Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (23 page)

In spite of his cruel words, he was ar
oused and Bridget could feel his unaccustomed hardness against her as he attempted to get between her thighs. Despite his weight and the fact that she could barely move, she knew that this was her last opportunity to save herself. She managed to twist her body just enough to enable her to lift her knee and drive it, with all the might she could muster, into her husband’s manhood.

It had the desired effect. He swore profusely, grabbed at his injured groin and fell to the side, allowing time for Bridget to scramble to her feet and flee to the main chamber, her hair and gown disarranged, her cheek still stinging from where her husband had struck her. She ran for the door, wrenched it open and instantly jumped back when she saw a messenger and Joanna standing on the other side.

“My lady, I was just about to knock
. We heard a commotion. Is something awry?” He surveyed her dishevelled state. “Have you been attacked? Where is your husband?”

His words stilled as Sir Richard came hobbling out of the bedchamber, his own clothing unkempt, his eyes darting out of his head with pain, frustration and anger. “What are you doing here, varlet? How dare you barge into my chambers?” he barked at the young man and then his gaze fell on the object in the servant’s hand, a letter sealed with heavy red wax and stamped with the royal seal. Sir Richard pursed his lips together and took a deep, shuddering breath. “That is for my wife?” he demanded, his eyes on the missive.

“Yes
, my lord,” the messenger answered, his bewildered gaze shifting between Bridget and her husband. “I bear a message from His Majesty the King to Lady de Brett. I also have this.” He took a velvet pouch out of his tunic and proffered both it and the letter to Bridget. She took them with shaky fingers and Sir Richard cursed at her under his breath. He picked up his cap, pulled it down violently onto his silver hair and pushed his way past the wide-eyed Joanna who was still standing immobile in the doorway.

“My lady, are you hurt?” Joanna asked urgently the moment her uncle was gone. “Do you require me to fetch assistance? Do not tell me that he did that to your face!”

Bridget rubbed her throbbing
cheek and picked up a small hand-held mirror in order to assess the damage. The burnished surface showed a bright red mark spreading out across her cheekbone, the edges of the spreading stain already darkening and threatening to transform itself into a bruise.

“My lady, I can summon help for you if it is needed,” the messenger offered uncertainly, but Bridget waved him away.

“
Thank you but it is not necessary, my man. I fell, that is all. I do not require anyone’s help for that.” The messenger did not question her further, though his eyes revealed he knew there had been no fall but it was not his place to argue with her. He bowed elegantly and withdrew.

“Sit down
, Bridget, you may not need the messenger’s help but you do need mine. You must hold a wet cloth over your face in order to keep any bruising down.” Joanna busied herself preparing the cloth while Bridget did meekly as she was bid. She sat with the side of her face held in her hands and the king’s gifts burning a hole in her palm.

She mulled over the events of the day so far and a little bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to leap out and overpower her. She was now a viscount’s wife, married to a man who despised her, who had struck her and tried to violate her. The King of England, Henry Tudor, courted her with jewellery and letters and promoted her inadequate husband in order to soften the blow when he took her from him. God, how did she ever come to this? And how could she ever hope to extricate herself?

Joanna came and placed the cold, damp cloth on Bridget’s cheek. The prickling sensation that her husband’s hand had imparted immediately began to dissipate and Bridget gave herself up to the relief of the healing coolness. Joanna seated herself in a facing chair, and for a few moments neither of them spoke. “Are you going to tell me what happened now?” Joanna eventually asked, her voice unusually heavy.

Bridget debated inwardly whether she should tell Joanna the full story. Sir Richard was, after all, her uncle and the head of the family. If they never had a son, and her stomach sickened at the prospect of ever having to bed with him again, then Joanna was his heir. The title would not come to her, but Thorns and New Place in Lincolnshire, as well as the new acquisitions, would one day be hers. Or, more likely, her husband’s, if Sir Richard managed to arrange a good marriage for her. As close as they were, she knew that Joanna’s first loyalty was, and must be, to her uncle. Just as Bridget’s first loyalty still lay with him, much as that knowledge was difficult to bear, it was the cold, hard truth. She was still his wife. Was it wise, or right, to tell Joanna of what kind of man Sir Richard really was?

Joanna solved the problem for her. “I know he struck you,” she murmured. “Even I can discern a handprint upon a woman’s cheek when I see one. I do realise that my uncle is not the most . . . benevolent of men. He never has been, but I never knew that he was violent. Has this happened before?”

“No
,” Bridget responded, relieved that Joanna was concerned only with the mark on her face and not the tear in her dress. “He has never raised his hand to me before. The king has restored his grandfather’s title to him; he is Viscount De Brett now. In addition he has been gifted two new properties. You will laugh, but all of that made him angry.”

“But why would that cause him to become wrathful? It has always been his fondest dream to see the family title returned to us. He should have been transported with joy. Oh I see . . .” Joanna’s eyes fell upon the unopened letter and pouch. “The title is not truly a gift; it is more a form of compensation. His Majesty gives with one hand and takes with the other.”

Brid
get smiled and nodded ruefully. “You have the right of it. My husband becomes a viscount and a much wealthier landowner and I become the king’s mistress. A fair exchange, do you not think?”

Bridget’s emotions, which she had been holding so fiercely in check, rose to the surface and could be restrained no longer. She broke down, and Joanna held her until the storm of tears had passed. “Come, come, dry your eyes” she soothed. “Perhaps it is not as bad as you fear. Perhaps you have run ahead of yourself. Open His Majesty’s gifts and see what he has in store for you.”

Bridget lifted the seal of the letter first, unfolding the thick parchment slowly and carefully. She spread it out fully on her lap, so that” it formed a perfect square, and started to read.

“
Lady de Brett,

As you must by now be
aware, I have long been a devotee of your beauty, your grace and your noble bearing. Since I had the pleasure of holding you in my arms on the night of the masque, it has become my determination to offer myself to you. This I do now, my lady, most ardently and impatiently. I, of course, will do nothing without the consent of yourself and your good lord and husband, whose service to me I greatly prize and esteem. I hope my bestowal on him of the title of ‘Viscount De Brett’, a title once held by his forebears, shows how sincerely I value him. My lady, if all is set fair, I trust to meet you this evening in the tower in the park. It is commonly known as ‘Duke Humphrey’s Tower’ but I call it “Mireflore,” which means “in the sight of flowers.” You, my darling, are the only flower that I desire to see this night. I shall send one of the gentlemen of my chamber to fetch you hither at the appointed time.

Your
most affectionate sovereign and admirer,

Henry R
.”

Bridget folded up the letter and pushed it to one side, hardly able to look at it any longer. So there it was, set out in plain English, without equivocation. There was no further room for denial, no space for lies and qualifications, even unto herself. The king meant to have her; he had effectively paid off her husband, given him a title, his heart’s desire, in exchange for his wife. This letter represented her instructions, her side of the bargain. She was to present herself at the tower in Greenwich Park tonight. She had previous experience of towers—could already feel the walls of the other one, much more familiar to her, closing in if she baulked.

She took up the velvet pouch and weighed it cautiously in her hands. What would it be this time, the garnet ring again? No. The king would not offer the same gift a second time and besides, this object was heavier. Whatever it was, the messenger had not waited around to see her reaction to it; refusal was clearly neither expected nor indeed permitted any longer.

Knowing there was no point in delay, Bridget opened the pouch and upended the contents onto her palm. At first glance, her brain did not quite comprehend what her eyes were telling her, it was so extraordinary. She stared at the object in both dread and disbelief, as though at any moment it might rise up and attack her. Joanna, noticing her reaction, leant across and peered curiously at the piece of jewellery.

“Good God
,” she breathed, deep disbelief etched on her own countenance. “It is the queen’s necklace. Anne’s I mean, not Jane’s. The king has given you Anne’s necklace.”

As if in a stupor, Bridget held it up and let it hang in the air, the golden “B” pendant rotating slowly from left to right before her horrified gaze. Such was her shock that Bridget did not immediately notice that the necklace itself was not precisely the same as the one the late queen Anne had so often sported. The “B” appeared the same in shape and size, but the original had had three pearl drops attached to its base, and this one had none. This pendant was affixed to a gold chain, a pretty, delicate one, whereas Anne had always worn hers fastened to a string of pearls.

Joanna, though, had picked up on the differences, and she speedily brought them to Bridget’s attention. “This must be a different necklace and pendant to the one the queen wore. Mayhap His Majesty meant nothing more than for the ‘B’ to signify ‘Bridget.’ After all, many ladies wear necklaces with their initials on them, ‘tis a popular fashion. It is true that this particular style was a favourite of the late queen’s, but why would the king want any reminder of her? Her name is never mentioned; the king apparently abhors even the sound of it. I do not think, therefore, that this ‘B’ has anything to do with her and is meant simply to honour your own name. To show you his affection for it.”

Bridget’s head was spinning so much it took her a moment to answer. She would have liked to accept Joanna’s explanation, but it did not quite ring true.

“I do not know why the king has sent me this
,” she finally said. “I wish I could believe it has nothing to do with Anne, but surely he, of all people, would see the implications, the obvious connection? He must realise how people would react if I wore this about court. I cannot possibly presume to guess what is in his mind, but what I
do
know is this: I cannot wear this necklace and I cannot possibly succumb to him. Both are utterly unthinkable.” She folded the letter in two and placed the necklace back in its pouch.

“Bridget, how can you halt this now? How can you avoid, as you put it, ‘succumbing’
to the king? Greater ladies than yourself have had no real choice in the matter. They have not escaped. How will it be any different for you?”

Bridget laced her fingers together to hide the tremors that were running through them, and took a deep, fortifying breath. “What will make me different, Joanna? Why, that is easy. One simple word will mark me out. That word is ‘no.’ None of the king’s other women have ever uttered that single, solitary syllable. They all came from powerful families with equally powerful interests to advance. They all wanted something, even if that something was not necessarily the king himself. I, by contrast, am the girl from nowhere and I want nothing. I do not tilt at a title, or an advantageous marriage or, God forbid, a crown. There is no glittering prize he can tempt me with and therefore I can, with perfect confidence, reject his advances.”

She stood and, drawing herself up to her full height, walked into the centre of the room. “
That is what I shall do; that at last is my plan. I shall tell him ‘no.’”

Chapter Fifteen

Day turned inexorably into night and Bridget waited on tenterhooks for the fateful knock on her chamber door. The king had indicated in his letter
that he would arrange for her that very night to meet him at Duke Humphrey’s Tower, or “Mireflore,” as he would have it, which was located in the park. She glanced impatiently out the window at the moon, which was casting a bright trail of silvery light across the wide expanse of the courtyard. Though she was filled with apprehension, she almost yearned to see a page come striding across those moonlit cobbles, a flaming torch held high in his hand. She wanted to get on with things; she had to. Waiting to be taken to a tower to say no to Henry VIII was a peculiarly refined kind of torture.

She had not seen Sir Richard since their altercation earlier in the day and she neither knew nor cared where he was. The presence chamber? The watching chamber? Losing yet again at cards? Between some doxy’s legs? Any or all of those scenarios suited Bridget perfectly well. She felt not even a hint of discomfort, curiosity, or jealousy, even at the last possibility. Where her husband was concerned she felt nothing, she had always felt nothing, even at the beginning when she had wished so much that it had been otherwise. She touched the side of her face where he had struck her. Fortunately, once the redness had faded away, no bruise had formed. She would not have to lie about falling down some stairs or walking into a door. A small mercy at least.

Booted feet echoed in the passageway and a knock, somehow sounding ponderous and at the same time oddly reluctant in its cadence, rapped out upon the oak. Bridget turned away from the window and let the air leave her body in one long, slow sigh. The moment had arrived; she must meet it head-on and without any nerves. She strode across the chamber and opened the door.

Her newly formed resolve fled at the sight of the man who faced her on the other side of the threshold. Will Redcliff stood there like a marble carving, himself and yet not himself. He held an unlit torch in one hand and the other he kept rigidly behind his back in a failed imitation of courtliness.
God, what must he think of me,
Bridget contemplated, and she felt a gush of shame flood over her.

“My lady, I am commanded by our sovereign lord, King Henry VIII, to escort you at once to the tower in the park called ‘Mireflore’. Are you quite ready to accompany me, madam?”

His tone was measured and detached, and his usually expressive eyes offered her no hint of his true feelings. They were cold and flat; not so much as a flicker of any emotion resided anywhere in their green depths. Bridget found that, in spite of this, she could not meet them, and so she dropped her gaze, picked up her cloak and draped it hastily about her shoulders.

“I am ready
, Master Redcliff,” she responded formally. “Lead the way.”

Will nodded sharply, spun on his heel and walked briskly down the corridor and through the palace until they reached the correct exit, stopping only to light the torch. Bridget fell in behind him and nearly had to run to keep pace with his long, purposeful strides. Once they were outside and away from the precincts of the palace proper, they were both swallowed up in darkness, the bobbing orange light of his torch becoming Bridget’s only guide. It was summertime, but the air in the park was cool, and the dew that lay heavily on the grass soaked into the soles of her shoes.

It took a few minutes to cross the flat expanse of the park before the landscape altered and they began the climb up the small hill that lead to the tower. Though she had seen it several times, she had never been inside it, let alone guided to its doors in the dark of night at the behest of the king. The building itself was rather squat, about three stories in height and topped by a flag bearing the royal coat of arms, the red dragon on one side, the greyhound on the other, surmounted by the crown. Underneath ran the words:
Dieu Et Mon Droit:
God And My Right. Bridget swallowed.

“We are here
, my lady,” Will announced, somewhat redundantly. He reached for the door, but Bridget stayed his hand.

“Will, I hope you know that this is not my doing. I want none of it. You know me, I do not desire position or favour. Becoming a great lady of the court is not something I would ever pursue. I abhor ambition—”

“Oh yes, I well recall your opinions on the subject of ambition,” Will interrupted. “It was, after all, part of the reason you said you could not wed me, for I serve Lord Cromwell, an undoubtedly ambitious man, and I wished to advance myself at court. You had set yourself implacably in opposition to all of that. And yet, despite your stated objections, you have quite outdone me, madam. Here you stand, a viscountess no less, about to climb into bed with the king. ’Tis a most perplexing situation for a woman to find herself in who so thoroughly abhors ambition.”

“And that is a predictable viewpoint for a man to hold,” Bridget bit back. “Do you think that as a woman, especially one such as myself with no family to speak of, that I had a wealth of choices available to me? Do you? I married Sir Richard because I needed a roof over my head and because the abbess wanted me to. How could I refuse her? I never wanted to come back to court—my husband did—and I certainly never wanted to become a viscountess!” She gestured toward the tower. “I do not desire to be here. I would run away in a heartbeat if I thought I could, but I cannot. I am the king’s subject, just as you are, and we come when he calls for us. He has called for me, Will. I cannot refuse.”

Will regarded her for an extended period of time until finally she saw a flash of acknowledgement cross his face that showed he accepted the fundamental truth of her words. He sighed and braced one shoulder against the stone entranceway. “This is not a woman’s world, my lady, that much is true,” he said “but nor is it a man’s world. It is the
king’s
world, and we are his to order about as he sees fit. I apologise if I spoke too harshly, but when I think of the fact,” his voice roughened, “that I shall never have you, that you are Richard de Brett’s wife and soon to be His Majesty’s possession, the sting of it overcomes me and makes me forget myself. It could have been so different for us. It should have been.”

The memory hung between them, and Bridget did not resist when he drew her to him and kissed her. The pressure of his lips started out as gentle but soon turned insistent, desperate even, as if he was trying to regain something he had already lost. Bridget responded to him in kind, like a rose that had been without the sunlight for too long. She opened to him, she gloried in the feel of his mouth on hers, the heat of his skin chasing away the coldness that had almost become a part of her.

She put her arms around him and pressed herself as close as she could, momentarily forgetting his recently healed ribs until his muffled grunt reminded her. “Oh, I am sorry, I forgot,” she apologised breathlessly. “Did I hurt you?”

Wil
l shook his head and took a determined step away from her. “No, my lady, you did not hurt me, but you did wake me from this dream. This is wrong and, more than that, it is dangerous. You are not mine.” He silenced her with a finger to her lips. “Bridget, it is truth. You know it is. I do not blame you for anything that has happened in the past, just as I do not blame you for what may yet happen here tonight.” He jerked his head toward the tower door. “None of us can ignore the summons of our sovereign. But we must, the two of us, face up to reality. I have no claim on you anymore. You belong, in the first place, to Lord de Brett, and now you belong to the king. That means you are beyond my reach, unattainable. Untouchable.”

You belong to the king.
Every nerve and fibre of Bridget’s being rebelled against that notion, against the notion that she was anyone’s chattel, a mere pawn to be moved about the court on a whim. She hated it but she accepted it, just as she accepted her role as Sir Richard’s wife, but she would be damned if she had to accept that her role was to meekly climb into the king’s bed and submit to him. She planned to have something to say about that.

Will led her into
the tower, the interior of which turned out to be smaller than she had anticipated, and up the central, winding stone staircase. They soon reached a room at the top, a cosy, surprisingly richly furnished chamber where candles burned and a fire had already been lit. Clearly, the king did not skimp on preparations when taking a new mistress.

Will ushered her in in
side, and then retreated hastily to the door. “I must go down and greet His Majesty. He will want to be informed that all is in readiness,” he said without meeting her gaze. “This is good-bye. I wish you . . .” His voice cracked, and he could not complete the sentiment. Bridget reached out to him and touched his sleeve, his arm, his hand, any part of him that could possibly still bind them together. But she was too late. Her fingers managed to graze, just slightly, the edge of his doublet before he walked deliberately away, placing himself beyond her reach. Then he was gone. She stood alone.

Despite her cloak
and the relative warmth of the room, Bridget felt a renewed coldness creeping over her, both internally and externally. She walked over to a chair that was positioned invitingly close to the fire and seated herself. Her hands were trembling and she rubbed them together vigorously in an effort to still the nervous energy that was coursing through them. After a few moments, the shaking subsided, and she was able to place them, with comparative ease, in her lap. She turned her palms upwards and examined them by the firelight. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the line of fate on her left hand that had so disturbed the gypsy fortune-teller. She traced it, slowly and deliberately, allowing the tip of her finger to examine every inch of the long, thin groove. Did this line, this small, almost imperceptible crevasse etched on her skin, really portend her destiny? The gypsy had thought so: she had seen blood, her beauty as a curse that would draw the powerful to her, and lastly had warned her not to entangle herself with the mysterious brewer’s son, whose fate was already set. Hers was not, she had been assured, but was that true? Was it ever possible to change one’s fate, especially when the King of England was involved?

A
ll these thoughts were darting backwards and forwards in her mind when she perceived the first footfall upon the stairs. She sat up straight and listened. The steps proceeded at a steady pace before they stopped altogether and Bridget heard voices just outside the door, at least two of them, but so lowly pitched that she could make out nothing of the conversation, nor recognise the speakers. But she knew it was him: she knew it was the king. It had to be. Sure enough, when the door swung confidently open, the hinges creaking slightly, there he was. Henry VIII of England, his broad frame outlined unmistakably in the archway, the diamond on his velvet cap sparkling and twinkling at her in the candlelight.

Bridget rose from her chair and wa
lked toward him. She let her knees give way—she could hardly stop them, really—and sank into the deepest curtsey she had ever performed. Her dark gown spread out all around her, like a mark of disgrace, and she lowered her forehead so far that it touched the Turkish carpet that covered most of the floor. The king, shutting the door behind him with a thud, came forward and took both her hands emphatically in his. He raised her up effortlessly, as though she weighed less than a cloud, and set her firmly on her feet. She dropped her gaze, as she thought she ought to do, but the king had not come hither for dropped gazes and maidenly gestures. He grasped her chin and angled it upwards, forcing Bridget to look straight at him. The naked desire that danced in the depths of his small, blue eyes caused her flesh to creep, a reaction she could not wholly conceal.

The king
, however, misread her response; instead of seeing a woman repelled by his touch, he saw a woman struggling with nerves at being in the presence of her king. He smiled and brought her hands up his mouth. He kissed them both and then guided them to his chest. Beneath the silk, Bridget could feel his heart beating, fast and strong, like a drum.

“You see
, my lady,” he murmured, “I am nervous, too. I may be the king, but I am also a man, and it is perfectly natural that a man and a woman should be nervous when they give themselves to each other for the first time. It is especially so when a man has desired a woman for a long time, as I have desired you. I can even remember the first occasion my eye fell upon you, when the queen and I, of blessed memory, first entered into our city of London. You were in the crowd that day and I could feel your gaze upon me, even amongst the press of the people, as though you were drawing me in. Calling to me. Even then your beauty struck me, as an arrow straight from Cupid’s bow strikes the heart.”

Bridget well recalled the occasion
he spoke of, which had occurred less than a month after Queen Anne, of not so blessed memory, had been despatched by the Calais swordsman. The king had staged a wondrous river pageant to honour his new queen, Jane Seymour. The city had been en fete, everyone so thrilled to catch a glimpse of the king and his new wife decked out in all their finery. The abbess had made Bridget attend; she had certainly not wanted to go on her own account. The king’s gaze had indeed been attracted to her, perhaps because he had caught, just for a second, a shadow of the spouse he had so recently killed reflected back at him in Bridget’s dark Boleyn eyes. Whatever the truth of that, it was assuredly not the first time he had noticed her; he had naturally seen her several times when she had served Anne. Mayhap he preferred to forget all that. Erase it utterly from his mind. It would not be the first time a king, especially a Tudor king, had seen fit to rewrite history.

As if her thoughts of Anne had managed to c
ommunicate themselves psychically to him, Henry looked down from her face to her neck. Her bare neck. Bridget had chosen not to wear the king’s gift of the “B” pendant: she could hardly look at it, let alone wear it. But she did have it with her, safe in its velvet pouch, concealed in the folds of her cloak. She produced it now and held it out to the king in an upturned hand that she could barely keep steady. Henry stared at it, as though he did not comprehend what it was, and then the light of understanding dawned, dimming but not extinguishing the previous fires of passion.