59

THE RAIN HAS DAMPENED THE CHANCE OF ANY SPORT. NO tilting, for the mud in the yard is as thick as paste. No hunting, for the season has yet to start. A move to Windsor is discussed for the use of the opulent tennis court alone. As it is, here in Greenwich, the men are irritable and peevish, as if itchy in their own skins.

When it stops raining, I search out Jane and drag her to the orchard with me.

“My hem will get wet,” she moans.

“But no one will be able to hear us. And I want to hear everything.”

Jane burns red. I can feel the heat from her face.

“Don’t be disgusting, Anne. He’s your brother.” The pearls click beneath her fingers.

“I only meant . . .” I have no explanation. “Are you happy?”

“He doesn’t love me.”

She says it simply and with no trace of emotion.

“Maybe love can be learned.”

A shout from the tiltyard gallery interrupts Jane’s response.

“George,” she breathes. Plucks at my sleeve, drawing me to the watching towers.

The men have converted the gallery into a bowling alley. A gaggle of them hover at one end, shaking hands and drinking wine. And betting. I am not surprised to see George amongst them.

At the other end of the improvised rink, nearest to us, are the players. The king. And Thomas Wyatt. I step back into the shadows of the tower and pull Jane with me.

They have obviously already played several ends, because the men betting are getting louder and more belligerent. The game must be close.

They did not expect an audience. Thomas has removed his cap and, as I watch, the king sheds his doublet.

“I really must have an alley built here at Greenwich,” the king says, stretching, the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. “This gallery is far too small.”

“And a tennis court!” Henry Norris calls.

“Perhaps I will.” The king laughs. “And a new mews for the falcons while I’m at it. Come, Wyatt. Let me best you.”

A fleeting frown crosses Thomas’s face, but it vanishes before he clasps the king’s hand. He’s playing the game. The jack is thrown, going a fair distance down the rink, coming to rest almost at center. The men cheer and drink and bet again.

The king rolls first, and his shot goes wide. He toes the ground in disapproval and turns away—clenching and unclenching his fists. Thomas rubs his hand over his mouth and chin to hide a smile.

I want to grab his hand and drag him away somewhere. Silly men. Silly competitions. The betting continues, heating up. George is handling the book. Of course.

Thomas takes his shot, which comes much closer to the jack, the bias of the wood making it curve out and then in again in an elegant arc, coming to rest not two feet from the jack.

There is silence. Then a rattle from the onlookers, the exchange of coins.

This goes on until both men have thrown all four woods, a cluster of bowls at the far end, crouched menacingly around the little jack.

“The king’s shot is closest!” shouts Norris from the boundary. Another cheer. More drinking. The clink of coins as the winnings are counted.

The king gives a little nod. He reaches for Thomas’s hand.

Then Bryan shouts, “I beg to differ, Norris, but Wyatt’s first shot lies closer.”

Silence.

The king and Thomas exchange a look, and without speaking—like a dance, choreographed—they turn together to stride down to the end of the gallery. I cannot hear their banter, but I see a strange look on Thomas’s face. His normal complacency is missing. The casual, assured courtliness has been replaced by rivalry.

They stand for a moment over the jack, the only sound the hiss of rain as it starts up again. The king shines gold, his hair fiery in the dim light. Thomas rubs his hand across the back of his neck, twining in the curls of hair there, his apple-green sleeves fluttering.

He looks up, shoulders set for a challenge.

“I believe Bryan is right, Your Majesty,” he says. “Mine is closer.”

Time stops.

Everything is a competition at this court, Thomas said. Especially with the king.

But the game keeps changing.

The king smiles. A heart-stopping, mischievous smile.

He lifts his right hand, glittering with rings, his eyes never leaving Thomas’s face. He points to the cluster of bowls using his smallest finger.

“I tell you, Wyatt,” he says. “I am closer than you think.”

On his finger is a ring. My ring. One I have obviously worn throughout my time at court. The one he kissed so extravagantly when we danced after the Castle of Loyalty tournament. The one he took from me as “payment” for getting Jane her dowry.

He caresses it. To make his point.

I feel sick. I reach a hand behind me to steady myself on the wall and take a step farther into the shadows. I need to escape.

Thomas stares at the ring for half a moment. Then he straightens, looks the king directly in the eye.

With his right hand, he reaches down inside his blue-green doublet and extracts a worn ribbon.

“If you will allow me, Your Majesty, I should like to measure it,” he says; his words carry over the entire rink, where all have frozen silent.

Thomas stretches the ribbon out between the king’s bowl and the jack. Then between the jack and his own.

His wood is indeed closer.

With a carefully timed flourish, he opens his hand and something heavy drops to the end of the ribbon and sways there. A golden A, a teardrop pearl flashing beneath it.

“I believe that it is mine.” Thomas sits back on his heels and flashes a look of triumph at the king. I could kill him.

The king approaches him. There is no sound but the rain. The bettors huddle in the corner as if trying to render themselves invisible.

“It may be so.” In the silence the king’s voice sounds loud—violent—though he speaks quietly. “Perhaps I am deceived.”

He stands facing Thomas, only inches away. The king is taller, broader. Thomas, with his slight build, appears as a willow before an oak.

The king nudges the jack out of place and picks it up to hold between them.

“Perhaps,” the king says, “the call is not ours to make.”

He spins and strides back the length of the gallery, calling out, “No more games.”

He sweeps into the rain-ravaged tiltyard, followed by Norris. The other men swiftly exchange their coins, no longer up for argument, and hasten after their monarch. Except for George, who spreads the coins in his palm, his face conflicted between a frown and a grin.

Thomas watches them go, and then kicks the king’s wood, sending it careening after them.