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

years that Compton would survive. Then, as Bess had, she wept.
    “Is there any way I can assist you, my child?”
    Anne looked up into the concerned face of one of the king’s chaplains. She recognized him as Thomas Wolsey, the priest who had performed her wedding ceremony. “It is Master Compton, Sir Thomas,” she blurted out. “He has been sore wounded while jousting and I fear he will die.”
    “His destiny is in God’s hands,” Wolsey reminded her. “Trust in the Lord to do what is right.”
    He offered to pray with her and afterward Anne felt comforted, but hours later, when George returned to their lodgings, she was still deeply upset by what she had witnessed in the tiltyard. She made no pretense of unconcern. “Is he yet living?” she asked the moment her husband walked through the door.
    “He’ll mend.”
    “He’ll
mend
? Is that all you can tell me? Have you no idea how terrible it was to see him lying so still?”
    “His head was cracked open and he was unconscious for hours. At one point, the king’s physicians feared for his life. But then he came back to himself. Demanded a cup of ale to quench his thirst.”
    “Has he other injuries?” Anne asked.
    “Nothing of note. He broke a number of bones, and his nose. He’ll have to stay behind when the rest of the court moves to Westminster on the morrow.”
    Anne frowned at him. Was it her imagination, or had George seemed
pleased
by that? “I do not understand what possessed the kingto compete. How terrible it would have been if His Grace had been the one who was injured.”
    “We all knew who he was.” George poured himself a goblet of sack and drank deeply.
    “I did not suppose that Neville
meant
to injure Compton,” Anne said with a trace of asperity. “Why do men take such risks?”
    “To ready themselves for war. And to impress women.” George gave a self-deprecating laugh.
    Belatedly, Anne recalled how well he’d acquitted himself, and that he’d been wearing her favor. “I very nearly won Bess’s silver pomander ball wagering on you,” she admitted.
    That seemed to please him.
    Anne set herself to charming her husband out of his ill humor. By the time they retired to their bed, they were in harmony again.

12
Westminster Palace, January 18, 1510
    L ady Anne yawned as she approached the royal bedchamber. Had it not been her turn to wait upon the queen, charged with handing her the royal washing water and supervising the chamberers and other lesser ladies who helped Her Grace dress, she’d have stayed in bed for at least another hour herself. It was no consolation at all that George had been obliged to rise even earlier than she to attend King Henry. She was not certain why. George was no groom of the chamber to be at the king’s beck and call. Something special was afoot, she supposed. An early morning hunt or some other male foolishness. Perhaps another snowball fight, since that pastime had become so popular of late.
    Her Grace the Queen would have been up at midnight to pray in her oratory, the small closet that adjoined her bedchamber. Now, at third cockcrow, she insisted upon being roused from slumber yet again, this time to hear Mass. Anne would have to accompany her to the chapel, as would all the other ladies on duty this morning. There the priest would drone on, keeping them on their knees far longer than necessary.
    That the queen would give birth to a child in a few months and was exhausted with carrying it made no difference to either Catherine of Aragon or her Spanish chaplain. Her Grace insisted upon regularand frequent devotions. Anne thought the queen spent an excessive amount of time in prayer, and in fasting, too. Those who knew more of such things than she did had tried suggesting that the baby would be the better for a more rested and well-fed mother, but the queen would not listen. Her own mother, as Her Grace continually reminded them, had given birth to children on the battlefield during the holy war she