Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (11 page)

“God . . .” Will breathed, his lips trailing a line of fire down the long column of her neck. He kissed the tops of her breasts and fumbled with the tight lacing of her gown. With trembling fingers, Bridget helped him, and soon her breasts were exposed to the cool night air. Will took one of her nipples into his mouth, and Bridget’s insides tightened with pleasure.

Will lifted her slightly higher against the wall and ran his hands up the inside of her thighs until her found the burning centre of her. Bridget barely restrained her cry of pleasure and bit the inside of her cheek as he began to rub his fingers against it. “Please,” she whispered, her senses almost lost in the tide of passion that was threatening to swamp her young body. Will stepped away from her for just a moment, to open his own clothing, and then he was fully between her legs, ready to take her. “Yes,” she said, kissing him hard and wrapping herself around him, serpent-like. It was then that they heard the crunching sound.

It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over them. They both shrank back against the wall, trying to become one with it, as the unknown footsteps walked past, not ten feet from them. They held their collective breath until they were sure that the figure had passed by and they were still safely ensconced in darkness. Will carefully lowered Bridget to the ground and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I am sorry,” he said, rearranging himself. “I should not have allowed . . . things to go so far.”

He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. With studied gentleness, he framed Bridget’s face in his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead, his lips hot against her skin. “We must not do this, Bridget, as I have nothing to offer you, not yet,” he said. “But one day I hope to, and with a master such as mine, I plan to rise as he shall surely rise. And then we can finish this where it should be finished—in our marriage bed.”

Bridget smiled, her heart still thumping wildly. “I want that too, Will, but I really do not care about rising at court. I have only a small amount of money in any case, and I am used to living simply from my time at the abbey. Besides, the queen would do something for us—she has been such a kind mistress to me so far, and I am certain she would want to see us secure.”

Even in the darkness, Bridget saw Will’s face alter. “Please be careful,” he said. “The queen may have been good to you, and I know you are loyal to her, but she is not as powerful as she once was. You must not rely too heavily on her or her influence. I cannot say much more, but in my position, I do hear certain things . . . things that would probably scare your mistress if she knew. Make sure that you stay away from all plots and schemes as much as you can.”

“Will, what does that mean?” Bridget asked, her voice urgent. “Is the queen in danger? Do you know something? If you do, you must—”

“No, no, no,” Will interrupted, “of course not, I merely hear rumours, as we all do. Now, I must go, my master has a meeting this evening and I must get back.” Will was suddenly eager to leave her. He gave a bewildered Bridget a final kiss and departed. Bridget felt chilly, both inside and out. Her mind was racing with what she had heard and almost done. She had a new understanding of how Joanna had managed to forget herself with Sir Francis Weston. Once Will had kissed her,
really
kissed her, she could think of nothing else but giving herself to him. Her skin was still tingling from his touch.

But what had his warning about keeping away from “plots and schemes” meant, let alone his comments about the queen? He had made her situation sound very chancy, yet the king had sent for her, he had wanted her with him, and Bridget herself had seen the desire in his eyes when he had looked at his queen tonight. She had also seen how fragile the relationship was when they had had some kind of disagreement and the king had moved away from Anne, his discomfort obvious to all. Perhaps there was real trouble afoot and not just a temporary difficulty?

Bridget was walking back to the palace, pondering all these questions, and not taking any notice of where she was going. As a consequence, she rounded a corner and walked headlong into a man. And not just any man, but Thomas Cromwell.

“Oh, excuse me, sir” Bridget exclaimed, “I did not see you there.”

“Evidently,” Cromwell drawled. “I had no idea I was so transparent that young ladies no longer see me.” Bridget laughed nervously and moved aside to let Cromwell pass, hoping he would do so quickly. He did not. He stayed right where he was, his head tilted to one side, studying her.

“We seem to run into each other quite often, Mistress Manning. Not that I am complaining, you understand. At my time of life, any opportunity to encounter a pretty maid of honour is most welcome. Tell me,” he enquired, tapping his chin with his forefinger, “why are you outside instead of in the hall waiting on the queen? I do hope young Redcliff has nothing to do with your dereliction of duty.”

“Oh no,” Bridget answered quickly, shaking her head, “nothing at all, sir. It was just very warm in the hall and I became a trifle . . . overheated. I desired some fresh air. That is all.”

Cromwell nodded sagely, his expression full of understanding. “You are quite right; it is somewhat close in there. I am relieved that Redcliff was not the cause of your departure. I should have to teach him his place if he was. Mind you, that is a hard lesson to learn, is it not? Knowing one’s place? I confess that I have never quite mastered it. Just ask the Duke of Norfolk. He will be thrilled to hold forth on my failings to you or indeed any willing audience.”

Cromwell continued on before Bridget could summon a response. “I am also glad to see that you were not on another errand for the queen, particularly the kind that involves throwing away entirely innocent pieces of jewellery. Especially pretty little rings that have been paid for out of the royal treasury. It seems a shame to consign such an item to the frozen embrace of the Thames.”

The Master Secretary came close to her, and Bridget went quite still. He brushed away a tendril of her hair, exposing her small, delicate ear. “There is barely anything that happens at this court that I do not know about, little sparrow,” he whispered. “I know about the men who come to the queen’s chambers, I know who they are and how long they stay. I know all about the gifts the king sends to the Seymour girl and the queen’s unrestrained reaction to them. I even know that it was Will who saved you from having to throw the ring into the river. I am a man who knows things, Mistress Manning. I find it to be most useful to my existence.”

Cromwell delicately swept her hair back into place and stepped back. He regarded Bridget for a long moment and, despite herself, Bridget could feel a little burst of awareness arc between them. She turned her head to one side to avoid looking at him. “Do not look so nervous,” he said. “You are a bright, young woman and a loyal servant to your mistress. I admire that. You have risen from obscurity and secured a place for yourself at court. I admire that also. Just remember that there are many things in this world, a frivolous, little scrap of gold being the least of them that may be cast out upon the ice. I bid you a good evening, mistress.”

He bowed his head and walked off into the shadows. Bridget put a hand on the nearest stone wall and took a minute to steady her breathing. She could hardly believe all that had happened to her this evening—she had nearly lost her virtue to Will Redcliff, and then she had been alternately threatened and advised by Thomas Cromwell, for whom she had so strangely felt a dark flash of attraction. It seemed to her as if she was moving through a maze of dangerous men with nothing but her instincts to guide her. The abbess had once told her that she had good instincts. She hoped, with all her heart, that she was right.

March 1536

The court had returned to Greenwich. The weather was pleasant and, on the surface, so were relations between the king and queen. This was despite the disagreement on St Matthias’s Day, which had turned out to have been about the future of the Priory of Catesby. Henry had refused to save it, even though Anne had offered two thousand marks towards its continuance. Cromwell had advised him that the priory was a lost cause that could not support itself and the king had accepted that advice. Anne had been dismayed that he had taken Cromwell’s side of the argument and had been very quiet and withdrawn for a few days in response.

Until the king had visited her chamber. The ladies had been all a twitter when the king, with only a few attendants, had arrived at their mistress’s apartments, clad only in his night attire, his intentions clear. Bridget had been positive that Lady Rochford and Lady Worcester had been listening at the door, agog to know how events proceeded within. Both had been restrained in their behaviour the next day, Lady Rochford especially so. The queen had also been subdued. Bridget wondered what, if anything, had happened. Perhaps there had been another argument and the king had departed as quickly as he had arrived? She did not dare ask and the queen volunteered no information.

Anne had spent a few days closeted with her father and brother, the trio always emerging grim-faced from their elongated meetings. Sometimes, the queen even met with her brother alone, and the ladies had heard the sounds of weeping and Rochford’s low voice attempting to soothe his sister. “I cannot rouse him,” Anne had said. “Nothing seems to work, not even the old tricks he used to enjoy. You know there have been some difficulties in the past, but nothing like this. What should I do, George?”

Bridget could hear Rochford respond but could not make out his words. Whatever they were, they caused the queen to laugh, and she came away a bit happier from her conversation with her brother. Lady Rochford watched her husband from beneath lowered eyelashes, her expression inscrutable. For his part, he merely ignored her as though she did not exist.

Meanwhile, Anne had kept Bridget busy with household duties and, as a result, she had had little opportunity to see Will. She was currently engaged on making a nightdress for the Princess Elizabeth, one of many that the little girl had. Anne doted on her and took a close interest in every aspect of her upbringing.

“I have heard something,” Joanna said, who had not been entrusted with sewing a nightdress but merely a shift for the queen. “Cromwell has given up his quarters for Sir Edward Seymour and his wife. The king wishes to use them to meet with Jane. They are connected to his own by a secret gallery.”

“So secret that everybody knows about it,” Catherine Carey commented, just loud enough for Bridget and Joanna to hear.

“How did you find this out, Joanna?” Bridget asked.

A sly look flickered across Joanna’s face. “I overheard Lady Rochford talking to my lady of Worcester. One can learn a lot from listening to them.”

Bridget glanced over to where the two ladies were standing. They appeared to be chatting happily together, perhaps discussing Lady Worcester’s pregnancy, as she placed her hand over her small belly. Lady Rochford looked up and caught Bridget’s eye. She smiled a strange half-smile and looked away. “Damn!” Bridget cursed. Her sewing needle had slipped and caught the side of her nail bed. A fat bead of crimson blood bubbled up through the cut.

The queen was pacing up and down in her chamber, her footfalls echoing in the large room. “Bridget!” she exclaimed snappishly. “I need you here!” Bridget stood up, holding a handkerchief to her bloody finger, and crossed the floor into Anne’s presence.

Lord Rochford was with her, as well as Sir Francis Weston and Sir Henry Norris. She also noticed Smeaton, the musician, skulking on the edges of the group, as if searching for a way in. “Ah, Mistress Manning,” the Queen greeted her warmly. “I need you to help me with my hair. Lady Rochford arranged it this morning and she is not as skilful as you.”

“That is no surprise, sister,” Lord Rochford said, and Smeaton immediately laughed at the snide remark.

Anne shot him a disapproving look. “Lady Rochford does her best,” she said, silencing further comments. “I simply prefer the way Bridget does it. It always looks so much more elegant. If I did not know better, I would think she had spent time at the French court and not a nunnery!”

This time laughter was permitted. The queen’s hair was indeed a bit of a mess and Bridget set about fixing it. Sir Francis took the opportunity to slip away into the next chamber where the sound of female merriment could soon be heard. “That boy is entirely too charming,” the queen observed. “He should spend more time with his wife. Should he not, Sir Henry?”

Norris had been watching, mesmerised, as Bridget combed out Anne’s glossy, dark-brown tresses, and set about piling them back on top of her head. He seemed startled that Anne had spoken to him and could only reply, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” the queen mimicked with unerring accuracy. “You are a man of few words around me, sir. All you do is stare and stammer and act as if the cat has got your tongue. Am I so frightening I wonder? Bridget, what do you think?”

Bridget looked at Norris, whose face had flushed all the way up to his sandy eyebrows. She felt sorry for him; he seemed a nice man who clearly could not hide the fact that he had romantic feelings for the queen. Anne was well aware of this and liked to tease him, a pattern of behaviour that Bridget was not convinced was a good idea for someone in her position. But it was not her place to instruct the Queen of England in courtly manners. “No, Majesty,” she replied quietly. “You are not at all frightening.”

“You see, Sir Henry,” Anne said triumphantly, “my young maid here is not afraid of me, so an accomplished gentleman like yourself need have no fear either. But perhaps I am mistaken? Perhaps it is not fear that stays your tongue but something warmer? Sometimes I think you come to my rooms more for me than for Madge.”

Sir Henry looked at a loss, and Lord Rochford came to his rescue. “Sister, do not tease Norris so. You have made him resemble a startled rabbit.” Anne laughed and waved her hand at her brother. “Do not worry, George; Sir Henry knows that I am merely joking with him and no more. I mean nothing by it.”