At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (20 page)

He hesitated, then seemed unable to stop himself from blurting out a question. “Do you believe there are those who can see into the future?”

The question startled her, but she answered as honestly as she could.
“There were prophets in ancient times, were there not? And if such things were possible in days of old, then it follows that a man might exist today who can do the same.” Now it was her turn to hesitate, but she had heard the rumors. “Is Nicholas Hopkins a prophet?”

Instantly suspicious, he released her and stepped back. “What do you know of the monk?”

“Everyone hereabout has heard of him.” Hinton Priory was no more than fifteen miles distant. The duke had sent his chaplain, John Delacourt, thither at dawn. Delacourt had returned less than an hour ago.

“What do they say?”

“That he is a holy man, a monk of the Carthusian order, and that he utters cryptic predictions. The Carthusians live in their charterhouses like hermits, do they not? Spending their days alone in prayer and contemplation? Such a man might well be blessed with the gift of prophecy. People venerate him, and hope that he will one day see good fortune in their futures.”

“Ordinary people do?” the duke asked, looking thoughtful.

Madge heard the odd note in his voice and her interest quickened. “It is not like you, my lord, to care what the country folk think.”

“I have been advised to win the love of commoners,” he muttered.

“By the monk?”

As if he suddenly became aware of his surroundings, the duke grabbed her hand and towed her after him down the privy stairs that led to a private garden about a third of an acre in size. Just as the duke’s lodgings at Thornbury had been the first to be rebuilt, so had he taken the trouble early on to fill this space with trees, flower beds, and shrubbery.

Madge was fond of Edward’s little garden. There were gooseberry and lilac bushes in addition to roses and peonies. Several willow trees offered shade while a pear tree still had a few pieces of fruit left among its branches. A variety of herbs kept the space fragrant even in winter.

Edward led the way to a stone bench in the farthest corner of the garden. The thick stone wall behind it would prevent anyone from creeping up on them to listen to their conversation.

Madge’s gown was lined with fur and the kirtle beneath was made of
the finest wool, but she felt a chill run through her. It was unusual that Edward practiced such discretion in his own house. When something annoyed him, he was wont to let everyone in earshot know of it. He had never troubled to be cautious of his words, not even when he criticized King Henry.

“You must swear never to reveal what I am about to tell you,” he said when they were seated.

Madge agreed without a qualm. She prided herself on her loyalty. Besides, they shared a child. Little Margaret bore the Stafford surname and slept in the ducal nursery. Edward had promised that she would receive the same upbringing and education he’d provided for his legitimate children and that he would find a noble husband for the girl.

“Hopkins,” Buckingham said, “predicts that I will have all.”

“All what?”

“All of England. I will one day be king.”

Madge felt her eyes widen. “Surely it is treason to speak of such things,” she whispered.

“It could be seen as such,” Buckingham admitted. “That is why Delacourt has taken an oath never to reveal what the monk told him. Except to me.”

“Oh, Edward!” Her concern increased tenfold. It was dangerous to covet the Crown and he, of all men, should know that. His own father had died for trying to replace one king with another.

Buckingham must have heard the anguish in her voice because he clasped her close again, resting his chin atop the simple coif she wore over her hair. “The message he sent today was that I should endeavor to win the love of the community. Royal blood is not enough to claim the Crown. Come to that, there are others nearer the throne than I am. The new-made Countess of Salisbury for one. Margaret Pole is the daughter of George, Duke of Clarence, younger brother to both Edward the Fourth and Richard the Third.”

Madge knew who the countess was—a widow with five children who had just recently been granted the earldom of Salisbury in her own right, a most unusual circumstance. There had been talk of that among
the duchess’s ladies when it happened, and even more speculation a few weeks later, when it was rumored that the king’s boon companion, Will Compton, was angling to marry the newly made countess. The king, however, had not approved the match, and now it was said that Compton intended to wed the wealthy widow of Sir Francis Cheyney instead.

“His Grace is young yet,” Madge said carefully. “Surely he will father more children.” The death of his son and heir, only a few weeks after the prince’s birth, had been a hard blow, not just to King Henry, but to the entire realm.

“But will they be the queen’s?” Buckingham asked. “She is six years older than he is.”

Age was not an issue, Madge thought. Not yet. Both of Edward’s sisters were as old as the queen and they’d both produced healthy children.

Madge spared a thought for Lady Anne, of whom she was most fond. They had exchanged letters regularly ever since little Margaret’s birth. Lady Anne was one of the child’s godmothers.

While it was true that Anne had lost her first child, she had given birth to a daughter since. Madge had no doubt she’d soon be with child again. She might already be.

“I must return to court soon,” Edward said. “There is talk of war with France, a joint effort with the King of Aragon, Queen Catherine’s father.”

Panic seared her. “Would you have to fight?”

“No more than the king will, but His Grace will have need of my advice if he intends to send troops abroad. When I know which way the wind blows,” he mused, speaking more to himself than to Madge, “it may be worth my while to consult again with the monk. To know the future is to have a powerful advantage.”

G
eorge Hastings returned from months of death and disease in an army encampment on the border between Spain and France to find that death had also struck much closer to home. When he’d gone away at the end of May, Anne had been breeding again, healthy and happy. The child, a boy, had been born in early October. He had lived less than a week.

He found his wife in the nursery with their daughter, Mary. Anne was seated on the floor on a large cushion, holding the child upright while they touched noses. The little girl was nearly a year old, at the age when children began to explore their limited worlds. She was providing a distraction for her mother, George thought. That was good.

But when his wife looked up and their eyes met, he saw his own deep sorrow reflected tenfold. No other child could make up for the one she had just lost, not for either of them. Without a word, he went to her side and sank down onto his knees in the rushes. Heedless of the giggling maidservants, he took both wife and daughter into his arms and hugged them hard.

Mary squealed and laughed. Anne just clung.

It was much later, when they had left the nursery for Anne’s solar,
before they spoke of their lost child. “We named him Henry,” Anne said.

George nodded. For the king. It was expected. He listened as she told him of the child’s burial, still in the chrisom, but he did not really hear. His own thoughts, he kept to himself. He did not think she would find the comfort he did in reminding himself that they were young yet and could have more children.

He tamped down, too, on the desire for her he felt. She was in no condition to welcome him to her bed, and tradition, in any case, forbade the resumption of marital relations until a month after childbirth. But he was loath to leave her. He had missed the simple closeness of living together under one roof.

“I am glad you came home unscathed,” Anne said after another long silence. “We heard terrible rumors.”

“Not rumor. Truth.” George could not hide his bitterness.

They had been deceived. The queen’s father, Ferdinand of Aragon, had promised to join with King Henry for an invasion of France. Ten thousand Englishmen had sailed from Southampton in late May and landed at San Sebastián on the coast of Spain in early June. They had advanced twelve miles, to Feunterrabia, and there they had remained for the next three months, waiting for Spanish troops that never came.

“You had doubts,” Anne said, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingers. “Even at the beginning.”

He caught her hand and brought the palm to his lips, placing a kiss squarely in the middle. He felt her shiver. “Do you truly want to know?” he asked. “It is not a pretty tale.”

“I have spent months wondering and worrying. I would like to hear a little, at least.”

“I will spare you the details. I have no desire to remember them myself, but aside from the king’s foolish decision to trust his father-in-law, His Grace made a second mistake in choosing the Marquess of Dorset to lead the expedition.”

“That is not just old enmity speaking,” Anne remarked, watching his face in the candlelight.

“No. My dislike of all the Greys, the marquess in particular, is well founded, but even I would have thought he’d manage better than he did.”

“He had no military experience,” Anne pointed out. Her body might still be weak from childbirth, but her mind was as sharp as ever.

“Few did. The king chose Dorset because he is an excellent jouster.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “No matter who had command of the troops, many would have died. We had no cavalry or transport, no proper provisions—not even beer to drink. It was hot there, much more so than England ever is, and all we had was Spanish wine to quell our thirst. Some said that was the cause of the disease. I cannot say, but three thousand men fell ill and some eighteen hundred died of the flux. I blame Dorset for keeping us there so long. It was soon clear that our allies were not coming, but it was not until the troops all but rebelled that Dorset gave the order to return home.”

Anne had her head against his shoulder, her arm around his waist. There were tears in her eyes. “So much waste.”

He bent to kiss her forehead. “All for the glory of England.”

She gave a small laugh at his tone and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “You are home. It is over. We will begin anew.”

“How?”

“We will go out into the park. We will. . . we will go hawking. It has been months since I’ve been on a horse. And you have been cooped up on board a ship during the journey home from Spain. It will be good for both of us.”

“You are certain you are well enough?” It was a sport they both loved, and George employed his own falconer.

“Quite certain,” she said in a brisk voice that brooked no argument.

And so, early the next morning, they set out on stout, steady-going horses accompanied by four spaniels to quest and retrieve. George carried his favorite hunting bird, a goshawk he’d named Athena. She was not hooded. Unlike long-winged hawks, she did not need to be, but she did have bells tied to her legs, to aid in tracking her when she flew.

Anne, like most ladies, hunted with a sparrowhawk. Colorful tassels
hung down from the lower point of her gauntlet, swaying in a light breeze. They matched those on the drawstring of the silk pouch attached to her belt, storage for leashes, jesses, and hoods. Anne had decorated it herself. George recalled seeing her work on it at court in the days before their marriage. She had embroidered upon it all four of the Stafford badges—the golden knot, the silver swan, the blue-ermined mantle, and the spotted antelope.

Ahead of them, a partridge rose into the air. George cast Athena from his fist. Like most of her breed, she had been difficult to train and was ill-tempered, but she could take any ground game or low-flying bird with ease, even bustard and pheasant, and had once brought down a hare. True, she had not killed it, but her grip had held it until a dog arrived to help. Now she flew at her quarry with a determination and skill that had him grinning ear to ear.

“There’s supper tonight!” he called to his wife.

Face flushed, eyes alight, Anne reveled in the moment. “Wait till you see what prey my Rosebud takes down.”

The most common quarry for a sparrowhawk was a blackbird or a thrush, but George had known a good hunting bird to take down partridge, woodcock, and even a young pheasant. Rosebud, he remembered, was as savage as she was small, but she had been well trained to carry her dead prey back to the hand of her bearer.

And so the hunt continued. They rode through the parkland, flying their hawks at random, taking down partridge, quail, lark, and pheasant until the game bags were overflowing. “We shall sup,” Anne declared, “on Sparviter’s Pie—three plump partridges, six quails, a dozen larks, and diced bacon strewn over all in a pastry case made of pure wheaten flour and eggs.”

George’s mouth watered and his heart sang. Not tonight, he reminded himself, but soon, supper would be followed by renewed coupling, and in another year, perhaps less, there would be a son to share the nursery with little Mary.

T
he Duke of Buckingham stood by a window hung with scarlet curtains. Madge could tell he was lost in thought. He was making that peculiar little humming sound again. And she knew why he was so preoccupied. That morning he had once more dispatched his chaplain, John Delacourt, to deliver a letter to Nicholas Hopkins, the resident prophet at the Carthusian priory of Hinton. The duke desired to know the outcome of King Henry’s war with France.

Abandoning her embroidery, not even noticing when her needle fell to the floor, Madge left her cushioned bench to go to her lover’s side. Greatly daring, she slipped an arm around his waist. While the duchess was at Bletchingly, she had Edward all to herself at Thornbury. True, Lord Henry and Lady Mary were also in residence, but they had known her since they were babies and did not seem to mind that she was their father’s mistress, or that Madge’s daughter, little Margaret, shared the nursery with Lady Mary.