Honor frowned. Sir Geoffrey Pole had more than one brother, but the only one of interest to the king was Reginald, Cardinal Pole. His position in the Roman Catholic church had forced him into exile on the Continent. The cardinal’s place in the succession increased the threat he posed to King Henry. He and his brothers were descended from King Edward IV’s younger brother.

“I do not see why Pole’s arrest should affect me or my husband,” Honor Lisle told Husee. “Arthur has no claim on the throne.”

She had more pressing matters to concern her. There were problems with money—never enough. Arthur was in dire need of an annuity. Honor’s youngest son, James Bassett, also required an income. And how was John Bassett, the oldest of her boys, to support his new wife and the child they were expecting in the manner Frances Plantagenet deserved?

There was the dispute over Painswick Manor, too. That matter would have been settled long ago if not for the interference of that upstart Thomas Cromwell.

Honor was an old hand at courtiership. Social gatherings, private meetings over business, the exchange of tidbits of news—all those were familiar ground. Familiar, too, was the snail’s pace at which things proceeded. Nothing could be accomplished quickly and, in a court without a queen, there were far fewer opportunities for a woman to influence the king’s decisions. All the same, Honor had high hopes for this visit to Dover. King Henry himself had sent for them and today they had been summoned to the castle east of the town to meet with His Grace.

When she’d dealt with the remaining business Husee had brought to her, Honor ordered their horses brought around. With the king in residence, all of Dover’s inns were filled to capacity. The Angel was an excellent hostelry, but it had no stabling of its own. They had a long, frustrating wait before they could set out.

The last time Honor had visited the royal apartments in Dover Castle, she had been in attendance upon Anne Boleyn. Not yet queen, the king’s notorious concubine had been about to accompany His Grace to France. Honor had embarked on the voyage with mixed feelings. Her religious upbringing required that she side with Queen Catherine of Aragon and deny the possibility of divorce. But the ambitions she harbored for herself and her family were powerful. To win and keep royal favor, she’d been prepared to be flexible. She still was.

Together with her husband and daughter, Honor entered the king’s apartment by way of a spiral staircase in the southwest corner. The chamber was well lit and boasted an enormous fireplace decorated with old King Edward IV’s badge of the rose en soleil. Honor’s spirits soared. It seemed to her that they were being shown special favor … until she recognized one of the other people in the room. Thomas Cromwell emerged from a dark corner to stand at King Henry’s elbow. Several persons in Cromwell’s livery accompanied him.

Honor had not expected to be alone with the king. There were always attendants about. But she had planned to complain to His Grace about Cromwell’s meddling. That was impossible now, and Honor suspected their long-anticipated “private” meeting with the king would be both public and disappointingly brief.

“But where is Mistress Nan?” the king asked when he had welcomed Honor and Cat with light kisses. “We looked forward to seeing both of your daughters again, Lady Lisle.”

“A trifling indisposition, Your Grace, but sufficient to prevent her from traveling.”

“What a pity,” said the king.

At a nudge from his wife, Arthur attempted to raise the issue of Painswick. And he hinted delicately at the matter of an annuity. His Grace ignored both overtures. When he dismissed them a few minutes later, nothing whatsoever had been settled.

Dissatisfaction made Honor’s manner curt when a lad in Cromwell’s livery followed them out into the passageway and tried to speak to her. She continued on without acknowledging his presence. Cat, however, out of courtesy, stopped to listen to what he had to say.

“That did not go so badly,” Arthur said as Cat caught up with her mother and stepfather.

Honor opened her mouth to contradict him, then closed it again. Let him retain his foolish optimism. She knew better. She did not object, either, when he suggested climbing up to the roof of the keep before they left the castle. He wanted to show Cat the view.

From that height, they could see the town and port, the shallows known as the Downs, and miles of undulating countryside. “That is St. Margaret’s Bay below,” Arthur said. “At low tide you can walk under the base of the cliffs, but there is always the risk of being cut off.”

“Is that Calais?” Cat asked, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. At the far side of waters that leapt and sparkled, the distant coastline shimmered, more illusion than reality. Only about twenty-five miles separated England from the Continent.

“It is,” Arthur said. “On rare occasions, one can see these very chalk cliffs from the walls of Calais, and sometimes even make out the shapes of men walking on the battlements.” He peered intently toward the far shore. For a few minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the cries of gulls and guillemots.

Losing interest, Cat drifted over to the spot where her mother stood. “Our Nan has made another conquest,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“That boy. The one who followed us when we left the king’s presence. He was most anxious about my sister’s health. He heard you tell His Grace she was ill and wished reassurance that it was nothing serious and that she would recover.”

“He looked to be thirteen or fourteen at the most. Somewhat young to have formed a romantic attachment.”

“Still growing,” Cat agreed, “and awkward with it. Color flamed in his face when he said Nan’s name. He’s encountered her somewhere and been taken with her beauty. We should not be surprised. Half the retinue at Calais fell under Nan’s spell during the short time she lived there before leaving for England.”

Belatedly, Honor thought to ask who the lad was.

“He’s Lord Hungerford’s son and heir,” Cat said.

“That does nothing to recommend him. I have no high opinion of his father. He was elevated to the peerage through Cromwell’s influence.” Honor frowned. What was it she’d heard? Some rumor about Hungerford’s mistreatment of his wife? She could not quite call the details to mind.

When a salty breeze came up, lifting the lappets on her headdress and making her skirts billow around her ankles, Honor dismissed both Hungerfords from her thoughts. It was past time to return to the inn.

There were letters waiting for her at the Angel. One came from Arthur’s daughter, Frances, in Calais. Honor’s entire body went tight with dread as she read what the girl who was both her stepdaughter and her daughter-in-law had written.

“Mary is gravely ill.” For Cat’s benefit, she added, “Your sister has been plagued by an intermittent fever ever since she returned to Calais in March. It is some sort of ague. I hoped it would pass, but Mary was in her fourth week of daily fevers when we left and Frances reports that she has taken a sudden turn for the worse.” Honor had only been gone a few days. She’d never have left if she’d thought Mary’s fever would rise. In most cases, agues became less severe over time.

“You should be with her,” Cat said. “Everyone in the household at Calais looks to you for treatment of their ailments. Even some of your friends in England write to you for advice when they are ill.”

“But I have obligations here,” Honor objected. “And I am not sure how much more I can do for our Mary. I have tried every cure I know for agues and fevers and none has worked for more than a short time.”

Cat looked thoughtful. “I have heard of something they use in the Fenland called ‘the stuff.’ It is opium poppy juice coagulated into pellets. Perhaps you can locate a supply here in Calais. It is said to be a sovereign remedy for all sorts of agues.”

Arthur, who had been listening to the exchange without comment, at last spoke up: “If you can obtain some of these pellets, you had best deliver them to Calais yourself.”

“But, my dear—”

“No, sweetheart. I can manage well enough here on my own, and Mary needs you.” He frowned. “Unless you think Nan has more need for your skills?”

Honor snorted. “Nan has no need of anyone or anything. That wretched girl is the most independent creature I have ever met.”

AS SOON AS Nan was able to travel, she, Kate, and Constance joined her cousin Mary and the rest of the household at the Earl of Sussex’s house at Mortlake. News from court reached them there only belatedly, but provided many happy hours of speculation. When it came time to return to London, Nan and the others were still marveling over King Henry’s demand to personally inspect seven or eight potential French brides. He’d suggested bringing them together under a marquee to be pitched on the border between France and the English Pale of Calais. The king and queen of France had been invited to chaperone. King Francis had angrily rejected the suggestion, ordering his ambassador to inform the king of England that it was not the custom in France to send damsels of noble and princely families to be passed in review as if they were horses for sale.

In the nearly two months she’d spent at Mortlake, Nan had devised a plan that would allow her access to her son. At her first opportunity, she slipped away from her cousin’s house and made her way to Cheapside, the widest thoroughfare in London. All along the way the houses and shops were the most fashionable … and the tallest … in the city. Some rose as many as five stories.

Nan hurried past the elaborate buildings, barely aware of them. She could see her destination ahead, near where the west end of Cheapside led into Newgate Street—the shop of Barnabas Carver, silversmith.

“There is no need for this,” Constance muttered as she trotted along behind her mistress. “He’s well cared for. Well loved. The midwife said so.”

Nan turned aside, entering the Liberty of St. Martins le Grand. She had not changed her mind. She had one stop to make before she entered the silversmith’s shop.

The area was one in which many foreign craftsmen had settled. Nan could hear snippets of conversation in Flemish and Italian and French. She was fluent in the latter and a few judicious questions led her to a tiny shop that sold jewelry.

The Liberty of St. Martins le Grand was exempt from the jurisdiction of the lord mayor of London. The ancient rights of sanctuary applied there, although Nan was not sure why. That scarcely mattered. What was important was that these craftsmen were not bound by the regulations of the Goldsmith’s Company. As she’d hoped, the merchant she found sold counterfeit jewelry, both silver and the long strands of fake gold links popularly known as St. Martin’s chains.

“This is not pure silver,” she said, selecting a pretty bracelet from an array of such trinkets. Lying next to it was a carcanet, a jeweled collar studded with fake jewels. Colored foil had been set behind glass to make it resemble precious stones.

The shopkeeper assured Nan that she was mistaken.

“I do hope not, since it is silver-gilt jewelry I seek.”

The Frenchman shrugged. Speaking in his native language, as she had, he sang the praises of imitations that looked like the real thing. When he quoted a reasonable price for the bracelet, Nan paid it. Then she asked for the loan of a knife with which to scrape off enough of the thin silver coating to reveal the dull metal beneath.

A few minutes later, Nan was back in Cheapside and entering Master Carver’s shop. Her heart raced in anticipation. She warned herself that she had to be careful. She must not appear too eager, or even mention the child the Carvers had adopted. To display overt interest would arouse suspicion.

“May I help you, mistress?” asked the man Nan assumed was Barnabas Carver. He had a slight build and wore little silver spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. His hands were small, too, but he had long, graceful fingers. Nan supposed he needed a delicate touch to create the jewelry and other beautiful silver objects he had on display. There were cups and spoons, ewers and saltcellars, candlesticks and elaborate standing cups. From the back of the premises, she could hear the steady sound of hammering as apprentices shaped new pieces for sale.

Nan produced the bracelet she had just purchased. “A gentleman who seeks to marry me gave me this.” The fabrication came easily to her lips. “He claimed it was pure silver but, as you can see, I have reason to suspect he lied.”