Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (64 page)

“Of the benefits of charity, no doubt.” Botolph leaned back against the wall, cradling his flagon between his hands. “All of Lord Hussey’s lands and goods and chattels were seized by the Crown, even clothing and jewelry.”

“With Lord Hussey dead and his title forfeit,” Philpott mused, “his daughters will have been left destitute. Why else would a baron’s daughter enter the service of a mere viscountess?”

“Still,” Botolph mused, “if the old order is ever restored to England, the man married to Mary Hussey would have a claim to her father’s title.”

Briefly, Ned wondered if Botolph imagined Cardinal Pole leading an army against King Henry. Then he decided that the priest was simply amusing himself by baiting their credulous friend. It would not be the first time Botolph had led Philpott into expressing seditious sentiments. Had one of Lord Cromwell’s spies been present to overhear, they’d both have been under arrest for heresy. It was neither wise nor safe to speculate about the return of the Catholic Church to England.

“I do feel sorry for the girl,” Philpott allowed. “Imagine being at Lady Lisle’s beck and call!”

“Sorry enough to marry her?” Botolph asked.

Philpott looked tempted. He scratched his beard, took another swig of ale, and studied the stained and cracked boards of the table. Then he sighed. “So long as any taint of treason clings to her, there is too much risk that it will attach itself to whatever man she marries.”

Botolph took a long swallow of ale and gave Philpott a considering look. Ned could tell he had some further deviltry in mind. “Ah, well,” he said as the sounds of a scuffle reached them from the far side of the tavern, “without a dowry to attract a husband, I doubt she expects to be honorably wed. I wonder if she would accept a suitable gentleman as her protector? She’d make an excellent mistress, would she not?”

Philpott brightened at this suggestion. With Botolph egging him on, he began proposing schemes, each more preposterous than the last, to get Mary Hussey into his bed.

As if, Ned thought, any girl in her right mind would settle for
Clement Philpott as either lover or husband. Ned barely knew the girl, but he hoped, for her sake, that she had higher standards than that.

He was about to say so when what had merely been a noisy dispute over a reckoning suddenly erupted into a fistfight. When a stool sailed past Ned’s head, nearly clipping his ear, he came to his feet with a bellow. His two companions beside him, he waded into the fray. He had no idea which side anyone was on. It did not matter. He threw punches with indiscriminate abandon. To Ned’s mind, there was no better way to end a night at the Rose than a full-scale tavern brawl.

A
FEW DAYS
later, in the second week of June, Ned stood in front of the Mewtas house, staring at the overhanging upper stories. Sun glinted off dozens of clear windowpanes, proof of the owner’s wealth and position. Still, it was a small place compared to Sussex House, and Peter Mewtas and his wife had pedigrees no more exalted than Ned’s own. Why was Nan living with them? If John Husee had the right of it, her decision to stay on in Tower Street had caused a rift with the Countess of Sussex. What advantage had there been to Nan in alienating her greatest benefactor?

He’d never find out by standing in the street. Squaring his shoulders, Ned marched up to the door. He was admitted by a servant and shown into an upstairs room. He stopped short at the sight of Nan, seated in a Glastonbury chair, positioned so that the sun bathed her in light and picked out the golden highlights in her light brown hair.

“Mistress Nan,” he said, inclining his head. “You look … radiant.”

“Master Ned.” A faint smile lifted her lips and her eyes were so merry that he suspected she’d watched his arrival through the window and arranged herself in that sunbeam on purpose to disconcert him.

She seemed more self-assured than when he’d last seen her, although she’d never lacked for confidence in herself. Her clothing was expensive, but not ostentatious. Only one gemstone glinted on her fingers, but it was a very fine ruby. He wondered who had given it to her.

“I have letters for you from Calais.” He handed them over and watched her set them aside, along with her needlework.

“Have you already delivered messages to Cat?”

“Not yet. Shall I give her your regards?”

Nan’s eyes abruptly narrowed. “She is not for you, Ned Corbett. Leave her alone.”

“Jealous, Nan?” He took a step closer, trying to read her expression without success. “Cat has nothing to fear from me. You quite ruined me for lesser women, Nan. I tried. Believe me, I tried! But after being with you, I could not bring myself to court your sister.” Resentment crept into his tone. “She is an admirable woman, I am sure, but I could not stop comparing her to you. She lacks your spirit, your vitality, your allure.”

“What nonsense you talk!” But she looked pleased. She gestured toward a second chair. “Make yourself comfortable while I read these and decide if I must answer them today.”

She’d want him to write for her, he supposed. Instead of sitting, he circled the room, taking a closer look at his surroundings, seeing chairs where stools and benches were more usual. Turkey carpets had been placed on the tops of tables, but also on the floor, a great extravagance. And an exquisite piece of arras work depicting the fall of Troy hung on one wall.

Sounds from the street drifted in—the cries of hawkers, the squeak of cartwheels, and the clatter of hooves—but the house itself was silent. “Where are your chaperones?” he asked abruptly. Aside from the servant who’d admitted him, there seemed to be no one else in residence.

“I do not have any. That is one of the reasons I enjoy living here.”

“Not even the faithful Constance?”

Nan looked up from the letter she was reading. “Constance is somewhere about. I do not require someone in constant attendance upon me.”

Ned examined an ornate clock given pride of place on a sideboard. “Whatever Master Mewtas does for the king, it pays well,” he murmured.

Nan gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged and continued his perambulation, stopping to study a
portrait hung atop a second, smaller tapestry. Master Holbein’s work, he thought. “You know already,” he said absently, admiring the realistic look of the sitter.

“If you mean that absurd story Mother told me, about Peter Mewtas being sent to assassinate Cardinal Pole—”

“Oh, it’s quite true.” Ned had heard the tale firsthand at the Rose.

“Even if it is, the plot failed. Cardinal Pole is still alive and very much a thorn in King Henry’s side. You must not paint my friend’s husband as a hired killer, Ned. He is a gentle, considerate man, and he is high in the king’s favor.”

“And that, as we both know, is all that matters.” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice.

Nan caught his arm as he passed her chair. “Dear Ned. I am sorrier than you know that we have no future together, but it is far too late for me to change my course.”

“Is it?” He was not entirely sure what she meant, but the reminder of what they’d once shared spurred him to action. He hauled her up out of the chair and into his arms and kissed her before she could protest.

At the first touch of his lips to hers, he realized he’d been deceiving himself to think he’d accepted her rejection and moved on. He should have known he still wanted Nan and no other. Why else would he have failed to pursue Nan’s sisters?

As for Nan, she responded with all the fervor Ned remembered. But the first rush of passion did not last. He felt her lips compress under his mouth, firming into a thin, hard line. She squirmed, attempting to break his hold, and pushed at his chest with both hands. When he did not release her at once, she stomped on his foot.

As abruptly as he’d embraced her, Ned let her go. Nan stumbled backward a few steps, her French hood askew and the fine linen partlet at her throat rucked up where his fingers had been at it. Her hands shook as she hastily put herself to rights.

“We must never do that again,” she whispered.

“Why not? You enjoyed it … until you remembered that I have neither wealth nor title.” He reached for her.

She shied away. “Ned, stop. Please.”

More than the words, the catch in her voice and the shimmer of incipient tears in her eyes kept him silent. He turned away from her, striding to the window to put some distance between them. His fist struck the casement hard enough to bruise his knuckles and he welcomed the pain. Anything to distract him from the fact that he’d just made a fool of himself.

Nothing had changed. She was still set on her path. His lips twisted into a wry smile. He’d probably not be so attracted to her if she’d been any different. He turned to find her watching him with wary eyes.

“There’s something you should know, Ned.”

“Go on.”

“The king … the king has singled me out. Even if I wished to … be with you again, I would not dare show you any special favor. For your own safety. The king does not like to share.”

“The king? King Henry?” He had not expected this.

Her lips twitched. “Have we some other king I do not know about? Yes, King Henry. He has had his eye on me since I first came to court.” Defiant now, she tossed her head and stood with her arms folded across her chest, daring him to criticize.

“So, you are his mistress.”

“Strangely, I am not. Not yet.” She dropped her arms and her gaze, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“But you’re willing.” It was not a question. One did not refuse the king.

Nan drew in a deep breath. “There is much to be gained from being in the king’s favor. He gave me this.” She showed him the ruby and enamel ring she wore. “And this.” From a velvet purse suspended from her belt, she withdrew a miniature portrait of the king. “And he presented me with a palfrey and a saddle because I had no horse of my own to ride with him to hunt.”

“And where is the king now?” Ned demanded. “Why are you not at his side?” He knew part of the answer already. King Henry was off on his annual summer progress.

“I have encouraged His Grace to court me,” Nan said, “but not to claim me.” Again, she sighed.

“It is not like you to be indecisive.” Ned was beginning to lose patience with her. Did she want to bed the king or not? And if she was not as ambitious as he’d supposed, then what did she want?

“You
want
me to become his mistress?” She sounded incredulous.

Ned forced himself to think logically. He had always been good at separating self-interest from sentiment. Ordinarily, Nan was, too. And although he had not realized it at the time, when they’d been together he’d treated her as a friend as well as a lover. It was the friend she needed now. It could not be easy waiting upon the whim of the most powerful—and most dangerous—man in England.

“I am willing to let His Grace have you for a little while.” He grinned at her. “When he tires of you, I’ll still be here.”

He could tell she thought he was jesting. His declaration coaxed a smile from her. Let her believe what she would, Ned decided.

“Know I wish you well,” he said, “whatever you do. And now, if you wish to dictate a letter to Calais, my pen is yours to command.”

N
AN DID NOT
pretend to understand why Ned Corbett suddenly wanted to be her friend, but she was happy to make a place for him in her life. Although she doubted that she would ever trust him enough to tell him about his son, she could talk to him about everything else, from the foibles of her family in Calais to her desperate need to regain her place at the royal court.

He stopped in again the next time he was in London, the only bright spot in the long weeks while the king was on progress. He made no more attempts to kiss her. They simply talked. He told her of the rivalries and feuds that were a daily part of life in the lord deputy’s household—particularly the animosity between Sir Gregory Botolph
and the other chaplains—and somehow made it all seem lighthearted and amusing.

At last, in early August, Nan, together with Jane Mewtas and a great number of other ladies and gentlewomen, was invited to travel to Portsmouth to view the royal fleet. The expedition required four days of travel—London to Guildford, Guildford to Alton, Alton to Winchester, Winchester to Portsmouth. Nan spent the entire time in a state of nervous anticipation. She was sure of her goal now. She could not tolerate being away from court, ignored and forgotten. Just as soon as she could manage it, she meant to become King Henry’s mistress.

But the king did not join his guests on their tour of several great warships. He was not even in Portsmouth. He had arranged the expedition as a “treat” for them.

“I do not understand why men are so fascinated by ships,” Nan grumbled. “There are many things I would find far more interesting than boarding one great, lumbering vessel after another.”

They stood at the rail of the
Harry Grace à Dieu,
the largest of the king’s warships. At least the view was impressive. Across the Solent, the Isle of Wight rose up out of the water. Nan could make out fortifications, but most of the place appeared to be forested. She wondered what it would be like to live on an island that small.

A stiff breeze carried the scent of lavender along with the smells of the sea and ships, warning Nan of the approach of King Henry’s former mistress. Margaret Skipwith, Lady Talboys, was wont to drench herself in that perfume, one Nan had once been fond of herself. Jane glanced over her shoulder, saw Margaret, and quickly ceded her place at the rail.

“I suppose you think it a great honor,” Margaret said in a low voice that reached no farther than Nan’s ear.

Nan kept her gaze on the distant shoreline. “It was kind of His Grace to arrange this outing for us.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw fury race across Margaret’s face as Nan deliberately misinterpreted her
comment. Just in case the other woman contemplated pushing her overboard, Nan tightened her grip on the rail.

“You will not suit him at all. He does not like women who are too tall.” Margaret was several inches shorter than Nan.

“From what I have observed, he likes women of all sizes and shapes.”