I saw what he meant about the state of the king’s health as soon as I rose from my obeisance and got my first good look at His Grace. The king’s face was a pale shade of gray. With his slightest movement, beads of sweat popped out on his brow. Although he was seated, I could see that his clothes hung loosely on him, as did his skin. He had lost a good deal of fleshiness during his illness. His leg, in which an ulcer had been cauterized not long before, was propped up on a footstool. It was heavily bandaged and gave off an offensive smell.

“It is well you have come, Audrey,” His Grace said. “We are prepared to acknowledge you.”

“Your Grace?” I could scarcely believe my ears. Was it to be this simple?

“Your mother was an attractive woman in her day. She . . . reminded me of someone.”

I remembered what Joanna had said of her resemblance to Anne Boleyn. I also remembered that the late queen’s name was never to be spoken in the king’s presence. Father had warned me about that.

“She said nothing of your birth,” the king continued, reaching for the box of comfits on the table beside his chair. “A more ambitious woman might have tried—well, no matter. No one could fail to recognize that color of hair for what it is.”

I wondered if I should tell him what Joanna had said about the other redheaded man. I decided against it. The king seemed to have no doubt but that he was my father.

“Your Grace, John Malte—”

“Malte is a good and loyal servant. It was best for you that he raise you, for we could not claim you then, no matter how much we might have wished to.” He offered me the box. “Take one. Green ginger. Good for settling the stomach.”

I scarcely tasted the sweet. And it was my mind that roiled.

With the knowledge I had gained in the intervening years, I understood the king’s reasoning. He had been at a precarious point in his relationship with his future queen when he discovered me weeping in the passageway. Anne Boleyn would not have taken kindly to the news that His Grace had fathered another child, especially if she learned that Joanna bore such a close resemblance to herself.

I did not condemn the king for the choice he’d made. I’d had a good life as the daughter of his royal tailor. Part of me wished I truly was Malte’s child. If I were simply Audrey Malte, Sir Richard Southwell would never have taken an interest in me.

“Mayhap we will let it be known that you are my child,” King Henry said. “We would use our influence on your behalf. What boon would you like, child? What do you desire above all things?”

“To marry where I choose.” The words were out before I could stop them.

The king frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Are you not already betrothed?”

“No, Your Grace. There has been no formal contract.”

He indicated a floor cushion and I sat. In this position, much nearer the king’s bad leg, I had to take shallow breaths to keep from gagging.

“Tell me, Audrey, if you were permitted to choose, what man would you have?”

His kindly demeanor and sympathetic tone of voice lulled me into answering honestly. “Master John Harington, Your Grace—the gentleman you yourself sent to me as a tutor.”

In the blink of an eye, the king’s expression changed from benign to thunderous. A ferocious scowl replaced the avuncular smile. “Harington? No. He will not do. Fancies himself a poet like Surrey. Traitors all around us,” he muttered.

Frozen in horror, I stared at His Grace. Sir Anthony had warned me, but I had never expected the king’s mood to shift this rapidly. I dared not utter a word for fear I would once again say the wrong thing.

“We had heard of the earl’s musical and literary gatherings. So innocent. Or so they seemed. In truth, he met allies in order to conspire against us.” The king leaned forward until his face was only inches from mine. Spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You were part of that circle. You and Harington. Deceitful child! You would use your royal blood to usurp me, just as Surrey tried to claim the throne for himself.”

“No!” Horrified by the accusation, I sought the words to defend myself but I had no idea what to say. “Your Grace—”

“You’ll get no more from us than you have already. We will never acknowledge you as our daughter. You have betrayed us!”

He seemed on the verge of charging me with treason, and Jack along with me. I do not know what would have happened next if Sir Anthony Denny had not intervened. He had been waiting at a discreet distance but had been near enough to see the sudden shift in the king’s demeanor.

He’d had long years of experience dealing with the king. Somehow, speaking in such a low voice that I could not make out his words, he calmed his royal master. When Sir Anthony signaled me to leave, I made my escape.

I was shaking so badly that I could barely manage a curtsey. My legs trembled as I backed out of the royal presence. I collapsed against the wall of the passageway as soon as a closed door separated me from His Grace.

I do not know how long I huddled there, afraid of the king’s wrath but also fearful of getting lost if I tried to find my own way out of Whitehall. When Sir Anthony finally came for me, he took me by the shoulders and led me to a small room nearby. He made me sit and sip some aqua vitae.

“The king will take no action against you, Audrey. I promise you that.”

“Why was he so angry, Sir Anthony? I am no threat to him. Surely a bastard has no claim to the throne.”

“Did your tutors teach you history along with music and dancing?”

I shook my head. I’d read stories of King Arthur and I knew that we’d fought many wars with France over the centuries, but I was woefully ignorant about most of England’s past.

“The king’s father’s claim to the throne came to him from his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and she was descended from a son, born out of wedlock, to one of the sons of King Edward the Third. John of Gaunt later married his mistress and legitimized their children. They and their descendants were barred from the succession, but when the first Henry Tudor enforced his claim by winning the crown in battle, he proved that it was not impossible for the progeny of a royal bastard to gain the throne of England.”

“Is that why Sir Richard wants me to wed his son? He’s mad if he thinks his grandchildren might one day usurp some future king. King Henry has three children born in wedlock and surely they will have offspring of their own.”

“Even failing that, there are others in line to inherit, all legitimately born. I do not know what Sir Richard thinks. I can only attempt to explain the king’s reasoning.”

“His reasoning is faulty!”

Eyes wide, I clapped my hand over my mouth. I had not meant to criticize His Grace, but it was clear to me that King Henry’s mind was no longer as clear as it should be. Was that why the Earl of Surrey had died? Because the king imagined Surrey was plotting against him? Given the irrational outburst I had just endured, I could well believe it. My hands started to shake again and I hastily hid them in my lap.

Sir Anthony cleared his throat. “When you speak of faulty reasoning, I presume you refer to Sir Richard’s logic.”

I seized upon that interpretation. “Yes. Sir Richard. I . . . I only wish to understand why he is so determined upon my marriage to his son. If it is true that the Earl of Surrey died because he thought he had a legitimate claim to the throne, how can anyone in his right mind wish to admit to possessing a single drop of royal blood?”

“The earl was indeed guilty of treason,” Sir Anthony said in a tone that brooked no argument. “He flaunted his remote connection to the throne in the form of a new coat of arms. Nobly born he may have been, and renowned as a poet, but he was ever the fool when it came to reining in his impulses. He overstepped himself once too often and he has paid the price.”

With that, Sir Anthony offered me his arm to lead me out of the palace. We had almost reached the water stairs, where a boat was waiting to take me back to London, when he stopped and turned to face me.

“Listen and listen well, young Audrey. You are the king’s child, although he will never acknowledge you now. That may or may not matter to Sir Richard Southwell. Thanks to the properties granted to you jointly with John Malte, you are a considerable heiress. No matter whose blood flows in your veins, the man who marries you will be very wealthy indeed.”












38

Catherine’s Court, November 1556

My grandfather was the king of England.” Hester spoke the words in a hushed voice.

Her eyes, so like her father’s, glittered with barely suppressed excitement. Although she had listened without interrupting to the rest of the story, her face had been easy to read. She reacted first with awe, then with delight, to Audrey’s revelation that the king himself had confirmed her royal inheritance.

“Close kinship to the Crown is a burden, not a gift.”

Audrey’s severe tone had no effect. Hester’s enthusiasm could no longer be contained. She hopped off her mother’s bed and danced a jig around the chamber. “I will go to court! Could I be one of the queen’s maids of honor, do you think? Surely your sister could do that much for her niece.”

“Half sister,” Audrey corrected her, “and you are too young to be a maid of honor even if such a thing were possible.”

Where had the child come by such an ambition? Audrey thought back on the stories she and Jack had told their daughter about life at court. Had they made it seem too appealing? Of a certainty, that had not been her own intent when she’d begun her tale in Stepney.