At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (13 page)

“What nunnery?”

“I do not know. All I was able to overhear was that it will be a journey of some sixty miles in all.”

There were hundreds of nunneries in England, both large and small. The distance from Greenwich ruled out some of the best known. George was not taking her to Syon or to Barking, the wealthiest and most prestigious of the lot. “Trust Edward to find some remote hole to stuff me into,” Anne muttered.

“Oh, madam, what are we to do?”

“A journey of sixty miles will take four or five days,” Anne mused. “If we give the guards no trouble, they will be lulled into thinking I have accepted my fate. Then we will act.”

“Escape?” Meriall’s eyes went wide, but whether from admiration or fear, Anne could not tell.

“If we can. You must discover what road we are on. Then perhaps I can think of a place to go and a way to get there.”

The wicked thought that she might be able to reach Compton Wynyates, Will Compton’s family seat in Warwickshire, slipped unbidden into her mind. She thought better of that idea at once. She had no intention of giving George another reason to believe that she was Compton’s mistress.

“What a tangle!” she lamented as Meriall helped her prepare for bed. And it was all her wretched brother’s fault. It would be a long time, she vowed, before she forgave the Duke of Buckingham. And if she ever had the opportunity to pay him back in kind and soil his reputation as he’d soiled hers, she would seize upon it without hesitation.

A
s they set out on the third day of travel, George Hastings cast a worried look at his wife. She was still not speaking to him. He had a feeling that if he’d not had several large and sturdy henchmen with him, she would also have refused to climb into her litter.

It was plain for its kind, with undecorated canvas side curtains and few amenities within. The horses, one before and one behind, supported the weight of the whole. Traveling this way, they made slow progress, barely fifteen miles a day, plodding along roads that were still muddy with the spring rains.

In the cool of the early morning, they left Uxbridge and set out for Beaconsfield, seven miles distant. They’d stop there briefly to dine, then continue on to Tetsworth. If the weather held, they might be able to travel as far as East Wycombe before stopping for the night. George hoped they could manage that much. If they did, they’d reach their destination on the morrow. He’d be quit of this distasteful burden.

Unfortunately, he’d also be short a wife.

The Duke of Buckingham’s parting words echoed in his head:
Do not weaken. Where women are concerned, you must have a firm hand and a
steady resolve. She will emerge from the contemplative life the better for it and become the obedient wife you deserve.

George had liked Anne the way she was, but it was obvious to him now that he had allowed her too much freedom. If she’d dallied with Will Compton. . .

He did not like thinking about it. It made his chest hurt to picture them together. He’d spent enough time with Compton at court to know that women always preferred his charm and hyperbole to George’s quieter, more sincere flattery. He’d hoped Anne would be different, that she’d be faithful to him, but he’d have been a fool indeed not to have seen the signs. He’d forgiven her too easily for her careless words about him to the king. And he’d chosen to ignore the depth of her concern for Compton when he’d been hurt while jousting.

She’d always had a ready smile for Will Compton. From there it must have been but a short step to desire, and thus had she gone willingly to another man’s bed. The image of his passionate, laughing Anne in someone else’s arms—Compton’s arms—had him seething and hardened his resolve. She must be taught that she could not play the wanton. He was her husband. He would not allow it.

He found himself staring at the litter as he rode along beside it. What was she thinking, hidden away in there? Did she regret her actions? Or was anger at him still her paramount emotion? She was not sorry for what she had done, only sorry that she’d been caught. She had been furious to find herself a prisoner. She’d thrown things at him—it had been a chamber pot the previous night.

George had not slept well since he’d learned the terrible truth about his wife. Every night on this journey, he’d left her under guard and gone off to a lonely bed in another chamber. He wondered now if he should have forced himself on her, but he found the idea repugnant. She must be willing, even if she was not pure. And she must be removed from temptation until she saw the error of her ways. Buckingham had been right about that.

It had been Buckingham who had made all the arrangements. He’d sent Charles Knyvett on ahead, so that they would be expected at their
destination. If all went well on the road, they would reach there on the morrow. That meant, George realized, that tonight might be his last chance to speak in private with his errant wife.

They stopped at dusk at an inn in East Wycombe. Knyvett arrived in time to sup with them in the inn’s best chamber, the one George had given over to Anne’s use.

“My Lord Hastings. Lady Anne.” Knyvett’s greeting to George’s wife, who was his kinswoman, was distinctly cold. “All is in readiness at the priory to receive you.”

Anne glared at him. “Good dog, Cousin Charles. Your master will give you a bone.”

Knyvett’s already florid coloring deepened. His small, pale eyes narrowed. Then he gave a nasty laugh. “You will not be so quick to mock, Lady Anne, when your hair has been shorn and you are wearing coarse wool instead of brocade.”

“What are you prattling on about?” Anne affected disinterest and helped herself to a serving of beef stuffed with forcemeat and vegetables, but George heard the wariness in her voice.

“Did you think your brother was joking when he vowed to send you to a nunnery?” Now it was Knyvett’s turn to taunt and he seemed to relish the opportunity.

George intervened before Anne could hurl her wine goblet at him. “There will be no shaving of heads. She is not taking vows, Knyvett. Only living as a guest of the nuns for a time.”

“A guest is permitted great freedom and may even leave if she so chooses. It is the duke’s wish that his sister do penance for her sins. She must live as a cloistered nun, subject to the rule.”

“Where, exactly, am I to do this penance?” Anne interrupted. “Where on God’s green earth
are
we?”

“This is East Wycombe, on the Oxford road,” George answered.

She frowned. “Then you are taking me to Godstow?” She named a large Benedictine nunnery situated just beyond the city of Oxford.

“No.”

“Then where? I have a right to know.” She tore a section of bread
from the loaf with so much force that crumbs flew the length of the table.

“You have forfeited your rights,” Knyvett said.

Anne ignored him to turn pleading eyes to her husband. “I have done nothing wrong, George. That you so willfully choose to believe otherwise makes me wonder why you agreed to marry me in the first place.”

He looked away from her. He could scarcely tell her the truth, that he’d thought for a time that they might be among the fortunate couples who could find love in marriage. She would laugh at that, surely—laugh at
him
. “Your destination is Littlemore Priory,” he said in a voice tight with emotion. “We should arrive there tomorrow evening.”

“I have never heard of it.”

Neither had George, but Buckingham had assured him that it was the perfect place to send a disobedient wife. The duke had been told by one of his many informants that the prioress there was exceedingly strict when it came to disciplining her nuns.

The rest of the meal passed without conversation. Anne sulked, although that did not impair her appetite. Knyvett gloated. George retreated to his own chamber as soon as he could, but he was too restless to sleep. Instead he passed the time reading by the light of a candle. He customarily carried a book with him on long journeys and he kept a small collection of favorites wherever he lodged. Several times during the last few months, he’d read aloud to Anne in the quiet of an evening. She was particularly fond of tales of chivalry.

Deliberately pushing thoughts of his wife out of his mind, George forced himself to concentrate on rereading one of Master Chaucer’s tales. Silence fell over the inn and continued for some time, until it was broken by an odd scraping sound.

George glanced at the wall that separated his bedchamber from Anne’s and frowned. When the sound was repeated, he rose and went to the window. The upper floor overlooked the stable yard. There was no balcony, only a straight drop to the cobbles below, but when he peered out he saw a flash of white to one side—the direction of Anne’s
room. A makeshift rope made of sheets tied together slithered down the wall. A foot and a shapely ankle followed it over the sill.

Torn between laughter and curses, George could not help but admire his wife’s ingenuity. Collecting the guard he’d posted in front of her door, he descended the stairs and went out into the stable yard. Moving silently, he arrived beneath Anne’s window just as she reached the ground. All her attention was directed upward, toward her descending maidservant. She had no notion he was there until he seized her roughly by the arm.

At Anne’s cry of alarm, the maid above them lost her grip on the makeshift rope. She fell the last two feet to land on her bottom with a grunt.

“Meriall! Are you hurt?” Anne tried to run to her servant, but George’s firm grip prevented her.

“Her skirts provided adequate padding to prevent any injury.” He could not see Anne’s face clearly in the dimly lit stable yard, but he was certain she was scowling. “Running off to join your lover?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you, in my place?” she shot back.

The question both startled and annoyed him. It was as good as a confession. George hauled her back to her chamber and went in with her, shutting the door on the guards. Still without speaking, he crossed the room to free the end of the makeshift rope she’d tied around a bedpost. The scraping sound he’d heard earlier had been Anne and her maidservant shoving that heavy piece of furniture closer to the window. He let the sheets drop into the stable yard below, far out of reach should she decide to make another attempt at escape.

“You are my wife, Anne,” he said when he turned to face her. “I have no desire to harm you. If you had not first sinned against me, I—”

“Why will you not believe me when I say that I never betrayed you?”

He took a step closer, watching her face. “Because I know Will Compton. And I saw how upset you were when you thought he might die. You may have come to my bed all those nights, but he is the one you really desired. Do not trouble to deny it.”

“Will Compton is a toothsome fellow. That much is obvious. And
just now, given your fawning obedience to my thickheaded brother, I must indeed admit that he seems much more appealing to me than you do!”

What more proof did he need? She condemned herself with her own words. “And the king? Would you have gone to his bed, too?”

“I refused him, George.”

“If His Grace wanted you, he could have had you. By taking you away from court, I have prevented you from further dishonor.”

“How little you think of me! Why would I wish to become the king’s mistress?”

“Ambition?” he suggested. “Curiosity? Fear of reprisal?”

“Perhaps those things motivate
you,
but had Edward not interfered, I would have dealt with the king myself. I had the means at my disposal to persuade King Henry to accept my refusal with good grace. I—”

He would not let her finish. “Your brother’s quick action prevented a scandal.”

“No, it did not, but I have no doubt but that it created one.”

George frowned, momentarily disconcerted. He did not know what had happened at court since their departure. He’d had no word from the duke.

“I have always been faithful to you, George. I would have continued to be so.”

“And yet you’ve just admitted that you are attracted to Compton.”

“Do you sleep with every woman you find attractive?”

“That is not the same.”

“It should be.”

He wanted to believe her, but his doubts were too strong. They were like a great weight crushing his chest. Fearing he was about to lose the ability to breathe altogether, he pushed Anne aside and fumbled with the latch. He had to get away from her, out into the fresh air.

“Guard her well,” he growled at his men as he stumbled toward the stairs.

Behind him, George heard Anne call his name. She was begging him to come back and listen to her, insisting that she had something
important to tell him, but he was unable to halt his headlong flight. He burst out into the stable yard, head pounding as he gulped in great gouts of air.

Slowly, he calmed enough to breathe normally again. As he mopped sweat from his brow, his gaze fell upon the pile of discarded sheets. He knew then that he had no choice. He must deliver his wife to Littlemore Priory and leave her there. Then he must take himself as far away from her as possible. They might be bound together until death parted them, but it would be a very long time before he could bring himself to forgive her and let her back into his life. And never, he vowed, would he allow her back into his heart.

A
fter four days of confinement inside the litter, unable to see more than a sliver of the passing countryside, jounced about until she had bruises all over her body, Anne was grateful to reach their destination, even if it was a nunnery. At first glance, its sturdy stone walls turned brilliant white by the late afternoon sun, Littlemore Priory did not seem too dismal a place. It sat in a green and pleasant landscape where wildflowers bloomed in profusion.

Charles Knyvett led the way into the outer court, his boots crunching on gravel. It boasted the usual outbuildings that were part of any small manor. There appeared to be lodgings for a gatekeeper, a priest, and a steward, as well as to accommodate guests. Anne recognized a brewhouse and a bakehouse, stables, a dovecote, and a pigsty among the other structures. And there was a minuscule church.