Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (13 page)

“I pray you return to the king and tell him that I am a gentlewoman, of honourable family, who possesses no greater treasure in this world than her honour and I would not injure that for a thousand deaths. If the king wishes to send me money, I beg him to do so when God should send me a husband to marry.” Jane looked up at the messenger, who appeared amazed at her display. She favoured him with a chaste smile and lowered her head submissively.

“I shall c-certainly give His M-Majesty your message Mistress S-Seymour,” the young man stammered before scurrying away.

Silence reigned among the women. Jane Seymour got up off her knees, tidied her gown, and looked boldly at the ladies, as if challenging them to comment. None took up the challenge and the silence was only broken by the insistent voice of Princess Elizabeth. “Where is my mama? I want to see my mama!”

Lady Bryan sighed in relief and took her small charge by the hand. “Come, my lady, we shall go inside and see your mama.” The girl chortled happily and took off at a fast clip, almost dragging her governess behind her. The ladies followed them at a more sedate pace.

Lady Rochford made sure she fell into step with Bridget. “Quite the exhibition, was it not?” she whispered. “We have witnessed a pretty piece of acting indeed. The innocent maiden rejects a purse full of sovereigns from her anointed king, and shall only accept them when God sends her a husband to marry! The Seymour wench is no fool; she has certainly been well trained.”

Bridget furrowed her brow. “Will not the king be offended that she spurned his present?”

Lady Rochford met her look. “Oh no, little Bridget, offended is the last thing he shall be. On the contrary, he will be enchanted at her show of virtue; Henry admires such a trait in a woman. Also, as history has taught us, playing hard to get only increases His Majesty’s ardour. Anne did not give into him for years, and his passion and determination to have her grew and grew till he was driven half mad by it. The Seymours seek to play the same game. So far, they are proving past masters at it.”

With that, Lady Rochford lengthened her stride and caught up with the other ladies. Bridget stared thoughtfully after her. Joanna walked up beside her friend and tentatively took her arm. “Bridget?” she asked softly. “Is the queen in trouble?”

Bridget watched Jane Seymour saunter coolly into the palace, her figure proudly erect, her head held indomitably high. Her whole demeanour shouted out confidence to the world. “Yes, Joanna,” Bridget replied, her voice uneven. “I fear she might be.”

Queen Anne paced up and down in her chamber while all about her was activity. Her gown, a lustrous deep blue, and her jewellery, ropes of pearls and her B pendant necklace, was being laid out in preparation for her attendance at the Passion Sunday sermon. Usually, Anne took a great interest in her apparel. But today she paid it all scant attention. She was entirely preoccupied with other matters.

Lady Worcester was looking at her with concern. She approached the queen and spoke quietly to her, but not so quietly that her words were completely inaudible. “What is it, madam?” the countess asked. “You appear so agitated, so nervous. Are you unwell?”

Anne stopped pacing and stood still. “I have many things on my mind, Lady Worcester. So many things I can barely make sense of them all. The sermon today is most important; Skip and I devised it together. I am almost positive that the king will like it, yet there is something gnawing at me, some nameless doubt that assails me. I never used to question my ability to influence my husband, to move him in the right direction, but these days I do not feel that same sense of assurance. Especially given how closely he listens to Cromwell and, more importantly, that he has taken to sending gifts to Jane Seymour every other day, including purses full of money! And then last night . . .” Anne lowered her voice until it could barely be heard. “The king visited me,” she whispered, and Lady Worcester’s face registered surprise and cautious optimism.

“That is wonderful, madam,” she said. “You shall soon be in a happy condition, as I am.”

Anne looked ruefully at the slight curve of the countess’s belly. “If only I could be,” Anne replied, her tone filled with frustration, “but the king is having his problems again, as he does from time to time.” Lady Worcester nodded, as if this was no news to her. “Usually, I can rouse him, but lately it has been difficult. I tried every trick, believe me. But . . . he shrank from me. He did not want me. He seemed to have repugnance for me, for my touch.”

Lady Worcester put her hand on Anne’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. A look of deep sadness passed across the queen’s face. Visibly shaking it off, she turned to her ladies and clapped her hands together authoritatively. “Come, we must make ready. Where is my gown? Where are my dressers? Hurry, ladies, there is no time for lateness.”

The queen, now garbed magnificently, and her household processed in a stately fashion to the King’s Chapel. Anne took her place beside the king, who greeted her with a kiss on the hand, and the ladies seated themselves according to their rank. Bridget looked about her with interest and noted that the cream of the court was in attendance today.

The leading members of the Boleyn faction were all present—Wiltshire, Rochford, Sir Henry Norris, Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, and even Anne’s old suitor, Sir Thomas Wyatt. Bridget had not laid eyes on him before, but she had certainly heard plenty about him. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man that was almost equal to his reputation as a poet. It was said that he had been deeply in love with the queen before the king had pulled rank and Wyatt had had to abandon his pursuit of her. He had spent some years away from Court and had taken a mistress, his marriage being famously unhappy, and had forged a career as a diplomat. Bridget observed that Wyatt’s dreamy eyes lingered for a few moments on the queen, who did not deign to glance his way. Bridget wondered whether he had ever truly ceased to desire her.

Bridget was not the only one of the queen’s ladies who had noticed the presence of Wyatt. Joanna was looking at him appreciatively, as was Lady Worcester, who was known to enjoy a courtly flirtation or two. The countess’s husband was not present, but her brother, Sir William Fitzwilliam, the king’s treasurer, was. He regarded his sister with evident disapproval and tried in vain to catch her eye. She resolutely ignored him and continued to let her gaze admire Wyatt.

Fitzwilliam was one of the members of the congregation who was no real supporter of the queen. He had worked for the late Cardinal Wolsey, who had been so fond of him that he had called him his “treasure.” Anne’s enmity towards Wolsey was infamous and many people, no doubt Fitzwilliam included, blamed her for his downfall. In fact, the majority of the lofty assemblage nursed a grudge against the queen for something or other. The old nobility, the likes of the Marquess of Exeter and Sir Nicholas Carew, the “white rose families,” some of whom had a greater claim to the throne than any Tudor possessed, blamed Anne for everything: the repudiation of Catherine, the shabby treatment of the Lady Mary, the promotion of inferior people to positions of power, and the state of the country at large. Many still felt a quiet loyalty towards Catherine and Mary and what might be termed the “old religion.” The executions of Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More the previous year were also laid squarely at Anne’s door. They saw her as a heretic and a whore with blood on her hands and a bastard child she sought to promote ahead of the true heiress, the Lady Mary.

While the queen remained preeminent in Henry’s affections, these people and their festering resentments were given no outlet. But now that the queen had miscarried a son and the king paid open court to Jane Seymour, Anne’s enemies had grown in confidence. They keenly supported the Seymours, apparently coaching Jane on the best way to handle Henry. They held meetings and talked behind their hands. Anne knew that they were emboldened; she heard the rumours as well as anyone.

Bridget had been so preoccupied by her thoughts that she had not heard Skip begin his sermon. She looked about her and realised that the congregation seemed mesmerised by him, which was unusual in Bridget’s experience of sermons. She glanced across at Thomas Cromwell, who was sitting perfectly upright, like a man carved of marble. The only indication that he was actually flesh and blood was the faint tremor that ran through his body and the dull, red tide that had swept up his neck. He had the appearance of a man who was barely restraining himself from committing an act of violence.

Bridget gave him a long look and then finally began to concentrate her mind on the sermon. John Skip’s eyes were alight with fervour, and his voice rang defiantly around every corner of the silent chapel. “I say to you that it is necessary to defend the clergy from their defamers and from the immoderate zeal of men in holding up to public reprobation,” Skip slapped the flat of his hand on the pulpit, “the faults of a single clergyman as if it were the fault of all.”

Almoner Skip took a ragged breath and fixed his gimlet gaze upon Cromwell. “It is also necessary for a king to resist evil counsellors who may tempt him to ignoble actions. Evil counsellors who suggest the alteration of established religion, perhaps because they covet the possessions of the church they so despise, and who would have their possessions from them.”

A low muttering broke out, and several people shifted in their seats. Cromwell looked at the king and queen, clearly seeking their assistance. Henry was staring straight ahead and Anne wore an expression of polite interest, as though the sermon was nothing out of the ordinary. Cromwell returned his eyes to Skip and Bridget saw him surreptitiously crack his knuckles.

But Skip was not finished with him yet. “I remind you all of the example of King Ahaesuerus, who was a good and noble king, but who fell under the malign influence of a counsellor called Haman. This man Haman, who coveted only riches and power for himself, persuaded Ahaesuerus that if he destroyed the Jews it would bring ten thousand talents into the royal treasury. Fortunately for the king, he had a wife called Esther, who was a good woman whom the king loved dearly. He put his trust in her, and not in Haman, for he knew that she was ever his friend.”

The murmuring in the chapel had grown into a loud, excited chatter. The biblical story of Ahaesuerus, Esther, and Haman was a familiar one, with several tapestries featuring the tale displayed throughout the palace. Everyone knew how the story ended—the evil counsellor Haman was hanged on a scaffold seventy-five feet high. It did not take much imagination to work out who Ahaesuerus, Esther, and Haman were supposed to represent—King Henry, Queen Anne, and Thomas Cromwell. Judging from the looks of consternation and surprise on the faces of the congregation, the point of the story was lost on no one.

John Skip had moved on from the subject of Ahaesuerus and had begun speaking about Solomon, a figure whom the king had often been favourably compared to. “Solomon lost his true nobility towards the end of his life,” intoned Skip, “by sensual and carnal appetites in the taking of many wives and concubines.” Henry looked thunderstruck at this reference and Jane Seymour blushed. Her family and supporters grumbled openly. Queen Anne smiled serenely until the king got abruptly to his feet and stared directly at Skip. For the first time in his sermon, the man faltered.

“That is enough,” Henry said, through gritted teeth, and without another word to anyone, he stalked out of the chapel. Anne’s expression of serenity fled and a look of panic quickly replaced it.

A storm of shouting and recrimination broke out in the wake of the king’s departure, all of it aimed at the unrepentant John Skip. Bridget observed Thomas Cromwell get up and quietly leave the chapel. She turned and craned her neck to see where he was going. He had stopped just outside the door and was talking rapidly to Will. He was nodding decisively in response.

Bridget detached herself from the hubbub and moved closer to the two men. John Skip chose that moment to quit the pulpit and attempt to leave the chapel, shouldering his way with surprising strength through the throng. He needed all his strength, for he had some difficulty but, despite this, he managed to get himself to the door. He had managed to extricate himself from the crowded chapel, but he would not escape Thomas Cromwell so easily.

Cromwell took Skip’s arm in an iron grip and put his face close to the disconcerted almoner’s. “How dare you speak thus in the presence of your king?” he hissed. “Your sermon was slanderous and seditious, and I suggest you hold your tongue before you find yourself without it. You say that I am like Haman? Well, then, I wonder how Haman would deal with you, Mr Skip? No doubt he would throw you in a ditch like the dog you are and that would be just for starters. Fortunately for you, I am in fact
not
like Haman, something I have never had cause to regret until now. ”

John Skip was sweating profusely and struggling, without success, to free himself from Cromwell’s grasp. The Master Secretary looked him up and down with complete contempt for a long moment before finally releasing his grip on him. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind and give you the beating you deserve. Go!” he barked, and Skip wasted no time in scurrying away.

“Will! We are leaving,” Cromwell ordered, and the young man jumped to attention. Bridget ducked back into the chapel but not before she had been seen by them both. Cromwell’s eyes, alive with anger, halted a moment before passing over her. Will looked as if he would like to stay and speak with her but dared not. He gave her an apologetic half-smile before he speedily followed his master’s departure.

“Bridget! Come on, this is no time for daydreaming! The uproar has died down and the queen is leaving,” Catherine Carey said, who had appeared at Bridget’s elbow. Bridget shook herself back to the present situation and returned to her place in the queen’s entourage.

Within a short time of the queen’s arrival back in her rooms, the sound of raised voices could be heard. The king had been waiting for Anne when she returned, and he was in a towering rage. Everyone had scattered outside, fearful of attracting his wrath towards themselves. The words of the argument rang out unmistakably in the corridor.