At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (8 page)

Elizabeth seated herself on the other stool. “Did the king send him away?”

“Why should he?” But the manchet loaf suddenly tasted as coarse as horse bread. What had Elizabeth heard?

“I am not blind.” Elizabeth helped herself to a cup of barley water and took a long swallow.

“Then I must be, for I fail to see any connection between your two questions.” Anne abandoned her meal and clasped her hands in her lap. She had a bad feeling about this early morning visit from her sister.

“King Henry fancies you.”

Anne was surprised into a laugh. “His Grace is devoted to the queen. He is as pleased with her over her pregnancy as a child with a new toy.”

Incredulous, Elizabeth made a snorting noise. “Have you not seen the way he looks at you? Other men show an interest, too. They think you are ripe for the plucking, now that your husband—the husband you yourself deemed only adequate—has gone away.”

“That is arrant nonsense! And George will return in a day or two.” Anne hoped she spoke the truth. She’d heard not a word from him
since his departure. She did not even know where he was. He owned land in several counties.

“You are always at the center of a group of laughing gentlemen.”

Anne heard envy as well as suspicion in her older sister’s voice and tried to rein in her irritation. No one flirted with Elizabeth. She had a haughty air about her that discouraged the court gallants. “It is best to keep the king sweet. Do not forget that our brother the duke hoped that you and I would be able to exert some small measure of influence here at court.”

Elizabeth gave a disdainful sniff and stood, taking the last of the bread with her. “We are here to please the queen, not the king.”

Anne was glad to see her sister go, but she spent the remainder of the day in a thoughtful frame of mind. That night, as Meriall combed and braided her hair in preparation for bed, she was still brooding over what Elizabeth had said.

“Meriall,” she asked, “do I flirt too much? Have I encouraged men other than my husband to think I might welcome them into my bed?”

The tiring maid’s fingers stilled for a moment in Anne’s hair, then resumed their skillful braiding. “You are pleasant to everyone, my lady.”

In the looking glass, Anne saw her own lips twist into a wry smile. “That is not quite what I asked. I beg you to be honest with me, Meriall. You have been with me long enough to know that I will not fly into a rage if I do not like your answer.”

“Unlike your brother the duke.” Meriall continued braiding and did not speak again until her task was complete. “There is something about you, my lady, that draws men to you. You are not a great beauty, but you have the ability to charm all those you meet.”

“But it is only a game,” Anne protested. “Knights and ladies and chivalry, like the pageantry at a tournament or the stories in the
Roman de la Rose
. All the poetry and songs and disguisings are pretty conceits, nothing more.”

“The queen is with child,” Meriall said.

“I do not take your meaning.” Anne turned to look at her maidservant in confusion.

“When wives are great with child, husbands stray. Sometimes the alliances outlast the pregnancy.”

Anne frowned. Wives did not always remain faithful, either, but
she
had no intention of putting a cuckold’s horns on George’s head. She could not imagine what she had done since coming to court that might make anyone—except for her sister, who had always been surpassing critical of her—think that she would.

“Flirtations are expected at court,” she said in a firm voice. “There is no harm in indulging in them.”

Meriall applied herself to putting away the wooden box that held Anne’s combs and brushes. “If you say so, my lady.”

T
t was late when Lady Anne returned to her lodgings. The queen had received her New Year’s gifts early that morning. The rest of the day had been spent in revelry, culminating in a disguising and the inevitable dancing. As was her wont, Anne had smiled and flirted with and partnered the king and several of his gentlemen but, as always, she had returned to her bedchamber alone.

Elizabeth had made no further accusations, but she was always watching, as if she hoped to catch her sister in some wrongdoing. For the most part, Anne ignored her. Let her think what she would, Anne was not about to offend King Henry by rebuffing his attentions in public. She was on amiable terms with His Grace and wished to remain so. Tonight the effort had been rewarded.

She was smiling as she entered the outer room. The expression vanished and she was beset by an intense wariness when she realized that it was not Meriall who awaited her within. A man stood in front of the hearth, backlit by the fire, his face in shadow. All she could see of him at first was his silhouette.

Then he took a step toward her, closer to the candle she held. “George,” she exclaimed in delight. “You’re back.”

Anne reached out to him, but he evaded her. She could read
nothing in his expression. Very carefully, she set the candlestick down on the small table.

“I have missed you,” she said.

“And I, you,” he replied, “but I cannot imagine that you have been unhappy in my absence. You were smiling when you came in.”

“I have just received a most excellent New Year’s gift. His Grace has ordered Hal’s release from the Tower. My brother is to resume his place as one of the king’s companions. It will be as if he was never arrested at all.”

“I am glad to hear it.” George sounded sincere, but Anne could detect no relaxation in his stiff posture.

“Have you had a long journey? Shall I heat a cup of spiced wine for you?”

“Such wifely devotion,” he muttered. “A pity you do not always think first of my comfort.”

This time Anne did not allow him to avoid her touch. She caught his hands in hers and waited until he met her eyes. “Do you mean to let a careless word come between us? I did not intend to impugn your manhood.”

“And yet you did. You made me a laughingstock, Anne. That is hard for a man to bear.”

“I know. And I am sorry for it. Truly, I am. But your friends were the ones who made much of it, not I. And you made matters worse by going off alone to lick your wounds. The matter would have been forgotten by now had you remained here with me.”

“I could not stay.” He pulled free and turned his back on her to stare into the fire.

Anne watched him, wary now. “Why did you think you could not stay?”

He hesitated, then blurted out the truth. “I was afraid I would be incapable of giving you pleasure.”

“What nonsense!”

“Is it? Such things happen.”

A horrible suspicion crept into Anne’s mind and her temper ignited. “Did you find some other woman to demonstrate your prowess?”

“What?” He turned to look at her, his face a mask of astonishment. “No. Never.”

“My last husband would have.” She heard the bitterness in her voice and despised it. “Walter preferred his mistress’s bed to mine in any case.”

For a long moment, George just stared at her. Then he abruptly closed the distance between them. “It’s your heat I need to warm me, Anne, only yours.”

Her heart sang as he swept her up into his arms and carried her into the bedchamber. And when he proceeded to prove that her careless quip to the king had not unmanned him, her body sang, too.

L
ady Anne shivered in spite of the warmth of her fur-lined cloak and the speed of her steps. It was a bright, sunny day, but so desperately cold that it almost hurt to breathe. “Bess, wait,” she called. “I am no longer certain I wish to spend the afternoon out of doors.”

Bess Boleyn’s laughter floated back to her. “Think of this weather as invigorating. Besides, you cannot cheer for your husband if you are not present when he enters the lists.”

Thinking she’d be just as happy to hear about the jousting after the event, when she and George were snug and warm in their lodgings inside the palace, Anne nevertheless picked up her skirts and hurried after her friend. What had sounded like a great adventure with charcoal braziers and fires in all the hearths fighting off wintry drafts, now seemed the height of folly.

So was this “secret” tournament some of the king’s courtiers had devised.

Nothing stayed secret long at court. By now everyone must know that several of King Henry’s more energetic gentlemen, made restless by the long cold spell, had decided to amuse themselves by participating in a mock tournament. Earlier that morning, George himself
had told Anne what was planned, and that he intended to participate.

She found herself smiling slightly as she hurried after Bess toward the tiltyard at Richmond. Since the night of his return to court, George had made no further mention of the unfortunate incident that had prompted his departure. To others who asked, he maintained that there was nothing unusual about his sudden decision to visit his estates. Anne had been happy to go along with this fiction and happier still that, when she’d shown an interest in his travels, he’d regaled her with amusing tales of his tenants at Ashby de la Zouch in Leicestershire, the Hastings family seat, and nearby Kirby Muxloe Castle, which he also owned.

He had also been gratifyingly attentive, bringing her little gifts of flowers and candied fruit and finely made lace. For her part, Anne had showered her husband with affectionate gestures, both in private and in public, to let everyone see how highly she regarded him. That morning, before he’d left their lodgings for the tiltyard, George had begged a ribbon from her to tie to his lance.

When Anne reached her, Bess was already at the entrance to the tiltyard, stamping her booted feet to keep them warm. No brightly colored pavilions had been set up, as there would have been for a proper tournament, but a goodly number of spectators filled the wooden benches that surrounded the field. Only the covered grandstand, where the king and queen usually sat, stood completely empty. No pennants flew. There were no rich blue hangings embellished with gold, or cloth of gold cushions, or canopies of estate.

Anne took a moment to study the crowd. She and Bess were almost the only women present, and they were the only members of the queen’s household. At random, they chose one of the benches and sat.

Shading her eyes against the glare of sun on snow, Anne tried to pick George out from among the combatants. Although they were all dressed much alike, it took her only a moment to locate him. Her husband was a little shorter than most of his fellows, and more stocky in build, and he wore his dark brown hair a little longer than was
fashionable. She marveled that she had not known him at once that night in their lodgings.

Both of Anne’s brothers, Edward and Hal, were also among the participants. So were the king’s good friends, Charles Brandon and Ned Neville. Neville always stood out, being so much taller than anyone but the king.

Anne frowned as she realized that there was another man present who towered over the rest. It had to be King Henry, but could His Grace really mean to compete? While it was true that he exercised almost daily, practicing with the others in the tiltyard, for a ruler to risk his life by taking part in a tournament was unheard-of. Jousting was a dangerous game.

Bess tugged on her sleeve. “Do you see that man with his visor down? I believe that is the king.” She looked as worried as Anne felt.

“This is not a real tournament,” Anne murmured, trying to reassure herself as well as Bess. “There will be no fighting on foot at the barriers, nor a tourney fought by small teams on horseback. There will only be jousting.”

“Men had been blinded, disabled, even killed, in the lists ere now,” Bess said, “and that with officials on the scene to assure their safety.”

Anne shaded her eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. In a joust two men, mounted and armed with lances, charged at each other. A high wall erected between riders prevented collisions. But for this secret event, the combatants were running
volant
. The lists, with their wooden barriers, had not been set up. Worse, the ground, although it had been cleared of snow to reveal a layer of gravel sealed with plaster, was slick with ice.

As the first two competitors took their places, the spectators let out a roar of approval.

“They are all well trained.” Anne knew she sounded doubtful, but Bess followed her lead.

“Indeed, they are. And they would think us very foolish to worry. So, shall we wager on the outcome? I say my Tom will break more lances than your husband.”

“What stakes?” Anne told herself her fears were groundless. King Henry’s gentlemen would not let anything happen to His Grace. And if the competition was safe enough for the king, then it was also safe for all the others, George included.

“Will you wager that new kirtle your brother’s wife gave you as a New Year’s gift?” Bess had been admiring the finely woven garment for days.

“Only if it is against your silver pomander ball.”

“Done.”

Having agreed on the wager, they turned their attention to the field. Scoring was based on the number of hits and where each landed on one’s opponent’s armor. A strike to the helmet scored highest, followed by the breastplate. If the lance broke—and they were hollow with blunted points, designed to shatter on impact—that was worth more than a glancing blow.

Each match was hard fought, just as in a real tournament. When two jousters collided with a mighty crash, long wooden splinters flew in every direction, adding to the excitement. Dozens of lances were broken and although there were a few falls, no one was seriously injured. An hour into the contest, George Hastings and Tom Boleyn had identical scores, but the competitor who’d won joust after joust was the king. Even though he never removed his helmet, word of his identity had spread through the spectators.

Another competitor had also done well, and now prepared to ride against Ned Neville. “Is that Will Compton?” Anne asked. Like the king, he had kept his visor down throughout the jousting, but everyone else in the king’s circle of close friends was accounted for.