Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (46 page)

I am blessed with a pretty face,
she thought.
Everyone who meets me says so. But will that be enough?

Her knees throbbed. In spite of the thick layers of fine linen and soft damask that separated them from the tiled floor, she could feel that hard and unyielding surface press against her flesh with bruising force.

Holding herself otherwise perfectly still, Nan glanced sideways at her sister. Cat’s eyes were demurely lowered. Her demeanor was all that was calm and composed. True, her face was pale, but then it always was.

Nan’s gaze dropped to Cat’s hands. Clasped together just at her waist, they trembled slightly. At once Nan felt better, but it still rankled that she had been forced into a competition with her sister for the single opening in the ranks of the royal maids of honor.

Why has the queen not yet decided? Can she not see that I am the one she should choose?
Nan could not bear to contemplate her own future if Her Grace selected Cat.

Time stretched toward the breaking point. Nan was skilled at controlling her facial expression, but there was not enough willpower in the world to prevent the sheen of sweat that now appeared upon her brow.
The queen’s presence chamber was overly warm … and it smelled faintly of cooking meat. Nan had always been sensitive to smells. The sweet scent of strewn herbs could not quite mask the stronger odors wafting up from the privy kitchens located directly below Her Grace’s apartments.

The queen shifted in her gilded chair and her satin skirt rustled against the cloth-of-gold cushion. The faint sound seemed abnormally loud in the subdued quiet. Nan risked a glance at the woman who had been naught but Mistress Seymour before she supplanted Queen Anne in the king’s affections. Although she sat beneath a canopy, just one of many symbols of her exalted position, and was surrounded by a bevy of attractive maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting, the queen herself was exceedingly plain. Her sumptuous clothing only emphasized her lack of physical beauty.

Everything Her Grace wore was heavily embroidered and sparkled with jewels. Pearls studded her old-fashioned gable headdress, their luminescent paleness emphasizing the lack of color in Queen Jane’s skin. Pearls were supposed to have a slimming effect on plump features, but they did nothing to diminish the dimensions of the queen’s large, round face, especially now that she was with child.

What on earth could it have been about Jane Seymour that had so appealed to the king? In Nan’s experience, men responded to beauty. Pink-and-white complexions and delicate features like her own were the fashion, not a ghostlike pallor and a long nose such as the queen’s, which became thicker near the point. The queen had high cheekbones, thin lips, and a roll of flesh beneath her chin, presumably the result of being hugely pregnant.

Nan was about to lower her gaze to the tiles once more when the edge of the tapestry directly behind the queen suddenly moved. A blue-gray eye peered out from the narrow gap between one section of the hangings and the next. Startled, Nan forgot it was not her place to stare. The eye fixed on her in return.

At once, a laugh rang out. A loud, booming guffaw echoed off the
high, painted ceiling. The sound made the queen grimace, but only for an instant.

Cat gasped as the king emerged from his hiding place and stepped out into the sunlight. But Nan did not. She had already guessed whose eye it must be. Who else would dare conceal himself in the queen’s lodgings?

Queen Jane’s maids of honor and waiting gentlewomen hastily made an obeisance. Already on their knees, Nan and Cat should have bowed their heads. Cat did. But Nan, smiling, continued to stare at His Majesty.

Her admiration was genuine. King Henry was the tallest man she’d ever seen, taller even than her stepfather, and massively built. His doublet, gloriously decorated with roses embroidered in gold thread and rubies that caught the light, covered an impressively firm, barrel-shaped chest. His lower limbs were shapely and encased in the finest hose.

The king was no longer young, already in his forty-sixth year, but he was still a magnificent and awe-inspiring sight. Nan knew she should lower her eyes, and her head. It was only proper in the presence of royalty. But she found she could not tear her gaze away from the man striding across the chamber toward her.

His square-cut beard was a golden red, just as it appeared in the portraits Nan had seen. She could not help but notice that it contained a few stray flecks of gray, but that did not seem to matter. His Majesty was ageless. His skin was fair and still as smooth as a much younger man’s. Her breath caught at the expression in his eyes. Her bold stare had apparently given no offense. On the contrary. His gaze was both amused and admiring.

“Rise, mistress.” The king thrust out a large hand adorned with an assortment of glittering rings. His touch was gentle but firm, and Nan’s fingers quite disappeared in his.

Her senses reeled. An exotic blend of perfumes wafted out from his person. She recognized musk and rose water and ambergris, but there was another ingredient as well that rendered the combination unusually heady and potent. It produced in Nan a disconcerting swell of desire and she nearly lost her balance as she came upright.

“Mistress Bassett,” the king murmured. He kept hold of Nan’s hand and drew her close, as if to inspect her face for flaws. “But which Mistress Bassett are you?”

Her fingertips burned from his heat. Suddenly, she ached to feel the brush of his soft beard against her skin. By some miracle she found her voice, although it emerged as a throaty whisper. “I am called Anne, if it please Your Grace.”

The king frowned.

Utter stillness filled the presence chamber.

Nan instantly realized what the trouble must be. She had the same Christian name as the queen King Henry had so recently cast off and had executed. She told herself that it should not matter, would not make a difference in her fate. Anne was as common a name as Catherine—and half the girls in England had been named after Catherine of Aragon, the king’s first wife, the woman he had divorced in order to marry Anne Boleyn.

“Do you enjoy dancing, Mistress Anne?”

The mundane question had Nan fighting not to laugh aloud with relief. The king was not displeased with her after all. She sent him her most brilliant smile. “I do, Your Grace.”

“And music? Are you adept with lute or virginals?” Sliding one hand beneath her elbow, he steered her toward Queen Jane.

“I play both, Your Grace.” Modesty had no place at court.

“Excellent. I will depend upon you to provide soothing songs for my queen while she awaits the birth of my son and heir.”

“Have you chosen, then, Your Grace?” The queen’s voice was low and carefully modulated so as to reveal nothing of her personal opinion.

The king’s admiring gaze never left Nan’s face. “She will do nicely, my heart.”

With that, Nan’s own heart beat so fast and loud that she feared she might swoon. His Grace had the most penetrating eyes, and at the moment they revealed the full extent of his interest in her. The king of England wanted her, and not just as a maid of honor for his wife.

The queen spoke again. This time her voice was stronger and brooked no disobedience. “Come forward, Mistress Anne Bassett.”

As Nan approached the gilded chair, she saw that Queen Jane had blue eyes, too—but they had narrowed to slits. Nan felt heat creep into her cheeks. Along with it came the certainty that, if the decision had been left up to Queen Jane, she’d have chosen Cat to join her household.

Schooling her features to present a picture of demure obedience, Nan knelt before the queen.

“Do you swear to serve me faithfully, Mistress Bassett?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“Then you may kiss my hand as a pledge of your fealty.” Queen Jane extended her fingers, which were almost as heavily laden with rings as the king’s, toward Nan.

By this act, Nan was sworn in as one of the maids of honor. But when her lips actually brushed the queen’s skin, as dry and cracked as old leather, she had her first good look at what lay beyond the glitter. Queen Jane had bitten her fingernails down to the quick.

“Y
OU NEED NOT
put on airs,” Cat said the moment they left the queen’s presence chamber. “I know why you were chosen.”

In spite of her sister’s critical tone, Nan preened a bit. She was a maid of honor. Every time Queen Jane appeared in public, Nan would be one of the six richly dressed young women accompanying her, petals to her flower. In private she would be at the center of a whirl of activity—disguisings, dances, tournaments. The king himself would partner her. He was known to participate with great enthusiasm in all the entertainments at court.

“Neither one of us would have been considered for the post,” Cat added, “if Her Grace did not have a fondness for quails.”

Irritated, Nan turned on her sister, heedless of the stares this sudden movement attracted. They were in the queen’s watching chamber, a large, ornately furnished room crowded with guards, courtiers, and
servants. Recent rebuilding had left behind the faint scent of newly hewn wood and burnt brick.

“It is of no importance why the queen sent for us. All that matters is that one of us was chosen.”

Still, Cat’s reminder stung. The pregnant queen had developed a craving for quails. Providing a constant supply of the birds from Calais had given their mother a convenient means by which to remind Her Grace, over and over again, that she had four Bassett daughters, any one of whom would be delighted to accept a post at court. Honor Lisle’s largesse—she sent tokens to influential courtiers, as well—had led directly to the summons to be interviewed by the queen.

Small gifts, Mother called them, but some were not so small. Tokens could be anything from a personal offering, such as a ring, given out of friendship, to a present that acknowledged a similar gift received, to an offering made in the hope that the recipient would do the sender a favor. Sometimes this favor was specified; sometimes the note that went with the token only hinted at what the sender really wanted, especially if the gift was sent directly to the king.

Nan told herself that, in the end, her looks were what had won her the post. And it would be her appearance and her manners that would attract a suitable husband. That was, after all, why most mothers wanted their daughters to be maids of honor. The queen’s damsels enjoyed superior opportunities to entice wealthy, titled gentlemen into marriage. A faint smile curved her lips.

“I do not see anything funny about those quails!” Cat’s sharp tone abruptly made Nan once again aware of her surroundings.

“The quails assured our welcome. My beauty won the queen’s favor.”

“The
king’s
favor, you mean!”

As soon as the hasty words were out, Cat’s eyes widened with regret and alarm. They had both forgotten how easy it was to be overheard. Seizing Nan’s arm, Cat towed her out of the watching chamber and down a flight of stairs. She did not speak again until they reached the
relative privacy of the open air. They were not alone out of doors, either, but at least no one was paying close attention to them.

“Have a care, Nan. Do not be too brazen in His Grace’s presence.”

Nan frowned at her, puzzled by Cat’s marked shift from resentment to concern. She stopped midway across the courtyard. Her hands, curled into fists, rested lightly at her hips and she turned a fulminating glare on her sister. “Speak plain if you must speak at all. I have no time for riddles.”

“Lady Rutland says the king always strays when one of his queens is great with child. He began the practice in Queen Catherine of Aragon’s time and was just as quick to take a mistress when Queen Anne Boleyn was increasing. It is most unusual that he has not done so this time, but mayhap that is about to change. He chose
you,
the pretty one, to replace Mistress Mewtas, Anne.” Bitterness returned to Cat’s voice.

“The queen’s damsels are
supposed
to be attractive!” While waiting on her knees for the queen’s decision, Nan had caught a glimpse of the other five and seen them watching her with speculative looks. None was as pretty as she was, Nan thought, but they were all comely enough, as was Jane Mewtas, the woman whose marriage had created a vacancy. Jane was a small, slender, fine-boned beauty.

“Should you not ask yourself why?” Cat demanded.

“The maids are ornamental. Decorative. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Her sister’s sniff spoke volumes. “Lady Rutland says—”

“A fig for what Lady Rutland says and less for what she thinks!”

Stalking off ahead of Cat, Nan reentered the palace by another door and began to thread her way through the maze of connecting rooms toward her temporary lodgings.

With her longer stride, Cat easily overtook her sister. She kept her voice low. “Lady Rutland has been at court for years. She knows how things are done.”

Nan increased her speed. She was anxious to return to Cousin Mary’s
chambers and collect her belongings. Tonight she would lodge in the maids’ dormitory.

“She says another maid of honor will marry soon. Anne Parr.”

“And you think
you
will be chosen to replace this Mistress Parr?”

“I no longer
wish
to be chosen! I would rather remain with Lady Rutland. She has already told me that I would be a welcome addition to her household.”

“Well, if you are satisfied with that …” Nan shrugged to express her indifference and walked even faster.

“Lady Rutland says—”

“Do you intend to parrot every word Lady Rutland speaks or have you a mind of your own?” Nan found it most annoying that Cat had no trouble keeping pace with her.

“If you do not wish to have the benefit of her wisdom, that is your loss. I intend to learn all I can from her. And I will have the advantage of my freedom during the next month.”

Confused by this last comment, Nan faltered in her steps. She debated only a moment before she gave in to her need to know what Cat meant. “Explain yourself, sister.”

“Did you not realize?” Cat smirked. “On the morrow, Queen Jane goes into seclusion in her chambers until the babe is born. No men will be admitted there, not even the king.”