Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (3 page)

Bridget fastened the chain around her neck, with the smooth side of the ring facing outwards, and tucked the long end of it into her bodice. She patted it down flat until she was reasonably sure it would not be noticed by any prying eyes. Once she was ready, she glanced fleetingly at herself in her burnished mirror and was tolerably pleased with what she saw. She was a tall, slender young woman, with pale skin and dark eyes that dominated her face and provided an arresting contrast to her blonde hair. All told her that she was beautiful but, as a child of the convent, she had been brought up to reject vanity as a sin and therefore did not see herself that way. She asked only that she was presentable and she decided, with a last, critical look, that she was. Her husband, with no word of admiration or condemnation on her attire or looks, proffered his arm, she took it, and they walked in stately silence to the room where they would present themselves to the king—the Watching Chamber.

They entered, Sir Richard letting his wife go first, and Bridget immediately felt as if she had been transported back in time. Everything looked, sounded and smelled exactly as she remembered it. It was as though the previous year’s events had never happened. Groups of courtiers milled about, bedecked in silks, velvets and brocades, oblivious to anyone and anything except the archway through which the king would soon appear. They bestirred themselves briefly when the two de Bretts walked in, but as soon as they comprehended that they were not people of importance, they immediately dismissed them and resumed watching the archway. Bridget recognised a few faces amongst the throng but not a great many. Clearly, with the elimination of the Boleyns and their supporters, a new faction had taken charge at court. It was seemingly comprised of mostly young men, and while some of them noticed Bridget and threw an appreciative look or two her way, they did not consider her interesting enough, or indeed consequential enough, to approach. They dismissed Sir Richard, an elderly man in a garish, ill-fitting doublet, with barely a blink.

They were left standing there, a little duo of indecision, until a man walked up behind them and cleared his throat. They turned in unison, and Bridget was glad she still had her hand upon her husband’s arm to keep herself steady. Without it, she might have disgraced herself by crumpling into a heap on the floor at her first meeting, in well over a year, with Thomas Cromwell.

“Greetings, greetings! Welcome back to court, Mistress Manning. Oh, I beg your pardon, you are Lady de Brett now,” Cromwell said with a bow. “You have joined the ranks of both the married and the titled. My heartiest congratulations to you. And this must be the instrument of your elevation, your new husband, Sir Richard de Brett?” He smiled and shook Richard’s hand. “You are a very lucky man, doubtless I do not have to tell you so sir, to have contracted a union with such a lovely, young lady. I must inform you, however, though it may be that you are already aware of it, that your wife made quite the impression the last time she was with us at court. Oh, yes, my good sir, we were all positively bowled over by her, entranced even. Such charm, prudence, loyalty and, of course, unparalleled beauty as hers is rarely seen at court. She impressed us all as a lady of great quality, and no doubt all of her very estimable traits have grown greater since then. I can see that her beauty certainly has.”

Sir Richard beamed at Cromwell’s fulsome compliments and failed, with his habitual lack of perspicacity, to perceive what was
not
said as much as what was. Bridget did not miss any of the gaps in Cromwell’s praises, but she did not let it bother her. She had resolved before she came that her days of being unnerved by this rough-hewn, powerfully built, deeply disquieting man were over. As ever, he looked at her as if he could read her thoughts, thoughts that he had once told her showed all too easily on her face. With a decided effort, she pulled the shutters closed across her mind and regarded both her husband and Cromwell with a broad smile.

“You are far too kind to me, sir, and I fear you exaggerate my virtues greatly. Oh, where are my manners? Forgive me before I say anything further to you.” She sank into a curtsey, and both her companions beheld her in surprise. “I have failed to address you with the proper degree of respect. I called you ‘sir,’ but I really should have addressed you as ‘my lord,’ for that is the case now, is it not? You, too, have joined the ranks of the titled and have become Lord Cromwell of Oakham, as well as taking over the role of Lord Privy Seal, a post previously held by Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, unless I am much mistaken. It seems then that we have both acquired new names, and new positions, since last we met.”

Cromwell went an unaccustomed shade of red. He appeared a bit lost for a response, and such was Bridget’s pleasure to have knocked the wind from his sails, even just for a moment, that she did not notice that a young man, well dressed in a dark-brown doublet, had appeared just behind his shoulder. When her gaze at last left Cromwell’s and finally slid in the other man’s direction, she felt as though an ice-cold hand had reached inside her chest and grabbed her heart in its frozen grip. The young man was none other than Will Redcliff.

Nobody spoke, no observations were made or introductions offered, and a heavy silence descended for a time until Cromwell came to himself once more. “Ah, Will, here you are at last. I was wondering where on earth you had disappeared to. Look who has re-joined us— Mistress Manning. You remember her, do you not? I am happy to inform you that she has now become Lady de Brett of New Place in Lincolnshire and the Manor of Thorns on the Strand. This is her husband, Sir Richard de Brett, third baronet. Sir Richard, this is Master William Redcliff of the king’s privy chamber, at your service.”

Richard greeted him with painful
ly correct courteousness; Will merely nodded and smiled as blandly as he could. His face betrayed him only once. An intense flicker of wounded pride had overcome him as Cromwell had told him that Bridget was married and had then reeled off all her new homes and titles. Other than that, there was nothing. No response, no emotion. He just looked at her and said nothing.

Standing there, so close to him, Bridget could have sworn that her dress had grown very tight. It felt as if she was encased in a vice that was slowly but surely squeezing her to death. The sensation grew so bad that she could hardly catch her breath. Alarmed, she tugged on Sir Richard’s arm, but he paid her no heed. He was taken up in conversation with Cromwell again and was oblivious to her distress. It was, in fact, Cromwell himself who finally noticed that something was amiss. “Lady de Brett, what is wrong? Are you unwell? You have gone very pale”.

“
Oh, yes, my dear, you have . . . you are exceedingly pale,” Sir Richard agreed, his manner now changed to one of attentiveness and concern. “Come and sit down. I will fetch you some wine. It is rather hot in here.” But as he made to depart, his interest, and everyone else’s, was caught by a far greater consideration than his wife’s distress. The Watching Chamber had burst suddenly into life, for the king and queen had, at long last, arrived.

Chapter Two

The assembly bowed and curtseyed as one, Bridget hanging onto Sir Richard’s elbow for grim death, lest she feel faint again, as the royal couple entered the chamber. They made quite the pair - King Henry VIII was dressed top to toe in scarlet and gold, the sleeves of his doublet slashed to reveal great, billowing clouds of red silk underneath. He had grown bigger since last Bridget had seen him, and his increased bulk seemed to strain every single seam of his magnificent garb. Despite his greater girth, there had been no corresponding reduction on the visual effect he was able to make on people: he looked stunningly powerful and imposing not to mention a little daunting. Queen Jane tottered along beside him, a complete contrast to her awe inspiring spouse. She cut a diminutive figure, in a flowing gown of red and gold in imitation of her husband, the skirts so wide and heavy that they almost swamped her in fabric. Next to Henry, she looked like a mouse caught in the shadow of a lion.

The queen’s colours may have been the same as her husband’s, but instead of magnifying her presence as they did for the king, Jane was nearly swallowed up in their vermilion jaws. She was bedecked— no she was drowning really—in jewellery of just about every shape, size and hue: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts and pearls were all on show. They sparkled, shimmered and shone from every tiny inch of her. As she walked, she placed her heavily be-ringed hands, one on top of the other, over her stomach, revealing in doing so the merest hint of a mound.
So, it is true,
Bridget thought. Jane is pregnant.

The king then had secured another chance at a prince, and Bridget silently prayed that this time one would be born to him. She had never been an adherent of Jane’s, or of the Seymour family in general, but she had seen first-hand what happened to a queen who did not, or could not, give birth to a living son. That kind of failure, the worst sort for a queen and especially for a queen of Henry VIII’s, led to only one of two possible outcomes: divorce and exile, or death. If Jane failed, and she was at as much risk of doing so as any other woman, her fate would be no different from the queens who had gone before her. It was no wonder then that she gripped her belly so tightly; its little occupant would prove to be either her saviour or her killer.

Henry and Jane walked slowly through the main body of the chamber, acknowledging various people as they went. They were closely followed by a solitary young lady, very richly dressed, as well as by a line of smug courtiers who trailed eagerly behind them like puppies. Bridget bowed her head, but from underneath her eyelashes, she was able to identify some of them. There was the eldest of the Seymour brothers, Edward, now ennobled as Earl of Hertford, and his famously haughty wife Anne. She clung tenaciously onto his arm, like it was the greatest prize in the world, whilst surveying the stooping multitude all around her with utter disdain. Following were the two dukes, Norfolk and Suffolk, the former sporting a baleful stare as was his wont, whilst the latter could not hide his complete boredom with the whole charade. They were the only dukes remaining in England since the sudden death last year of the king’s natural son, Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, and thus they occupied extremely senior positions in the hierarchy of the court. It would be impossible to find a more unlikely twosome.

Shadowing them was the Lord Chancellor Thomas Audley, and the two Williams, Sir William Fitzwilliam and Sir William Paulet, as well as Sir Nicholas Carew and Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. Carew and Exeter were members of the old guard, the last sprigs of the white rose, and men who had hated Anne and the Boleyns with a deep seated ferocity. They had connived in the downfall of that faction, Carew in particular, and perhaps as a consequence of the new order they had helped to create, both wore contented smiles. The king’s new wife, as a traditionalist and conservative, was much more to their taste than Anne had ever been. She would stop the king in his religious changes and promote the claims of Katherine of Aragon’s daughter, the Lady Mary. Such was their hope anyway. In their wake came a raft of new faces, most probably gentlemen of the privy chamber, those lucky men who had taken the places of the executed quintet of Rochford, Norris, Weston, Brereton and Smeaton. Bridget could imagine the stampede that must have occurred, through the blood of their fallen comrades, to obtain such plum posts.

There
were naturally enough some new faces amongst the women attending the queen, as Bridget had expected, but there was one old face that she had expected to see as well and it immediately jumped out at her—Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford. Anne’s former sister in law and Bridget’s nemesis. Never had the widow of an executed traitor looked so supremely contented and satisfied with life. She glided serenely behind her new mistress, her blonde head held high, her calm, blue eyes casting about the chamber with gratification until they happened to light upon Bridget.

Lady Rochford looked at her, and it seemed to take a moment for her brain to catch up and fully register who Bridget was. When recognition dawned, her eyes bulged, as though Bridget were not a person but an apparition, a phantom from the past sent into the present to torment her. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she trod on the hem of the dress of the woman in front of her, causing that lady to stumble a little. The woman, the richly dressed young lady who was directly accompanying the queen, stopped and glanced behind her. She raised her eyebrows in consternation at Lady Rochford before she too spotted Bridget. A burst of confusion, mixed with curiosity, flashed across her features and she frowned. Bridget had been wondering who the woman was, but now she knew. Her close proximity to the king and queen, as well as her stunning dress and fiery Tudor red hair, told the story. This was King Henry’s first daughter, Katherine of Aragon’s daughter, the Lady Mary.

In the aftermath of Anne’s death, the king had reconciled with the only remaining offspring of his first marriage, if “reconciled” was the right term for it. He had not made it easy for Mary to return to the fold. Far from it. The price of re-admittance to her father’s affections had been her signature upon a document in which she had acknowledged, for the first time, that her parents had never been truly married and that she, one-time princess and heiress to the throne, was in reality a bastard.