Free Rivals in the Tudor Court by D. L. Bogdan Page A

foolishness.” She wipes her eyes with a slender hand. “I want everyone to be happy—you know that, don’t you? Oh, of course you do.” She offers a defeated sigh. “We must remove to London directly to share the joy.”
    I stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head, wondering if we shall ever savor joy again.

    The Prince of Wales is born at Richmond Palace on New Year’s Day, another bonny little Henry. How can I begrudge anyone this kind of joy when I see the queen’s face, so tender as she beholds her newborn son? Was not my own princess the owner of that same dreamy expression, was not her sweet face once filled with a love so overwhelming, none but a parent can appreciate it? No, now is not a time for resentment or envy. The princess and I give ourselves over to the contagious atmosphere of celebration that cloaks the kingdom.
    My father is named one of the infant’s godparents, another mark of the king’s favor, and the earl’s eyes shine with triumph at the honor.
    The king makes a pilgrimage of gratitude to the Priory of Our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk, making the mile progress barefoot from Slipper Chapel to the shrine to light a candle and offer an expensive necklace. Bernard Flower, the Royal Glazier, is commissioned to create stained-glass windows for the chapel as another sign of his appreciation.
    I think it’s a lot of showy superstition but hold my peace, for when the king returns, I am required to attend festivities the like of which I have never witnessed. The queen is churched and ready to commemorate the birth of her son with her husband and once the baby is installed at Richmond, they meet the rest of the court at Westminster, where the first of the jousts and banquets begin.
    On 1 February, I tilt against the king, Charles Brandon, Edward Neville, and my brother Neddy with the lords Essex, Dorset, and Devon. Even mock battle sends that satisfying surge of heat through my limbs. Everything is so certain—you either win or lose. I savor the rawness of it all, the lusty battle cries, the clank of lance against armor, the pounding of the horse’s hooves against the field, the sweat, the breathlessness.
    I look to the stands, to the queen sitting in her box, so merry and exultant, to my princess, so wistful and pained. I expect her thoughts have traveled down that wicked path, the path I catch myself wandering. All the what-ifs, all the wondering. Would our children have participated in the festivities today? No doubt Thomas and our Henry would have been betrothed by now and probably serving the king as pages. Wills and Maggie would have been too young to partake; they would have remained at home. We would have been choosing a tutor for them. . . . I have to stop this.
    I concentrate on the sport, on the simple feat of ousting my opponents, which I am incomparably successful at, though I would never show up His Majesty. No one is foolish enough to do that.
    The rigors of play work at our appetites and we are treated to banquets laden with more food than I have ever seen. Venison, hare, mutton, beef, stuffed capons, eels, fish, cheese, breads, sauces rich and savory on the tongue, puddings, tarts, comfits, wines that warm the blood and bring a tingle to the cheeks. My appetite has changed and I cannot consume as much as in years past, nor have I ever been a drinking man, but in a place where everything is a contest, I am compelled to take in as much of both as possible. I am so sick the next day that it is all I can do to keep my eyes open against the blinding sun.
    It is no bother. I am so caught up in it all that I live in splendid excess throughout the whole of the festivities.
    By mid February, the celebrating takes such a turn that I am just as happy not to participate in the grandest tourney of all, in which the lads are dressed in such foppery that my princess must remind me to keep my mocking laughter to myself. The king, styled as Sir