Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (2 page)

Keeping her eyes lowered, Bridget reached the regal figure and sank into a deep curtsey, just as she had been taught. “Rise, rise,” the queen said, with just a hint of amusement in her voice. “I said I wanted to look at you.” Bridget rose as elegantly as she could and met, with only a tremor of trepidation, the infamous black-eyed gaze of Queen Anne Boleyn.

And her eyes
were
truly black, not deep brown or smoky grey, but dark as pitch. These were the eyes that had beguiled their king and put their kingdom into an uproar. Now they were fixed on her, Bridget Manning, as if they would know all her secrets and all her dreams. She felt both scared and mesmerised by them at the same time, especially as they so eerily resembled her own.

Aside from those eyes, the queen was not what anyone would call a conventionally beautiful woman. She was small, almost fragile, her bones prominent, and her chest flat. Her face was slightly swarthy and held no remarkable attractions, being altogether too angular and sharp, but her hair was another matter. It was splendid, truly a crowning chestnut-coloured glory, magnificently arrayed under a French hood. Bridget had heard that the queen was inordinately proud of it. She thought she had good reason to be.

Of course, like practically everyone else in England, Bridget had also heard other things about Queen Anne Boleyn. Rumour said she had deformities, including a goitre on her neck, a profusion of moles on her body, and a sixth finger on one of her hands. Bridget had to prevent her eyes from straying to see if it was true. People also said that the queen was goggle-eyed, but Bridget could see for herself that it was not the case. And then there was the rumour that people only ever whispered amongst themselves when they were sure that nobody else was listening. That was the belief that Anne Boleyn was a witch, that she had enchanted their king with dark inducements and other mysterious ways that people dare not speak of in order to lure him away from his true wife, the Spanish Queen Catherine of Aragon. Bridget did not generally believe such stories, thinking them fit only for scaring the young and the credulous. But now, standing so close to the queen, and feeling the power that seemed to flow from her, she was not so sure anymore.

The queen smiled a surprisingly pretty smile that lit up all the sharp angles on her face. Bridget smiled back and presumed that she had passed inspection. Suddenly, the queen reached out and took Bridget’s hand in hers. It was cool, but her grip was firm.

“Welcome to my service, Bridget,” she said. “You shall join my maids, my young ladies, whom I rely upon so much. As long as you are loyal and serve God, you shall be very happy here. To that end, I present you with this book of Psalms, which you should read often. Also,” she continued, motioning to her left, “I keep a copy of Tyndale’s Bible so that every member of my household may read God’s word in English. I am sure that you will do so, and that you will also be a much-needed ornament to our court, and that you shall uphold the honour of our family.”

At that last remark, the full attention of the room shifted to Bridget.
Our family
? Bridget could see them all thinking the same thing. As if the queen had uttered a magic incantation, they all looked at her in a new light. She was not merely a relatively lowly girl who the queen had saved from a suppressed religious house as an act of charity; no, she was something else entirely. She was a kinswoman of the queen, a member of the most powerful family in England. A Boleyn.

The truth of it all was rather more prosaic. Bridget had an ancestor, many generations back, who had married into the Boleyn family. They were a Norfolk family, and Bridget had spent her very early childhood not far from the Boleyn property of Blickling, but she had never had any direct association with her august relatives. Until now.

When the abbess had written to the queen for help, both before and after the abbey’s suppression, she had brought the familial connection that Bridget had with the Boleyns to Queen Anne’s attention. Eager to help, and genuinely sorrowful at the fate of the abbey, the queen had quickly offered to take Bridget in as one of her maids. She had now become not only a member of the court but also the queen’s extended family. It was all so fantastic that Bridget had a desire to burst out laughing.

Uncomfortably aware of the increased scrutiny that the queen’s announcement had caused, Bridget kept her head down and schooled her features into an expression of modesty and submission. At Rivers, she had learned the trick of keeping still, the ability to disappear into the fabric of a room. She suspected that this ability would serve her well at court.

“Now, Bridget,” the queen said briskly, “I hear tell from your abbess that you are an excellent seamstress? And you also, Mistress De Brett?”

Anne directed the last question to a red-haired girl who was trying desperately not to giggle. As well as securing a place for Bridget, Abbess Joan had also found a spot for her much closer relative, and near namesake, Joanna De Brett. Joanna was a nice, if flighty, girl who found most situations in life daunting. Despite this, she had been bursting with excitement to come to court, as convent life never suited her. But now, with the reality before her, Joanna’s nerves were showing and, as usual, her nerves made her giggle. Bridget shot her a warning look.

“Yes, Your Majesty, both Joanna and I enjoy sewing and are somewhat skilled at it,” Bridget answered for the both of them.

“Good” the queen declared. “There are plenty of the king’s shirts for you to work on. I normally do them myself, but I find I am so tired lately that I can no longer complete the task. Due to my fortunate condition, I must get plenty of rest.” Anne proudly touched her belly and, for the first time, Bridget noticed the delicate curve of it protruding from her voluminous skirts.

The queen was once again pregnant, and the whole country prayed for a prince. Bridget could remember praying during Anne’s previous pregnancies, but no boy had been forthcoming. All Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn had to show for their years of struggle to be man and wife was one girl, the Princess Elizabeth. The general consensus seemed to be that a female could not, and should not, rule England. The kingdom required a male heir, but despite many people not liking or supporting the Boleyn marriage, they prayed that a prince would be born. The stability and security of the realm depended on it.

The queen certainly looked healthy enough, Bridget mused, as she and Joanna took up the king’s shirts and retired to the back of the chamber to work on them with another of the queen’s maids, her niece Catherine Carey, whom they had met earlier. Anne’s colour was bright, she moved easily, and the goodly size of her belly indicated that her pregnancy was advancing rapidly. Childbirth though was fraught with danger, as all women knew. Bridget’s own mother had died of childbed fever after delivering a stillborn daughter. Her father followed her to the grave only a few months later, broken by grief. A cold shudder passed down Bridget’s spine at the remembrance. She silently asked God to send the queen a happy hour.

From her position at the back of the large room, Bridget observed the rest of the company, which included several of the queen’s ladies. There was a blonde woman, of middling looks, with a narrow face and even narrower blue eyes that were as sharp as daggers. They had bored into Bridget when she had first entered the chamber, as if she were a fresh, interesting specimen to be closely monitored. Being a newcomer to the court, Bridget had no idea who she was. Timidly, she inquired Catherine Carey as to the lady’s identity.

Catherine looked up from her work with a smile on her face. She was only a young girl, perhaps thirteen years old, but nonetheless quite self-possessed. She had coppery hair and creamy skin, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There were well-known whispers that she was really the daughter of the king, the result of an affair with her mother, Mary Boleyn, conducted before his relationship with Anne. Her Tudor colouring only confirmed the rumours in some minds. Most people though deemed it prudent to ignore such gossip.

Catherine followed Bridget’s gaze, the expression on her face faltering a little. “That is Lady Rochford, my uncle’s wife,” she said in a cautious, measured voice. She offered no further information. Bridget regarded the lady with a greater awareness, now realising her familial connection to the queen. Everyone knew that Anne and her brother, George, Viscount Rochford, were close. Some of the older nuns had murmured about it at the abbey, always with a touch of disapproval. Bridget had not fully understood this because closeness to a sibling seemed perfectly natural to her. Then again, as she had never had a sibling, she had nothing to judge it against.

That notorious intimacy did not seem to extend to George’s wife, however. Bridget observed that the queen seemed more interested in her other ladies and hardly ever looked at Lady Rochford when she spoke. Bridget also noticed that the queen’s sister-in-law had a habit of clenching and unclenching her hands, as though in a constant state of anxiety.

Catherine watched her with a placid countenance. “Would you like to know who the other ladies are?” she asked lightly. Bridget nodded, feeling a little embarrassed at her lack of knowledge. “Well,” Catherine began, “the lady standing next to Her Majesty is our cousin Margaret Shelton, whom we all call Madge.” Bridget looked at Madge and felt immediately that she would like her. She was an attractive brunette, with a buxom figure and an open, guileless face. She looked like a high-spirited lady with few worries who enjoyed life. “You’ll like Madge,” Catherine said, echoing her own thoughts.

“The next lady, just to the right of Madge,” Catherine continued, “is Jane Seymour. She has been at court for many years and was in service to the late queen. I mean to say,” Catherine stammered, correcting herself, “the late Princess Dowager, who was never truly our Queen.” Catherine blushed at her mistake, but it was an easy one to make. Everyone had thought that Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s dearly beloved consort, was their queen for many years, and some people had never stopped thinking that. Her recent death had done nothing to diminish that view.

Bridget shifted her attention to Jane Seymour. Her first thought was that she had never seen anyone with such white skin before. Her complexion was so fair that it almost resembled chalk. No one would say that she had much beauty, but her nearly transparent colouring did lend her an air of vulnerability. She looked like a fragile flower that could be blown over in the first spring breeze. Bridget wondered if that was really the case.

“And the last lady,” Catherine concluded, “is the Countess of Worcester. She is a good friend to Her Majesty.” Indeed, at that moment, both women were laughing at some private joke, their eyes alive with merriment. Lady Worcester was tall and slim, with an erect posture and a proud tilt to her head.

All of a sudden, the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the chamber door. In no time at all, it was flung open, and a trio of men entered. All were fairly young and aristocratic looking. The youngest of the group was the most handsome, a dark-eyed gentleman whose insolent gaze swept the room. It stopped briefly on Joanna, causing her to titter uncertainly. Bridget pinched her arm.

“Good afternoon, ladies. You all look most fetching today,” the man at the forefront said, a roguish smile lighting up his face. He turned toward the queen and approached her. “Greetings, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, his voice tender. “How does our prince today?” He kissed the queen on her mouth whilst placing his hand on her belly. Bridget started a little at this display of familiarity, but Anne seemed delighted with it. She laughed and placed her own hand over the man’s.

“He is thriving, George,” she replied. “He is a Boleyn, after all.” The man and his companions chuckled, causing the rest of the room to join in. Everyone, that is, except Lady Rochford. She was clenching her hands so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

“That is the queen’s brother, Lord Rochford,” Catherine whispered, although Bridget had worked out his identity for herself. “The others with him are Sir Henry Norris and Sir Francis Weston. They are members of the King’s Privy Chamber and high in his favour.”

They looked like they knew it as well, Bridget thought, especially the most youthful of the band, Sir Francis Weston. He had been staring boldly at Joanna since he had entered the room, the invitation in his eyes unmissable, even to one brought up amongst nuns. In response, Joanna was reddening furiously, causing her already florid complexion to turn scarlet. Sir Francis smiled at her reaction, making him look very boyish. He really was young, Bridget realised, probably not older than five and twenty. Perhaps he was not quite as worldly as she had at first presumed him to be. In any case, he would have far more experience than Joanna. Bridget resolved to keep an eye on him.

Sir Francis stopped watching Joanna and leaned towards the queen. He spoke very quietly and, as he talked, Anne’s head swivelled in the direction of Bridget and the other maids, as if suddenly remembering that they were there. She beckoned them over. Carefully laying down their sewing, Bridget and Joanna quickly stood and approached their mistress. Catherine remained seated, realising that the invitation had not included her.

The two maids curtsied to the queen and her circle. Anne regarded them benignly and indicated that they should come closer. “Sir Francis here,” she said, motioning towards the handsome courtier, “would like to know who you both are. Why don’t you tell him?”

There was a cryptic smile on the queen’s face and Bridget realised that they were being tested. The abbess had told her that Queen Anne liked to keep lively, interesting people about her, not milksops. People who had some spark in them. Anne herself was known for her quick wit and personal charisma. Perhaps she now wanted to see what her new maids were made of.

Bridget squared her shoulders and ran her tongue over her dry lips. She inclined her head slightly to the queen, then shifted her gaze to Sir Francis. “My name is Bridget Manning and this is Joanna De Brett,” she announced, her voice surprisingly firm. She could almost feel Joanna sag in relief that Bridget had answered for her. We are newly arrived in the queen’s service, having been previously at Rivers Abbey.”