Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (51 page)

Anne rapped Nan lightly on the shoulder. “I mean Will Herbert, and well you know it.”

It took Nan a moment to connect the name to the tall redhead Anne had been admiring earlier. “He is somewhat bony for my taste,” she remarked.

“He is stronger than he looks.” Anne blushed becomingly.

“Why, Anne!” Nan pretended to be shocked.

In truth, she
was
a trifle surprised. It was abundantly clear from the way Anne had leapt to Will Herbert’s defense, and the dreamy look that came into her eyes when she said his name, that she was in love with Master William Herbert. Nan remembered then that Cat had told her Anne was likely to be the next maid of honor to wed.

“Tell me about him,” Nan prompted. “Who is he? What are his prospects?”

“He is Welsh. His father was an earl’s bastard, but that does not mean much in Wales.”

“Still—”

“Will has made a career for himself here at court. But that is not important, either. Oh, Nan—he cares for me as deeply as I do for him. We plan to marry.”

Nan opened her mouth to point out that if neither of them had any money, they would have nothing upon which to live. At the last moment, she held her tongue. Of all the maids of honor, Anne had been the only one to go out of her way to show kindness to a newcomer. Romantic love always made people do stupid things. That was why Nan was determined to avoid its pitfalls in her own life. But voicing that opinion would only annoy Anne and do nothing to change her mind about marrying Will Herbert.

Linking arms with her friend, Nan commenced to stroll. They made one circuit of the room, then another, as Anne continued to laud Will’s virtues. On the third, their paths crossed that of the king.

“Mistress Bassett,” King Henry said as both women sank into deep curtsies. “I trust you have settled into your new position without difficulty.”

Her head almost touching the floor, Nan murmured, “I have, Your Grace. Your Grace is most kind to ask.”

Ignoring Anne Parr, the king tugged Nan to her feet and kept hold of her hand once she was standing. Smiling down at her, he tucked her arm through his and began a slow promenade. Everyone they passed bowed low. To Nan, it seemed almost as if they were bowing to her. Was this what it was like for Queen Jane? Nan took particular delight in seeing Mary Zouche and Jane Arundell dip their heads.

“We are most indebted to your lady mother,” the king said as he began a second circuit of the chamber. “Her gifts are always a delight.”

“She is pleased to be of service, Your Majesty.”

“She would have liked to place both you and your sister with the queen, I think.”

“She wishes to see all of us well provided for,” Nan temporized.

“Tell me, Nan, did you leave many suitors behind in Calais?”

“None, Your Majesty. And even if I had, how could they compare to the lords at Your Grace’s court?” The king’s genial manner had dispelled Nan’s nervousness but this question set off warning bells. Did he have some personal reason for asking? That His Grace seemed extraordinarily pleased by this answer caused a frisson of alarm to snake through her. She was flattered by the king’s attention, but by custom he would not return to his wife’s bed for some weeks yet, not until after she was churched—purified by a special church service. If His Grace’s interest
was
amorous in nature, Nan had no idea how to respond. She had come to court to find a husband, not a lover. She’d not set out to seduce the king, either, but only to charm him into looking favorably on any request she might make on her mother’s behalf.

Nan’s heart speeded up, beating far too loudly. She was certain the king could hear it. She felt heat creep into her cheeks and her palms began to sweat. She did not know if her reaction came from attraction or trepidation but suspected it was a little of both.

When they passed the queen’s daybed, Nan darted a glance that way. At once, she wished she had not. Queen Jane’s glare did not bode well, nor did the suspicious expression on Mary Zouche’s square-jawed face.

T
HROUGHOUT
E
NGLAND, AND
even as far away as Calais, bells pealed and bonfires blazed in honor of the new prince. But on the afternoon of the day after the christening, Queen Jane fell ill. By Wednesday morning, her ladies were deeply concerned.

“What ails Her Grace?” Nan asked, waylaying her cousin Mary, the Countess of Sussex, as Mary passed through the privy chamber.

“Is it childbed fever?” Mary Zouche voiced the question all of them had already asked themselves.

“It may be.” The countess’s tear-ravaged features and bleak expression made her look a decade older. “I am sent to fetch the king’s personal physicians.”

Queen Jane rallied on Thursday. The king went ahead with the investiture ceremony that created Edward Seymour, Queen Jane’s elder brother, Earl of Hertford, and knighted the younger, Thomas Seymour.

On Friday evening, while celebrations of Prince Edward’s birth continued throughout the realm, the queen became feverish once again. Delirium followed, growing steadily worse on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

Nan did not hold out much hope that the queen would recover. She knew full well how often women died after childbirth. And if Queen Jane died, her household would be disbanded. Without a queen, there was no need for maids of honor. Nan would be obliged to leave the court before she’d had the opportunity to enjoy any of its pleasures.

Despondent, she sought solitude in one of the palace gardens. At last she was free to go wherever she would at Hampton Court. Much good it did her! With the queen dying, no wealthy, titled nobleman would dare be seen flirting with one of the maids of honor. They must all be respectful and sorrowful and wear long faces.

Nan kicked a stone out of her way and watched it bounce into the shrubbery. She wanted to scream in frustration. She might have given in to the impulse had she not suddenly realized that she was not alone amid the flower beds and topiary work.

As King Henry approached, trailed by his usual escort of gentlemen and guards, Nan dropped into a curtsy. She expected His Grace to pass by. Instead, he stopped in front of her, hesitated a moment, and then ordered his attendants to fall back to give him privacy.

“Walk with me,” the king commanded.

For several minutes, he said nothing more. The only sound was the crunch of their leather-shod feet on the gravel path. But when they reached a small, ornate bridge over a man-made pond, the king stopped to look down at her, his face a study in consternation.

“How does Queen Jane fare today, Mistress Bassett?”

Nan hesitated. It was not wise to tell a king something he did not want to hear, but lying would avail her nothing. “No better, Your Grace.”

“I had intended to return to Esher on the morrow,” he murmured, “but I cannot find it in my heart to leave her.”

It was on the tip of Nan’s tongue to tell the king that he should visit his wife, but she did not dare be that bold. She remembered what Anne Parr had said about King Henry’s aversion to sickness of any kind. If His Grace could not abide being near anyone who was ill, she did not suppose he’d have much tolerance for deathbed vigils.

“She gave me a son.”

“Yes, Your Grace. A beautiful boy.”

“She has done her duty.”

Nan was not sure how to respond to that statement. It was almost as if the king thought Queen Jane might as well go ahead and die, now that she had provided him with his much-desired male heir.

Abruptly, King Henry bid Nan adieu and left her there on the bridge. She heard him call for his escort and then he was out of sight, behind a hedge. Her mind awash with confusion, she fled back to the queen’s apartments.

L
ESS THAN TWO
weeks after giving birth to Prince Edward, two days after Nan’s encounter with King Henry in the garden, Queen Jane tragically died. The king left Hampton Court as soon as he was told of her passing. Grief? Nan wondered as she watched His Grace’s departure for Windsor Castle from an upper window. King Henry was all in blue, the color English royalty wore for mourning, but that signified nothing.

Nan was not certain what she felt, either, other than a sense of being set adrift with neither compass nor rudder. She had no idea what would happen to her next. She might be sent back to the Pale of Calais, England’s last tiny stronghold on the Continent. Or she could be offered a position in some noble household. That would be better than returning to her mother, but not as good as being at court. A tear trickled down her cheek as she contemplated all she had lost.

Cousin Mary came to stand beside her. Her eyes were red and
swollen and her voice was husky. “Come, Nan. Seamstresses await us in my chamber.”

Nan sighed and followed her. “I suppose we must all wear black for mourning.”

“Not only that, but there are very particular rules for those who rank above a knight’s wife.”

Nan pretended to be interested, but her mind was fuzzy with weariness, her wits clouded with disappointment. She caught only bits of her cousin’s discourse, something about a mantle, a surcoat, and a plain hood, all in black, over a Paris headdress and a pleated white linen barbe that would cover Mary’s chin as well as the front of her neck. Nan thought longingly of the new lion tawny velvet gown and the satin one—a lovely crimson shade—that Master Husee had so diligently procured for her. It would be months now before she’d be able to wear either.

Cousin Mary was smiling ruefully when Nan’s attention returned to her cousin. “I am glad I am not a duchess,” Mary said with a wry chuckle. “The greater the rank, the longer the train.”

“Am I to have a train?” Nan asked.

“You have not heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Sounding exasperated, Cousin Mary pushed open the door to her own chamber. “Knights’ wives and gentlewomen of the household must wear surcoats with moderate front trains and no mantles.”

“And what is a surcoat?” She was not familiar with the term.

“It is an old-fashioned garment such as they wore in the days of King Edward IV. It is made like a close-bodied gown.”

Inside the countess’s rooms, a servant was just closing the window and preparing to drape it in black cloth. The maids had already packed away Mary’s usual assortment of colorful clothing.

The tears that sprang into Nan’s eyes were heartfelt, as were her whispered words: “It is most unfair that Queen Jane should die.”

The queen’s lying-in-state began on the day following her death. For a week, she lay in her own Presence Chamber, where her ladies took
turns keeping vigil day and night. Then, on the last day of October, the body was taken by torchlight to the Chapel Royal, where it would remain until the twelfth of November, when it would be transported to Windsor Castle for the funeral and burial. The queen’s ladies continued to keep vigil during the day, but now gentlemen took their places at night.

On the last day of that duty, Lady Rutland took Cat Bassett aside. “I have asked Master Corbett to escort you to Rutland House in Shoreditch,” the countess said. “I will join you there as soon as the queen’s household is officially dispersed.”

“But why, my lady?” Cat asked in alarm. “Have I offended you?”

“Not at all, my dear. But you lack the proper clothing to accompany the funeral cortege to Windsor Castle.” As the third gentlewoman serving the Countess of Rutland when she was only supposed to keep two ladies-in-waiting at court, Cat had not been provided with mourning by the Crown.

“What will happen to my sister?” Cat asked. “Where is Nan to go?”

“Lady Sussex will house her for the time being, just as I will continue to look out for you. You know already that your mother has been seeking a position for you in the household of the Duchess of Suffolk. The Countess of Hertford is another possibility. So is the Lady Mary. Never fear. In time, you and Nan will both find good places.”

“I would rather remain with you than serve another,” Cat said.

Lady Rutland patted her cheek with one plump hand. “You are a sweet child. Now, go and pack your belongings and be ready to depart on the morrow just as soon as the funeral cortege leaves Hampton Court.”

Cat did as she was told. At five o’clock the next morning—a full two hours before dawn—she stood next to Ned Corbett to watch Queen Jane leave Hampton Court for the last time.

Guards, household officers, officials, and a hundred paupers came first, followed by noblemen, ambassadors, heralds, and gentlemen of the court, some of them holding banners aloft. Six lords rode, three on a side, with the chariot that contained the queen’s casket. It was drawn by six
horses with black trappings beneath a canopy of black velvet fringed with black silk and decorated with a white satin cross.

The queen’s effigy was prominently displayed on top of the casket, clothed in robes of state and holding a scepter in a hand that had real rings on the fingers. There were golden shoes on its feet and the head wearing the crown rested on a golden pillow.

More noblemen came next, then the Lady Mary. As chief mourner, she was mounted on a horse trapped with black velvet. The king would not take part in any of the ceremonies. According to custom, a husband did not attend the funeral of his wife.

Some of the ladies and gentlewomen of the court had gone ahead to Windsor, but all those who had not—and who had proper mourning garments—followed the king’s daughter in the procession. Some were on horseback. Others rode in black chariots. Lady Sussex and Lady Rutland both had places in the first one. Nan sat inside the fifth and last chariot with some of the other maids of honor. Cat had a clear view of her sister’s ravaged face, staring straight ahead.

“She has been deeply affected by the queen’s death,” Cat murmured.

“Indeed,” Ned agreed. “She did not plan for this.”

Cat frowned at his tone, but his expression was properly somber. When the last of the cortege had passed by, he took her arm and led her to the water stairs where a boat waited to take them downriver.

Ned said little during their journey on the Thames. Cat found herself remembering the last death to touch her closely, that of her father when she was only nine years old. For Cat’s mother, the loss of a spouse had meant she must find a new husband, someone who could help her provide dowries for four daughters and two stepdaughters and find employment for two younger sons. Once upon a time, one of the boys and one or more of the girls would have gone into the church. After King Henry’s break with Rome, that had no longer been a choice. These days becoming a nun or a Catholic priest meant living in exile, branded a traitor, like Lord Lisle’s cousin, Cardinal Pole. One by one, the monasteries and nunneries were being closed. Soon there would be none left in England.