ROBIN HAVERS DARTED around the private bedchamber of his master and dear friend, Francis Bryan. Evening had fallen on Marsworth. Candles were lit along the mantle of the fireplace, as well on the small end-tables on either side of Francis' large tester bed. There was also another candle on a small writing desk in a corner of the room, where Francis often sat while he was home. He loved to write, toying with poetry and essays, so the desk became a favored part of his bedchamber. Even then, the heavy wall-tapestries and the dark bed curtains gave the room a rather gloomy appearance even before night had fallen.

Francis' bedchamber was located on the front side of Marsworth, overlooking a large expanse of lawn through two mullioned windows. Robin hurried over to the casement to draw the curtains closed, but his attention was drawn to a carriage coming to a stop in front of the manor. He frowned as he recognized the personal coach of Sir Thomas Bryan. The lord must be returning from his trip into Cheddington. Robin knew he would want to see his son first thing.

Sighing, Robin turned away from the window, forgetting to draw the curtains closed.

Robin was in his early twenties. He had been born and raised on the Marsworth estate. His father, Michael Havers, who had passed away the year before, had been the head gardener, raising his son alone after his mother had died in childbirth. Because he was so close in age to Francis, Robin had been a natural playmate for the knight's son.

In contrast to the lankiness of Francis, Robin was small and compact. His slenderness and scant height belied his extreme intelligence and common sense. His innate sense had been one of the reasons Lady Margaret wanted Robin to take on the duties as Francis' valet. She knew very well that if Francis got himself into any sort of mischief, Robin would be there to pull him out of it.

Robin had short, dark auburn hair and dark green eyes, with a dusting of freckles on his nose. His proboscis was his one regret as to his physical appearance. While he was sometimes frustrated by his smallness - only because most people regarded this as a trait of weakness - he was more than mortified by his overlarge nose. Knowing how sensitive he was about it, Francis never mentioned the protrusion.

Francis burst into the room as Robin was setting out fresh breeches and a silk shirt on the tester bed. Francis was out of breath. Robin looked up at him in askance. He saw the almost-wild expression in Francis' dark eyes, and he assumed Sir Thomas had spoken to his son already.

"Whatever is the matter?" Robin asked him, trying to sound casual as he resumed setting out the clothes. "Did your hound Nasir finally have his fill of you, and chase you up the stairway?"

"Cease your prattle," Francis replied crisply, coming into the room and shutting the door. "My father is on his way up. He just arrived."

"I know," Robin responded. "I saw him from the window. Why are you so nervous?"

Francis snorted as he walked toward the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. "I'm not nervous, you pygmy," he said. "I merely know what my father wants to talk about. I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

Robin turned to face Francis. "You know as well as I do that Sir Thomas will have his say, whether you are in the mood or not."

"My point exactly," Francis snapped, glaring at his valet.

"You are making much about nothing," Robin assured him, walking over to stand by Francis at the fireplace. "Your father has your best interests at heart. Going to Greenwich is a golden opportunity, and one that my lord does not want to see misused."

Francis expelled frustrated air. "Why would I misuse such an opportunity? It is what I want."

"You have been known to become rather reckless in your exploits, my friend," Robin replied gently, not wanting to hurt Francis' feelings.

"Such as?" Francis asked him pointedly, irritated with the remonstration, subtle as it was. In the distance, the rumbling of thunder sounded, warning of a coming rain shower.

Robin raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms in front of him. "Let's see, would you like me to run down the list? What about Mistress Mary Lasalle - the daughter of one of the scullery maids? Do you perhaps recall her?"

Francis glowered at Robin, but he nodded.

"As I seem to remember," Robin continued, "there was an incident involving you and Mistress Mary in one of the servants rooms on the second floor. You were thirteen years old, I think, and she was not much older . . . "

"She was two years older," Francis pointed out defensively. "That much I do know. And she wasn't exactly unwilling."

"That's beside the point," Robin said, his tone weary. "What I'm trying to tell you, in a nice manner, is that you have been known to go with whatever feeling suits your fancy at the moment, and your father is quite aware of it."

"I'm older and I've changed," Francis said flatly, brushing a lock of hair from his cheek absently. "Those were the old days, and I was a mere child, for God's sake. I'm a man, Robin, and I know how to comport myself properly, thank you."

Robin started to laugh, but Francis cut him off.

"I'm serious," Francis continued strongly. "I did a lot of thinking while I stayed on at Lord Parr's. I can't hope for much of a future at court if I get into scrapes, now can I? I would never let my father down that way. There is too much at stake. If I'm to make any impression at court, I must be circumspect and abide by the rules."

Robin stopped laughing. "And you think you can do that now?"

Francis stared long and steady at his friend, his reply coming in a firm voice: "I'm certain of it."

"I'm glad to hear it, my son." The deep voice came from the doorway of the bedchamber, startling both Francis and Robin. They turned to see Sir Thomas Bryan, his hand on the large knob of the door. There was a slight smile on the older man's face.

Sir Thomas was a tall man, like his son, but he had developed a slight bend to his frame at the shoulders. His hair was now completely silver, while his light-blue eyes had become slightly rheumy. There were lines around the corners of Thomas' mouth, and a worry crease in his forehead. His hands were large and big-knuckled, another trait he had passed on to his son.

Looking between Francis and Sir Thomas, Robin knew no one could deny that the two men were father and son. He could envision Francis appearing much the same when he someday became an old man. However, the difference between them was the simultaneous and duality of their basic natures. While Thomas was staid and calm, Francis possessed a quicksilver temperament and passionate mien made most apparent in his dark eyes. Whatever Francis might be feeling - whether it be anger or happiness - he simply could not stop the emotion from reaching his eyes. Perhaps the one element would be the very one Francis could control once he was at court. It might be his salvation one day.

Thomas looked to Robin. In his ever-polite tone, he asked: "Can you leave us for a short while, Robin? I would like to speak to my son alone."

Robin bowed his head slightly. "Yes, my lord. I will see to another task elsewhere."

"Thank you," Thomas said. He stood aside from the door as Robin passed him, bowing his head slightly again.

Thomas closed the bedchamber door as light rain began to patter against the window panes.

"I hear from Lord Parr that you did very well in his household," Thomas began as he walked into the room, joining his son by the fireplace mantle. "I am very proud of you."

"Thank you, Father," Francis replied softly, his body tensing as Thomas came to stand next to him.

"Very well, indeed," Thomas continued, almost absently as he looked into the flames of the hearth. After a brief pause, he continued. "You have a few weeks yet before we go to court, but I would like to impart a few words of wisdom to you."

"I would be most grateful for your sage counsel, Father," Francis said politely, although he was not anxious for the advice. Without fail, his reluctance reached his eyes.

Sir Thomas felt a brief flash of disappointment as he saw the expression in Francis' dark eyes.

"This will not be a long lecture, my son," Thomas said, suddenly sounding tired.

"And old," Francis thought, struck by his own musings. Thomas seemed older somehow since Francis had last seen him - was it only three months ago at Lord Parr's? - and he also seemed a bit out of sorts, as if he found it hard to focus. For the first time in his life, Francis felt an emotion akin to pity for his father.

Thomas saw the expression of sympathy in his son as well, and it irritated him momentarily. He did not want Francis' pity for his old age - he wanted Francis to listen to what he had to say, to truly hear his words and heed them.

"May I sit?" Thomas asked abruptly. "I fear I'm rather weary tonight, and would like to rest my feet."

"Of course, father," Francis replied quickly. "Have the chair by the fire."

"And you?"

"I'll stand," Francis insisted.

Thomas took the chair, sinking gratefully into the cushion. He stared up at his son and marveled at his attractive physique, as if noticing for the first time that his son had become a man. There was a flash of confusion on Thomas face, but the expression was so brief that Francis thought he had imagined it.

"Court is a very dangerous place, Francis," Thomas began slowly, his eyes returning to the fire. "You can advance far if you behave accordingly, but you must always be aware of false friends. They are everywhere at court. Everyone is there for the same reason - to perhaps gain a title, a good marriage, or the grant of prosperous lands."

"I understand, father," Francis said. "Isn't that what I desire?"

"Is it?"

"I have wanted to be a part of the court for as long as I can remember," Francis told his father passionately. "I have never wanted anything else."

"And what about your writing?"

"What better place to write than the royal court?" Francis countered. "The experiences I will have there, the people I will meet."

"True," Thomas finally agreed. "But you must always be careful, my son. Whatever you do, believe me when I tell you never to trust any one person too much. You must look out for yourself, and very carefully."

Before he could stop himself, Francis blurted out: "You make the court sound as if it were a pit of vipers."

"It might seem that way at times," Thomas admitted. "Better, though, not to trust anyone."

"Even the King?" Francis prodded.

"Especially the King."

Francis stared open-mouthed at his father. "How can you say such a thing? Is not the King our sovereign prince, the one who we owe our loyalty and fealty to?"

Thomas sighed. "Of course. However, the current King's court is not the same as his father's once was. This King is an extraordinary human being, granted, but he is also young. He came to the throne just six months ago, and is still proving his mettle. However, I don't think there is his like in all of Europe. Henry VIII is indeed a rare man."

Francis was puzzled. "How is this King's court different from what his father's once was?"

"Treachery abounds in this court," Thomas said strongly. "It did so in Henry VII's court, yes, but not to the degree it does in his son's."

Deciding it was useless to prod his father any further, Francis murmured: "I take your word, father, and I believe you. What would you have me do? Or not do?"

"Trust no one but yourself," Thomas repeated. "Being a courtier is a privilege, not a right. You must be well-born and of general good stock, which you are. You must not be vain or discourteous in any fashion, especially with those who are your betters. Do not carry tales and spread gossip about anyone - keep all to yourself. But most of all, favor the King and honor him. He will notice you, Francis. It may not seem so, not at first, but he cannot fail to see you."

Francis was still for a moment, absorbing his father's words. "How can you be so sure?" He finally asked.

"You have the means at your disposal," Thomas said, his eyes becoming slightly damp. "You have yourself, and your own wits. I know you may not feel like you can control your spontaneity at the moment, but you will eventually learn to do so. You can manipulate the means to an end, if you use your own judgment wisely and reasonably."

"But what if I can't do it?" Francis questioned Thomas, suddenly filled with great uncertainty.

Thomas stared at his son. "You must, without fail. It will be your only saving grace at the court of King Henry VIII."

* * *

HOURS LATER, AS he lay in his bed listening to the steady downpour of rain, Francis allowed his mind to wander back in time. Although it seemed ages ago, he recalled meeting Henry VIII when they were children. Henry's father, King Henry VII, brought Francis and a few other noble children to Windsor Castle for a few weeks during the summer of 1500 so that his son could have suitable playmates.

Francis had been part of an elite, albeit small, group which also included Charles Brandon (son of Sir William Brandon, Henry VII's standard-bearer at the Battle of Bosworth Field), Nicholas Carew (son of Sir Richard Carew, Captain of Calais), and William Compton (Prince Henry's page).

Prince Henry had only been nine years old at the time, but was already sports-minded. Francis recalled long days of fencing, archery and wrestling, along with rides in the country astride royal horses, and fulsome suppers to end the days. Yet the four young boys didn't just lavish their time with sports activities. They also discussed philosophy, religion, poetry and other writings.

Francis tried to recall Prince Henry's physical appearance, but the memory was vague. He knew the prince was tall with red hair, but could not remember exacting facial features or other physical traits. The brief time he had spent as Prince Henry's playmate was akin to a flash in his mind - a blur of red hair and bustling activity.

Francis then thought about what his father had said to him earlier in the day, and what it would mean for him.

"Father fears for me," Francis thought with a sudden clarity. "He feels as if he is throwing me into the viper pit, but he has no other choice. What else could I do with my life? Stay here at Marsworth, marry a local mouse, and father a passel of brats? Then eventually die myself and pass all of this onto my own son? What kind of life would that be? A shameful waste, that's what it would be."

Francis was certain his future was at court.  He knew it deep in his soul. His only way to a life beyond obscurity in Buckinghamshire was to go to court. With trust in such a conviction, Francis knew his future and his destiny would be centered around Henry Tudor, King of England, who would perhaps be Francis' salvation.

Next > (Chapter Six)