She felt pity for her stepfather, but she did not fear he’d come to any real harm. What Ned Corbett faced, however, terrified her. When she had coaxed Lord Lisle into telling her all he knew of the prisoners, she made her excuses and returned to the maidens’ chamber.

Her eyes blurred, blinding her as she fumbled her way out of her clothing and into her bed. Her heart felt as if it had been rent in two. She wanted to wail and tear at her hair, but she was not alone in the dormitory. She could only lie still, silent tears coursing down her cheeks, until she finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.


One of her lover’s letters was carried in her bosom when she was found by Lord Sussex … and this, with various others, she threw down the garderobe on the advice of the daughter of Lord Hussey of Lincolnshire.

—Elis Gruffudd of the Calais retinue, Chronicle (translated from the Welsh Mostyn MS)

Mary Bassett hath written with her own hand as much of the effect of the letters cast into the jakes as she can call to her remembrance, as she saith, which we send you here enclosed, with certain other French letters found in the house.

—the Earl of Sussex and Sir John Gage to Lord Cromwell, 5 June 1540

12

Ned Corbett woke from a nightmare, the scream of agony lodged in his throat. Sweat covered his body in spite of the chill of the stone walls and floor. He wrapped the single blanket he’d been given more tightly around his shoulders and fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and curl himself into a ball.

He was still in a bad dream, but he was not going to wake up from this one. Hiding from the truth would do no good, either. He lay on his back on a straw-filled pallet and stared at the bars on the nearest window. He was a prisoner in the Tower of London, charged with treason. He had not been tortured yet, but it was only a matter of time. His imagination had already supplied the gruesome details.

Afterward, as a confessed traitor, he’d be taken out of his cell, marched under guard across the bridge over the moat, past the Lion Tower and through the gate. They’d deliver him to the Guildhall for trial, but the verdict would already be a given and the punishment, too. Then it would be back to the Tower until it was time for one last journey, this time to Tyburn.

Hanged, drawn, and quartered.

That was the fate of traitors.

Ned swallowed hard and swiped at the sweat on his face with one dirty sleeve. No. He must not give up. All he had to do was stick to the story he’d already told, the one that left out all the details Botolph had given him in Gravelines.

Ned had admitted he’d taken personal belongings to Botolph. He’d even confessed to having possession, briefly, of the ten broken crowns, although he’d claimed he’d never opened the packet. But he’d steadfastly insisted he knew nothing about any plot to overthrow Calais. The only one who could say that was a lie was Botolph himself. As far as Ned knew, the villainous priest was still at large on the Continent. Ned sent up a silent prayer for the other man’s safety. His own life might depend upon the priest’s continued freedom.

In all honesty, he was guilty of treason.

He should have reported Botolph directly to Lord Lisle as soon as he returned from Gravelines. He should have turned on his friends. That might have saved him. Then again, it might not have.

Ned stared at the cold, damp stones hemming him in. His cell was separate from the one where the others were being held, the men arrested because Philpott had done exactly what Ned should have. Philpott’s mistake had been to wait several weeks after his return to Calais before he succumbed to panic. Then the fool had told the truth, admitting to even the parts that were certain to condemn him to death.

Ned covered his face with one arm. There was no hope for any of them. He’d known that as soon as they’d been taken from Calais and put aboard a ship in the middle of the night to be brought to England.

A muffled groan escaped him. His servant, Browne, had also been arrested. Ned had no idea how involved Browne had been in Botolph’s scheme. It was possible the priest had subverted Browne’s loyalty and sweet-talked him into joining the conspiracy. Or Browne could have been an innocent bystander. Ned was not worried that Browne could testify against him in regard to the Botolph plot, but Browne did know Ned’s other secrets.

He knew Nan Bassett had been Ned’s mistress before she was the king’s.

AFTER THE MAY Day tournament at Whitehall, the court moved to Greenwich for Whitsuntide. Nan carried out her duties as a maid of honor with an outward appearance of calm, but her heart ached and her mind was always in turmoil. She’d heard nothing more about Ned since her stepfather’s announcement that he was in the Tower. Her imagination painted terrible pictures: Ned being tortured; Ned dying; Ned executed in the horrifying way traitors were put to death. She had never felt so helpless, not even when she had first discovered that she was with child.

She tried to take heart from her stepfather’s continued presence at court. The king seemed well disposed toward him, but although King Henry had elevated Thomas Cromwell in the peerage to Earl of Essex—the title Lord Parr had expected to be granted in his much-despised wife’s name—His Grace had not advanced Lord Lisle. Nan thought it unlikely that King Henry’s benevolence would extend to a pardon for any of the men in Lord Lisle’s retinue, not even at the request of a pretty maid of honor.

Word of the arrests eventually leaked out. Constance dissolved into tears when she heard that John Browne was in the Tower. Nan’s sister Cat, at court as one of the Countess of Rutland’s waiting gentlewomen, denounced Ned in no uncertain terms, both as a traitor and because he had been disloyal to Lord Lisle.

No one else at court seemed much interested in an insignificant and unsuccessful treason plot in an outpost across the Narrow Seas. A far more fascinating scandal had erupted closer to hand. Lord Hungerford of Heytesbury was also in the Tower of London. He was to be tried for sorcery and buggery as well as for heresy and treason.

Nan paid little attention to the details of the case, although she did spare a moment’s pity for Lord Hungerford’s son. When young Wat Hungerford sent word that he wanted to speak to her, Nan set aside her needlework, prepared to meet with him.

Her cousin, the Countess of Sussex, stopped her. “Best you have nothing to do with the lad,” Mary advised.

“The son is not in disgrace, only the father.” And Wat was still in Cromwell’s service. Nan had seen him at a distance, resplendent in the new Earl of Essex’s livery. Wat’s arms and chest had filled out and he’d grown taller. She did not think he would be referred to as a lad for much longer.

“Lord Hungerford is worse than a traitor, Nan. You do not want your name linked with him, even indirectly.”

Nan frowned, trying to recall what she’d heard. Something about casting a horoscope to know when the king would die. And another charge: Lord Hungerford was supposed to have taken another man as his lover. Under a newly passed law, the penalty for that unnatural act was death.

Nan supposed Cousin Mary was right. It was best to have nothing to do with Wat Hungerford. She barely knew him, after all. She sent him away without hearing what he had to say.

NAN SUPPED WITH her stepfather in his chamber on the evening of the seventeenth of May and stayed late because Lord Lisle was in an expansive mood. He had plans to take a more active role in Parliament and at court. His continued belief that he would soon be honored with an earldom gave him new vitality, and his enthusiasm was infectious. When Nan was with him, she could almost believe it would happen. She hoped it would. A highly favored earl would be in an ideal position to ask the king to pardon one of his gentlemen servitors.

“Have you broached the subject of Mary’s betrothal with the king?” she asked. “I’ve had a letter from Mother asking me to sing Gabriel’s praises to His Grace.”

“I will wait until I have my earldom to discuss the matter with King Henry.” Lord Lisle bit into a tart.

“Is it wise to delay? You would not want to be accused of keeping their liaison secret.”

“Do not worry your pretty little head about it, my dear. I will know when the time is right.”

Nan made no further protest, but she felt uneasy. The king had a limited supply of goodwill.

“You seem agitated, Nan.” Lord Lisle reached for another tart.

Someone began pounding on the door before Nan could deny it.

“Send them away, whoever they are,” Lisle shouted to his manservant.

But the men on the other side of the door did not wait to be admitted. Several yeomen of the guard in royal livery and carrying halberds burst into the chamber. Nan recognized their leader. He was Lady Kingston’s husband, Sir William—the constable of the Tower of London.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Lisle rose to his feet so quickly that his chair toppled over with a crash.

Nan jumped up and ran to his side. A terrible tightness constricted her breathing. When the edges of her vision narrowed, she was afraid she might faint. She forced herself to drag in a great gulp of air. Even before Sir William spoke, she knew he had come to arrest her stepfather.

IT WAS TWILIGHT when the Earl of Sussex entered the great parlor of the lord deputy’s residence in Calais. Mary Bassett, perched on a stool near a wicker screen and picking out a tune on her lute, saw him first. Her mother caught sight of him a moment later, as did Frances and Philippa, who were comfortably ensconced on large cushions on the floor to engage in a game of cards.

The earl’s gaze roved over the domestic scene. His expression revealed nothing, but Mary saw a flash of panic in her mother’s eyes. Had something happened to Lord Lisle? Her stepfather had written of falling ill shortly after his arrival in England, but that had been almost a month ago.

Honor Lisle remained seated in the room’s only chair, her embroidery hoop clasped in both hands. “My Lord Sussex, this visit is unexpected.”

Sussex moved toward her. Behind him came three men Mary recognized as members of the Calais Council.

“Gentlemen?” Mary heard the note of alarm in her mother’s voice, but Lady Lisle, elegantly dressed in a kirtle of black velvet and one of her best taffeta gowns, assumed a regal hauteur as she waited for an explanation.

“Madam, I am sorry to have to tell you this,” the earl said, “but your husband has been arrested and charged with treason.”

Mary bit back an exclamation of dismay.

Her mother dropped her needlework to grip the arms of her chair. “No. That is not possible. My husband has done nothing wrong.”

But Sussex was still talking. “By the king’s command, I am ordered to seize and inventory all of Lord Lisle’s possessions, most especially all correspondence, and to question everyone in this household. You, madam, are to be confined to your chamber.” At his signal, one of the Calais Spears entered the room. “Take Lady Lisle away and stand guard outside her door.”

While her mother raged against such treatment, drawing everyone’s attention to her, Mary set her lute on the floor and slowly, quietly, rose from her stool. In a few furtive steps she was hidden by the wicker screen that shielded the room from drafts. Seconds later, she was through the small door behind it and on her way to her bedchamber.

They were going to confiscate letters. They were looking for treasonous correspondence. They probably thought her stepfather had been writing to Cardinal Pole. Mary did not care about that. She had other letters to hide from prying eyes. Personal letters. Private letters. Love letters.

She kept everything Gabriel had ever written to her in a coffer near her bed, tied up with a red ribbon. Retrieving the thick packet, Mary hugged it to her breast. She could not bear to think of strangers reading words meant only for her.

There was no fire in the hearth, not on the twentieth day of May. Mary reached for the tinder box to start one, then had a better idea.

She encountered one of her mother’s waiting gentlewomen as she left the bedchamber. “What has happened?” Mistress Hussey asked. “There are soldiers everywhere.” She was a young woman only a few years Mary’s senior and she was pale with fright.

“Lord Lisle has been arrested. The king’s men are looking for damning documents to use against him.”

Mistress Hussey’s dark brown eyes went wide. Her face turned the color of whey. She hastily crossed herself.