by Lynne, V. E.
“Have a care, young lady,” Cromwell said softly, his eyes peculiarly bright. “You have not learnt to hide your thoughts. They show on your face.” Before she could respond, Cromwell continued in a louder tone, “So, I imagine the queen has sent you here to find out how the king is?” Bridget and Joanna nodded in unison. “In that case, I fear you shall return to your mistress with no good news.”
Suddenly, a roar emanated from inside the tent. Cromwell immediately rushed inside without uttering another word. Will and the two maids remained where they were, all three straining to hear what was happening within.
After the initial roar, everything went quiet. Impatient, and anxious to return to the queen with at least some information, Bridget spoke to Will Redcliff. “Sir, might you enter the tent and see what is happening? Her Majesty is most concerned for the king, and I need to bring some news to her, to calm her nerves.”
Will regarded Bridget with a half-smile. “My master will shortly let us know what the true situation is, Mistress Manning. Nobody knows the true nature of things better than he does.”
Bridget nodded and began shuffling her feet, realising she had no alternative but to stand there and wait. She felt Will’s eyes sweep over her and linger for a moment before sliding slowly away. She felt her own gaze being drawn to him, as a moth to a flame. He looked to be about five and twenty and, judging by his appearance, not rich and yet not poor. His six-foot frame filled out his dark brown jacket quite nicely; he had muscular forearms and a solid chest. Clearly he was no idle young man. Bridget did not think that Thomas Cromwell would have idle people about him.
Will turned his head towards her and their eyes met. He had eyes the colour of forest green, deep, dark, and compelling. They had little flecks of gold in them that matched the lighter shades of his hair. Bridget felt herself being drawn into them, almost without her knowing it. She realised that her mouth had gone dry and she swallowed hard. Will arched one eyebrow but did not look away.
Only the return of his master broke the spell. Cromwell’s weather-beaten face was wreathed in smiles and he looked ten years younger. “The king is awake and is able to speak!” he declared, clapping his hands together with gusto.
Joanna exhaled with relief, and Will smiled broadly at Cromwell and squeezed the Secretary’s shoulder. “Thank Jesu,” Bridget said, and she crossed herself, an action which made Cromwell shift his gaze swiftly to the ground.
“’Tis a miracle and we should all be thankful for it,” Cromwell said. “You two maids should return to the queen forthwith and give her the happy tidings. Will, come along, we have business to attend to.” And with that they departed. Bridget watched them go.
Feeling almost giddy, and not just because of the king’s survival, Bridget took Joanna’s hand in hers and said, “Let’s run!” The two young women fairly flew away from the tent, through the tiltyard, up the steps, and into the cool interior of the palace. They ran through the corridors, past rich tapestries, window embrasures, gold and silver candelabras, portraits of stern-faced people, and many a startled porter or servant. When they finally reached the queen’s apartments, they were flushed and out of breath. They took a moment to gather themselves before going inside.
The heavy doors were already flung open, and within they found a scene of confusion and upheaval. There was a crowd of men and women, some known and some unknown, all wearing dour expressions. Most of them had broken off into little groups and were talking quickly in low, urgent voices. The queen was seated towards the back of the chamber, in the centre of a knot of people who were all speaking at once. She was leaning her head on her hands, and her face was drawn and grey.
Bridget and Joanna stepped further into the room, and all of a sudden they commanded the attention of the entire chamber. Conversation ceased and every eye settled on the two maids. Joanna pressed closer to Bridget as if seeking reassurance. Bridget felt the attention of the crowd unnerving as well, but she was determined not to let it show. She fixed her face forward and walked steadily towards the queen. The group of supporters all looked at her with a mixture of interest and confusion. A silver-haired man, expensively attired, motioned her roughly to him.
“You are young Manning?” he demanded, his tone abrupt. Bridget nodded and clasped her hands together to prevent them trembling. This man, whom she guessed to be the queen’s father, Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, had an air of authority about him, similar to the aura that surrounded the Duke of Norfolk, but without the latter’s sense of certainty. This man was proud and haughty but also very tense, as if he were teetering on the edge of a knife.
“What news, Bridget?” the queen called out, rising from her chair.
Wiltshire pushed Bridget towards the queen and the crowd parted ways to admit her. She was the absolute cynosure of attention as she opened her mouth to speak. “I have excellent news, Your Majesty. The king is awake and he is able to talk!”
The words seemed to hang in the air a moment before the room erupted into loud cheering and exclamations of joy. Some people sank to their knees, obviously offering thanks to God, and others laughed and hugged one another. Anne collapsed back into her chair, the relief etched on her face. Lord Rochford laughed loudly and embraced the man next to him, the musician Smeaton. Sir Francis Weston in his elation seized Bridget round the waist and swung her off her feet, both of them laughing in delight. He did the same to a thrilled Joanna. Lord Rochford then followed suit, much to the amusement of all except his wife, who watched the display of unrestrained glee from under half-lidded eyes.
It took a while for the group to calm down and for the good tidings to sink in. Wiltshire, his ominous face transformed by satisfaction at the king’s recovery, approached Bridget and took her arm. “Thank you for bringing us this welcome news, my young . . . cousin” he said, a wry look in his eyes. “But tell me, how did you come by this information? Did you see the king? Did you hear him speak?”
“No, my lord,” she replied. “Mistress De Brett and I were in the company of Master Secretary Cromwell, and he conveyed the news to us after he had seen the king for himself.”
Thomas Boleyn looked at Bridget for a long moment, his face bearing an expression that she could not interpret. “You heard the news from Cromwell? You are indeed a resourceful young lady. I can see that my daughter was right to rescue you from the abbey.”
Bridget acknowledged the compliment, relieved that this disturbing man seemed pleased with her. “Come, sit by me, Bridget,” Anne cried out, shooing a disconcerted Lady Rochford to one side. “I think you shall be my right-hand maid,” she laughed, extending a welcoming arm. Bridget walked towards the queen, gladness bubbling up inside her, until a strange smell began to permeate the room.
Lord Rochford said, “Where is that smell coming from? Is that smoke?” As soon as he said it, a scream rent the air. Several people went charging into the Presence Chamber, where orange flames were licking up the heavy wall hangings, sending acrid smoke spreading through the apartments.
“Fire!” someone shouted, and people began to scatter.
“Get the queen out of here!” Wiltshire ordered Bridget, and she wasted no time in obeying him.
“Come with us, Your Majesty,” she said, quickly helping a newly shaken Anne to her feet, assisted by Joanna. They got the queen through a side door just as the fire was extinguished by Rochford and others before it could spread any further than the tapestries. The rooms, however, stank of smoke, and several of the occupants had beaten a retreat and were hanging out of the windows, drawing deep gulps of fresh air into their lungs.
Lord Rochford, his handsome face covered in perspiration, strode up to his sister and embraced her tightly. “It is all right, Anne,” he said, kissing her hair. “We put the fire out and all is well. A candle was knocked over, I think. No need to be concerned.”
The queen pulled away slightly and looked up into her brother’s face. “You know the prophecy, George, that a queen will be burned . . . you know it,”
she said, her voice rising with every word.
Rochford hushed her and held her close to him with great tenderness. “That so-called prophecy is a load of old nonsense, and you should not spend a minute of your time thinking about it. Besides, it was really meant for Catherine, and thankfully she is gone and can trouble us no more. It is only a pity that her daughter, the Lady Mary, does not keep company with her mother and then all our woes would be at an end.”
Anne allowed herself to be comforted by his words, and she remained enfolded in her brother’s arms for some time. Bridget marvelled at how quickly a happy occasion could turn into a scene of danger and panic. She sighed and turned to go back into the privy chamber when Joanna pulled at her arm. She indicated towards where Lady Rochford was standing, just behind the royal brother and sister, her figure stiff and immobile. They were oblivious to her, but not her to them. Lady Rochford’s eyes were unwavering. And, to Bridget’s astonishment, they were filled with pure, unadulterated venom.
Chapter Four
Five days went by, during which time the king steadily improved and the whole court gave thanks for his miraculous escape. Henry spent a lot of time with Anne over the course of those days and seemed as amazed as everyone else at his own survival. It was immediately evident the effect the accident had had on him; he was quieter and much more pensive, as if he was contemplating his own mortality and what kind of legacy he would have left if he had died. With only a young daughter as his heir, a civil war might have ensued, like the wars between York and Lancaster of the last century that the victory of the king’s father at Bosworth had finally ended. The prospect of a renewal of that conflict had had a sobering impact on all, especially on the king.
During those days, Bridget had caught another glimpse of Will Redcliff, hastening away in the train of his master, who always seemed to be in a hurry. He had given her a mischievous wink in acknowledgement when their eyes had briefly met. Bridget’s blood heated a little as she had watched his retreating figure, his broad back and confident stride drawing her particular notice.
Meanwhile, Catherine Carey had completed Bridget’s education regarding the major figures at court, as many of them had visited the queen’s rooms since the king’s fall. Even those who clearly had no love for Anne, such as her Uncle Norfolk and the king’s close friend, the Duke of Suffolk, had shown their faces. The latter had looked at Bridget with frank interest, which had made both Catherine and Joanna laugh. “Are you tilting at a duke now, Bridge?” Joanna had teased her. “I thought you only had eyes for young Mr Redcliff.”
“I have eyes for no one,” Bridget had replied, trying hard to sound prim. Catherine and Joanna had looked at each other before breaking out into fresh laughter.
Bridget had worked out quickly that this was a court where one had to tread very carefully, in every respect. The incident she had witnessed between the king and Jane Seymour, and especially the reaction of the queen’s family and close affinity when they thought that the king lay dying showed that this was a world where nothing, and no one, was as they seemed. Outwardly, the king and queen were happy together and eagerly awaiting the birth of their longed-for son and heir. In reality, Henry had taken up with Jane Seymour, and Anne was worried that she was losing her emotional hold over her husband. Everyone else liked to give the impression of total loyalty and fidelity to the king and queen, particularly to Anne. But Bridget had seen the fear in the queen’s eyes when she thought that Henry would not live, knowing that without him, she would be open to the predations of her enemies. And she did have enemies. Norfolk and Suffolk were obvious examples, but they were by no means on their own. Many still felt great loyalty towards the newly dead Catherine of Aragon and her adolescent daughter, the Lady Mary. They regarded her as Henry’s true heir, not Elizabeth, whom they viewed as a bastard.
Bridget was even unsure of the loyalty of some of the queen’s own household, especially Lady Rochford, Jane Seymour, and Lady Worcester. They whispered in corners and talked under their breath when they thought that no one else could hear them. Lady Rochford seemed unusually given to intrigues and gossip and was one lady whom Anne appeared not to favour, despite their close family ties. Lady Rochford was under no illusions about the queen’s opinion of her and often her face bore a sullen expression. She was one who could not hide her thoughts, as Secretary Cromwell would have put it.
Bridget herself felt no such resentments or conflicts of loyalty. The queen had been nothing but good and kind to her, and she intended to repay her with steadfast service. Without her, Bridget hated to think where she would be, either relying on her late mother’s estranged family in Norfolk, whom she hardly knew, or dependent upon the charity of the Abbess Joan and her relations far away in Lincolnshire. Instead of that uncertain fate, here she was at this glamorous, exciting, and yes, dangerous court, as maid of honour to the Queen of England. It was only Anne’s generosity that had allowed this reversal of fortune to take place, and for that Bridget was grateful.
Today, however, there was very little glamour or excitement to be had at the Palace; in fact, the atmosphere was gloomy and sombre, the king and some of the courtiers swathing themselves from head to toe in black. The reason was that the late Queen Catherine, or the Princess Dowager, as the king would have her called, was being laid to rest at Peterborough Abbey, having departed this life earlier in the month. Greenwich was subdued, as many people were in genuine mourning for their former queen. Some of those mourners even believed that the long-suffering Catherine had not died of natural causes, in the damp, remote castle that Henry had banished her to, but that she had been poisoned by Anne. One such person who held that belief was the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys.
Bridget had had a brief, strange encounter with the ambassador at Greenwich just three days ago. She had been hurrying through the Palace, on an errand for the Queen, and nearly ran smack bang into him coming around a sharp corner. He had looked at her with initial confusion before his face cleared. “You are Mistress Bridget Manning?” he asked, in heavily accented English.
“Yes, sir,” Bridget had replied, a little disconcerted that this odd-looking, foreign man knew her name.
“Oh, yes, I know who you are, young lady—the queen’s household and its occupants are hardly a state secret. I am Eustace Chapuys, ambassador to the Emperor Charles V.”
Bridget blushed to be in such distinguished company and hastily executed a curtsey. The peculiar-looking man, with eyes as bright as buttons, regarded her with amusement. It relieved his otherwise hangdog appearance. “You are a pretty one, Mistress. You shall make the other ladies who serve the queen very jealous.” he said. “Your queen is herself a very jealous woman. It is a pity that you find yourself with such a mistress. It must be burdensome to serve one such as her.”
Bridget bristled at this slight to Anne and jumped to her defence. “No indeed, sir, the queen is the best mistress that anybody could ask for,” she had declared.
A look of great anger had come over Chapuys’s face. He drew himself up and fixed Bridget with a pitying glare. “Your Mistress, your supposed queen, is nothing but a heretic, a whore, and a witch who poisoned my mistress, the true Queen, Catherine, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself with reverence. “That is what your beloved queen is, young lady, and the whole world knows it.” With that he had swept on, leaving an open-mouthed Bridget in his wake.
Even now, Bridget felt slightly shocked at what the ambassador had said and the malice with which he had said it. She had kept it to herself, deeming it wise not to disclose such a conversation to the queen in her current condition. She was certain that Eustace Chapuys’s rancour would not be news to Anne anyway. It did confirm to Bridget though what dangerous waters she was swimming in and the level of spite some people felt towards their queen.
All of a sudden, there was the sound of noisy barking in the queen’s chamber and then a loud crash, as if something heavy had been knocked over. “Bridget!” the queen called. “I need you in h
ere!” Exchanging a look with Joanna and Catherine, Bridget got up, entered the chamber, and found two of Anne’s lapdogs, little yapping scraps of black and grey, chasing each other through the remains of a pitcher of water. “Take the dogs out into the park; they are getting under everyone’s feet today,” Anne said. “And take Urian as well—he needs some exercise.” Urian was Anne’s beloved greyhound, and there was nothing he liked better than being outside.
The queen was surrounded by her usual coterie of male courtiers, including her brother Rochford, the ever-present Francis Weston, and the brooding figure of Sir William Brereton. Mark Smeaton was skulking in the doorway, seemingly waiting for an invitation to enter, and various ladies were scattered around the rest of the room. In one corner, Lady Rochford was pretending to sew, all the while watching her husband from under her eyes like a cat watched a bird. Anne noticed her sister-in-law as Bridget was gathering the dogs together, making sure the little ones did not nip her fingers. “Lady Rochford, I want you to accompany Mistress Manning outside. You look very unhappy in that corner all on your own.”
Lady Rochford opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it, and merely collected up her sewing and exited the room without making a response. Behind her, Lord Rochford flicked his eyes heavenward, and Mark Smeaton hid a smile. Bridget quickly followed, Urian straining to be the first out the door.
