liveried servants, but the one female sat in shadows—until she stood suddenly and waved to Sandhurst.
"I say! That was Anne Boleyn herself!" shouted Rupert. "I nearly forgot! You know her quite well, don't you, brother?"
"We're acquainted."
Micheline felt a sharp twinge of jealousy when he raised his hand in greeting to Anne Boleyn. From a distance the Marquess of Pembroke appeared quite attractive. Jewels sparkled in her dark hair, her figure was fine, and she had a pretty smile that looked decidedly flirtatious to Micheline. When Andrew returned that smile, the twinge in her heart intensified.
"Is it true that Anne and the king were married secretly in January? I heard no confirmation in France," Sandhurst said.
"Oh, yes, it's open knowledge now," Rupert reported. "They say she's with child."
"I don't doubt it," interjected Micheline.
Looking down at her in surprise, Andrew watched as color stained her cheeks. Comprehension dawned, and he wrapped an arm about her. She nestled happily against his chest, hoping that Anne Boleyn still watched them.
Inhaling the fragrance of her hair, Sandhurst said to his relative, "You'd better be on your way, Rupert, if you're going to take advantage of the daylight."
"Yes, of course. I'll go now. That reminds me—didn't I see Lady Dangerfield leaving here as I arrived at midday?" He attempted a conspiratorial wink. "I'll wager that's one person who didn't offer congratulations when told of your impending nuptials—though, of course, she won't be the only lady in London with a broken heart, eh what?"
Sandhurst closed his eyes for a moment and smothered an expletive. "Good-bye, Rupert!"
* * *
Micheline sensed that this was not the time to speak to Andrew about Rupert, and she could see that he wanted to forget that his half brother had disrupted their peace at all. She decided that it would be better to approach him after a few days had passed, when his irritation would be just a memory.
They spent the afternoon riding. Sandhurst took her into the streets of London, which were so narrow and crowded with wagons, tumbrils, barrows, and drays that at times they couldn't move at all. The Strand had been so lovely, lined with the homes of the rich, that Micheline was rather unprepared for the filth and congestion that awaited her deeper into the city, but she viewed it all as an adventure, especially with Andrew next to her.
Cheapside was one of the few wide streets in London, and also the sight of the city's largest market. In a kaleidoscope of color and noise, country folk were wedged together behind trestle tables covered with baskets of their wares. The latter included everything from butter and eggs to sturgeon and shrimp. Micheline was fascinated by the sound of so many English voices as buyers and sellers haggled over the price and quality of the goods.
Sandhurst bought her a pretty box of comfits with a painting of London on its lid, then they turned back and slowly wound their way toward Weston House. Once in the Strand, however, he asked if she would enjoy some real exercise. Micheline grinned instantly and they rode on into the countryside below Charing Cross.
Before long they sighted a magnificent palace built along the riverfront, while new buildings had been erected covering acres and acres on the other side of the public thoroughfare.
"This is Whitehall Palace," Andrew explained. "It used to be Cardinal Wolsey's York Place, but he turned it over to the king five years ago. All of this"—he gestured to the sprawling profusion of galleries, towers, lodgings, and halls on their right—"has been built since then."
"Why would the cardinal give up such a splendid home?"
"Oh, it wasn't the first time. Hampton Court was Wolsey's too. This last gift, however, came at a time when the old cardinal had fallen from favor. The king expected him to efficiently arrange the divorce from Catherine of Aragon, and when that didn't come to pass, it proved Wolsey's downfall."
"Did he go to... the Tower?" Micheline had heard that a gruesome fate befell anyone sent to the Tower of London. English kings could condemn men to its dungeons on a whim. The prisoners were kept in dark rat-infested ceils to suffer horribly from the use of evil instruments of torture. These spine-chilling tales had been confirmed for her by the sight of pirates hanging in chains from the Tower when they'd passed by that morning on the Thames.
"No," Sandhurst replied, "but I'm sure he would have ended there if he hadn't died first."