Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (100 page)

“Do not be so certain.” I remembered Dorothy’s boast that she had
Will Parr wrapped around her little finger. “He was besotted with her once.”

We reached the end of the gallery and turned in unison to walk back the other way.

“That was before Ned Brydges,” Alys said. “Someone will have told Lord Parr about Ned and Dorothy.”

Jasper Bassano, I thought. But I did not underestimate Dorothy’s wiles, nor her desire to be Lady Parr. “I wonder,” I mused, “given the king’s inclination to humor the queen, if His Grace will now permit her brother to remarry, even though his discarded wife still lives.”

“It is difficult to guess what His Grace will do,” Mary answered, “but if he does allow Lord Parr to wed again, I do not think he will take Dorothy Bray for his bride. A crown says he’ll choose someone new.”

I did not make any wagers and was glad of it when, later that same day, I accompanied Lady Lisle to the queen’s presence chamber to carry her embroidery frame. I brought my own needlework with me to pass the time until we returned to the viscountess’s lodgings. To take advantage of what little natural light there was even on this dark, dismal day, I settled myself on a cushion on the floor next to a window. The buzz of conversation and all the other usual noise around me faded away as I concentrated on a new stitch Bridget had taught me. I was unaware that the queen and her brother were nearby until I heard Her Grace speak.

“Your sojourn in the north should have been a means of advancement for you,” Queen Kathryn said. “What went wrong?”

“What did not?” Will Parr’s familiar voice washed over me like a balmy breeze, soothing and pleasing as it passed . . . until I abruptly realized two things. He sounded desperately unhappy. And he did not know that I could overhear what he must assume was a private conversation with his sister. A large wooden chest hid me from view.

“It began well enough,” Will continued. “As you know, I was named lord warden and keeper of the Western Marches toward Scotland last April, well
before
you married the king. I was pleased to have the post.
Lord Lisle urged me to seek the office. The Earl of Hertford supported my appointment. They both said it would give me an opportunity to prove myself to the king and at long last secure the earldom of Essex for myself. I was sure they had the right of it. Was I not given wages for a personal retinue of one hundred soldiers? I arrived in Newcastle upon Tyne fully intending to make a success of myself. I meant to settle in for a long stay.”

“Yes, yes,” the queen interrupted. “I do know all that. You wrote to me that you chose Warkworth Castle for your chief residence and refurbished it extensively.”

Trapped, I stayed still as a mouse. If either of them moved even one step closer to the window, they would stumble over me.

“Warkworth was badly decayed and in desperate need of repairs.” A defensive tone came into Will’s voice. “It took months just to improve the kitchens, great hall, and living quarters to the point where I could live there comfortably.”

“You truly intended a long stay in the north?”

“Can you doubt it? I thought it an excellent post. As it was first explained to me, my only duties were to take musters, carry out reprisal raids, secure redress for Scottish raids during periods of truce, and keep the king and council informed of activities on the border.” He made a derisive sound. “In truth, I was no more than a glorified errand boy, passing letters, news, and rumors back and forth. Every time I attempted to do more, or wrote letters to the Privy Council to give the councilors the benefit of my advice, I was reprimanded. I was told it was the lord lieutenant of the North’s responsibility to report to the Privy Council, not mine.”

“The Duke of Suffolk,” Queen Kathryn murmured.

“Yes.”

I recognized the title and knew how important that nobleman was. Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, had once been married to the king’s sister. His current wife, Catherine, Baroness Willoughby d’Eresby in her own right, was one of Queen Kathryn’s inner circle. And Suffolk’s
daughter, Lady Frances Brandon, the king’s niece, Marchioness of Dorset by her marriage to Henry Grey, was often at court.

“The duke is King Henry’s oldest friend,” the queen said.

“Old is the word for it. The man’s in his dotage. It is past time for younger blood to take command.”

“That is not your decision to make, Will.”

“No decision is, or so it appears. When I turned my attention to local matters, I was once more reined in. I was told that I did not have the authority to judge a murder case unless the accused had also committed treason within the March.”

Hearing the bewilderment in his voice, I sympathized. He truly did not understand how his actions had appeared to his superiors. He’d meant well, but his enthusiasm had annoyed men with more experience in the field. He’d needed to take the time to learn the ways of the Scottish border, just as I had needed tutoring in how to behave at court when I’d first arrived. Instead he’d rushed in and tried to impose his own ideas, without stopping to ask why things were done the way they were.

“They accused me of meddling,” Will complained, “when all I sought to do was recruit spies among the Scots.” He made a short, explosive sound of disgust. “The Scots are barbarians, a crafty and malicious people, always working against His Highness and this realm. Add to that the fact that the lord lieutenant of the North and the Privy Council kept me on leading strings and I never had a prayer of making my reputation north of the Trent.”

“But by leaving your post,” the queen pointed out in a gentle voice, “you forfeited your opportunity to impress His Grace with your military prowess.”

“You know nothing about it!” Now anger laced his words. “There are no great battles left to fight with Scotland, only border skirmishes and cattle raids. There is no opportunity for glory there. I need to be at court.”

“Perhaps if you had stayed just a little longer—”

“Is His Grace displeased to have me here?”

The queen hesitated. “I do not believe so, no.”

“Then I see no reason to remain in exile.”

I dared shift on my cushion until I could peek around the edge of the chest. The presence chamber was crowded, but no one else was nearby. Even the maids of honor had withdrawn, out of earshot, to allow Her Grace privacy to speak with her brother. Lady Lisle and Lady Hertford stood at the far side of the room, deep in conversation with the Duchess of Suffolk.

Will Parr looked just as I remembered him, with his dark auburn hair close cropped and his beard neatly trimmed. But his bearing betrayed both disillusionment and anger. While his shoulders slumped, his hands were curled into tight fists.

Sister and brother continued their conversation, but in such low voices that I could no longer make out what they were saying. I told myself that was just as well. Will Parr’s business was none of mine.

The two were clearly in charity with each other by the time Her Grace bade farewell to her brother with a kiss and a smile. Will Parr remained where he was. I continued to watch him, and saw his benign expression slowly change to a frown. When the queen rejoined her ladies and started toward the door to her privy chamber, he turned slightly, so that he could stare out the window, took a step closer to the glass, and saw me sitting on my cushion on the floor.

We both froze. Warmth flooded into my face

Will cleared his throat. “Mistress Brooke. I did not realize you were there.”

“Lord Parr.” A little clumsily, I rose to my feet. To my surprise, I saw that we were the only two people left in the presence chamber aside from the liveried yeomen warders on duty as guards. When the queen had collected her ladies and departed, everyone else had gone, too.

“I should go,” I said.

He caught my hand. “Not yet. You overheard?”

“I did not wish to intrude,” I murmured, shaken yet again by the way his touch sent a jolt of sensation straight to my core.

“That is a pitiful excuse and we both know it.”

I squared my shoulders and met his eyes, relieved to find amusement there rather than censure. “I am glad the king is not wroth with you and very happy to have you back at court.”

A little of his tension returned. “His Grace rarely deigns to notice me, and he had no trouble at all ignoring the letters I wrote to his Privy Council. You heard me say that, I suppose?”

“I did not intend to spy upon you, Lord Parr, and I will not repeat anything you said to Her Grace.”

“Then you are a paragon indeed.”

“I know most courtiers love hearing any hint of scandal and are quick to spread rumors, even when they are unfounded, but I swear I will say nothing.”

“Why not?” His grip tightened until I winced.

“I would never willingly cause you distress.” It was the simple truth, but my passionately spoken words seemed to take him aback. He gazed at me with a new intensity that was most disconcerting.

“I had hoped to renew our acquaintance when I heard you were at court,” he murmured. “Tell me, Mistress Brooke, can you think of me as a friend?”

“You are pleasant company,” I allowed.

“I strive to be, Mistress Brooke.”

When he smiled it was if the sun had come out. He was a well-favored man. There was no denying it. Nor could I deny that I felt the tug of physical attraction when we stood so close.

But no good could come of encouraging a man who already possessed both an estranged wife and a spurned mistress. I tugged my hand free. “Lady Lisle will be looking for me,” I blurted out . . . and fled.

9

I
n November, the court moved to Greenwich Palace, where Bridget and I shared a tiny room off the base court. My mother and sister came for a visit, since Cowling Castle was not very far away. They took rooms for three nights in the nearby Greyhound Inn. While my mother paid her respects to Lady Lisle, Kate and I set off to explore the grounds.

The orchard at Greenwich ran parallel to the tiltyard with the great garden beyond, flanking the road that ran between Rochester and London. There were more apple and cherry trees at Greenwich than there had been at Woodstock. Kent was famous for cherries and for the two varieties of apples known as Kentish codlings and the Flower of Kent.

“That building is a banqueting house,” I said, pointing to a structure to the southeast.

Kate paid no attention. “What is that sound?”

Now that she’d called my attention to it, I realized that the rhythmic thump had been audible from the moment we entered the orchard. “It is coming from the tiltyard.”

“Is there a tournament?” Eyes bright with anticipation, Kate lifted her skirts and set off in that direction at a pace just short of a run.

“Kate! Wait! We have no business there.”

In the manner of younger sisters, she ignored me. I scurried after her, exasperated and amused at the same time. Tournaments were a special event, but contests at arms went on all the time. According to Jack Dudley, only throwing snowballs was a more popular outdoor sport during the winter months.

The stands erected to seat spectators were deserted. Kate appropriated the place where the king and queen usually sat. Since there was no royal canopy overhead, I settled in beside her to watch the action on the field. For a real tournament, this platform would be richly draped with expensive fabric. The wooden benches would be padded with cushions. We made do with hard, unadorned surfaces, but we had an excellent view of a dozen mounted gentlemen.

For practice, some tilted at the quintain, a stuffed figure on a revolving bar. Others took turns charging at a detachable ring affixed to a post, attempting to dislodge it with their lances. A great deal of whooping and hollering accompanied each effort, no matter whether it succeeded or failed.

It was not long before one of the participants noticed us. He nudged his companion and soon all the gentlemen were aware that they were performing for a female audience. They rode faster and took more risks, showing off their skills. I hoped no one would be hurt. They were not wearing full suits of armor, only helmets, breastplates, and cuisses on their legs.

“Do you know any of the competitors?” Kate asked.

“A few. So do you.” I pointed out Harry and Jack Dudley. And Will Parr.

When my gaze fell upon Will, he happened to be turned my way. Even at that distance, I could see his lips curve into a smile. A moment later, he abandoned the field to ride over. He reined in his horse, a massive chestnut-colored charger with a white blaze between his eyes, and dipped his lance in my direction.

“Will you honor me with your favor, my lady, to carry into battle?”

I felt as if every eye was fixed upon me, but I looked only at Will as I peeled off one of my gloves and gave it to him. “See that you return it to me undamaged,” I admonished him, “else my hand will grow cold.” Although the sun shone brightly down on the field, a brisk breeze made the pennants flutter and eddied under cloak and cuff.

“I have heard it said that a cold hand is the sign of a warm heart,” Will replied.

“More than a hand will be chilled if you are unseated by the quintain.” The revolving arm swung back around after it was struck with a lance. In the short time Kate and I had been watching, it had already knocked one rider clean off his horse.

“I will take especial care, both of my person and your token,” Will promised, and rode not to the quintain but into the lists to run at the ring.

When two men competed in a joust, they charged straight at each other without swerving aside. In a practice session, there was no oncoming horse and rider to avoid. Will ran no risk of being hit with violent impact by an opponent’s lance, but he still had to manage his own weapon with strength and skill. It took superb eye-arm coordination to run a lance that stood as high as a man through a small metal ring. More than one gentleman missed his target. Most rode past unscathed, but a few rammed their lances into the post instead, with painful consequences.

In common with most other young women, I had been entertained since nursery days with tales of chivalry—stories of bold knights who rescued fair maidens from dragons and other dangers. As I watched Sir William Parr repeatedly pluck the ring from the post and outshine every other competitor at the quintain, too, I could not help but imagine him in that role. He was the embodiment of the ideal hero, destined to vanquish all obstacles in his path.