Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (19 page)

Bridget exhaled as relief washed over her, the comfort of it replacing the cold of the deepening night. “Thank you, Will,” she said, standing on tiptoe and planting a kiss on his cheek. “You are wonderful. And now I must say good night before Her Majesty sends out a search party.” She flipped the hood of her cloak over her head and started back towards the palace.

Will watched her go as an increasing sensation of guilt gnawed away in the pit of his stomach. “God forgive me,” he said.

Bridget hurried back to the palace, her steps light. In fact, her whole body felt lighter now that she knew the nature of the forces that menaced the queen. Yes, charges of witchcraft were a dangerous business, but those stories had been around so long that it was inconceivable that anyone would take them seriously. She knew that the queen feared such accusations, but at the same time, she would know how to fight them and she would be confident that the king, ultimately, would not truly believe them. In any event, Will’s revelations constituted a light in the darkness, and the light was always preferable to the dark.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, Bridget nearly blundered into a party walking the other way. “Excuse me,” the man said coldly as he sidestepped Bridget thus preventing a collision.

“I am sorry, sir,” Bridget apologised, and then she recognised the man and his companions. It was Sir Edward Seymour accompanied by his wife, Anne, and his sister, Jane. Husband and wife regarded Bridget as if she were an insect, while Jane lowered her gaze and stopped dead in her tracks.

Sir Edward had blue eyes the colour of winter, sharp and chilly. He looked Bridget up and down, lingering only very briefly on the swell of her breasts, before he fixed his attention on a spot just behind her head, as though he had examined her and found her to be of no consequence. It was his wife who spoke. “And who might you be?” she demanded, her haughty mouth fairly spitting out the words.

Bridget tamped down her annoyance and replied with studied politeness, “My name is Bridget Manning, my lady. I am maid of honour to the queen.” The mention of Anne made Lady Seymour’s nostrils flare, causing her to very closely resemble a horse.

“Oh, yes, now I recognise you. You are that little drab the queen rescued from the abbey.” Her voice was acid. “Isn’t that correct, Jane?”

Jane Seymour raised her watery eyes and looked at Bridget. Her pallid face revealed nothing. It was a closed book, like everything about her, Bridget mused. Jane Seymour was a mystery kept carefully hidden from the world, perhaps even from herself. “Aye, sister, this is Mistress Manning, who was once at Rivers Abbey. She is also a distant connection of Her Majesty’s, I believe.”

Lady Seymour sucked air between her teeth, and Sir Edward looked at her with sudden interest. Obviously, this piece of intelligence had transformed Bridget into a creature worthy of his notice. “How singular,” he said, “and how fortunate for you to belong to such an . . . illustrious family, albeit only distantly.” His wife laughed shrilly, and even Jane bit her lip in amusement.

“I do not think I would use the word
fortunate
, my dear,” Lady Seymour said, “for surely a pretty, young maid such as this should enjoy a longer day in the sun that the one she shall have. Do you not think so, Jane?”

Jane merely nodded, an almost imperceptible movement that carried with it a hint of embarrassment. She avoided looking at Bridget.

“Yes, I would say that it is most
un
fortunate!” Lady Seymour blithely continued, her lips forming a crocodile smile. She looked as if she was just starting to enjoy herself before her husband cut her amusement short.

“Come, ladies, we do not want to be late,” Sir Edward said, and he shepherded the two women before him down the passageway. He remained for a moment, and Bridget noticed that those wintry eyes of his had thawed a little. “A pleasure to meet you, Mistress Manning. I am sure it will not be the last time.”

Bridget watched him go, shook her head at the strange encounter, and continued on to the queen’s rooms, thoughts of Cromwell, witchcraft, and Will temporarily banished to the back of her mind. When she reached the apartments and walked through the presence chamber into the queen’s privy quarters, she found the place very nearly deserted. There were no men, and only Lady Rochford, Lady Worcester, and Catherine Carey in attendance.

“Ah, Bridget, you return! You found the earring, I trust? I hope so, for you were an extraordinarily long time looking for it! I nearly sent Lady Rochford out to search for you!” The queen laughed and the others dutifully joined in.

“I am sorry, Majesty, it took me a little longer than I anticipated. However, I did manage to find it.” Bridget produced the small pearl earring, which was never lost in the first place, from the folds of her cloak.

The queen congratulated her on her good fortune and cautioned her to be more careful next time. “I cannot have my maids losing things of value, otherwise where will it all end? First earrings, then maidenheads. ’Tis but a short step from one to the other.” The queen light heartedly chucked Bridget under the chin while Catherine Carey blushed beside her.

“But losing one’s maidenhead can be a very wise move, can it not, Majesty?” Lady Rochford asked, her voice all silky innocence. “Perhaps young Bridget here seeks to gain some advantage. After all, she does spend rather a lot of time with young Will Redcliff, whose good looks have become famous at court. What better way is there to secure him as a husband than by having his babe in her belly? No man can resist such an inducement, not even a king.”

For a moment nobody spoke. Even Lady Rochford seemed to realise that she had gone too far when she looked about the room and saw appalled expressions all around her. “Of course, I do not mean to say anything untoward against Mistress Manning or against Your Majesty,” she said, her words tumbling out in a torrent. “I only meant that—”

“I know perfectly well what you meant, Jane,” Anne replied calmly, her black eyes narrowed down to small pinpricks of light. “Your vile insinuations were directed at me, not at Bridget, who does not deserve to be dragged into your relentless campaign of malice. Do you imagine that I do not know exactly what you think and exactly what you say of me? I know and I have always known. Everybody knows about nasty, gossiping, Lady Rochford, whose jealousy and spite eats away at her like a canker. All because her husband does not love her and she blames me for that. Don’t you, Jane?”

Lady Rochford did not answer and appeared to be caught between giving in to tears or an outbreak of temper. Despite what she had said, Bridget felt sorry for her. She had seen the truth of her marriage with her own eyes. Anne regarded her impassively for a long minute, then a look of compassion came over her features. “Jane, I have never wanted George to treat you badly. He should have been a much better husband to you, more solicitous of your welfare, more—”

But Lady Rochford did not want to hear it, as she bolted from the room, her face buried in her hands. The queen stood still for a moment, sadness written on her face.

“I am sorry Lady Rochford said such things about you, Bridget. She was not quite herself, and I am sure she will make amends with you in due course. I know she spoke only to vent her anger against me and did not mean to be unseemly towards you.”

Bridget thanked the queen and curtseyed deeply to her. “Up, up!” Anne ordered all impatience now. “I cannot stand the atmosphere in here. Let us have some singing to lighten our spirits. Catherine, you have a sweet voice. Sing us something and nothing too dreary. I am done with cheerlessness.”

It was not until the early hours of the next morning that Bridget could contrive to speak to the queen about what she had learned. She was on duty in the queen’s bedchamber that night, sleeping on a pallet on the floor not far from the queen’s bed. She had already taken Joanna and Catherine into her confidence about her conversation with Will and the talk of an investigation into witchcraft that he had spoken of. Both were concerned, but as Joanna had said, “It could be worse.”

“How much worse?” Catherine had replied dryly, and a small argument between the pair had ensued.

“Whatever the case, I will tell the queen tonight,” Bridget had assured them. “She must know what is afoot.”

But frustratingly there had been no opportunity to do so until now. Lady Worcester had monopolised Anne with talk of her pregnancy, and Lady Rochford, when she had finally returned, had dominated the rest of the evening with her brooding presence. Now, Bridget lay awake in the small hours listening to the queen tossing and turning. Anne was a notoriously poor sleeper and suffered from nightmares. Bridget had already woken her several times on previous occasions from a bad dream, the recurring one featuring a character that Anne called “The Creeping Man.”

“I never see his face, but I feel as if I know him,” she had said, her face covered in sweat. “He steals up behind me, and every time I dream about him he gets closer. He never says a word to me, but I can feel him. I know that he is there. I can feel his breath on my neck.”

Bridget soothed her and she always fell back to sleep swiftly after that. But tonight, Bridget felt certain that she had never fallen asleep; she had just lain awake, shifting from one side of the bed to the other, blessed oblivion in the arms of Morpheus proving elusive. So Bridget, sensing that her opportunity had come, took her chance.

“Majesty?” she whispered, her voice as quiet as she could make it in the echoing silence of the room. A beat passed before the queen answered.

“What is it, Bridget?” she said, sitting up in bed. “Is something amiss?”

“No, Majesty, nothing is wrong, it’s just that I need to speak with you about a matter of some . . . delicacy.” Bridget heard the queen move closer.

“Come here,” she instructed, and Bridget tiptoed quickly to the side of the bed where Anne beckoned her to sit. “Do not tell me that Lady Rochford was right about you after all?” she asked, with a mixture of humour and trepidation.

Bridget suppressed a smile and hurriedly assured the queen that she had not been correct. “No, madam, it is nothing like that. I must tell you about a conversation I had with Will Redcliff just yesterday regarding his master, Mr Secretary Cromwell.”

Bridget could see that she had Anne’s full attention now. The queen moved a little nearer and bent her head towards her so she could hear her every word. “Will told me that Cromwell’s absence from court is not entirely due to illness or to his argument with the king. It is said that he is planning an investigation into rumours that are swirling about your Majesty. These rumours speak of witchcraft.”

Bridget heard the queen’s sharp intake of breath and saw one of her smooth, white hands fly to her throat. It was the hand with the fabled sixth finger, which was in fact a sixth fingernail. Bridget had never seen it this close before, and she was momentarily distracted by it.

“A Queen of England shall burn,” Anne muttered, twisting her free hand in the bed sheets. With a visible effort, she collected herself and cleared her voice. “Is that all young Master Redcliff said? That Cromwell wants to charge me with witchcraft?”

“He said that all he knew was that an inquiry was planned and that his master was involved. He assures me that that is all he knows of the matter.”

Anne sat up higher in the bed and looked deep in thought. “Thank you for bringing me this information, Bridget. It is something I have long suspected that my enemies would throw at me, for they have nothing else. Well, let them accuse me—they can offer no proof, only superstition and old wives tales. The king knows that I am no witch. Even if they do succeed with their wretched ‘inquiry,’ which I doubt, such a thing is not without precedent in this country. King Henry IV’s widow was accused of witchcraft, because her stepson Henry V wanted her money. She was eventually let go. Then there was Eleanor Cobham, wife of Humphrey of Gloucester, who was sent to the Isle of Wight for sorcery, and even Elizabeth Woodville’s mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, was accused of being a witch by the Earl of Warwick. She was declared innocent. Compared to all of those ladies, especially Eleanor Cobham, I am pure as Our Saviour’s blessed mother.”

The queen smiled bravely, but she could not keep up the pretence for long. Soon, huge, silent tears began to roll down her high cheekbones. “Do not weep, Majesty, all will be well. As you say, your enemies cannot prove anything. The king will support you.” Bridget saw fit to ignore the rules of propriety and she stroked the queen’s hand. It was cold and clammy.

“I do not weep for myself, but for my daughter,” Anne whispered. “If I am removed, sent into some dreadful exile somewhere like Catherine was, then what will become of her? Who will speak for her interests? Especially if the king gets a son on Jane Seymour, my Elizabeth will be cast aside and utterly forgotten. I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Madam, it will not happen. You are queen and the king will not believe these mad accusations. Besides, your father and brother are powerful men. They will protect you and the princess.”

Anne nodded and wiped away her tears. “You are wise for such a little maid,” she said, the old note of humour back in her voice. “In any case, I know Thomas Cromwell. These are probably just scare tactics he is employing, designed to frighten me into submission. He would not seriously make such a move against me, especially on such a flimsy pretext. No, he is grasping at straws now that he sees I still hold the upper hand with Henry. I will not let him make me afraid of my own shadow. Now,” the queen yawned and stretched her arms above her head, “it almost morning. Let us both try and get some sleep.”

Bridget nodded and returned to her pallet bed. She lay down and closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. She was sure that that was the case for her mistress too.

Over the next two or three days, life in the queen’s household returned to something approaching normality. The king even paid a visit to his wife one night, although he did not stay, and the queen was subdued the next morning, her mood leading to meaningful looks between Lady Rochford and Lady Worcester. Other than that, no storm had broken over their heads; no lightning bolt had struck them from above. Even so, the queen had turned very watchful and had become careful with her words. She had the demeanour of one who was upon a stage being observed by a thousand eyes, both seen and unseen. And like any good actor, she did not want to forget her lines.