“Wait, in case I wish you to take a reply.” Husee broke the seal and began to read. His eyes had gone wide before he was halfway down the page. By the time he came to Cromwell’s signature, his face was beet red and his hands were shaking so hard that he dropped the letter.

Wat bent to retrieve it. He could not help but see a few lines when he picked it up, enough to tell him that Husee was Lord Lisle’s factor in London and that Cromwell had written to suggest that he leave Lisle’s employment at once.

Husee seized the page before Wat could read more. “There will be no reply!”

Wat prudently retreated. Out in the street again, he took his time walking back to Lord Cromwell’s house. He knew Cromwell thought Lord Lisle should be removed as lord deputy of Calais, and that he had his own man in mind to replace the viscount, but why would Cromwell want John Husee to resign from his post? He mulled that over for a while and decided that Husee, as Lisle’s man of business, was likely responsible for keeping his irresponsible master out of financial difficulties. Yes, that made sense. Deprive Lisle of sensible advice, and his position would be that much weaker.

Lord Cromwell was good at exploiting weaknesses. Time and time again, Wat had seen that firsthand. In Lord Lisle’s case, however, it bothered Wat a great deal to know in advance of that nobleman’s impending downfall.

He detoured around a steaming pile of horse dung in the street and continued on, his thoughts shifting to the reason he had always taken a particular interest in anything connected to Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle—Mistress Anne Bassett.

She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Wat had thought so from the first moment he’d seen her—the day of Prince Edward’s christening. He’d decided on the spot that he was going to marry her someday. The fact that he was four years younger than she was did not strike him as a serious obstacle, and since she had not married anyone else in the interim, he was optimistic that he would, in time, make his dream a reality.

She’d danced with him once. He treasured the memory.

Because Lord Lisle was Mistress Anne’s stepfather, Wat resolved to keep his ears open and his eyes peeled for any further machinations on Lord Cromwell’s part. If his master moved against the viscount, Wat would warn Mistress Anne. Even if he lost his place with Lord Cromwell as a result, it would be worth it. He’d save her family. She would see that he was just like the chivalrous knights in the stories. He would be her champion.

WHEN CATHERINE CAREY left the ranks of the maids of honor to marry, she was replaced by Lord Bray’s sister, Dorothy, a pretty, dark-haired girl with a turned-up nose. Within a week, Dorothy had discovered the spiral staircase that linked the ground and first floors of the queen’s apartments. They were there so that food and other goods could be delivered without intruding upon the queen’s privacy, but they also provided a way for members of the household to leave without being seen. Within two weeks, Dorothy had put them to use to sneak out to meet her lover—Anne Herbert’s brother, Will Parr. Nan glanced up from her embroidery late on Palm Sunday afternoon and was just in time to see Dorothy slip away.

Beside Nan on the padded bench, another of Queen Anna’s maids of honor sat and stitched. Like Nan, Catherine Howard had noticed Dorothy’s stealthy departure. When her eyes met Nan’s, they shared a look that said Dorothy Bray was a foolish girl.

Abruptly, Catherine’s expression changed to one of intense dislike. Startled, Nan broke contact and fixed her gaze on the needle in her hand, but she could still feel Catherine staring at her.

“Dorothy Bray has made a poor choice,” Catherine said after a moment. Nothing in her voice betrayed strong emotion.

Nan kept her own tone light. “Lord Parr seems pleasant enough.”

“He has two counts against him. He has no great fortune and he already has a wife.”

“Becoming the mistress of a married man is never wise.” Nan wondered where this conversation was headed. Did Catherine know Nan had seen her with the king?

“His Grace is fond of you, Mistress Bassett.” The sibilance of Catherine’s whisper made Nan think of snakes hissing.

“So I would hope, Mistress Howard. I should not like King Henry to think ill of me.”

“In that case, you should be careful how you behave in his presence.”

“I do not understand you.” Nan’s hand paused over her needlework.

“I should take it very badly indeed should I hear you had returned to his bed.”

Forcing herself to continue stitching, Nan slowly turned her head to look at the other woman. “I am the king’s to command, Catherine. If he sends for me, I must obey.”

“I will turn him against you if you try to usurp my place.”

Surely, Nan thought, it was the other way around. Catherine Howard had been much in King Henry’s company this past month, while Nan had received little more than casual greetings from His Grace. Catherine’s threat did not make sense … unless she had not yet become the king’s mistress.

Why would she withhold her favors? The moment Nan asked herself that question, she knew the answer. Catherine Howard was angling to be queen.

Slanting another glance at her fellow maid of honor, Nan saw that Catherine was pouting, like a toddler deprived of a toy. She was childlike in other ways, too—impulsive, self-centered, set on having her own way regardless of the consequences.

Nan did not like Mistress Catherine Howard. She gave herself airs. She snubbed the other maids of honor when they invited her to play cards with them or go to listen to the king’s musicians practice the latest songs. Catherine spent most of her free time, when she was not with the king, in the company of Lady Rochford.

The older woman seemed an odd choice to Nan. Lady Rochford was reputed to have brought about the downfall of Queen Anne Boleyn by telling Lord Cromwell that the queen had committed incest with her brother, George Boleyn—Lady Rochford’s husband. That Lady Rochford had not shared in the Boleyns’ disgrace gave credence to the tale. She had been one of Queen Jane’s ladies and now served Queen Anna. Perhaps, Nan thought, Catherine saw her as a source of privileged information about the queen’s intimate relations—or lack of them—with the king.

A sharp pain in her shoulder made Nan jump. Catherine Howard had stabbed her with a needle!

“Pay attention to me, you stupid cow,” Catherine hissed. “The king is mine. I will not tolerate any interference in my plans.”

“You are welcome to him,” Nan whispered back, sliding to the far end of the bench as she clapped one hand protectively over her wounded arm. “I am content with my place as a maid of honor to the queen of England.”

She glared at the other woman. Catherine was not a clever girl, nor had she been well educated, but she had a kind of animal cunning. She was ambitious and determined. Nan suspected it had not taken much effort for the Duke of Norfolk to convince her to set her cap for the king.

“Do you swear that is true? You do not want him for yourself?”

“You have my word on it. If you succeed in your quest, I will serve you every bit as loyally as I do our current mistress.”

The irony in that statement seemed to elude Catherine Howard. “See that you do, Nan Bassett.” Rising in as regal a manner as someone of Catherine’s tiny stature could manage, she swept out of the room.

Nan went back to her embroidery, glad that it was the king’s favor she needed to keep and not the queen’s.

*  *  *

ON THE TUESDAY after Palm Sunday, Ned faced Lord Lisle in the latter’s study. “I have come to request a license to go to Gravelines on the morrow,” he said.

“What business do you have in Flanders?” Lisle was already reaching for the form used for passports.

“Sir Gregory Botolph has asked me to take certain of his possessions to him there.” Botolph wanted his nag and some other belongings he had left behind.

Quill poised over paper, Lisle looked up in surprise. “Do you mean to say that Sir Gregory has traveled no farther than Gravelines? He should be halfway to Louvain by now.”

“He has been awaiting Clement Philpott’s return from England.”

“Then the man’s a fool. Why waste money on lodgings in Gravelines when he might as easily have stayed here?”

“I believe he wished to avoid Sir Oliver,” Ned said.

As Lord Lisle wrote out the passport Ned needed to cross the border, Ned steeled himself to broach another subject. “My lord, I understand that Master Husee has left your service.”

“Bad news travels quickly. I only received his resignation this morning.”

“I wondered, my lord, if you have someone in mind as his replacement? You will recall that I have served in London in Master Husee’s place on occasion and that I am familiar with your business dealings in England.”

As if he wished to avoid meeting Ned’s gaze, the lord deputy bent over the passport to sign his name. “I need you here,” he mumbled.

Ned swallowed his disappointment and asked for the loan of a horse for the trip to Gravelines. Bright and early the next morning, he and Browne rode out of Calais, Ned on the gelding he’d borrowed from Lord Lisle’s stable and his servant on Botolph’s nag.

Two hours and ten miles later, they located Botolph at the Sign of the Checker in Gravelines. Ned had planned to turn right around and return to Calais, as he was on duty in the marketplace early the next morning, but Botolph forced a delay by sending Browne on an errand.

When he’d gone, leaving Ned and Botolph alone in the latter’s well-appointed chamber, Ned sent the other man a speculative look. “Do you intend to explain why you got rid of my manservant?”

“I have a confession to make.” He poured wine into goblets and handed one to Ned, gesturing for him to sit.

“Hearing confessions is your profession, not mine.” But Ned took the bench by the window.

Botolph dropped into a Glastonbury chair and stretched his legs out toward the hearth. “I did not go to England.”

Ned tasted the wine before he spoke—hippocras, richly spiced. “I suspected as much after talking to John Husee some weeks ago.” He felt a brief surge of resentment that Lord Lisle did not consider him worthy to be Husee’s replacement. “Where did you go, then?”

“First to the French court, which was then at Amiens. There I was given money for my journey by the pope’s ambassador to France. I was able to hire good horses all the way to Rome.”

Ned did not believe him. “You were not gone long enough to make a trip to Rome and back, especially at this time of year.”

“The weather was in my favor.”

Ned frowned into his goblet. The gold crowns Botolph had given him in Calais did lend credence to the claim, but Botolph was skilled at spinning elaborate fabrications. Look at how he’d had poor Philpott convinced that he was about to be married to a Lutheran lass. “Why would you want to go to Rome?”

“To see Cardinal Pole. I offered him my services.”

Ned began to have the uncomfortable feeling that Botolph was serious. He should walk out now, before he heard any more.

But in the next moment, Ned realized he was already in too deep to escape. Cardinal Pole was a traitor to England. If Botolph was telling the truth, he’d committed treason by treating with Pole. And Ned, now that he knew that much, was guilty by association. He might as well satisfy his curiosity.

“If you went to Rome, why didn’t you stay there?” He took another swallow of wine.

“Because Cardinal Pole and Pope Paul need me here. I met with them in the Holy Father’s own chamber and I have been given a mission by His Holiness, as well as two hundred crowns with which to accomplish it. In herring time, when Calais is crowded with fishermen bringing their catch to market, we will return the English Pale to the true church.”

The fanatic gleam in Botolph’s eyes, the fervor with which he spoke, almost convinced Ned that it could work. But what few details Botolph provided revealed that the scheme hinged on subverting men of the garrison. Although there was some discontent over matters of religion, those men were loyal to king and country. They would never open the gates to England’s enemies. Precisely who would take control of Calais, Botolph would not say.

“By herring time all will be in readiness.” Botolph sat back, a satisfied look on his face, and polished off his goblet of wine.

“Herring time is six months away,” Ned objected. The Calais herring mart ran for two months, from Michaelmas, at the end of September, until St. Andrew’s tide. During that time, over three hundred herring boats brought their catch into port. “You will be hard pressed to keep your plans secret for that long. You’ve already risked both the plot and your own neck by talking so freely to me.”