Page 43 of Boleyn Traitor
Margaret Shelton gasps to see her future husband fighting to control his horse and says, ‘He should get off. He should withdraw. Remember how the king—’
Anne throws back her head and laughs – a shriek of defiance. ‘It’s just a badly trained horse!’ she says rudely, and she calls out to Norris: ‘You can’t carry my favour, if you can only go backwards!’
We can’t see his face behind his visor, but he will be grinding his teeth in rage.
The king hauls himself to his feet and leans over the balcony of his viewing box. ‘Borrow my horse!’ he yells. ‘Yours is afeared. You’ll not get a good charge out of it.’
Henry Norris, rescued from public shame, pulls up his sweating horse and thankfully salutes the king. As soon as he turns his horse’shead away from the tilt rail, it becomes docile and walks easily from the arena to the saddling area behind the public stands.
We wait for a few moments as they hastily change the barding from Norris’ horse onto the king’s new charger and heave Henry Norris, stiff in his heavy armour, into the saddle. He rides up to the king’s viewing balcony, bows low, and thanks him for his generosity. The king is all smiles, showing his royal favour, as the crowd cheers him.
The big horse lifts its head, as if it knows the job it has to do, and Norris raises his lance first in thanks to the king, then in salute to Anne, and finally to George, who has waited all this time, walking his horse around the arena to keep it warm and ready. Norris canters around the arena. People cheer him: he is a popular challenger on the king’s own horse.
The two horses wheel and canter to opposite ends of the list. The riders tighten their reins to make their horses wait, while they press their spurs against their sides to urge them to be ready – to go from standstill to gallop at the signal. Anne rises to her feet, waits for all eyes to be on her, raises her handkerchief, and lets it fall. Simultaneously, they dig in their spurs and loosen the reins, and the animals leap forward into a flat-out charge, straight towards each other, a thundercloud of dust rising from their hooves. There is a tremendous smack as George’s lance catches Norris square on his armoured belly and splinters with a crack. Norris keeps his seat on the king’s horse, though the blow must have knocked the breath out of him.
They pull up at the far end and wheel around, cantering the circle of the arena, to settle the horses to their work, and to catch their breath behind their helmets. They ready themselves at the foot of the rail, turn their metal faces to watch Anne, who drops her handkerchief, and they spur forward again, and George has the best hit for the second time. They are usually evenly matched, but this May Day, Henry Norris is riding a strange horse and is angry with himself. Only at the last charge does he break his lanceon George, redeeming himself before the crowd, who roar for him, and the tournament is over, and George – my George – is the victor.
The riders canter around the arena, steeled fist raised to acknowledge the applause; the musicians play, the ladies throw flowers, and I beam across the arena to Nicholas Carew in the king’s box – so who is the greatest knight today? Who should have been the new Knight of the Garter? But Nicholas Carew is alone in the king’s tower: the seat before him is empty; the king has gone – gone without awarding the prize, gone without accepting the cheers, gone without a wave at the crowd who have come all the way from London to see him.
His throne is empty; there is no one left in the viewing tower but Seymours and Henry Courtenay and Nicholas Carew – all men of the Spanish party and the old religion. Have they offended him? Can we be so lucky that they have offended him, and he walked out on them without a word? Have we won some extraordinary victory against them without doing anything? I don’t even know if the king saw the last tilt – did he see nothing but George’s triumphs? Or has he been taken ill and gone back to his rooms?
‘The king’s gone,’ I say quietly to Anne as I hold the box with chains of gold for her to award the winners.
‘Where?’ she asks, without turning her head.
‘I don’t know. He must have just left.’
Anne leans over the edge of the balcony to give the prizes; but only George rides up before her for the gold chain.
‘Where’s Norris?’ I ask him, leaning over the side of the balcony as Anne drapes the chain over his bare head onto his metalled shoulders.
‘Was he in a temper?’ Margaret Shelton asks from the other side.
‘No,’ he tells her. ‘The king came behind the stands and said they must go at once – back to Whitehall.’
‘By barge?’
‘The king said he would ride and Norris ride with him.’
‘He can’t ride,’ I say. ‘His leg...’
‘He’s gone on his horse,’ George answers.
The applause trails off, and people start to rise to their feet andclimb down from the stands and leave. George’s horse sidles as he holds him close to the balcony to whisper with Anne.
‘Why? Why has he gone?’ she demands. ‘Without a word to anyone? We have the masque and the dancing to come? And the dinner? He’s learned a poem to recite at the dinner?’ She straightens up and smiles broadly for the people still watching, and claps her hands to praise her brother.
‘It must’ve been planned,’ George says quietly. ‘His groom had a fresh horse saddled and waiting. His outriders were waiting for him. Norris didn’t know. He stripped off his armour and left just as he was.’
Her smile never wavers. ‘Oh God, he’s impossible,’ she says through her teeth. She waves at the crowd of Londoners who raise a cheer. ‘I wish to God he had—’
‘—stayed,’ George finishes the sentence quickly.
Anne leans over the balcony as if she is kissing the winner’s brow. ‘Go after them,’ she whispers, so softly that only I, standing beside her, can hear. ‘Go after them and make sure that he’s happy and that Norris says nothing stupid about me. Especially after yesterday. Make sure Norris says nothing about anything.’
He reins his horse back and salutes her; then he turns and canters around the arena, raising his lance in recognition of the straggled cheers, and rides out. We get up, gather up our flowers and our favours, and walk back to the palace. I am thinking that we have special gowns and costumes for the May Day masque; but it’s hardly worth the effort if the king has chosen to leave his favourite palace on the best night of the year, to dine alone in London with Henry Norris, and George chasing after the two of them as they left him behind.
AND THEN, BEFOREdinner, as the choristers come in to sing the May Day carol, Mark Smeaton the lute player is nowhere to be found
