After what felt like an eternity, the queen bade me rise and come closer. When I was near enough to smell the rosewater scent she favored, she reached out with one beringed hand to touch the small portion of my hair that the net did not cover.

“An uncommon shade,” the queen remarked. “Does it run in your family?”

“I do not know, Your Grace. But surely it is not all that rare.” Queen Kathryn also had red-gold hair, although it was darker than mine.

She smiled. “And yet, I think you do not much resemble Master Malte.”

I had always known that I did not look like Father or Bridget or Muriel. “My mother had dark brown eyes and my coloring,” I murmured.

“And the red hair? It is very like a shade I have seen . . . elsewhere.”

I wondered if she meant the princess or the king, but the full significance of what she was hinting at took longer than it should have to occur to me.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay in my household, young Audrey,” the queen said, dismissing me. “If there is aught that you need, you have only to ask one of my ladies.”

I backed away from her, as court protocol demands. It was only when I had retreated far enough to turn around that I realized how many people had observed our exchange.

The presence chamber was a large room used to receive important visitors as well as the ordinary ones like myself. The ladies, gentlewomen, and maids of honor who traveled with the queen on progress were all assembled there. There were men present, too—both members of the queen’s household and some of the king’s courtiers paying their respects. Dozens of pairs of eyes, their expressions ranging from curious to speculative to hostile, and none of them overtly friendly, bored into me. The queen’s reaction to my appearance and this intense interest from members of her household confused me. Then it made me think.

The color of my eyes and my skin tone came from my mother, but the red-gold hair—the shade that was so distinctively Tudor red—had no explanation unless I believed . . .

No! The idea was too preposterous!

But it would not go away. And it would explain so much, explain why I had been singled out to receive gifts and be given lessons.

I was a merry-begot. No one had ever made any secret of that. But Father said I was his child.

Could he have lied to me all these years?

There did not seem to be any other answer.

It was not impossible that King Henry should have fathered me. I knew he’d had at least one bastard, Henry FitzRoy, the boy he’d created Duke of Richmond and married to the Earl of Surrey’s sister. Richmond had died when he was only seventeen.

But if I was the king’s child, why not claim me? His Grace had given me to John Malte. Hidden me away.

Although I longed for solitude to gather my thoughts, I was obliged to remain in the queen’s presence chamber all the rest of that endless day. I did not even have Edith to offer solace. She’d been allowed to accompany me only as far as the outer chamber of the queen’s apartments. A few people spoke to me. I suppose I answered sensibly. Only one of them was anyone I knew by name.

Sir Richard Southwell came upon me as I stood in a window embrasure a little apart from the crowd of courtiers. He positioned himself in such a way that I could not move past him and escape.

“You will recall we met at Norfolk House, Mistress Audrey.” His voice matched his manner—obsequious and sly.

“I remember you, Sir Richard.” I had to fight the urge to cringe, for I also recollected the story Mary Shelton had told me. He had murdered a man. In sanctuary. It had amazed me at the time that such a one could remain so high in King Henry’s favor.

A traverse screened off part of that side of the room. I had sought greater privacy and now regretted my impulse. I was not afraid that Sir Richard would harm me physically, but just being so close to him made my skin crawl.

“The queen is not the first to . . . admire the color of your hair,” he said. “I noticed it the first time I saw you.”

I felt sick. He thought I was a royal bastard. And if he had seen the resemblance, perhaps others had, too. In my innocence, had I misunderstood the reason I’d been offered friendship by the Earl of Surrey’s circle? Had they cultivated me only because they thought I was connected to the king? Was that why Jack had taken me to Durham House in the first place?

Or was that why Jack had gone away? Had he feared to become entangled with me? More than one person with only a trace of royal blood had ended up in the Tower accused of treason. Any children born to them carried that same taint.

My head spun with possibilities, none of them palatable. How many courtiers, I wondered, had known of the king’s otherwise inexplicable fondness for his tailor’s illegitimate daughter? How long had they been speculating about my origins? Some would readily believe I was the king’s. Others would doubt. I desperately wanted to remain among the doubters.

“You must excuse me, Sir Richard,” I blurted, putting my hand to my mouth as if I were about to retch. “I am feeling ill.”

He backed up with alacrity and let me pass. I bolted from the presence chamber and did not stop running until I reached Father’s lodgings.

Father? Was he? I wanted to ask and did not dare. I did not want my growing suspicion confirmed. I pled a raging headache and took to my bed, but the next day I had to return to the queen’s apartments. One did not disobey a royal command.

At least Sir Richard did not reappear.

Soon after, the progress moved on, leaving Ashridge for Ampthill. I continued to spend my days loosely attached to the queen’s entourage, although she was often off hunting with the king. They were both mad for the sport.

I did not speak to Princess Elizabeth again, although I sometimes saw her from a distance. She saw me, too, although she never acknowledged me. I tried not to think about how much alike we looked.

Desperate for answers, I asked Edith bluntly why she’d been sent to me. She seemed surprised by the question.

“It was the king’s wish.”

“But why favor me? I am naught but a merchant’s daughter. You were trained to serve the nobility.”

It amazed me that I had never before considered this odd. I’d simply accepted Edith, as I’d accepted the tutors and the gift of a little dog—one of the king’s own dogs!

Edith frowned. “No one ever said.”

“But you must have speculated.”

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

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

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

“Does my father pay your wages?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made me smile, and I hugged him again.

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

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

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

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












21

Stepney, October 1556

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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