A JOUSTING TOURNAMENT was planned to take place on the Greenwich tiltyard on January 24th, which Francis declined to attend or participate in. Instead, he took the opportunity to retreat to The Strand. He had only been in residence for three days when he received word of the King's accident on the jousting field.

Henry had been thrown from his horse in full armor, after which the horse had fallen on top of him. Unconscious for two hours after hitting his head hard against the ground, the fall had also aggravated an existing ulcer on his leg.

Francis hurried to Greenwich Palace, only to arrive in time to hear that Queen Anne had miscarried a son on January 29th, the same day Catherine of Aragon had been buried in Peterborough Abbey. He went directly to her apartments, where he saw Henry standing in the doorway to her chamber.

"You will get no more sons by me!" He bellowed as he leaned heavily on a wooden cane. Francis heard Anne sobbing within the chamber, but there was nothing he could do to help her without angering the King.

Henry turned and saw Francis standing behind him. "What took you so long to get here?" He demanded waspishly. "Help me back to my chamber."

Members of the court tried not to stare as the King and Francis slowly made their way along the hallway. Henry was red-faced and made livid by the eyes following him, so he waved his hand in dismissal.

"Go about your business," he ordered angrily. "Leave me in peace, for the love of God."

Once they were behind the closed doors of his privy chamber, the King settled into a chair with a grunt, elevating his leg on a footstool.

"What happened, Sire?" Francis asked quickly.

"I fell from my horse during the tournament," Henry snapped in return. "And then the damned horse fell on top of me. I was unconscious for some time. When I awoke in the tent, my leg was bleeding and oozing, and my head felt as if a hundred men were running around on my brain with spears."

"What does your physician say?"

"Butts told me I will heal in time," he replied grudgingly. "Apparently, Norfolk ran to Anne to tell her of my mishap, where after she collapsed." He closed his eyes. "She lost my boy, Francis. The child she miscarried was my son, may God damn her soul to hell. This is it for me, my lord. I am well quit of her."

Francis kept his voice calm. "What will become of her, Majesty?"

"I know not, not at this time," Henry grumbled. "I want to be rid of her by whatever means necessary." He stared at Francis. "Anne is your kin. Does this present a problem for you?"

Francis shook his head. "My first loyalty is to you, Sire. Never worry on that account."

The King appeared visibly relieved. "I trust your word, my lord."

* * *

IT WAS A sunny day in late February when Francis was summoned to the Queen's private apartment, where he found her sitting in a chair in her bedroom. He was alarmed by her harried appearance, her dark eyes sunken into her face as if she had not slept in days.

He bowed before her. "Your Majesty."

Her eyes were pleading. "Why does this happen now, when I have finally come to realize how much I love Henry? I cared for him the beginning, probably flattered by his attention, but was it love then? No, not even close. Yet now I find myself to be deeply in love with him as a man and my husband, not as a King."

Francis became uneasy. "That is a matter between you and your husband, my lady."

Anne wrung her hands together nervously. "I need some truths from you, cousin."

Francis was dismayed. He'd had a feeling she would confront him sooner or later to determine the King's frame of mind.

"Truths, Ma'am?" He asked carefully.

Her face darkened. "Don't play false with me, my lord. It does not suit you."

"What do you need from me?"

"The King's mind," she snapped in frustration. "What is his disposition toward me? I have not seen him since the day I lost our son, and he has refused my requests for an audience. Not one word, Francis." She leaned forward slightly. "What does he say about me?"

Francis moistened his lips. "He has said nothing, Anne."

"You're lying," she accused him indignantly. "I can see it in your eyes."

He shrugged. "I have nothing to tell you."

She rose from her chair, clutching her hands at her sides. "How could you abandon me in this? We are blood kin, Francis. Would you see me fall without lending a hand to stop it?"

"You understand the King as well as I do," he replied evenly. "There is nothing I can say or do to stop him in pursuing what he desires."

"Which is?" She prodded.

Francis remained silent, but met her angry eyes.

Her expression turned scornful. "I see it now. You will do all in your power to save your own skin, but think nothing of throwing me to the wolves. You and Norfolk are of the same mind, I think."

"You're being unfair," he protested. "You understand, more than most, how the court works. I will not purposely put my head forward to be severed, not even for you."

"Useless knave," she cried, angry tears filling her eyes. "I disown you, cousin. You had better pray my husband does not return to me, for if he does, your days will be numbered."

Before Francis could reply, she continued in a cold voice. "You are dismissed, Bryan. Never darken my door again."

Without bowing, he turned and left the room.

Next > (Chapter Forty)