Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England

by Lynne, V. E.

  Bridget gave him a long look and then finally began to concentrate her mind on the sermon. John Skip’s eyes were alight with fervour, and his voice rang defiantly around every corner of the silent chapel. “I say to you that it is necessary to defend the clergy from their defamers and from the immoderate zeal of men in holding up to public reprobation,” Skip slapped the flat of his hand on the pulpit, “the faults of a single clergyman as if it were the fault of all.”

  Almoner Skip took a ragged breath and fixed his gimlet gaze upon Cromwell. “It is also necessary for a king to resist evil counsellors who may tempt him to ignoble actions. Evil counsellors who suggest the alteration of established religion, perhaps because they covet the possessions of the church they so despise, and who would have their possessions from them.”

  A low muttering broke out, and several people shifted in their seats. Cromwell looked at the king and queen, clearly seeking their assistance. Henry was staring straight ahead and Anne wore an expression of polite interest, as though the sermon was nothing out of the ordinary. Cromwell returned his eyes to Skip and Bridget saw him surreptitiously crack his knuckles.

  But Skip was not finished with him yet. “I remind you all of the example of King Ahaesuerus, who was a good and noble king, but who fell under the malign influence of a counsellor called Haman. This man Haman, who coveted only riches and power for himself, persuaded Ahaesuerus that if he destroyed the Jews it would bring ten thousand talents into the royal treasury. Fortunately for the king, he had a wife called Esther, who was a good woman whom the king loved dearly. He put his trust in her, and not in Haman, for he knew that she was ever his friend.”

  The murmuring in the chapel had grown into a loud, excited chatter. The biblical story of Ahaesuerus, Esther, and Haman was a familiar one, with several tapestries featuring the tale displayed throughout the palace. Everyone knew how the story ended—the evil counsellor Haman was hanged on a scaffold seventy-five feet high. It did not take much imagination to work out who Ahaesuerus, Esther, and Haman were supposed to represent—King Henry, Queen Anne, and Thomas Cromwell. Judging from the looks of consternation and surprise on the faces of the congregation, the point of the story was lost on no one.

  John Skip had moved on from the subject of Ahaesuerus and had begun speaking about Solomon, a figure whom the king had often been favourably compared to. “Solomon lost his true nobility towards the end of his life,” intoned Skip, “by sensual and carnal appetites in the taking of many wives and concubines.” Henry looked thunderstruck at this reference and Jane Seymour blushed. Her family and supporters grumbled openly. Queen Anne smiled serenely until the king got abruptly to his feet and stared directly at Skip. For the first time in his sermon, the man faltered.

  “That is enough,” Henry said, through gritted teeth, and without another word to anyone, he stalked out of the chapel. Anne’s expression of serenity fled and a look of panic quickly replaced it.

  A storm of shouting and recrimination broke out in the wake of the king’s departure, all of it aimed at the unrepentant John Skip. Bridget observed Thomas Cromwell get up and quietly leave the chapel. She turned and craned her neck to see where he was going. He had stopped just outside the door and was talking rapidly to Will. He was nodding decisively in response.

  Bridget detached herself from the hubbub and moved closer to the two men. John Skip chose that moment to quit the pulpit and attempt to leave the chapel, shouldering his way with surprising strength through the throng. He needed all his strength, for he had some difficulty but, despite this, he managed to get himself to the door. He had managed to extricate himself from the crowded chapel, but he would not escape Thomas Cromwell so easily.

  Cromwell took Skip’s arm in an iron grip and put his face close to the disconcerted almoner’s. “How dare you speak thus in the presence of your king?” he hissed. “Your sermon was slanderous and seditious, and I suggest you hold your tongue before you find yourself without it. You say that I am like Haman? Well, then, I wonder how Haman would deal with you, Mr Skip? No doubt he would throw you in a ditch like the dog you are and that would be just for starters. Fortunately for you, I am in fact not like Haman, something I have never had cause to regret until now. ”

  John Skip was sweating profusely and struggling, without success, to free himself from Cromwell’s grasp. The Master Secretary looked him up and down with complete contempt for a long moment before finally releasing his grip on him. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind and give you the beating you deserve. Go!” he barked, and Skip wasted no time in scurrying away.

  “Will! We are leaving,” Cromwell ordered, and the young man jumped to attention. Bridget ducked back into the chapel but not before she had been seen by them both. Cromwell’s eyes, alive with anger, halted a moment before passing over her. Will looked as if he would like to stay and speak with her but dared not. He gave her an apologetic half-smile before he speedily followed his master’s departure.

  “Bridget! Come on, this is no time for daydreaming! The uproar has died down and the queen is leaving,” Catherine Carey said, who had appeared at Bridget’s elbow. Bridget shook herself back to the present situation and returned to her place in the queen’s entourage.

  Within a short time of the queen’s arrival back in her rooms, the sound of raised voices could be heard. The king had been waiting for Anne when she returned, and he was in a towering rage. Everyone had scattered outside, fearful of attracting his wrath towards themselves. The words of the argument rang out unmistakably in the corridor.

  “What are you about, madam, allowing your man Skip to rebuke me in public for my supposed ‘carnal appetites’ and my supposed taking of ‘concubines’? Not to mention your pathetic, little almoner’s denunciation of my policies and my ministers! Have you run mad?”

  “Oh, Henry, everyone knows about you and Jane Seymour, it is no secret! I cannot turn a blind eye as Catherine did because of the great love I bear you. I do love you, Henry, and my most ardent desire in this world is to bear you a son. For that to happen I need you with me, to be with me, not off with some pale-faced bit of stuff! And as for your ministers—”

  “Have a care what you say, wife. I and my ministers are of one mind, on the subject of the monasteries and all else! Matters of state are my affair, and I will not have you meddling in them. Is it not enough that I have raised you to be Queen of England, a state that you were certainly not born to occupy? Have I not given you everything, Anne? I have alienated the world for you, and all I asked in return was a son. A son you have not provided. I suggest you allow that problem to concentrate your mind and not the policies of this realm! Just remember that, as I have raised you, so can I lower you, and the latter would prove much easier to achieve than the former!”

  Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor, and the ornate chamber door crashed open and closed. “Henry, please! Do not go!” Anne cried out, but the king had no more to say to her. He had already walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next few days were filled with tension. Henry avoided Anne’s company as if she carried the plague and seemed, once again, to have cast his wife into the outer darkness. He surrounded himself with the Seymour clan and with his friends from the old days, like the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Nicholas Carew. The court was still abuzz over Skip’s sermon and the king and Cromwell’s furious reaction to its contents was well known. Skip himself had been taken in for questioning, but Anne had moved hastily to save him. She still had it within her power to save her own. She spent a great deal of her otherwise empty hours with her daughter, whose childish laughter lightened the otherwise strained mood in her apartments.

  She kept her maids of honour close to her, meaning that Bridget had little chance to see Will. He had often been at court with Cromwell, who was assiduously cultivating the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, in an attempt to secure an all-important alliance with his master, the Emperor Charles V. Once again, Anne found herself on the outside, due to
her strong French sympathies, her falling out with Cromwell and the long-standing imperial antipathy towards her. But, she was determined to change all that.

  “You must make yourself amenable to Chapuys and find a way to reconcile yourself to Cromwell, at least superficially,” the queen’s father, the earl of Wiltshire, told her. They were sitting in Anne’s privy chamber, discussing tactics.

  “Yes, Anne, there is no alternative,” Lord Rochford chimed in, his face unusually serious. “It is in our interests and in England’s. The war between France and the Empire puts us in a key position—the Emperor needs to ally himself with us and there is no point continuing to promote the French. Not at the moment, anyway.”

  Anne sighed and looked deep in thought. “But the Emperor despises me. He has never acknowledged my marriage or the legitimacy of Elizabeth. I cannot throw my lot in with him, not if it means downgrading myself and my daughter.”

  “Of course not,” Wiltshire soothed, “do you think we would ever pursue such a course? Elizabeth is our heir. But now that his aunt Catherine is dead, and the Emperor finds himself at war, he may be more receptive to our cause than in the past. We must show ourselves sympathetic to him and ready to support an Imperial alliance. You must speak in favour of this to the king.”

  “Ha! Speak to Henry? A chance would be a fine thing, Father. Ever since Skip’s sermon, he has closeted himself with the Seymours and absented himself from me, most importantly from my bed. I cannot get near him.”

  “Then you must find a way, Anne!” Wiltshire snapped, “or I fear for us all! The Seymours seek to emulate our rise by coaching that plain girl of theirs to play the coy, young damsel with the king—refuse his advances and pretend as if she is the second coming of the Virgin Mary! She flutters her eyelashes at him and will not speak to him without that brother of hers present, and His Majesty laps it all up! It cannot continue, daughter, lest you find yourself out in the cold and us along with you!”

  Anne looked away from Wiltshire and rested her chin on her hands. “I know all of this, Father, but what should I do? I tried to have Jane removed from my service and the king would not have it. I tried to appeal to him, to his better judgement, through Skip’s sermon and he rejected it. Now, he disdains my company and I try to put a brave face on it all, to turn the other cheek, as Catherine would have done. He likes his women to be submissive and sweet, to say ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ and ‘Right you are, Your Majesty.’ I am trying to conform myself to him but short of flaunting myself in front of him naked, which would not be very docile or meek of me. I am not sure what else you can reasonably expect me to do.”

  Wiltshire fell silent, his face a picture of frustration. Rochford approached his sister and put his arm about her shoulders. “Do not fret, Anne,” he said calmly. “The Seymour girl is merely a passing fancy, as so many others before her have been. You know what he is like. They come and go because they cannot compare to you and, in his heart, the king knows this. All you have to do is keep your dignity, look as beautiful and desirable as possible, which is not difficult for you, and he will soon come to his senses. After all, your bed is hot and Jane’s is very cold.” Anne smiled and Rochford returned it with one of his own.

  Wiltshire cleared his throat. “Now, to the question of Cromwell . . .” he began, but Anne would not allow him to continue.

  “Father, that man is not on our side. That much is clear now. He has gone against me and curries favour with the Seymours. I need to find a way to have him removed, not reconcile with him.”

  “No, daughter, that is the last thing you should do! For God’s sake use your brain!” Wiltshire argued, crossing the room and taking Anne’s face in his hands. “Cromwell is the rising star in the king’s service; His Majesty values him more than you realise. He was once our ally and he can be again. All this nonsense over the religious houses is just that—nonsense. Let the king and Cromwell take their wealth; the treasury certainly needs it. Let them do whatever they like with the monks and their blasted relics. It is not a matter for you to concern yourself with.”

  “Father, I believe that the religious houses should be converted for better purposes and the ones who do a good job should not be dissolved. Cromwell and his agents would have us believe that they are all dens of iniquity, but that is not true. This cause is important; do not ask me to abandon it.”

  “You do not have a choice!” Wiltshire thundered. “Causes are for people who have the luxury of security, which you assuredly do not! Have you understood nothing of our conversation? Your position is in peril. You have produced one living child in three years and you do not grow younger, Anne! Giving birth to a son should be your one and only cause, not whether some useless priests can keep their riches or not. You need a son, and for that you need your husband back. Disaffecting his ministers and throwing his amours in his face publicly is not the best way to do it.”

  Rochford chimed in, “Father is right, Anne. The sermon did not work, and the Seymours grow in influence daily. You cannot afford to pursue anything other than reconciliation with the king at this time. That is why we must make love to the Imperialists and to Cromwell too. And why not use this little maid here to help accomplish it?”

  Bridget looked up from her place in the corner to find all eyes upon her. “Come here, young lady,” Rochford ordered, and Bridget, with a little hesitation, obeyed. “Now, we know that Mistress Manning here is close to Will Redcliff, a protégé of Cromwell’s of whom he is very fond. We can use her to promote our cause to Redcliff and thereby to Cromwell himself. She has a few drops of our blood; we may as well use the connection. Besides, who could resist such an innocent face?”

  Wiltshire did not laugh at his son but instead looked deadly serious. “Can we trust her? After all, she is young and unpractised in the ways of the court.”

  Anne spoke up firmly. “Yes, we can trust, Bridget. She is utterly loyal to me.”

  Wiltshire assessed Bridget thoughtfully. She squirmed slightly under his frank examination. “She has your eyes, Anne. I never really noticed before. Remarkable. Now, what say you girl? Can you feed this friend of yours the kind of information we wish his master to hear?”

  Bridget looked directly at the Earl. “Yes, my lord. I am, as Her Majesty said, utterly loyal. The queen has been very good to me. Without her, I would have no place in the world. I am at your service.”

  “Good,” Wiltshire replied, rare smile lighting up his patrician features. “Then the next time you are with young Redcliff, you shall sing the queen’s praises to the skies, and you shall tell him that she extols his master daily and also the Imperialists, specifically Ambassador Chapuys. Any information you receive in return you shall report to us forthwith. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bridget answered, “it is perfectly clear.”

  Bridget did not have long to wait before she could contrive to speak with Will. It was another sunny day, unseasonably warm for April, and the queen and her ladies were all outside in the park, playing with the dogs and the little princess, everyone in a fine mood.

  “Mama, race me!” the princess called out, as she ran up and down across the grass.

  “Sweetheart, I have been running around after you all morning!” Anne replied laughingly. “Why don’t you get Bridget or Joanna, or even Lady Rochford to have a race with you? I am sure they would not mind.”

  Anne looked merrily at Jane Rochford, who had a carefully plastered on smiled upon her face. Bridget stepped forward, taking Joanna with her. “We shall race you, Your Highness,” she said to the little girl, who clapped her hands in delight. “Stand over here!” she ordered in her best princess voice, pointing imperiously towards a spot upon the ground.

  The two maids, plus Lady Rochford and Madge Shelton, obediently made their way to the starting line. Elizabeth yelled, “Go!” and took off like the wind, her red hair streaming behind her.

  “Be careful!” Lady Bryan bellowed after her charge, but the princess paid her no heed. She was too intent
upon reaching the winner’s post.

  The ladies chased after her at a moderate pace, prudently allowing the little girl her victory. “You are slow!” Elizabeth cried, her chest rising and falling. “Come, race me again!” and she hurried back to the starting line. Madge and Joanna laughed, and Lady Rochford could not help but sigh with discontent. Bridget made no reply because her attention had been diverted by something, or rather, someone else. Will Redcliff was walking across the park, his gait by now unmistakable to her.

  She glanced across at the queen, and Anne indicated with her eyes that she too had spied Redcliff and that Bridget should join him. Her heart beating fast and not only from the exertion of the running race, Bridget made her way quickly across the park, calling out to Will as she went. He however did not stop.

  “Will!” she called again, but still he ignored her. In fact, he picked up his pace and Bridget had to break into a run to keep him in sight. She was out of breath when at last she caught up with him on the approach to the courtyard. “Will, slow down!” she said. “You must have heard me calling out to you.”

  Will finally stopped and turned. He had a strange look on his face, part annoyance and part regret. “Yes, I heard you, Mistress Manning, but I am very busy at present and do not have time to talk you. If you will excuse me.” He made to leave, but Bridget grabbed his arm to hold him back. His skin was warm through the fabric of his jacket.