Free At the King's Pleasure (Secrets of the Tudor Court) by Kate Emerson

armor. A strike to the helmet scored highest, followed by the breastplate. If the lance broke—and they were hollow with blunted points, designed to shatter on impact—that was worth more than a glancing blow.
    Each match was hard fought, just as in a real tournament. When two jousters collided with a mighty crash, long wooden splinters flew in every direction, adding to the excitement. Dozens of lances were broken and although there were a few falls, no one was seriously injured. An hour into the contest, George Hastings and Tom Boleyn had identical scores, but the competitor who’d won joust after joust was the king. Even though he never removed his helmet, word of his identity had spread through the spectators.
    Another competitor had also done well, and now prepared to ride against Ned Neville. “Is that Will Compton?” Anne asked. Like the king, he had kept his visor down throughout the jousting, but everyone else in the king’s circle of close friends was accounted for.
    “It must be,” Bess agreed. “Likely he is the one who told His Grace about the tournament. Perhaps he even persuaded King Henry to participate.”
    Anne smiled a little at that notion. “No one would have had to talk the king into anything.” This day’s adventure was exactly the sort of reckless activity an impulsive young man would plunge into without a thought for his own safety.
    The two great warhorses pawed at the ground, then charged toward each other, hooves thundering on the frozen ground. There was a resounding crash as both lances shattered. Neville’s blow caught Compton square in the middle of the chest, unseating him.
    Earlier bouts had ended the same way, but in those the fallen man had always clambered awkwardly to his feet and walked away. This time was different. Will Compton lay ominously still. A hush fell over the crowd.
    Anne stared in shock at the motionless form. She felt exactly as she had when she’d been told that her mother was dead: beset by a paralyzing sense of loss and despair. Her gloved fingers instinctively sought her rosary and she murmured a fervent prayer. Beside her, Bess began to weep.
    The other competitors milled around their fallen comrade. A physician was summoned. Anne saw the king, mounted and still wearing his concealing visor, speak briefly with Neville, then turn as if to leave. But if His Grace thought to slip away before his disguise was penetrated, he had left it till too late. A spectator, seeing him about to depart, set up a shout.
    “God save the king!” he called out, and instantly a hundred voices took up the cry.
    King Henry turned back, removed his helmet, and acknowledged the cheering crowd. If he was concerned for his friend, it did not show. He never even glanced Will Compton’s way before he rode off in the direction of the palace, attended by Tom and George and several other gentlemen.
    “We need to leave,” Bess whispered, tugging on Anne’s arm with one hand while she dashed moisture from her cheeks with the other.
    “He has not stirred.” Anne could not stop staring at the motionless figure. Was he dead? Of all the king’s men, Will Compton had always seemed the most alive, the most vibrant. It would be a sin against nature if he had so carelessly lost his life.
    “There is nothing we can do. And, look—there is Dr. Chambre, one of the king’s own physicians. He’ll have Compton on the mend in no time.”
    As they walked swiftly away from the tiltyard, Anne tried in vain to still her trembling hands and quell the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Why should she care so much? Will Compton was nothing to her—just another of the king’s boon companions. But she hoped with all her heart that he would not die. She had danced with him, flirted with him, and had grown, she now realized, quite fond of him. Fingering her rosary as she scurried into the palace, Anne went not to her lodgings but to one of the chapels, where she prayed harder than she had in