At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (18 page)

Neville clapped him on the back. “Care to take me on in the tennis play? I’m willing to wager a crown that I’ll beat you in every match.”

Always in need of ready money, Compton agreed, although he knew gambling was as likely to deplete his purse as fill it. There would be endless opportunities to lose money in the coming weeks as the progress moved from Easthampstead to Reading and on to Rumsey, Bewley, Chichester, Canford, and Corfe Castle. They’d visit Shaftesbury and Salisbury, too. And they’d pass nowhere near Littlemore.

Will cursed himself for a fool as he followed Neville toward the tennis play. It was no good pining for what he could not have. Lady Anne had married George Hastings and George was hale and hearty. It seemed unlikely she’d be widowed a second time. A rueful smile made his lips quirk upward. Even if she was, she’d never marry him now, not after he’d so cruelly abandoned her. Women did not easily forgive such treatment.

He sighed. Forget Lady Anne. He must set himself the task of finding a wealthy widow who
would
wed him!

A
little more than a month after her thwarted attempt at escape, Lady Anne begged an audience with the prioress and asked Dame Katherine to inform Lord Hastings of the impending birth of his child.

“I suppose you think that news will persuade him to take you away from here,” the prioress said, looking displeased.

“The heir to a barony should be born at the family seat. That is only right.”

“Your husband, Lady Anne, may not believe he is this child’s father. He has shown no faith in your honesty so far.”

Anne glared at her. “Still, under the law, the child is his, no matter who fathered it, simply because I am his legal wife.”

He
would
come for her, she told herself. She had to believe that. Her only other recourse would be to fall back on the plan Meriall had once suggested, using threats to win her freedom. She would not mind striking back at the haughty, heartless prioress, but she was still loath to sacrifice Juliana to do so.

She breathed a sigh of relief when, exactly a week later, George rode up to the gates of Littlemore Priory. She had wondered, after her meeting with the prioress, if her message would even be sent.

Dame Katherine escorted Anne to the guesthouse, the expression of someone who has just bitten down on a sour persimmon marring the perfection of her face. She was reluctant to leave them alone together, but George ordered her away, assuring her that they did not need a chaperone.

A long silence ensued after the prioress departed. George stared at his wife as if he’d never seen her before. Anne supposed she did look far different from the noble court lady he’d left behind. Her novice’s habit was very plain and, being light colored, was sadly in need of laundering. Just as she felt she would scream in frustration if she had to endure his penetrating stare a moment longer, he spoke.

“I wish to be reconciled,” he said.

“I never had any desire to quarrel with you.”

“My mother suggests that we retire to Ashby de la Zouch Castle, the Hastings family seat.”

“What do
you
want, George?”

He ignored her question. “There are conditions. You must agree to remain there until you have borne me a healthy son and heir. After that, you may do as you wish, even return to court.”

Anne took offense at his tone. She’d heard him put more enthusiasm into negotiations to buy a broodmare. She wanted to ask if he was willing to acknowledge that he had misjudged her, but she did not quite dare voice the question.

“Well,” she said instead, “that should not take long. The baby is due at Yuletide.”

The look of shock on his face was almost comical. He backed away from her, his gaze now fixed on her midsection.

Anne frowned. Her rough wool habit was loose and concealing, but her condition should not have come as a surprise to him. She’d all but told him she was breeding before he left her here, and Dame Katherine had written to him. . . hadn’t she?

“I thought you’d received a letter from the prioress. I thought that was why you came.”

“The prioress?” He shook his head, still staring.

With a sinking heart, Anne realized that he had not known. Worse,
he still believed she’d coupled with Will Compton. Or with the king. Or with both. “This is
your
child, George,” she said in as calm a voice as she could manage. “I swear it by all the saints and by the Virgin, too.”

He swallowed hard, then held out his hand. “I have already offered you my terms. Do you accept them? Will you come to Leicestershire with me?”

She grasped his fingers and held his gaze. “I will go with you and remain there until you have a healthy son and heir. I am your
wife,
George. We pledged ourselves to each other for life.”

Surely, she thought, if they spent time together at Ashby de la Zouch, they could learn to trust each other again. It was even possible that renewed affection might grow between them. Anne vowed she would strive to forgive him for doubting her. How else could they build a new life for themselves and their children, starting with the life that grew within her?

George signaled his agreement with a curt nod. “We will leave at daybreak. Have your maid pack your belongings.”

Then he sent her back to her cell for one more night.

T
he chamber high in the Great Tower of Ashby de la Zouch Castle, where Lady Anne lay in a richly appointed canopied bed to await the birth of her child, was airless, overheated, and crowded with females of every persuasion. It was customary for a woman’s “gossips” to gather at such a time, to offer advice and lend support and to bear witness to the outcome of her pregnancy.

Lady Anne could have done without so much company. She was glad to have Meriall near at hand, and the midwife, and she did not mind the presence of George’s mother, Lady Hungerford, but the others were all but strangers to her.

Then Cecily, Dowager Marchioness of Dorset, swept into the room as if she owned it, coming straight up to the bed and leaning in to brush Anne’s cheek with her dry, scratchy lips. “My dear girl, you look splendid,” she declared.

“I feel,” Anne told her, “as if I am about to burst.”

Cecily patted her hand. “The first is always the hardest. I should know. I birthed fourteen babies in my day.”

Now in her fiftieth year, Cecily looked remarkably unscathed by the experience. Perhaps, Anne thought with a wry twist of her lips, it had something to do with being married to a man nearly twenty years her
junior, for Cecily’s second husband was Anne’s brother Hal. Two of Cecily’s surviving sons, Thomas Grey, the current Marquess of Dorset, and Lord Leonard Grey, were older than Hal was.

Lady Hungerford appeared on the other side of the bed. “How good of you to make the journey from Bradgate, Lady Dorset,” she said, “when the brief hours of daylight at this time of year needs must make your visit here so short.”

Anne stared at her mother-in-law, appalled at this breach of hospitality. Lady Hungerford should have been offering Cecily a bed for the night instead of rudely hurrying her on her way.

“You must stay the night, dear
sister,
” Anne said quickly. As wife of the current baron,
Anne
was mistress of Ashby de la Zouch and had the final say in such matters.

Cecily’s eyes flashed with wicked amusement. “I perceive that no one has told you about the feud,” she said. “Members of the Grey and Hastings families have been at odds for generations.”

Although she declined Anne’s invitation to remain overnight, Cecily did not permit herself to be hurried on her way. She stayed long enough to inquire into the details of the nursery and offer advice.

“All is in readiness,” Anne assured her. “I have selected a lady mistress to supervise the staff, chosen a wet nurse and a dry nurse, and appointed two young girls as rockers.”

“Is the wet nurse qualified?”

Anne shifted in the bed, trying to get comfortable. “She has recently given birth. She has a good supply of milk.”

Cecily made a dismissive gesture with one plump hand. “That is the least of it. A wet nurse must be of good character, else the child will drink in her bad habits and ill nature when he suckles. I am not surprised that Lady Hungerford did not know this, having had only two children.”

George’s mother, overhearing, was quick to take offense. “I assure you, Lady Dorset, that the young woman in question is without vice. She has all the qualities the most notable physicians believe are desirable in a wet nurse. She is in her twenty-fifth year, with broad breasts, rosy cheeks, pale skin, and an amorous disposition.”

“She must abstain from carnal coupling while she gives suck,” Cecily warned.

“She understands that, and that she will be responsible for any ill health her young charge suffers. If he has colic, she will be purged. If her supply of milk proves inadequate, she will be required to eat stewed goat’s udders and powdered earthworms to increase the flow.”

Nodding her approval, Cecily next inquired as to Anne’s physical condition, demanding details of her pregnancy and even poking at her belly. After predicting that the child would arrive within a week, she finally left. By then, Anne was heartily glad to see the last of her.

Two hours later, Anne’s labor began. It continued through the night. Near dawn, exhausted, she felt the child slip from her body. Then she knew no more until, as if from a great distance, she heard voices.

“The child was a boy,” the midwife said, “but he never drew breath.”

“We must accept this as God’s will,” George murmured.

Through her pain and grief, Anne heard the note of profound relief in her husband’s voice.

After a moment, George spoke again. “How does my wife fare? Will she be able to bear more children?”

“She is healthy,” the midwife said, “but you must give her time to recover before you get her with child again.”

“For your good service.” Coins clinked as George paid the old woman.

The midwife shuffled out of the bedchamber, but George remained behind. Anne could feel him staring at her.

She kept her eyes tightly closed as hot tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. George was
glad
their baby was dead. That could mean only one thing. He had not accepted her word that he was the child’s father. He still believed that she had taken a lover at court.

This betrayal was all the more hurtful because she had come to enjoy his company during the months they’d spent together in Leicestershire. Affection, even love, had begun to grow. Now she felt it wither and die, leaving behind a cold and empty place in her heart.

Fabric rustled as he approached the bed. She turned her face away.

“Let her be, George,” Lady Hungerford said from the far side of the chamber. “She needs to rest.”

“I only wished to bid her farewell. The king has summoned me back to court for the New Year’s revels.”

“You will no doubt return before she’s noticed that you were gone,” Lady Hungerford predicted. “After all, it is customary for a woman who has just given birth to remain in the birthing chamber for a further three days, keeping the room dark and quiet. And the period of purgation is twenty days.” Her voice grew fainter as she led George away, ascending the stairs to the Great Chamber on the floor above. “When a month has passed, I will arrange a quiet churching. After that you may return and set yourself to beget an heir.”

Alone save for the faithful Meriall, Anne finally allowed herself the release of tears. An audible sob escaped her.

“Wail and scream, too, if you’ve a mind to, my lady,” Meriall said. “You have every right.”

Instead Anne gave a choked laugh and opened her eyes. The bedchamber was dimly lit. A fire smoked fitfully in the hearth, adding to the gloom. The windows were closed tight because cold air was supposed to be bad for a new mother. But she was not a mother, Anne thought. Her son had been born dead.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why am I being punished? I did nothing wrong.”

Meriall offered her a draught of poppy juice, but Anne waved it away.

“Why?” she repeated. “Why did my baby die?”

“It is God’s will and His reasons are not ours to question. You know full well not all babies thrive. Even the queen lost her first child. Most mothers count themselves fortunate if half the children they bear live past their first year.”

Meriall’s words gave Anne no comfort, but they brought to mind another mother and another child. Memories flooded back—all those
hours in the stocks, her exhaustion, the denial of food and drink. Fresh tears flowed.

“I failed to protect my unborn child. I should have told the prioress at once that I was breeding.”

“Hush, my lady,” Meriall soothed her. “It would have made no difference. She’s a cruel and wicked woman, that prioress. She’d likely have left you there even longer if she’d known.”

“She’s the one who should be punished,” Anne muttered. She had no way to prove that Dame Katherine’s actions had harmed the child she’d carried, but Anne knew in her heart that Meriall was right. The prioress was an evil woman.

“All in good time, my lady,” Meriall said, and once again offered the poppy syrup. This time, Anne drank it down without protest and welcomed the drugged sleep that followed. By the time she awoke, George had already departed for court.

T
wo days after Lady Anne was churched—blessed by the priest and deemed pure enough to attend services again in a ceremony that was also intended to mark her fitness to return to her husband’s bed—Lady Hungerford informed her that she had her own house to attend to. She meant to return to Stoke Poges on the morrow.

The weeks since the stillbirth had passed in a blur. Anne remembered little of Yuletide. Lady Hungerford had presided over the festivities held for the tenants and household staff while Anne stayed in her chamber, lying listless in her bed.