At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (3 page)

Only Madge Geddings, a young gentlewoman with a pink and white complexion and a small, turned-up nose, sat near enough to Anne to overhear the soft-spoken words. Madge glanced toward the duke, then quickly away, cheeks flaming.

Poor Madge, Anne thought. These days, anything to do with
Edward left her flustered and blushing. For some time now, the duke had been trying to persuade Madge, his wife’s waiting gentlewoman, to share his bed. If Madge gave in, she would not be his first mistress. He’d had at least two, and had the illegitimate sons to prove it. Anne was only surprised that it had taken her brother so long to notice that the young woman had blossomed into a beauty. Madge had been part of his household for nearly ten years. True, she had been a girl of twelve when she’d first entered the duchess’s service, and she had been assigned to the nursery until recently, but the duke made it a practice to keep track of everyone in his service.

The other women in the garden gallery, as yet unaware of the duke’s presence, continued to converse together, heads bent over a large embroidery frame that held an altar cloth. Anne sat a little apart from those working on the project. She preferred to spend her time on emblem embroidery, creating small motifs, usually in tent stitch, which were then cut out and applied to large velvet panels for use as hangings, bed curtains, coverlets, or cushions. It was a negligible show of independence, especially when the emblem at hand was the golden Stafford knot, but it salved her pride to have tangible proof that Edward did not control
every
facet of her life.

Anne’s sister, Elizabeth, looked up from her stitches at the sound of approaching footfalls. At once, a calculating look came into her eyes. Anne hid a smile. She could read her sister’s expression as easily as she could interpret the sampler she’d made as a child and, just as she no longer needed to refer to the sampler as she embroidered, neither was it necessary to rely upon anything but past experience to know that her older sister wanted something from their brother. Elizabeth’s face, although it had the same heart shape Anne saw in her own looking glass, was dominated by lips held too tightly compressed, so that they habitually formed a thin, hard line. Her smiles always looked forced, and they never reached her eyes.

Edward, Anne decided, seemed a trifle agitated. That was nothing unusual. Having his attention fix on her, however,
was
out of the ordinary.

“I would speak with you in private, sister,” he announced in a peremptory tone of voice.

Elizabeth looked miffed, for there was no mistaking which sister he meant.

“As you wish, Edward.” Anne set aside her small embroidery frame and rose from the cushioned window seat.

The gallery in the Manor of the Rose ran north to south, as did the garden it overlooked. All the windows had a view of Laurence Pountney Hill and the steeples of St. Laurence Pountney and St. Martin Orgar and, at a little distance, St. Margaret Bridge Street and St. Leonard Milkchurch. Anne’s brother walked her to the southern end of the gallery, near to where it adjoined a four-story tower. From that vantage point, they could almost see the Thames and did have a clear view of the turrets of Coldharbour, the London house of the late king’s mother. Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, was in residence there with her youngest grandchild, the new king’s sister Mary, who went by the title Princess of Castile by virtue of her long-standing betrothal to a Spanish prince. The princess, who could not be more than fourteen years old, would have taken her father’s death hard. Anne’s heart went out to her.

Occupied by such thoughts, Anne waited with apparent patience, hands demurely tucked into her sleeves, for the great and powerful Duke of Buckingham to make known his reason for wishing to speak to her alone. She was not afraid of him, but she had learned that a show of respect made dealing with her brother far easier. At Thornbury Castle, Penshurst Place, or Bletchingly Manor, his country houses, she was able to avoid him for days on end. Here in the smaller London house, that was impossible.

“You will recall,” he began in a patronizing tone, “that the late king, His Gracious Majesty, Henry the Seventh, required you to sign a recognizance for one hundred and sixty pounds.”

“I do. Although no one ever troubled to explain to me just why I was obliged to provide that surety.”

“You would not comprehend the legal details, sister. Suffice it to say
that Hal and I signed similar documents. Our new king, His Most Gracious Majesty, Henry the Eighth, has seen fit to cancel them.”

“That is excellent news,” Anne said. “Has he also freed Hal from the Tower?” Why her other brother had been a prisoner there for nearly two months was something else no one had bothered to tell her.

Edward scowled. “No, he has not, and we will not speak further of the matter.”

“As you wish,” Anne murmured, lowering her gaze so that he would not guess how angry and frustrated such dictates made her feel. “Shall I return to the other women now?”

“My business with you is not yet complete. It is time you remarried, sister. I am considering young Lord Hastings.”

“
Young
Lord Hastings?” Anne echoed, caught off guard by his announcement. “
How
young? I do not wish to be yoked to a child.”

“You will suit well enough.”

“How old is he, Edward?” She met his eyes now, letting him see her determination to have an answer. She was loath to challenge him on most matters but she did have one legal right as a widow. She could refuse to marry a man who displeased her.

“George Hastings is twenty-two.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. A four-year difference in their ages was not so bad, not when the bride Edward had found for Hal had been nineteen years his senior. “Will the new king approve?” she asked. As their liege lord, King Henry also had the right to put a stop to a betrothal, should he dislike the match.

“That young fool married for love,” Buckingham snapped. “What do you think?”

“I think that the king’s devotion to Catherine of Aragon is admirable,” she replied, although she knew full well that Edward had not expected her to answer him.

“His Grace is as impulsive as a young puppy. By the Mass, I cannot fathom why he would wed his brother’s widow. And before his coronation, too. They’re to be crowned together six days from now.” He shook his head, his bewilderment almost tangible. “Young Henry will never be
the king his father was if he does not learn how to govern a too-tender heart.”

“Have a care, Edward,” Anne warned, daring to bait him. “He
is
the king.”

“I will speak my mind in my own house!” His eyes flashed with irritation.

“You always do,” she said, and sent him a smile of surpassing sweetness.

His hard stare told her that he was uncertain how to take that last remark, or her attitude. After a moment, he apparently decided that she would never laugh at him, or be so bold as to criticize him to his face. “If all goes well in the negotiations over your dowry and jointure,” he said, “you will be wed by the end of the year.”

Anne accepted this dictate with equanimity, certain that if George Hastings proved distasteful to her, she could refuse to marry him. She did not know much about the Hastings family, other than that their seat was in Leicestershire. She would have liked to ask for more details, but Edward already had hold of her arm and was towing her back to the other women.

“Is there any news from court?” Elizabeth demanded as soon as Anne had been returned to the window seat. “I have been waiting to hear about a place in the new queen’s household.”

“You have already been given the honor of escorting the Princess of Castile in King Henry’s funeral procession,” Buckingham chided her. “You must not be greedy.”

He laughed when her face fell.

“Have no fear, my dear. There can be no doubt but that you will be included among Queen Catherine’s ladies. Both my sisters will have places of honor with Her Grace. How could it be otherwise when the Staffords are the foremost family in the realm?”

T
wo of the king’s grooms of the chamber, summoned by His Grace, hurried toward the privy bedchamber. It was after midnight, but Will Compton was not at all surprised that Henry Tudor was not yet abed. Oh, he’d have been disrobed and put into his long white silk nightshirt. He’d have washed his face and cleaned his teeth. An attendant would have combed his hair and put on his embroidered scarlet velvet night bonnet. But Will had seen the heated looks that had passed between the king and his bride earlier in the evening. It had only been a little more than a month since their wedding. They’d not yet tired of bed sport.

Will and his fellow groom, Ned Neville, passed through the presence chamber, where the yeomen of the guard were on duty, and along a short passage into the privy chamber. The two yeomen of the chamber, who would spend the rest of the night on pallets outside the bedchamber door, were already yawning at their posts. They could sleep if they wished. The king would not be calling for them again.

Beyond the privy chamber were the quarters that were truly private. The royal bedchamber came first, dominated by a massive bed and hung with exquisite tapestries. The two grooms of the chamber passed through it to a second bedchamber, the one in which His Grace
actually slept. The light given off by several quarriers—square blocks of expensive beeswax—showed Will windows hung with purple, white, and black striped satin curtains stuffed with buckram. The floors were oak painted to look like marble, and a very fine tapestry showing a hunting scene decorated an inner wall. Small, exquisitely made carpets covered not only the tabletops but also the floor beside the royal bed.

The king had only one attendant. This gentleman of the bedchamber would sleep on a pallet at the foot of the royal bed, but for now he stepped back, yielding his royal charge to Will and Ned, and busied himself rounding up the royal pets—a beagle, a greyhound, and a ferret—to prevent them from trying to follow their master.

Henry the Eighth, Will thought, looked every inch a king, even when he was wearing nothing but a nightshirt. Barely eighteen years old, His Grace had been blessed with a strong, long-limbed, muscular body honed to perfection by long hours of practice in the tiltyard. His face, too, was pleasing to look at, even when, as now, it wore a frown.

“What took you so long?” His pale eyes narrowed as he glared at them. The king had an unpredictable temper, but Will doubted he’d stay angry once he was on his way to his bride.

“Your pardon, Your Grace.” Ned scooped up the royal night robe—a mantle of crimson velvet furred with ermine—and assisted the king into it.

Will collected a torch to help light the way to the door of the bedchamber where the queen awaited her husband. They did not have far to go. The king’s apartments at Greenwich were connected to the queen’s by a privy gallery. An ordinary man might have yielded to his impatience to see his bride and made the trek alone, but protocol demanded that a ruling monarch go nowhere unescorted, not even to his wife’s bed.

His Grace set a brisk pace, paying no attention to the shadowed contents of the gallery or the view outside the many windows that graced both sides of it. There was no moon, but the palace courtyards were lit by lanterns.

They were met at the bedchamber door by a small, dark-haired
woman, one of the queen’s Spanish servants. She dropped into a deep curtsey as soon as she recognized the king, then backed away as he entered the room. She’d exit quickly by the door on the far side, then settle down to wait, just as Will and Ned must now do. The rule that a king could not be left unattended at any time obliged them to remain nearby until His Grace was ready to be escorted back to his own bed.

“We could be here all night,” Ned complained.

Will gave a grunt of agreement. His Grace was a lusty young man married to an attractive woman. It was their royal duty to couple, but it was plain they both took pleasure in that obligation. It might be hours before King Henry left his queen’s bed.

“What a pity that toothsome young wench who opened the door must remain on the queen’s side of the chamber,” Ned mused. “She fancies me, I think. Did you see the look she gave me?”

“One of abject terror, I thought. I presume your ugly face frightened her.”

“Ugly, am I?” Ned laughed. “Have a care, Compton. Insult me and you come close to insulting the king.”

“I am not one of those who think you bear a strong resemblance to His Grace.”

Ned Neville and King Henry were both very tall—a head taller than any other men at court. Both had auburn hair and muscular builds. They’d traded places in a disguising once, to the astonishment and chagrin of all those who had been fooled into thinking Neville was the king. Close up, the differences were obvious, especially to Will. He had known both Ned and the king since they were all young boys.

Will Compton had become a ward of the Crown at eleven, when his father died. He’d been sent to young Prince Henry’s household as a page. Ned Neville had arrived soon after. The third son of Lord Bergavenny, Ned had been one of the boys chosen to be children of honor—companions for the young prince. They’d grown up together—Will Compton, Ned Neville, and Henry Tudor. Later others,
both older and younger, had joined their circle and become close friends, in particular Charles Brandon, Harry Guildford, and Nick Carew.

Retreating to a wide, cushioned bench set into one of the gallery’s window recesses, Will decided it was a great pity that it was not long enough to serve as a couch. He placed the torch he’d been carrying into a wall bracket, sat down, and produced a pair of dice from the pouch suspended from his belt.

“Shall we pass the time at hazard?” he asked.

Ned joined him on the bench. “What are the stakes?”

“I am obliged to play for pennies,” Will admitted. Paying his tailor’s bill had taken all the ready money he had.

They rolled one die to see who would go first and Will’s six beat Ned’s four. “The main is five,” he said, and sent both dice spinning across the window seat. He kept rolling until the five came up, then rolled again and lost with a three.