Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England

by Lynne, V. E.

  Anne turned back to the window and sat down heavily. After a few minutes of quiet, she spoke. “I wish to take my daughter outside. Bridget, Lady Rochford, go and fetch her to me.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” both ladies replied in unison. Bridget fell in behind Lady Rochford as they made their way out of the queen’s apartments. Instead of heading toward the princess’s quarters, Lady Rochford turned in another direction and Bridget was forced to follow her. “Lady Rochford, you are going the wrong way,” Bridget called out. “The princess’s rooms do not lie in that direction.”

  “I must check on something first. Come with me if you like,” Lady Rochford replied, her slim figure already several paces ahead. Bridget ran to catch up with her.

  “Where are we going?” Bridget asked but received no answer. After about a minute, Lady Rochford came to a room at the end of a long passageway. With great care, she opened the door and let herself in soundlessly. She indicated with a swift nod of her head that Bridget should follow her. Lady Rochford pulled the door towards her after Bridget had entered but did not completely shut it. It stood ever so slightly ajar, letting a single shaft of light fall across the floor. Putting her fingers to her lips, Jane Rochford crept across the small chamber and pushed her way behind an old, faded tapestry. Bridget recognised the scene depicted on it as Satan’s temptation of Eve in the Garden of Eden when Satan had of course taken the form of a serpent. Bridget shivered as she looked into the yellow eyes of the tapestry snake—the only bright colour left in the worn hanging—before she pulled aside its threadbare expanse and carefully concealed herself behind it.

  Bridget joined Lady Rochford in her hiding place, hardly daring to breathe, let alone ask what on earth they were doing there. Jane had her eye pressed up against a tiny, almost imperceptible hole in the wall and barely seemed aware of Bridget’s presence. Her whole body was pushed up against the cold stone, and the pulse in her neck was jumping at a frantic rate.

  After a few moments, Jane sighed deeply and moved away from the wall. She motioned Bridget towards the hole, an odd look shining in the depths of her eyes. With not a little trepidation, Bridget stepped up to the small aperture and gingerly pressed her own eye against it. The sight that met her gaze caused her to emit a startled gasp. Lady Rochford quickly came up behind her and clamped a sweaty hand tightly over her mouth.

  In the adjoining room, a small antechamber really, Lord Rochford leaned back against the opposite wall, a look of pure ecstasy upon his face. Before him, the young musician Smeaton was on his knees, his blond head firmly in the apex of Rochford’s thighs. Rochford had his hands on top of Smeaton’s head, his fingers curling and uncurling in his silky locks. “Do not stop,” Rochford murmured, and Smeaton moved forward a little, an action which elicited a strangled cry of pleasure from the queen’s brother.

  Bridget tried to remove Lady Rochford’s hand and spin away from the hole in the wall, such was her shock, but Jane held her roughly by the waist and kept her hand resolutely in place over her mouth. “I am sorry to show you this sight, little maid,” she whispered, “but I thought you ought to know my husband’s true nature. After all, the whole court knows, it seemed so unfair that you did not. Do you like what you see? Do you want to wait for the end or have you already seen enough? Hmm?”

  Jane released her hand but did not wait for an immediate answer. She spun Bridget around and shoved her out from behind the tapestry. “So, what say you, Mistress Manning? No more will you look at him with those admiring eyes of yours, so impressed by his charm and good looks. Now you know what we all do but none of us dare say—he is an abomination, a deceiver, and a man of low morals surely bound for the fires of Hell.” Jane threw a last look towards the wall, tears slipping down her cheeks, which she fiercely wiped away before she swept out. Bridget waited until they were a safe distance away from the scene before she could at last compose herself enough to manage a reply.

  “I am shocked, my lady, I cannot deny that,” she said. “I have led a sheltered life, I did not really know of such things, such . . . acts before I came here. I do not claim to understand them. However, Lord Rochford is the queen’s brother and far above me in rank. It is not for me to know or to witness his . . . personal business. I do not wish to think any ill of him, or to see him in trouble. He has always been kind to me.”

  Jane Rochford laughed contemptuously. “Oh, yes, he is kind to everyone except the one person he should reserve the most kindness for—me. He did not desire me when we married, and since I refused to perform certain services for him, such as the one you just witnessed, he has disdained my bed. He only comes to me when his father tells him it is his duty to beget a son. Even then, he is normally so drunk he falls asleep before anything may be achieved. He is more interested in prostitutes, lute players, sweet little maids such as you and, of course, in his beloved sister. But he is never interested in me, insignificant Jane. I am of no consequence to him—to any of them.”

  Two spots of red had appeared on Lady Rochford’s normally pale cheeks and her eyes glittered with a barely suppressed fury. Bridget felt a pang of sorrow for her. “My lady, I . . .” she began before the figure of Joanna came barrelling around the corner and interrupted her.

  “Oh, there you are Bridget, Lady Rochford,” she said breathlessly. “The queen sent me to find you both. She desires the princess to be brought to her forthwith.”

  “Of course, Mistress De Brett,” Lady Rochford replied smoothly. “Mistress Manning and I will be along with the princess shortly.”

  Joanna nodded, her eyes jumping from one lady to the other, the obvious discomfort between the two not escaping her notice. “Very good, my lady, I shall inform the queen.”

  Lady Rochford made sure that Joanna had entirely departed before she spoke. “Do not think to tell the queen what I have shown you today. Although she is under no illusions about her brother, she does not like to hear talk of his activities. She prefers to keep up pretence and that is what we shall do. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” Bridget answered, “it is perfectly clear my lady. I shall not say a word.”

  Two days later, the household had descended into a frenetic hive of activity, everyone rushing about in preparation for what the queen viewed as a most important day. The Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, was expected at court to meet with the king. First, he was to attend a service in the Chapel Royal, along with most of the court. Anne was nervous about what might happen and kept anxiously changing her mind about what to wear. Eventually she settled on a modest but striking sea-green gown, with a square neckline and only the barest minimum of jewels.

  “I must look queenly today, not like the heretical strumpet that the ambassador believes me to be,” she said. Madge Shelton and Lady Worcester exchanged a glance as they laced the queen’s gown. “Lady Rochford, you may arrange my hair this morning. I want Bridget to go down to the gates and see if Mr Chapuys has arrived yet.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Lady Rochford replied meekly, and she immediately set about combing out Anne’s long, dark-brown tresses. They crackled in the cool air, like summer lightning.

  Bridget wasted no time in obeying orders. As she quickly made her way to the palace gates, she wondered if she would find Will Redcliff already there, sent out on a similar mission for his master. Sure enough, as she drew close to her destination, she spotted him, hanging back, rubbing his hands together to generate some warmth. It was unexpectedly cool today, and he was not the only one trying to keep out the early chill. There was a throng of men pacing about, prominent among them Lord Rochford and Thomas Cromwell.

  Presently, the little ambassador arrived and Lord Rochford greeted him as a long-lost friend, actually throwing his arm about his shoulders and pulling him close. Chapuys looked startled by such a welcome, and his face was a picture of confusion. Cromwell threw a look at Will, who faintly shrugged his shoulders. The Master Secretary also spotted Bridget in the background and smiled at her in acknowledgement. Will followed his m
aster’s gaze and met Bridget’s eyes. He took a step towards her, then halted when he saw that Cromwell had approached Chapuys and was speaking to him. Bridget almost forgotten, he transferred his full attention to his master.

  Bridget could see there would be no opportunity to speak to Will, so she hastened back to the queen’s apartments with the news of Chapuys’s arrival and the warm welcome Rochford had given him.

  “Good,” the queen replied approvingly, “my brother has performed his task perfectly. Mr Ambassador can be in no doubt of our position.”

  At that moment, the door of the presence chamber opened and the king was announced. Henry swept in, his large, muscular frame clad in shimmering ivory, a richly bejewelled cap sitting jauntily upon his head. The whole company curtseyed as one.

  “My queen,” he said, greeting Anne with a cool kiss upon her cheek, “it is time for the service.” He put out his hand and Anne took it. Together, they processed out of the chamber and towards the Chapel Royal, their attendants closely following. Sir Francis Weston took the chance to creep up behind Joanna and playfully pat her backside, causing both her and Catherine Carey to giggle helplessly. Bridget shot him a warning look, but he merely winked in that maddening, yet charming, way he had as if to say, “Me? What have I done wrong?” Bridget smiled in spite of herself.

  As the royal party reached the church, it was obvious that a great crowd had gathered for the service. Word had spread that Chapuys was there, and interest was high to see what, if anything, might happen. Looking utterly serene, the king and queen seated themselves in the royal pew, which was in the upstairs gallery. Their attendants sat below.

  Bridget looked around, eager to see who was there. Most of the familiar faces at court were in attendance, their eagle eyes roving about, their attention not on the service, which had begun, but on the figure of the Imperial Ambassador. Bridget immediately spotted the square shape of Cromwell near the back, Will Redcliff by his side. Cromwell seemed fidgety and deep in thought. Will returned her gaze, but he also appeared distracted.

  A low murmuring broke out in the main body of the chapel. The queen, with Henry behind her, was descending the staircase from the gallery in order to make her offering at the altar. Bridget watched her and then she saw, along with everyone else, Eustace Chapuys standing at the bottom of the stairs, partially hidden just behind a lower door. In any moment, the queen would be upon him. He looked rooted to the spot, his arms held rigid at his sides, his face a careful blank.

  Anne emerged right in front of him and the atmosphere stilled. The ambassador, his lips pressed tightly together, looked at the queen for a long moment and then, as though in a trance, he performed a low, elegant bow. Anne remained motionless, twin emotions of shock and delight chasing each other across her face, before she returned the compliment, her eyes shining with pleasure. The congregation watched in open astonishment as Chapuys, not content to stop with the bow, offered the queen two candles, which she accepted gratefully, passing one to the king.

  Anne walked to the altar in triumph, and Henry looked equally cheerful at her side. Rochford and Wiltshire beamed with satisfaction, and Cromwell could only continue to fidget about restlessly. The old guard at court, those who were the strongest allies of the Lady Mary, made no attempt to hide their shock and outrage. For Chapuys to treat Anne in such a reverent way, acknowledging her as queen in public for the first time, was an act they patently viewed as a betrayal. Under the heat of their fierce gazes, the ambassador slipped shamefacedly out of the chapel.

  The rest of the service passed without further incident. The king and queen processed out together at the end, Anne still clearly elated with what had transpired. As she walked out the door, she turned to her ladies behind her and loudly announced, “’Tis a great shame that France and Spain are at war, but I know where I stand. I am for the emperor. Perhaps the King of France, due to his infamous illness, wishes to end his days? If so, I am sure the emperor can help him on his way.”

  The ladies laughed and Anne walked confidently on. “Illness?” Bridget asked in a low voice.

  Joanna and Catherine both shook their heads in confusion until Lady Rochford looked behind at them, her face scornful. “The King of France has syphilis,” she said. “I thought even silly little maids knew that!” Lady Worcester tittered, and Bridget blushed to have her ignorance paraded, yet again.

  The royal party continued on towards the queen’s apartments, where the king was due to dine alongside a host of honoured guests, the chief among them Eustace Chapuys. Which was why, when they reached the door to Anne’s rooms, she was disconcerted to find the ambassador absent. “Why is Chapuys not here?” she asked Henry, unease written on her face.

  “It is not without good reason, Anne,” Henry replied, entering the chamber. Anne hovered uncertainly for a moment, but had no option except to follow the king, her newfound confidence draining out of her with every step.

  The meal was a desultory affair. The queen picked at her food and her eyes, full of worry, hardly left the doors, as if she hoped that Chapuys might miraculously appear at any moment. He never did. After a time, the king stood abruptly and bid farewell to his guests. He was returning to his own apartments where he was to dine with Lord Rochford and other nobles. Clearly, something was afoot and Anne was not entirely sure what that something was. She waited a few minutes after the king left before beckoning Bridget to her.

  “Go to the king’s apartments,” she said. “Your friend Redcliff will undoubtedly be there—he is never far behind his beloved master. See what you can find out from him.”

  Bridget nodded and quietly slipped out of the chamber and made her way quickly to the king’s quarters. Sure enough, Will was waiting outside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a perfect picture of anxiety. Bridget crept up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. He jumped and spun around in surprise. Concern turned to pleasure when he saw her.

  “What are you doing here?” he whispered urgently, casting a glance towards the doors. “This is no place for you.”

  “The queen wishes to know what is going on; the king left her apartments quite hurriedly, and Ambassador Chapuys never turned up at all. Is he in there?”

  Will took a considered pause before answering. “Yes, he is. He is meeting His Majesty, Lord Chancellor Audley, Sir Edward Seymour, and of course, my master.”

  A frisson of surprise danced across Bridget’s skin. “Sir Edward Seymour? Why has he been included?”

  Will looked faintly startled at her question. “Sir Edward is high in the king’s favour due to his sister’s, shall we say, association with His Majesty. Surely you know that he moved into my master’s old quarters, which adjoin the king’s.”

  “Yes, I do know,” Bridget said. “I just did not realise how far into his confidence the king had admitted him. Do you think—”but Bridget’s words were cut off by Thomas Cromwell’s emergence into the corridor, his dark face flushed an angry red. Bridget hastily retreated around the corner before the clearly distracted Master Secretary could notice her.

  “God’s blood, Redcliff, I find myself caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. The king will not come to terms with Chapuys, and many hard words have been used to both of us! He says I have overreached myself in promoting the Imperial alliance so zealously. His Majesty says he will not make any concessions to the emperor, who has been no friend to him. ‘I am not a child,’ he says, ‘to be petted and then whipped at the emperor’s whim’! Furthermore, he declares that everything is to be in writing, that Anne’s position is not negotiable, and that he will not declare Mary to be his heir. It is not for the emperor to tell him what to do with his own daughter. The queen and her family must have gotten to him, and now I find myself standing on the precipice.” Bridget heard him take a deep sigh and slump back against the wall.

  Will spoke. “Master, surely the king means only to extract the maximum of concessions from the emperor? It would be folly for him not to make the allian
ce.”

  Cromwell harrumphed and answered in a depressed tone, “I do not know, Will; perhaps I have misjudged the situation entirely. All I know for certain is that the king is very angry at me and ‘the wrath of the prince is death’ are the words that keep echoing in my head. I must find a way to allay that wrath, or at least to direct it away from myself, else I fear that my next meeting will be with the Tyburn hangman.”

  “Master, do not speak so!” Will replied, shocked.

  “Will, I must be realistic. Those who fail the king do not die in their beds. But,” he said, his voice hard, “I am not beaten just yet. No, not by a long chalk!” He clapped Will on the back. “Go home; I will be here a good while longer. There is much talking still to be done. I will see you tomorrow.” Bridget heard the heavy door open and a brief snatch of raised voices escaped before being swallowed up again.

  Will put his head round the corner and looked at Bridget. “I supposed you heard all that?” he asked, a smile in his voice. Bridget merely nodded. They regarded each other for a moment and then the mood changed. Bridget brought her hand up to Will’s and lightly touched it. He turned her hand over, palm upwards, and softly kissed the centre. Little sparks of desire chased themselves across her skin.

  “Must you go home?” she murmured. “I have barely seen you lately.”

  Will laughed ruefully and reluctantly let go of her hand. “Yes, I must, and though I would rather be with you, it is not possible. For us servants, our time is not our own. However,” he said, moving towards her and pulling her close, “our time will come.” He bent his head and kissed Bridget full on the lips, his tongue darting skilfully into her mouth.