by V. E. Lynne
Lady Rochford did not speak until they were out of doors in the cool greenery of the park. The dogs ran on ahead and happily gambolled with each other, glad to be in the open air. “I suppose you think that you are very fortunate,” Jane Rochford said, her voice deceptively mild. “The queen has plucked you out of your obscure, anonymous, little existence and brought you to court, where you now bask in the sunshine of her favour. It may be that you are right, that you are fortune’s favourite, but just be careful, Mistress Manning. The queen’s favour can be fickle. If she tires of you, if she decides to put you in the shade, you will quickly discover that you are worth nothing here, less than nothing, despite your rather tenuous connection to the queen. In light of that, it would be wise for you to keep a low profile, to play the humble maid, and remember at all times where it was you came from. And how rapidly you may return there.”
Throughout this little speech, Lady Rochford had continued to keep her voice calm and serene, as if she and Bridget were discussing the weather or some such other trivial concern. Despite this, there was no mistaking the implied threat in her words. Obviously, the young maid’s arrival in the queen’s household had not pleased everyone. Bridget was cautious in making her response. “I do try to keep my head down, Lady Rochford, and I can assure you that I never forget where I have come from. I realise that I am here only because of the queen’s good nature, and all I seek to do is repay Her Majesty’s kindness with my service. I do not seek to advance myself at court, or become a great lady like you. Such things are not meant for a mere maid like me.”
At that last comment, which Bridget managed to make without the slightest hint of sarcasm, Jane Rochford threw back her blonde head and laughed, an unexpectedly agreeable laugh that filled the tranquil air. She smiled at Bridget with a genuineness that transformed her otherwise sly features.
“Mistress Manning,” she said, “you delivered that response perfectly and with such sincerity that I actually believed you. I considered you as nothing more than a silly, little charity case that would be lucky to last six months here, but I see that you are a quick study. You have already learned that those who can present a false front can go a long way at court. Perhaps you will prove to be more than just a drab, little outcast after all.”
Bridget bit her lip and did not make further answer. Unexpectedly, Lady Rochford put her arm through hers and began to chat companionably, as if they now understood each other and had thus become friends. “I may come to like you, Bridget, and that is a rare thing here, someone one may genuinely like. In a way, you remind me of myself when I was your age. I was eager to please, happy to be at court, in service to a woman I admired. In my case, it was the former queen, Catherine of Aragon. Never have I known a more estimable person, a truer lady, than her. And then I became a member of the Boleyn family and everything changed. Everything.”
Lady Rochford paused and seemed uncertain whether to proceed. “What changed, my lady?” Bridget asked. For some reason, she very much wanted to hear what Jane Rochford had to say.
The older woman looked thoughtful, and her eyes took on a faraway aspect. “Marriage was not as I had anticipated it,” she said. “You are a maid and probably still have some romantic notions, as I did. When I married Lord Rochford, I felt lucky because he was so very handsome and witty, as well as intelligent and ambitious. The Boleyns were on the rise, and I desperately wanted to be a part of it all. I saw us working together, surrounded in time by our children, the epitome of a strong, close-knit family. But I did not reckon on Anne.” Jane Rochford’s face clouded over.
“She was not prepared to let him go, to allow him to leave her side, and she was never very fond of me to start with. My loyalty to Catherine became a mark against me and I was just not brilliant or clever enough to be allowed into her circle. It is true that her marriage to the king has elevated us all, as her family, but only some have truly benefitted from this. Anne and her chosen ones run this court. The rest of us are on the outside looking in.”
Bridget found she could not quite accept this version of the pecking order from Lady Rochford. “My lady, you are married to one of the most powerful and prominent men at court. You will be aunt to the future king, God willing, in a few months’ time. How can you possibly be on the outside of anything?”
Lady Rochford stopped walking and looked at Bridget. “You have not been with us for very long, but you have seen who is close to the queen, who she surrounds herself with in her privy chamber. My husband is constantly with her, as is Norris, Weston, and Brereton. Even Smeaton,” Jane nearly spat out his name, “that ridiculous musician, is invited. They are the ones she dotes upon. Why, some even say—”
Lady Rochford stopped speaking, and her countenance took on a crafty expression. “Some even say what?” Bridget prompted, her voice dropping to a murmur.
Jane looked about her and, seeing no one else within eavesdropping distance, she leaned in and whispered in Bridget’s ear. “Some even say that the queen takes the men to bed, even Mark the lute boy, because the king is barely capable, and Anne is forced to seek her pleasures elsewhere.”
Bridget jumped back as though Lady Rochford’s words had scalded her. She could scarcely believe what she had just heard. The queen took her male favourites to bed? The king, a big, vital man, was barely capable? Bridget might have been a relative newcomer to court, but she knew potential treason when she heard it. “My lady, you should not say such things. They are extremely dangerous, even to think such things is dangerous. Besides, I am certain they are not true. The queen would not behave that way.”
Lady Rochford smirked, her face quite flushed. “Have I scared you, Bridget? Have I made you question your beloved queen? Fear not, little one. The things I have told you are only whispers, shadowy words exchanged in dark corners, never exposed to the sunlight. Nobody would dare accuse the queen publicly, not if they value their head upon their shoulders. But it is as well that you should know these tales. For protection, if for nothing else.”
“Protection from what precisely?” Bridget demanded, not really sure now if she wanted to hear anything else from Jane Rochford. Jane tilted her head to one side in a considering fashion. “From Sir Francis Weston for starters. We have all seen the way he looks at you, and he is certainly interested in your little friend Joanna. It would be wise to keep yourself, and her, away from him. From all of them. They belong to the queen, body and soul. They are her territory, she has marked them out for her own, and she does not care for poachers. You will get an arrow in your back if you try.”
At this, her face darkened and she looked lost in unpleasant thoughts. Bridget’s mind was similarly disturbed, so much so that at first she did not notice that they were no longer completely alone. There was a man approaching them rapidly from across the park. It was the distinct figure of Will Redcliff. Bridget felt relieved, and excited, to see him.
“Greetings, Mistress Manning,” he said courteously, doffing his cap and bowing in a slightly ironic way. He bowed properly to Lady Rochford, who barely acknowledged him. “Good day, Mr Redcliff,” Bridget answered, warmth rising in her voice. “Have you become the queen’s official dog walker?” he enquired playfully while one of the dogs worried at his shoe.
“I am at the complete disposal of my mistress,” Bridget replied lightly, “as you are at the complete disposal of your master. If that means walking the dogs, then that is what I do.”
“’Tis true,” Will agreed, “our lives are not our own.” They lapsed into silence, each unsure of what to say but happy to examine the other with only their eyes.
Will was the first to cease the examination. “As much as I would like to stay and help you with these little rascals,”—one was still worrying his shoe—“I must away. My master awaits, and he is not one who takes kindly to waiting.” Will broke into a smile as bright as a summer’s day and began to take his leave, nodding at both ladies in farewell, but he stopped short when he saw the small figure of a young woman, a girl rea
lly, tearing towards them across the grass. Her feet seemed to fly over the ground and, as she got closer, Bridget realised that the little whirlwind was Catherine Carey.
She reached them in no time at all, and at first could hardly speak she was so winded. “Bridget, Lady Rochford,” she managed between ragged breaths. “Come quickly, it is the queen. She is bleeding.”
Chapter Five
Lady Rochford reacted immediately, setting out at a fast pace for the palace, Catherine Carey running beside her. Bridget noticed that Will departed very speedily as well, an urgent look in his eye. It would not be long before Thomas Cromwell was told of what was happening, or possibly happening, in the queen’s apartments. In fact, it would soon be known across the whole court, spreading like an infection.
Bridget ran to catch up with Jane and Catherine and had to work hard to keep pace with them, the dogs following along behind. “What is going on, Catherine?” Bridget asked hurriedly as they entered the palace.
Catherine turned her blue eyes upon her and they were brimming with worry. “The queen said she felt some pain in her belly, and then she noticed that there was blood coming from, well, between her legs. The sound of her screams was frightening.” Catherine certainly looked like someone who had experienced a shock. “She wanted you both brought back immediately and the doctors and midwife called for.”
As they hurried through the corridors, Bridget observed that there were a lot of long-faced people loitering about, speaking to each other in hushed tones. The news was indeed travelling fast. Bridget said a little prayer as she passed them and she continued to pray all the way to the door of the queen’s apartments.
The first thing she became aware of upon entering was the smell. The sharp, coppery tang of blood was in the air, and Bridget felt as though she had stepped backwards in time. One of her first memories was of the room her mother had died in, a fetid, cramped, little chamber, totally unlike this one in appearance but exactly the same in odour. Bridget silently asked the Lord for a happier fate for the queen than the one that had befallen her mother.
The rooms were empty of men, except for two elderly gentlemen, whom Bridget assumed to be the doctors. They seemed utterly at a loss and looked terrified. Bridget guessed that they were pondering the possible consequences if the queen miscarried of a son. She shared their fears and whispered softly to herself, “Dear God, do not let the queen lose the prince,” as she and Catherine stopped in the presence chamber and Lady Rochford went through to Anne.
Joanna was crying, and she went up to Bridget and put her arms around her. “It happened so quickly,” she sniffed. “One moment the queen was laughing at something Sir Francis had said, and the next she was clutching her belly and bent over in pain. Lord Rochford rushed away to get help, but she was already bleeding. I cleaned it up off the floor. It was like a scarlet lake, spreading out around her feet.”
Bridget glanced over and saw the patch where the queen’s blood had spilled. It was large and wet. “We should pray,” she said, feeling like she had to do something to quell the rising panic in the pit of her stomach. The three maids fell to their knees and began beseeching God to spare the life of their mistress and her baby in low, pleading voices. It had been a long time since Bridget had prayed so hard.
“Mistress Manning!” Lady Rochford’s piercing tones rang out, breaking the hush in the room. Bridget answered immediately and got to her feet. She quickly entered the privy chamber, then made her way into the bedchamber. The sight that met her there almost stopped her heart.
The queen was propped up in her bed, her face shiny with sweat, the area between her legs crimson with blood. It was everywhere, soaking through her nightgown, soaking through the sheets, and even dripping into a widening pool on the floor. The scent of it was so pervasive that Bridget could practically taste it on her tongue.
Lady Rochford was wiping the queen’s brow and murmuring unintelligible things to her, as was Mistress Marshall. Anne herself seemed not to hear her at all and was concentrating on clamping her legs together, her face contorted with pain, her eyes wild like a frightened hind’s. Madge Shelton and Lady Worcester appeared dazed, and the midwife hovered at the end of the bed, a harbinger of impending doom. Jane Seymour kept herself hidden at the back of the chamber, her head resolutely turned to the wall.
“Here you are, Mistress Manning,” Lady Rochford said briskly. “I need you to fetch some water and some clean linen for the queen. At once.”
Bridget left and hastily completed the task, carrying the linen and bowl of water back as fast as she could, past several pairs of curious eyes. The queen’s groans and cries of pain were now audible to all those in the outer chambers.
“Thank you, Bridget,” Jane Rochford muttered as Bridget returned with the sought items. “Now, I need you to mop the queen’s brow while I attend to other matters.” It was clear that the “other matters” involved attempting to assist the midwife and Mistress Marshall in staunching the seemingly endless flow of blood from Anne. Neither woman seemed to be making much impression.
Slowly, the afternoon turned into night. All the women worked hard to assist the queen, who still had not passed the child. Bridget continued to wipe her clammy face and brow, but Anne appeared barely aware of her presence or anybody else’s. She clenched her jaw tightly against the waves of pain assaulting her, repeating a mantra of “no, no, no” over and over to herself. Bridget smoothed her damp hair back and tried to offer words of comfort when the crisis finally came. Anne grabbed her wrist and let out an awful, shattering roar of defeat.
The midwife moved speedily into position, reached between the queen’s legs, and scooped up a pathetically small mass that looked vaguely like a baby. Lady Rochford glanced at the tiny infant, gasped, and hastily glanced away. The midwife hurriedly wrapped the baby up and walked a little way out of the chamber to where the doctors were. They briefly inspected it, their eyes widening slightly, then one of them rewrapped the bundle and handed it back to the midwife.
“Doctor!” the queen called out in a thin voice. “What was it?”
The doctor came towards the bed and regarded Anne with pity. “We think it was a boy, Your Majesty,” he said “of about fifteen weeks growth. He was so small he could not possibly have survived.”
Anne recoiled from the news like a physical blow. The doctors departed swiftly and the room descended into silence, broken only by the fearful, racking sound of the queen’s sobs. She had slumped in the bed and seemed utterly spent, her body and spirit shattered. The only sign of life were the tears that poured from her eyes, twin tracks of grief ravaging her dark beauty. Bridget had not seen anyone cry like that since the night her mother died and her father had wept as though his heart was literally broken. Anne’s tears were exactly the same.
Once the doctors had gone, Lady Rochford and Mistress Marshall gathered the ladies together. “It will not be long before the news of the queen’s miscarriage is known throughout the court,” Mistress Marshall said, “and once it is, surely the king will wish to visit her. We must get Her Majesty cleaned and dressed before he arrives. He must not see her in the state she is in.”
The women all nodded and busied themselves removing the evidence of the queen’s tragedy and trying to make her look presentable for the arrival of her husband. Joanna carried away the blood-soaked sheets, Catherine fetched a new nightgown, and the older ladies set about eradicating, as best they could, all traces of the miscarriage from the queen’s body. Jane Seymour had the good sense to absent herself from the proceedings. Bridget had the task of brushing the queen’s damp hair and trying to arrange it on top of her head in some approximation of an elegant style.
Anne’s storm of tears had subsided into a quiet weeping as her ladies fussed about her. Her thoughts seemed disjointed and full of recriminations: “This is Catherine’s fault, she has cursed me from the grave . . . Norfolk told me of the king’s accident too abruptly, and he was cruel . . . it is Henry’s fault for loving others . . .
”
“Shh, madam,” Bridget whispered, “you must not distress yourself.”
“How can I help it, Bridget?” Anne replied, distraught. “I have lost my baby, my boy, and what shall I do now? What is there for me?” She shook off Bridget’s attentions and began fiddling with her hair herself, twisting and untwisting it in her shaking fingers.
“The king comes!” Joanna announced, bursting into the bedchamber. The ladies looked at each other nervously and began twittering about, frantically smoothing sheets and tidying away the last vestiges of the great loss. In the distance, the sound of booted feet approaching could be heard echoing off the walls. The women left the queen and stepped into the presence chamber, ready to receive the king. Bridget made to join them, but Anne clamped a hand around her lower arm, preventing her exit. “Do not leave me alone,” she pleaded, vulnerability etched on her face. “I cannot face him alone.”
“Majesty, I . . .” Bridget began, her voice dying away at the entry of the king. She heard him stride into the outer chamber, the only accompaniment the sound of ladies curtseying, and then into the bedchamber, his tread heavy and ominous. He was clad all in black, his dark clothes highlighting the ruddiness of his complexion. Little had he known when he donned his funereal garb that morning for his discarded first wife that he would be in true mourning for his unborn son by evening.
