Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (58 page)

“I will be her obedient servant in all things, Master Husee. She will never have further cause to despair of me.” Nan put every ounce of sincerity she could muster into the pledge and silently prayed she would be able to keep her word.

The next few months would be the most difficult. The midwife had told her that her baby would be born toward the end of August. Until then, with the help of tight lacing of undergarments and loose clothing for outerwear, she had to deceive everyone into thinking she suffered from nothing more serious than a spate of debilitating megrims. She’d be spending a great deal of time alone in a darkened room, but it would be worth the effort. No one would suspect that she was with child and, in the end, she would have her life back.

As touching Mrs. Anne Basset, it is showed me that she is well amended. I will see her, by God’s grace, within this four days, and declare unto her your ladyship’s full pleasure.

—John Husee to Lady Lisle, 27 September 1538

6

On a bright mid-June morning, perfect for hunting partridge, a small party rode out of the town of Calais. When Mistress Philippa Bassett had insisted upon bringing her sister Mary along, Clement Philipott had asked Ned Corbett to come with them to keep the younger girl occupied.

Ned had agreed willingly enough. He even had a merlin perched on his forearm, ready to fly, although he did not much care for the sport. Trailing behind came two servants on mules. Their packs contained food and drink for an informal midday meal in the fields. The Pale of Calais did not encompass a huge area, but it was more than sufficient for their purposes.

Ned slanted a glance at Mary Bassett as they rode through the countryside beyond the wall. She was just sixteen, a bit more than a year younger than Nan. She was just as pretty, perhaps more so, although she was still too pale. Mary had been plagued by intermittent fevers even after being returned to her mother’s care in March, but at the moment she seemed in good health as well as high spirits.

Ned urged his horse a bit closer to her palfrey and spoke in a low voice. “Shall we endeavor to give them a bit of privacy?” He inclined his head in the direction of their two companions. “Philpott would appreciate an opportunity to speak with your sister alone.”

“As you wish.” Mary’s voice was low and well modulated and reminded him of Nan’s.

They reined in atop a grassy knoll to watch Philpott fly his merlin. Mary signaled for two servants to follow when he and Philippa rode after it. Then she turned curious eyes on Ned.

“Did you come along to distract me? It will not make any difference, you know. Philippa will not have him. She thinks Clement Philpott is a silly ass.”

Ned swallowed a laugh. “Lord Lisle must have been of another opinion or he’d not have brought Philpott here.”

“My stepfather had not met him. He relied upon the opinions of his friends in England.” She seemed confident that her sister would not be forced into marriage with someone she could not like. Ned hoped Mary’s innocent faith in Lord Lisle was not misplaced. Philpott was, if not an ass, at least a sheep, easily led and credulous.

Urging his horse onward, they rode in the direction Philpott’s bird had flown, keeping their progress at a crawl. Ned idly stroked the merlin he had borrowed from Lord Lisle’s mews. It shifted restlessly on his gauntleted fist, anxious to take wing. “All in good time,” Ned murmured.

At his side, Mary Bassett seemed lost in thought. He studied her, trying to recall the little he knew about her. She’d spent nearly four years living with the de Bours family. Madame de Bours was now a widow, Nicholas de Montmorency, seigneur de Bours, having died
during the time Mary lived in his household. The de Bours lands were near Abbeville, but the family often visited Pont de Remy, a few miles farther along the river, where Nan had once lived in the household of Madame de Bours’s brother, the Sieur de Riou.

At the thought of Nan, Ned’s grip tightened on the reins and the big gelding he rode shied, startling the merlin.

“I do not want to go to England,” Mary said abruptly.

Ned stared at her in surprise. “You would be in the service of a countess, at the least. Scarcely a hardship. And if the king marries again, as they say he will, you could be a maid of honor to his new queen.” The current rumors had several French noblewomen in the running, along with Christina of Milan.

“But England is so far away.” Mary’s heartfelt sigh and the expression of deep longing on her face made the reason for her reluctance as clear as day.

“A Frenchman, I presume?”

“How did you—?” Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with alarm.

Ned chuckled. Mary was too open and honest to be able to hide her feelings. Her vulnerability made him feel oddly protective. “You can trust me, Mistress Mary. I’ll not betray you.”

His reward was a brilliant smile. “I love him, Master Corbett. He is the other half of myself. I knew it from the moment we first met, the very day I arrived at his father’s house.”

“Gabriel de Montmorency?” The young man had become seigneur de Bours upon his father’s death.

She nodded. “When he has established himself at the French court, he will ask to marry me.”

Ned raised a skeptical eyebrow. Was Mary deluding herself? If the young man truly wished to have her for his wife, he should already have spoken to Lord Lisle.

“He sent me these sleeves.” Mary ran a hand over the soft yellow velvet. “And another pair in linen with cuffs of gold.”

“Very generous gifts.” But not necessarily those of a man interested in marriage.

“I had nothing so lovely to give in return,” she confided, “but I did send him a silk flower and he wrote to say that he looks at it hourly and thinks of me.”

“You sent a flower and he returned flowery words.”

Oblivious to his sarcasm, Mary rambled on, revealing that she kept her love letters in a box in her chamber. Her face came alive when she spoke of her suitor.

Ned flew the merlin and let her go on talking. She seemed grateful that he did not react like a typical Englishman, with prejudice against anything French.

She was a foolish young woman to speak so freely to him when she did not know him well enough to be certain he would not betray her secret to her mother and stepfather. She’d taken him at his word. Something about Mary Bassett’s naive faith in him touched Ned’s heart. He wanted her to stay as sweet and innocent as she was now. He even hoped that, someday, she would find the happiness she dreamed of with her Frenchman.

N
AN SHIFTED RESTLESSLY
on the bed, unable to find a comfortable position. The heat and humidity of an afternoon in late August invaded the chamber, increasing her misery. Her hair hung in limp, damp snarls and she did not have the energy to shove it away from her sweat-streaked face.

Her time was near. Soon this torment would be over. She knew she should not complain. Through the misfortune of others, she had been granted her dearest wish. No one but Kate and Constance were aware that Anne Bassett, once and future maid of honor to the queen of England, was about to give birth to a bastard child.

They had the house to themselves, save for the servants and the midwife. Cousin Mary had gone up the Thames by barge to the earl’s house at Mortlake, eight miles distant from London. Mary had been
too distraught, and too anxious to see her son, who had been sent to Mortlake soon after his birth, to argue when Nan insisted she must remain behind in order to meet Lord and Lady Lisle when they landed at Dover.

Mary had conceived a second time within weeks of her churching, then lost the child to a miscarriage. She had very nearly died herself. Nan wished no harm to anyone, but Mary’s second pregnancy and its tragic outcome had been fortuitous. In their concern over the countess’s health, no one had paid the least attention to Nan’s burgeoning belly.

Nan had not put on a great deal of weight, the way some women did. She had been able to hide most of the bulk by letting out her kirtles and wearing loose-bodied gowns. She’d claimed to have a stomach complaint, along with her megrims, and therefore could not abide tight lacing. No one had questioned the lie, no more than they did her claim that the summer heat was the cause of her frequent headaches. Nan had kept to her chamber, out of sight, for a considerable portion of the last five months.

She only wished she had also been lying when she’d said her mother and stepfather were coming to England. They were due to arrive any day and Lady Lisle had ordered Nan to Dover to meet them. Cat had also been summoned and would travel there in the company of the Earl and Countess of Rutland.

“There must be some way to hurry this child along,” she gasped as Constance wiped beads of perspiration from her brow with a damp cloth.

“I have told you before,” Mother Gristwood said, “that I do not use potions to bring on labor.”

Nan subsided. The midwife might be the best in London—that was why Cousin Mary had selected her and why Mother Gristwood had moved into Sussex House a full month before little Henry’s birth—but Nan was not certain she trusted the woman. They had long since abandoned the fiction that she was “Constance Ware” and a servant. Mother Gristwood knew everything except the identity of the baby’s father.

In spite of the heat, Nan shivered. Her position was perilous and
would continue to be until her baby was safely delivered to one Barnabas Carver and his wife. Mother Gristwood had found this childless couple and maintained that they would make excellent parents for Nan’s child, but she would not permit Nan to meet them.

Master Carver was a London silversmith, well respected and well to do. The arrangements were all in place. Mistress Carver would answer a knock and discover a foundling on her doorstep. After a brief and fruitless search for the person who had abandoned the child, the Carvers would adopt the baby. He would be christened James. Or Jane, if she was a girl.

My
son, Nan thought.
My
daughter.

She struggled to sit up, her thoughts in turmoil. She did not want to give the child away. Her baby had been a part of her for many long months. She had felt it kick, sensed its life force.

“There has to be a way,” she muttered as pain lanced through her body. Another sort of agony tore at her heart when she thought of never seeing her baby grow up, never knowing what kind of person he or she became.

After the contraction passed, Nan turned her head to stare at the midwife. Her vision blurred with tears. “There has to be a way to remain part of my child’s life. There has to be. A godmother—”

“Nan! Such foolishness!” Kate Stradling’s voice came from the other side of the bed. Nan had all but forgotten she was there. As usual, her cousin was hard at work on a piece of embroidery. She had not spoken for hours. “You cannot be associated with the Carvers in any way lest there be suspicion that you have some connection to their foundling.”

“I could pretend to be Constance.” Nan kept her eyes on the midwife, hoping for some encouragement.

Mother Gristwood shook her head. “I have told you before, Mistress Nan. We must take great care with your secret. Women who give birth out of wedlock face public humiliation. They are whipped, and worse. And the punishment is even more severe if they will not name the child’s father.”

“But that is only if a bastard is likely to become a burden on the community,” Nan objected. “That is not the case here.”

“The law does not differentiate. That is why midwives are charged with the task of learning the paternity of every illegitimate child they deliver.”

Nan scowled at her. “Since you have promised not to betray me, you have no need to know.”

Mother Gristwood permitted herself a small smile. “Consider it part of the payment for my silence.”

“So that you may then extort money and favors from me for the rest of my life? I do not think so!”

Another contraction prevented further speech. By the time it passed, Nan had reluctantly accepted that she could not serve as her child’s godmother, a role that would require her appearance at the christening to vow that the child would receive a Christian upbringing.

A stool scraped the floor as it was dragged close to the bed. Kate rearranged her skirts and squinted at her embroidery. Since no one was supposed to know that Nan was with child, her bedchamber had not been turned into a dark cave. Sunlight poured in through the open window, but so did hot, moist air.

“Master Husee was here this morning,” Kate said. “He is not best pleased with you. He arrived expecting to escort you to Dover to meet your mother.”

“You told him I was confined to bed with a megrim?”

“I did. And he told me the latest news from court. Negotiations for King Henry to wed Christina of Milan are still limping along, but no one now believes that marriage will come about. A French match does not seem any more likely. Christina’s uncle, Emperor Charles the Fifth, and the king of France have formed an alliance. As a result of their treaty, neither one will give the king of England what he wants in a marriage settlement.” Kate gave Nan’s belly a speaking glance. “Just as well.”

Oh, yes, Nan thought glumly. She was fortunate. As much as she
wanted to return to court, she could not risk being seen in her present condition. She’d been relieved when King Henry had gone on progress in mid-July. The entire court would be on the move, visiting southern ports, until sometime in September. Unfortunately, His Grace had arranged to meet this week with her stepfather in Dover. Her mother had seen this as an excellent opportunity to bring two of her daughters to the king’s attention. Curse Ned Corbett! But for him, she’d be in Dover now, flirting with the king of England, perhaps even winning him away from his current mistress.

The next pain hit with agonizing force, leaving no room for any thought beyond the torment of giving birth. Punishment for Eve’s sin, the preachers said. She was supposed to suffer. Whether from compassion or from the desire to keep the few Sussex servants who remained in London from hearing Nan’s screams, Mother Gristwood dosed her with poppy syrup before she moved her to the birthing chair.