“The king refuses to see anyone, Your Grace,” Tom Culpepper told her. “And I doubt Your Grace would want to see the king. At one point, His Grace’s face turned black. The doctors feared for his life until one of the surgeons drained fluid from the ulcer. Then the swelling went down and His Grace’s health improved considerably, but not, I fear, his temper.”

“Word of Henry’s violent outbursts has already reached us,” the queen said.

“He even railed at me,” Culpepper admitted with a rueful grin. “His Grace called me a lying timeserver and a flatterer who looked only to my own profit. But then he also said he knew what his councilors were plotting and that he would take care that their projects should not succeed.”

“It is the pain talking,” Anne Herbert murmured in Nan’s ear. “What a good thing it is that men do not have to endure childbirth. They would be quite unfit to live with if they did.” Anne had left court briefly the previous year to give birth to her first child and considered herself an expert on the subject.

“His Grace’s misery is so great,” Culpepper continued, “that he will not even allow music to be played in his bedchamber.”

That news alarmed Nan more than anything else she had heard. King Henry loved music. He’d even written several songs himself. That he found his musicians annoying and preferred silence to the distraction of their playing was deeply disturbing.

Culpepper lowered his voice, but that only made the maids of honor stretch their ears. “His Grace bemoaned the loss of Lord Cromwell. He said that his councilors, upon light pretext and by false accusations, conspired to turn His Grace against the most faithful servant he ever had.”

How strange, Nan thought. Did the king truly feel regret? Could it be that His Grace was capable of admitting he could make mistakes?

Nan pondered that possibility during the next ten days. All the while, the king kept to his rooms and refused entry to all but a few trusted gentlemen. Nan was unable to go to him, unable to ask him to pardon Lord Lisle.

His pretty young wife was also kept out of the king’s apartments. More alarmingly, courtiers were sent home in droves. Those who remained sank into a gloom that was the equal of the king’s.

But then, with as much suddenness as His Grace’s health had failed him, he was himself again. He summoned Queen Catherine. He was ready to plan her long-delayed official entry into London.

NED CORBETT SECRETLY returned to England a few weeks after he ran Sir Gregory Botolph to ground. He chose yet another new name for himself and stayed well away from court, but he was not content without employment. When he heard of a wine merchant’s widow who needed a secretary, he decided that such a position had possibilities.

Ned expected to be interviewed by an aged crone who had depended upon her late husband for everything—someone Ned could flatter and impress. The woman seated behind a table piled high with ledgers and correspondence did not fit that image.

She was young, no older than Ned. Even in the unrelieved black of mourning dress, she was attractive. Her skin was milky white, her figure was rounded in all the right places, and her eyes were the exact color of violets.

Once he got over his surprise, he also recognized shrewd intelligence in those eyes. The widow was examining him every bit as thoroughly as he’d categorized her attributes. Sending a taut smile his way, she gestured for him to sit.

Intrigued, he complied. She had questions. He answered them, most of them honestly, faltering only when she demanded to know if he was a displaced priest.

“No monastery would have taken me,” he told her, and dared a wink.

She blinked, then slowly smiled. “You are wondering why I asked. As it happens, most of the applicants for this position have been monks turned out to fend for themselves when their monasteries were dissolved. They were pensioned off, but the paltry sums they were allotted are not enough to keep body and soul together. I feel sorry for such men, but I do not want to employ one.”

“Why is that, madam?” Ned asked.

“As a rule, they do not approve of women, especially women who wish to manage their own businesses.”

“I have no such failing. I am ready and willing to assist you.” He’d quite enjoy working for her.

“Not all men are so open-minded. Indeed, most of those I have encountered believe that women are incapable of anything more complicated than brewing, baking, and needlework.”

“That is shortsighted of them. I have been privileged to observe many accomplished women in my … travels. I am certain that you can succeed at anything you choose.”

“You show a remarkable degree of confidence in someone you have only just met.”

Ned grinned. “I am in need of a job, madam. But though I say it myself, I am also an excellent judge of character.” The smile faded when he remembered Sir Gregory Botolph. “I did make a mistake once, but it is not one I am ever likely to repeat.”

Her stare bored into him, as if she were attempting to look at his soul. He had to fight to keep from squirming, but he met her intense scrutiny with surface calm until she dropped her gaze to the papers in front of her on the desk.

“Do I meet with your approval, madam?”

“Have you wife or children?”

“No.”

“A mistress?”

“Not at present.” Ned narrowed his eyes at her. “What has that to do with employment as a secretary?”

“I require one thing more,” she said bluntly. “In order to ensure that the business my husband left me continues to prosper, I require a husband.”

*  *  *

IN MID-APRIL, SHORTLY after the court moved to Greenwich Palace, a sickness ravaged the land. For some it was no more than a mild stomach complaint—Queen Catherine mistakenly believed herself to be with child when she came down with it—while others became deathly ill. Tom Culpepper was among them. So was Nan’s oldest brother, John Bassett.

Nan considered this news, wondering if she could use it to her advantage. She was not close to her brother. She had seen him only once after she’d been sent into France to be trained. Before that, the Bassett sons and daughters had largely been raised apart. But John’s sickness, she decided, was a valid excuse to approach the king, especially if she exaggerated how ill her brother was.

She did not attempt to see King Henry alone, but chose a time when His Grace was visiting Queen Catherine’s apartments to approach them both. The king was in a cheerful mood, in spite of his grossly swollen and throbbing leg, which rested on a jewel-studded stool. The bandages on his leg were more noticeable than they had been, as if it required additional layers to contain seepage.

King Henry smiled benignly down at Nan when she knelt before him to ask a boon. “What would you have, my pretty Nan?”

“Your Grace, I have received word that my brother is sick and like to die.” His smile vanished. Belatedly, Nan remembered his aversion to illness. He did not even like to hear about those who were ailing. She rushed on, hoping to make her case before he turned against her completely. “Sire, I beg you. He is at Lincoln’s Inn. If you could permit my mother to go to him in his hour of need, it would be a great kindness.”

The king’s face turned an ugly shade of red. Suddenly afraid, Nan fell silent. She did not dare say more. She had no need to in any case, for the king knew full well who her mother was and why she was unable to go to her son’s deathbed without royal permission.

“You ask me to set a traitor free?” His voice was harsh. He glared at her through small, hard eyes devoid of compassion. Piggy little eyes, Nan thought, and then was horrified lest he somehow guess what was in her mind.

Nan bowed her head and waited for the next blow to fall. She clasped her hands tightly together in a futile attempt to keep them from trembling. He was going to refuse. She had no doubt of that. But what if there were more serious repercussions? What if His Grace decided he did not want a traitor’s daughter at his court?

“I have already done you the favor of freeing your sisters,” King Henry reminded her.

“Yes, Your Grace. Your Grace has been most benevolent.” She sent him a beseeching look.

“That is all I am prepared to do. I will hear no more of this matter.” The finality in his voice left Nan close to tears. She’d waited so long to choose her moment and now she’d chosen wrongly. She stumbled as she backed away from him.

The king watched her. She felt his eyes upon her on and off for the remainder of his visit to Queen Catherine. The queen prattled on, as she always did, talking of inconsequential things. Once or twice she made His Grace laugh, but his good mood was much diminished.

A week later, Nan’s brother died.

Tom Culpepper recovered.

AS SPRING ADVANCED, the queen was full of plans for the next progress. They were to set out from London at the end of June and head north, visiting Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, counties where there had been uprisings a few years earlier over the king’s decision to dissolve the monasteries. Another outbreak of dissension caused a furor at court. The small band of rural rebels was quickly quashed by well-trained royal troops, but King Henry’s response did not end there. He ordered the execution of the old Countess of Salisbury. Cardinal Pole’s mother, who had been held in the Tower of London since shortly after her older son was executed, was beheaded.

When Nan heard of it, she went straight to Anthony Denny, hoping for reassurance. “Are there to be other executions?” she asked. “Is my stepfather in danger of losing his head?”

“Not to my knowledge.” But the pity in Denny’s eyes told her that the situation could change at any moment.

When days turned into weeks and nothing more happened, Nan began to feel more confident. Once on progress, she thought, the king would forget all about Lord Lisle and his wife.

They set out as planned, but then the skies opened and rain fell in torrents, turning the roads into quagmires. As the caravan traveled from Dunstable to Ampthill and on to Grafton Regis, the king’s councilors advised him to abandon the journey.

King Henry would not listen. His annual progress was the means by which he showed himself to the people and gave them the opportunity to present him with petitions. Besides, he and the queen slept warm and dry every night. They were not much concerned that hundreds of others, those of lowest rank like Nan’s Constance, spent the hours of darkness in tents pitched in the sodden fields and the days shivering in wet shoes and damp cloaks. Nan’s maidservant was a sorry sight, but there was little she could do to relieve the girl’s discomfort.

The progress stopped in Northampton, then left there in the third week of July to spend a few days at the king’s house at Collyweston. In early August, the entourage reached the outskirts of the city of Lincoln. Tents were set up seven miles south of the gates, at Temple Bruer, where the king enjoyed his dinner under a canopy before continuing on into Lincoln itself.

He changed into garments of Lincoln green for the ride to Lincoln Castle, where he and the queen and their closest attendants would be housed. The queen was carried in a litter. She kept the curtains closed for warmth and privacy. Her maids of honor rode behind. On horseback there was little protection from the elements, especially since Queen Catherine had commanded that they put aside their cloaks to better show off their elegant black livery.

Nan was drooping with fatigue by the time the procession neared the castle. She was weary of travel, tired of the rain and unseasonable cold, worn out by nagging fears about the future that never quite went away.

She barely glanced at the large crowd gathered to see the king pass through the city. King Henry’s subjects had collected in large numbers all along the route of the progress. Their faces had become a blur. And yet, just as Nan was about to ride through the castle gate, her gaze fell on one particular man in the crowd. For an instant, his face was clearly visible. Nan’s breath caught and her heart stuttered.

Imagination, she told herself. Ned Corbett could not be in England. Besides, the fellow she’d seen was clean shaven. Ned had always had a very fine beard.

But the incident left her shaken. More than once in the course of the evening, she caught herself wondering what her life would have been like if she’d gone with Ned into exile.

VERY EARLY THE next day, Constance slipped into the chamber assigned to the maids of honor and touched Nan’s shoulder to wake her. Constance held her finger to her lips, reminding Nan that the slightest sound might wake her bedfellow. Quietly, she rose, closing the hangings behind her, and dressed with Constance’s help. Whatever her tiring maid had on her mind, it was clearly important or she would not have left Temple Bruer before dawn and walked seven miles in the dark.