“You see how well I am regarded.” With a sweep of his hand, Lisle indicated the luxurious surroundings. A series of tapestries graced the walls, depicting scenes of sylvan glades and dancing nymphs. Both the ceiling and the floor had been plastered, the former shaped into geometric patterns and flowers and the latter painted to resemble marble. The furniture was heavy and elaborately carved. The hangings around the bed and at the windows were of expensive fabrics, embroidered with vines and fruits.

“Very grand,” Nan agreed, crossing a section of rush matting put down to protect the plaster. She gave him a peck on one leathery cheek. “You look well, sir.”

He preened a bit. “Not too bad for an old man, eh?” Although he was just entering his seventy-eighth year, Lisle had kept himself in excellent physical shape. If not for the deep lines around his mouth and eyes, he could have passed for sixty. “I owe it all to your mother,” he said. “Honor keeps me young.”

Honor kept him hopping, Nan thought, although the welcoming smile on her face never wavered. She wondered what had brought her stepfather to England.

“I have had no news from Calais in over a week,” Lisle lamented. “The weather has been so bad that no one has been able to cross the Narrow Seas.”

“Then you will receive all her letters at once.” Nan took a sip of the French wine with which her stepfather was always well supplied and waited for his next conversational gambit. She doubted he’d invited her to stay with him solely for the pleasure of her company.

“The king entertained me most lovingly at Windsor and Hampton Court and now here,” Lisle said. “And he has granted me the commission to suppress the White Friars of Calais.”

Nan was not sure what to say to that. There was considerable profit to be made from such an undertaking, but it must go against the grain for Lord Lisle to shut down a religious house. Nan’s mother would have even more qualms, being the most devout member of the family and the most reluctant to abandon the old ways.

“I was less successful in another endeavor.” Lisle sent her a slightly embarrassed look.

“Indeed?” Had he tried to make a match for her with some elderly knight? Or negotiate her return to the Earl of Sussex’s household? Or find a place for her in that of some other nobleman? She imagined the king would have put a stop to any of those plans. If His Grace had not forgotten her entirely.

“I wished to become governor of the Lady Elizabeth’s household.”

Caught off guard, Nan had difficulty hiding her astonishment. “Do you mean to say that you would leave your post in Calais to take charge of the king’s bastard daughter?”

He winced at her sharp tone. “She was not always a bastard and I suspect she will not remain one forever. You may not know this, but we tried last year to place your sister Mary in her service. In any case, I would welcome the chance to leave Calais.” He lowered himself into a chair near the bench where Nan sat and reached over to pat her knee. “You have not been back for more than two years. You do not know what it is like there now.”

Nan stared at his hand. There were liver spots on the wrinkled skin and his bones had a brittle look, reminding her again of just how old he was.

“I have been most concerned, since Easter and before,” Lisle continued, “about the growing number of soldiers and townsmen in Calais who maintain erroneous opinions in matters of religion.”

“It is scarcely your fault if there are heretics about.”

“Ever since King Henry broke with Rome, there has been considerable confusion among people in all walks of life about how to celebrate Mass, and whether or not one should pray to Our Lady, and dozens of other matters to do with religion. I have no authority to enforce obedience to the tenets of the Church of England, nor even proper guidelines as to what is and is not acceptable. I fear that if I cannot stamp out heresy, I will be accused of abetting it.”

Nan put her hand over his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “No one would ever think such a thing of you, sir. You are too well known for your devotion to king and country.”

“Lord Cromwell has been most critical of my stewardship.” He sounded more sad than angry.

Nan said nothing. Cromwell had made no secret of his opinion. He thought her stepfather was incompetent.

“I had hoped to speak privily with the king about my concerns, but Cromwell was always at His Grace’s side. And now that he has finally left court for his own house in London, the king is suffering from a cold. He will see no one.” He hesitated. “I have heard that you have the king’s … favor. That he gave you a horse.”

“A nag,” Nan said dismissively. She wondered how much Ned Corbett had told him, then chided herself for her lack of trust.

Ned would never betray her. In the course of the last few months, he had paid several visits to Tower Street. He’d gone out of his way to lift her spirits with amusing stories about his friends in Calais—not the most admirable of men, but diverting. He’d bolstered her self-confidence with his compliments to her beauty, her gracefulness, and her skill on the lute and with a needle. To their mutual surprise, they rubbed along very well together, so long as they did not speak of love, marriage, or coupling.

“Well, do what you can,” Lisle said. “That is all anyone can ask of you.”

Nan considered his request in light of her own situation. She’d had no personal message from His Grace in all the weeks since her return from Portsmouth. It was past time to take some action. But if His Grace was ill, how—?

“Ah!” The solution was so obvious that she laughed aloud. She turned to her stepfather, who was staring at her in bewilderment. “Have you any of Mother’s conserves with you?”

Lisle blinked at the unexpected question, then nodded. “A codiniac.”

“Quince marmalade? Excellent. We will send it to Anthony Denny to give to His Grace. I will compose a note to go with it.”

THREE DAYS PASSED without any response from the king. While her stepfather waited on Lord Cromwell, who handled all the paperwork for commissions to suppress religious houses, Nan threw herself into the activities of the court. There was no point in sulking, and at Whitehall, even when the king was indisposed, there were any number of enjoyable pursuits available.

On the third night there was dancing. Nan had no shortage of partners. Sir Edmund Knyvett, a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in his prime, was particularly attentive. A pity he was married. There was also Master Walter Hungerford. He had no wife, and was the heir to a barony, but he was nearly four years younger than she was, a tall, thin, gangly lad of fourteen.

In spite of what she’d told Margaret Skipwith, she had a hard time imagining herself marrying a gawky, pimple-faced boy. He was a good dancer, though, and as they executed the movements of a pavane, she tried her hand at coaxing information out of him about his master, Lord Cromwell. She hoped to learn something that would help her stepfather.

“He does not like his men to speak of his business, mistress.” Color crept up the boy’s neck and into his face. A lock of dark, curly hair slipped out from under his bonnet to hang over his forehead. She had to fight the urge to tuck it back into place. She might not be interested in being his wife, but she certainly was not desirous of acting like his mother!

“Have you heard him speak of my stepfather, Lord Lisle?” They moved apart with the steps of the dance and came together again a moment later.

“He is no friend to Lord Lisle,” Hungerford admitted.

“I know that much.” Impatient, Nan threw more questions at him, trying to persuade him to say more. She only succeeded in making him more nervous. She read growing panic in his eyes as the dance progressed, and something else that she could not identify.

When the music stopped, he bowed, then stood gaping at her, mouth moving but no words coming out.

“Well? Speak your mind, sir, or begone.”

“Keep your opinions close, mistress. That is all I can say. Remember that it was Lord Cromwell who convinced the king to burn heretics—those who do not agree with His Grace on matters of religion. Anyone can be accused of holding the wrong view, especially when the right one keeps changing.”

Nan shivered even though the room was well warmed by a fire in the hearth. Young Hungerford, as if regretting he’d said even that much, rushed away. Nan stared after him. His words of warning suggested a mature understanding of the dangers of life at court. There was more to the youth than she’d suspected. Intrigued, she was about to go after him when Anthony Denny appeared at her elbow.

“I have been sent to fetch you to the king,” Denny said.

Nan’s breath caught in her throat. At last!

As she followed Denny from the hall, they passed Sir Edmund Knyvett. He winked at her in a manner that was frankly salacious. Truly, there were no secrets at court!

Denny led her through a series of small rooms into what were known as the king’s secret lodgings, tucked away behind his privy chamber. Nan’s heart pounded harder when he opened a door and stepped back to let her pass through, but she found herself in a library, not a bedchamber. The king, fully dressed, awaited her with a book in his hands.

Nan hastily dropped into a curtsy, as much to hide her reaction as because protocol demanded it. Her first good look at King Henry in many months shocked her. His appearance was greatly altered, and none of the changes could be attributed to his recent illness. He had gained a great deal of weight since Queen Jane’s death, but that was not the worst of it. His hair was now liberally streaked with gray and was thinning in several places. He looked old.

“Your Grace,” Nan murmured, hoping none of her dismay leaked into her voice.

“Rise, Nan, and give me your opinion of this.” He thrust a book of hours into her hands.

Nan caught her breath in pure pleasure as she turned the pages. It was beautifully illuminated in brilliant colors. “What a lovely thing.”

The king’s tone was repressive. “It represents all I would overturn.”

Nan felt herself blanch. Was this some sort of test of her loyalty? The purpose of a book of hours was to provide readings for each of the canonical hours. It contained, in particular, prayers to the Virgin Mary, seeking her intercession. Was that heresy now?

In response to Nan’s stricken expression, His Grace managed a grim smile. It did nothing to reassure her. “You see my dilemma.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She swallowed hard, remembering what Sir Gregory Botolph had said about the actions of the king’s men when they closed down a monastery or a cathedral. They removed the precious gems from chalices and reliquaries, then melted them down for the gold. Heretical books were thrown into bonfires. She did not even want to think about what might be done with saints’ bones and other relics. “Will you destroy it, Your Grace?”

“No.” He took the book back from her and closed it with an audible thump before placing it in a nearby chest. “A few such things are to be spared. Why even Lord Cromwell, who is most strict in these matters, has added a number of books from the libraries of dissolved monasteries to his own collection. With my permission,” he added, lest she think otherwise.

“That is most generous of you, Your Grace.”

He regarded her intently, then caught her hand and tugged. A moment later he was seated in a generously proportioned chair, Nan was in his lap, and the king was kissing her. His fingers found her breast and squeezed.

“Your Grace!” she gasped.

“Hush, Nan.” He kissed her into silence. She began to tremble as he fondled her, running one hand up under her skirts.

Nan moaned softly. She’d intended the sound to be encouraging, but it came out laced with pain. Instantly, he released her.

“Once upon a time, you liked my kisses.” Accusation tinged his words and temper was brewing in his stormy expression.

For a moment Nan’s wits deserted her. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Nan?” Beneath King Henry’s irritation, there was concern.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. It is just that … I fear … I—” Inspiration struck. “It is the megrim, Your Majesty. I suffer terribly from such headaches and I have sensed one coming on all day.”

Instantly, he was solicitous. “My poor Nan. I, too, suffer from megrims, an affliction I have endured ever since a fall I took during a tournament three years ago.”

Nan’s mind raced. The king hated being around sick people. He was supposed to send her away, not commiserate with her. And yet, she did not want him to lose interest in her. She had not intended to plead a headache. She’d meant to give herself to him, to become his mistress. If only he were not so old and so fat!