Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

… touching all other particular ceremonies at the christening, Corbett can inform your ladyship, for he stood by and saw all things… . on Sunday last my Lady Sussex sent to me with all speed to make for Mrs. Anne either a new gown of lion tawny velvet, or else one of black velvet turned up with yellow satin, the which with much work I have done; … she wore the same at the Christening. So that this notwithstanding, she must have against the Queen’s churching a new satin gown and against Christmas a new gown of lion tawny velvet.

—John Husee to Lady Lisle, 16 October 1537

2

The bay windows in Queen Jane’s bedchamber were covered by thick damask curtains, making the room dark, airless, and overly warm. Behind the screen that shielded her bed, the queen herself was a study in misery. But she had an advantage over the women trapped with her. Queen Jane was free to express her displeasure. She could take out her frustration on those around her.

“You there,” she called in an imperious tone. “Bassett. You claim to be skilled on the lute. Play a soothing song for me.”

Nan knew she was not the most accomplished musician at court, but the king’s minstrels, all men, were not permitted near the queen during her lying-in. Nan took up her instrument and sang along as she strummed a tune King Henry himself had composed—“Pastance With Good Company.”

Queen Jane listened without comment to the end, but the expression on her pale, bloated face did not bode well. “Your playing is inferior,” she complained as Nan set the lute aside.

The queen’s cutting criticism stung. Nan bowed her head to hide the single tear that rolled down her cheek.

“Begone,” the queen ordered. “Get out of my sight.”

As she backed away from the royal bed, Nan never saw the pillow the queen threw at her. It struck the side of her head and knocked her gable headdress askew, but did no real damage. Muffled laughter from the other maids followed her retreat.

As soon as she was clear of the bedchamber, her steps faltered. Begone? How far away did the queen expect her to go? And for how long? Her hands shook as she adjusted her attire and gathered her shattered composure. Surely Her Grace did not mean she was banished from the household. Nan had been a maid of honor for only a bit more than a week.

Anne Parr slipped through the door that separated the bedchamber from the privy chamber. She caught Nan’s hand in passing. “Her Grace has sent for her poppets,” Anne whispered. “Come and help me fetch them.”

“Poppets?” Nan echoed. “You mean toys?” She envisioned straw bodies and wooden heads, similar to the playthings she and her sisters had pretended were babies when they were very young.

“The queen collects them. They are her passion.”

The poppets were kept in a cedar chest in a small room deep within the queen’s lodgings. It was filled to the brim with little figures cleverly made to resemble miniature ladies and gentlemen. Some were carved from wood while others had been constructed of clay.

Enchanted, Nan lifted out one dressed in white cloth-of-silver with an underskirt of green velvet. Beneath was another poppet wearing a white velvet gown. A third was garbed in crimson satin.

“They have finer clothing than we do,” Nan observed.

Anne chuckled. “And more of it. Coffers full. Gather up a half dozen and I will bring their spare garments.”

By the time the two maids of honor returned to the queen’s bedchamber, Her Grace seemed to have forgotten her pique with Nan. Her attention fixed on playing with her poppets, she sent most of her attendants away.

Nan returned to the privy chamber wishing she could leave the queen’s apartments entirely, just for a little while. The great ladies of the household and the ladies of the privy chamber did not have to attend Her Grace every day. Most had separate lodgings at court. Some shared apartments with their husbands, if those gentlemen waited on the king. A few even kept private houses nearby.

She sighed. Maids of honor had no such luxury.

“Mistress Bassett?”

Nan had not heard anyone approach and was surprised to find Eleanor, Countess of Rutland, standing next to her. The countess was a plump, matronly woman in her midforties, the mother of numerous children. The most recent had been born earlier that year. Nan narrowed her eyes. Unless she was much mistaken, the loosened laces on the countess’s kirtle meant she was pregnant yet again.

“I trust the pillow did not do any serious damage.”

“Only to my pride. It is kind of you to ask.” Nan dipped low in acknowledgment of the countess’s superior status.

“Your sister sends her regards,” Lady Rutland said.

“Cat is still with you, then?” When Nan came upright again, she found herself eye to eye with the countess. They were almost exactly the same height.

“I have told her that she is welcome to stay as long as she wishes.”

“As one of your waiting gentlewomen?” Nan knew that the queen’s ladies were allowed two gentlewomen apiece to wait upon them in their quarters, just as the maids of honor could each employ one servant. Nan’s newly acquired tiring maid, whose main duty was to help Nan in and out of her attire, was a girl named Constance Ware. She had been supplied by Cousin Mary.

“Not officially, but you will have noticed that most noblewomen at court keep more than the two attendants they are permitted. Cat’s company delights me. I will be sad to part with her if your mother arranges a more prestigious place for her.”

Nan listened politely as Lady Rutland sang Cat’s praises. Clearly the countess was fond of Cat, much fonder than Queen Jane was of Nan. Nan began to feel the unmistakable burn of envy. She was glad to escape when the queen summoned her maids of honor back to the royal bedchamber.

Queen Jane had tired of her poppets and looked sulky. She brightened when she caught sight of Nan. “Ah, there you are, Bassett. Come closer.”

She peered at Nan for a long moment. Then she reached out and fingered the embroidered linen of Nan’s chemise. It had been designed to show in a froth of white just above the bodice of her kirtle.

“You must replace your linen,” the queen declared. “The cloth used to make your smocks is far too coarse.”

Biting back a protest—since her mother had paid dearly to have her daughters’ undergarments made of the finest fabric available—Nan bowed her head. “As you wish, Your Grace. I will send for replacements at once.”

“See that you do.” Queen Jane flapped one hand in dismissal and plucked the nearest poppet off the coverlet. A look of satisfaction played across her pale face.

Once again, Nan backed out of the room. This time she went straight to the maids’ dormitory to find Constance. She would have to send the girl to Cousin Mary and ask that the Countess of Sussex dispatch new orders to John Husee. The family’s man of business was already engaged in procuring a second gable headdress for Nan and had ordered new gowns, sleeves, bodices, and kirtles. Now he would have to dredge up replacements for her undergarments, as well.

“Look at the bright side, Mistress Nan,” Constance consoled her when Nan passed on the queen’s latest demand. “At least you have new clothes, even if they are not of your own choosing.”

IN THE UNFAMILIAR vastness of Lord Cromwell’s house in Austin Friars, near the north wall of London, young Wat Hungerford found it difficult to settle down for the night. He was twelve years old and had been issued Cromwell livery only a week earlier. Before that he had always lived at Farleigh Castle in rural Wiltshire, his father’s country seat.

Using the excuse of a trip to the privy, Wat left the bed he shared with two other boys and set about exploring his new home. With the help of a full moon and the occasional rush light in a wall sconce, he poked into unused chambers and storage rooms and discovered a half-hidden stairway that took him to the kitchens. At length he made his way into the wing that contained his master’s private chambers.

Thomas Cromwell was Henry VIII’s Lord Privy Seal and the most powerful man in England after the king. He had been the one responsible for obtaining the king’s divorce from Anne Boleyn and had masterminded the dissolution of the monasteries, with the claim that they were breeding grounds for sin and corruption.

Wat’s father, Lord Hungerford of Heytesbury, had told Wat over and over that a place in Lord Cromwell’s household was a grand opportunity for advancement. He’d ordered Wat to make himself indispensable to his new master. Exactly how he was supposed to do that, Wat did not know, but it seemed to him that it would be an advantage to know the lay of the land. At home he’d had a dozen hiding places and knew all the best listening posts.

Wat entered Lord Cromwell’s private study cautiously. It was past midnight. He did not expect to encounter anyone, so long as he stayed indoors where there were no guards. He had been a casualty in an ongoing war between his father and his stepmother—subject to blows from one and slaps from the other—and had learned at a young age to keep to the shadows.

The faint rustle of rushes was the only warning he had that someone was approaching. Wat ducked behind the nearest arras. The heavy wall hanging concealed him completely, but when two men entered, one carrying a lantern, he found he could see into the room through a worn patch in the weave.

With a start, Wat recognized the man with the light as Lord Cromwell himself. The boy wondered why he was skulking about in his own house. The answer was not long in coming. Cromwell did not want anyone to know about this meeting.

A thrill of excitement made Wat shiver in anticipation. He had heard that his new master employed spies and secret agents to do his bidding. There were even rumors to the effect that if evidence of misconduct was lacking at some of the wealthier religious houses, Lord Cromwell contrived to make sure that something untoward would still be found on the premises. Barely able to contain his curiosity, Wat held himself as silent and still as a little mouse and listened hard.

At first he could not make out what the two men were saying. They kept their voices low until Lord Cromwell raised his in a show of temper.

“You are a thief and a heretic.”

“My lord, you wrong me,” the other man protested.

“You stole silver and gold plate from the church of St. Gregory in Canterbury when you were a canon there. Cups and chalices meant for holy use. I could have you arrested for that crime at any time.”

A sharply indrawn breath was followed by a lengthy silence. Wat risked peering around the edge of the arras for a better look, but there was not enough light to make out the stranger’s features. All he could discern was that the fellow was tall and dressed like a priest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

AT COURT, NAN’S days passed with mind-numbing sameness until, at last, the queen’s labor began. Her women rejoiced, but when it continued throughout the following day and the next night and into the day after that, worry replaced elation. No one dared voice the thoughts that were on all their minds—what if the queen should die? What if the child were stillborn?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is that?” Nan asked Anne Parr.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne’s eyebrows lifted.

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

“And your own sisters?”

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

“The same family you were sent to?”

“Kin to them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Norfolk had a stern and forbidding manner that went well with his hawk nose and tightly pursed lips. At present, his face wore a pained expression. That did not surprise Nan. Queen Anne Boleyn had been his niece. All her family had lost the king’s favor when she was arrested, charged with adultery, and executed. It must be a bitter honor to stand godfather to a prince born to Queen Anne’s successor, especially when the duke had thought to see his own kin poised to inherit the throne.

Having examined the three most important personages in the crowd, Nan shifted her attention to lesser noblemen. The Marquess of Exeter came next in precedence and entered the queen’s apartments right after the two dukes. England’s only other marquess, Dorset, was not in attendance. He, his mother, and his wife had been ordered to stay away because there was plague in the vicinity of the dowager Lady Dorset’s manor house at Croydon. The king refused to take any risks with the health of his son and heir.

Earls came next. Nan already knew Sussex and Rutland on sight. Robert Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, was a homely man past his prime, with deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and a gray beard trimmed to a point. His oldest son and heir, Lord Fitzwalter, was a widower, but he was twice Nan’s age and looked a good deal like his father. She hoped to do better.

The Earl of Rutland, Thomas Manners by name, was younger than Sussex, but not by much. His beard, square cut, was going gray. Lady Rutland had been married to him for nearly fifteen years and had presented him with numerous children. The two oldest had recently been married off, despite their young ages, to other young people of noble birth.

Seeking better prospects, Nan shifted her focus to three other earls—Arundel, Oxford, and Wiltshire—but none of them were prospective husbands either. They already had wives and the latter had another count against him. He was Anne Boleyn’s father.

Also married were the next two noblemen to be announced, Lord William Howard, a younger son of the Duke of Norfolk, and Edward, Lord Beauchamp, Queen Jane’s oldest brother. The queen’s younger brother, Thomas Seymour, was a different kettle of fish. Not only was he still single, but he was a fine-looking man. Nan’s gaze lingered on his muscular physique. A pity that, so far, he was not even a knight. She moved on to the next group of courtiers.

Nan skipped over Thomas Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury—no marriage prospect there! In England, clergymen were not allowed to marry, although some secretly had wives. Next to Cranmer was Thomas, Lord Cromwell, the king’s Lord Privy Seal and most trusted advisor. Cromwell’s son had recently married Queen Jane’s widowed sister. Cromwell was himself a widower, Nan recalled, but she did not for one moment consider him as a prospective husband. Like the Earl of Sussex, he had seen more than fifty summers. Besides, he was at odds with her stepfather.

Nan looked quickly away when Cromwell noticed her staring at him. Even with her eyes modestly downcast, she knew she was being watched. But when she peeked at Cromwell again, he had lost interest in her. Through lowered lashes, she searched the crowd. With a sense of pleasure, she identified several courtiers of lesser rank, both knights and plain gentlemen, who were looking her way. Nan wished they could see her in her French wardrobe, instead of the dull styles Queen Jane had mandated. Then she reminded herself that a mere gentleman or knight would not do. She wanted a man with a title.

Nan’s gaze fell next on Lord Montagu, grandson of that infamous Duke of Clarence who had been the brother of Edward IV and Richard III and had been—so it was said—drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine while a prisoner in the Tower of London. She stifled a smile at the thought.

Nan glanced at Lord Cromwell again, but this time the Lord Privy Seal was too absorbed in his conversation with the archbishop to notice her interest. Someone else did, though. A boy in Cromwell’s livery stood next to him, watching Nan intently. She stared back. She had no idea who he was, although it seemed likely that he was some gentleman’s son sent to finish his education in Cromwell’s service. He looked to be twelve or thirteen, a gangly lad with little to recommend him beyond a head of thick and wavy dark brown hair.

When Peter Mewtas was announced, Nan lost interest in the boy. She studied Mewtas with considerable interest. What was it about him, she wondered, that had prompted Jane to give up her post as a maid of honor and marry him? He was nothing remarkable to look at. Tall, yes, and athletic. So were most courtiers. Mewtas had yellow hair and a long, yellow beard. He was a gentleman of the privy chamber, but as yet he had not been knighted and he had no particular prospects. His grandfather, so Nan had been told, had been a native of Picardy and had been employed as French secretary by King Henry’s father.

Nan was still contemplating Peter Mewtas when a slight movement at her elbow distracted her. Anne Parr leaned forward, her gaze fixed upon a man wearing the livery of the King’s Spears, Henry VIII’s elite bodyguard. A rather ordinary-looking fellow of thirty or so, he was tall and lanky and had a shock of red hair.

Nan was about to ask Anne who he was—she had not been paying attention when he was announced—when she caught a glimpse of the man next in line to enter the chamber. The sight drove every other thought out of her head. It was Ned Corbett.

In honor of the occasion, Ned wore his finest doublet and hose. A brilliant jewel sparkled on the hat he swept from his tousled hair to make his bow to the king and queen. He offered felicitations to the royal couple on behalf of Lord and Lady Lisle. Then, to Nan’s horror, he asked to speak with her, saying he had messages for her from her family in Calais. Nan felt her cheeks flame as Ned looked her way and winked.

The queen graciously granted permission. She had been in a mellow mood ever since she’d fulfilled her duty and produced an heir. She’d also been indulging herself by eating her favorite foods, including an enormous quantity of sweets.

As deftly as any accomplished courtier, Ned whisked Nan away from the other maids of honor, threading his way through the crowd until he reached a secluded corner where they would have a modicum of privacy. Keeping one hand on her elbow, as if he were afraid she might bolt, he grinned down at her.

Nan glowered back. “Did you just lie to the king and queen of England?”

“I did,” he said. And if Ned felt any guilt in the matter, it did not show. The mischievous glint in his eyes was impossible to resist. “I confess. I wanted an excuse to speak with you, Mistress Nan Bassett.”

“Why?”

His gaze slid downward. “To praise your new attire? Master Husee outdid himself in procuring so many garments in so little time. I cannot repeat the language he used when word came that you must have yet another new gown.”

In spite of her irritation with him, Nan smiled back. “Then he will be wroth indeed when he learns that I must have two more, one of them in time for the queen’s churching and the other by Christmas.”

“Oh, that will delight him! And does Queen Jane have particular requirements as to color and fabric?”

She made a face at him. “Does that not go without saying? We are all to wear satin at the churching, and gowns of lion tawny velvet for Yuletide.”

“You will look well in lion tawny. The color will bring out the gold in your hair.”

“That scarcely matters when no one can see it. The queen requires us to wear these cumbersome, all-concealing headdresses.”

That one restriction still irked her more than all the others combined. Nan knew how well she looked in a French hood, especially with her unbound hair flowing freely down her back. It reached nearly to her hips and was of an excellent texture.

“I return to Calais tomorrow,” Ned said. “Have you any message for Lady Lisle?”

“Tell Mother to send more quails if she would keep Her Majesty sweet.”

Chuckling, Ned left her and bowed his way out of the chamber. He walked backward, as protocol demanded. The sight amused Nan until the door opened and she caught sight of her sister waiting in the chamber beyond. Ned turned, smiled at Cat, then went straight to her side. Cat greeted him with obvious pleasure and considerable familiarity. As the guards eased the portal closed again, Nan was left to wonder just how often the two of them had met during the weeks she had been sequestered.

CAT SMILED SHYLY at Ned Corbett. Truly he was a lovely man. He was under no obligation to spend time with her when he delivered messages to personages at court from her mother and stepfather, and yet he did. They’d gone for long walks in the royal gardens and now he was escorting her to witness Prince Edward’s christening.

“We’d best hurry,” he said, taking her arm. “There will be hundreds of people all trying to crowd into the Chapel Royal at once. If we want to be able to see everything, we need to get there early and claim the best spot.”

“Lady Rutland says they’ll progress two by two, just like the animals going to Noah’s ark.” She’d also warned Cat that the pageantry and ceremony combined would last five or six hours.

Ned chuckled as he swept her along. She had to trot to keep pace with him as they passed through corridors illuminated as bright as day by men-at-arms holding torches.

“Did you speak with Nan? Is she well?” Lady Rutland had said she was, but Cat worried about her younger sister. Nan was not accustomed to being shut in. Cat knew that physicians said the air, especially the night air, carried all manner of contagions, but she also knew from firsthand experience that she felt better when she could indulge in a daily constitutional out of doors. Cat had been very grateful these last few weeks that she was not the one Queen Jane had chosen as a maid of honor.

“She seems in excellent health and spirits,” Ned said.

Cat heard the admiration in his voice and had to stifle a sigh. She should be accustomed to this by now. Gentlemen always preferred Nan. They were drawn to her vivaciousness as well as her beauty.

Ned found a place for them near the entrance to the chapel. They had scarcely settled themselves when the first gentlemen of the household appeared carrying torches—two by two, just as Lady Rutland had predicted. The members of the chapel choir followed, then the dean, abbots, chaplains, and bishops.

Members of the privy council came next, followed by assorted noblemen, the lord treasurer and the controller of the household, a group of foreign ambassadors, the lord chamberlain, the Lord Privy Seal, and the lord chancellor. Ned whispered names as they passed, identifying them for Cat, but she paid little attention. Their identities were unimportant to her. The spectacle was all.

The baby’s godfathers and the archbishop of Canterbury, who was to officiate at the christening, were followed by two earls carrying silver basins and two more bearing a wax taper and a gold saltcellar. The Lady Elizabeth, only four years old, came next, carrying the heavily embroidered and bejeweled chrisom-cloth. No one seeing her could ever doubt that she was King Henry’s child. She had the Tudor red hair and something of the king’s petulance, as well. Clearly she wanted to fulfill her role in the ceremony unaided, but the chrisom-cloth was too bulky for her to manage alone. When she faltered, the queen’s brother, Lord Beauchamp, picked her up. He carried both child and chrisom-cloth into the chapel.

At last the baby Prince Edward appeared in the arms of the Marchioness of Exeter. She walked under a canopy supported by three other noblewomen. The baby prince was dressed in a long, white gown with a train so long that it had to be carried by two noblemen. The Lady Mary followed with her ladies. Bringing up the rear were the baby’s wet nurse and the midwife. They walked under a canopy, too, this one held by six gentlemen.

Tears began to flow down Cat’s cheeks. Ned produced a square of linen and gently patted them dry. “Why are you sad?” he asked.

“I am not,” she said, sniffling. “I am crying because it is all so beautiful. Truly, the royal court is full of wonders!”