Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

One of her lover’s letters was carried in her bosom when she was found by Lord Sussex … and this, with various others, she threw down the garderobe on the advice of the daughter of Lord Hussey of Lincolnshire.

—Elis Gruffudd of the Calais retinue, Chronicle (translated from the Welsh Mostyn MS)

Mary Bassett hath written with her own hand as much of the effect of the letters cast into the jakes as she can call to her remembrance, as she saith, which we send you here enclosed, with certain other French letters found in the house.

—the Earl of Sussex and Sir John Gage to Lord Cromwell, 5 June 1540

12

Ned Corbett woke from a nightmare, the scream of agony lodged in his throat. Sweat covered his body in spite of the chill of the stone walls and floor. He wrapped the single blanket he’d been given more tightly around his shoulders and fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and curl himself into a ball.

He was still in a bad dream, but he was not going to wake up from this one. Hiding from the truth would do no good, either. He lay on his back on a straw-filled pallet and stared at the bars on the nearest window. He was a prisoner in the Tower of London, charged with treason. He had not been tortured yet, but it was only a matter of time. His imagination had already supplied the gruesome details.

Afterward, as a confessed traitor, he’d be taken out of his cell, marched under guard across the bridge over the moat, past the Lion Tower and through the gate. They’d deliver him to the Guildhall for trial, but the verdict would already be a given and the punishment, too. Then it would be back to the Tower until it was time for one last journey, this time to Tyburn.

Hanged, drawn, and quartered.

That was the fate of traitors.

Ned swallowed hard and swiped at the sweat on his face with one dirty sleeve. No. He must not give up. All he had to do was stick to the story he’d already told, the one that left out all the details Botolph had given him in Gravelines.

Ned had admitted he’d taken personal belongings to Botolph. He’d even confessed to having possession, briefly, of the ten broken crowns, although he’d claimed he’d never opened the packet. But he’d steadfastly insisted he knew nothing about any plot to overthrow Calais. The only one who could say that was a lie was Botolph himself. As far as Ned knew, the villainous priest was still at large on the Continent. Ned sent up a silent prayer for the other man’s safety. His own life might depend upon the priest’s continued freedom.

In all honesty, he was guilty of treason.

He should have reported Botolph directly to Lord Lisle as soon as he returned from Gravelines. He should have turned on his friends. That might have saved him. Then again, it might not have.

Ned stared at the cold, damp stones hemming him in. His cell was separate from the one where the others were being held, the men arrested because Philpott had done exactly what Ned should have. Philpott’s mistake had been to wait several weeks after his return to Calais before he succumbed to panic. Then the fool had told the truth, admitting to even the parts that were certain to condemn him to death.

Ned covered his face with one arm. There was no hope for any of them. He’d known that as soon as they’d been taken from Calais and put aboard a ship in the middle of the night to be brought to England.

A muffled groan escaped him. His servant, Browne, had also been arrested. Ned had no idea how involved Browne had been in Botolph’s scheme. It was possible the priest had subverted Browne’s loyalty and sweet-talked him into joining the conspiracy. Or Browne could have been an innocent bystander. Ned was not worried that Browne could testify against him in regard to the Botolph plot, but Browne did know Ned’s other secrets.

He knew Nan Bassett had been Ned’s mistress before she was the king’s.

AFTER THE MAY Day tournament at Whitehall, the court moved to Greenwich for Whitsuntide. Nan carried out her duties as a maid of honor with an outward appearance of calm, but her heart ached and her mind was always in turmoil. She’d heard nothing more about Ned since her stepfather’s announcement that he was in the Tower. Her imagination painted terrible pictures: Ned being tortured; Ned dying; Ned executed in the horrifying way traitors were put to death. She had never felt so helpless, not even when she had first discovered that she was with child.

She tried to take heart from her stepfather’s continued presence at court. The king seemed well disposed toward him, but although King Henry had elevated Thomas Cromwell in the peerage to Earl of Essex—the title Lord Parr had expected to be granted in his much-despised wife’s name—His Grace had not advanced Lord Lisle. Nan thought it unlikely that King Henry’s benevolence would extend to a pardon for any of the men in Lord Lisle’s retinue, not even at the request of a pretty maid of honor.

Word of the arrests eventually leaked out. Constance dissolved into tears when she heard that John Browne was in the Tower. Nan’s sister Cat, at court as one of the Countess of Rutland’s waiting gentlewomen, denounced Ned in no uncertain terms, both as a traitor and because he had been disloyal to Lord Lisle.

No one else at court seemed much interested in an insignificant and unsuccessful treason plot in an outpost across the Narrow Seas. A far more fascinating scandal had erupted closer to hand. Lord Hungerford of Heytesbury was also in the Tower of London. He was to be tried for sorcery and buggery as well as for heresy and treason.

Nan paid little attention to the details of the case, although she did spare a moment’s pity for Lord Hungerford’s son. When young Wat Hungerford sent word that he wanted to speak to her, Nan set aside her needlework, prepared to meet with him.

Her cousin, the Countess of Sussex, stopped her. “Best you have nothing to do with the lad,” Mary advised.

“The son is not in disgrace, only the father.” And Wat was still in Cromwell’s service. Nan had seen him at a distance, resplendent in the new Earl of Essex’s livery. Wat’s arms and chest had filled out and he’d grown taller. She did not think he would be referred to as a lad for much longer.

“Lord Hungerford is worse than a traitor, Nan. You do not want your name linked with him, even indirectly.”

Nan frowned, trying to recall what she’d heard. Something about casting a horoscope to know when the king would die. And another charge: Lord Hungerford was supposed to have taken another man as his lover. Under a newly passed law, the penalty for that unnatural act was death.

Nan supposed Cousin Mary was right. It was best to have nothing to do with Wat Hungerford. She barely knew him, after all. She sent him away without hearing what he had to say.

NAN SUPPED WITH her stepfather in his chamber on the evening of the seventeenth of May and stayed late because Lord Lisle was in an expansive mood. He had plans to take a more active role in Parliament and at court. His continued belief that he would soon be honored with an earldom gave him new vitality, and his enthusiasm was infectious. When Nan was with him, she could almost believe it would happen. She hoped it would. A highly favored earl would be in an ideal position to ask the king to pardon one of his gentlemen servitors.

“Have you broached the subject of Mary’s betrothal with the king?” she asked. “I’ve had a letter from Mother asking me to sing Gabriel’s praises to His Grace.”

“I will wait until I have my earldom to discuss the matter with King Henry.” Lord Lisle bit into a tart.

“Is it wise to delay? You would not want to be accused of keeping their liaison secret.”

“Do not worry your pretty little head about it, my dear. I will know when the time is right.”

Nan made no further protest, but she felt uneasy. The king had a limited supply of goodwill.

“You seem agitated, Nan.” Lord Lisle reached for another tart.

Someone began pounding on the door before Nan could deny it.

“Send them away, whoever they are,” Lisle shouted to his manservant.

But the men on the other side of the door did not wait to be admitted. Several yeomen of the guard in royal livery and carrying halberds burst into the chamber. Nan recognized their leader. He was Lady Kingston’s husband, Sir William—the constable of the Tower of London.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Lisle rose to his feet so quickly that his chair toppled over with a crash.

Nan jumped up and ran to his side. A terrible tightness constricted her breathing. When the edges of her vision narrowed, she was afraid she might faint. She forced herself to drag in a great gulp of air. Even before Sir William spoke, she knew he had come to arrest her stepfather.

IT WAS TWILIGHT when the Earl of Sussex entered the great parlor of the lord deputy’s residence in Calais. Mary Bassett, perched on a stool near a wicker screen and picking out a tune on her lute, saw him first. Her mother caught sight of him a moment later, as did Frances and Philippa, who were comfortably ensconced on large cushions on the floor to engage in a game of cards.

The earl’s gaze roved over the domestic scene. His expression revealed nothing, but Mary saw a flash of panic in her mother’s eyes. Had something happened to Lord Lisle? Her stepfather had written of falling ill shortly after his arrival in England, but that had been almost a month ago.

Honor Lisle remained seated in the room’s only chair, her embroidery hoop clasped in both hands. “My Lord Sussex, this visit is unexpected.”

Sussex moved toward her. Behind him came three men Mary recognized as members of the Calais Council.

“Gentlemen?” Mary heard the note of alarm in her mother’s voice, but Lady Lisle, elegantly dressed in a kirtle of black velvet and one of her best taffeta gowns, assumed a regal hauteur as she waited for an explanation.

“Madam, I am sorry to have to tell you this,” the earl said, “but your husband has been arrested and charged with treason.”

Mary bit back an exclamation of dismay.

Her mother dropped her needlework to grip the arms of her chair. “No. That is not possible. My husband has done nothing wrong.”

But Sussex was still talking. “By the king’s command, I am ordered to seize and inventory all of Lord Lisle’s possessions, most especially all correspondence, and to question everyone in this household. You, madam, are to be confined to your chamber.” At his signal, one of the Calais Spears entered the room. “Take Lady Lisle away and stand guard outside her door.”

While her mother raged against such treatment, drawing everyone’s attention to her, Mary set her lute on the floor and slowly, quietly, rose from her stool. In a few furtive steps she was hidden by the wicker screen that shielded the room from drafts. Seconds later, she was through the small door behind it and on her way to her bedchamber.

They were going to confiscate letters. They were looking for treasonous correspondence. They probably thought her stepfather had been writing to Cardinal Pole. Mary did not care about that. She had other letters to hide from prying eyes. Personal letters. Private letters. Love letters.

She kept everything Gabriel had ever written to her in a coffer near her bed, tied up with a red ribbon. Retrieving the thick packet, Mary hugged it to her breast. She could not bear to think of strangers reading words meant only for her.

There was no fire in the hearth, not on the twentieth day of May. Mary reached for the tinder box to start one, then had a better idea.

She encountered one of her mother’s waiting gentlewomen as she left the bedchamber. “What has happened?” Mistress Hussey asked. “There are soldiers everywhere.” She was a young woman only a few years Mary’s senior and she was pale with fright.

“Lord Lisle has been arrested. The king’s men are looking for damning documents to use against him.”

Mistress Hussey’s dark brown eyes went wide. Her face turned the color of whey. She hastily crossed herself.

“For God’s sake, do not do that! They’ll take you for a papist.”

“It is happening all over again. Is nowhere safe?” Frantic, Mistress Hussey craned her neck in every direction, as if searching for a place to hide.

Belatedly, Mary remembered that Lord Hussey of Sleaford had been executed for treason. “Your father took part in a rebellion against King Henry,” she murmured. “This is not at all the same.”

Still gripping the packet of letters, Mary ignored the silent tears running down the other woman’s cheeks and pushed past her, heading for the nearest garderobe.

The tiny room was cut into the outer wall. A wooden seat rested atop a shaft that emptied into a cesspit far below. Mary’s stomach twisted, but she had no choice. No one must ever read what Gabriel had written to her. Before she could lose her nerve, she untied the ribbon and ripped the first letter in two, then tore it again before she let the pieces fall from her hand and flutter into the abyss.

“Let me help.” Mistress Hussey appeared at her side.

Mary thrust half the letters into the other woman’s hands and went back to tearing those that remained into tiny bits. She kept back only one, the letter in which Gabriel had first said that he loved her. This she tucked into her bodice, certain no one would dare search her person.

“What now?” Mistress Hussey asked.

“Now we join my sisters in the parlor and pretend that we have only just heard of the arrival of the Earl of Sussex.”

NAN SPENT TWO weeks in daily anticipation of more bad news. Her stepfather was suspected of conspiring with Sir Gregory Botolph. He was a prisoner in the Tower. In Calais, Nan’s mother and sisters had also been arrested. Nan had no idea what the accusations against them were. She only knew that the king’s men had seized and inventoried everything in their house—clothing, books, papers, and even an old piece of tapestry too moth eaten to hang.

It was the fifth of June before Nan herself was summoned to be questioned. She dreaded the interrogation, expecting it to be conducted by Thomas Cromwell. Instead, Anthony Denny joined her in a small, stuffy room, accompanied by a clerk who would take down everything she said.

“Of what are my mother and sisters accused?” she asked before Denny could begin. “Surely they had no part in Sir Gregory Botolph’s mad plan.”

“They tried to conceal your sister’s trothplight to a Frenchman.”

Nan gasped. “She was already betrothed to him?”

Denny’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of this matter, Mistress Bassett?”

Not “Nan,” she thought, as she had been when she lived in “Cousin Denny’s” household, but “Mistress Bassett.” Like everyone else, Denny would try to distance himself from the contagion of treason, as if it were something that could be contracted by breathing the same air.

“I know very little,” Nan said. “Only that a formal proposal of marriage from the young man’s uncle, the head of his family, was delivered to Calais just after my stepfather left for England. Mother, very properly, replied that he must wait for an answer until her husband came home. Then she wrote to Lord Lisle, telling him of the offer. Later, she sent me a letter, asking that I tell the king what I know of the seigneur de Bours, should His Grace question me about him.”

“And what do you know?”

“Only that my sister was brought up in the de Bours household and that a very natural affection grew up between them.”

“Marriage to a foreigner is not permitted without the king’s approval.”

“My stepfather intended to ask for King Henry’s blessing as soon as he arrived at court, but, if you recall, he fell ill shortly afterward.”

“And it slipped his mind thereafter?”

Nan ignored Denny’s sarcasm. “There was no formal betrothal, only a first step toward opening negotiations.”

“Certain depositions that were taken in Calais say otherwise. Your sister secretly married the Frenchman when he visited Calais on Palm Sunday last.”

“How is that possible?”

“They spoke legally binding words to each other. In such cases, neither witnesses nor ceremony are required, only consummation.”

“The words,” Nan interrupted. “My sister admitted that she pledged herself per verba de praesenti? Not per verba de futuro?” The latter was not binding; the former was.

Denny nodded.

Nan closed her eyes to hide her distress. Mary had entered into a clandestine marriage. Ned Corbett had once asked Nan to do the same.

“She compounded her crime by trying to destroy the letters de Bours had sent her. She threw them down the jakes. My lord of Sussex’s men retrieved a few fragments, enough to piece together the story. And enough to make them suspicious that more than love words were contained in those letters.”

“You think Mary was plotting to overthrow Calais?”

“The entire situation is suspicious.”

“The entire situation is ludicrous.”

Denny’s face remained set in grim lines. For a moment, the scratch of the clerk’s quill was the only sound in the quiet room. Nan forced herself to relax her clenched hands, to breathe evenly. Panic would avail her nothing.

“Why is my mother being held?”

“Your mother and sisters and several of the waiting gentlewomen at first denied any knowledge of the plighttroth. Some changed their stories when they were questioned a second time.”

“But Mother would not have known. Not if it was a secret marriage.” Philippa likely had. And Frances. “Where is my brother’s wife?” she blurted out, suddenly alarmed.

“Your brother went to Calais and took his wife and daughter back to England. They could not remain there. The household has been disbanded.”

“Then where—?”

“Your sisters have been placed under house arrest with families in Calais. They are well treated, I assure you. Your mother is likewise confined in the residence of a gentleman of the town. She has been permitted to keep with her a waiting gentlewoman, two other servants, and a priest.”

From her own household, Nan wondered, or spies appointed by the Crown?

Nan’s mind raced. On top of the charge that her stepfather had known about Sir Gregory Botolph’s plans, the suspicion that he’d arranged a secret alliance with a Frenchman could seal his fate, and perhaps her mother’s, too. How could Mary have been so foolish? Unless there really had been something treasonous in Gabriel’s letters, she had made matters far worse by destroying them.

“What now?” she asked after a long silence. “Am I to be arrested, too?”

Denny reached across the table and patted her hand. “You have done nothing wrong. You had no part in any of this. Keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself and be patient. There are other changes coming, but most will do you more good than harm.”

It was excellent, if enigmatic, advice, but difficult to follow. Nan was worried about her stepfather, about her mother and sisters, and about Ned Corbett, too. And she could not help but fear for her own future. If she tried to help any of those she cared about, she might also be accused of treason.

FIVE DAYS AFTER Nan’s interview with Anthony Denny, on the tenth of June, she heard of the arrest of Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex. No one was quite sure what he had done to incur the king’s wrath, except that he had been instrumental in arranging His Grace’s marriage to Anna of Cleves.

The news made Nan think of young Wat Hungerford. He had wanted to speak with her shortly before her stepfather’s arrest. She wondered what he’d wanted, and what had happened to him now that both his master and his father were in the Tower. She knew Lord Hungerford’s lands had been seized. Wat had no home to retreat to.

One more person to worry about, she thought, when fretting did no one any good. She was glad she had her duties as a maid of honor to keep her busy. But only two weeks later, Queen Anna and her entire household were abruptly banished from court, sent to live at Richmond Palace while the king stayed behind.

Stout yeomen hauled traveling trunks into the maidens’ chamber, setting off a flurry of activity. Constance at once began to pack Nan’s belongings. She had outgrown her youthful awkwardness in the last year and developed into a sturdy young woman accustomed to physical labor. She did everything from beating the dust out of her mistress’s clothing to hauling water to the maids’ dormitory for baths.

“I am not going to Richmond,” Kate Stradling announced.

“But you must,” Nan said. “All the maids of hon—”

“Not Catherine Howard. She has already left for the old dowager Duchess of Norfolk’s house at Lambeth.”

Nan folded a pair of sleeves to give herself something to do with her hands. As impossible as it had seemed a few months earlier, the king was going to rid himself of his wife in order to marry Mistress Howard. “We know why Catherine has abandoned Queen Anna,” she said to her cousin, “but what incentive have you to stay behind? You’ll have no place at court.”

“My place will be with my husband.”

“You’ve married Sir Thomas Palmer?” Lucy Somerset exclaimed in surprise. Along with every other woman in the room, her gaze fixed on Kate. Sir Thomas Palmer had been courting Kate for some time, but Nan had always suspected that her cousin thought she could do better. Sir Thomas had a goodly estate but was also fourteen years Kate’s senior and had several grown children from an earlier marriage.

“I will be his wife just as soon as Thomas can obtain a special license.” Kate looked well pleased with herself. At twenty-eight, she could no longer afford to be choosy, especially now that it was obvious Queen Anna was to be put aside.

“I wish you well,” Nan said, embracing her cousin. But what she felt most strongly was a sense of relief. Kate knew too many of Nan’s secrets.

“Everything is packed,” Constance said, closing the heavy trunk lid with a thunk. The finality of the sound made Nan shiver. So much seemed uncertain. Richmond Palace was a beautiful place, but she had no desire to spend the rest of her life entombed there.

“POOR QUEEN ANNA,” Cat Bassett said, fanning herself. In spite of the breeze that occasionally blew up off the Thames, Richmond Palace was stifling. “She refuses to believe that the king will annul their marriage. Lady Rutland says Her Grace is convinced there are no grounds to dissolve their union.”

Nan was too hot and uncomfortable to twit her sister for quoting Lady Rutland. The weather had been abnormally warm and dry since the beginning of June and it was now the tenth of July. Even the most accommodating of individuals felt irritable. Those with little self-control lost their tempers at the drop of a hat.

“Lady Rutland fears for the queen’s life,” Cat continued. “If she opposes the king’s wishes—”

“She could end up like the last Queen Anne!” Nan snapped. “If she cannot see the way the wind blows, she deserves that fate.”

“How can you be so hard hearted?” Cat took a handful of caraway seeds dipped in sugar from an ornate little box and nibbled them.

“I feel sorry for the woman, just as you do. But if the queen fights to hold her place, as Catherine of Aragon did when King Henry put her aside, she will be fortunate to keep her head.”

“It is not her fault that neither her mother nor any of her senior ladies explained to her what constitutes the duties of a wife. She went to her marriage bed in total ignorance. She truly believed, until Lady Rochford bluntly told her otherwise, that the king had consummated their marriage simply by kissing her and spending part of the night in her bed.” The king, by common report, had never been able to force himself to couple with the queen.

“There is nothing you or I can do for her,” Nan said. “There is nothing we can do for anyone, not even our own kin.” She had never felt so helpless. She turned away from her sister to stare out the nearest window. The view might have been soothing had the drought not turned the grass brown and withered the leaves on vines and flowers.

When Nan looked her sister’s way again, Cat was calmly embroidering a sleeve with tiny rosebuds. Nan was too restless to settle. She prowled Lady Rutland’s chamber, picking up various of the countess’s possessions and putting them down again without registering what they were.

“Everything is Mary’s fault.” Nan knew the accusation was unfair as soon as she muttered the words, since Mary had nothing to do with King Henry’s dislike of his queen.

“She fell in love,” Cat said.

“That is no excuse for behaving like a fool. Her actions made everything worse. His Grace believes she knowingly destroyed evidence of treason.”

“And so she did, since her betrothal was exactly that, but it was clever of her to think of throwing those love letters into the privy. They should have been lost forever. Who would have thought that the Earl of Sussex would order his men to search through the offal and pick out all the bits that could still be read?”

“Go on,” Nan said irritably. She was perspiring again. She hated to sweat. “Take her side. What do you care? You will continue just as you are, in service as Lady Rutland’s lapdog.”

Cat refused to quarrel. “You can always return to Cousin Mary’s household.”

“She pretends she has forgiven me for moving out, but she will never invite me back.”

“Then go to Jane Mewtas or Joan Denny.”

“They only took me in to please the king. What advantage can I bring them now? And do not suggest that I return to Calais, or to France! If Queen Anna’s household is dispersed, I’ll have nowhere to go.”

Cat kept stitching. “John and Frances have property in the West Country.”

“The ends of the earth!” Nan stopped in front of Lady Rutland’s looking glass. She stared at her regular features, her blue eyes, her flawless skin. She was pretty, but who was here to see? Her hopes of finding a wealthy nobleman to marry grew dimmer by the day.

“Nan?” Cat’s voice was tentative. “Did you ever meet Sir Gregory Botolph?”

“Why?”

Cat kept her head down. “I heard a rumor. It is terrible the things people will say. Vicious, untrue things.”

“What did you hear?”

“That Mother was Botolph’s mistress. And that she turned traitor for his sake.”

The idea was so preposterous that Nan laughed aloud. “What nonsense. I know people call him Gregory Sweet-lips, but Mother would never be taken in by honeyed words. Neither she nor our stepfather had any part in the conspiracy.”

Nan was also sure Ned Corbett was innocent.

Always, just at the back of her mind, ready to leap out and squeeze her heart if she let down her guard, was her anguish at Ned’s peril. She did not believe he had been involved in Botolph’s scheme, but these days a careless word or a thoughtless act was enough to condemn a man.

A fearful image suddenly filled her mind: Ned hanged, drawn, and quartered—a traitor’s death. She jumped, a shriek caught in her throat, when the door suddenly creaked open.

The Earl of Rutland stood in the opening, his attention on Cat. “Where is my wife?”

“With the queen, my lord. In Her Grace’s presence chamber.”

“Good.” His gaze shifted to Nan. “What are you doing here? You should be in attendance on Her Grace, as well.”

“Queen Anna prefers the company of the two young women she brought with her from Cleves, especially Gertrude. She scarce notices what the rest of us do.”

“Come with me, Mistress Nan. All the queen’s ladies and maids of honor must stand witness to what I have to say.” Shooing Nan in front of him, he set off for the presence chamber at a brisk pace.

Nan did not argue. As the queen’s lord chamberlain, Rutland was responsible for dealing with all the details of daily life in her household.

When they reached the presence chamber, Nan went to stand with Lucy Somerset, Mary Norris, Dorothy Bray, and the two maids of honor from Cleves. Sensing that something important was about to happen, Nan toyed nervously with her pomander ball.

“My lord of Rutland—you have something to say to me?” Queen Anna spoke English but it was heavily accented.

“Your Grace,” Rutland said in a carrying voice, “you have been ordered to sign your consent to the annulment of your marriage to the king.” He produced a sheaf of papers and presented it to her with a flourish.

A secretary translated his words, although Nan suspected that Queen Anna understood precisely what was afoot. Her Grace took the pages, which she could not read, and stared at them for a long moment. Without warning, she burst into tears.

No one seemed to know what to do. Impatient with protocol, Nan stepped forward and offered the queen a handkerchief. For just an instant, their eyes met. The queen’s conveyed gratitude, but Nan saw something else in them, as well. Calculation?

When more senior ladies took over, Nan was glad to step back. The Earl of Rutland, through his interpreter, attempted to calm the queen. The murmuring went on for some time, but in the end the earl went away without the queen’s signature.

The next morning, the Earl of Rutland made another attempt to persuade the queen to end her marriage. This time he offered a much better bargain. Anna of Cleves would be allowed to remain in England. If she would agree to become the king’s “sister,” she would have an income of £4,000 a year. Richmond Palace and other properties would be given to her. All she had to do was admit that there had been an irregularity in the marriage—that she had been betrothed to someone else before she wed King Henry and that this precontract, although Anna herself had not, at the time, been aware of it, had been binding.

Even Nan could see gaps in the logic of this explanation, but she was not foolish enough to point them out. No one else did, either. Anna of Cleves signed the papers and freed King Henry to marry for the fifth time.

“LORD CROMWELL AND Lord Hungerford were executed last Wednesday,” Cat Bassett told her sister on Saturday, the thirty-first day of July.

Nan was in the maid’s dormitory at Richmond, once again staring out a window at the bleak landscape. The heat wave continued unabated. There had been no rain for weeks. Nan had her partlet open at the throat and her skirts kilted up. Neither measure did much good. Sweat pooled between her breasts where her bodice shoved them up and together.

As Cat’s words sank in, Nan turned to face her sister. “Were there … others who were executed?”

“No one we know. But on the same day, so Lord Rutland says, the king married Catherine Howard. They will not make an official announcement yet. Lady Rutland says they first plan to remain at Oatlands in Surrey for another week.”

“Are more executions scheduled?” Nan asked.

“None that I’ve heard about, but the general pardon the king issued after Parliament adjourned specifically exempted Mother and Lord Lisle and those men from Calais who were charged with treason.” Cat frowned. “And yet, the Calais men who were being held in the Fleet have been released by the lord chancellor.”

Nan had not known there were Calais men confined in that London prison. “Were they accused of conspiring with Botolph?”

“No, only of heresy.” She shrugged. “According to the Earl of Rutland, the lord chancellor told them they were free at His Grace’s pleasure. A pity that pleasure does not extend to members of our family.” She gave Nan a pointed look.

“These days His Grace’s pleasure is Catherine Howard. I doubt he remembers that any other woman exists.”

Long after Cat had returned to Lady Rutland’s chamber, Nan stayed where she was, mulling over what her sister had said. If the king had no objection to letting some prisoners go free, even some of those who had been exempted from the general pardon, then he might not object to freeing more of them.

An audacious idea occurred to her. At first she told herself it would never work. She’d end up in prison herself if she attempted it. But she could not stop thinking about it.

She did not want Ned Corbett to die. He had done nothing worse than befriend a deceitful priest. Ned, who had been her first lover, who was the father of her child, even if he did not know Jamie existed, deserved his freedom just as much as those men in the Fleet did.

For another week, the king would not be interested in anything but Catherine Howard. And while His Grace was occupied with his new bride, he would pay no attention to what Nan Bassett did. If she was very careful and very clever, she should have just time enough to save Ned’s life.