Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 Read online

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said urgently. ‘Questions about what?’

  Anne dropped into the windowseat and looked away. ‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘They’ll be asking everybody everything.’

  ‘They asked if I had been familiar with you, Your Majesty,’ the lad said, blushing as scarlet as a girl. ‘Or with you, sir,’ he said to George. ‘They asked if I had been a Ganymede to you. I didn’t know what they meant, and then they told me.’

  ‘And you said?’ George demanded.

  ‘I said no. I didn’t want to tell them …’

  ‘Good,’ George said. ‘Stick to that and don’t come near the queen or me or my sister again.’

  ‘But I’m afraid,’ the lad said. He was trembling with earnestness, there were tears in his eyes. They had questioned him for hours about vices he had never even heard of. They were hardened old soldiers and princes of the church, they knew more about sin than he would ever learn. And then he had come running to us for help and was finding none.

  George took him by the elbow and walked him to the door. ‘Get this into your thick and pretty head,’ he said flatly. ‘You are innocent, and you have told them so, and you just might get away with it. But if they find you here, they will think that you are our lad, suborned by us. So get out and stay out. This is the worst place in the world to come for help.’

  He pushed him to the door, but the lad clung to the frame even as the soldier waited outside for a word from George to throw him down the stairs.

  ‘And don’t mention Sir Francis,’ George said in a rapid undertone. ‘Nor anything that you have ever seen or heard. D’you understand? Say nothing.’

  The boy still clung on. ‘I have said nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have been true. But what if they ask me again? Who will protect me? Who will stand my friend?’

  George nodded to the soldier who made a swift downward chopping blow on the boy’s forearm. He released the door with a yelp of pain as George slammed it in his face. ‘No-one,’ George said grimly. ‘Just as no-one will protect us.’

  Next day was May Day. Anne should have been woken at dawn with her ladies singing under her window and the maidens processing with peeled willow wands. But no-one had organised it and so, for the first year ever, it did not happen. She woke haggard and pale at the usual time and spent the first hour of the day on her knees at the prie dieu, before going to Mass at the head of her ladies.

  Jane followed behind in white and green. The Seymours had brought in the may with flowers and singing, Jane had slept with flowers under her pillow and had, no doubt, dreamed of her husband-to-be. I looked at her bland sweet face and wondered if she knew how high were the stakes in the game she was playing. She smiled back at my hard face and wished me a joyous May morning.

  We filed past the king’s chapel and he looked away as Anne went by. She kneeled for the prayers and followed them carefully, saying every word, as pious as Jane herself. When the service was over and we were leaving the church the king emerged from his gallery and said briefly to her: ‘You will attend the tournament?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anne said, surprised. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your brother is in the lists to ride against Henry Norris,’ he said, watching her closely.

  Anne shrugged her shoulders. ‘And so?’ she asked.

  ‘You will have trouble choosing a champion for that joust.’ His every word was heavy with meaning, as if Anne should know what he was talking about.

  Anne looked past him to me, as if I might help her. I raised my eyebrows. I did not know either.

  ‘I should favour my brother as every good sister would do,’ she said carefully. ‘But Henry Norris is a very gentle knight.’

  ‘Perhaps you cannot choose between them,’ the king suggested.

  There was something pitiful in her puzzled smile. ‘No, sire. Which would you want me to choose?’

  His face darkened at once. ‘Be sure that I shall watch and see who you do choose,’ he said with sudden abrupt spite, and he turned away, his limp very pronounced, his sore leg fat with the padding over the wound. Anne wordlessly watched him go.

  The afternoon was hot and heavy, low clouds pressed down on the palace and the tiltyard was stultifying in the heat. Every other moment I found I was looking towards the road to London to see if William was returning, though I knew I could not expect him for another two days.

  Anne was dressed in silver and white, carrying a white may wand as if she had been maying like a carefree girl in springtime. The knights prepared to joust in the tournament, riding in a circle before the royal gallery, their helmets under their arms, smiling up at the king with the queen seated beside him, and at the ladies behind her.

  ‘Shall you take a wager?’ the king asked Anne.

  I saw the readiness of her smile at his normal tone of voice.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said.

  ‘Who do you like best for the first joust?’

  It was the same question that he had put to her in the chapel.

  ‘I must back my brother,’ she said, smiling. ‘We Boleyns must stick together.’

  ‘I have lent Norris my own horse,’ the king warned her. ‘I think you will find he is the better man.’

  She laughed. ‘Then I shall give my favour to him and put my money on my brother. Would that please Your Majesty?’

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  Anne took a handkerchief from her gown and leaned towards the edge of the royal gallery and beckoned to Sir Henry Norris. He rode towards her and dipped his lance to her in salute. She reached out with her handkerchief and gracefully, holding the sidling horse still with one hand, he pointed the lance towards her hand and lifted the handkerchief from her in one smooth easy movement. It was beautifully done, the ladies in the gallery applauded and Norris smiled, dropped the lance through his hand, snatched the handkerchief from the top and tucked it into his breastplate.

  Everyone was watching Norris but I was watching the king. I saw on his face a look I had never seen before but one I had somehow realised was there, like a shadow. The look he turned on Anne when she gave her kerchief to Norris was that of a man who has used a cup and is going to break it. A man who is weary of a dog and is going to drown it. He had finished with my sister. I saw it in that look. All I did not know was how he would be rid of her.

  There was a rumble of thunder, as ominous as the roar of a baited bear, and the king shouted that the tournament should begin. My brother won the first joust, and Norris the second, and then my brother the third. He took his horse back to the lines to let the next challenger take his place and Anne stood up to applaud him.

  The king sat still, watching Anne. In the heat of the afternoon his leg began to stink but he took no notice. He was offered drink, some early strawberries. He ate and drank, he took a little wine and some cakes. The jousting went on. Anne turned and smiled at him, engaged him in talk. He sat beside her as if he were her judge, as if it were the day of judgement.

  At the end of the joust Anne stood up to deliver the prizes. I did not even see who had won, I was watching the king as Anne gave the prizes and extended her little hand for a kiss. The king heaved himself to his feet and went to the back of the gallery. I saw him point to Henry Norris and beckon him as he left. Norris, stripped of his armour but still on his sweating horse, turned and rode round to meet the king in the rear of the gallery.

  ‘Where’s the king going?’ Anne said, looking round.

  I glanced towards the London road, longing for the sight of William’s horse. But there, on the road, was the king’s standard, there was the unmistakable bulk of the king on his horse. There was Norris beside him, and a small escort of men. They were riding quickly, west to London.

  ‘Where is he going in such haste?’ Anne demanded, uneasily. ‘Did he say he was leaving?’

  Jane Parker stepped forward. ‘Didn’t you know?’ she asked brightly. ‘Secretary Cromwell had that lad Mark Smeaton at his house all last night and has now taken him to t