At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (21 page)

“At last!” Edward exclaimed as he caught sight of an approaching rider.

Madge faded into the wainscoting again and, once she’d found her needle, resumed her stitching. A moment later, the sound of boot heels striking tile preceded Delacourt’s entry into the duke’s privy chamber.

The chaplain had a long face that narrowed toward the chin, hollow cheeks, and murky green eyes that seemed stuck in a perpetual squint. His looks, Madge had always felt, went well with his manner. With clerkish precision, he extracted a sealed letter from the pouch at his waist and presented it to the duke.

“Leave us,” Edward ordered.

Delacourt bowed deeply and obeyed with alacrity, wary of the duke’s notoriously short temper.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Edward ripped open the monk’s reply. His brow furrowed as he read, then smoothed out as a satisfied smile overspread his features. Only after he had burned the letter in the candle flame did he seem to remember that Madge had remained behind when the chaplain left. He shot a narrow-eyed look her way. She continued to embroider roses. If Edward wished to share his secrets, he would do so. If not, she would not be offended. Pleasure warmed her when he came and sat beside her on the bench.

“Good news,” he said. “The monk predicts that England will emerge victorious from this conflict. Well, there was never any doubt that we would defeat those poisonous frog eaters.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Madge said. Edward had always disliked the French. She was not sure why.

“He was more specific than usual this time. He predicts that King James of Scotland will invade England as soon as English forces cross the Narrow Seas to France. That is not unexpected, either.” He leaned back, at his ease, regarding her with heavy-lidded eyes. Madge had no doubt but that his thoughts would soon turn amorous.

“Even when the king’s sister is married to the Scots king?” She enjoyed learning about the ways of the great and powerful, and relished Edward’s company as much out of bed as in it.

“It is said that King James’s mistress has more influence on him than his wife.”

“Why, my lord—how can that be?”

He responded to her teasing with a laugh. “In any case,” he continued, “James will see England’s invasion of France as an opportunity to
lay claim to English land in the north. I will advise the king to leave behind some part of his army, to defend our northern borders. His Grace will no doubt send the Earl of Surrey with troops. Surrey has more battle experience than any other, even if he is in his dotage.”

He spoke disparagingly of the earl, but his main complaint against Surrey was that he had not yet died and been succeeded by his son, who had recently married Lady Elizabeth, the duke’s eldest daughter.

“Perhaps you should stay instead, Edward,” Madge suggested. Even though the prophecy was for victory, she feared for his safety in far-off France.

“There is no need to worry about me, Madge. My destiny is foretold.” He took both her hands in his, chafing them when he found them icy. “The prophet saw something else, too—that the king will have no male issue of his body.”

King Henry, as yet, had no issue at all, although not for lack of trying on the queen’s part. Madge knew that Her Grace had lost one child before he was two months old and had endured at least one stillbirth and one miscarriage. News came slowly to Thornbury, but it reached Gloucestershire eventually. Lady Elizabeth sent letters full of news of court to her younger sister.

Madge often heard from Lady Anne, too. In her last letter, the duke’s sister had written that her husband, Lord Hastings, had been ordered to be ready to embark for France by the ninth day of May. That was when Edward was to leave for war, too.

“Did you hear what I said?” the duke demanded, tightening his grip on her hands.

“That the king will have no son to succeed him.” Madge frowned. “What if he has a daughter?”

He scoffed at that. “No woman will ever rule England. Such a thing could only lead to disaster. It is a king we must have and I am the one best suited to wear the Crown. In time, King Henry will see that and name me as his successor. I have only to be patient.”

Patience was not Edward’s strength, as he proved only moments later. Instead of carrying her off to the soft featherbed in the adjoining
chamber, he tumbled them both to the floor for a quick coupling. The oak boards were covered with plaster of Paris painted to look like marble. Rush matting padded some of the hard surface but not all, and not well enough to prevent bruising.

A
FTER EDWARD LEFT
for the war, Madge tried from time to time to imagine him as king. He was already accustomed to ruling over extensive holdings in several counties and he had a privy council, just as kings did. She had known him to be arbitrary on occasion, and he had most assuredly been wrong to treat Lady Anne the way he had, but for the most part he was a benevolent overlord. He had given her a number of generous gifts and her widowed mother had both an annuity and the use for life of a comfortable cottage on the estate at Penshurst.

If Edward were to become England’s ruler, Madge wondered, would he take her to court with him? Surely a king could keep his mistress close if he wished to. While she waited anxiously for news from France, she allowed herself to dream.

The first word to reach Thornbury was of the expected invasion from Scotland. The queen, acting as regent in her husband’s absence, had mustered troops under the command of the Earl of Surrey and repelled the Scots. They had suffered a terrible defeat at a place called Flodden Field. Even their king had been slain, making King Henry’s sister Margaret regent of Scotland for her infant son.

Shortly thereafter the entire country heard that English forces had sent the French running for their lives. The encounter, near Thérouanne on the sixteenth day of August, quickly acquired the name “the Battle of the Spurs” because, it was said, the English troops saw naught but the backs of the Frenchmen’s spurs as they fled the battlefield.

In early September, Madge received a letter from Lady Anne. Lord Hastings had taken part in the Battle of the Spurs, serving under the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was his uncle by marriage. After the battle, King Henry had knighted many gentlemen who distinguished themselves, including Richard Sacheverell, who was Lord Hastings’s stepfather, and William Compton. Lady Anne did not need to identify him.
Madge wondered why she mentioned Compton at all, especially when the next bit of news she shared was that she was once again with child. The baby was due early in the new year.

Madge was happy for her friend. If the child turned out to be a boy, Lady Anne could return to court. That had been the bargain she had made with her husband.

I
N OCTOBER, THE
king and most of his noblemen returned to England, but several more months passed, until the spring of 1514 was well advanced and Lady Anne had indeed given birth to a son, before Madge saw her lover again. The Duke of Buckingham arrived at Thornbury in a foul mood, cursing everything from the muck and mire of the roads to the clumsiness of the servant lad who dropped a painted wooden box and sent the contents—expensive imported oranges—tumbling to the floor of the duke’s bedchamber.

Madge sent the boy on his way and knelt to retrieve the individually wrapped pieces of fruit herself. When she’d collected all the oranges and returned them to their container, she plunked herself down on the chest at the foot of the bed. Feeling she might need a makeshift shield, she snatched up a plump cushion with tassels and held it clasped to her bosom.

She had been permitted to speak freely to her lover in the past. She told herself she was foolish to feel nervous about doing so now. If Edward did not like what she had to say, then he could sleep alone this first night home.

“The roads are always bad,” she began, “and servants are often clumsy, especially when someone is shouting at them. What is the real reason for your anger, my love? And what can I do to soothe you?”

The duke’s glare would have intimidated anyone who did not love him. After a moment it softened, but his temper did not cool by a single degree. “By the Mass, Madge, I vow I am done with court. King Henry is an impulsive, ill-advised young fool.”

Thus began a litany of complaints, the least of which was the king’s reluctance to confirm him in the office of Lord High Constable of
England, to which the Staffords had an hereditary claim. A worse crime had been the king’s advancement of Sir Charles Brandon, one of the “upstarts” Edward had so often railed against. First the king had granted Brandon the title of Viscount Lisle, in the right of the young woman to whom Brandon, a widower, was betrothed. Then, for no apparent reason other than blatant favoritism, His Grace had elevated Brandon in the peerage, creating him Duke of Suffolk.

“And almost as unwarranted,” Edward complained, throwing himself into his chair, “His Grace named his former chaplain, Thomas Wolsey, Archbishop of York. Another nobody!”

“Well, at least the war is over.” Madge toyed with the tassels on the cushion, hoping she’d said the right thing. England had, after all, defeated the French.

“Oh, yes. We have peace.” The duke’s sour expression was a good match for his bitter tone. “And what does the king plan to do next? Why, to marry his younger sister, Mary, who until lately was betrothed to Charles of Castile, to old King Louis of France. That is to be part of the treaty with the enemy we so lately vanquished.”

Madge stared at the heraldic beasts embroidered on the bed hangings, trying to think of a way to shift the duke’s mind to some less controversial topic. The cloth was high-quality wool, more expensive than even silk velvet. The duke was very wealthy, even after providing dowries for two of his daughters.

“I hear that Lady Elizabeth is now a countess,” she blurted out.

Elizabeth’s husband had been named Earl of Surrey and Surrey’s father, who had previously held that title, had been restored to his old honor as Duke of Norfolk. Too late, Madge realized that they must have been elevated in the peerage at the same time Brandon was made Duke of Suffolk.

Edward sprang up from his chair, his face an unhealthy purplish red. “By the Mass!” he swore again, both fists clenching. “That was yet one more slap at me, for now it will be the Duke of Norfolk who will head the delegation that escorts the king’s sister across the Narrow Seas to her wedding. That honor should have gone to me. I am still the highest-ranking nobleman in the land.”

Madge abandoned her seat and went to his side. “But my love, surely the last thing you want is to spend more time in that benighted country.”

“That is not the point.”

She reached up to smooth her fingers over the stubborn line of his jaw. “There may be two new dukes in England, but if anything but good should happen to the king, you are the only duke in the line of succession to the Crown.”

The reminder seemed to please him. He allowed himself to be drawn toward the bed. “That is just what I told Westmorland at the time of their elevation.”

Madge froze. “Oh, Edward!”

“There was no harm in it, my dear. The Earl of Westmorland is my son-in-law, after all.”

That young man was married to the duke’s middle daughter, Lady Catherine, but Madge wondered if that was enough to ensure his loyalty. “It is one thing to speak of the monk’s prophecy to me,” she scolded him, “but to boast of it to others is not only unwise, it could be dangerous.”

Edward stared at her as if she’d grown another head. Then he laughed. “It is good to know that I can always count on your loyalty, Madge. But you must not worry your pretty little head with such matters. Come, let me show you what I have brought from London.”

He led her to the stack of parcels piled near his wardrobe chest. The top one was cone-shaped and had a fitted silk cover. He whisked it off to reveal a cage containing a gaily colored bird of a species Madge had never seen before.

“These are all the rage at court,” the duke said, “where gilded birdcages hang at every window in the queen’s apartments. This is, therefore, a gift fit for a queen, and I bought it just for you.”

H
ave all the arrangements been made for the christening and for my churching?” Lady Anne asked. She would not be permitted to resume normal activities until she had been churched.

“They have.” George stood on the far side of the bedchamber, in front of a wall hanging that depicted the goddess Venus presenting a gift of armor to the warrior Aeneas.

“Then you may begin to plan for our departure for court.”

“Anne—”

“Your presence is needed in the House of Lords, is it not?”

“The king has given me license to absent myself from Parliament.”

“Well, then, His Grace will be pleasantly surprised that you are so mindful of your duties that you return of your own free will.”

She glared at him, her temper primed and ready to ignite, across the expanse of the high, ornately carved and painted bed. She sat propped up against the headboard, a plump bolster covered in soft, tufted velvet at her back and a coverlet of cream-colored silk tucked in around her hips. When George remained silent, Anne’s hands curled into fists and her chin came up.

“Do you intend to forbid me the court, George? You did promise that I could return when I had borne you a son. I have given you two!”

The birth of Francis, a healthy boy, had fulfilled her part of the bargain with George. She’d expected to return to court in time to celebrate the proxy wedding of the king’s sister, Mary, to King Louis of France, but fate had had other ideas. The reason for the change in plans was soon to be christened Thomas. He slept peacefully in a cradle near the hearth, unaware that his conception had confined his mother to Leicestershire for nearly a year longer than she’d planned to stay.

“Have you been so unhappy here, Anne?” George asked. “I have been generous with you, providing servants to wait on you, delicacies for you to eat, and rich fabrics in which to clothe yourself.”