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mistress and never got any children on her, either.”
    George understood enough of animal husbandry to realize that Nan was probably right. There was no reason to think that another man could not sire sons on Lady Anne, even if Sir Walter had not. As for Grandmother’s tittle-tattle, that did not seem to amount to much. He gave no credence to the idea that Buckingham wanted the throne for himself. The duke had never seemed to take much of an interest in government when Henry the Seventh was king.
    “I am going to marry Lady Anne Stafford.” Just saying the words filled him with a sense of joyous anticipation. He held up a hand to stop further argument. “Accept that the decision has been made. It only remains for the three of you, for my sake, if not for hers, to show my wife both love and respect when you welcome her into our family.”

7
Greenwich Palace, December 2, 1509
    L ady Anne went to her wedding attired in her finest clothing. Her gown was made of cloth of silver with train so long that she needed an attendant to carry it. Even though she had been married before and was no virgin, she wore her hair hanging loose down her back. A gold circlet crowned her head.
    The king had insisted that they marry in the chapel at Greenwich Palace. Edward had been pleased by this sign of favor. He took it as proof of His Grace’s goodwill toward the Staffords, much needed so long as Hal remained a prisoner in the Tower.
    With the moment at hand when she would pledge to honor and obey George Hastings for the rest of his life, Anne strode purposefully toward the place where he waited beside one of the king’s own chaplains, Thomas Wolsey, a heavyset priest in his late thirties who wore a somber expression on his face but had a twinkle in his eyes. Anne had no qualms about making her vows. She and George suited each other well and he looked magnificent in a white damask gown trimmed with gold and lined with sarcenet. Beneath the formal outer garment he wore a jacket with sleeves of crimson satin bordered with black velvet. His hose were scarlet and his costly cambric shirt was embroidered with gold thread. For jewels he’d chosen rubies.
    Anne had spent enough time with George since coming to court toknow that beneath the finery was a pleasant young man, considerate and eager to please and possessed of no vices that she could detect. He was, perhaps, a trifle dull, but there were worse qualities in a husband. And it would be no hardship to couple with him. She’d seen him in less concealing clothing, playing tennis with the king and in the tiltyard, training with His Grace at the quintain and the rings. George Hastings had strong, well-shaped legs, muscular arms, and a masculine grace that gave promise he would be as skillful in bed as he was in the lists.
    The priest began the ceremony with an address in Latin on the dignity of Holy Matrimony. It went on twice as long as Anne would have liked, especially when she could not understand a word of it, but finally it was time for George to take her by the hand and repeat the matrimonial formula
per verba de praesenti
. She did know what that bit of Latin meant. When she took her own vows, she and George would be sealing the covenant of betrothal as well as the covenant of marriage.
    “I, Anne,” she said in a clear, steady voice, “hereby do accept thee, George, to be my husband and spouse, and consent to receive thee as my husband during my natural life. I will have, hold, and repute thee as my husband and spouse, and hereby I plight thee my troth.”
    George placed a thick gold band on the fourth finger of her right hand, counting from the thumb—the one said to have a vein that led directly to the heart. The ring was inscribed with a motto on the flat inner side:
God Above Increase Our Love
. George kissed her lightly on the lips as the circle slid home.
    Moments later, the marriage schedule had been signed and the priest began to sing the Nuptial Mass. More Latin. Anne let