At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (6 page)

Even though His Grace had not yet attained his majority at the time of his father’s death, he’d convinced the Privy Council to abandon any thought of appointing a regent. It would never have been Buckingham, in any case. The councilors had proposed that the king’s grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, take up that role. As matters had fallen out, it had been just as well that the king took the reins of government at once. Lady Margaret had died of old age only a few days after her grandson’s coronation.

“It does appear that His Grace is mature for his age,” Grandmother reluctantly conceded, “but he is still young enough to be in need of guidance, just as you are, my boy.”

George took a deep breath. He did not wish to distress his mother and grandmother, but the choice of a wife was his to make. “I am of age to make my own decisions.”

“It is never wise to rush into marriage,” his mother said bluntly. “Have you spent any time with Lady Anne? Do you know her likes and
dislikes? Have you interests in common? These are things more important to a couple than the urge to scratch a mutual itch.” She paused long enough for a gleam to come into her eyes. “Although I must admit that to be compatible in bed is a great deal more pleasant than the alternative.”

George felt the heat rise in his face and was glad his skin had been darkened by the sun. It was bad enough to be henpecked without giving his womenfolk proof that they could embarrass him by speaking so frankly. Having a mother still young enough at forty-one to enjoy coupling with a man her own age was something he preferred not to think about.

Nan spoke up for the first time. “Marriage is for life,” she reminded him.

“Say rather, until death.”

Lady Anne’s first husband had died, and so had Nan’s. George’s sister had been married very young to old Baron Fitzwalter, the father of the Lord Fitzwalter who was currently wed to Lady Anne’s sister. Two years ago, Nan had remarried, taking the Earl of Derby as her second husband. She had already provided him with a son and heir. George wondered if they were happy together, but he did not ask. Instead, he squared his shoulders and faced down all three of his kinswomen.

“Do you know anything to Lady Anne’s detriment?”

“Only that she bore her first husband no children,” his mother said.

That gave him pause. He needed a son, as did every titled nobleman.

“The fault may have been with Sir Walter,” Nan suggested. “He had a longtime mistress and never got any children on her, either.”

George understood enough of animal husbandry to realize that Nan was probably right. There was no reason to think that another man could not sire sons on Lady Anne, even if Sir Walter had not. As for Grandmother’s tittle-tattle, that did not seem to amount to much. He gave no credence to the idea that Buckingham wanted the throne for himself. The duke had never seemed to take much of an interest in government when Henry the Seventh was king.

“I am going to marry Lady Anne Stafford.” Just saying the words filled him with a sense of joyous anticipation. He held up a hand to stop further argument. “Accept that the decision has been made. It only remains for the three of you, for my sake, if not for hers, to show my wife both love and respect when you welcome her into our family.”

L
ady Anne went to her wedding attired in her finest clothing. Her gown was made of cloth of silver with train so long that she needed an attendant to carry it. Even though she had been married before and was no virgin, she wore her hair hanging loose down her back. A gold circlet crowned her head.

The king had insisted that they marry in the chapel at Greenwich Palace. Edward had been pleased by this sign of favor. He took it as proof of His Grace’s goodwill toward the Staffords, much needed so long as Hal remained a prisoner in the Tower.

With the moment at hand when she would pledge to honor and obey George Hastings for the rest of his life, Anne strode purposefully toward the place where he waited beside one of the king’s own chaplains, Thomas Wolsey, a heavyset priest in his late thirties who wore a somber expression on his face but had a twinkle in his eyes. Anne had no qualms about making her vows. She and George suited each other well and he looked magnificent in a white damask gown trimmed with gold and lined with sarcenet. Beneath the formal outer garment he wore a jacket with sleeves of crimson satin bordered with black velvet. His hose were scarlet and his costly cambric shirt was embroidered with gold thread. For jewels he’d chosen rubies.

Anne had spent enough time with George since coming to court to
know that beneath the finery was a pleasant young man, considerate and eager to please and possessed of no vices that she could detect. He was, perhaps, a trifle dull, but there were worse qualities in a husband. And it would be no hardship to couple with him. She’d seen him in less concealing clothing, playing tennis with the king and in the tiltyard, training with His Grace at the quintain and the rings. George Hastings had strong, well-shaped legs, muscular arms, and a masculine grace that gave promise he would be as skillful in bed as he was in the lists.

The priest began the ceremony with an address in Latin on the dignity of Holy Matrimony. It went on twice as long as Anne would have liked, especially when she could not understand a word of it, but finally it was time for George to take her by the hand and repeat the matrimonial formula
per verba de praesenti
. She did know what that bit of Latin meant. When she took her own vows, she and George would be sealing the covenant of betrothal as well as the covenant of marriage.

“I, Anne,” she said in a clear, steady voice, “hereby do accept thee, George, to be my husband and spouse, and consent to receive thee as my husband during my natural life. I will have, hold, and repute thee as my husband and spouse, and hereby I plight thee my troth.”

George placed a thick gold band on the fourth finger of her right hand, counting from the thumb—the one said to have a vein that led directly to the heart. The ring was inscribed with a motto on the flat inner side:
God Above Increase Our Love
. George kissed her lightly on the lips as the circle slid home.

Moments later, the marriage schedule had been signed and the priest began to sing the Nuptial Mass. More Latin. Anne let her mind drift, thinking of the changes she would make in the lodgings she and George were now to share. She paid attention again only when the king’s chaplain divided the consecrated wafer between them. Accepting her half, playing her role by rote, she made a halfhearted effort to fix her mind on spiritual matters. Instead her thoughts strayed to her first wedding. She’d been nervous and excited then, and not quite certain what the night would bring.

It had been a disappointment.

Walter Herbert had done his duty quickly and efficiently and then he’d rolled over and gone to sleep. He’d snored. She’d wept.

This wedding night would be different. She was no longer an innocent. She knew what to expect from the earthy side of marriage. Sir Walter’s swiving had never produced either grand passion or simple affection. Still, although infrequent, it had been thorough enough that she’d eventually developed a healthy appreciation of her own capacity for physical pleasure.

At last the ceremony was over. Holding hands, Anne and George turned and made their obeisance to the king and queen. Then it was on to dinner and a banquet. Musicians played during and after both, and then there was dancing. The celebrations went on for hours. But when the bells rang for eight of the clock, Anne’s sister and Lady Derby, her new sister-in-law, hustled her away to the sumptuous bedchamber where a bridal bed had already been blessed and sprinkled with holy water. Others of the queen’s ladies followed to help strip her of the cloth of silver gown and a kirtle of dark blue velvet. Even her chemise was whisked away, leaving her in naught but her stockings and garters. When a satin night robe settled around her shoulders, she tugged it tight. In spite of a charcoal brazier and the fire in the hearth, the room felt drafty.

The queen appeared briefly to offer a prayer and her wish for much happiness and many children, but then she excused herself because she was breeding and tired easily. Anne was not sorry to see her go, accompanied by Maria de Salinas and Maud Parr, two of her favorite ladies. Anne did not dislike Queen Catherine, but Her Grace’s lingering Spanish accent—which the king seemed to find charming—was difficult for Anne to understand, and the extreme piety Catherine expected of her ladies made Anne uncomfortable.

Catherine of Aragon spent many long hours in her oratory, kneeling on a bare floor before a Spanish crucifix and statues of St. Margaret and St. Catherine. Her Grace studied the Office of the Blessed Virgin daily, rose every midnight to say Matins, and heard Mass each day at dawn. The queen confessed her sins once a week, whether she had committed any or not, and received the Eucharist every Sunday. She fasted, too, not only
during Lent, but every Friday and Saturday and on the vigils of saints’ days. Her Grace could not compel her ladies to do likewise, but she did insist upon reading aloud to them from pious works after dinner. Her wedding gift to Anne and George had been a beautifully illustrated book of hours.

There were times when Anne wondered what the king saw in his wife. Perhaps she was not so pious in bed. Smiling to herself at the thought, Anne bent down to loosen her garters, so that they could more easily be removed.

Anne’s tiring maid, Meriall ap Harry, lifted the circlet from her head and began to comb the tangles from her hair. Small and dark, like so many of the native Welsh, Meriall had not stood out among Sir Walter Herbert’s servants when Anne first became his bride. Only during the years that followed had she gradually become both friend and confidante. She had left all that was familiar to her behind to accompany Anne back to Thornbury after Sir Walter’s death. In the duke’s household, she had often been the only one Anne could be certain would put her wishes first and those of the Duke of Buckingham second.

Now Meriall smiled warmly at her mistress in the reflective steel of the standing glass and bent close to whisper a blessing in her ear. Behind them, Anne could see the two Ladies Hungerford adding more decorations to the nuptial bed. December was the wrong month for fresh blooms, but there were plenty of dried flowers to strew and colorful ribbons had been attached to every available surface. The whole room smelled of violets and essence of jasmine.

A commotion outside the door heralded the arrival of Anne’s new husband. Courtiers poured into the room, pushing George ahead of them. He had been stripped of his wedding finery, just as she had. His friends had allowed him to keep only his shirt. It fell almost to his knees, but the linen was so fine that it was nearly transparent.

His color high, George hurried toward the bed. His companions blocked his way, swarming around the newly married couple. Ribald comments and suggestions vied with demands for Anne’s garters.

Prepared to follow tradition, Anne stepped forward and carefully extended her right leg. Her care to untie the garter beforehand made it
hang low, but Will Compton’s hands still managed to stray halfway up her thigh. A whoop of triumph and more laughter filled the room as Ned Neville claimed the second loosened garter and fastened it to his bonnet.

Anne quickly stripped off her stockings, handing them over to another of the unmarried gentlemen. George’s friends had already given the hose he’d worn to two of the single women in the room.

“Into bed with you!” Bess Boleyn cried, and pulled back the covers.

At the same moment Anne slipped between them, George’s sister relieved her of her night robe. George’s shirt was ripped from his body by Lord Edmund Howard and Sir Charles Brandon. In a trice, the newlyweds found themselves in bed together, naked as the day they were born.

Anne shifted to a more comfortable position, careful to keep the coverlet pulled up over her breasts. She had nothing to be ashamed of in her appearance. She knew herself to be slender and well shaped and healthy. But she was four years older than George and feared her flesh might show signs of it. The tradition of putting newlyweds to bed, she decided, was far more enjoyable when someone else was the center of attention.

All the hangings had been pulled back as far as they would go, to give the wedding guests a clear view. That meant Anne could see them, as well. Her brother and sister looked vaguely disapproving of the revelry and stood a little apart, but the king was at the center of the group of young men who’d accompanied George into the chamber. Rosy-cheeked and delighted to have been a part of their wedding, His Grace strode to the side of the bed, leaned in, and kissed Anne full on the lips. He was an enthusiastic but sloppy kisser. She had to fight the urge to wipe her mouth when he released her.

“You are a fortunate man, George,” the king declared. “She is a prize indeed.”

“So I believe, Your Grace,” George said.

“So you will soon know,” Neville called out.

“Now we must discover who will be next.” Bess Boleyn herded several of the queen’s unmarried gentlewomen toward the foot of the bed.

They took turns throwing George’s stockings over their shoulders,
to the accompaniment of wagers and raucous laughter. It was widely believed that the maid who managed to hit the bridegroom in the head would soon be married herself.

The unmarried men took their turn next. Anne thought it a silly superstition that the same fate awaited the first man to hit her with one of her own stockings, but she kept a smile fixed on her face and endured. This time the rolled-up fabric flew backward with considerably more force behind it. Seeing Will Compton take aim, Anne gave a little squeak of alarm and slid down beneath the covers, but the stocking still struck her square on the nose.

“Your turn to marry next, Compton!” Neville hooted with laughter.

“Only if I can find myself a bride as beautiful as Lady Anne.” Compton went down on one knee beside the bed. “I beg a boon, my lady.”