

“His reasoning is faulty!”

Eyes wide, I clapped my hand over my mouth. I had not meant to criticize His Grace, but it was clear to me that King Henry’s mind was no longer as clear as it should be. Was that why the Earl of Surrey had died? Because the king imagined Surrey was plotting against him? Given the irrational outburst I had just endured, I could well believe it. My hands started to shake again and I hastily hid them in my lap.

Sir Anthony cleared his throat. “When you speak of faulty reasoning, I presume you refer to Sir Richard’s logic.”

I seized upon that interpretation. “Yes. Sir Richard. I . . . I only wish to understand why he is so determined upon my marriage to his son. If it is true that the Earl of Surrey died because he thought he had a legitimate claim to the throne, how can anyone in his right mind wish to admit to possessing a single drop of royal blood?”

“The earl was indeed guilty of treason,” Sir Anthony said in a tone that brooked no argument. “He flaunted his remote connection to the throne in the form of a new coat of arms. Nobly born he may have been, and renowned as a poet, but he was ever the fool when it came to reining in his impulses. He overstepped himself once too often and he has paid the price.”

With that, Sir Anthony offered me his arm to lead me out of the palace. We had almost reached the water stairs, where a boat was waiting to take me back to London, when he stopped and turned to face me.

“Listen and listen well, young Audrey. You are the king’s child, although he will never acknowledge you now. That may or may not matter to Sir Richard Southwell. Thanks to the properties granted to you jointly with John Malte, you are a considerable heiress. No matter whose blood flows in your veins, the man who marries you will be very wealthy indeed.”

38

Catherine’s Court, November 1556

My grandfather was the king of England.” Hester spoke the words in a hushed voice.

Her eyes, so like her father’s, glittered with barely suppressed excitement. Although she had listened without interrupting to the rest of the story, her face had been easy to read. She reacted first with awe, then with delight, to Audrey’s revelation that the king himself had confirmed her royal inheritance.

“Close kinship to the Crown is a burden, not a gift.”

Audrey’s severe tone had no effect. Hester’s enthusiasm could no longer be contained. She hopped off her mother’s bed and danced a jig around the chamber. “I will go to court! Could I be one of the queen’s maids of honor, do you think? Surely your sister could do that much for her niece.”

“Half sister,” Audrey corrected her, “and you are too young to be a maid of honor even if such a thing were possible.”

Where had the child come by such an ambition? Audrey thought back on the stories she and Jack had told their daughter about life at court. Had they made it seem too appealing? Of a certainty, that had not been her own intent when she’d begun her tale in Stepney.

Hester had heard only what she wanted to hear. Audrey supposed she’d been just the same as a girl. No one could have told her, even at eighteen, that the life she envisioned for herself might not be as perfect as she anticipated. Hester was only eight. Was it any surprise that she failed to appreciate the danger?

Audrey leaned back against the bolster, gathering strength to reason with her daughter. In her present state of euphoria, Hester would want to share the discoveries about herself with everyone at Catherine’s Court. That could not be allowed.

“Hester,” she said severely, “this must remain our secret. You cannot reveal what I have told you to anyone.”

“Why not?” She stopped dancing.

“Because, at present, Queen Mary, although she suspects the truth, has no proof of it. Her Grace is no friend to us, Hester. It is to our advantage that she not be reminded of the possibility she might have a second half sister.”

“But I want to go to court. You went to court when you were only a little older than I am now. I want—”

“Hester!” The girl’s mouth snapped shut but there was a mutinous look in her eyes. “Do you remember what happened after King Edward died?”

“Princess Mary became Queen Mary.”

“Yes, she did. But not without some difficulty. And after Sir Thomas Wyatt the Younger led a failed rebellion in Kent in an attempt to prevent her marrying the king of Spain, Queen Mary put many people in prison. Your father was one of them.”

Hester’s voice went very quiet. “I remember. And you went away, too.”

“I will tell you more of that in good time,” Audrey promised, “but what you must remember now is that Queen Mary is no less dangerous than King Henry was. On a whim, any king or queen can imprison a subject . . . or execute him. A careless word on your part could lead to your father’s death. Or mine. Or even your own.”

Audrey hated seeing fear replace joy in her daughter’s eyes, but it was necessary that she understand the enormity of the secret she now shared.

“I will not tell anyone that I have royal blood,” Hester promised in a shaken whisper.

“Come here, then, and give me a kiss.” Audrey’s limbs felt so heavy that she could scarce lift her hand to touch Hester’s shoulder as the child bent to brush her lips across her mother’s cheek. She bade her daughter leave her alone to rest awhile, promising to speak with her again when she had recovered her strength.

As soon as Hester had gone, Audrey turned her face toward a corner of the room. There a second door, covered by a curtain, led into the chamber Jack used as a writing room. She was unsurprised when her husband moved out of the shadows. She’d sensed his presence at just about the time she’d been telling Hester what Sir Anthony Denny said to her after the interview with King Henry.

“You told her.”

The accusation in his voice stung, the more so because she knew she deserved his censure. It had been unwise to burden a child so young with this dangerous knowledge. But what choice did she have? Audrey’s sense that time was short increased with each passing day. She had not regained her former health or strength. Despite brief remissions, she was growing steadily weaker.

Aloud, she said only, “It was time she knew.”

“She need never have known.”

His long strides ate up the distance between door and bed until he was looming over her. She looked up into his scowling face. The expression, though ferocious, had no power to frighten her. She knew full well that Jack would never hurt her, not in any physical way.

“The rest of what I will tell her,” Audrey said, “will serve as a cautionary tale. She will come to understand the need for secrecy when I am done.”

“Will she? She is eight years old, Audrey. Too young to have any sense of discretion. You accused me of endangering our family, endangering our child, but I vow you have just taken a greater risk than I ever did!”

After Jack stormed out of her bedchamber, Audrey lay very still, staring up at the canopy above her head. Her vision blurred as unshed tears gathered in her eyes. Jack was right. But he was wrong, too. She herself had gone too long without knowing the truth. Hester had a right to hear it, and from the one person who could share the entire story with her, not just bits and pieces.

Determined to continue her tale on the morrow, Audrey willed herself to sleep.

A nightmare jerked her awake in the wee hours of the morning. She cried out, and Jack’s arms came around her, holding her until she stopped shaking.

“What was it?” he asked.

But she could only shake her head. The details of the bad dream were already fading. She did not want to call them back.

She fell asleep the second time with her head resting on Jack’s chest, but he was gone when she awoke. By the time she broke her fast and dressed, he had left the house. Despite a steady rain, he had gone out on horseback.

“Have the fire built up in the withdrawing room,” she ordered her maid, “and have someone send my daughter to me. Then no one is to come near us for the remainder of the morning.”

As soon as Hester appeared, Audrey intended to resume her narrative. She required both warmth and privacy for the telling. Reliving what had happened next would not be easy.

39

John Malte’s House, January 1547

I never saw the king again. He died in the early hours of Friday, the twenty-eighth day of January. I did not know that right away. King Henry’s death was kept secret for the better part of three days. Even the queen was not told at once. The Seymours were busy putting everything in order for the succession of their nephew, who would reign as King Edward the Sixth. He was nine years old.

On the last day of the month, a Monday, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford was created Duke of Somerset and named Lord Protector of the realm. His first act was to dissolve Parliament.

“What about Queen Kathryn?” I asked when Bridget brought word of this to Father and Mother Anne in the house in Watling Street. “I thought she would be named regent.”

Father, seated in his favorite chair close to the fire, was wrapped in a blanket against a chill. His cough had worsened with the prolonged cold weather. News of the king’s death, although it was not unexpected, had affected him badly. He did not even look up at my question.

“You thought wrong,” Bridget said. “The Seymours are in power now.”

“Sir Thomas, too?”

“Master Scutt says he’s to be created Baron Seymour of Sudeley and Lord High Admiral.”

“And how does he know all this?” I demanded. “Your husband has lost his post, has he not, now that there is no longer a queen at court?”

Bridget laughed. “I would not be so certain of that. The Lord Protector has a wife, and she has already commanded Master Scutt to make new clothes for her—rich clothes as fine as any the queen ever had. She’s taken possession of Queen Kathryn’s jewels, too, those that Her Grace did not have with her when the king died.”

The Seymours in power might not be such a bad thing, I told myself. As far as I knew, Jack was still in Sir Thomas’s service. If Sir Thomas rose in prominence, so would Jack.

Then another thought occurred to me. “What of Sir Richard Southwell?” Since his betrayal of the Earl of Surrey, he, too, had been allied with the Seymours.

“There’s talk of a place for him on the new king’s Privy Council.” Bridget chuckled. “And how could I forget? Your beloved is back in London, Audrey. Young Darcy, or should I say Master Richard Southwell the Younger, has moved into his father’s old chambers in Lincoln’s Inn.”

“He is not my beloved,” I muttered.

Two days later, Sir Richard and his son paid Father a visit.

“My husband is ill,” Mother Anne told them. “I’ll not have him upset.”

“Move aside, woman.” Sir Richard pushed her out of his way and entered the hall. He studied Father’s shrunken form for a moment before speaking, as if trying to decide whether flattery or bluster would work best.

“You have delayed long enough, Malte.” His voice was close to a shout. “I have the marriage contract with me. The details were hammered out months ago. Now is the time to sign, you and Audrey both.”

I noticed he did not say “you and your daughter.” I took this as more proof, although I did not need any, that Southwell knew I was the king’s bastard and wanted me for his son for that reason and that reason alone.

I placed myself between the angry knight and the man who was, in all ways that were important, my father. “I do not intend to sign, Sir Richard. Not ever. And I cannot be forced into marriage.”

“I would not be so certain of that.”

I glanced at the younger Richard. He would not meet my eyes, but I knew that he did not want to marry me any more than I wanted to wed him. I wished I could count on him to stand with me and say so, but his craven manner convinced me that he would never disobey his father.

“Give me a little more time, Sir Richard.” This feeble whisper came from Father. He did not lift his head to look at any of us as he spoke.

“You’ve had more than enough time already. This business has dragged on for years. Everything is in place. Sign and we’ll complete the formalities as soon as the banns can be called. Better yet, I’ll secure a special license and Richard and Audrey can wed at once.”

Father abruptly stood, as if to defy Sir Richard face-to-face, but the effort was too much for him. He staggered, then fell forward to land hard on the hearth. Sir Richard was closest to him, but he made no effort to catch him or to break his fall.

Mother Anne and I rushed to Father’s side and helped him to sit up. Dazed, he looked at me as if he did not know who I was. With an effort, we got him to his feet. Sir Richard still did nothing to help. At least his son, after one agonized glance in his father’s direction, stepped in to take Father’s weight from us and help him shuffle into his bedchamber.

Sir Richard followed at a leisurely pace and watched in stone-faced silence as we got Father into bed. Mother Anne sent a servant for a posset. Only after she’d coaxed Father into swallowing a few sips of the healing brew did Southwell speak in a low, menacing rumble of sound.

“This is not finished, Malte. The king’s death has changed nothing. In truth, I have even more influence in this new reign. You might think on that while you recover.”

Having uttered that vague but very real threat, he turned on his heel and left the house. Young Richard rushed out after him.

The slam of the door in the shop below us made Mother Anne jump it was so loud. I winced. Father’s eyes flew open and he reached for my hand.

“I want you to be safe after I am gone, Audrey.” His pleading gaze broke my heart, as did the lack of strength in his grip. His fingers slid away from mine, too weak to hold on. “Southwell looks after his own.”

“And when I am no longer useful to him? I’ll not be safe then.” I thought of the Earl of Surrey and a shudder ran through me.

“You must marry someone, child,” Mother Anne put in. “And that boy is not his father. There is kindness in him. Wed him, bed him, bear a child or two, and your life will be your own again.”

“No, it will not. Once I have a husband, he will own everything, even the clothes on my back. A wife is no better than a slave. The only hope I have of happiness is to marry a man who truly cares for me. You have had that happiness with Father. How can you ask me to accept anything less?”

“You still want Jack Harington,” Father whispered, “but the man has no estate and no fortune of his own. He is a good man, Audrey, but he cannot provide for you or protect you.”

“Nor have you seen him for some time,” Mother Anne put in. “He has accepted that his pursuit of you is futile. You must do the same.”

I nearly blurted out that I had seen Jack, and not so very long ago, either. Only two months had passed since our journey to Windsor Castle. I caught myself in time. It would only distress Father to learn of that trip, and to know that I had sought Jack out at Seymour Place. I let him continue in his belief that it had been years since we’d last met.

“Whatever man marries me would have the wherewithal to protect me. He’d have control of my inheritance.”

“You will never be able to tell, Audrey, if such a man loves you for yourself or only wishes to wed you for the land you will inherit when I die.”

Fighting tears, I dropped my gaze to my hands. They were clenched so hard that the knuckles showed white. I could say no more without causing Father greater distress, but that was not the only reason I wanted to weep.

I loved Jack Harington, but he had never once said that he loved me, only that he would wed me if he could. It did little to soothe my troubled thoughts to remember that he had behaved nobly, refusing to ask for my hand for exactly the same reasons Father gave—his poverty and lack of prospects.

And what of the other, I wondered—my royal inheritance? That strain of Tudor blood, tainted though it was, had value only if it was acknowledged by the king and now His Grace was gone without ever revealing my true identity to the world.

I frowned in confusion. If there could never be any proof of my parentage, then why was Sir Richard Southwell still so intent upon my marriage to his son?

“My lands will make me a considerable heiress,” I said aloud, “but there are other heiresses far more wealthy than I am. Why has Sir Richard not pursued one of them for his son?”

“He wants you.” Father’s whisper was weak but still audible.

“Why?”

“What does it matter? He will not give up. The more you resist, the more determined he will become to have his way.”

Was it that simple? A craving for power over others? I swallowed convulsively, remembering that Sir Richard Southwell had brought down one of the most powerful families in England. The Duke of Norfolk was still a prisoner in the Tower and under sentence of death.

As if she read my thoughts, Mother Anne said, “Sir Richard will leave us in peace once you agree to marry the boy.”

Abruptly, I stood. “I must be alone. To think.”

Responsibility weighed heavily upon me. I did not believe that Father had long to live. Once he was gone, who would protect those he left behind? Mother Anne and the servants and the apprentices would be almost as vulnerable as I was. My actions could bring disaster down upon us all.

I fled the sickroom and the house, pausing only long enough to don my warm cloak. I dashed into Watling Street, catching Edith off guard. By the time she gathered her wits and tried to follow me, I was already out of sight.

Desperate to get away from everyone, I had no destination in mind as my running steps slowed gradually to a fast walk. Oblivious to my surroundings, deaf to the noise and confusion all around me, I pushed my way through the throngs of people clogging London’s streets. I paid them no heed, but I tried in vain to ignore my own chaotic thoughts.

40

At length, when I stopped and looked around, I realized that my feet had carried me into East Cheap and then north along Bishopsgate Street. The former priory of St. Helen’s was within sight.

The servant who answered the door of Sir Jerome Shelton’s house radiated suspicion. I suppose that was only natural, given the events of December and January. Deciding that he would not be likely to tell me if Lady Heveningham was staying there, even if she was within, I contented myself with asking if he would deliver a message to her. With obvious reluctance, he agreed. I gave him my name and asked that she be told I wished to speak with her. Then I left.

I had walked no farther than the Merchant Taylors’ Hall before another servant came running to fetch me back. Mary Heveningham welcomed me with open arms.

We cried together over the fate of the Earl of Surrey.

After she roundly cursed Sir Richard Southwell for his part in the downfall of the Howards, I admitted that Sir Richard was the reason I had sought her out. My story did not take long to tell. She had guessed most of it already.

“Do you want to claim royal blood as your inheritance?” she asked me in her familiar blunt fashion.

“No!”

“That is wise. But consider that it is also true that your dowry is sufficient to make Sir Richard determined upon the match. And for a certainty, that wretched man does not like to be thwarted.”

“Let him find some other heiress!”

“Young Richard is baseborn, Audrey. That counts against him with some girls’ fathers.”

“But a bastard is good enough for a bastard? Is that it?” I let my bitterness show.

“Still,” Mary said thoughtfully, “there may be some advantage to continued resistance. I have not done so badly refusing to be rushed into marriage.”

“But Tom Clere died,” I objected.

For a moment, her eyes swam with unshed tears. She hastily brushed them away. “He did. And I will grieve all my life for him. But I have a good husband and a fine healthy daughter and am about to return to them. I only came to London to fulfill a promise to the duchess.”

I was suddenly ashamed. I had not even thought to ask after the Duchess of Richmond. “Where is Her Grace?”

“At Reigate in Surrey, not so very far away. She has been granted the care of her brother’s daughters.”

“And their governess?”

“Your Edith’s mother? Yes. She is with them. They’re safe enough, and have sufficient funds to live upon, although all of the duchess’s possessions were confiscated by the Crown at the same time they took everything that belonged to her father and brother. She was fortunate the king allowed her to keep the clothes on her back.”

“Will they execute the duke?”

Mary shook her head. “I wish I knew. That is why I came here—to present a petition to the new Privy Council to spare Norfolk’s life. The Lord Protector granted me a few minutes of his time, but he was not encouraging. I very much fear that, at the least, the duke will remain a prisoner so long as young Edward is king.”

“I pray the king will spare the Duchess of Richmond’s father,” I murmured, acutely aware that it had been my own father, who even now still lay in state in Westminster, who had imprisoned Norfolk and wanted him dead.

“And I will pray that God spare yours.” At my startled look, Mary said, not unkindly, “John Malte, Audrey. Perhaps he is not as ill as you think. Has a physician been called in?”

“He will not have one. He consulted a doctor the last time he was seriously ill and the treatments the fellow prescribed were so distasteful, and so ineffectual, that he lost all faith in medical men.”

“A healer then? Some wise woman skilled in the use of herbs?”

But I shook my head. “He’ll take possets from Mother Anne—his wife—but naught else. And those do little but ease his pain. I fear he is dying, Mary. He grows weaker every day. I . . . I think he has lost the will to live, especially after word reached him of the king’s death.” As Mary had, I swiped at my tears before they could fall. Fishing a handkerchief out of my pocket, I blew my nose.

“I am saddened by your grief, my friend, and you will not like me much for saying this, but it will serve you best if John Malte does not recover.”

At first I did not think I could have heard her correctly, but she repeated this outrageous statement, adding, “You know already that one of the few rights a girl has is to refuse a marriage that is distasteful to her. There is another part of the law you may not have heard. I suspect that men keep silent about it for their own advantage. It is this: a girl who is fourteen or older and not yet betrothed to anyone at the time of her father’s death can inherit in her own right. So long as she remains unmarried, she keeps control of her property and her person. You must not, no matter how great your desire to ease John Malte’s mind, allow him to extract a deathbed promise from you. Stand fast, my friend, and you will soon be free.”

I swallowed hard. This was good news, but it brought with it a terrible sense of guilt. How could I wish for Father to die the sooner? I loved him. I wanted him to live as long as possible. And I was certain that, unlike Mary’s father, John Malte would never force me into accepting a betrothal against my will.

I returned home in an even greater perturbation of mind than when I’d left.

I do not like to remember the days that followed. Father was in pain and I made it worse by refusing to countenance a betrothal. Without Mary’s warning, I might well have thought to ease his suffering with a lie, making a promise I had no intention of keeping. Had I done so, my fate would have been sealed. Such a vow, before witnesses, is binding.