Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (18 page)

“Anne, stop it!” Rochford interrupted her, halting his sister’s words by stepping between her and Norris, whose red face by this juncture had faded to the colour of a January day. Bridget noticed that he was shaking, his solid frame riven by tremors of shock.

Rochford was speaking earnestly in the queen’s ear and soon she tossed her head to one side and laughed gaily. “Oh, George, I was teasing! Sir Henry knows I was only teasing him! You know that, do you not?”

Norris had, with effort, got his emotions under control and now wore the biddable smile of a courtier upon his face. “Of course, Majesty, I know that you speak only in jest.” He punctuated his words with a small, slightly ironic bow. The queen regarded him for a few moments, then put on her best smile, which lit up her whole face but did not quite reach her coal-black eyes.

“You see? It is all merely a game. And now, let us play one for real. I wish to play at cards. I am sure you gentlemen are interested.”

Weston and Brereton immediately expressed their agreement and joined the queen at a heavy table that ran along the side of the chamber. Sir Henry Norris did not follow quite so eagerly, and even Lord Rochford dragged his feet, his face unusually serious. Across the room, Madge Shelton, Lady Worcester, and Lady Rochford had formed into a little knot, their small bodies presenting a bulwark between them and the queen’s party. To Bridget, they did not look like jovial gamesters, content to go along with the queen’s innocent, teasing ways. They looked like huntresses, methodically saddling their horses before setting off in pursuit of their prey. And judging from their expressions, their prey was situated just across the chamber from them, almost within their grasp.

Later that day, Bridget, Joanna, and Catherine were strolling in the park, walking the dogs as had become a common pastime for them. The queen often accompanied them, but she was still too engrossed in her game to venture outside. The dogs though, especially Urian, would not wait for their mistress and had demanded to be let out. They had gotten their wish and now they frolicked happily, tearing backwards and forwards, in the slowly waning sunshine.

“Bridget, are you afraid?” Catherine Carey asked tautly, her right hand raised to shield her face from the last of the warm rays.

“Afraid of what?” Bridget replied.

Catherine took a moment to answer, then she spoke in a rush. “The king hardly visits the queen anymore; he spends all his time with Jane Seymour and her family, whom he includes in all things. The court is absolutely alive with every kind of rumour—that the king considers himself free to marry again now that Catherine is dead, that the queen will never have a son, that her last baby died because of witchcraft.”

“Shh!” Bridget reacted, placing a finger to Catherine’s lips. “Do not talk such nonsense; the queen is no witch, as you well know. God chose to take her last baby, and we are all subject to His Will. It is dangerous to repeat such rumours.”

Catherine sighed loudly and rubbed her hands up and down her arms vigorously as the sun drifted behind a cloud. “I know such talk is dangerous. Mistress Marshall has already remonstrated with us and others, but it does not stop anybody’s tongue! Of course the queen is no witch, but that is
why
I am afraid! People are saying these things and seem to have no fear of the consequences, as once they would have. It is as if the ground has shifted and the Seymours are the ones to be courted now, the ones to be deferred to, not the Boleyns. It feels like our star has faded and suddenly we all stand in the perilous dark. And then there is what Lady Rochford says . . .”

“’Tis true” Joanna said, before Bridget could interrupt her. “All these things are being talked of openly, and Lady Rochford tells us such awful tales not just about the queen but about her own husband! She says that the queen was corrupted in France and that she had a hundred men before the king and that is why she cannot have a son. I even heard her say that the queen and Lord Rochford have lain together, and that she knew this because her husband had told her one night when he had drunk too much wine.”

Catherine’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and even Joanna seemed shocked at her own words. Bridget stood rooted to the spot, as though she had transformed herself into one of the trees in the park. She shook off the sensation and spoke, as sternly as she could, to both her companions. “I do not care what Lady Rochford, or anyone else says; you do not heed such tales and you certainly do not repeat such . . . vile accusations against Her Majesty to
anyone
. Lord Rochford is the queen’s brother, for God’s sake! Loose talk about such a high ranking person could land you, especially you, Joanna, in serious trouble...”

Bridget had a sudden vision of Joanna being led through a crowd of baying spectators, a scaffold looming in the distance. She closed her eyes against the image. “Joanna, do you understand?” Bridget asked softly, taking her friend’s hand in hers. “Mistress Carey is right, there is some cause for anxiety at the present time, but repeating rumours will not help matters. We must support the queen and try to protect her from those who wish her ill. That is our sworn duty. As for the rest, I have faith that it will work out well for the queen. After all, the king did champion her cause to Chapuys, refusing to entertain his master’s demands until he acknowledges the validity of the king and queen’s marriage. Surely he would not do that if he was thinking of divorce.”

“He might,” Catherine Carey argued. “The king will never admit to any fault, never admit any wrongdoing. He cannot. He is king and therefore it is not for others to condemn him or to criticise his actions. He must insist on the validity of his marriage, for to do otherwise would be tantamount to him saying that he was wrong to put away Catherine. That course is unacceptable to him. That does not mean that he does not entertain thoughts of a new marriage. After all, he has already repudiated one wife, and she was a Spanish princess and greatly loved by the people.”

“And Anne is not a princess and not loved,” Bridget finished softly, recognising inwardly the underlying truth of Catherine’s argument. The three maids shared a look of realisation between them, a look that said that their mistress did stand in genuine peril, that the quarrel between the king and Cromwell did not necessarily mark a victory for Anne. It might simply signify only that Henry was not prepared to have his decisions questioned by anybody, not even by the all-powerful Emperor Charles V. Henry Tudor would be dictated to by no one. Then Bridget had a further realisation.

“That is why Thomas Cromwell is away from court,” she murmured, half to herself and half to the others.

“What do you mean?” Joanna asked.

“We are not the only ones who harbour fears,” she replied. “Cromwell does too. I heard him say as much after his argument with the king. ‘The wrath of the prince is death’ were his words. He feels he is in danger, not only of keeping his position, but of keeping his life. Therefore, he needs some time away from court, some breathing space, in order to carefully plot his next move. And that may not augur well for Her Majesty.”

“Perhaps you could find out his plans, Bridget,” Catherine suggested. “After all, you are close to Redcliff, and he likes you as well. I have seen him look at you with warmth in his eyes. If you can find nothing out from him directly, ask Redcliff what his master’s plans are. That way the queen could be forewarned and she could act accordingly.”

“Yes, Bridget, you could do that!” Joanna happily concurred, her face breaking into a smile. “Will obviously loves you; he is bound to tell you all he knows! Then the queen will be able to easily avoid any trap that Mr Cromwell may be setting for her. All would be well and we could stop worrying.” Both Joanna and Catherine nodded in unison and looked at Bridget expectantly.

Bridget herself was not so convinced. She knew Will’s feelings for her were strong, but she was also well aware of his loyalty to Cromwell. Would he really tell her everything? And how much would a wily man like Thomas Cromwell realistically confide in his servant anyway? If he were truly planning to separate the queen from the king and presumably send her into exile, then he would have to play his cards very close to his chest. Still, one never knew, and given the precarious nature of things at court, it was worth an attempt at least.

“Next time I see Will, I will ask him to tell me what he knows?” Bridget said, earning her a hug from her companions. “But do not get your hopes up. He may be in the dark, and besides, I do not know precisely when I may see him again.”

“Oh that part is simple,” Joanna said airily. “You may easily contrive a meeting with him. He is often to be found by the gates at dusk, ’tis said that he meets people there.”

Catherine and Bridget looked at her with enquiring expressions, but Joanna merely responded with a shrug of mock coyness. “What?” she said. “That is what I heard,” and with a wink she picked up a stick and hurled it towards the dogs who all went racing after it.

Bridget gathered her dark cloak tightly about her narrow shoulders and looked out into the rapidly darkening night. Dusk had come and gone and still Will Redcliff had not appeared. She could not stay out here much longer before the queen would become concerned and wonder where she was. She had already spun a story to her mistress about losing an earring with sentimental value that she simply had to find. The queen had seemed to believe her, but it did not take this long to search for an earring. She knew that people would soon be sent out to look for her.

Just as she made the decision to go back, Will came around the corner, obviously making for the gates. Bridget took a deep breath and stepped out of the gloom. She so surprised him that he jumped backwards and put his hand to his waist, where he carried a knife. “It is only me,” Bridget whispered, throwing back the hood of her cloak to reveal her face.

“God’s wounds, Bridget, I could have thrust my dagger into you! What on earth are you doing out here by yourself? I do not have time for an interlude right now, as fetching as you look in the darkness.”

Bridget put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I have no time for an interlude either, but I had to see you. Not just because I miss you, but because I have to ask you something very important. It is about your master.”

The flirtatious smile faded from Will’s visage and was replaced by a quizzical look. “My master is ill at present,” he said carefully. “If Her Majesty wants to convey her good wishes to him, I shall gladly carry them.”

Bridget shook her head and moved closer to Will. “No, I bear no message from the queen. I come to you of my own accord. As I am sure you know, there are many rumours circulating concerning your master and his absence from court. Some say that his illness is merely diplomatic and that he is planning something at his house in Stepney. I do not trust court gossip, but I do trust you. Tell me, Will, what is the truth?”

Will’s whole body went stiff, like a plank of wood, and his eyes flickered with uncertainty before seemingly retreating into his skull, shuttering his thoughts. He paused for a moment before he answered, “My master has been slightly indisposed . . . that part is true. It is also true that the king was most displeased with him, and my master thought it wise to remove himself from His Majesty’s sight for a while. As for planning something . . . I am only a servant, Bridget. A great man like Thomas Cromwell does not tell me much of his plans. But, I do know one thing.”

Will stopped to take a breath, then he cast his gaze to the ground. “Go on,” Bridget urged, placing her hand encouragingly on his arm.

Will touched his own hand to hers before continuing. “I, too, have heard the rumours, but perhaps I know a little more. I know that there is some talk that the queen has engaged in sorcery, witchcraft, I mean, and that is why she lost her last baby, which was apparently deformed. The king and my master are well aware of this talk. The king is supposed to have said that he only made his marriage through Anne casting some form of enchantment over him. There may be an investigation into all of this, which would include her household. That means you, of course. The time may be coming when you will have to exercise great caution.”

A cold wave rippled through Bridget, momentarily halting the flow of blood in her veins. So, they were going to accuse the queen of being a witch. Bridget thought back to an earlier conversation she had had with Anne, on the night she miscarried her son, when she had spoken of the prophecy that a Queen of England would be burnt and that everyone thought that she was a sorceress. It was all nonsense, of course. The queen was actually a woman of deep religious faith who wanted to reform the church, not some practitioner of the black arts so intent on capturing a king that she had cast a spell on him. But maybe, if Cromwell was desperate enough and the king eager enough to take a new wife, this was the card they would play. In any event, the queen needed to know.

“The queen is no witch!” Bridget exclaimed. “I cannot believe that a man as intelligent as your master would credit such stories. I am sure that the king never would.”

“Doubtless you are right,” Will replied quickly, as he adjusted Bridget’s cloak around her shoulders. “It does sound ridiculous, but who is to say what stories people above us in rank will or will not credit? They are our betters, after all.” Will raised an ironic eyebrow at his last remark.

Bridget hardly noticed, her mind was racing so fast. “Is this all you know, Will? There is no more?”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. Then he cupped Bridget’s face in his big hands and slowly but sweetly kissed her. The contact seemed to last a long time, and Bridget momentarily forgot their conversation and allowed her mind to be filled only by the feeling of his lips on hers. Eventually, he broke the kiss but did not take his hands away.

“Bridget, I swear to you on my immortal soul that I know no more. You can trust me; I would never allow you to fall into danger.”

“Or the queen?” Bridget asked, looking Will straight in the eye.

“Of course,” he confirmed, his green gaze unwavering.