T
his latest news from the court pleases me,” said Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, “but my brother’s continued confinement in the Tower of London is worrisome.”

“A mistake, surely, my lord,” Charles Knyvett murmured.

Squarely built and florid-faced, with thinning hair and small, pale eyes, Knyvett had been in Buckingham’s service from childhood and was one of the few men he trusted, perhaps because they were also linked by blood. Knyvett’s mother had been a daughter of the first duke. His father, Sir William, now nearing his seventieth year, still held the honorary post of chamberlain in the ducal household.

“All will be sorted out in good time,” agreed Buckingham’s chaplain, Robert Gilbert, a tall, thin, hawk-nosed fellow with a deeply pocked face and intense black eyes.

The duke made a little humming noise, neither agreement nor disagreement, and studied the small group of women surrounding his wife at the far end of the garden gallery of his London house. His sisters, Elizabeth and Anne, were among them. They might prove useful to him, he thought. At least no one, not even the new king’s overcautious councilors, would be likely to order the arrest of either of them on suspicion of treason.

“Lord Henry’s confinement is doubtless the result of malicious lies,” Gilbert said. “No formal charges have been made against him.”

“And the only other members of the late king’s household who are under arrest are inferior persons: lawyers and accountants,” Knyvett chimed in.

“And a surveyor of the king’s prerogative,” Gilbert reminded him with a little smirk.

Knyvett glared at him, offended by the jab but reluctant to quarrel outright over it in the duke’s presence. Officially, Charles Knyvett was Buckingham’s surveyor. That it was a relatively minor post in a household large enough to need a chancellor, an almoner, a receiver general, and a clerk of the signet had been a source of frustration for him for some time.

Buckingham ignored the sparring between his two retainers. He was accustomed to it. In truth, he preferred antagonism to complacency. He also expected his men to spy on each other and keep him informed of everything they discovered. He deemed it wise to keep his allies at odds with one another. In an England that had for decades been torn apart by wars over the succession, it paid to know what your enemies were thinking. It made even more sense to keep a close watch on your friends.

As for his younger brother Hal’s situation—that worried the duke more than he let on. They had been on uneasy terms for some time before his arrest. Hal had taken offense when his brother, as head of the family, had attempted to reallocate the funds he’d earlier promised would be Hal’s for marrying the dowager Marchioness of Dorset, a match Buckingham himself had arranged. Hal had stubbornly refused to cooperate, with the result that Buckingham had found himself, at the start of a new reign, more than six thousand pounds in debt to the Crown.

Even before news of the death of King Henry the Seventh had been announced, Hal had been imprisoned in the Tower of London on suspicion of treason. Some people, Buckingham thought sourly, no doubt imagined that
he
himself was responsible for Hal’s troubles. But for all
his younger brother’s failings, Hal was still a Stafford. Buckingham had known nothing about his arrest until several days after the fact.

Who, then, had caused Hal to be seized and held? And why? The idea that Hal had been planning rebellion was laughable. Hal’s only interest in the royal court lay in the competitions to be found there—he lived for jousting. To Buckingham’s mind, that meant that the charges against Hal had been intended as a warning to him as Hal’s brother.

Had it been the old king’s outgoing Privy Council who’d ordered the arrest? They’d been anxious to keep King Henry the Seventh’s death secret until his son’s succession was secure. That they should fear Buckingham as a rival claimant to the throne amused the duke. It was true he had more royal blood in his veins than the new king did, but there were others who had even more. Regardless, he’d never thought to seize the throne for himself. He was a loyal subject, sworn to support the Tudor dynasty.

It was tiresome to have to prove his loyalty to a new king, but Buckingham did not suppose that he had any choice in the matter. The Staffords must make themselves indispensable to young Henry the Eighth.

He looked again at the women clustered around his wife, Eleanor, a plain, even-tempered woman, and the sister of the Earl of Northumberland. She and her brother had been raised, as had Buckingham and Hal, in the household of Henry the Seventh’s mother, the Countess of Richmond. Fatherless, they had all become wards of the Crown. Just after his twelfth birthday, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, had arranged a marriage between her charges.

It was a good match, the duke thought now. He and Eleanor had always been fond of each other. She was soft-spoken and made him an excellent wife. In the years since they’d wed, she had provided him with a son, his heir, and three daughters to use to forge alliances with other noblemen. Unfortunately, none of his four children was old enough yet to be of use at court. Elizabeth was twelve; Catherine, ten; Henry, eight; and Mary only six.

Buckingham’s gaze slid over assorted waiting gentlewomen, including plump, pretty Madge Geddings and Knyvett’s half sister, Bess, to
come to rest on his own siblings. His sister Elizabeth was a year his senior. He had contracted a match for her with Robert Radcliffe, Lord Fitzwalter. They’d been together for nearly four years now and Elizabeth had done her duty, giving her husband two sons. The elder was three years old and the younger an infant.

Then there was Anne. She was twenty-six years old. Buckingham had thought he’d had her settled in a marriage to Sir Walter Herbert, the old Earl of Pembroke’s younger son. But Herbert had died in a fall from a horse afterward and, for nearly two years now, Anne had been back in her brother’s house. Widowed, she’d returned to Thornbury, the Stafford family seat in Gloucestershire, bringing with her over a dozen servants but no heir for Sir Walter’s estate. She had failed in the primary duty of a wife by not producing a single child of either sex to inherit.

Anne had moved away from the group and now sat alone on a window seat, her head bent over her embroidery frame. Buckingham’s eyes narrowed as he assessed her attributes. She was more attractive than his other sister, although no great beauty. Her chin was too sharp—an outward sign of an unfortunate stubborn streak—and her complexion lacked the pink and white prettiness that was so popular at court. Still, she’d do.

“Go about your business,” he told his men. “I must speak in private with my sister.”

L
ady Anne looked up from her embroidery to find her brother Edward staring at her from the far side of the garden gallery. As was his wont, he wore extravagant clothing, even in the privacy of his own home. His gown was damask, heavily embroidered and studded with garnets and seed pearls. Neither rich fabrics nor costly decoration, however, could disguise the predatory nature of his smile.

“I wonder what dear Edward is plotting now,” Anne murmured.

If there was more than a hint of wariness in her voice, she felt it was warranted. While it was true that she had voluntarily returned to her brother’s household after the death of her husband, she had never intended to place herself quite so thoroughly under his thumb. Yet, somehow, within a month, she’d ended up granting Edward full control over her dower lands. Now she was beholden to him for everything she had, from the roof over her head and the food that she ate to the garments she wore and the jewelry that adorned them.

BOOK: At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court)

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