Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (63 page)

“Cat!” With that exclamation of delight, Nan drained the last of the Malmsey from her goblet, tossed it carelessly aside, and rushed forward to embrace her sister.

Hugs from Anne, Jane, and Joan followed. They’d been imbibing freely and their greetings were effusive.

“Do you know Kathryn Latimer?” Nan asked, presenting Cat to a tiny woman smaller in stature than any of the others. “She is Anne’s sister.”

Dashing off to refill goblets, Nan abandoned them. Cat frowned. Her sister had always been exuberant, but there was a fevered quality about her now, a hectic energy that was not quite natural.

The conversation in the bedchamber ranged from new dance steps, to the fashion in hats, to the relative merits of various precious stones.

“I have a passion for jewels, especially diamonds,” Lady Latimer confessed.

“Rubies suit me better.” Nan held her right hand out in front of her, the better to admire the ring she wore on one finger. The ruby, mounted in white enamel, was an expensive bauble. Cat wondered who had given it to her sister.

“Jewelry is all very well,” Jane Mewtas said, “but I would trade a handful of emeralds to have Kathryn’s beautiful soft skin.”

“You need not impoverish yourself to learn my secret,” Kathryn said
with a chuckle. “Twice a week, I fill a leaden bathtub with milk and soak in it for an hour.”

Astonished cries greeted this revelation. Joan Denny looked alarmed. “If frequent immersion in water can endanger the health, surely it is even more of a risk to bathe in milk.”

“No harm has ever come to me,” Kathryn assured her, “although I have noticed that my new kitten seems extremely fond of me right after I emerge from the tub.”

Cat joined in the general laughter that followed, much taken with her new acquaintance. Kathryn Latimer was a little older than the others, and quieter. Especially when compared to Nan, Kathryn seemed to be a very calm and contented sort of person.

That might have made her dull, but when the conversation turned to hunting, Kathryn’s hazel eyes lit up with pleasure. “I miss riding out to hunt when we are in London,” she admitted.

“Kathryn is an excellent shot with a crossbow,” her sister boasted.

“The king means to hunt tomorrow,” Nan said. “I hope he will invite some of us to ride out with him.”

“It seems likely he will ask at least one of us,” Jane Mewtas said with a giggle and a knowing look that sparked Cat’s curiosity. The polite laughter and speculative glances from the others were even more intriguing, and Nan’s expression made Cat think of cats and cream.

They all supped together that evening and afterward all but Lady Latimer adjourned to the king’s banquet. “I was not invited, since I have never lived at court or attended upon a queen,” she explained to Cat, “although I did visit a time or two when my mother was in Queen Catherine’s service. I do not mind. In truth, I am glad to make an early night of it in the lodgings Will Herbert secured for me for the duration of my visit with Anne. I must leave in the morning to return to the house my husband leases in the Blackfriars section of London. We live there while Parliament is in session.”

Kathryn Latimer seemed genuinely happy with her lot in life. She
was a fortunate woman, Cat thought. Few females of her acquaintance enjoyed true contentment. Cat herself was better situated than most, but even she had moments when she longed for a husband and children. She liked living with Lord and Lady Rutland, but she did not want to stay there forever.

The banquet found King Henry in a jovial mood. Throughout courses of fruits and cheeses and sweet wines and the dancing afterward, he laughed and joked. And he appeared to take special pleasure in partnering Cat’s sister. At the end of the last pavane, he lingered with Nan in a secluded corner, unaware that Cat stood close enough to overhear their conversation.

“Will you accompany me when I go hunting tomorrow?” King Henry asked.

“Alas, Your Grace, I cannot, for I have no horse.”

“You may borrow one of mine.”

“I have no saddle, either.”

“That, too, will be supplied.”

“You are most generous, Your Grace.”

“You will lack for nothing, I promise you.” King Henry raised Nan’s hand—the one wearing the ruby ring—to his lips. He kissed each of her fingers in turn. “Until tomorrow, sweeting.”

Cat watched him walk away, then looked at her sister. She could tell nothing from Nan’s expression, but she had her suspicions. As soon as they were alone in the double lodgings they’d been assigned—two spacious rooms with fireplaces and a private privy—she drew in a deep breath and asked the obvious question: “Are you the king’s mistress?”

“Not yet.”

Something in Nan’s tone made Cat look more closely at her sister. “Do you want to be?”

“I’d have influence. A good marriage at the end of it.” She shrugged.

“What happened to Margaret Skipwith?”

“Married off to Lord Talboys.”

Cat frowned. “Isn’t he Lady Clinton’s son?”

“He is.” Nan grinned. “Appropriate, don’t you think, marrying off one mistress to an earlier mistress’s child?” Lady Clinton, previously Lady Talboys, had been born Bessie Blount. Prior to her first marriage, she’d given birth to the king’s bastard, the late Henry FitzRoy.

“Will the king send for you tonight?” Cat asked as her sister began to undress for bed. Cat took over the duties of a tiring maid, since she saw no sign of Constance. She supposed Nan had dismissed her for the night.

“I do not think so.” Nan gave a short, humorless laugh. “You see, Cat, His Grace is bent on
courting
me.”

Cat did not know what to say to that. Surely Nan did not think the king would
marry
her.

“But what of you, Cat?” Free of her own garments, Nan unlaced Cat. “Have you any suitors? The last I heard, the Bayntons thought our dowries insufficient to make a match.”

“I am certain Mother will tell me when she’s found someone.”

“Perhaps Ned Corbett?” Nan took a gold toothpick from a small, jeweled case and began to clean her teeth.

Cat could not stop the wave of heat that rushed into her face. She suspected that it was accompanied by a revealing wash of red.

“Oh ho!” Nan exclaimed, confirming it. “So he did show an interest.”

“He was kind to me after Queen Jane died, but nothing came of it. The only times I see him now are when he brings me letters from Calais.”

Nan did not look as if she believed it, but she did not pursue the subject. Instead she asked if there had been any more talk of sending Cat to the Duchess of Suffolk.

“None at all, and happily no more discussion about sending me to Lady Hertford, either. I prefer to remain where I am. Lady Rutland treats me like one of her own daughters. Lady Hertford, I am told, is almost as hard for her waiting gentlewomen to please as Mother is.”

Nan washed her mouth with mint sodden in vinegar, then rubbed
powder made of ashes of rosemary onto her teeth with a soft cloth and rinsed with plain water.

“I do not think the Hertfords were enthusiastic about having me join their household in any case.” Cat mixed vinegar and chamomile with water and used the solution to cleanse her face, neck, and arms. “Mother’s attempts to win their favor were unsuccessful, although that was not her fault.”

“Why? What happened?” Finished with her own ablutions, Nan climbed into bed, leaving the curtains open while Cat cleaned her teeth and freshened her breath. Cat snuffed out the candle and joined her sister under the covers.

“Well?” Nan demanded. The darkness and close quarters were conducive to sharing secrets.

“I had the story from Master Husee. Mother sent two gifts to the Earl of Hertford.”

Even after his sister’s death, Queen Jane’s brother was someone Lady Lisle wanted to cultivate. She’d begun corresponding with him the previous November, right after they’d both been part of the same company entertained by the king at court.

“One was a linnet in a cage,” Cat said, “and the other a stool decorated with crewelwork. The ship on which they were sent sank off Margate. The cargo was rescued and there was no loss of life, but the stool was damaged by saltwater, and the colors of the crewelwork had faded. As for the bird, it was brought safely to shore and taken to a house in Billingsgate. Master Husee was only waiting for a convenient time to deliver it to Lord Hertford.” A chuckle escaped Cat, hastily stifled. “It is
not
funny.”

Nan poked her in the ribs. “Tell. Tell.”

“The household contained a cat. The cat ate the linnet.”

“Oh, dear.” Silent mirth made Nan’s shoulders shake. “Oh, my. So neither reached the earl?”

“Oh, in the end, he received a much better gift. Mother sent Arabella to replace the linnet that was lost.”

“No! Not Arabella. She loves that bird.”

“She loves finding favor with influential courtiers more. Master Husee said she told the earl, in a letter, that Arabella was the best linnet in all of Calais and that it would be a long time before she was mistress of such another.”

“She is willing to sacrifice much for advancement,” Nan murmured, yawning hugely.

She was not the only one, Cat thought, as her sister rolled over and pulled the covers up to her chin. And it was surely a mixed blessing to be favored by the king.

D
URING THE MONTHS
after Clement Philpott and Sir Gregory Botolph arrived in Calais, Ned Corbett formed the habit of spending most of his free time in their company. Gambling at the Rose, a tavern just outside the walls of Calais, was a favorite pastime. There they could talk almost as freely as the ale flowed, but there were limits.

The garrison in Calais was a dumping ground for troublesome younger sons, and many of them had bones to pick. On this particular June evening, a hotheaded soldier owed money by the Crown told his troubles to anyone who would listen, cursing all those responsible for holding back his pay.

“Were he in London, he’d be charged with treason for that tirade,” Ned remarked.

“He’d be in greater trouble if he complained about changes in the liturgy,” Philpott muttered, “and a dead man already if he had Plantagenet blood in his veins.” He threw the dice and muttered an oath when he lost yet again.

“Did you hear that the old Countess of Salisbury has been taken to the Tower?” Botolph asked.

Ned had not, although he’d known that Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury, Cardinal Pole’s mother, had been under house arrest somewhere in the countryside since the previous November, even before her oldest son, Lord Montagu, was executed for treason.

Aloud he said only, “I doubt the king will execute a woman.”

Botolph snorted. “He beheaded Anne Boleyn.”

“That harlot got what she deserved,” Philpott said.

“Did she?” Botolph’s eyes glinted with deviltry. “Or did His Grace simply claim she did in order to rid himself of an encumbrance to his marriage with Jane Seymour?”

Ned stayed out of the debate. He doubted anyone would ever know the whole truth of the matter. Neither was he entirely comfortable discussing such things in a public place, even one like the Rose.

“Careless words are dangerous.” With that warning, as he steered his two friends toward a table in a back corner where, noisy as the tavern was, there was less risk of being overheard. Ned signaled for the waiter to refill their flagons.

Calais was a breeding ground for dissension. Because the border with France lay close at hand on one side of the Pale, and that of Flanders, one of the Low Countries, on the other, there were many living in Calais whose sentiments veered toward extremes in both politics and religion. Some were papists. Others wanted radical reform within the English church—much more far-reaching changes than had already been made.

“Lady Salisbury’s son was condemned for nothing more than writing letters,” Philpott mumbled into his ale. “An outrage!”

“But they were letters to a man who has sworn to overthrow the rightful king of England,” Ned reminded him.

“They were letters to his brother. And your
rightful
king has been excommunicated by the pope.”

“God will sort things out.” Botolph took a deep swallow of ale, then winked at Ned. “The real reason our friend here is so melancholy is that he has troubles closer to home. Note the long face, the sad eyes, the short temper.”

“My luck is out,” Philpott admitted.

“At cards, dice, or love?”

“All three. Mistress Philippa has refused my suit. I cannot understand it. I am a fine, upstanding gentleman.”

“What is so difficult to comprehend? Philippa Bassett thinks she can do better.” Botolph chuckled. “And Mary Bassett
knows
she can.”

“Do you mean to say that sickly Mistress Mary has a lover?” Philpott sounded amazed.

“I cannot say. I am bound by the sanctity of the confessional.”

Ned scowled at them both. “Have a care what you imply, lest you impugn a good woman’s reputation.”

“Oh ho! Listen to the chivalrous knight!”

Ned ignored Philpott’s mockery, but Botolph’s smirk bothered him. He wished Mary had chosen one of the older priests as her confessor. She was, at long last, free of her recurring bouts of fever, and the identity of her lover should be no one’s business but her own.

Ned liked Sir Gregory Botolph. Everyone did. He was a stirring speaker and an engaging companion. He had acquired the nickname “Gregory Sweet-lips” since coming to Calais because he could so easily persuade others to his way of thinking. But in private, Botolph had none of the virtues of a man of God. He gambled and swore and drank to excess and even kept a mistress in the town.

“Perhaps you’ll have better success with Lady Lisle’s newest waiting gentlewoman,” Botolph suggested to Philpott.

“She’s comely enough, but has she a decent dowry? She’s some kin to John Husee, is she not? He’s a nobody, the son of a vintner.”

“Mary Hussey is not related to John Husee at all,” Ned said. “She is one of the daughters of Lord Hussey of Sleaford.”

For a moment, Philpott brightened. Then, remembering, his face fell. “He was executed for rebellion against the Crown.” Some two years earlier, there had been an uprising in Lincolnshire. Yet another ill-thought-out scheme to overthrow King Henry. It had been put down quickly and brutally. “What was Lady Lisle thinking, to take a traitor’s get into her household?”