A Love Most Dangerous (27 page)

Rich was long awake that night. He went over the
conversation concerning Cromwell in his head, time and time again. Sometimes he
thought it as inconsequential as the two nobles had claimed it to be at the end
of the evening. Sometimes it appeared pregnant with promise and opportunity for
himself. Most of the time it seemed dangerous. Deadly dangerous. Perhaps fatal.
He tuned over, closed his eyes. He was unable to sleep.

He rose early, bleary eyed and tousle haired. He ate a
solitary breakfast under the watchful eye of a servant. The sky grew bright
although it looked as if rain was coming in from the west. He ordered his horse
to be got ready and finished off the last of his meal.

The rain began to patter on the ground as his horse
was brought to him. He rummaged in his saddle-bag and pulled out his heavy
travelling cloak. There was no need for it immediately, he decided, but the
weather was unreliable in April. One minute bright sunshine, the next an
unforeseen downpour. A cloak was essential in such fickle times.

He climbed into his saddle and began the long journey
back to London. He had gone a couple of hundred yards or so when he heard a
voice calling him.

He turned in his saddle and saw the Duke's steward
riding after him on a horse.

'Your pardon, Sir Richard,' the man said, 'but I did
not realise you were going to leave so early.'

'I have business to attend to at Court,' Rich
answered.

The steward nodded. 'His Grace asked me particularly
to communicate to you his gratitude at your journeying here to see him.' He
paused and fiddled with a blanket in front of his saddle. 'His Grace is aware
of the time your visit has taken you from your duties . And also that you will
have incurred expense in coming here.'

Rich stared at the man in silence.

'So,' the steward continued, pulling back the blanket,
'his Grace charged me to give you this in recognition and thanks.'

He pushed a strong-box into Rich's hands, bowed
swiftly and rode away.

Rich looked at the box. He rubbed his fingers along
the side. It was a plain box, made of wood, with a small lock with a key inside
it.

He looked around, swiftly turned the key and opened
the lid. He gasped. The box was full of gold coins, perhaps a hundred a more.
More than he could hope to earn from royal service in two years.

He slammed the door shut, as if to prevent the coins
from leaping out and making their escape.

He glanced around, nervous that anyone might have
seen. Then he looked up at the hall, searching the windows to see if anyone was
watching. Searching, in particular for a sign of the Duke. There was nobody.

He covered the box with his cloak and kicked his heels.
The horse moved into a walk and then, at a second kick, into a fast trot.

Back in Kenninghall the Duke of Nofolk stared through
a slit in a curtain at the rapidly departing Rich. How strangely apt, he
thought suddenly. That a man should bear as his name what he most desired to
be.

'You want me to find out about this Alice Petherton?' Surrey asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Norfolk
did not answer for a
moment. His son had not been able to hide his interest in this woman who Rich
had so highly praised. Ah well, the hungry hound makes the best hunter.

He thought swiftly. He had hoped to tempt the King
himself with one of his family's brood of daughters. A beautiful favourite may
well undo such plans.

'Yes,' he said at last. 'Find out all you can.'

He placed a hand upon his son's arm to detain him.
'But remember that she is the King's favourite. Remember that. If we are to act
against her no trace must come to this place.'

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

On Love and Lust

9th April 1538

I did not feel any great tenderness for King Henry.
How could I? He was old enough to be my father, more than old enough. In fact,
sometimes, when I lay beside him after the act of love I would do mental
arithmetic and conclude that it was just possible that he could have been my
grandfather. He would need to have been a forward youth of course but what
limits are there to royalty?

The winter months did not help. He suffered greatly
from the injury he had sustained in a tournament a few years previously. It had
opened up an earlier wound in his leg and had not healed properly.

I did not discover if for a few weeks and when I did
it was because of the smell. The wound would periodically suppurate, becoming a
red raw colour and oozing a viscous fluid which stank of rotting meat. The
first time I discovered it I gagged at the smell and could not all together
hide my reaction. The King was kind about it, in fact he seemed rather
embarrassed. This was a side of him I had not imagined I would ever witness. He
told me to think nothing of it, that it was a little problem and would soon
pass. I think he was more concerned that it would put me off my love-making
than that it would disgust and sicken me. It did both, of course, but I kept
this from him well enough. In fact I found it best if I pretended more concern
than I felt and clucked over him like a nurse. He liked this.

As well as the smell the wound could pain him abominably.
The cold, damp weather affected it most. There was many a time when I would
find him with his leg propped high on a stool, wrapped in hot compresses which
his surgeon swore would ease the wound but never seemed to make the slightest
difference. The King bore it all rather philosophically, disregarding the pain
and inconvenience although impatient for it to improve.

When it did he was like a rutting stag, almost
dragging me into bed and making love as if the end of the world was upon us.

One day early in April had been such a day. He
summoned me in the late afternoon and we spent two hours grappling like
shepherd and nymph. After the third bout we lay back on the bed as hot as
loaves while the King began to talk about the latest problems with the Kings of
France and Scotland.

I must have nodded off while he spoke for I suddenly
found him tickling me under the arm.

I shrieked with laughter, being susceptible to
tickling. This delighted him and he went to it with a will while I giggled
until the tears ran and begged him to stop.

He laughed and leaned back on the bed, his arms behind
his head, staring at the ceiling.

'Ah Alice,' he said. 'You make me feel young again.'

'That is what a young girl should do. She should help
you recapture your youth and ardour.'

He smiled benignly. 'You certainly do that.'

'Hush,' I said. 'It is what a loyal maid should do for
her King. I am, as you said, yours to command.'

He turned to me and his face became more serious. 'I
watch you sometimes,' he said, 'when you do not realise that I am doing so.'

I leaned up on my elbow and stared at him. His voice
sounded dreamy, as if recounting something he had done many times.

'I watch you when you are in the chapel, singing or
praying, listening to the priest. I watch you when you are walking with your
friends and delight to see you happy with them.'

'I hope you look at only me; not at my friends.'

'I only have eyes for you, Alice.'

'I don't believe that, Your Grace. I am not the only
lovely girl in the palace.'

His eyes took on a far-away look. 'I disagree, my
dear. There is none to compare with you.' He paused and pulled at his beard a
moment. 'There is one, only one, who has sometimes caught my eye.'

'And who is she? I would know so that I ask you to
send her from the palace.'

He laughed. 'A young girl, dark haired, with pretty
mouth. You were with her yesterday in the tennis court.'

'That's Lucy Meadows, my friend.' I watched him more
closely. 'She is little more than a child. I'm not sure if she is fifteen or
sixteen.'

The King said nothing.

I traced a finger along his chest. 'So, Your Grace,
you have cast your eyes at my little friend, Lucy?'

He pursed his lips. 'I have noticed her, is all.'

'Noticed and desired, I shouldn't wonder.' I pressed
myself closer to him. 'How would you like it if I were to invite her into this
chamber? How would you like it if I were to command her to undress for you?'

I felt rather than heard his breath began to quicken.

'Would you like that, Your Grace? Or what if she were
reluctant? What if I had to be firm and undress the girl myself?'

I saw his eyelids blink swiftly at the thought.

'What if I had to take every stitch from her body
until she stood naked as a babe in front of us?'

'Would you do that?' he gasped. 'For me?'

'You only have to ask,' I said. 'I would bring her to
your bed myself and fold your arms around her.'

'And would she be willing?'

'I'm not sure.'

All at once I recalled how Anne Boleyn had troubled my
dreams. How, had she commanded it, I would have loved her with more than just
my heart.

'Perhaps I would have to gentle her myself,' I
whispered to the King. My words had a strange effect upon him. He began to
tremble like a youth new come to love.

'Perhaps,' I continued, 'I would have to stroke her
and console her. Perhaps she would be unsure how to kiss a man and I would have
to teach her myself. You could watch while I kissed her, watched while I taught
her how to make love.'

He gasped and I looked down. He was more excited than
I had ever seen him. 'My goodness,' I cried, grasping hold of him and feeling
the heat flaming within. 'I shall have to call this His Highness from now on.'

He spent himself in my hand, laughing at my jest and
swooning at the thought of Lucy Meadows and me as lovers.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The King's Great Cats

20th April 1538

I woke with the King snoring in my ear. It felt like a
tempest in my head.

I lay there for a few minutes hoping the cacophony
would stop but I waited in vain. Finally I elbowed him softly in the stomach.
He woke and spluttered like a baby about to regurgitate its milk.

'Good morning, Alice,' he cried.

'Good morning, Majesty. You slept well.'

He raised himself on his elbow and stared at me. His
breath smelt like horse sweat. I half turned my head, hoping he would not
notice.

'I feel as though I slept well,' he boomed. 'I do
indeed. How do you know, sweet child? Were you watching over me?'

'I always watch over you, Your Grace. I'm your
guardian angel.' I paused, wondering whether to say more. 'But I also know
because you were snoring.'

'Snoring?' He sat upright and clenched his knees. He
stared ahead of him and I sensed the petulance beginning to build. I cursed
myself for saying it.

'Perhaps it was some dream of battle and war,' I said
swiftly. 'Maybe a joust with you galloping towards your adversary with lance
held high.'

'Or a wrestling match, perchance,' he said. 'Like when
I wrestled King Francis at the Field of the Cloth of Gold.'

He turned to me, all petulance gone, his face bright
with excitement. 'I beat him, Alice. At wrestling. My nobles advised me to let
him win as we were on French soil and at first I meant to do as they advised.
But then the joy of battle gripped me. I remember thinking, is not a Tudor
better than a Valois?'

He clambered to his knees.

'Oh you should have been there, Alice. It was a titanic struggle. Why weren't you there?'

'Because I wasn't born, Your Grace.'

He looked at me in some surprise. Then he put back his
head and roared with laughter.

I put my hands over my ears. 'There it goes again. His
Majesty the lion.' I pretended to look terrified of him and he caught me up and
kissed me fiercely.

He broke away, clicking his fingers sharply.

'A lion. That reminds me. I have not seen the lions
which Norfolk gave to me as a New Year gift.'

He hurled himself out of bed, yelling for Frost to
come to dress him.

'Have you ever seen a lion, Alice?' he asked as he
paced around the room.

'Only a glimpse,' I answered. 'When the Duke's lions
were brought into the Great Hall. I was terrified.'

He turned to me and his eyes took on that strange
blank look which so unnerved me.

'Terrified by a lion,' he murmured, more to himself
than to me. 'Yes, they are fearsome beasts. Kingly beasts. The beasts of England.'

At that moment Frost entered the room.

'I need to be dressed,' the King cried. 'I'm taking Alice to see the lions.'