Ned flew the merlin and let her go on talking. She seemed grateful that he did not react like a typical Englishman, with prejudice against anything French.

She was a foolish young woman to speak so freely to him when she did not know him well enough to be certain he would not betray her secret to her mother and stepfather. She’d taken him at his word. Something about Mary Bassett’s naive faith in him touched Ned’s heart. He wanted her to stay as sweet and innocent as she was now. He even hoped that, someday, she would find the happiness she dreamed of with her Frenchman.

NAN SHIFTED RESTLESSLY on the bed, unable to find a comfortable position. The heat and humidity of an afternoon in late August invaded the chamber, increasing her misery. Her hair hung in limp, damp snarls and she did not have the energy to shove it away from her sweat-streaked face.

Her time was near. Soon this torment would be over. She knew she should not complain. Through the misfortune of others, she had been granted her dearest wish. No one but Kate and Constance were aware that Anne Bassett, once and future maid of honor to the queen of England, was about to give birth to a bastard child.

They had the house to themselves, save for the servants and the midwife. Cousin Mary had gone up the Thames by barge to the earl’s house at Mortlake, eight miles distant from London. Mary had been too distraught, and too anxious to see her son, who had been sent to Mortlake soon after his birth, to argue when Nan insisted she must remain behind in order to meet Lord and Lady Lisle when they landed at Dover.

Mary had conceived a second time within weeks of her churching, then lost the child to a miscarriage. She had very nearly died herself. Nan wished no harm to anyone, but Mary’s second pregnancy and its tragic outcome had been fortuitous. In their concern over the countess’s health, no one had paid the least attention to Nan’s burgeoning belly.

Nan had not put on a great deal of weight, the way some women did. She had been able to hide most of the bulk by letting out her kirtles and wearing loose-bodied gowns. She’d claimed to have a stomach complaint, along with her megrims, and therefore could not abide tight lacing. No one had questioned the lie, no more than they did her claim that the summer heat was the cause of her frequent headaches. Nan had kept to her chamber, out of sight, for a considerable portion of the last five months.

She only wished she had also been lying when she’d said her mother and stepfather were coming to England. They were due to arrive any day and Lady Lisle had ordered Nan to Dover to meet them. Cat had also been summoned and would travel there in the company of the Earl and Countess of Rutland.

“There must be some way to hurry this child along,” she gasped as Constance wiped beads of perspiration from her brow with a damp cloth.

“I have told you before,” Mother Gristwood said, “that I do not use potions to bring on labor.”

Nan subsided. The midwife might be the best in London—that was why Cousin Mary had selected her and why Mother Gristwood had moved into Sussex House a full month before little Henry’s birth—but Nan was not certain she trusted the woman. They had long since abandoned the fiction that she was “Constance Ware” and a servant. Mother Gristwood knew everything except the identity of the baby’s father.

In spite of the heat, Nan shivered. Her position was perilous and would continue to be until her baby was safely delivered to one Barnabas Carver and his wife. Mother Gristwood had found this childless couple and maintained that they would make excellent parents for Nan’s child, but she would not permit Nan to meet them.

Master Carver was a London silversmith, well respected and well to do. The arrangements were all in place. Mistress Carver would answer a knock and discover a foundling on her doorstep. After a brief and fruitless search for the person who had abandoned the child, the Carvers would adopt the baby. He would be christened James. Or Jane, if she was a girl.

My son, Nan thought. My daughter.

She struggled to sit up, her thoughts in turmoil. She did not want to give the child away. Her baby had been a part of her for many long months. She had felt it kick, sensed its life force.

“There has to be a way,” she muttered as pain lanced through her body. Another sort of agony tore at her heart when she thought of never seeing her baby grow up, never knowing what kind of person he or she became.

After the contraction passed, Nan turned her head to stare at the midwife. Her vision blurred with tears. “There has to be a way to remain part of my child’s life. There has to be. A godmother—”

“Nan! Such foolishness!” Kate Stradling’s voice came from the other side of the bed. Nan had all but forgotten she was there. As usual, her cousin was hard at work on a piece of embroidery. She had not spoken for hours. “You cannot be associated with the Carvers in any way lest there be suspicion that you have some connection to their foundling.”

“I could pretend to be Constance.” Nan kept her eyes on the midwife, hoping for some encouragement.

Mother Gristwood shook her head. “I have told you before, Mistress Nan. We must take great care with your secret. Women who give birth out of wedlock face public humiliation. They are whipped, and worse. And the punishment is even more severe if they will not name the child’s father.”

“But that is only if a bastard is likely to become a burden on the community,” Nan objected. “That is not the case here.”

“The law does not differentiate. That is why midwives are charged with the task of learning the paternity of every illegitimate child they deliver.”

Nan scowled at her. “Since you have promised not to betray me, you have no need to know.”

Mother Gristwood permitted herself a small smile. “Consider it part of the payment for my silence.”

“So that you may then extort money and favors from me for the rest of my life? I do not think so!”

Another contraction prevented further speech. By the time it passed, Nan had reluctantly accepted that she could not serve as her child’s godmother, a role that would require her appearance at the christening to vow that the child would receive a Christian upbringing.

A stool scraped the floor as it was dragged close to the bed. Kate rearranged her skirts and squinted at her embroidery. Since no one was supposed to know that Nan was with child, her bedchamber had not been turned into a dark cave. Sunlight poured in through the open window, but so did hot, moist air.

“Master Husee was here this morning,” Kate said. “He is not best pleased with you. He arrived expecting to escort you to Dover to meet your mother.”

“You told him I was confined to bed with a megrim?”

“I did. And he told me the latest news from court. Negotiations for King Henry to wed Christina of Milan are still limping along, but no one now believes that marriage will come about. A French match does not seem any more likely. Christina’s uncle, Emperor Charles the Fifth, and the king of France have formed an alliance. As a result of their treaty, neither one will give the king of England what he wants in a marriage settlement.” Kate gave Nan’s belly a speaking glance. “Just as well.”

Oh, yes, Nan thought glumly. She was fortunate. As much as she wanted to return to court, she could not risk being seen in her present condition. She’d been relieved when King Henry had gone on progress in mid-July. The entire court would be on the move, visiting southern ports, until sometime in September. Unfortunately, His Grace had arranged to meet this week with her stepfather in Dover. Her mother had seen this as an excellent opportunity to bring two of her daughters to the king’s attention. Curse Ned Corbett! But for him, she’d be in Dover now, flirting with the king of England, perhaps even winning him away from his current mistress.

The next pain hit with agonizing force, leaving no room for any thought beyond the torment of giving birth. Punishment for Eve’s sin, the preachers said. She was supposed to suffer. Whether from compassion or from the desire to keep the few Sussex servants who remained in London from hearing Nan’s screams, Mother Gristwood dosed her with poppy syrup before she moved her to the birthing chair.

Hours later, dazed and dizzy, Nan lay in bed and watched the midwife bathe her newborn son in a lukewarm mixture of ten parts water, one part milk, mallow, and sweet butter. The solution was supposed to defend the baby’s body from all noisome things.

“Is he healthy?” Nan’s throat felt raw and the words came out as a croak.

“He is perfect.” Mother Gristwood removed him from the bath, dried him, and swaddled him tightly in the linen bands she had ready for that purpose. When she had made the sign of the cross over him, she brought him to the bed and placed him next to Nan.

He was perfect. Now that he was swaddled, Nan could not count fingers or toes, but his tiny face was round and pink and he had a tuft of pale hair.

“It is likely superstition,” Mother Gristwood said, “but some believe that if a child lies at his mother’s left side near her heart before she gives suck, she draws into herself all the diseases present in his body.”

Nan looked up in alarm.

Mother Gristwood chuckled. “Have no fear. You will expel whatever evil you attract by the flux and issue of your womb, without any hurt to yourself.”

For a few golden moments, Nan held her infant son and imagined what it would be like to keep him, to build a life with him and his father. Tears welled in her eyes. Such a future was impossible. She had refused Ned’s offer. There was no going back. And in her heart, she knew she did not want to. Her course had been mapped out years before. She was not destined to marry a poor man.

“Time to take him to his parents,” Mother Gristwood said.

“In a moment.” Nan hugged the small, squirming body, fighting for self-control.

He was hungry. Mistress Carver had been given the name of a wet nurse, but she would not be able to send for the woman until after she discovered the foundling on her doorstep. Nan’s breasts ached with the need to feed her son, but when Mother Gristwood reached for the child, Nan let him go.

“I have left strengthening broths and caudles for you,” the midwife said, “as well as plasters and ointments to reduce inflammation and quell the bleeding. Expect afterpains and a bloody flux, both of which may continue for more than a month. A woman who has just had a child has no business traveling for at least a week.”

“But I must leave by tomorrow at the latest. My mother expects me to meet her.”

Mother Gristwood fixed her with a cold, implacable stare. “Would you risk your life? That is what it amounts to if you make a journey of any length before your body has time to heal.” With that last admonishment, she swept out of the room.

Kate appeared at Nan’s side with a restorative drink in a pewter goblet. “You were foolish to suggest traveling so soon and mad to think you could serve as the boy’s godmother. You must have nothing to do with him, nothing to do with his new family.”

Nan swallowed the medicine, but in spite of Kate’s advice she knew she could not simply hand her baby over to strangers and forget she’d ever given birth. Somehow, she must find a way to see her son again.

“A SLIGHT INDISPOSITION?” Honor Lisle repeated John Husee’s words in a tone that dripped disdain.

“A megrim, or so her cousin told me.”

“Ungrateful chit. She has no proper respect for me.” Honor had neither forgotten nor forgiven Nan’s reaction to the pearls she’d sent. Even after several months, the insult still rankled. “And she need not think I will travel to London to see her.”

“I am sure I do not know what Mistress Anne is thinking, my lady,” John Husee temporized.

Honor sat at one end of the parlor of the Angel, the inn where the Lisles were lodged in Dover. She occupied the room’s only chair. Her man of business hovered nearby, nervously wringing his hands, while her husband and her other daughter, slim and elegant in clothing the Countess of Rutland had given her, stood talking at the opposite side of the room.

“I will not coddle the girl,” Honor muttered. “I have weightier matters on my mind.”

“As to that,” Husee said, “there is something you should know before you meet with the king.” Honor made an impatient gesture with one heavily beringed hand to indicate that he should continue. “Your husband’s cousin, Sir Geoffrey Pole, was arrested yesterday and taken to the Tower of London. He is charged with corresponding with his brother without making the king privy to his letters.” Husee leaned closer. “Madam, if you have, by any small chance, even for the most innocent of reasons, written to that same gentleman, I would advise you to inform the king of it of your own volition and to cease all future contact.”