At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (10 page)

“I should have thought that such an honor coming into his family would please His Grace,” Madge whispered to Bess Knyvett.

“Hah!” Bess said, but softly. “Nothing ever satisfies him.”

Bess should know, Madge thought. She had already been one of the duchess’s ladies when Madge arrived to take up her duties in the ducal
nursery. Bess’s father, Sir William Knyvett, was the duke’s chamberlain, although he was wealthy in his own right. Her brother, Charles, was also part of Buckingham’s household. Bess herself always had fine clothing and money to gamble with.

Madge continued to watch the duke. To her eyes, he lacked nothing. Not only was he noble and wealthy, but he was an attractive man. Barely past his thirtieth year, he was in excellent physical condition, able to compete in the lists with much younger men. Madge had seen him practicing once and had been mightily impressed.

Her heart beat a little faster as he stalked toward the small circle of women who sat sewing by the windows of his newly erected gallery. He had embarked upon an extensive building campaign at Bletchingly since the new king’s coronation, for the manor lay within easy traveling distance of court. Nowadays, they were more apt to stay here than at Thornbury Castle in distant Gloucestershire.

Madge quickly turned her attention to the sampler that young Lady Mary was stitching. The youngest of the three girls, she was a child of six and making her first efforts to create a guide to the stitches and patterns she’d use for the rest of her life. She’d laboriously made rows of the most common stitches—tent stitch, cross stitch, back stitch, stem stitch, split stitch, and chain stitch. Now she was attempting to copy her favorite patterns and motifs in green and black silk.

“What will you do for the border?” Madge asked her when she’d admired the little girl’s work.

“A running scroll,” Lady Mary replied at once.

“You should decorate it with columbines,” said her sister, Lady Catherine, who was four years Lady Mary’s senior.

“A lozenge design of lined hexagons is prettier,” Lady Elizabeth chimed in, using the know-it-all voice that so aggravated her younger siblings. She was fast approaching womanhood and lorded it over the other two that, as the eldest, she’d have her pick of husbands from among the nobility of England. She’d been unable to hide her chagrin when her little sister pointed out to her that, since their father was England’s only duke, they would perforce have to settle for a nobleman of lesser rank.

Into this homey little scene stepped the duke himself. He took a moment to bend down and examine the work of all three girls, and bestowed upon them a few curt words of praise, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He turned next to his wife.

“Madam, a word?”

She sent a quelling look his way. “Have you forgotten the date, my lord? Yesterday was Ash Wednesday.”

A chilling quiet descended on the chamber. The duchess was not excessively religious. She had no desire to declare herself a vowess devoted to chastity and prayer for the rest of her life. But she did believe that a devout woman should give up something of value during Lent. She chose, year after year, to forgo the pleasures of the marriage bed.

“The date?” he echoed. “It is the fourteenth day of February. St. Valentine’s Day. At court they celebrate with the giving and receiving of gifts.”

“I am certain that her most gracious majesty the queen will maintain a sense of decorum,” the duchess said.

“Unlikely,” her husband replied. “Not with all the young wildheads that surround the king.”

“How do they celebrate, Father?” Lady Catherine piped up.

For a moment, Madge thought he might ignore her question, but then he relented. “They choose their valentines by lot,” he explained. “Then each man has to give a gift to the lady who selected him.”

“Even if she is not his wife,” the duchess said with a disdainful sniff. She stood and began to gather up her sewing, a signal for all her ladies to do likewise.

“Especially if she is not his wife,” Buckingham shot back.

Head down, Madge scurried after the others, nearly running over Lady Mary when the little girl stopped short in the doorway. “I left my sampler behind,” Lady Mary said, and started to return.

Madge glanced over her shoulder at the duke. He looked so alone, standing there amid the scattered cushions and stools. As she watched, he sank into the only chair, the one his wife had just vacated. He stared out the window at the bleak and snow-covered garden, shoulders
slumped. He was making the little humming sound that meant he was mulling something over in his mind.

“I will fetch it,” Madge told the child. “You go along after your mother. She’ll be expecting you.”

Cautiously, she approached the Duke of Buckingham, but her wariness lessened as she drew close. He was just a man, and a sad and rather lonely one, at that. Instead of reaching for the sampler, abandoned among the cushions on the floor, she touched his velvet-clad arm.

He looked up, his gaze so intense that for a moment Madge forgot how to breathe. In one swift movement, he freed himself from her grasp and seized her about the waist, tugging her onto his lap. His mouth clamped down hard over hers.

The kiss went on and on, frightening at first and then, abruptly, turning into something wonderful. Madge responded, kissing him back. He laughed softly as he tumbled them both to the floor among the cushions. Before Madge could gather her wits, he shoved her skirts aside and himself into her body.

She gave one squeak of protest when her maidenhead was breached, but the pain faded quickly, replaced by myriad pleasurable sensations. Afterward, her only regret was that it was over too soon.

The duke straightened his own clothing first, then restored hers to order and helped her to her feet. Then he gave her a playful swat on the bottom on his way out of the gallery, telling her to hurry back to her duties, lest she be missed.

Madge stared after him in disappointment. He might have lingered for just a little while. Or bestowed some word of praise upon her. She sighed deeply. What had she expected?

It troubled her that she’d just lain with her mistress’s husband, but not overmuch, not when the duchess had given up conjugal relations for Lent. Men were carnal creatures. Everyone knew that. They needed women, especially if they had serious matters weighing upon them. The duke would soon realize that he needed
her,
Madge told herself as she gathered up Lady Mary’s sampler. Given time, surely she’d win his affection, too.

L
ady Anne rolled over in bed to blink sleepily at her husband. His manservant had dressed him all in white satin. In one hand he carried a gilded bow. He’d slung a quiver of white-and-gold-fletched arrows over his shoulder.

“Do you mean to shoot the flowers?” she asked.

George chuckled. “I would not put it past His Grace to try. He does enjoy showing off his marksmanship.”

“It is May Day. You mean to go into the woods to gather green boughs and May blossoms. I see no need for weapons.”

Anne yawned as George checked his accoutrements one last time to make sure he had everything. Then he returned to the bed to kiss her in farewell.

“Will you be waiting in the gardens to watch for our return?” he asked.

“Everyone will be,” she assured him.

She tugged the coverlet up over her head as soon as he was gone. Lethargy crept over her. There was no reason for her to rise at dawn just because George had. She was not one of the queen’s attendants today.

Catherine of Aragon was no doubt already at Mass. Although it had only been a few months since she’d lost her first child, she was already breeding again. Anne fervently hoped that, this time, His Grace would
have sense enough to leave his wife out of his more energetic revels. Anne took it as a good sign that the king had not insisted that the ladies join this morning’s expedition into the woods. Hoping that no one would be struck by a stray arrow, Anne ignored a slight queasiness brought on by that thought and, trusting Meriall to wake her in good time to dress, drifted back into sleep.

Three hours later, she sat on a bench in the garden where the maypole had been raised, listening to music provided by the king’s blind harp player. King Henry and his entourage had not yet returned. Anne’s sister sat next to her. Their brother the duke stood beside them. Their other sibling, Hal, was with the king.

Anne smiled to herself. Above and beyond forgiving Hal for whatever imagined sins he had committed, His Grace had granted him the title of Earl of Wiltshire. Edward, although he was pleased to see their brother advance at court, had not been entirely happy with that development. He’d rather have seen another gift of property come his way instead, or perhaps a profitable wardship.

“What news from Bletchingly?” Anne asked. Edward’s wife, Eleanor, along with most of the ducal household, were currently at the manor house in Surrey, close enough to London for Edward to visit them regularly.

“The rebuilding progresses apace,” the duke said.

Anne was not surprised that he should think first of the improvements he was making to the house. He had already added a long gallery for winter exercise. From the start, he’d taken a personal interest in the construction. Anne was slightly taken aback, however, when he produced a drawing from inside his doublet and unrolled it so that both his sisters could admire the design for a double courtyard.

“I mean to commence rebuilding at Thornbury Castle early next year,” he said. “On the front of the new gatehouse I will put an inscription to tell all who see it who it was that built such an opulent palace.”

“Never tell me that you mean to list all the masons and carpenters!” Anne exclaimed. Thornbury Castle in Gloucestershire was the family
seat. She’d lived there both before her first marriage and after she’d been widowed.

Edward ignored her.

“What will it say?” Elizabeth asked, always more than ready to encourage their brother to boast of his accomplishments.

“This gatehouse was begun in the year of Our Lord God 1511, the second year of the reign of King Henry the Eighth, by me Edward, Duke of Buckingham, Earl of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton.”

Edward rambled on, describing the spacious outer courtyard he had planned, with towers and a wooden gallery that would provide the inhabitants with a covered walkway from the family lodgings to the parish church. There would also be a fine, new enclosed park with good glades for coursing.

Anne frowned. “The land thereabout is fertile and arable farmland, Edward. Is it not wasteful to convert it to parkland, especially when there is already a park only a mile away from the castle?”

“I mean to enlarge the latter, too, increasing its size to six miles in circumference.”

That would cause a good deal of grumbling among his tenants, Anne thought, but in his own little corner of Gloucestershire, Edward was king. He could do as he wished.

A trumpet fanfare interrupted Edward’s detailed description of how he hoped to make a channel from the small tidal creek that flowed into his land from the Severn, in order to lead the water up to the castle. The sound heralded the return of the king and his courtiers, their arms full of green boughs. They were carrying so many flowers that Anne wondered whether any remained unpicked, and more greenery decorated their caps.

Queen Catherine and her ladies waited beneath the maypole. Gaily colored ribbons streamed down from its top, ready to be seized by dancers who would follow the tradition of cavorting around the pole. Later there would be horse races and jousting and cakes and cream to eat. Anne made haste to abandon her brother and sister and join her husband, who greeted her with the gift of a nosegay and a kiss.

W
ith envy in his heart, Will Compton watched Lady Anne accept a posy from her husband. She was a paragon among women, he thought. What a pity it was that he’d lacked the wherewithal to court her before she married George Hastings. George was a decent sort, but a bit of a dull stick. The lady deserved better.

The king noticed the direction of his gaze and, grinning, slung an arm around his shoulders. Will maintained his balance only by dint of long practice. Sometimes His Grace did not know his own strength, and Will was still not fully recovered from his injuries in the tournament. That he’d nearly died, he supposed, accounted for his uncharacteristic tendency to dwell on what might have been. Ordinarily, he did not take time for regrets.

“Lady Anne is a saucy wench,” King Henry declared. “Full of energy. Always cheerful. Those are good qualities in a woman.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. Your Grace is fortunate in that the queen is both energetic and cheerful, as well.” Will balked at calling Queen Catherine saucy.

The king’s smile dimmed. “Her Grace worries too much,” he muttered.

Will waited. If the king wished to confide in him, he had no choice but to listen.

“She took the loss of the child hard and now that she’s to have another, she spends even more hours every day in prayer. I vow, she will wear out the floor with all that kneeling.”

“Her Grace is young and healthy. I am certain all will be well this time.” Will was sure of no such thing, but it would not be politic to say so. He sent a silent prayer winging heavenward that the queen would not only survive childbirth but also produce the son and heir every monarch needed to secure the throne.

The king lowered his voice to the point where Will had to strain to catch his words. “Her Grace should be spared amorous attentions during this delicate time.”

“Is that what the physicians suggest, Your Grace?” With an effort, Will hid his alarm. Had he heard correctly? Did the king intend to avoid his wife’s bed for the rest of her pregnancy?

“They are not of one mind on this matter, but Dr. Vittorio thinks to do so would ensure the queen’s good health and the health of the child she carries.”

The Spanish physician had charge of Her Grace’s care. No wonder King Henry was inclined to listen to his advice. Will said only, “Celibacy is a difficult course, Your Grace.”