Carrying her shoes, Nan tiptoed out of the chamber and followed Constance along corridors and through antechambers until they stepped out into a courtyard. There were already scores of people stirring, preparing for a day of festivities, but no one took any notice of Nan and Constance as they scurried through the gate and out of the castle.

“This way,” Constance whispered, and hurried downhill, into the town.

“What is this about?” Nan demanded as she followed. “Where are we going?”

But Constance only walked faster, forcing Nan to do likewise, and led her to a large and prosperous-looking house of the sort owned by wealthy merchants or lawyers or physicians.

A violet-eyed woman wearing an expensively decorated French hood let them in, examining Nan with blatant curiosity as she escorted her into a large and finely proportioned hall. She did not stay with them, but rather disappeared back behind the screen that shielded the room from drafts. Two men stood at the far side of the room, beneath an oriel window and near an unlit hearth. The diffuse light of early morning shone down on them, showing them in silhouette.

Nan gasped. For a moment the room around her dimmed. She pulled herself back by sheer willpower. A spurt of anger drove away any remaining chance that she would faint. “What are you doing in England?” she demanded. “Have you lost your senses?”

Ned Corbett turned as she stormed toward him. She had seen him the previous day. Except for the lack of a beard, which revealed a strong, square jaw, he was just the same—brown haired and blue eyed, with laugh lines around his eyes; a head taller than she was and well proportioned, if a bit leaner than she remembered.

“I could not abide foreign parts,” Ned said when she stopped only inches from him.

“But the risk—”

“Very small. I have been here in Lincoln for the last five months and no one has questioned my identity.”

She reached out, placing a hand on his cheek. He felt real, warm and solid. His scent was the same wonderful mix that had drawn her to him so long ago.

It had been nearly four years since she’d come to England to become a maid of honor, and just over one year since she’d helped Ned escape from the Tower of London and set sail on that Dutch merchantman. Just over a year since their son had died.

Nan closed her eyes against the sudden pain of that memory. It was difficult to think of Jamie. Far easier to pretend he’d never existed. That made her feel guilty, but not so guilty that she stopped trying to forget.

“Nan?”

Her eyes popped open. Hope flickered to life. If Ned was back, safe, then they could—

But no. Nothing had changed. She could not leave court without arousing suspicion.

“Nan?” This time she heard a smile in his voice. A grin overspread his familiar features. “You are thinking too much. Just ask me what you want to know.”

“How? Why did—?” She stopped short of asking him why he had not contacted her. Why should he? She had sent him away and refused to go with him.

Belatedly, she noticed Constance. Her maidservant stood a little apart, wrapped in the arms of Ned’s companion. John Browne had returned to England, too.

“You should not be here, Ned. There are others who might recognize you. The Countess of Sussex. Lady Rutland. The—”

“I will stay out of sight until the progress moves on, but I wanted to see you once more. I did not intend to talk to you, even after you saw me in the marketplace, but Browne went looking for Constance, and although she has agreed to marry him, she would not stay in Lincoln unless I told you everything.”

“Constance?” She turned to her tiring maid in surprise. “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes, mistress. Never more so.”

“Then you have my blessing, but I will miss you terribly.” And she envied Constance, Nan admitted to herself.

“Nan, I’ve something to tell you.” Ned was no longer smiling. “Constance says you know already that Lord Cromwell was behind Sir Gregory Botolph’s plot.”

“You knew?”

“Not until I caught up with Botolph on the Continent. It took months to locate him, but finally, in January, I tracked him down. He confessed everything, how the entire plot was a ploy to discredit your stepfather and oust him from Calais.”

Just as Wat Hungerford had said. “So many men dead. So many lives ruined. And for what?”

“Greed. Power.” Ned shrugged. “All the evils of the court. I am glad to be well away from such things.”

“And Botolph? Can you tell the king’s men how to find him?”

“He’s dead.” The stark words and the hard look on Ned’s face discouraged questions.

Nan’s heart sank as her best chance to help Lord Lisle died, too.

Ned glanced up at the window as a beam of sunlight struck his face. “The morning advances apace. You must go back to the castle before your absence is noticed.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“No, Nan.” His voice was gentle and a little sad. “Best you do not. I have yet another new name now. And I have a wife.”

“The violet-eyed woman,” Nan said slowly. Suddenly details of her appearance, barely noticed a few minutes earlier, came back to Nan with crystal clarity. Ned’s wife was young and pretty and she wore her gown unlaced at the front, as women were wont to do when they were with child.

For a moment, Nan couldn’t remember how to breathe. She felt as if she’d lost both Ned and Jamie all over again.

“Nan?” Ned sounded worried. “I never meant to hurt you. I owe everything I have now to you. I owe you my life.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I am happy for you.” She forced herself to look away from Ned and focus on Constance. “For all of you. And you are right. We must not meet again.”

In haste, before she could lose her fragile control of her emotions, she bid them farewell and fled. Back into Lincoln Castle. Back to her duties as a maid of honor to the queen.


Order must be also taken with the Maidens that they repair each of them to their friends there to remain, saving Mistress Bassett, whom the King’s Majesty, in consideration of the calamity of her friends, will, at his charges, specially provide for.

—Order of the Privy Council, November 1541

16

When the progress left Lincoln, it moved on to Hatfield Chase, in Yorkshire. Both the king and queen were mad for hunting and Hatfield Chase contained a large, enclosed area rich in game. The company rode through scrub and woodland to take down nearly two hundred stags and deer. Then they ventured into the river, ponds, and marshes and killed enough young swans and other waterfowl to fill two boats.

Nan was numb to the wholesale slaughter. She felt as if she’d left pieces of herself behind in Lincoln, one with Ned and another with Constance. She knew it did no good to dwell on the past. She had made her choices. Only the present mattered. But she had never felt so alone.

Pavilions had been set up to house the court. These tents were lavishly furnished. The one that served as the queen’s privy chamber even had walls and windows.

Nan returned there after the hunt and was about to enter when the back of her neck prickled. Certain she was being watched, she turned slowly, her gaze sweeping the other tents as well as nearby alcoves and doorways. It came to rest upon a young man standing in the shadow of a pillar. Wat Hungerford.

Nan sighed. Another reminder of the past.

Wat stepped out into the daylight. His dark, wavy hair fell over his eyes and he impatiently shoved it aside with the back of his hand. “Good day to you, Mistress Bassett.”

“Master Hungerford. Have you come to ask the king to restore your estates?”

He scowled. “I came in the hope of spending time with you, Nan.”

Her eyebrows lifted when he addressed her with such familiarity, but she did not reproach him. His open admiration was a balm to her wounded pride. Discovering that Ned was married had come as a shock. Even though she’d rejected him, she’d somehow imagined he would be true to her forever, refusing to marry anyone if he could not have her. How foolish! Ned had always been on the hunt for a wealthy bride. She should be happy for him that he’d found one.

She regarded Wat Hungerford’s young, eager expression with skeptical eyes. “We will never make a match of it, Master Hungerford. You need a wife with a fortune and I want a husband with money and a title.”

Nan felt a pang of regret when she saw that her blunt words had hurt him, but he had the resilience and self-confidence of youth. He would recover.

“I will be Lord Hungerford one day,” he said as she turned away. “My estates and title will be restored. You could wait for me.”

Nan stopped just inside the silken pavilion, one hand pressed to her heart. Unwanted tears filled her eyes. If only he were a few years older. If only she were not so jaded.

When Nan had herself under control again, she joined Dorothy and Lucy where they sat sewing in a corner of the pavilion. She saw at once that they both looked worried. “What is wrong?” she asked in a whisper.

Dorothy’s gaze shot to Queen Catherine, who stood looking out a window. “Her Grace is watching Tom Culpepper cross the open expanse between the king’s pavilion and this one.”

In itself, this was not disturbing, but Nan had too often seen the expression of naked longing on the young queen’s face when she looked at her distant cousin. The other maids of honor had noticed the same thing.

“Someone should warn the queen that it is not wise to make the king jealous,” Lucy murmured.

Dorothy snorted. “And who would be so foolish as to try to tell Her Grace anything she does not want to hear? She is too headstrong, too spoiled, and too stupid to listen. Besides, the king has no idea what his wife is doing.”

“Hush, Dorothy. Someone will overhear.” Nan looked over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“If matters continue as they are,” Lucy predicted, “His Grace is bound to notice her infatuation.”

“It is more than infatuation,” Nan said, “but Dorothy is right. Her Grace does not care for unsolicited advice.” Her hand went to her cheek, remembering the sting of the slap Queen Catherine had given her.

“I do not see how it could be more,” Lucy said. “Her Grace is never alone. Dalliance requires privacy.”

Dorothy snickered.

“She could not have—”

“Could and has, I’ll wager. Have you not noticed how Her Grace sends most of her ladies away when she retires to her bedchamber?”

“The king—”

“Does not stay long. In and out!” Dorothy gave a nervous giggle. “And sometimes His Grace does not visit her at all. Then the queen is left to her own devices, free to … entertain whatever … person she chooses.”

Two things Nan had observed suddenly took on an unsettling significance she’d heretofore missed. Wherever they’d gone on this progress, there had always been an inner stair or an outer door that gave private access to the queen’s bedchamber. And Lady Rochford was always on duty at night.

“Whatever we suspect,” she said aloud, “it is no more than speculation.”

The pretense of ignorance seemed the safest course for all of them. Nan turned a blind eye to the queen’s flirtation with her husband’s gentleman of the privy chamber. She told herself it was not her place to interfere, or to offer advice. Nor could she betray her mistress by telling tales to the king. No one ever thought well of one who brought unwelcome news. Besides, she did not think he would believe her.

THE PROGRESS MADE several more stops before arriving at Pontefract at the end of August. It was there that Queen Catherine acquired a new member of her household. A fellow named Francis Dereham took the post of private secretary. Within a week of his arrival, he was at odds with one of the queen’s gentlemen ushers, going so far as to brawl with him and shove him to the ground.

“Lucky for him the king did not hear of it,” Anne Herbert said to Nan as they strolled in the gardens to enjoy a rare glimpse of the sun.

Nan shuddered, remembering what had almost happened to Sir Edmund Knyvett. “I have noticed that Master Dereham is careful to efface himself when the king is nearby.”

“How odd. Most men thrust themselves forward. They want His Grace’s attention.”

“He has the queen’s.” Nan had observed that Dereham had a most familiar manner toward Queen Catherine. “Where did he come from?”

“He was recommended by the old Duchess of Norfolk.”

“The same one who raised the queen?”

Anne nodded. “Someone told me that this Dereham was a member of the duchess’s household when Queen Catherine was a girl in her keeping.”