Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

9

In 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.

I knew full well the folly of such daydreams. If the king had meant to free Will from his wife, he’d have done so already. But no matter how sensible my thoughts, I found it impossible to tear my admiring gaze away from the handsome knight who wore my favor.

“Oh, look!” Kate’s squeal of delight made me jump.

She was pointing at the Dudley brothers. As I watched, Harry leapt onto his horse after the gray was already running. Then he dismounted and repeated the trick from the other side and from the back. Not to be outdone, Jack mounted and dismounted without using the stirrups, grabbing his big bay by the mane to jump into the saddle. Unable to compete with an older and more experienced jouster in the traditional contests, the two Dudleys sought to attract our attention another way.

Will did not find their antics amusing. I hid a smile when I caught him scowling at them. How could I not feel flattered by his show of jealousy? Nor was I displeased that the Dudley boys were vying for my attention. I was fond of them both and had once or twice allowed Harry more kisses. Truth be told, Harry Dudley was very good at kissing.

When I caught myself wondering how Will Parr’s skills in that area would compare, I told Kate it was too cold to remain in the gallery any longer and hustled her back to the safety of Lady Lisle’s lodgings.

Neither Lady Lisle nor Mother was there, having gone to visit Queen Kathryn, but a good fire burned in the hearth. I was glad of the opportunity to warm myself. My gloveless hand was chilled to the bone.

Kate was chattering excitedly to Bridget about the “tournament” when Dorothy Bray burst into the room. She came straight at me, eyes flashing with hatred, and gave me a violent shove. I tumbled to the floor on my backside, tangled in a welter of skirts. One flailing hand struck the edge of a chest as I fell. I cried out at the sudden, shocking pain. Cradling my bruised fingers, I glared up at her.

“What was that for?”

She stood over me, fists upraised, looking for all the world as if she’d like to fall on me and beat me senseless. No one else in the chamber moved.

When Dorothy didn’t answer, I pushed myself to my feet. “What is the matter with you?”

She called me a vile name.

My eyes widened in shock. “Dorothy, I do not understand why—”

“He doesn’t want me anymore,” she said in a harsh whisper. “He wants you.”

Although there was no question in my mind as to who “he” was, my first impulse was to tell her she was imagining things. Then I remembered the way Will had smiled at me, and the tender way he’d been teasing me only a short time before in the tiltyard.

“You set out to steal him from me. Do not trouble to deny it. I know it’s true.”

“When did I have an opportunity to set traps for your lover? He’s been in the north, far away from both of us.”

“You danced with him at Cowling Castle.”

“Oh, a great sin, that one! I am sorry if he lost interest in you, Dorothy, but it had nothing to do with me.”

“It had everything to do with you. He admitted as much to me before we left Whitehall, when I confronted him and demanded an explanation for his lack of warmth. He said he’ll never marry me, that when he is able to wed, he will take an innocent as his bride. Someone malleable. No doubt he thinks you will suit him very well!”

Before I could point out that Will Parr’s words did not prove he had anyone in mind, let alone me, Dorothy advanced on me again. This time she seized me by the shoulders, using both hands. Her nails bit into my skin, even through the thickness of gown and kirtle. She brought her face so close to mine that I could feel every word as a separate puff of air.

“Whore. Trollop!” She added a few other names I’d never heard before, although I had no doubt about their meaning. “You’re a fool, too, if you fall prey to his sweet promises. The king will never grant his petition. Never! There will be no second marriage by royal decree.”

Belatedly, Bridget decided it was time to intervene. The older woman cleared her throat. “If a man strikes another in a royal palace when the king is in residence, he can be sentenced to have his hand cut off. Do you suppose the punishment is the same for a woman?”

As abruptly as Dorothy had grabbed hold of me, she let go.

“It is true,” Bridget said. “And why should His Grace show you mercy, Mistress Bray, when he does not quail at executing his own wives?”

Face pale, eyes wide, Dorothy turned and fled. I stared after her, my mind awhirl. I’d have pitied her if I’d believed for a moment that she was suffering from a broken heart, but her behavior with Ned Brydges at Woodstock argued against that conclusion. It was thwarted ambition that made her so furious with me, not unrequited love. Ned had yet to attain a knighthood, while Will Parr was already Baron Parr of Kendal.

“What was all that about?” Kate demanded.

“Dorothy has taken leave of her senses.”

“She was talking about Lord Parr. And she is right. He does fancy you.”

“He may be attracted to my person,” I said, smoothing my hands over skirts that did not need any adjustment, “but if he thinks me malleable, he does not know me very well.” Did he think he could fashion me into the perfect, biddable mate? I was not a lump of clay to be molded. I looked up to find Bridget watching me. “You are not to say a word about this to Lady Lisle or to my mother,” I told her. “There is no truth to Dorothy Bray’s accusations. And even if there were, I would never be cozened by empty promises.” I would never, I told myself, make the same mistakes Dorothy had.

Bridget sent me a skeptical look, but agreed to keep silent. Soon after, she went out to run an errand for Lady Lisle, leaving me alone with my little sister.

“Will Parr wants you, Bess,” Kate said, “and I saw the way you watched him at the tiltyard.” She giggled.

“I was admiring his athletic prowess. I admired Jack and Harry, too. And . . . and I’ve kissed Harry.”

“Do you want to marry Harry Dudley?”

“I do not want to marry anyone. At least, not yet.”

“Harry is young and virile.” Kate lifted one hand, then the other, as if to imitate weighing relative merits on a scale. “But Lord Parr is wealthy. And pleasing to look at, even if he is old.”

“He is hardly ancient! And any woman with sense much prefers a man to a boy.” A wave of heat climbed into my face. Annoyed by my lack of control—it seemed to me that I blushed much too easily of late—I reminded both Kate and myself of the one thing that must stop me from encouraging Will Parr’s suit, even if I wanted to accept him. “He is married, Kate. So long as he already has a wife, he has nothing honorable to offer me.”