by V. E. Lynne
After the incident with the garnet ring, other presents had continued to arrive throughout the month for Jane. She had not repeated her initial mistake of flaunting her trinkets from the king in front of Anne, which meant that Bridget, to her relief, had not been prevailed upon to throw anything else into the Thames.
The queen had, however, taken to asserting her authority over her lady in waiting in other ways. Jane’s pale skin was a patchwork of bumps and bruises, marks which bore silent testimony to Anne’s frustration and anger, emotions she had no compunction in expressing physically. She had pinched Jane, thumped her on the arm, and had even slapped her across the face. Jane took it all without complaint. As Anne’s servant, it was her place to do so.
Bridget had been subjected to no such abuse—in fact, quite the opposite—and she now basked fully in the sunshine of the queen’s favour. Anne liked Bridget to dress her hair for her, and it was this task she was performing now, winding the thick chestnut tresses on top of her head, before the queen put on her favourite French hood. She preferred its subtle, curved style to the bulky English gable hood, which did not flatter her sharp features. Of course, some people would say that with her background and her tastes, she just preferred French ways full stop.
Bridget, Catherine, and Joanna helped Anne with her gown, deep russet velvet that highlighted her eyes, and Madge Shelton fastened the B pendant, with its three-drop pearls, around her neck. The queen admired herself in the looking glass and sighed with pleasure. She did look truly marvellous. “You look wonderful, Majesty,” Lady Worcester exclaimed, speaking for all of them.
Anne looked happily at her ladies, her gaze faltering as it fell on Jane Seymour. The young woman was dressed demurely in a pale grey gown that washed her colouring out even more than usual. She was unaware of the queen’s stare because she was too interested in opening and closing a jewelled pendant that hung around her neck. It was an insubstantial, flimsy item, attached to a gold chain, and Jane seemed endlessly fascinated with it.
Anne walked slowly towards Jane, as a huntress stalking a doe. She stood directly in front of her, and Jane, finally noticing her mistress, ceased playing with the locket and looked miserably away. The chamber had gone completely still. Bridget was expecting the queen to slap her attendant, as she had done before, but this time she did not. Instead, she took the pendant in her hand with an almost reverent air. She gazed at it for a few moments, and then, without warning, she ripped it from Jane’s neck. The chain broke and the locket went clattering to the floor. Jane cried out and grasped at her throat. The queen had scratched her skin, and a small streak of blood had bubbled to the surface. Jane pressed her hand to the wound, her eyes round in her chalky face. Anne regarded her calmly before turning her back in dismissal. Nobody dared to breathe a word.
The arrival of a group of men broke the heavy silence. It was the usual company, and Anne greeted them with joy, especially her brother Lord Rochford, who beheld his sister with an equal measure of delight. “God’s blood, Anne, you look superb!” he declared. “Twill not be long ere you are with child again, perhaps a Christmas prince this time?” The queen smiled at his teasing and giggled in a coquettish fashion.
“Aye, brother, twill not be long. In fact, I expect the king to visit my chamber tonight after the feast.” Today was the feast day of St Matthias, and the king and queen, along with the whole court, were due to mark the occasion with a feast in the Great Hall. It would be Henry and Anne’s first public appearance since the loss of their unborn son. Anne knew that all eyes would be upon her, and she was determined to put on a good show.
“Well, if it isn’t Sir Henry Norris! How are you?” Anne asked, turning her attention away from Rochford. “I have not seen you for a time. Do you not think that my cousin Madge looks well?” Sir Henry’s blue eyes brightened when the queen spoke to him, but the mention of Mistress Shelton’s name caused the light to dim just a little. He looked momentarily confused at the question, but then, like a good servant, he turned his obliging gaze upon Madge.
“Mistress Shelton looks very well, Majesty,” he answered respectfully. “In fact, I have never seen her look lovelier.” Madge coloured slightly, smiled coyly, and Anne looked from one to the other with affection. “That being the case, sir, it will not be long before you marry my cousin?”
Sir Henry’s face changed, and Madge studied the floor in embarrassment. Lady Rochford and Lady Worcester exchanged a knowing glance, and Sir Francis Weston coughed behind his hand. Norris laughed to cover his discomfort and gave a small shrug. “In time, my lady, in time” was his reply.
The queen shook her head and sighed in frustration. “Mind you do not wait too long, sir,” she chided. “Marriage is not a state that benefits from delay.” Norris, who was a widower and therefore not unfamiliar with the state of matrimony, bowed in acknowledgement and lowered his eyes. Bridget looked across at Madge and noted the sadness in her features. Evidently, she did not expect a wedding any time soon.
“Your Majesty, the Prioress of Catesby has arrived for her audience,” one of the queen’s servants announced from the doorway.
“Ah yes,” the queen said, “and not a moment too soon. Bridget, I desire you to attend on me.” Bridget was slightly taken aback; after all, it was not really her place to sit in on one of the queen’s private meetings. But then, as she was quickly learning, Anne did not always observe the conventional rules as others did. She oftentimes made her own.
In the presence chamber, the prioress was waiting. She dressed in the habit of her order, and was an attractive older woman, but her eyes were shadowed with worry. She curtseyed deeply to the queen and kissed Anne’s proffered hand. “Majesty,” she began in a respectful voice, “I come to you today on a most important matter. As you know, our priory is to be dissolved, on the orders of Master Secretary Cromwell.”
Bridget started a little at the mention of his name, as if she expected him to leap out from behind one of the tapestries at any moment. It would not have surprised her if he were hiding behind one now, listening to their every word. “Do not be so silly,” she muttered to herself, a trifle loudly. Both women turned and looked at her. “Excuse me,” Bridget said, coughing, “I just needed to clear my throat.”
Anne held her gaze before returning her attention to the prioress. “Continue,” she ordered.
“Your Majesty, I come to you as our queen and as a patroness of true religion, and I ask you to intercede on our behalf with the king. You represent our last hope. I pleaded with the Master Secretary to spare us, but he is a hard-hearted gentleman, I am sorry to say, and is, I fear, unmoved by our plight.”
The prioress had fallen to her knees and Anne regarded her thoughtfully. After a moment, she indicated she should rise and take a seat. This the prioress did with difficulty. The queen seated herself in a magnificent, carved, dark wood chair with a crimson cushion and tapped her fingers upon the arm rest. “Although the Master Secretary and I are of one mind on many matters, it seems we do not agree on this case. I am inclined to save your priory, as I believe that instead of dissolving religious houses, they should be converted to better uses, educational and charitable, for example. Also, some houses should be spared altogether, as they are godly places and should not be punished for the sins of the ungodly. Your priory would fall into that category. I believe this is the Christian thing to do.”
The prioress looked elated. “Does that mean, Majesty, that you shall ask the king to save us?”
“Yes, I shall,” the queen replied with a genuine smile, and the prioress actually sagged with relief in her chair, the lines of stress evident upon her face.
“I am resolved to save as many houses as I can,” the queen said, turning towards Bridget. “I could not save Mistress Manning’s house, Rivers Abbey, although perhaps that was a good thing as it brought her into my service! But you may rest assured that I will not see Catesby dissolved, if it lies within my power.”
Anne rose, signalling that the audience
was over. The prioress sank into another deep curtsey and departed, her fears clearly assuaged. The queen sighed contentedly and swept back into her privy chamber, where the sounds of laughter at one of Sir Francis Weston’s jokes could be plainly heard. Bridget followed slowly, her heart aching with sympathy for the prioress. It was hard to lose one’s home and the only life one had ever known. Despite what the queen had said, Bridget did not hold out much hope for the survival of Catesby Priory. Not as long as Thomas Cromwell had anything to do with it.
Bridget took in the sights and sounds of the Great Hall at York Place with awe. The huge room was alive with light and colour, candles burning from every sconce, tables groaning with every kind of food, more food than Bridget had ever seen. Meals at the abbey had been fairly simple affairs, but this was obviously not the case at the court of King Henry VIII. There was more meat on offer than the assembled company could possibly eat—chicken, beef, pork, venison, and swan, as well as a splendid blackbird pie. There were flagons of ale and wine and plenty of manchet bread, which Bridget loved. She broke off a piece and chewed it happily.
Bridget was seated with Joanna and Catherine, who were amusing themselves, giggling about the young men on display, especially the most handsome one amongst them, Sir Francis Weston. Sir Francis, who did look darkly attractive in rich red, was holding forth with Lord Rochford, Sir William Brereton, and a preoccupied-looking Sir Henry Norris. They made a striking quartet, and most female eyes, not to mention a few male ones, were drawn towards them. When they weren’t looking at the king and queen, of course.
So far, the royal couple, seated upon their dais, seemed to be getting along well. Anne was dressed in a gown of sapphire blue, with diamonds glittering at her throat, and her gold coronet gleaming upon her head. She appeared calm and relaxed and the king was showing honest affection to her, now and then touching her arm and whispering in her ear. Bridget had seen the look of appreciation in his eyes when he had first beheld her. He had barely glanced at Jane Seymour all night.
Bridget felt a sense of satisfaction wash over her. She had begun to enjoy her role as maid of honour to the queen. The court was a bustling, exciting, intriguing place to be. At first, it had been an overwhelming experience, and not a little scary. Now, secure in the queen’s favour, and with the rapprochement between Henry and Anne clear for all to see, Bridget was hopeful that everything was back on the right path. Perhaps Lord Rochford would be proved right and there would be a prince in the cradle by Christmastide. The young maid smiled at the prospect.
Joanna nudged her in the ribs, breaking her reverie. “Something has gone wrong,” she whispered. “Look at the queen.”
Bridget turned her eyes towards the dais and could see that Joanna was right. The calm and relaxed Anne was gone and in her place was a woman sitting rigidly in her chair, her face flushed a dull red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Bridget could not tell. In any event, it was clear that the king had lost his former interest in her and was now rather moodily eating his meal.
After a few moments, he got up and walked away into the main body of the hall. There he began conversing with one of his oldest companions from childhood, Sir Nicholas Carew. Carew was a conservative and certainly no supporter of Anne’s. She had spoken of him as being part of the “old guard” who despised everything about her and her family. The king appeared to be enjoying his company, and presently they were joined by Henry’s closest friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. The room soon rang with the sound of hearty male laughter.
The queen’s father, Wiltshire, and her brother Rochford, frowned in concern and both directed beseeching pairs of eyes upon the queen, sending her silent signals to do something. Anne deliberately avoided looking at them and did no more than drink deeply from her cup of wine.
Two people in the hall watched the tableau with great curiosity. Lady Rochford, who had been sullen all evening, had come alive and was taking an eager interest in events. She whispered something to her husband, who was seated unhappily beside her. He said nothing in response, preferring to remain speechless and stare sourly into space.
At the back of the hall, Thomas Cromwell observed the gathering with a practised, feline gaze. His small eyes roved over the company and came to rest for a moment on Bridget. He arched his right eyebrow slightly and smiled, which brightened his dark face. It actually transformed him for an instant, and Bridget caught a glimpse of the young man he must once have been before he began his career serving the House of Tudor. Rumour had it that he had been a mercenary soldier in Europe, although no one seemed to know very much about the details. He was a bit like Bridget in that regard, a virtual nobody who had, by some quirk of fate, ended up at court. Except that Thomas Cromwell did not look like the kind of man who ended up anywhere that he did not expressly wish to be. He was certainly a man of intrigue, and Bridget found herself oddly drawn to him.
A figure appeared behind him, and Cromwell broke eye contact. It was Will Redcliff and the Master Secretary was attending closely to what he had to say. He whispered something in answer to Will; it looked like he was issuing instructions, and then Will disappeared. Bridget made the sudden decision to follow him.
Making sure that Cromwell still had his attention diverted elsewhere, Bridget got up and made her way as quickly and quietly as she could to the back of the Hall. Feeling an unaccountable need to see Will, she exited the Hall and just caught the edge of his retreating back disappearing around a corner.
Quietly, Bridget trailed him through the palace and out into the cold night air. Once they got away from the immediate environs of York Place, it became very dark. There was no moon, and Bridget had to be especially careful where she was placing her feet. She had left in such a hurry that she had forgotten her cloak and soon her arms were a mass of goose bumps. She rubbed them vigorously and continued forward until she was grabbed from behind and a strong hand clamped over her mouth.
She felt her body pressed very firmly into the hard embrace of a man. He had one arm hooked tightly around her waist, so tightly that Bridget could barely move. “Do not scream,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. It was Will Redcliff.
He slowly removed his hand, and Bridget took a gulp of air. For a few moments, the only sound was their respective breathing, hers laboured, his slightly less so. Will still had her round the waist and he showed no signs of letting her go. “Now,” he said, his voice low, “why were you following me?”
“I saw you speaking to your master and I wondered where you might be going in such a hurry,” Bridget replied. Will said nothing; he did, however, loosen his grip on her waist. Bridget took the opportunity to slide away, but she found her back against a wall. Will was standing right in front of her and, even in the gloom, she could see his eyes boring into hers.
“Where I go in the service of my master does not concern you, Bridget,” he said evenly. “It is not your place to follow me. Your place is with the queen and the rest of her ladies in the Great Hall.”
Bridget replied almost without thinking. “Where you go may not concern me, but it may concern Her Majesty,” she said quickly. Her eyes had now fully adjusted to the dark and she saw Will smile.
“Oh really? Mistress Manning, do not tell me that you are becoming caught up in the machinations of the court? ’Tis a perilous thing to do. Best to remain as you are—an innocent.”
With that, he closed the gap between them and cupped her face in his surprisingly warm hands. Bridget’s whole body started to thrum. “I have wanted to do this ever since I first saw you,” he murmured before putting his lips to hers.
At first, the kiss was soft and undemanding, a slow, sweet exploration of her mouth. Then it changed and seemed to explode, and a sense of urgency swept over Bridget. She could not get enough of him, of his touch, of his body pressed against hers, the evidence of his desire hard against her stomach. She had been brought up to believe that this was a sin, that if she did this outside marriage she would go to Hell, but at that mome
nt she did not care. The blood was hot in her veins and she felt gloriously, completely alive.
“God . . .” Will breathed, his lips trailing a line of fire down the long column of her neck. He kissed the tops of her breasts and fumbled with the tight lacing of her gown. With trembling fingers, Bridget helped him, and soon her breasts were exposed to the cool night air. Will took one of her nipples into his mouth, and Bridget’s insides tightened with pleasure.
Will lifted her slightly higher against the wall and ran his hands up the inside of her thighs until her found the burning centre of her. Bridget barely restrained her cry of pleasure and bit the inside of her cheek as he began to rub his fingers against it. “Please,” she whispered, her senses almost lost in the tide of passion that was threatening to swamp her young body. Will stepped away from her for just a moment, to open his own clothing, and then he was fully between her legs, ready to take her. “Yes,” she said, kissing him hard and wrapping herself around him, serpent-like. It was then that they heard the crunching sound.
It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over them. They both shrank back against the wall, trying to become one with it, as the unknown footsteps walked past, not ten feet from them. They held their collective breath until they were sure that the figure had passed by and they were still safely ensconced in darkness. Will carefully lowered Bridget to the ground and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I am sorry,” he said, rearranging himself. “I should not have allowed . . . things to go so far.”
