Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (67 page)

“She will be pleased to do so, Your Grace.” Conserves were far easier to come by than quails. “I wonder, Your Grace, if there might be a post in the new queen’s household for my sister, perhaps as a chamberer, or—”

She broke off when the king suddenly turned a ghastly shade of white and clutched at his leg.

“Your Grace?” She scrambled to her feet, reaching out, then pulling back as Tom Culpepper, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, rushed to the king’s aid.

“Best leave me now, Nan.” King Henry spoke through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow. “When these cramps start, they can continue for hours.”

Nan curtsyed and hastily backed out of the room, grateful she was not the one who had to tend that gross and misshapen ulcerated leg.

O
N
T
HURSDAY, THE
eleventh day of December, Lord Lisle led the Calais Spears and the members of his own retinue to the boundary of the
Pale of Calais. Queen Anna was on her way from Gravelines, just across the border in Flanders, to Calais. She was said to be traveling with a train of 263 attendants and 228 horses, which no doubt accounted for the extreme slowness of her progress from Cleves.

The Spears were all in velvet coats with gold chains. Members of Lord Lisle’s household wore livery of red and blue. As Ned trudged along, he tugged on the hem of his coat. It had been made in haste and did not quite fit. He did not know why he cared. He’d be covered with dust before they reached the meeting place. What bothered him more was that he did not have a horse to ride. After all, he
was
a gentleman.

Clement Philpott marched next to him, a martyred expression on his long, thin face. But neither sore feet nor an ill-fitting coat were responsible for Philpott’s grim demeanor. Sir Gregory Botolph, out of pure deviltry, had convinced him that Lord Lisle planned to arrange a marriage for him with a gentlewoman of Cleves. Philpott, who had never given up “the true religion,” was appalled by the thought of being joined for life with a Lutheran, even if she was a member of the new queen’s retinue.

At last they caught sight of Queen Anna’s device, two white swans. A short time later, Ned got his first good look at Anna of Cleves. She was not at all what he’d expected. She was reputed to be twenty-four years old, but she looked older. Beneath a pearl-embroidered caul and bonnet, her cream-colored skin was pitted with smallpox scars.

Those were only the first marks against her. By court standards, her complexion was nowhere near pale enough. To make matters worse, she had a high forehead, heavy-lidded eyes that were too far apart for true beauty, an extremely long and slightly bulbous nose, and a pointed chin. That she did not smile made Ned wonder about the condition of her teeth.

“I thought she was supposed to be a great beauty,” he whispered to Philpott. “If that is what the king is expecting, he’s in for a disappointment.”

Philpott said nothing. He was staring in horror at Queen Anna’s attendants. They all wore heavy, unflattering gowns cut in the Dutch
fashion, apparel that would have made them look dowdy even if they’d been beautiful. They were not.

After a series of short speeches, Lord Lisle signaled for the start of the return journey to Calais. About a mile from town, they encountered the special delegation sent by the king to escort his bride across the Narrow Seas. There were nearly four hundred people in all. The noblemen were attired in cloth-of-gold and purple velvet. Gentlemen wore coats of satin damask and velvet and some two hundred yeomen were in the king’s colors.

Following more speeches, the company marched into Calais, all except Ned and Philpott. They veered off just outside the walls and entered the Rose Tavern.

Ned spent the next few hours watching Philpott get prodigiously drunk and trying in vain to convince his friend that Botolph had only been jesting about a betrothal to one of the ugly Dutch maids.

T
HREE DAYS BEFORE
Christmas, Nan was at Whitehall. She had expected to be at Greenwich, part of the household of the new queen of England. Anna of Cleves, however, was still in Calais, although small boats continued to make the crossing, bringing letters and a scattering of less-important passengers. The queen and her retinue and the English dignitaries sent to escort them were unable to embark for England until the weather cooperated.

John Husee had brought a letter from Nan’s mother and stood ready to write down her reply. Nan still had not bothered to learn to write in English. The important things could not be put into letters anyway.

“I humbly thank your ladyship for the news of Her Grace,” Nan dictated, “that she is so good and gentle to serve and please.”

But Nan had already heard the rumors. Anna of Cleves was not quite as she had been represented. She continued for a few more sentences, allowed Husee to suggest a change of wording, and considered carefully what to say next. Lady Lisle, as always, had been generous with both advice and admonitions. She clearly suspected that Nan’s association with
the king had become more intimate. She did not approve, but neither was she above using her daughter’s influence.

“Thank her for her good and motherly counsel,” Nan instructed Husee, “concerning my continuance in the king’s favor, but tell her that I must be careful not to offend His Grace.”

Husee scribbled away. By the number of words he put down, she knew he was elaborating on what she’d told him to say.

“Inform her that King Henry enjoyed the conserves she sent him so much that he has commanded me to ask for more. She should send them as soon as may be.”

The scratch of quill on paper sounded loud in the quiet room, a small antechamber near the dormitory Nan shared with the other maids of honor.

“That is all I have to say at this time.”

Husee finished the letter and handed it over. Nan read what he had written, nodding her approval. Beneath the words “Your humble and obedient daughter,” she signed her name with a flourish.

Duty done, she dismissed Husee and went in search of amusement. So far the traditional Christmas festivities had been subdued, but an air of anticipation pervaded the court. Every courtier in the land seemed to have crowded into lodgings in the vicinity, ready, willing, and eager to celebrate the arrival of the new queen.

In all the confusion, Nan had managed to slip away on two occasions to visit her son in London. He was growing fast, and she still felt regret that she’d had to give him away, but she took comfort in knowing that the Carvers, who indulged her as a well-meaning acquaintance, loved him. He was happy and safe.

N
EW
Y
EAR’S
D
AY
was the traditional time to exchange gifts. After the king had received all his subjects’ offerings, he summoned Nan to keep him company. He was in a jubilant mood. Anna of Cleves had landed safely at Deal. After a delay of fifteen days in Calais, waiting on the wind and tide, the crossing had taken seventeen harrowing hours. Her Grace
had been met by the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk and escorted to Dover Castle for the night. In spite of bitter weather—high winds, hail, and sleet—she had set out for Canterbury the next day and would soon arrive at Greenwich.

But that was not the only reason for the king’s delight. Master Hans Holbein had given him a New Year’s gift that pleased him enormously. King Henry removed a portrait of two-year-old Prince Edward from its coffer of dark red velvet plated with copper and showed it to Nan.

“Is he not magnificent?” King Henry demanded.

“He is,” Nan agreed, uncertain whether the king meant the boy in the portrait or the genius who had painted him. The word described both.

The child’s likeness stared back at her with serious eyes. He was gorgeously, richly dressed. His face, shaded by a wide-brimmed hat with a feather, looked solemn, as befit a future king, but in one hand he held a golden rattle. Perhaps, Nan thought, she could suggest to Mistress Carver that they commission Master Holbein to paint a portrait of young Jamie. Then, in secret, she could obtain a copy for herself.

She was still considering the possibilities when a messenger arrived from Rochester. The queen had reached the last stop on her journey to Greenwich.

“You will see her soon, Your Grace,” Nan said. “At the formal reception.”

“I cannot wait that long,” the king declared. “I will go to her this very day.”

“The Lady Anna will be tired from her journey, Your Grace.” Anthony Denny’s brow was furrowed with a concern Nan shared. Surprising the bride was not a good idea, but neither was it wise to argue with the king. “By the time you reach Rochester, she may be abed.”

“Then I will wake her!” King Henry laughed, his enthusiasm not a whit diminished by the prospect. “Indeed, I will show her what an English welcome is like. I will go to her in disguise.”

Appalled, Nan started to protest, then caught herself. Neither she
nor any of the king’s gentlemen dared dissuade His Grace from one of his favorite jests. From the very beginning of his reign, King Henry had delighted in wearing masks and costumes. Although everyone recognized him immediately—his height alone gave him away—he continued to believe he kept his identity secret until he unmasked.

Members of the court went along with the ruse. When he revealed himself, they obligingly feigned surprise. No one wanted to disappoint the king—or worse, make him angry—by admitting that they knew who he was all along.

“We will all dress alike,” King Henry instructed his minions. “Those multicolored cloaks and hoods from last night’s masque will do. I will tell the queen that I am a messenger sent with gifts from the king.”

While the five gentlemen he selected to accompany him rushed off to assume their costumes and arrange for horses, the king turned to Nan. “I need a suitable gift. Something to nourish love. Help me select some bauble Her Grace will like.”

“Not jewelry, Sire,” Nan replied. “At this time of year and after the wretched weather Her Grace has endured to come to you, make her a gift of furs.”

“An excellent notion!” Without warning, King Henry picked Nan up and whirled her around, ending the embrace with an enthusiastic kiss as he set her on her feet again. “Ah, Nan,” the king asked, “what would I do without you?”

I have left her as good a maid as I found her.

—Henry VIII to Thomas Cromwell, 7 January 1540 (the morning after his wedding night)

10

His Majesty returned to Whitehall very late and very angry. The maids of honor could hear him from their dormitory, crashing about in the queen’s apartments and bellowing in rage. They could not make out his words, but no one was under any illusions about His Grace’s state of mind. Something had gone horribly wrong at Rochester. Left to her own devices, Nan would not have ventured out from behind the bed curtains. But the king sent Anthony Denny to fetch her.

“The king wants you, Nan.” Denny did not meet her eyes.

Nan took a step back. The cold tiles beneath her bare feet felt like ice, but that was not what made her shiver. “It is the middle of the night,” was the only faint protest she could think of to make.

“His Grace … needs you. Now.” His words carried the force of a command.

Nan drew in a steadying breath, wrapped her black satin nightgown—a robe the king himself had given her—more tightly around her, and followed Denny to one of the small, private rooms, newly decorated, that were part of the queen’s privy lodgings.

A fire burned in the hearth. Someone had brought bread and cheese and wine, which were laid out on a small table beside a chair. His Grace had not touched the food, but he had clearly been drinking, and heavily, too.

A few paces into the candlelit chamber, Nan tripped over one of the furs the king had taken as an offering to his bride. It was a richly garnished partlet of sable skins to be worn around the neck and throat. A furred muffler and cap also littered the floor, as if they’d been hurled down in a fit of temper. Nan wondered if His Grace blamed her for selecting the wrong gifts. Was that why he’d sent for her?

She dropped into a curtsy. Behind her, she heard the door close with an ominous thump. Anthony Denny had left her alone with the king.

Keeping her head bowed, Nan struggled to slow the frantic beating of her heart. Only by clasping her hands tightly together could she stop them from shaking.

“Rise, Nan, and come to me.” King Henry’s voice was hoarse with emotion. He stood at a window with his back to her. The renovated queen’s lodgings boasted a spectacular river view, even at night. “I did all this for her. Beauty and comfort.”

“Yes, Your Grace. These rooms are surpassing beautiful.” Desperate to divert and calm the king, she said the first thing that popped into her head: “And the décor is practical, too.”

“Practical?”

“Why, yes, Your Grace. While it is lovely to have plastered wooden floors, they are very cold at this time of year, but you have provided not just rushes, but rush matting woven in strips.” And sables, she
thought on a bubble of hysteria. One bare foot still crushed soft, silky fur.

The king considered the floor beneath their feet. Sections three strips wide, sewn together with twine, covered the entire room. “These are made in Southwark. I granted John Cradocke the monopoly for life. But I intended to put carpets on top of the mats for special occasions and there is nothing special—”

He broke off, shaking his head.

So much for trying to distract him. “Your Grace?”

He turned to her with almost pathetic eagerness, his eyes haunted. “She is not what I was promised, Nan. Nothing like. She is badly dressed and she speaks no English. Her face, far from being beautiful, is very brown in color and pitted with smallpox scars. And she has no charm of manner to make up for her want of beauty.”

This was bad. Very bad. Nan did the only thing she could think of. She moved closer to the king, put one hand on his velvet sleeve, and leaned against him so that her head rested on his shoulder. His arm came around her shoulders, clamping down so tightly that she winced. He did not notice.