Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

Mistress Mewtas and I are now at Guildford, going to London; and I think we shall not see the King again till his Grace come to Grafton and to Ampthill; and that I am in doubt whether I shall see his Grace then or not, for Mistress Mewtas is in a doubt whether she go or not. Your ladyship knows well, being with her, except she go I cannot go; for I have nor horse nor man except the nag that the King’s Grace gave me for myself and a saddle withal.

—Anne Bassett to her mother, 8 August 1539

I am now with my Cousin Denny, at the King’s Grace’s commandment: for whereas Mistress Mewtas doth lie in London there are no walks, but a little garden, wherefore it was the King’s Grace’s pleasure that I should be with my Cousin Denny; for where as she lieth there are fair walks and good open air.

—Anne Bassett to her mother, 5 October 1539

9

It was the first of October before Nan was summoned back to court, and the invitation did not come from the king. Her stepfather, Lord Lisle, was at Whitehall.

Lisle greeted Nan warmly when she and Constance arrived at the lodgings assigned to him. He had arranged for her to have her own small chamber in the suite of rooms.

“You see how well I am regarded.” With a sweep of his hand, Lisle indicated the luxurious surroundings. A series of tapestries graced the walls, depicting scenes of sylvan glades and dancing nymphs. Both the ceiling and the floor had been plastered, the former shaped into geometric patterns and flowers and the latter painted to resemble marble. The furniture was heavy and elaborately carved. The hangings around the bed and at the windows were of expensive fabrics, embroidered with vines and fruits.

“Very grand,” Nan agreed, crossing a section of rush matting put down to protect the plaster. She gave him a peck on one leathery cheek. “You look well, sir.”

He preened a bit. “Not too bad for an old man, eh?” Although he was just entering his seventy-eighth year, Lisle had kept himself in excellent physical shape. If not for the deep lines around his mouth and eyes, he could have passed for sixty. “I owe it all to your mother,” he said. “Honor keeps me young.”

Honor kept him hopping, Nan thought, although the welcoming smile on her face never wavered. She wondered what had brought her stepfather to England.

“I have had no news from Calais in over a week,” Lisle lamented. “The weather has been so bad that no one has been able to cross the Narrow Seas.”

“Then you will receive all her letters at once.” Nan took a sip of the French wine with which her stepfather was always well supplied and waited for his next conversational gambit. She doubted he’d invited her to stay with him solely for the pleasure of her company.

“The king entertained me most lovingly at Windsor and Hampton Court and now here,” Lisle said. “And he has granted me the commission to suppress the White Friars of Calais.”

Nan was not sure what to say to that. There was considerable profit to be made from such an undertaking, but it must go against the grain for Lord Lisle to shut down a religious house. Nan’s mother would have even more qualms, being the most devout member of the family and the most reluctant to abandon the old ways.

“I was less successful in another endeavor.” Lisle sent her a slightly embarrassed look.

“Indeed?” Had he tried to make a match for her with some elderly knight? Or negotiate her return to the Earl of Sussex’s household? Or find a place for her in that of some other nobleman? She imagined the king would have put a stop to any of those plans. If His Grace had not forgotten her entirely.

“I wished to become governor of the Lady Elizabeth’s household.”

Caught off guard, Nan had difficulty hiding her astonishment. “Do you mean to say that you would leave your post in Calais to take charge of the king’s bastard daughter?”

He winced at her sharp tone. “She was not always a bastard and I suspect she will not remain one forever. You may not know this, but we tried last year to place your sister Mary in her service. In any case, I would welcome the chance to leave Calais.” He lowered himself into a chair near the bench where Nan sat and reached over to pat her knee. “You have not been back for more than two years. You do not know what it is like there now.”

Nan stared at his hand. There were liver spots on the wrinkled skin and his bones had a brittle look, reminding her again of just how old he was.

“I have been most concerned, since Easter and before,” Lisle continued, “about the growing number of soldiers and townsmen in Calais who maintain erroneous opinions in matters of religion.”

“It is scarcely your fault if there are heretics about.”

“Ever since King Henry broke with Rome, there has been considerable confusion among people in all walks of life about how to celebrate Mass, and whether or not one should pray to Our Lady, and dozens of other matters to do with religion. I have no authority to enforce obedience to the tenets of the Church of England, nor even proper guidelines as to what is and is not acceptable. I fear that if I cannot stamp out heresy, I will be accused of abetting it.”

Nan put her hand over his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “No one would ever think such a thing of you, sir. You are too well known for your devotion to king and country.”

“Lord Cromwell has been most critical of my stewardship.” He sounded more sad than angry.

Nan said nothing. Cromwell had made no secret of his opinion. He thought her stepfather was incompetent.

“I had hoped to speak privily with the king about my concerns, but Cromwell was always at His Grace’s side. And now that he has finally left court for his own house in London, the king is suffering from a cold. He will see no one.” He hesitated. “I have heard that you have the king’s … favor. That he gave you a horse.”

“A nag,” Nan said dismissively. She wondered how much Ned Corbett had told him, then chided herself for her lack of trust.

Ned would never betray her. In the course of the last few months, he had paid several visits to Tower Street. He’d gone out of his way to lift her spirits with amusing stories about his friends in Calais—not the most admirable of men, but diverting. He’d bolstered her self-confidence with his compliments to her beauty, her gracefulness, and her skill on the lute and with a needle. To their mutual surprise, they rubbed along very well together, so long as they did not speak of love, marriage, or coupling.

“Well, do what you can,” Lisle said. “That is all anyone can ask of you.”

Nan considered his request in light of her own situation. She’d had no personal message from His Grace in all the weeks since her return from Portsmouth. It was past time to take some action. But if His Grace was ill, how—?

“Ah!” The solution was so obvious that she laughed aloud. She turned to her stepfather, who was staring at her in bewilderment. “Have you any of Mother’s conserves with you?”

Lisle blinked at the unexpected question, then nodded. “A codiniac.”

“Quince marmalade? Excellent. We will send it to Anthony Denny to give to His Grace. I will compose a note to go with it.”

THREE DAYS PASSED without any response from the king. While her stepfather waited on Lord Cromwell, who handled all the paperwork for commissions to suppress religious houses, Nan threw herself into the activities of the court. There was no point in sulking, and at Whitehall, even when the king was indisposed, there were any number of enjoyable pursuits available.

On the third night there was dancing. Nan had no shortage of partners. Sir Edmund Knyvett, a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in his prime, was particularly attentive. A pity he was married. There was also Master Walter Hungerford. He had no wife, and was the heir to a barony, but he was nearly four years younger than she was, a tall, thin, gangly lad of fourteen.

In spite of what she’d told Margaret Skipwith, she had a hard time imagining herself marrying a gawky, pimple-faced boy. He was a good dancer, though, and as they executed the movements of a pavane, she tried her hand at coaxing information out of him about his master, Lord Cromwell. She hoped to learn something that would help her stepfather.

“He does not like his men to speak of his business, mistress.” Color crept up the boy’s neck and into his face. A lock of dark, curly hair slipped out from under his bonnet to hang over his forehead. She had to fight the urge to tuck it back into place. She might not be interested in being his wife, but she certainly was not desirous of acting like his mother!

“Have you heard him speak of my stepfather, Lord Lisle?” They moved apart with the steps of the dance and came together again a moment later.

“He is no friend to Lord Lisle,” Hungerford admitted.

“I know that much.” Impatient, Nan threw more questions at him, trying to persuade him to say more. She only succeeded in making him more nervous. She read growing panic in his eyes as the dance progressed, and something else that she could not identify.

When the music stopped, he bowed, then stood gaping at her, mouth moving but no words coming out.

“Well? Speak your mind, sir, or begone.”

“Keep your opinions close, mistress. That is all I can say. Remember that it was Lord Cromwell who convinced the king to burn heretics—those who do not agree with His Grace on matters of religion. Anyone can be accused of holding the wrong view, especially when the right one keeps changing.”

Nan shivered even though the room was well warmed by a fire in the hearth. Young Hungerford, as if regretting he’d said even that much, rushed away. Nan stared after him. His words of warning suggested a mature understanding of the dangers of life at court. There was more to the youth than she’d suspected. Intrigued, she was about to go after him when Anthony Denny appeared at her elbow.

“I have been sent to fetch you to the king,” Denny said.

Nan’s breath caught in her throat. At last!

As she followed Denny from the hall, they passed Sir Edmund Knyvett. He winked at her in a manner that was frankly salacious. Truly, there were no secrets at court!

Denny led her through a series of small rooms into what were known as the king’s secret lodgings, tucked away behind his privy chamber. Nan’s heart pounded harder when he opened a door and stepped back to let her pass through, but she found herself in a library, not a bedchamber. The king, fully dressed, awaited her with a book in his hands.

Nan hastily dropped into a curtsy, as much to hide her reaction as because protocol demanded it. Her first good look at King Henry in many months shocked her. His appearance was greatly altered, and none of the changes could be attributed to his recent illness. He had gained a great deal of weight since Queen Jane’s death, but that was not the worst of it. His hair was now liberally streaked with gray and was thinning in several places. He looked old.

“Your Grace,” Nan murmured, hoping none of her dismay leaked into her voice.

“Rise, Nan, and give me your opinion of this.” He thrust a book of hours into her hands.

Nan caught her breath in pure pleasure as she turned the pages. It was beautifully illuminated in brilliant colors. “What a lovely thing.”

The king’s tone was repressive. “It represents all I would overturn.”

Nan felt herself blanch. Was this some sort of test of her loyalty? The purpose of a book of hours was to provide readings for each of the canonical hours. It contained, in particular, prayers to the Virgin Mary, seeking her intercession. Was that heresy now?

In response to Nan’s stricken expression, His Grace managed a grim smile. It did nothing to reassure her. “You see my dilemma.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She swallowed hard, remembering what Sir Gregory Botolph had said about the actions of the king’s men when they closed down a monastery or a cathedral. They removed the precious gems from chalices and reliquaries, then melted them down for the gold. Heretical books were thrown into bonfires. She did not even want to think about what might be done with saints’ bones and other relics. “Will you destroy it, Your Grace?”

“No.” He took the book back from her and closed it with an audible thump before placing it in a nearby chest. “A few such things are to be spared. Why even Lord Cromwell, who is most strict in these matters, has added a number of books from the libraries of dissolved monasteries to his own collection. With my permission,” he added, lest she think otherwise.

“That is most generous of you, Your Grace.”

He regarded her intently, then caught her hand and tugged. A moment later he was seated in a generously proportioned chair, Nan was in his lap, and the king was kissing her. His fingers found her breast and squeezed.

“Your Grace!” she gasped.

“Hush, Nan.” He kissed her into silence. She began to tremble as he fondled her, running one hand up under her skirts.

Nan moaned softly. She’d intended the sound to be encouraging, but it came out laced with pain. Instantly, he released her.

“Once upon a time, you liked my kisses.” Accusation tinged his words and temper was brewing in his stormy expression.

For a moment Nan’s wits deserted her. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Nan?” Beneath King Henry’s irritation, there was concern.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. It is just that … I fear … I—” Inspiration struck. “It is the megrim, Your Majesty. I suffer terribly from such headaches and I have sensed one coming on all day.”

Instantly, he was solicitous. “My poor Nan. I, too, suffer from megrims, an affliction I have endured ever since a fall I took during a tournament three years ago.”

Nan’s mind raced. The king hated being around sick people. He was supposed to send her away, not commiserate with her. And yet, she did not want him to lose interest in her. She had not intended to plead a headache. She’d meant to give herself to him, to become his mistress. If only he were not so old and so fat!

Awkward, nerve-racking seconds passed. If the king suffered from megrims himself, would he see through her ruse? Should he realize she was only pretending to be incapacitated by a severe headache, he would be furious with her. He might even banish her from court.

At last he spoke: “You must lie abed with the hangings pulled tightly closed against the light. That will ease the pain, even if it will not vanquish it.”

Nan forced a weak smile. She began to think rationally once more. “Darkness does help, Your Grace. But I have found that once the throbbing begins to die away, a walk alone in the open air is effective to complete the cure.”

He shifted her on his lap so that her head rested on his broad shoulder. The gold braid and the gemstones studding the brocade bit into her cheek. She ignored them. His gesture was well meant. The king—the king of England!—was concerned about her health.

“I suppose that could have a positive effect,” he mused. “I would not know. I am almost never alone.”

“Mistress Mewtas has but a small garden,” Nan ventured. “As I lodge with her, I have few opportunities to walk far, or to find fresh air.”

Apparently lost in thought, King Henry said nothing. Nan shifted in his lap, trying to make herself more comfortable. Beneath her rump she felt the shape of his codpiece, and abruptly stilled. It was heavily padded and elaborately decorated, as was the fashion. The size of the bulge had decreased once he’d stopped fondling her. The last thing she wanted was to induce it to grow larger again.

Nan frowned. She had little basis for comparison, having taken only one lover, but it seemed to her that the king was not nearly so well endowed in that area as Ned Corbett. Now that she considered the matter, she was certain her kisses should have provoked a more pronounced effect.

“I should send you to your bed,” the king murmured. “You need to rest and recover your health.”

“Your Grace is most kind and understanding.”

“I want you well.”

Reminding herself of her goal, Nan broached a possibility she had been considering of late. “My cousin Denny has a fine house in Westminster. Near at hand are open meadows that stretch clear down to the Thames. Such a place would be most healthful to live in.”

Whitehall Palace was also near at hand.

The king rose and set her on her feet without taking the hint. “There is something I would show you before you go, if you are not too ill to stay a few minutes longer.”

She assured him she could manage and he led her to an easel covered with a velvet cloth. He lifted it to reveal a portrait of a woman.

Nan gasped. “She is beautiful.”

“Anna of Cleves. Master Holbein returned with this likeness at the end of August. I have no doubt that she will be even more attractive in person.”

“The new queen.” It was not a question.

“The treaty is already drawn up.”

Staring at the portrait, Nan wondered that His Grace still had any interest in mistresses. She fled back to Lord Lisle’s lodgings convinced that her chance had passed her by. She was both disappointed and relieved.

The next day, Nan received an invitation to move into Anthony Denny’s house in Westminster. The offer confused her, but she lost no time in accepting. After that, she was often at court. She danced with the king and flirted with him. If he had pressed her to come to his bed, she would have yielded. He did not. To her delight, Nan enjoyed all the benefits of His Grace’s favor with none of the drawbacks.

Meanwhile, plans commenced to welcome Anna of Cleves to England. The queen’s apartments were repaired and redecorated at all the royal residences. The marriage was to take place at Greenwich at the start of Yuletide, followed by twelve days of revelry before Anna made her state entry into London. Her coronation would take place on Candlemas Day, the second of February, in Westminster Abbey.

“The Earl of Rutland will be lord chamberlain of Queen Anna’s household,” the king told Nan. His leg, propped up on a stool, had been bothering him and he’d sent for Nan to distract him from the pain. “Sir Edward Baynton will be vice chamberlain. And you will be one of the maids of honor, as I promised long ago.”

“I look forward to my new duties,” Nan replied, and began to strum the lute she’d brought with her to the king’s privy chamber.

As she played, seated on a cushion at King Henry’s feet, she stole glances at the bulky wrapping of linen bandages beneath His Grace’s hose. He suffered from gout, but the padding hid an ulcer that would not heal. She tried not to wrinkle her nose in distaste when she caught a whiff of a strong, unpleasant stench.

“Have you decided who the other maids of honor will be?” Nan asked when she finished the first song. She had not forgotten that her mother expected her to find a place at court for at least one of her sisters. Cat was still with Lady Rutland. Mary and Philippa remained in Calais.

“I have received requests from many quarters,” King Henry said.

Some of those originally named to serve Queen Jane’s successor had married since her death. Others, like Jane Arundell, had decided they preferred to remain where they were.

“It is not easy to be king, Nan.” His Grace winced as he shifted in his oversize chair. “Everyone expects favors of me.”

“And yet, I suspect, Your Grace has already decided.” She smiled up at him. “Will you not tell me who my companions will be?”

“The first is Catherine Carey, Lady Stafford’s daughter.”

Nan hoped she hid her surprise. Lady Stafford was Mary Boleyn. Rumor had it that Catherine Carey’s father was King Henry himself. Certainly Mary Boleyn had been his mistress before His Grace fell in love with Mary’s sister, Anne.

“Then there is Lucy Somerset,” His Grace said. “She is the Earl of Worcester’s sister. And you already know Mary Norris, for she was one of Queen Jane’s maids, as you were. There is also a Howard girl, one of the Duke of Norfolk’s many nieces.”

“And the sixth name?” She’d heard several possibilities mentioned, including Lord Bray’s sister and Lord Cobham’s daughter.

“A young woman who, like yourself, is kin to the Countess of Sussex. Her name is Katherine—”

Nan felt an explosion of joy, certain he’d chosen her sister to please her. And that, in turn, would please their mother.

“—Stradling.”

Stunned, Nan stared at him. Katherine Stradling? Cousin Kate?

Nan had not given Kate Stradling a single thought since leaving Cousin Mary’s service. Kate’s selection as a maid of honor made no sense. She was not the sister or daughter or niece or stepdaughter of anyone important.

The only explanation was that the Earl and Countess of Sussex had sponsored her. What dark secret, Nan wondered, did Kate know about one of them? Aloud she said only, “How delightful,” and began to strum another tune.

Her thoughts raced in time to the music. Cousin Kate would have returned to court in any case when the new queen came, since Cousin Mary was one of the six “great ladies of the household” and Kate was one of Mary’s waiting gentlewomen. But in that post she’d have had only occasional contact with Nan.

That Kate was to be a maid of honor changed everything. Nan would see her every day. She might even have to share a bed with her again. That was far too close for comfort, but there was not a thing Nan could do about it.

She told herself she could deal with Kate. If her cousin asked for gifts to keep silent about Nan’s liaison with Ned and the resulting child, then Nan would give her whatever she asked for. She’d have no choice.

As always, the reminder that she had a son made Nan sad. She had managed to pay a few visits to the silversmith’s shop while living in London, but none since she’d moved in with Anthony and Joan Denny in Westminster. She doubted she’d be able to see him at all when she was living at court as a maid of honor.

Nan reined in her regrets, resolving that she would not dwell on the things she could not change. She set aside her lute. She was all but alone with the king. She had his undivided attention and her playing seemed to have soothed him. She would never have a better opportunity.

“My mother writes that all is in readiness to receive Queen Anna at Calais.”

King Henry shifted in his chair. “Lady Lisle’s conserves are the best I have ever tasted. I pray you bid her send me more of the codiniac and some of the conserve of damsons, too.”

“She will be pleased to do so, Your Grace.” Conserves were far easier to come by than quails. “I wonder, Your Grace, if there might be a post in the new queen’s household for my sister, perhaps as a chamberer, or—”

She broke off when the king suddenly turned a ghastly shade of white and clutched at his leg.

“Your Grace?” She scrambled to her feet, reaching out, then pulling back as Tom Culpepper, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, rushed to the king’s aid.

“Best leave me now, Nan.” King Henry spoke through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow. “When these cramps start, they can continue for hours.”

Nan curtsyed and hastily backed out of the room, grateful she was not the one who had to tend that gross and misshapen ulcerated leg.

ON THURSDAY, THE eleventh day of December, Lord Lisle led the Calais Spears and the members of his own retinue to the boundary of the Pale of Calais. Queen Anna was on her way from Gravelines, just across the border in Flanders, to Calais. She was said to be traveling with a train of 263 attendants and 228 horses, which no doubt accounted for the extreme slowness of her progress from Cleves.

The Spears were all in velvet coats with gold chains. Members of Lord Lisle’s household wore livery of red and blue. As Ned trudged along, he tugged on the hem of his coat. It had been made in haste and did not quite fit. He did not know why he cared. He’d be covered with dust before they reached the meeting place. What bothered him more was that he did not have a horse to ride. After all, he was a gentleman.

Clement Philpott marched next to him, a martyred expression on his long, thin face. But neither sore feet nor an ill-fitting coat were responsible for Philpott’s grim demeanor. Sir Gregory Botolph, out of pure deviltry, had convinced him that Lord Lisle planned to arrange a marriage for him with a gentlewoman of Cleves. Philpott, who had never given up “the true religion,” was appalled by the thought of being joined for life with a Lutheran, even if she was a member of the new queen’s retinue.

At last they caught sight of Queen Anna’s device, two white swans. A short time later, Ned got his first good look at Anna of Cleves. She was not at all what he’d expected. She was reputed to be twenty-four years old, but she looked older. Beneath a pearl-embroidered caul and bonnet, her cream-colored skin was pitted with smallpox scars.

Those were only the first marks against her. By court standards, her complexion was nowhere near pale enough. To make matters worse, she had a high forehead, heavy-lidded eyes that were too far apart for true beauty, an extremely long and slightly bulbous nose, and a pointed chin. That she did not smile made Ned wonder about the condition of her teeth.

“I thought she was supposed to be a great beauty,” he whispered to Philpott. “If that is what the king is expecting, he’s in for a disappointment.”

Philpott said nothing. He was staring in horror at Queen Anna’s attendants. They all wore heavy, unflattering gowns cut in the Dutch fashion, apparel that would have made them look dowdy even if they’d been beautiful. They were not.

After a series of short speeches, Lord Lisle signaled for the start of the return journey to Calais. About a mile from town, they encountered the special delegation sent by the king to escort his bride across the Narrow Seas. There were nearly four hundred people in all. The noblemen were attired in cloth-of-gold and purple velvet. Gentlemen wore coats of satin damask and velvet and some two hundred yeomen were in the king’s colors.

Following more speeches, the company marched into Calais, all except Ned and Philpott. They veered off just outside the walls and entered the Rose Tavern.

Ned spent the next few hours watching Philpott get prodigiously drunk and trying in vain to convince his friend that Botolph had only been jesting about a betrothal to one of the ugly Dutch maids.

THREE DAYS BEFORE Christmas, Nan was at Whitehall. She had expected to be at Greenwich, part of the household of the new queen of England. Anna of Cleves, however, was still in Calais, although small boats continued to make the crossing, bringing letters and a scattering of less-important passengers. The queen and her retinue and the English dignitaries sent to escort them were unable to embark for England until the weather cooperated.

John Husee had brought a letter from Nan’s mother and stood ready to write down her reply. Nan still had not bothered to learn to write in English. The important things could not be put into letters anyway.

“I humbly thank your ladyship for the news of Her Grace,” Nan dictated, “that she is so good and gentle to serve and please.”

But Nan had already heard the rumors. Anna of Cleves was not quite as she had been represented. She continued for a few more sentences, allowed Husee to suggest a change of wording, and considered carefully what to say next. Lady Lisle, as always, had been generous with both advice and admonitions. She clearly suspected that Nan’s association with the king had become more intimate. She did not approve, but neither was she above using her daughter’s influence.

“Thank her for her good and motherly counsel,” Nan instructed Husee, “concerning my continuance in the king’s favor, but tell her that I must be careful not to offend His Grace.”

Husee scribbled away. By the number of words he put down, she knew he was elaborating on what she’d told him to say.

“Inform her that King Henry enjoyed the conserves she sent him so much that he has commanded me to ask for more. She should send them as soon as may be.”

The scratch of quill on paper sounded loud in the quiet room, a small antechamber near the dormitory Nan shared with the other maids of honor.

“That is all I have to say at this time.”

Husee finished the letter and handed it over. Nan read what he had written, nodding her approval. Beneath the words “Your humble and obedient daughter,” she signed her name with a flourish.

Duty done, she dismissed Husee and went in search of amusement. So far the traditional Christmas festivities had been subdued, but an air of anticipation pervaded the court. Every courtier in the land seemed to have crowded into lodgings in the vicinity, ready, willing, and eager to celebrate the arrival of the new queen.

In all the confusion, Nan had managed to slip away on two occasions to visit her son in London. He was growing fast, and she still felt regret that she’d had to give him away, but she took comfort in knowing that the Carvers, who indulged her as a well-meaning acquaintance, loved him. He was happy and safe.

NEW YEAR’S DAY was the traditional time to exchange gifts. After the king had received all his subjects’ offerings, he summoned Nan to keep him company. He was in a jubilant mood. Anna of Cleves had landed safely at Deal. After a delay of fifteen days in Calais, waiting on the wind and tide, the crossing had taken seventeen harrowing hours. Her Grace had been met by the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk and escorted to Dover Castle for the night. In spite of bitter weather—high winds, hail, and sleet—she had set out for Canterbury the next day and would soon arrive at Greenwich.

But that was not the only reason for the king’s delight. Master Hans Holbein had given him a New Year’s gift that pleased him enormously. King Henry removed a portrait of two-year-old Prince Edward from its coffer of dark red velvet plated with copper and showed it to Nan.

“Is he not magnificent?” King Henry demanded.

“He is,” Nan agreed, uncertain whether the king meant the boy in the portrait or the genius who had painted him. The word described both.

The child’s likeness stared back at her with serious eyes. He was gorgeously, richly dressed. His face, shaded by a wide-brimmed hat with a feather, looked solemn, as befit a future king, but in one hand he held a golden rattle. Perhaps, Nan thought, she could suggest to Mistress Carver that they commission Master Holbein to paint a portrait of young Jamie. Then, in secret, she could obtain a copy for herself.

She was still considering the possibilities when a messenger arrived from Rochester. The queen had reached the last stop on her journey to Greenwich.

“You will see her soon, Your Grace,” Nan said. “At the formal reception.”

“I cannot wait that long,” the king declared. “I will go to her this very day.”

“The Lady Anna will be tired from her journey, Your Grace.” Anthony Denny’s brow was furrowed with a concern Nan shared. Surprising the bride was not a good idea, but neither was it wise to argue with the king. “By the time you reach Rochester, she may be abed.”

“Then I will wake her!” King Henry laughed, his enthusiasm not a whit diminished by the prospect. “Indeed, I will show her what an English welcome is like. I will go to her in disguise.”

Appalled, Nan started to protest, then caught herself. Neither she nor any of the king’s gentlemen dared dissuade His Grace from one of his favorite jests. From the very beginning of his reign, King Henry had delighted in wearing masks and costumes. Although everyone recognized him immediately—his height alone gave him away—he continued to believe he kept his identity secret until he unmasked.

Members of the court went along with the ruse. When he revealed himself, they obligingly feigned surprise. No one wanted to disappoint the king—or worse, make him angry—by admitting that they knew who he was all along.

“We will all dress alike,” King Henry instructed his minions. “Those multicolored cloaks and hoods from last night’s masque will do. I will tell the queen that I am a messenger sent with gifts from the king.”

While the five gentlemen he selected to accompany him rushed off to assume their costumes and arrange for horses, the king turned to Nan. “I need a suitable gift. Something to nourish love. Help me select some bauble Her Grace will like.”

“Not jewelry, Sire,” Nan replied. “At this time of year and after the wretched weather Her Grace has endured to come to you, make her a gift of furs.”

“An excellent notion!” Without warning, King Henry picked Nan up and whirled her around, ending the embrace with an enthusiastic kiss as he set her on her feet again. “Ah, Nan,” the king asked, “what would I do without you?”