by Lynne, V. E.
The queen was looking impatiently behind her, having noticed that Bridget had stopped dead. She almost told her to hurry up when she caught the look in her maid’s eye. Anne halted for a moment, as if anticipating a blow, then she walked purposefully toward the door Bridget was standing just outside of. Bridget stepped back quickly and let her pass.
Queen Anne pushed open the heavy door with a crash. There followed the sounds of mad scrambling and a man swearing. Bridget came up behind her mistress, making sure she remained hidden in the shadows, but she could not suppress emitting a small gasp at the scene that lay before her.
Jane Seymour, her chalky complexion turned flaming red, was hurriedly pushing her petite breasts back into her gown, which was partially unlaced. Her fingers visibly trembled as she completed the task, whether from fear or interrupted pleasure, Bridget could not tell. The man, whom Bridget realised was King Henry, had his face angled away and was obviously angry. Though she had never seen him before, she had no doubt that this was Henry Tudor in front of her. There was no mistaking his famously strong build and his regal head, with its thinning, fiery-red hair, not to mention his gorgeous attire and fistful of jewels. He fairly sparkled and gleamed, like a gemstone in a shaft of sunlight.
Anne had gone very still, as though she had been turned into a pillar of stone. Bridget watched the silent tableau with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, as one watched the approach of a storm. It was just a question of time until it broke over your head and you were caught in the resulting deluge.
The queen broke out of her frozen state with a roar that sounded like an animal in pain. “What is this?” she cried, pointing a long accusing finger at the surprised pair. “While I am doing my duty, while my belly is doing its business, you are wenching with this . . . this strumpet! This little scrap of nothing, with her plain face and her pinched mouth! This is what you prefer, Harry? This is what you like, is it, my lord?”
While Anne was venting her spleen, Jane Seymour was quietly trying to escape through a side door. She did not succeed. The queen saw her sidling away and moved quickly to prevent her. She lunged at her rival, grabbing her arm, and managing to scratch it before the king intervened. “Stop this, sweetheart” he soothed. “Peace be, my love, and all will be well. Think of our son safe in your womb and all will be well. Shhh, Anne . . .”
Tears streamed down the queen’s face, and her body shook as Henry took her in his arms and rocked her gently, all the while relaxing her with soft words. Bridget saw a flash of green as Jane Seymour ran past her, like one pursued by the devil. She was so intent on flight that she never even noticed Bridget’s slim frame watching her in the dim corridor.
“I want her gone,” Anne said to Henry. “She is to leave my household at once; I will not have her in my sight. I do not need her, I have plenty of maids. Bridget here may take her place. She will be a fine replacement.”
The king stepped away from his wife and gave her a dogged look. “Mistress Seymour is not to be replaced,” he said, his voice now devoid of softness. “I wish her to remain in your household, as one of your ladies. That is where she belongs.”
“Henry!” Anne shouted, her voice full of renewed anger. “How can you ask me to endure her presence? Especially at this delicate time, when I am carrying your son? I know that Catherine turned a blind eye to your amours, but I love you so much more than she did. I find I cannot feign ignorance as readily as she was able to, particularly when one of my ladies is involved.”
Henry lowered his head and had the grace to look abashed. Nevertheless, he would not be moved and he repeated his command. “Mistress Seymour shall remain where she is and that is an end of it. I will not entertain any further arguments about it. Now, I have a question for you, madam. Who on earth is Bridget?”
Anne looked behind her, her black eyes red-rimmed, and beckoned to her maid. Slowly, Bridget stepped forward and made a deep curtsey to the king, her nose almost scraping the floor. She rose but kept her gaze downcast, avoiding Henry’s frankly appreciative one. “This is Mistress Bridget Manning,” Anne announced. “She is one of my new maids, one of two young ladies I took in from Rivers Abbey. She is also a kinswoman of mine.”
Henry laughed heartily at that piece of intelligence and shot a disbelieving look at Anne. “Another Boleyn, is it? As if we didn’t have enough of them already. She does not really look like one of your kin. All that blonde hair and those . . .” the king trailed off and allowed his eyes to linger on Bridget’s full bosom, a marked contrast to his flat-chested queen.
Anne’s features turned disapproving, and Henry smiled and made a little shrug. He then bowed to Bridget, his eyes never leaving her face. “Welcome to my court, Mistress Manning,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and now I have a job for you. Please take the queen back to her apartments and make sure she rests for the remainder of the day. I do not want her subjected to any more disturbances or upsets. I place her in your capable hands.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bridget replied, curtsying deeply again as the king took his leave. “Madam, shall we go back now?” she enquired, placing a tentative hand on the queen’s elbow.
Anne turned sharply, her face ablaze with suppressed ire and determination. “I tell you this, Bridget,” she said. “I do not care what the king says; I will not tolerate Jane Seymour in my presence. She thinks to replace me in my husband’s affections. But she is playing a game that she does not understand. I will not be beaten at it.”
Chapter Three
“Again, Mark, give me the song again,” the queen ordered in her apartments at Greenwich. The young musician, whose full name was Mark Smeaton, took a deep breath and began his haunting song for what seemed like the hundredth time. Despite the purity of his voice, a dull, depressed air filled the beautiful rooms. Anne had been pensive ever since her confrontation with the king and Jane Seymour earlier in the day. She seemed dejected and sunk in her own thoughts.
Jane Seymour had wisely made herself scarce. Bridget presumed she had gone to the tournament to watch the king. Most of the ladies had gone there, except for the maids, Catherin Carey and Joanna De Brett, and the ever-present Lady Rochford, who was regarding the boy Smeaton with a look that could freeze water. Joanna was chattering in Bridget’s ear about a visit Sir Francis Weston had made earlier in her and the queen’s absence. “He is such a handsome man, Bridget,” Joanna said excitedly, “and he is charming, and intelligent, and a wonderful dancer. I have never met anyone like him before. I think he likes me too.” She sighed dreamily, and Bridget and Catherine exchanged a look.
“Joanna, of course you have not met anyone like him before,” Bridget said patiently. “You were brought up amongst nuns in Norfolk. The Sir Francis Westons of this world were entirely missing at Rivers Abbey.” That was true, as far as it went, but Bridget did recall at least two occasions when some of the nuns had been caught entertaining young men in their quarters at night. At the time, she had not understood all the implications, but now, away from the abbey and ensconced at Court, her former innocence was disappearing fast. She no longer felt as naïve as she once had, but she was not so sure about Joanna. She had always been in need of a bit more guidance and a sensible hand. Bridget would have to make certain that she was around the next time Sir Francis paid a visit.
“Sir Francis also had another man with him, not Sir Henry Norris this time,” Joanna continued, “but an older gentleman, not so handsome, called Sir William Brereton. I did not like him very much. I felt like he was undressing me with his eyes.”
Catherine leaned across and said, “You should be wary of Sir William. He is a powerful man, especially in the Welsh Marches, but his reputation is slightly dubious. I hear that he and Master Secretary Cromwell do not get along; there is some bad blood there. It is said that he once ordered an associate of Cromwell’s to be hanged, on his lands, where his word is law. Master Secretary has not forgotten about it.”
Joanna yelped, a sound that seemed
to echo in the chamber and caused Mark Smeaton to falter in his song. “Are you unwell, Mistress De Brett?” the queen asked archly.
“No, Your Majesty,” Joanna replied quietly. “I am very pleased to hear it. Since you are quite well, I do not expect to hear you yelping like a dog whose tail has been trod on. I wish to hear only the sound of young Smeaton’s voice in this chamber. Pray continue, Mark,” she said, waving a hand at the singer.
The musician resumed his sad song, his honeyed voice hitting all the right notes perfectly. He was incredibly good; Bridget had been privileged to hear some beautiful singing at the abbey. And yet, despite the beauty of his voice, there was something off-putting about this young man, something that sounded a discordant note. His demeanour radiated a certain insolence that was not in keeping with his somewhat lowly status. For someone so youthful in appearance, he was an old hand at court, having started out in the service of Cardinal Wolsey. After that eminent man’s fall, he had joined the King’s Privy Chamber. He was reputedly a baseborn Fleming, perhaps about four and twenty years old, who had risen so far on account of his outstanding musical ability, which included not just his pleasing voice but also extended to playing the lute and the virginals. The king, like the queen, loved music, and was reportedly very fond of Smeaton. The singer looked to be well aware of the fact.
The queen applauded with as much enthusiasm as she could muster as Smeaton’s last note died away. “Lovely as always, Mark,” she said, with a wan smile.
“I live to serve your Majesty,” he replied with a theatrical bow, his clear, blue eyes shining at the compliment. Lady Rochford coughed and covered her mouth. “May I play the lute for you now, Madam?” Smeaton enquired, but before the queen could answer there was a commotion at the door.
An old man, with the face of a hawk and a full head of incongruous black hair, walked in and performed a sharply abbreviated bow. Anne leapt to her feet, her face tight. “Madam, I bring grievous news,” the man began. “The king has taken a heavy fall from his horse. He is alive, but he has not stirred since he fell. His Majesty’s doctors are attending him now, but I must tell you, my lady, his life is despaired of.”
Anne’s face went a pure white, and she grabbed the arm of her chair in an attempt to steady herself. “He is going to die? How long ago did this accident take place, Uncle?”
The man, who Catherine had whispered to Bridget was the Duke of Norfolk, considered a moment, and then replied, “About an hour ago, Madam.”
“An hour!” Anne exploded. “An hour and he has not awoken? The king, my husband, is gravely injured and lying near death and I, his queen, am only told about it a full hour after it happens! You had no business keeping such news from me. I must go to him.”
“No, niece,” Norfolk said, placing himself between the queen and the door. “You must stay here and not allow yourself to become hysterical. The king is being well cared for, and there is nothing you can do for him. You were not informed earlier because of your delicate condition. We did not want to worry you.”
Anne hugged her belly and sat down heavily. Little beads of sweat had broken out on her top lip and along her hairline. She wiped them away distractedly. She nodded at the duke and he left without another word. Bridget watched his rigid back as he walked away. It was clear from the bald manner he had delivered his bad tidings to the queen and the minimum of courtesy he had employed when speaking to her that he had no great regard for his niece. In light of that, Bridget wondered what the true state of the king’s health was. It seemed incredible that a person could lie insensible for such a long time after taking a fall. There was a terrible occurrence once at the abbey when one of the sisters had tumbled down a flight of stairs. She had been unconscious for only about ten minutes before she had taken her last breath. Bridget felt her heart constrict with fear at the prospect of King Henry dying.
Lady Rochford had sprung into action after the duke’s departure. She began mopping the queen’s sweaty face and ordering Joanna and Catherine to loosen Anne’s gown and fetch some refreshments. Anne herself seemed struck dumb by the awful news and looked unsure how to proceed. Wringing her hands, the queen looked about her with troubled eyes that eventually stopped upon Bridget.
“Mistress Manning, come here,” she ordered shakily. “I want you to go out to the tiltyard and discover what in Heaven’s name is happening. I would go myself, but I must not risk any harm coming to my unborn son. However, I must have the truth, and I do not entirely trust my uncle to provide it. I know that you will not fail me. Go on now and hurry back.”
“But, Madam,” Bridget argued, “it is surely my duty to stay by your side.” Besides, Bridget thought frantically, I do not exactly know where the tiltyard is, or many of the men who will be there. They will not tell a mere maid of honour anything.
The queen seemed to read her thoughts. “Take Joanna with you. She will know the way. Now go!”
The last was said with finality that Bridget dared not defy. Joanna grabbed her arm and walked her briskly out the chamber door. “Do not fret, Bridget,” she assured her. “The queen is right. I do know the way.”
Amazed at Joanna’s confidence, and wondering where it had come from, Bridget allowed herself to be led like a lamb to their destination. The palace and the surrounding grounds were very quiet, the air heavy with a mixture of dread and expectation. It felt like the whole world was holding its collective breath.
In no time at all, they reached the tiltyard and found the place virtually forsaken. The smell of sweat and horses was still redolent in the air, laced with a sour top note of fear. Bridget noticed a large patch of blood on the ground, presumably marking the spot where the king had fallen to the earth. She averted her eyes from the sight, a sick feeling roiling in her stomach.
A little apart from the yard, a grand tent had been erected, where a throng of men was standing around, buzzing like bees around a honey pot. Or perhaps vultures around their carrion would be a better comparison, Bridget thought, surprising herself with her cynicism. The court environment was already having its effect on her.
Bridget scanned the crowd but saw no one she knew. Feeling like a fish out of water, she looked in frustration to Joanna for help. “Do you know any of these men?” she asked desperately.
“Yes, but only a little,” Joanna answered. “You must remember, Bridget that I had visited the court before you and I joined the queen’s household. The abbess brought me with her when she was asking, or rather pleading, with Master Secretary Cromwell to save the abbey. That is him over there,” she said, pointing out a squat man, all in black, who was hovering outside the tent flap. He had a young man with him who drew Bridget’s eye.
The young man was tall, possibly scraping six feet, a fact which caused him to tower over all the others who were hanging about. He had golden-brown hair and a smooth face, with just a hint of boyishness. He appeared to observe the scene before him with an unruffled calm, perhaps even a hint of amusement, as a parent sometimes looked at a slightly maddening child. He stayed close to Cromwell, and had to incline his head considerably to catch what he was saying. Bridget saw that the latter barely opened his mouth when he spoke, the words, in consequence, seeming to spill out the sides.
“Since you know the Master Secretary,” Bridget said, “we will ask him and that young man he is speaking to what is going on.”
“Bridget, Thomas Cromwell is not the kind of man you just walk up to!” Joanna answered, but Bridget stubbornly ignored her friend’s protest. She had made up her mind, and the two men watched her fast approach with obvious curiosity.
Bridget bobbed a curtsey and smiled to hide her nerves. “Master Secretary Cromwell, young sir,” she began, looking at each man. “I am Bridget Manning, maid of honour to the queen, and this is . . .”
“Yes,” Thomas Cromwell interrupted silkily. “I know who you are, Mistress Manning. Additions to the queen’s household are always of interest to me, and of course I already know your young colleague here, Mis
tress De Brett. Tell me, how does the abbess these days?”
Joanna looked amazed that Cromwell had spoken to her, and she stammered a little in her response. “Sh-she is well, sir, thank you for asking.”
Cromwell smiled, exhibiting a set of small, even teeth, and looked genuinely pleased. “I am glad to hear it. A most capable woman is the Abbess Joan. Wasted in the church really, like so many people of talent are. My young friend here, Master Redcliff, once considered going into the church before I managed to talk him round. He was meant for greater things. Isn’t that right, Will?”
The young man, now identified as Will Redcliff, merely smiled and looked a little bashful. Cromwell laughed and clapped him once on the back. “I fear I have embarrassed him and in front of such pretty young ladies too! My apologies, Will, you have a most inconsiderate master.” He turned from his servant and all amusement fled from his face. His expression hardened. His dark eyes fixed on Bridget, and she quaked a little inside. He had the most intelligent, searching eyes she had ever seen, even more so than the abbess’s or Anne’s, and they were both formidable personages in their own right. But this man, this square-shaped block of a man, fairly radiated both intellect and power. He had clasped his hands before him and Bridget glanced at them. She noticed how big and rough they were, the hands of a labourer, not a courtier. This man was no pampered gentleman, born to a life of softness. No, this man was a brawler, a scrapper, a street fighter. A survivor.
