“There are some twelve thousands souls of various nationalities living in the Pale, about half of them English. All are protected by an English garrison a thousand men strong. In addition, there are twenty-four royal spears. They hold most of the administrative posts in the town.”

The royal spears were men of good family and the elite of the outpost. Like most of the gentlemen in Lord Lisle’s service, Ned aspired to be named to their ranks one day. A Calais spear was not a prestigious post when compared to maid of honor to a queen, but there were advantages to standing on the top rung of a small ladder.

“Up ahead,” he said, “is the residence of Lord and Lady Lisle, the finest building in the Pale.” Three stories high and built around a large courtyard, it stood just inside the south wall of the town. Ned led his charges through the massive north gateway and straight up to the Great Chamber where Lord and Lady Lisle awaited them.

Botolph studied his new employers with cynical eyes before they went in. “They look like a king and queen giving an audience,” he observed.

Ned suppressed a smile. The priest was right. Surrounded by members of the household, the couple sat in matching Glastonbury chairs on a dais. All they lacked was a royal canopy over their heads.

Honor Lisle was resplendent in a crimson velvet gown and wore such an abundance of jewelry that she glittered in the sunbeams that fell on her through the oriel window. She was a small, plump woman in her midforties, more than thirty years younger than her husband.

Arthur, Lord Lisle, was less pretentiously dressed. The deep lines inscribed in his face and the stoop of his shoulders betrayed the weight of his responsibilities at Calais.

Ned glanced at the two portraits hung against the tapestry that covered the wall behind the chairs. One showed King Henry VIII. The other was of Henry’s grandfather King Edward IV. Only a blind man could miss the resemblance between the painted likenesses and the lord deputy of Calais. Although Lord Lisle’s hair was now losing its color, it had clearly once been the same burnished golden red shown in King Henry’s portrait. The similarities between Lisle and his father, King Edward, were even more remarkable. The taint of bastardy had done nothing to dilute the most distinctive royal features.

Lisle stood, revealing himself to be a head taller than most men—another inheritance from the Plantagenet line. “Welcome to Calais, gentlemen. Sir Gregory, you will be joining these gentlemen as my domestic chaplains.” He indicated two somberly clad individuals hovering behind his chair. “Sir Oliver and Sir Richard.”

Ned noted with mild amusement how warily old Sir Oliver behaved toward Botolph. Fearful he might lose his post as senior chaplain, no doubt.

Lord Lisle addressed Clement Philpott next, informing him that he would meet Mistress Philippa Bassett at supper. Apparently the rumor that Philpott was being considered as a husband for the oldest of Lady Lisle’s daughters was true.

Ned took a closer look at Philpott. The fellow was unremarkable in appearance. Brown eyes matched the brown hair in a long, thin face that was vaguely horselike.

“Be in my lady’s dining chamber in good time,” Lisle instructed. “Corbett will show you the way.”

He was about to dismiss them when Lady Lisle spoke up. “Have you brought letters?” Her voice was pleasant, well modulated and low pitched, but it carried easily to every corner of the chamber.

“We have, my lady.” Botolph motioned for Philpott to produce them. That gentleman’s fingers trembled as he handed them over to one of Lady Lisle’s waiting women to give to her mistress, making Ned wonder just what was contained in the latest missives from England.

Dismissed by Lord Lisle with orders to show the newcomers to the chamber they would share, Ned took them first on a tour of the residence.

“All the chief rooms are hung with fine tapestries,” Botolph noted with pleasure. For a priest, he seemed to have a deep appreciation of creature comforts.

“There are little chambers opening off my lord’s room and my lady’s dining chamber,” Ned said. “Two gentlewomen’s chambers and a maidens’ chamber and a chamber reserved for noble guests. At any given time there are about seventy persons living here. Fifty menservants, not including the chaplains and members of Lord Lisle’s personal retinue.”

“And the women?” Botolph asked.

“Two of Lady Lisle’s daughters live with their mother and stepfather, the eldest and the youngest, and also Lord Lisle’s daughter, Frances, who was recently married to Lady Lisle’s oldest son. Young Bassett is in England, studying law at Lincoln’s Inn. Lady Lisle also has several waiting gentlewomen, and a number of chamberers and laundresses.”

As was usual in most noble households, male servants far outnumbered the females.

Ned showed them the chapel, with its fine altar cloth of gold paned with crimson velvet, and the armory, and pointed out the stables, the stilling-house, the bakehouse, and the laundry. After a quick tour of the kitchen and other domestic offices, including the countinghouse, he delivered his charges to a small chamber furnished with a field bed, a Flanders chair, a cupboard, and a closestool. The boxes and trunks Botolph and Philpott had brought with them from England were stacked in a corner.

“I vow, Corbett, I am parched,” Botolph said. “Where might a man find a drink in this place?”

“Parched,” Philpott echoed.

“I could do with a cup of beer myself,” Ned allowed.

The route to the grooms’ chamber, where Lord Lisle’s men took their ease when not on duty, led past Lady Lisle’s parlor. The soft murmur of feminine voices drifted out. Just as they were about to descend the stairs, a shriek of outrage suddenly rent the air.

“Ungrateful child!” Lady Lisle screeched. “How dare she belittle my gift?”

“It would be unwise to linger,” Ned warned, all too familiar with Honor Lisle’s temper. “Anyone in the wrong place at the wrong time is likely to find my lady’s venom aimed at him.”

Botolph did not argue, and Philpott followed his lead like an obedient puppy. A few minutes later they were safe in the grooms’ chamber. They had the room to themselves. Ned filled three cups with beer and they settled in on stools around a sturdy table.

“What do you think of Lady Lisle?” Ned asked.

“A virtuous woman,” Botolph said. “Sound in her beliefs.”

Meaning she clung to the old ways in religion. Ned himself was content to go along with whatever observances his betters required of him.

“I see now where her daughter got her temper,” Botolph remarked after a few swigs of beer.

Ned lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Which daughter?”

“The one who lives with the Countess of Sussex. Anne, is it?”

“Nan,” Ned murmured.

“A pretty girl, but of somewhat sour disposition.”

“I shall be much distressed if her sister has the same temperament,” Philpott said. “Philippa, that is.”

Poor Mistress Philippa, Ned thought. About to be courted by a man who did not look as if he’d ever had an original thought in his head. The fellow could not have met Sir Gregory Botolph more than a few days earlier and already he deferred to the priest in everything. “Philippa is the quiet one,” he said aloud.

“Cowed into silence by her mother, no doubt,” said Botolph.

“Quiet would suit me.” Philpott’s head bobbed up and down to emphasize the claim. “Biddable.”

Ned smiled to himself. Biddable was something Nan would never be, although seducing her had not been difficult. He was certain he could tempt her into his bed again if he tried. Mayhap get her with child and force the issue of marriage. But what if they did wed? She’d never forgive him for the loss of her dream. She wanted a husband with wealth and a title. He’d never be a nobleman, and to be rich he’d have to marry money. What Nan did not understand was that, to him, she was well to do.

Philpott was still rambling on about courting Philippa. Ned was content to let him have her. There were two more Bassett girls. He pictured Mary, beautiful but sickly. She had suffered several relapses since her return to Calais from France. Such a wife might soon make him a widower, free to marry again and obtain yet another dowry. But Lady Lisle guarded her youngest chick like a mother hen. He’d have better luck turning himself into a fox and raiding the coop. Amused by his own wit, Ned refilled his cup.

So, Cat Bassett it must be, and her courtship would have to wait until the next time Ned crossed the Narrow Seas.

It was a pity about Nan, though. He liked Nan. They had much in common, both being determined to better themselves. He supposed that was why they’d never make a match of it.

And yet he was unable to stop himself from asking about her. “What makes you say Mistress Nan Bassett has a sour disposition? Did something untoward occur in the Sussex household?”

Botolph obliged him with a tale Ned found hard to believe. “And so,” he concluded, “Husee retreated in haste while Mistress Nan railed at him like the proverbial fishwife.”

“All that fuss over pearls?”

“Indeed.” Philpott’s head bobbed up and down to confirm it. “It was just as Sir Gregory says. She is a termagant, that one. A virago.”

“There will be more trouble here over the matter, too, for I’ve no doubt that was the cause of Lady Lisle’s distress.” Botolph’s mouth quirked. “Husee wrote to her ladyship of the incident, couching the story in careful words so as not to offend. But Master Warley also sent an account, and he is a fellow who does not know how to be subtle. His letter quoted the exact words Mistress Nan used to disparage the pearls her mother sent.”

Ned set his cup on the table with exaggerated care. “You read the letters?”

Botolph’s expression blossomed into a conspiratorial grin. “How else are humble servants such as ourselves to make our way in the world? Never tell me you do not do the same yourself.”

Ned did not deny it, but neither did he admit to the practice. “You are right about one thing,” he conceded. “The furor over those pearls is not likely to die down for weeks.” Ned had never met a woman more concerned with her own reputation than Honor Lisle. She would not tolerate criticism, especially from members of her own family.

Nan was just as stubborn.

In the course of the next hour, Ned consumed a considerable amount of beer and learned a great deal about the secret lives of priests. Sir Gregory Botolph liked to listen at keyholes and had no qualms about repeating scandal. He’d regaled his companions with a half dozen bawdy tales before Ned realized that all the priests he ridiculed were staunch supporters of religious reform.

A NEW MOTHER’S churching was the celebration of the end of the month of rest she was entitled to after giving birth. It was also a signal that she could once more participate in the sacraments and could resume her conjugal duties.

Nan’s cousin Mary wore a white veil and carried a lighted candle. She approached the church door accompanied by two other married women. There she knelt, waiting for the priest to sprinkle her with holy water. Thus purified, she was permitted to enter the church for the service in her honor.

Throughout the psalms and the sermon of thanksgiving for the Countess of Sussex’s safe delivery, Nan watched Mother Gristwood, the midwife who had delivered young Henry. Both she and the month-old baby were honored guests. The Earl of Sussex was also present, but on this occasion he effaced himself. His countess was the center of attention.

After the service, everyone returned to Sussex House for a feast. The company, Mary’s friends and relations, consisted almost entirely of women. There was eating and drinking and entertainment by minstrels and jugglers. Several hours passed before anyone thought of leaving.

Mother Gristwood was a strapping woman in the prime of life who enjoyed the celebrations as much as anyone else. At last, however, she departed. Accompanied by Cousin Kate, Nan hurried out by way of the lych-gate. They caught the midwife before she’d gone more than a few yards beyond the gatehouse.

Nan, walking a little behind Kate, was careful to keep her cloak wrapped around her to hide her fine clothing. She let her cousin do the talking. They had worked everything out in advance. Nan was certain she could carry off the deception, but she was so nervous she was shaking. Everything depended upon how convincing Kate could be.

Kate had promised to help, so long as she continued to share in the gifts Lady Lisle sent from Calais. Nan did not fully trust her cousin, but Kate was all she had.