At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) (22 page)

“So you have,” she muttered, unappeased by the reminder. George had showered her with affection, too. She had no doubt but that he was fond of her. But he still did not trust her. “We had a bargain, George. I mean to hold you to it.”

“Is that all we’ve had?” He sounded so forlorn that for a moment she weakened.

Anne extended a hand toward him. “You know it is not, but I have been immured here in the country for five long years.”

“You have the children.”

“And I love them dearly. There is a part of me that does not want to leave them, but if I do not return to court I will lose something of myself.” She had missed the excitement, the contact with other people of her own station in life, the constant whirl of entertainments. She had not danced in years. “It is only a visit, George.”

A
long
visit, she added to herself. In truth, she wanted both court and country to be part of her life from now on. There was no good reason why they could not spend part of the year in each place, or even bring the children closer to court on a permanent basis. Lady Hungerford had been talking for some time about moving to Leicester. Once she vacated Stoke Poges, they could take up residence there.

George at last approached the bedstead. He leaned close, bracketing her shoulders with his strong, long-fingered hands. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the candlelit room behind him. “You have just given birth, Anne. It is not meet that you travel so soon.”

She reached up to toy with the laces holding his collar closed. What was it about her husband, she wondered, that gave him the power to stir her senses, even when she was wroth with him? His betrayal of her nearly five years ago and his stubbornness now should have been enough to make her despise him. Instead she felt a strong desire to pull him closer, down into the bed with her, and indulge in an activity that was even more unmeet this soon after childbirth.

A flick of her fingers knocked his bonnet clear off his head.

The glitter of arousal came into his eyes as the expensive head covering landed among the rushes on the floor and Anne’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck.

“Take me to London,” she whispered. “We will both enjoy the journey.”

“If I go there,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck, “it will only be to attend Parliament. You will be as bored at Hastings House as you are here. More so, since you will not have the children to distract you.”

“I will go to court,” she informed him.

He lifted his head and fixed her with a steely stare. “Without me, you have no place there.”

“And whose fault is that?” Her playful mood evaporated like dew on a sunny morning.

George jerked away from her. “Christ aid! I do not have patience for this wrangling. Most women would be content with their lives. We have a daughter and two fine sons. It is your duty to care for them, and for this household when I am away.”

“I have done that!” She threw a cushion at him. It glanced off the side of his head and landed on a storage chest. “I have been everything you could want in a wife. How, then, can you continue to think that I wish to return to court only so that I may dally with other men?”

Anne despaired of ever recapturing the promise of the early days of their marriage. Her brother had blighted that prospect with his meddling. After all this time, George was still quick to believe the worst of her.

“The court is rife with licentious behavior,” he said, further discouraging her.

“Have
you
taken a mistress?”

“How can you suggest such a thing? I cleave only to you.” He looked so affronted by the suggestion that Anne almost laughed aloud.

“Then why do you think it so impossible for me to live at court and enjoy its entertainments without taking a lover? Am I so weak-willed that I cannot withstand the least temptation?”

His sheepish expression answered her even before he spoke. “You are the most willful woman I know.” He came close again and touched his fingers to her face. “Perhaps that is what I am afraid of.”

“You miss me when you are away and I am here. I know you do.”

“Yes, I do,” he admitted.

For a moment, she thought he would join her in the big bed. Instead he gave her a speculative look, then strode to a nearby pedestal table. The rushes underfoot whispered as he passed, giving off a hint of marjoram.

Covered with an exquisite piece of Persian carpet, the table held a pitcher of Xeres sack and another of barley water. George filled one goblet with each before returning to Anne’s bedside. He handed her the barley water, then used that hand to catch hold of the Spanish chair. He pulled it up close to the bed and straddled it. All the while his intense gaze bored into her, as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve.

Anne met his eyes with a boldness she was far from feeling. She thought that he loved her, although there had been a long period of time when he had tried not to. Why else would he be so jealous of other men?

That was better, she told herself, than if he did not care for her at all. A man could tup a woman without feeling anything toward her, especially if he was desirous of begetting sons. The very intensity of their attraction to one another seemed to belie the idea that she was only a convenience to him, but it also meant that they would never have a peaceful marriage.

Resigned to that, Anne searched for some way to convince her husband that she would be a good and faithful wife to him, whatever he believed about her past behavior.

When George spoke again his voice was silk over steel. “Perhaps some time apart would be good for us. I will go to London, but alone.”

“It is cruel of you to keep me a prisoner here.” She let her lower lip slip forward into a pout.

He kissed away the sullen expression, then removed the empty goblet from her hand. “I do not trust you, Anne, when you pretend to be my sweet and obedient wife.”

“Then let me be truly honest with you. If you leave me here alone, you will force my hand. I will not take a lover, although I could, for I desire no other man but you. But if you do not make a prisoner of me in truth, I will leave here and take the children with me.”

She jabbed a finger into the center of his chest. Startled, he spilled some of his wine.

“I will lead you a merry chase all over England,” she continued, inventing punishments as she went along, “and create such a scandal that you will never stop being a laughingstock at court. Is
that
what you want, George?” She poked him again. “Or will you keep your part of our bargain so that we may continue to live in harmony?”

“Christ aid,” he muttered, but a rueful smile followed the curse. He knew she was not serious, but her words had given him pause. His left hand slid up along her shoulder. The fingers toyed with a lock of her hair. “We will set out for London right after Easter. Will that suit you?”

Easter Sunday fell on the eighth day of April, a date well past the time when George would expect to do far more than just kiss his wife. Anne told herself that even if he did get another child on her, they’d be well away from Ashby de la Zouch before she knew for certain that she was breeding again. Another pregnancy would not trap her in the country.

“That suits me very well,” she said.

T
t felt strange to be back at court after nearly five long years away. Anne and George had left Leicestershire right after Easter, stayed for a week at Stoke Poges, and then journeyed on to Greenwich, arriving just in time to be swept into the pageantry and pomp of the annual celebration of May Day. It was very early that morning when Lady Anne found herself mounted on a gentle bay mare and riding beside Bess Boleyn.

They followed the queen’s party into the countryside. Queen Catherine was surrounded by twenty-five damsels on white palfreys, all wearing gowns slashed with gold lamé. Most were young and pretty, in startling contrast to their mistress.

“Her Grace does not look well,” Anne whispered to Bess.

“That gown does not flatter her.” It was in the Spanish style and might have enhanced the beauty of a tall woman, but the queen was tiny. Four pregnancies had left her far heavier than she once had been and the result was an appearance both squat and unattractive.

Anne pitied the queen. None of Her Grace’s children had lived. King Henry still lacked an heir.

“You seem to be thriving in my old post,” Anne told her friend.

“I’ve envied you more than once these last few years,” Bess confided.
“I hardly know my daughters. My son, George, is here at court now, as a page to His Grace, but Tom sent our daughter Nan to serve Archduchess Margaret of Austria and little Mary went with the king’s sister to France and is to stay there, in the household of the new queen, Claude, where Nan is now to join her.” Mary Tudor’s elderly husband, King Louis, had not long survived his wedding to a vivacious younger woman. The French king now was Francis the First, a man the same age as King Henry.

“Your girls are very young for such service, surely? I do not recall that any of Catherine of Aragon’s maids of honor were less than fourteen years old and most were considerably older.”

“Tom got the idea from Charles Brandon—or should I say m’lord Suffolk, who sent one of his young daughters by his first wife to be educated at the archduchess’s court.”

“Ah, yes—Brandon.” They exchanged a speaking glance.

Even far away in Leicestershire, Anne had heard of it when Brandon was elevated in the peerage. For a commoner to be made a duke was unprecedented. Anne had wondered at the time if Will Compton would be awarded a similar title, but as yet he had obtained no higher honor than his knighthood.

“Why was Brandon singled out?” she asked Bess as they rode toward the greenwood.

“He has always been the best jouster, and of all His Grace’s companions, he is the king’s closest friend.” Bess bent forward to stroke her horse’s neck and added, in a whisper, “And now he is even closer to His Grace.”

“Friend. Duke. What is left?”

“He has married the king’s sister. The newlyweds are even now in Calais, awaiting permission to return to England.”

“Charles Brandon, a mere knight when I left the court, has grown so in power that he dares marry royalty,” Anne marveled. Not only was Mary Tudor the king’s sister, she had been crowned herself as Queen of France.

“My father was ready to call for Brandon’s execution when he
heard,” Bess said. “No doubt your brother felt the same way. As the only other dukes in England, they both resent Brandon’s meteoric rise.”

Anne felt herself stiffen. “I would not know. Edward does not confide in me.” He rarely even spoke to her and the five years that had passed since he’d wrenched her away from court had done little to lessen the resentment she felt toward him.

They rode on in silence until they had traveled nearly two miles from the palace and could see the king and his men waiting in the distance. King Henry was dressed all in green and surrounded by a great company on horseback. George was somewhere among them, but there were nearly a hundred men in all, many wearing identical short green velvet gowns gored with yellow satin. She could not pick him out from the crowd.

Just inside the wooded area, the queen’s cavalcade came to a halt. In addition to the mounted men, a multitude of archers, all in hooded green coats, awaited them. One was clearly meant to be Robin Hood and another Friar Tuck. . . in a green habit. Beside them stood a figure in a red kirtle and a green gown—the man playing the Maid Marian. Anne was forcibly reminded of another morning and another band of Merry Men. She never had learned the identity of the woman who had, quite outrageously, taken on the role of Robin Hood’s lady love.

If there were a hundred noblemen and gentlemen on horseback, there were twice that many archers. Anne’s gaze slid over them to fix upon the king. His Grace was a truly magnificent sight. Mounted on a beautiful bay, jewels sparkling in the sun, he drew every eye, but it was not just his splendid appearance that held the crowd’s attention. At a soft-voiced command he set his horse in motion, first to execute a double turn in place, then a half turn and a full turn.

Bess leaned close once more. “His Grace has been taking instruction in the Italian art of the manage. His mount, Governatore, was a gift from the ruler of Mantua.”

Anne did not expect to see anything truly spectacular. Everyone would applaud enthusiastically no matter how poorly the king performed. But she had underestimated His Grace’s skill. He used a wand
to touch his horse on the shoulder and Governatore reared up on his hind legs.

“Holla, holla, ho boy, there boy,” King Henry murmured. Then he pressed his calves into the horse’s flanks and clicked his tongue.

Governatore raised both forelegs at the same time and kicked out with his hind legs, so that all four were in the air at the same time. Anne could not hold back a gasp of surprise and pleasure. She’d never seen a horse do anything like that before, and certainly not at a rider’s command. To the sound of applause and whistles, the king patted Governatore’s neck and spoke softly to him again, murmuring words of praise.

King Henry, Anne decided, was no longer an enthusiastic, oversized puppy. He’d matured and learned control.

An archery contest followed the king’s demonstration of horsemanship. Both noblemen and archers competed but no one was surprised when it was the king who won. Afterward, Robin Hood invited the queen and her damsels to follow him deeper into the greenwood.

“Do you dare venture into a thicket with so many outlaws?” King Henry teased his wife.

“Where you go, so am I content to follow,” Queen Catherine replied.

Laughing, the king took Her Grace’s hand and led her onward. Trumpets blared, almost drowning out the sound of dozens of singing birds imprisoned within the interwoven boughs of a series of bowers. Flowers and sweet-smelling herbs had been twined around the branches. Inside, tables heavy laden with platters of venison and casks full of wine awaited the royal party.

The king’s musicians played throughout the breakfast that followed. There were lutes and flutes and drums, and even an organ. For further entertainment, two pageant wagons were drawn into the woods by gaily caparisoned horses. One displayed the giants Gog and Magog in pasteboard. The other was occupied by a pretty young girl representing Lady May. She was attended by four damsels and all five were dressed in white and green sarcenet and had flowers in their hair.