“Nor do I wish to become afflicted with either ailment.” And with that, taking only a bit of bread and cheese to sustain him, he left the house.

“What is tympany?” I asked when he’d gone. I had already finished eating and was tempted to follow Father to make sure he returned home safely. Being bled always made me dizzy. I worried that it would affect Father the same way, especially as he’d been so weak during his recent illness.

“Tympany is wind colic.” Mother Anne pushed aside her trencher with more force than necessary. “If your father wishes to avoid wind after meals and excessive gas in the abdomen, then I will make him a draft to drink an hour before eating. There is no need for him to be bled.”

As she left the room, I could hear her muttering to herself. The list of ingredients—coriander, conserve of roses, galanza root, aniseed, sugar, even cinnamon—sounded more like a receipt for cookery than physic.

Father returned an hour later, unsteady on his feet and white as parchment. “The humors have been restored to their natural balance,” he assured me as I assisted him to climb the stairs. “Dropsy is caused by superfluous cold and moist humors. That is why it was necessary that I be bled.”

I make no pretense of understanding the theory of humors. To me it sounds as mad as predicting the future by the stars. All I cared about was that Father not fall ill again. Our household might have escaped, summer after summer, from the ravages of the plague, and been spared other dread diseases, too, but I knew full well that life, like a candle, could be snuffed out in an instant.

Father’s dizziness abated but he began to pass water an immoderate number of times a day. Mother Anne was worried enough to consult a physician about that condition. This doctor charged an angel for just one visit. He examined Father’s urine, prepared an astrological chart, and gave him a purge. Then he made him drink cold water until he vomited. To complete the cure, Father was supposed to eat four eggs prepared with powdered red nettle and sugar every morning. This he refused to do. For a time, his health improved.

In October, the royal grant we had been promised was duly issued, more than doubling Father’s wealth.

We were not cut off from news of the court, even though neither Father nor I went there anymore. John Scutt was still the queen’s tailor and Bridget still took pleasure in repeating every juicy tidbit he shared with her. In this way, I learned that King Henry had been ill.

“The king and queen are at Windsor now,” Bridget announced in mid-October, “but the king is not hunting, as is his wont. It is said he’s not well enough to stand the exertion.” She rolled her eyes. “I do not see that His Grace ever exerts himself overmuch. Master Scutt told me once that King Henry is accustomed to shoot at deer from a fixed standing. And even when he did ride down game on horseback, armed with darts and spears, he used a purpose-built ramp to mount his horse.”

“You must not be disrespectful of the king,” Mother Anne warned her.

“Is it disrespectful to speak the truth?”

“It can be,” I murmured.

Bridget, who had never been to court herself, paid no attention to our warnings. She prattled on, repeating the latest rumors. I assumed that what her husband told her had some basis in fact. The stories she picked up in the marketplace were less reliable, but she repeated those, too. Unable to tell the wheat from the chaff, Bridget was always certain they were all true.

It was from Bridget that I first heard that Sir Thomas Seymour was in residence at Seymour Place, a house in the parish of St. Clement Danes. The king had given it to him, so Bridget said, for his good service to the Crown.

I knew where Seymour Place was located. It was situated on the Strand, just beyond Temple Bar on the way to Westminster. Although this was outside the city gates, I reckoned that it would not be a very great journey from Father’s house. It was, in fact, nearer to Watling Street than Norfolk House and even easier to reach by wherry.

On the pretext of a shopping expedition to buy new shoes, I set out with Edith at an early hour. I walked rapidly to Paul’s Wharf, where I hailed the first boat I saw. Edith had been sworn to secrecy but she was a reluctant accomplice and was already out of sorts because she’d had to trot to keep up with me.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she muttered as the small rowing boat took us smoothly past Baynard’s Castle, Puddle Wharf, and the former monastery of Blackfriars. The old city wall ended there, but Temple Bar marked the true city limit, the point where, on land, Fleet Street became the Strand.

By water, the riverside façades of Bridewell, Whitefriars, the Inner Temple, and the Middle Temple led up to Temple Bar. Beyond that there were many great houses. The one the king had granted to Sir Thomas Seymour had once belonged to the Bishop of Bath. It had already been a very grand place, complete with orchards and gardens and tenements, when Sir Thomas began making improvements. The rebuilding had been ongoing ever since.

I told the boatman to deposit me at the private water stairs between Milford Lane—a narrow way across from the church of St. Clement Dane—and Strand Bridge Lane.

“Are you sure, mistress?” He pointed to two men who appeared to be on guard there. “They are wearing the king’s livery. They may not let you disembark.”

“Do as I say!” I snapped at him because, in truth, I was not at all certain I would be able to talk my way onto the property.

A challenge came the moment the rowing boat put in at the foot of the privy stairs.

I had just room enough to step out of the boat and did so, hauling Edith after me. “I am here to see Master John Harington, the vice admiral’s man, on urgent business.” I did not give my name.

One of the henchmen sneered, but the other, peering more closely into my face and having served at court for some time, saw more than his companion. He escorted me, with Edith dogging my heels, into the main building. Instructing a servant in Seymour’s livery to make sure neither of us wandered off, he left us in an antechamber.

“Has Sir Thomas been in residence long?” I asked when the silence began to fray my nerves.

“Since the King’s Majesty went to Windsor, mistress.”

As the fellow did not seem to mind answering questions, I asked another. “Is this a large household? Aside from the builders, I mean.”

“Comfortably so, mistress. There are twenty-four liveried servants like myself in daily attendance on Sir Thomas.”

“A goodly number.”

“He is Prince Edward’s uncle.”

Before I could ask anything else, Jack Harington entered the room and dismissed the talkative servant. He waited until his footsteps faded away before he spoke.

“What in God’s name do you think you are doing, Audrey? You could ruin your reputation by coming here.”

“Seymour Place is scarce a bawdy house! And I would not have come if I were not so desperate for your help.”

At once his hard features softened. “What has happened? Is it Malte? I heard he was ill.”

“No. No, Father is much better. It . . . it is something else.” Now that the moment had come, I found it harder than I had expected to confide in him.

“Let us walk in the gardens,” he suggested. “It is as private there as here, but with less potential for scandal.”

I gathered my courage in the time it took us to leave the house. As we strolled arm in arm along the carefully laid-out alleys, across decorative bridges, and through banks of flowers, Edith trailing a discreet distance behind, I began at the beginning, with the day King Henry rescued me from my mother and that man Dobson. I recounted each incident that had led me to believe John Malte was not my father, ending with the king’s extremely generous grant of land.

“It was not just a pension for Father, Jack. His Grace named us jointly. How can I interpret that in any other way? The king wished to provide for me because I am his daughter, not John Malte’s.”

Jack said nothing.

“You’ve suspected the same thing. You had only to look at the color of my hair.”

Still nothing.

“Sir Richard Southwell believes it. Why do you think he is so anxious to marry me to his son.”

Jack caught my arm and pulled me down, rather more roughly than was necessary, to sit beside him on a convenient bench. Once I was seated, he released me at once. He was always careful not to touch me more than was necessary. It was as if he feared that close contact would weaken his self-control. For my part, I tried to behave as he wanted me to, although I wished with all my heart that I could be the sort of woman to tempt him out of his reticence.

“What if Southwell learns you were here with me?” he asked. “Have you thought of that? He’s not a man to be trifled with, Audrey.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“In a word—yes. You should be, too.”

“And that is precisely why I am not going to marry his son.”

“You could do worse.”

“You?”

Frustrated, he pulled off his bonnet and used it to thwack a nearby shrub. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end. I had to fight the urge to reach up and smooth it down again.

“Yes, me. I’d marry you in a minute, Audrey, if I had the means to support you. But I have no land, no money, and no great prospects. All was going well. Sir Thomas uses me as a messenger and seems to trust me. But it appears that, after all, he is in no position to advance himself, let alone his servants.”

His declaration warmed me, even as his determination not to marry me for my dowry made me want to slap him. Abruptly, I changed the subject.

“I had a reason for coming here, Jack. I need your help to get to Windsor.”

His astonished expression was almost comical. “To Windsor? Why? You cannot imagine you will be allowed to speak to the king!”

“His Grace might see me. He has favored me before. But that is not my reason for going there. I hope to find my mother. My real mother. Don’t you see, Jack? She is the only one who can tell me for certain who my father is.”

“Is she still at Windsor? It has been years, Audrey. Is she even alive after all this time?”

“I am certain she is. Father made a will when he was ill. He left her twenty pounds.”

Jack stared out across the Thames. There were a few scattered houses on the other side. Beyond, in the direction of Westminster, I could just glimpse the highest towers of the archbishop’s palace at Lambeth, hard by Norfolk House.

“Sooner or later, I will doubtless be sent to Windsor with messages. Let me ask your questions for you.”

But I shook my head. “I need to go myself. I need to see her face when she answers me.”

“If she answers you.” He sat with his head bowed, his elbows on his knees and his arms dangling between them. His strong hands crushed and mangled the bonnet they held. “Let me find her for you first.”

“No, Jack. I must—”

“It will be difficult enough for you to devise a excuse to be gone from home long enough to travel from London to Windsor and back again. I can save you the addition of days of searching.”

I had not thought through that part of things. I could not simply go haring off on my own. I would have to invent some story Father and Mother Anne would believe. “Very well. As to the other, I could say that the Duchess of Richmond has invited me to stay with her at Norfolk House. Father will not question that. I’ve spent a night or two there in the past.”

“The duchess is at Kenninghall, as is the Earl of Surrey.” His frown deepened. “No. Your plan is unwise.”

“If Father finds me out, I will face the consequences, but I must talk to my mother.”

Jack hesitated. “It is not that. Or, rather, not only that. The truth is, just now is not a time when you want to have anything to do with the Howard faction.”

“But I will not. Not in truth. My stay at Norfolk House will be a lie.”

“A lie that could come back to haunt you.” He placed both hands on my shoulders, holding me so that I was obliged to meet his eyes. “I cannot explain, Audrey, but you must trust me on this. Find some other excuse that will allow you to go to Windsor when the time comes. Leave the duchess and her brother and their father out of it.”

What choice did I have but to agree? His refusal to explain why he was so insistent on this point troubled me, but I have never pretended to understand the power struggles that are so much a part of the life of the court. I recalled that the Seymour faction and the Howard faction had been at odds ever since Jane Seymour replaced Anne Boleyn as King Henry’s queen, but Jack had remained, or so I thought, on friendly terms with both Sir Thomas Seymour and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.