A soft exhalation drew Audrey’s gaze to her daughter.

There was no need to tell Hester any more of the story tonight. The little girl had fallen deeply asleep. Careful not to wake her, Audrey slid off the bed, stumbling a little as she landed on the rush-covered floor. The scent of strewing herbs wafted up to her, juniper and costmary, as she turned to draw the curtains closed against cold night drafts.

She stood there a moment longer, gripping the heavy cloth, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She hated this lingering weakness. She was accustomed to good health and a hardy constitution.

Tomorrow, there would be more questions. Audrey repressed a sigh. It was only natural for a child to want to know all about her parents.

Steady again, she crept out of her daughter’s richly appointed bedchamber and into her own. The enormous bed yawned before her, far too big for one person, a potent reminder that Jack had not shared it with her for a long time.

Did Hester need to know that, too? Audrey pondered the question as she used her toothpick and tooth cloth and combed out her hair. She preferred to tend to these chores herself and not have the bother of servants.

The girl idolized her father and he was fond of her. Audrey thought she could reveal the rest of the story without tarnishing Jack’s image. She would do her best, she resolved, to let Hester keep her illusions.

In the morning, after mother and daughter broke their fast, they went out into the garden. It had been planted to suit Audrey’s fancy. Each flower had been chosen not only for color and scent but also for the values it was said to represent. Honeysuckle grew near the door, a symbol of undying devotion. The blossoms were long gone but the fruit, which had the appearance of little bunches of grapes, was red and ripe.

She’d sown gillyflowers to mark the start of the path—pink, crimson, and white and smelling like violets. They were said to represent faithful and undying love, especially when worn in a man’s cap. “I must remember to plant more of these on St. Remy’s Day,” she murmured, speaking to herself as much as to Hester.

“When is that?” her daughter asked. Since King Henry’s break with Rome, many of the old holy days had been forgotten.

“The twenty-eighth day of this month. The gillyflower is a most useful plant. Many grow it as a potherb throughout the winter, using it to flavor wine, for the taste is much the same as that of cloves. You know already that cloves are imported and are too expensive for everyday use. Gillyflowers can also be used in after-dinner syrups, sweet tarts, and preserves.”

Hester showed not the least interest in her mother’s impromptu lesson in herbal lore. She ran on ahead, along the length of a path notable in high summer for the bright colors on both sides. Audrey’s favorite blooms were the vivid orange marigolds, symbolizing both death and hope. They began to flower in May, and in some years, like this one, continued to do so until the cold days of winter were upon them.

A stone bench held pride of place on a little knoll beneath a rose arbor. Pale red eglantine climbed over and around it. In summer those flowers filled the enclosure with their sweet scent.

“Do you remember what eglantine represents?” Audrey sank gratefully down onto the hard surface. Even such a short ramble tired her. The basket of mending on her arm felt as if it were filled with lead.

Obediently, Hester recited one of her lessons from the stillroom. There she, like every other young gentlewoman, spent many hours learning how to concoct home remedies to keep the household healthy and to turn the distilled essence of flowers into perfume. “It is a symbol of love, devotion, romance, and virtue. Does that mean this is a suitable place to continue your story?”

“It will do well enough.” Audrey patted the bench beside her. “Shall I recount more tales from the court of King Henry, or is it your father of whom you wish to hear me speak?”

Hester grinned up at her. “Can you not tell me a story about them both?”












11

May 1540

Every year, King Henry celebrated May Day. His Grace was surpassing fond of pageantry, everything from tournaments to disguisings. In the spring after I began my lessons with Jack Harington—I still addressed him as Master Harington, although I already thought of him as Jack—there was a great tournament held in the tiltyard in Westminster. King Henry and Queen Anne watched the jousting from a newly built gatehouse at Whitehall. It was a grand spectacle, or so everyone said.

“All the young noblemen of the court participated and some of the gentlemen, too,” Jack told me as, with Father’s blessing and Edith in tow, he escorted me to the riverside stairs and hailed a two-oared wherry, “but only those who are the king’s favorites.” He sounded wistful.

“I am glad you were not one of them!” I exclaimed. “I’d not want you to be injured.” This was a very forward thing to say and provoked a mutter of disapproval from Edith.

“No chance of that! A mere chorister has other duties. But I was able to watch most of the contests. Tom Culpeper, one of the gentlemen of the privy chamber, was unhorsed in a most undignified fashion.” Jack’s satisfied smile told me Master Culpeper, whoever he might be, was no friend to my music tutor.

The waterman, leaning on his oars, waited impatiently while we settled ourselves in his craft. “West or east?” he demanded, and spat into the murky waters of the Thames.

“Durham House, if you please,” Jack told him, and handed over a coin.

“Your father thinks you are going to court,” Edith said in a whisper as the little boat caught the tide and began to move swiftly westward. Gulls and seabirds wheeled overhead, filling the air with their raucous cries. “What business have you going to Durham House?”

Overhearing, Jack chuckled. “You need not be concerned for your charge’s virtue, Edith. Today the whole court is at Durham House. That is where those bold knights who excelled in the lists are to be awarded their prizes—gifts of money and grants of houses. The king will be there, and the queen, and all the courtiers you could wish for.”

Durham House sits in the middle of the curve of the Thames. Just beyond it, on the land side, the city of Westminster begins. I had noticed its gardens before, when passing by en route to the royal palace of Whitehall. They are planted in three descending terraces on the London side of the mansion. The house itself is built close to the river, allowing easy access by way of a water gate that is part of a two-storied galleried range that flanks the great hall. A screens passage leads into that high and stately chamber. That day we could have located the hall by the level of noise alone.

Jack veered off just short of the entrance to lead us up a narrow flight of stairs to the musicians’ gallery. Only three of the musicians were playing. The trio produced exquisite sounds that could scarcely be heard over the hubbub below, but the other members of their company were a more appreciative audience.

“The Bassano brothers,” Jack said. “Newly arrived from Italy. They make my poor skills seem little more than an amateur effort by an untalented child.”

Taking the comparison as a criticism of my own ability, I shrank back, but Jack was the noticing sort. It took him only a moment to realize how I had misinterpreted his words.

“You are naturally gifted,” he assured me. “You have inherent talent. Why else should I have brought you here today? I have a surprise for you.”

Mollified, I demanded to know what it was.

“All in good time, Mistress Audrey. All in good time.”

Jack showed me to a place by the rail and then left me to exchange greetings with some of the other royal musicians. They were not gentlemen of the Chapel Royal but rather the king’s secular musicians. Some twenty-five of them, many foreign born, played for His Grace at masques and for dancing.

I peered at the crowd below, and was glad I was not down there among them to be jostled and buffeted. Spectators seemed to fill every inch of space, vying for the best position from which to see the king and his bride of barely five months. Anne of Cleves was a very plain woman but she had a kind smile. As I watched, Her Grace handed out arms and expensive robes and silver vessels to that day’s champions.

Edith, having settled herself with much grumbling, suddenly gave a little cry of pleasure. “Only look, Mistress Audrey! There is the Countess of Surrey.”

She indicated a young woman in her early twenties in close attendance on Queen Anne. Lady Surrey had wide-spaced eyes, a broad nose, and a strained expression on her pale face. She did not appear to be enjoying the festivities.

“Is your mother here, too?”

“Oh, no, Mistress Audrey. She will be at Surrey House in Norwich with the countess’s children. They are too young yet to be brought to court. The fourth, another boy, was born less than three months past.”

No wonder the countess lacked enthusiasm!

“Do you recognize anyone else among the ladies attending Her Grace?”

“That is the countess’s sister-in-law.” Edith pointed out a compactly made, richly dressed young woman who kept her eyes downcast, almost as if she was lost in her own thoughts. “She was born Lady Mary Howard, the Duke of Norfolk’s only daughter, but she’s Duchess of Richmond now. Poor creature. She was married to the king’s bastard.”

I must have given a little start of surprise because Edith looked at me and then away, as if she’d said too much. I poked her.

“Go on. Tell me all. I did not know the king had a son other than Prince Edward.”

Curiously, in spite of the noise and laughter all around us, private conversation was possible. We were hidden from the view of those below and seated in a little well of relative quiet.

“Henry FitzRoy, he was called. Before Prince Edward was born, the king made him a duke. Some said His Grace meant the boy to be king after him, bastard or no, so it was a fine marriage for Lady Mary. But then the boy died and she was left a widow before she was ever truly a wife.”

I made a sympathetic sound, but my thoughts had strayed. I did not often remember that I was a bastard myself. Even Bridget did not taunt me about it. But it had never before occurred to me that a child born on the wrong side of the blanket could rise so high. I supposed it made a difference when your father was the king.

“Oh, there is Mistress Catherine Howard.” Edith gestured toward a pretty girl with golden hair. She did not look much older than I was. “She is a cousin to the Duchess of Richmond and the Earl of Surrey and serves as one of the queen’s maids of honor.”

Jack joined us then, putting an end to Edith’s confidences. I was content to watch the spectacle at his side, observing in silence as the defenders and the challengers from the tournament were rewarded first with gifts and then with food.

A space had been left for tables, and dozens of platters overflowing with steaming dishes were carried in—roasted meats and sauces and sweets of all sorts. Each new course was announced with a thunderous fanfare provided by military drummers. Softer sounds filled the air at other times.

The only person Jack pointed out to me was the Earl of Surrey. “The earl was Queen Anne’s ‘Chief Defender’ in the lists,” he explained. “He led twenty-nine brave men and true into mock battle. He ran eight successful courses each of the first two days of the tournament without ever being unhorsed and was just as successful when they fought with swords instead of lances.”

Boisterous and full of good cheer, Surrey slapped one of his fellows on the back and embraced another. I could make out little of his appearance from my perch, only a full head of auburn hair and a rather scraggly beard of the same color.

The official festivities ended when the king and queen departed. The rest of the company began to disperse as well. When Jack led me out of the musicians’ gallery, I expected to return to the water gate, but the passageway he chose took us instead into an antechamber containing another narrow flight of stairs. Edith and I followed Jack up, and up, and up, until the steps ended in a little turret room. Its windows looked down into and out over the Thames.

“You should not be here with him,” Edith hissed at me, alarmed by the remoteness and privacy of the chamber.

“I am in no danger,” I whispered back. In truth, I wished there were some hope that Jack Harington might look upon me as a young woman he’d like to steal away and marry. I adored my music master, but he still looked upon me as a child. That I was a child—not quite twelve years old—was something I preferred to ignore.