At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (36 page)

“Not
here
.” Madge sent a fearful glance toward the Duchess of Buckingham, who was too intent upon watching the competition on the field to notice.

Exasperated, Anne was short with her friend. “Come to my tent later,” she said again. The canvas house Anne and George had been assigned was one of the more elaborate in the encampment, though no match for the one housing the Duke of Buckingham.

“The duchess has rooms in the castle. It is not easy for me to come and go. There are guards.”

Anne lost what little was left of her patience. She had missed her chance to confront Lady Compton and now Madge’s behavior was attracting unwanted attention from both Queen Catherine and Anne’s sister, Elizabeth.

“Do your best,” she instructed.

Turning her back on Madge, Anne returned to her proper place in the stands. Once there, she brooded. Worrying what Will Compton’s wife might do next effectively banished every other concern from her mind. She did not give her brother’s mistress another thought.

G
eorge, Lord Hastings, ate heartily. “The king’s cooks have once again outdone themselves,” he remarked to Lord Fitzwalter, who sat beside him.

“I do not care for this sauce they have put on the beef,” Fitzwalter complained. “Someone said it was made with clove gillyflowers.”

George sipped a fine Malmsey wine and considered the issue. “It is not as satisfying as some sauces,” he agreed. He was partial himself to the one his own cook served with roasts, a rich concoction made with the gravy of a roast capon, wine, mustard, and small shredded onions that had been fried in fat.

“And what is this?” Fitzwalter demanded, poking suspiciously with his eating knife at a bowl filled with green shoots.

“That is called asparagus,” George told him. “It is an Italian herb.” He’d been willing to sample it, but could not say he cared for the taste.

“Italian? That is as bad as French,” Fitzwalter muttered.

Fitzwalter, George thought, became more like their mutual brother-in-law, the Duke of Buckingham, with each passing day. He mopped up more gravy with a piece of bread. By the time he’d polished off his wine, he felt remarkably content.

Three rooms were in use for eating on this second Sunday at what
participants were now calling the Field of Cloth of Gold. In one, Queen Catherine shared a table with Cardinal Wolsey and the Queen Mother of France. The queen’s ladies, including George’s wife, were gathered in a second dining hall to eat while, here in this one, King Francis sat at the high table to share a meal with the nobility of England. He had brought his own royal musicians to provide fanfare when he was seated and when each new dish was carried in and to play background music throughout the meal. King Henry, who had gone to the French camp in Ardres to pay his respects to Queen Claude, had done likewise.

After they’d eaten, the three groups met in the great hall of the canvas palace. Ten French couples in long gowns of velvet and satin entered last, their faces covered with visors. The ladies wore horned headdresses of the sort George had seen in portraits from the last century. First they engaged in allegorical posturing, most of which George did not trouble to interpret, but later they removed their visors to reveal their identities. King Francis, to no one’s surprise, had been the masked man in russet velvet bordered in white.

Free of the disguise, the king greeted Queen Catherine and the Duchess of Suffolk—who had once been his stepmother-in-law—and exchanged a few words with the cardinal and with his own mother. Then he led the dancing in the Italian fashion.

After King Francis danced with Lady Anne, George claimed her for himself. “His Grace has a reputation with the ladies,” he warned her.

Anne laughed. “So I have heard, but I doubt he has any serious interest in a long-married matron like myself.”

“You are as beautiful as you were as a young woman, and even more charming.”

Obviously pleased by the compliment, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before she whirled away in the pattern of the dance.

His next partner was a mousy little woman with freckles, someone he could not recall having seen before. She approached him, which was unusual enough to have him halfway onto the dance floor before he realized he’d not actually agreed to dance with her. Nor did he know her name.

“You have the advantage of me, madam,” he said as the music of tabor, pipe, and rebec began.

“I do,” she said. “I believe I have knowledge that you lack.”

“You intrigue me.”

The steps parted them, but when they were face-to-face again, she smiled up at him and gave him her name at last. “I am Werburga Compton, Sir William’s wife.”

“Are you indeed?” Every muscle in his body tensed. In years past, the mere mention of Compton’s name could evoke the bad blood between them. Then they had become friends again, after a fashion—a friendship that had been tested just lately with the advent of new whispers at court about a liaison between Compton and Lady Anne.

“We have something in common,” Lady Compton said. “We have both been betrayed.” She whirled away from him again before he could respond.

The next time the dance brought them face-to-face, he spoke quickly, keeping his voice low and level. “You are mistaken, Lady Compton.”

“I do not believe so. My information comes from the highest authority.”

“The king?” George let his skepticism show.

“The cardinal,” she replied.

This time when they separated, he lost his place in the pattern. The lady he was supposed to bow to was obliged to strike him sharply on the arm with her fan to recall his attention to the steps.

George followed Lady Compton from the floor when the music stopped. She waited for him in a quiet corner, her face serene but her eyes dark with emotion. “Cardinal Wolsey himself sent word to me that your wife and my husband are lovers,” she said bluntly. “He advised me to do something about it.”

“He has said the same to me, but he is mistaken.”

“I do not think so. Will speaks of Lady Anne often, and always with great. . . fondness. He has admired her for years.” Bitterness leaked into her voice.

George felt sorry for the woman, but he still thought her suspicions unfounded. “Your husband is a friend of mine. A friend of
ours
. That is all there is to it.”

“Fool,” she said and, having planted the seeds of discord, she walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

All nonsense, George told himself. He must not listen to the fevered imaginings of a dissatisfied wife. He debated with himself whether to even mention the exchange to Anne when he returned to their tent that night, but in the end he had no choice. Anne had seen him dancing with Lady Compton and had recognized the gentlewoman.

“What did she say to you?” Anne demanded. “For a moment there on the dance floor you looked as if she’d stuck a knife into you.”

After a brief hesitation, he repeated everything Lady Compton had said to him.

Anne glared at him. “Did you believe her?”

“No.”

“Good. You have no cause for jealousy.”

He was a fool, he told himself, to pursue this, but the question was out before he could stop it. “Did I ever?”

For just a moment, Anne’s gaze wavered and, in that instant, he knew she was trying to hide something from him. He caught her by the upper arms and gave her a shake. “I will not tolerate lies, Anne. Did Compton bed you or not?”

Faced with a direct question, her face lost every vestige of color. Her lower lip quivered. He wondered if she was about to burst into tears but she got control of herself before a single drop of moisture could fall. Swallowing once, audibly, she lifted her head, stuck out that stubborn little chin of hers, and met his eyes.

“I thought to keep it from you. I have no wish to hurt you and less to drive you away.”

“Are you his mistress even now?” The question was wrenched from him.

“No! Oh, no, George!
In the past,
I was briefly Will Compton’s
bedmate. It was a terrible mistake on my part. A sin I have much regretted in all the years since.”

“Years?” he echoed, feeling a spurt of renewed hope.

“Yes. Years. I love you, George. Only you. And I will never be anything less than honest with you again.”

Her words came from the heart. He could tell that. Confirmation that she had once been unfaithful to him wounded him deeply, but he clung to the rest of what she’d said. He set her gently from him, flexing his hands as he released her.

“We will speak no more of it,” George said, and to make sure Anne knew she was forgiven, he made love to her with great tenderness.

He was capable of forgiving his wife. Absolving Compton of blame, however, was another matter entirely.

F
ighting at the barriers was just one more competition at the Field of Cloth of Gold. The barrier itself was about three feet high with a crossbar at either end and was set up within a stockade that allowed space for about twenty men. The contestants, chosen by lot, faced each other in teams of two. Several matches were completed without anything untoward happening. Then Sir William Compton and Sir Edward Neville took their places on one side of the barrier and George, Lord Hastings and Sir Richard Sacheverell approached the other.

Lady Anne barely contained her gasp. This was no chance pairing. No wonder George had been so careful to leave their bed before she was awake that morning. He’d planned this.

It would not be as if he came to blows with Will Compton at court. At the barriers, he could legally attack Will and do him bodily harm. Anne feared for Will’s safety, but she was even more concerned for George, who was not the other man’s equal at arms.

Even the most skilled combatants could be hurt in these contests, despite all the precautions and rules. No less a personage than King Francis of France had ended up with a black eye and a broken nose after one event and King Henry had been unable to compete on another occasion because of an injury to his hand.

All the competitors had years of training. They had been to war. But there had still been at least one death since the tournament began. Anne feared there was about to be one more.

Lady Compton was seated a short distance away from her. Bent slightly forward, her gaze was avid. Anne wanted to slap her. How could she find enjoyment in this? Did she want to see her own husband injured, even killed? Perhaps she did. Wicked woman!

Anne turned back to the barriers at the sound of a punchion spear shattering against armor. She bit back a cry of distress when she realized that George had struck the blow.

The sharp points of the spears were blunted. There had been no real damage done to Will’s person, but he staggered back a few steps. Before he could regain his balance, George used the stump of his spear like a cudgel and began to strike Will about the head and shoulders.

Will responded with a heavy two-handed blow. When his spear also broke, he hurled the fragments at Sacheverell. George thrust both arms across the barrier, trying to catch hold of Will’s throat with his bare hands. Heated words were exchanged, although they were inaudible to anyone but the two combatants, before Sacheverell hauled George back to their side.

The four men armed themselves again, this time with two-handed swords. These had “buttons” affixed to the points to blunt their deadly power but they still looked dangerous to Anne. The armor the men wore was for show, not true combat, and their headpieces, called armets, provided less protection than a regular helmet. The armet was naught but a globular cap with a visor over the eyes and a gorget to protect the throat. She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer for the safety of all four men. She did not want to see blood spilled here today, most especially when she was the cause of it.

She should never have confessed her infidelity to George. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time, and she’d hoped for the best. After all, George had believed her guilty of adultery once before and found it in his heart to forgive her. For a long time after he’d rescued her from the nuns, he’d remained convinced that she’d been Will Compton’s mistress, and perhaps the king’s, too. Yet he’d learned to
care for her again, and he’d managed to deal with Will without attempting to revenge himself on the other man.

Since George had not asked her
when
she’d been unfaithful to him, Anne had taken care not to correct his assumption that her confession applied to those same early days, before she’d been sent to Littlemore Priory. The truth would have been much more hurtful to him. Or so she’d thought. She’d reasoned that he would let the matter drop, and abandon his renewed jealousy of Will Compton. It was difficult to hold on to a desire for revenge for so many years, as she well knew. But George, it appeared, was not as forgiving as she’d hoped. Or else he knew without her telling him that her infidelities had taken place more recently than she’d implied.

The sound of steel striking steel had her eyes flying open again. She sprang to her feet, but Bess Boleyn hauled her back down onto the bench they shared. “Do not make a spectacle of yourself,” she warned in a whisper. “To everyone else, they simply look as if they have brought an excess of enthusiasm and high spirits to the competition.”

Anne knew Bess was right, but she found it nearly impossible to sit still. The four men fought so hard that sparks flew up from their armor with each blow. Hands clutched in her lap so tightly that her knuckles showed white. Anne watched with her heart in her throat.

All four men at the barriers continued to fight until Neville’s sword caught in Sacheverell’s helmet and sliced into his ear. Even blunted, the sword was sharp enough to cause copious bleeding. The Earl of Essex, serving as the English marshal appointed to order the field, stepped in and, with startling suddenness, the match was over. No one had been maimed or killed.

Anne glanced again toward Lady Compton. The other woman’s face wore a smug, satisfied smile. Why? Anne wondered. What had she gained by this combat? She was frankly astonished when the other woman approached her a short time later, as they were leaving the gallery for the great hall where the prizes would be awarded.