A little of his tension returned. “His Grace rarely deigns to notice me, and he had no trouble at all ignoring the letters I wrote to his Privy Council. You heard me say that, I suppose?”
“I did not intend to spy upon you, Lord Parr, and I will not repeat anything you said to Her Grace.”
“Then you are a paragon indeed.”
“I know most courtiers love hearing any hint of scandal and are quick to spread rumors, even when they are unfounded, but I swear I will say nothing.”
“Why not?” His grip tightened until I winced.
“I would never willingly cause you distress.” It was the simple truth, but my passionately spoken words seemed to take him aback. He gazed at me with a new intensity that was most disconcerting.
“I had hoped to renew our acquaintance when I heard you were at court,” he murmured. “Tell me, Mistress Brooke, can you think of me as a friend?”
“You are pleasant company,” I allowed.
“I strive to be, Mistress Brooke.”
When he smiled it was if the sun had come out. He was a well-favored man. There was no denying it. Nor could I deny that I felt the tug of physical attraction when we stood so close.
But no good could come of encouraging a man who already possessed both an estranged wife and a spurned mistress. I tugged my hand free. “Lady Lisle will be looking for me,” I blurted out . . . and fled.
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.