“Go on.”

“The king … the king has singled me out. Even if I wished to … be with you again, I would not dare show you any special favor. For your own safety. The king does not like to share.”

“The king? King Henry?” He had not expected this.

Her lips twitched. “Have we some other king I do not know about? Yes, King Henry. He has had his eye on me since I first came to court.” Defiant now, she tossed her head and stood with her arms folded across her chest, daring him to criticize.

“So, you are his mistress.”

“Strangely, I am not. Not yet.” She dropped her arms and her gaze, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“But you’re willing.” It was not a question. One did not refuse the king.

Nan drew in a deep breath. “There is much to be gained from being in the king’s favor. He gave me this.” She showed him the ruby and enamel ring she wore. “And this.” From a velvet purse suspended from her belt, she withdrew a miniature portrait of the king. “And he presented me with a palfrey and a saddle because I had no horse of my own to ride with him to hunt.”

“And where is the king now?” Ned demanded. “Why are you not at his side?” He knew part of the answer already. King Henry was off on his annual summer progress.

“I have encouraged His Grace to court me,” Nan said, “but not to claim me.” Again, she sighed.

“It is not like you to be indecisive.” Ned was beginning to lose patience with her. Did she want to bed the king or not? And if she was not as ambitious as he’d supposed, then what did she want?

“You want me to become his mistress?” She sounded incredulous.

Ned forced himself to think logically. He had always been good at separating self-interest from sentiment. Ordinarily, Nan was, too. And although he had not realized it at the time, when they’d been together he’d treated her as a friend as well as a lover. It was the friend she needed now. It could not be easy waiting upon the whim of the most powerful—and most dangerous—man in England.

“I am willing to let His Grace have you for a little while.” He grinned at her. “When he tires of you, I’ll still be here.”

He could tell she thought he was jesting. His declaration coaxed a smile from her. Let her believe what she would, Ned decided.

“Know I wish you well,” he said, “whatever you do. And now, if you wish to dictate a letter to Calais, my pen is yours to command.”

NAN DID NOT pretend to understand why Ned Corbett suddenly wanted to be her friend, but she was happy to make a place for him in her life. Although she doubted that she would ever trust him enough to tell him about his son, she could talk to him about everything else, from the foibles of her family in Calais to her desperate need to regain her place at the royal court.

He stopped in again the next time he was in London, the only bright spot in the long weeks while the king was on progress. He made no more attempts to kiss her. They simply talked. He told her of the rivalries and feuds that were a daily part of life in the lord deputy’s household—particularly the animosity between Sir Gregory Botolph and the other chaplains—and somehow made it all seem lighthearted and amusing.

At last, in early August, Nan, together with Jane Mewtas and a great number of other ladies and gentlewomen, was invited to travel to Portsmouth to view the royal fleet. The expedition required four days of travel—London to Guildford, Guildford to Alton, Alton to Winchester, Winchester to Portsmouth. Nan spent the entire time in a state of nervous anticipation. She was sure of her goal now. She could not tolerate being away from court, ignored and forgotten. Just as soon as she could manage it, she meant to become King Henry’s mistress.

But the king did not join his guests on their tour of several great warships. He was not even in Portsmouth. He had arranged the expedition as a “treat” for them.

“I do not understand why men are so fascinated by ships,” Nan grumbled. “There are many things I would find far more interesting than boarding one great, lumbering vessel after another.”

They stood at the rail of the Harry Grace à Dieu, the largest of the king’s warships. At least the view was impressive. Across the Solent, the Isle of Wight rose up out of the water. Nan could make out fortifications, but most of the place appeared to be forested. She wondered what it would be like to live on an island that small.

A stiff breeze carried the scent of lavender along with the smells of the sea and ships, warning Nan of the approach of King Henry’s former mistress. Margaret Skipwith, Lady Talboys, was wont to drench herself in that perfume, one Nan had once been fond of herself. Jane glanced over her shoulder, saw Margaret, and quickly ceded her place at the rail.

“I suppose you think it a great honor,” Margaret said in a low voice that reached no farther than Nan’s ear.

Nan kept her gaze on the distant shoreline. “It was kind of His Grace to arrange this outing for us.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw fury race across Margaret’s face as Nan deliberately misinterpreted her comment. Just in case the other woman contemplated pushing her overboard, Nan tightened her grip on the rail.

“You will not suit him at all. He does not like women who are too tall.” Margaret was several inches shorter than Nan.

“From what I have observed, he likes women of all sizes and shapes.”

“He prefers golden hair.” What showed of Margaret’s hair at the front of her French hood was fair, but more like ripened wheat than gold. Her eyes were narrow slits, green in color and green with envy, too.

Nan smiled serenely. “I can always achieve that color with the help of yellow powder, but I believe he likes me just the way I am.”

Margaret’s fingers dug into Nan’s forearm with painful force. Nan tried to shake her off, but her grip was too strong. “You were well compensated, Lady Talboys,” Nan said through gritted teeth. “It is my turn now.”

“Compensated? I was married off to a boy of sixteen.” Margaret’s disgust was plain in her voice and in her face, only inches from Nan’s.

A boy who then took immediate control of his inheritance, Nan thought, five years earlier than he would otherwise have been able to. She had heard all the details from Anne Herbert and had no sympathy for Margaret. She’d gotten a wealthy, titled husband and the age difference was trifling. Margaret was only a few years older than her spouse. “Most women would be well pleased with such an arrangement,” she said. “I would be myself.”

“Then you are a fool!” Margaret released her and was about to stalk off in high dudgeon when Nan turned the tables and caught her arm. “Is the king such a wonderful lover that you cannot bear to lose him?”

Margaret’s eyes widened at the blunt question. A series of emotions played across her face—anger, disdain, and, finally, what looked like fear. Belatedly, she seemed to realize that confronting Nan in a public place had been unwise. They were standing apart from the others, but a stray breeze could easily carry their words, and no one watching was in any doubt as to the subject of their quarrel.

“He does not need you,” Margaret said in a harsh whisper. “He has me.” And with that, she walked rapidly away.

Nan stared after her, absently rubbing her arm. Was Henry Tudor that good in bed? Or was it only her influence with him that Margaret sought to keep? Nan’s hands clenched into fists as another possibility struck her. She stared, unseeing, at the colorful bevy of gentlewomen on the deck of the ship. Could it be that Margaret Talboys had fallen in love with the king? Poor creature. If that were so, now that His Grace had found her a husband, she had no chance at all of keeping him to herself.

“Nan Bassett!” Joan Denny, wife of the chief gentleman of the king’s privy chamber, trotted toward her. “There you are, Nan. Come along. We are to be taken ashore now.”

Nan complied, dismissing Margaret Skipwith from her thoughts. Joan’s conversation ran in domestic channels. She chattered for the most part about her newly acquired house in Westminster. “It is almost like living in the country,” she boasted. “The air is fresh and there is room to take long walks. And yet we are hard by Whitehall, convenient to wait upon the king.”

Nan had no desire to rusticate and little interest in gardens, but she nodded politely at all the right moments. Joan’s husband, Anthony Denny, owned a goodly number of properties now, a direct result of the dissolution of the monasteries.

“Still, I am fond of our London house,” Joan said. “Aldgate is a prosperous part of the city and we have interesting neighbors. One of them is Hans Holbein, the portrait painter. Did you know he has been sent to Cleves? The king will not make the final decision to marry the Lady Anna until he has seen for himself what she looks like. Master Holbein is expected back at the end of the month with her likeness.”

It had been Master Holbein’s portrait of Christina of Milan that had so delighted the king after an earlier mission to paint prospective brides, and Nan had a sample of his work herself, the miniature the king had given her.

“Have you ever had your portrait painted?” Joan asked.

Nan shook her head.

“You should consider it. A likeness in small makes an excellent gift. It keeps the giver always in the recipient’s thoughts.”

EARLY THE NEXT morning, in company with Jane Mewtas, Nan set off on the return journey to London. At Guildford, a letter from Lady Lisle caught up with them.

“She thinks I am at court,” Nan said when she had read the missive. “She wants me to ask the king to pardon some man from the West Country, although she does not say what crime he committed or why he has prevailed upon her to intervene.” She barely managed to keep the irritation out of her voice. She’d never heard of the fellow and had no idea whether or not he deserved a pardon.

“Well, you are not at court, and there’s the end of it,” Jane said. “Write to your mother and tell her that you cannot help.”

“She will be furious with me.”

“She is in Calais and you are here. You will not be able to hear her curses.”

“True enough, but I cannot simply refuse. I must give her some reason or she will hound me about it for weeks.” Lady Lisle was an indefatigable letter writer.

“Tell her you do not expect to see the king again until His Grace comes to Grafton or to Ampthill and that you are in doubt whether you will see him then.”

Nan cocked a brow at the other woman. “Am I in doubt? I thought we were going to Grafton.” The king’s summer progress would stop there and, although that meant accommodations in the neighborhood would be hard to come by, Peter Mewtas had friends who lived nearby.

“I may decide not to make the journey, and you cannot go without me. I am tired of all this rushing about. And I think I may be breeding.”

“But—”

“If you are looking for excuses to give to your mother, Nan, then that one will do nicely.”

“You truly mean to stay in London?” Nan was taken aback by the idea. Even when the king was at Whitehall, visiting the court would be difficult without a respectable gentlewoman for company. Nan would be obliged to wait for the king to come to her. In the meantime, as a married noblewoman, Lady Talboys could visit the court and keep her own rooms there, too.

The prospect was intolerable. She had come so far. She would not abandon hope now. Nan set her mind to finding a way around this newest obstacle to her ambition.


Mistress Mewtas and I are now at Guildford, going to London; and I think we shall not see the King again till his Grace come to Grafton and to Ampthill; and that I am in doubt whether I shall see his Grace then or not, for Mistress Mewtas is in a doubt whether she go or not. Your ladyship knows well, being with her, except she go I cannot go; for I have nor horse nor man except the nag that the King’s Grace gave me for myself and a saddle withal.

—Anne Bassett to her mother, 8 August 1539

I am now with my Cousin Denny, at the King’s Grace’s commandment: for whereas Mistress Mewtas doth lie in London there are no walks, but a little garden, wherefore it was the King’s Grace’s pleasure that I should be with my Cousin Denny; for where as she lieth there are fair walks and good open air.

—Anne Bassett to her mother, 5 October 1539

9

It was the first of October before Nan was summoned back to court, and the invitation did not come from the king. Her stepfather, Lord Lisle, was at Whitehall.

Lisle greeted Nan warmly when she and Constance arrived at the lodgings assigned to him. He had arranged for her to have her own small chamber in the suite of rooms.