by V. E. Lynne
“Yes sir, His Majesty was, as you say . . . upset, but the queen is strong and, with the proper rest, will make a full recovery. And now I need some rest ,as it is very late. Good night to you sir.” Bridget made a move away, but Cromwell blocked her path.
“I notice that you have struck up a rapport with my young friend Redcliff. I have only the highest regard for him. He is an excellent young man, bright, industrious and, most important of all, loyal. He is certainly the equal of any of his contemporaries at court, even those who are above him in station.”
Cromwell emphasised the last sentence, and Bridget felt little pinpricks of unease sweep over her. Had Cromwell seen the little confrontation between herself, Sir Francis Weston, and Joanna? How could he have? Bridget had observed him in the company of the Imperial Ambassador outside the palace, far away from where Weston and Joanna had been enjoying their tryst. Yet, somehow it would not surprise Bridget if Cromwell had managed to see it, or if he, in some way, knew about it. She thought he was a man of many eyes, all of them watchful.
With this in mind, Bridget hid her disquiet behind a mask of cordiality. “Yes, sir,” she agreed. “I find Master Redcliff to be a very fine man. As for the other gentlemen, I am afraid I do not know them very well, sir. I am a mere maid and I know my place.”
Cromwell laughed, his amusement real and spontaneous. “It is always well to know one’s place, Mistress Manning, especially where those of high rank are concerned. But then, you are of noble blood, are you not? Oh, do not worry,” he said at Bridget’s look of doubt, “my own family tree is somewhat less than clear as well, and yet here I am. We do not allow such niceties as our distant forebears to stand in our way.”
Cromwell fell into silence, his previous good humour gone. He now regarded Bridget with a mixture of interest and calculation, as if he were measuring her worth and considering the result. “Well, as you said, it does grow late and I must be on my way. I bid you a good evening, Mistress Manning,” he said as he began to walk away, “and I offer you a piece of advice. Keep your wits about you. The court can be a perilous place. Especially in the dark.”
Cromwell chuckled to himself, and Bridget listened to his footsteps fade and then disappear. She felt a headache starting in the back of her skull, a dull throbbing that heralded a painful end to what had proved to be a very taxing night. With a weary sigh, she turned and trudged back to the queen’s apartments.
Chapter Seven
February 1536
The king was gone and the queen was alone. Henry had departed Greenwich for York Place and the business of State. There was a final session of Parliament, which required the king’s presence, and then there were the Shrovetide celebrations to oversee. He also desired to be away from Anne, and his royal duties provided the perfect excuse for this. Everyone knew that when he left, he and the queen had not been on speaking terms. Gossip spread like a sickness that Henry had repudiated her for Jane Seymour. Bridget was not so convinced of that. She suspected that the king’s feelings were hurt, his Tudor pride was bruised, and he wanted a break from Anne. A temporary one. Certainly, that was what the queen believed, at least most of the time.
Anne had put on a brave face since the miscarriage. In its immediate aftermath, she had proclaimed that the child had been doubtful anyway, as it had been conceived during the lifetime of the Princess Dowager. Now that Catherine was dead, the queen’s next baby would be free from all such doubts. She also appeared confident that the king’s anger and his absence from her side was nothing to worry about. And yet, for all that, she did not sleep well at night and was plagued by bad dreams. She was haunted by the Creeping Man, as she called him, a figure whose presence in her nightmares caused her endless anxiety. As a result, she was often tired and her moods changeable. She kept a close watch on Jane Seymour, who seemed unaffected by the queen’s obvious scrutiny of her. She wore a permanent expression of complete serenity, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. It drove Anne to distraction.
For herself, Bridget was glad the king had left. He took the gentlemen of his Privy Chamber with him, which meant Sir Francis Weston. She and Joanna had barely spoken for a few days after she had discovered them together, but they were now back on good terms. Bridget had made Joanna see that it was foolish to throw herself away on a married man, however good looking and engaging he might be. She had also enlisted Mistress Marshall’s help, without telling her the full story of Joanna’s transgression. A dressing down from that redoubtable lady had also had a sobering effect on young Mistress De Brett. Bridget knew that Joanna understood that Sir Francis was not for her, but still she pined for him. Bridget hoped that the longer he was away, the quicker Joanna would forget about him. Unfortunately, given the bleak weather and the subdued atmosphere among the queen’s ladies, there was not much to divert her from thoughts of Sir Francis.
The queen had decided to take a walk that morning in the dank environs of Greenwich Park. Anne was a lover of the outdoors and hated to be cooped up in the palace for too long. She enjoyed the open spaces and the fresh air. The air was particularly fresh that morning, with more than a hint of ice in it. Despite that, she was enjoying being outside, with the dogs yapping and jumping about as usual and getting under everyone’s feet. No one much liked them except for Anne. She adored them and treated them almost as her own children. She had taken to walking them more and more, their uncomplicated bounce and joy a welcome distraction from her own problems.
Anne threw a stick to the dogs and they all went galumphing after it. Lady Rochford hung back and fell into step beside Bridget. “I must ask you something, Mistress Manning,” she said, that odd but now-familiar note of anticipation in her voice. Bridget had learnt that there was nothing Jane Rochford liked more than talking, whether she was seeking information, or parcelling out the nuggets of gossip that she mined like gold. Perhaps it was because her own marriage was so dormant that she took such a keen interest in the doings of others. Whatever the case, she was not one to bite her tongue or close her ears to any news.
“What is it, Lady Rochford?” Bridget replied as carefully as she could.
Jane’s eyes lit up and she moved an inch closer. “I hear tell that you have become close to a servant of Mr Cromwell’s, a man called Will Redcliff. I also hear that you have been seen in conversation with the Master Secretary himself. That being the case, you must know of the rumour surrounding him and the Imperial Ambassador?”
Bridget looked at Jane Rochford and felt a sneaking sense of admiration. She truly missed nothing. The first part of her statement was indisputably correct—she was close, or was becoming close, to Will Redcliff. She had spoken to him two or three times since the queen’s miscarriage, not for very long, but each time they met she liked him more and more. He was not only handsome, but he was honest and free from conceit, a very rare quality in men associated with the court.
He did, however, work for Thomas Cromwell. That meant that Bridget was careful with what, and how much, she said to him. Even though the Master Secretary was allied to the queen’s family, Anne even going as far as to call him “her man,” Bridget thought it prudent to keep as much from his ears as possible. Ever since she had seen him with Ambassador Chapuys, no friend to the queen, Bridget had suspected he was playing a double game. Or perchance, he played his own game, and was no one’s “man.” She did not know where the truth lay.
Bridget returned her mind to her conversation with Jane Rochford. “You are right, Lady Rochford, I do hold Master Redcliff in good esteem. As for the Master Secretary, I may have spoken a few words to him, but that is all. Such a gentleman would have no interest in speaking to a maid such as me.”
Jane raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. “That being the case then,” she said wryly, “you have not heard the rumour surrounding Cromwell and the ambassador. It is said that they have formed a friendship. They have held meetings in an attempt to forge an alliance between the king and the emperor. It seems quite strange, considering that C
hapuys and his master have no love for the queen and in fact do not even acknowledge her marriage as valid. Perhaps your new friend Redcliff may know something about it?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Bridget answered quickly. “Will is not terribly senior in Cromwell’s service; he would hardly confide such serious matters to him.”
Jane looked at her for a moment. “Well, if he does, make sure that you do not keep it to yourself. After all, it is your duty as the queen’s maid and kinswoman,” she said ironically, “to keep her abreast of all developments.”
Up ahead there was a commotion as one of the dogs had tripped up Madge Shelton, who had been knocked onto her ample backside. The unfamiliar sound of the queen’s laughter rang out across the park, as Joanna and Catherine Carey helped Madge to her feet. As they aided Madge in dusting herself off, they all noticed a messenger making his way towards them. Anne’s eyes took on an expectant glow, and she walked over to meet him. Bridget saw the messenger grimace at the queen’s approach. Clearly, she was not the party he sought.
He bowed low before Anne, then stood up awkwardly, his young face ablaze with embarrassment. “Your Majesty, I come bearing a gift for Mistress Jane Seymour,” he announced, with hardly a breath between words. Anne’s features turned to stone, but she did not try to prevent him delivering the gift to the obviously pleased Jane. He then hurriedly bowed for the second time and left as quickly as he had arrived.
Jane made a great show of opening her present, which consisted of a letter and a pretty, little garnet ring set in gold. She placed it on her small, slender finger and held it up in the wintry air, letting the stone catch the few rays of sunlight that were available on such a grey day. Anne watched her with an expression that could only be described as poisonous.
Tearing her gaze away from Jane, the queen grabbed Bridget’s arm, her nails digging into her soft flesh. Swallowing a cry, Bridget allowed herself to be pulled along by her angry mistress, who had evidently decided that she had had enough of the display that Mistress Seymour was putting on.
Without a word, Anne snatched the letter out of Jane’s hands and read it. It took her only a moment before she gave a derisive snort and said, “He used to write me much better poetry than that.” She then ripped the missive into several pieces and tossed them contemptuously onto the ground. Jane said nothing, nor did anyone else. They all just watched Anne, whose wrath was both a sight to behold and to fear.
Finished with the letter, the queen turned her attention to the garnet ring, which Jane was twisting on her finger. Anne roughly took her lady in waiting’s hand and tore the offending object from her small finger, her nails scratching the delicate skin. A faint line of blood appeared. The queen inspected the ring for a moment, then turned to Bridget. “Take this,” she said, thrusting the ring into her palm, “and throw it into the river. I want it out of my sight.”
“Majesty, the river is half frozen, and do you not think . . .” Bridget began, but the queen was having none of it. Anne stepped up close to her and grasped her chin. Those black eyes, virtual twins of her own, seemed to flash with anger.
“I do not care if the river is half frozen; throw the blasted thing onto the ice. When the thaw comes, the waters will claim their prize. And it is not for you to tell me, your queen, what to think. Just remember that you are here through my generosity, and my generosity alone, and I can assure you that it is not infinite. Do not question me again.”
Bridget’s face flamed in humiliation, and she could only nod in response. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest, she was certain everyone must be able to hear it. “Well, off you go then,” the queen said, dismissing her. “Go and throw that bit of brass away.” The others all affected to studiously ignore Bridget as she curtseyed and walked off, with what she hoped was a purposeful stride towards the Thames.
Bridget reached the water stairs and breathed in the bracing air. Not many people were about, and the river was one wide, imposing, expanse of ice. She looked at the delicate ring in her hand, the gold glinting in the weak sunlight. This was a gift from the king, the all-powerful Henry Tudor, a gift not for her, or even for his wife, but for his new love, Jane Seymour. Bridget shuddered to think what his reaction might be if he learnt that it had been thrown away like a piece of rubbish. Would she be blamed? There was no way to know. She could not predict the king’s reaction, but she could predict the queen’s if she did not carry out her command. She had been told, quite clearly, that it was her role to obey, not to question. But Bridget had never been very good at blindly following orders. “Something the matter?” a voice close to her asked.
Will Redcliff had sidled up next to her on silent feet and sported a quizzical expression on his smooth face. He was dressed in a thick winter cloak, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Bridget was very relieved to see him. “Yes, Will, there is something the matter,” she began. “The queen wants me to throw this ring onto the river, but I wonder if that is the best idea because it came from the king. It was a gift intended for Mistress Seymour.”
“And you do not want to fling away a piece of expensive jewellery, especially if His Majesty gets to hear about it. Yet, you must obey your mistress. I see your dilemma.” Will took off his glove and gently lifted the ring from her palm. His fingers were cold, and the touch of them on her skin made her jump. “’Tis a pretty ring,” he murmured, turning it over in his hand. He glanced over towards the park, where the queen and her ladies were engrossed in the antics of the dogs and were not watching him. In a flash, he threw the ring sideways onto the river. It made a soft clunk as it hit the ice, then skittered along the surface till it came to a stop, a glitter of gold in sea of white.
“Will!” Bridget exclaimed. “Why did you do that? The ring was my responsibility; you should not put yourself at risk for me.”
“A mere thank you would have sufficed,” Will responded dryly, a smile upon his face. “Besides, there are no grounds for concern. The king is not likely to find out, and even if he does, he will blame the queen, not you. In any case, I work for Thomas Cromwell, who will protect me from all possible . . . consequences. You have no such protector, leastways not a reliable one. Therefore, the role of guardian falls to me. I would not see you in peril, not when we are just starting to get to know one another.”
The last comment caused his features to break into a wide grin. Bridget grinned back, despite her unease over what he had done. “The queen would have spoken for me,” she said. “She would not have allowed me to get into trouble.”
Will’s face turned serious. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “then again, perhaps not. The queen is vulnerable since she lost her babe. She is no longer as powerful as she once was. Everyone knows that the king was not speaking to Her Majesty when he left Greenwich, and the attention he pays to Jane Seymour is similarly well known. The king has set aside a wife before as you may recall, and not that long ago either.”
“Yes, but that marriage was shown to be false, as we all recall,” Bridget emphasised, her heart beating a bit faster, at both his words and his close proximity. “The king could not possibly set aside this queen, not after all the years he spent trying to marry her. Aside from that, I am sure he still loves her and they are both young enough to have another child. A son this time.”
Will nodded, clearly loath to argue the point. “I am certain you are correct,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “and now I fear our conversation must come to an end. The queen is looking this way. She must be wondering what is taking you so long.”
Bridget glanced behind her and saw that Anne’s steady gaze was turned in their direction. “You are right, I must go,” she said hurriedly, then she reached out and touched Will’s arm. “Thank you for helping me. I am indebted to you.” She caressed his arm. “Good day, Mr Redcliff.” She broke contact and strode away across the park. She could feel Will’s eyes on her back as she departed.
“Is it gone?” the queen asked when Bridget re-joined the group.
“Yes,
Majesty, it is gone. I threw it out onto the river, just as you told me to.”
Anne smiled gleefully and clapped her hands together. “Excellent,” she declared, “and good riddance to it. I hope when the ice melts it sinks to the bottom and finds a home in the mud. It is just a pity that we may not throw Mistress Seymour in after it. Is it not, ladies?”
The women chorused their approval, even a chastened Jane managed a laugh, and then they obediently followed the queen across the park. Bridget fell in with Joanna and Catherine, who were chattering about some trick they had taught the dogs to perform. Bridget half looked behind her, interested to see if Will was still there, watching her. He was, but now there was another man whose eyes were upon her. They belonged to Will’s master, Thomas Cromwell, and they were trained on Bridget like a falcon on its prey. She quickly looked away.
Chapter Eight
The queen’s apartments were in a tumult, but it was a happy one this time. The ladies hurried around the rooms, gaily unpacking their mistress’s clothes and other possessions, their babbling voices full of excitement. They had left Greenwich and were now in the large and magnificent set of apartments at York Place in London. The king had sent for Anne.
The queen herself was in high spirits, the merriest Bridget had ever seen her. She seemed to be fully recovered from her miscarriage and was ready to re-enter court life. She was certainly eager to return to her husband and with very good reason.
