Ambition's Queen (Bridget Manning #1)

by V. E. Lynne

  Anne nodded and held out her hand for him to kiss, which he duly did. “You may go,” she said, turning away in dismissal. As soon as her back was turned, Cromwell’s smile vanished and his expression changed from studied deference to stormy anger. He swept from the room as fast as he could, for once paying no attention to Bridget. As soon as he was gone, Anne broke into laughter.

  “That has given him something to think about! I thought he was going to die of fright at one point and the headsman would not be needed after all! He will not be so eager to make common cause with my adversaries now, or to speak against me to the king. Not now he can feel the axe against his neck. I think he looked thoroughly chastened. Do you not think so, Mistress Manning?”

  Bridget obediently agreed, but she did not share the queen’s opinion. She thought that rather than accepting his reprimand, Cromwell had been in a state of furious indignation when he had left, although he had hidden it rather well. Only Bridget had seen the flash of anger in his midnight eyes, after the initial burst of fear, underscored by a spark of ruthless determination. Thomas Cromwell was not the kind of man you made an enemy of. But with dread rising in her chest, Bridget feared that the queen had just done that.

  Chapter Ten

  April 1536

  It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and the ladies of the queen’s household were entertaining the Princess Elizabeth in the gardens at Greenwich. The little girl, who was the image of her father the king, was spending some time at court, much to her mother’s delight. Anne adored the child, whom she always made sure was well cared for and gorgeously attired. She revelled in ordering her daughter’s wardrobe and made certain that everything was of the finest quality. Today, the little Princess was wearing a beautiful red velvet dress that flew behind her as she tore across the grass. Upon her coppery head she wore a dainty cap exquisitely trimmed with gold lace. It barely contained her wild, auburn curls.

  The presence of Anne and Henry’s lively heiress improved everyone’s spirits, especially the queen’s. Although Elizabeth had her own household and spent most of her time at Eltham with Margaret Bryan, her Lady Governess, she was present often enough at court to keep Anne happy. The queen derived great enjoyment from playing with Elizabeth and observing how much she had grown and how bright she was. Her intelligence was certainly in no doubt. She spoke very well for a child who was not yet three years old and she noticed everything. She had immediately singled Bridget out as a new face and demanded to know her name.

  “I am Bridget Manning, my lady Princess, and I am at your command,” she answered with a smile in her voice, bobbing a deep curtsey to the small child. Elizabeth had solemn eyes, dark like Anne’s, and she took a moment to assess this stranger.

  Finding her to her liking, Elizabeth had taken her hand and said, “I like you, Bridget. I want you to play with me.”

  Everyone had laughed and Bridget, along with the other maids, had spent the last few days obliging the princess. She had abundant energy and ran everyone ragged, including the queen, who had joined in the fun. It had been refreshing to see some the worry lines disappear from Anne’s brow, even if it was only for a short time.

  But today, Anne was absent. She was closeted with her almoner, John Skip, who was supposed to preach the sermon in the King’s Chapel tomorrow for Passion Sunday. Skip was a great favourite of the queen’s, as they were both church reformers. Or heretics, as some would have it.

  “Bridget, catch me!” Elizabeth shouted, laughing as she ran up to the maid and then sprinted away, her legs working furiously.

  “My lady, be careful!” Lady Bryan, Elizabeth’s governess, called after her charge.

  “Do not fear, Lady Bryan, I will soon catch her!” Bridget assured the older woman before setting off after the princess. Elizabeth was giggling madly when Bridget swiftly apprehended her, swinging her off the ground, which greatly increased the child’s amusement. The princess put her arms around Bridget’s neck and held on tight. She smelled of apples and sunshine.

  Through her own laughter, Bridget noticed a man across the park leaning against a tree. She recognised him immediately. It was Will. He smiled in greeting and beckoned to her. The young maid placed Elizabeth gently on the ground and said, “Go back to your governess now, my lady. Quick, she is waiting for you.”

  The little girl trotted off to Lady Bryan, and Bridget made her way across to Will. Her mind was full of two things: what had happened, or almost happened, between them on that night, and what had occurred between the queen and his master Cromwell much more recently. The conflicting thoughts caused a frisson of excitement and dread to run through her.

  “Good afternoon, Bridget,” Will said, his deep green eyes sparkling. “I am sorry it has taken so long for us to meet again. I want to apologise properly for what happened that night.”

  Bridget held up her hand. “Will, no apology is necessary. We both got a little carried away and—”

  “No,” Will interrupted. “You must not take the responsibility. I am older and more experienced in the ways of the world. I should not have . . . touched you in the way I did. You are of the queen’s household, and of her blood, and not meant for the likes of me.” His mouth curved upwards sardonically.

  Bridget sighed deeply at his words. Although she realised that what he said was basically true, that things had gone too far, she could not deny what she felt when he looked at her or touched her. It made her feel alive as nothing else ever had and, in her heart, she wanted more, despite what her sensible head told her. Quite simply, she wanted Will Redcliff and did not like the prospect that he was out of bounds.

  “Do not misunderstand me, Bridget, I feel the same,” Will said, startling Bridget with his ability to read her mind. “But we must exercise caution. Maintaining your honour is important, and right now, I do not have much to offer you. However, I anticipate that that may soon change. My master is the coming man at court, his influence grows every day, and he is an excellent master to me. Sooner rather than later, I hope to be able to support a wife. Even one who is maid of honour to the queen.”

  Bridget’s face clouded over at the mention of Cromwell. Will tilted his head and studied her countenance. “You do not agree?” he asked.

  “It is not that, but it is complicated, Will. Relations between your master and the queen are not so friendly at the moment. I am not sure if they can be repaired.”

  “Is that any surprise?” Will said shortly. “She threatened to have him executed.” Bridget started a little, and Will laughed at her reaction. “Oh yes, I know about it. Everyone knows. The breach between them is the talk of the court. My master told me that you were in the room when the, shall we say, discussion took place, so you know exactly what was said.”

  “Yes, I do,” Bridget replied, “but the queen did have her reasons for behaving as she did. Mr Cromwell has given up his rooms to the Seymours, who hate my mistress, and he does not support the queen’s stance on the religious houses. Perhaps she did speak a little recklessly—”

  “She does that,” Will commented flatly, “and it is most unwise of her.” His voice was hard and Bridget was slightly taken aback.

  She came to Anne’s defence. “The queen may speak a little unguardedly at times, but she means no harm. I am sure that she does not really intend to send your master to the scaffold. She merely wanted to remind him of where his loyalties should lie.”

  Will rolled his eyes and sighed. “It is fortunate that you are so pretty and charming, otherwise your naivety would be positively dangerous. But let us talk no more about the queen and Cromwell. Time is short, and I see that our meeting has attracted interest.”

  Bridget followed Will’s eyes and saw that all the ladies, as well as the young princess, were observing them keenly. “Oh no, I must get back,” Bridget said hurriedly.

  Will nodded and took a small step forwards, planting a quick kiss on Bridget’s cheek. “We are constantly interrupted! Till next time, when we will have a greater opportunity to
talk properly to each other.”

  Bridget took a deep breath before turning around and walking back to the group. “I hope we are not keeping you from anything,” Lady Rochford said archly, causing Madge Shelton to titter in response.

  “Not at all Lady Rochford, the young man is merely an acquaintance,” Bridget replied breezily. Joanna and Catherine avoided her eyes and the others looked frankly incredulous. Lady Rochford opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by the arrival of a messenger.

  The young fellow made a beeline for Jane Seymour and presented her with a letter and a purse, which appeared to be bulging with coins. Bridget saw a brief look of calculation cross her features before she arranged them into an expression of modesty. Jane pressed the letter to her lips and kissed it tenderly, but she refrained from opening it. She did however open the purse and proceeded to empty a few of the coins into her small palm. They were gold sovereigns.

  Lady Rochford and Lady Worcester gazed in wide-eyed wonderment at the gleaming coins, and Joanna gasped before quickly clapping her hand over her mouth. Jane Seymour regarded the money with perfect equanimity before returning the sovereigns to the purse and handing it back to the messenger, along with the unopened letter. She then, to everyone’s astonishment, fell to her knees.

  “I pray you return to the king and tell him that I am a gentlewoman, of honourable family, who possesses no greater treasure in this world than her honour and I would not injure that for a thousand deaths. If the king wishes to send me money, I beg him to do so when God should send me a husband to marry.” Jane looked up at the messenger, who appeared amazed at her display. She favoured him with a chaste smile and lowered her head submissively.

  “I shall ccertainly give His M-Majesty your message Mistress S-Seymour,” the young man stammered before scurrying away.

  Silence reigned among the women. Jane Seymour got up off her knees, tidied her gown, and looked boldly at the ladies, as if challenging them to comment. None took up the challenge and the silence was only broken by the insistent voice of Princess Elizabeth. “Where is my mama? I want to see my mama!”

  Lady Bryan sighed in relief and took her small charge by the hand. “Come, my lady, we shall go inside and see your mama.” The girl chortled happily and took off at a fast clip, almost dragging her governess behind her. The ladies followed them at a more sedate pace.

  Lady Rochford made sure she fell into step with Bridget. “Quite the exhibition, was it not?” she whispered. “We have witnessed a pretty piece of acting indeed. The innocent maiden rejects a purse full of sovereigns from her anointed king, and shall only accept them when God sends her a husband to marry! The Seymour wench is no fool; she has certainly been well trained.”

  Bridget furrowed her brow. “Will not the king be offended that she spurned his present?”

  Lady Rochford met her look. “Oh no, little Bridget, offended is the last thing he shall be. On the contrary, he will be enchanted at her show of virtue; Henry admires such a trait in a woman. Also, as history has taught us, playing hard to get only increases His Majesty’s ardour. Anne did not give into him for years, and his passion and determination to have her grew and grew till he was driven half mad by it. The Seymours seek to play the same game. So far, they are proving past masters at it.”

  With that, Lady Rochford lengthened her stride and caught up with the other ladies. Bridget stared thoughtfully after her. Joanna walked up beside her friend and tentatively took her arm. “Bridget?” she asked softly. “Is the queen in trouble?”

  Bridget watched Jane Seymour saunter coolly into the palace, her figure proudly erect, her head held indomitably high. Her whole demeanour shouted out confidence to the world. “Yes, Joanna,” Bridget replied, her voice uneven. “I fear she might be.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Queen Anne paced up and down in her chamber while all about her was activity. Her gown, a lustrous deep blue, and her jewellery, ropes of pearls and her B pendant necklace, was being laid out in preparation for her attendance at the Passion Sunday sermon. Usually, Anne took a great interest in her apparel. But today she paid it all scant attention. She was entirely preoccupied with other matters.

  Lady Worcester was looking at her with concern. She approached the queen and spoke quietly to her, but not so quietly that her words were completely inaudible. “What is it, madam?” the countess asked. “You appear so agitated, so nervous. Are you unwell?”

  Anne stopped pacing and stood still. “I have many things on my mind, Lady Worcester. So many things I can barely make sense of them all. The sermon today is most important; Skip and I devised it together. I am almost positive that the king will like it, yet there is something gnawing at me, some nameless doubt that assails me. I never used to question my ability to influence my husband, to move him in the right direction, but these days I do not feel that same sense of assurance. Especially given how closely he listens to Cromwell and, more importantly, that he has taken to sending gifts to Jane Seymour every other day, including purses full of money! And then last night . . .” Anne lowered her voice until it could barely be heard. “The king visited me,” she whispered, and Lady Worcester’s face registered surprise and cautious optimism.

  “That is wonderful, madam,” she said. “You shall soon be in a happy condition, as I am.”

  Anne looked ruefully at the slight curve of the countess’s belly. “If only I could be,” Anne replied, her tone filled with frustration, “but the king is having his problems again, as he does from time to time.” Lady Worcester nodded, as if this was no news to her. “Usually, I can rouse him, but lately it has been difficult. I tried every trick, believe me. But . . . he shrank from me. He did not want me. He seemed to have repugnance for me, for my touch.”

  Lady Worcester put her hand on Anne’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. A look of deep sadness passed across the queen’s face. Visibly shaking it off, she turned to her ladies and clapped her hands together authoritatively. “Come, we must make ready. Where is my gown? Where are my dressers? Hurry, ladies, there is no time for lateness.”

  The queen, now garbed magnificently, and her household processed in a stately fashion to the King’s Chapel. Anne took her place beside the king, who greeted her with a kiss on the hand, and the ladies seated themselves according to their rank. Bridget looked about her with interest and noted that the cream of the court was in attendance today.

  The leading members of the Boleyn faction were all present—Wiltshire, Rochford, Sir Henry Norris, Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, and even Anne’s old suitor, Sir Thomas Wyatt. Bridget had not laid eyes on him before, but she had certainly heard plenty about him. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man that was almost equal to his reputation as a poet. It was said that he had been deeply in love with the queen before the king had pulled rank and Wyatt had had to abandon his pursuit of her. He had spent some years away from Court and had taken a mistress, his marriage being famously unhappy, and had forged a career as a diplomat. Bridget observed that Wyatt’s dreamy eyes lingered for a few moments on the queen, who did not deign to glance his way. Bridget wondered whether he had ever truly ceased to desire her.

  Bridget was not the only one of the queen’s ladies who had noticed the presence of Wyatt. Joanna was looking at him appreciatively, as was Lady Worcester, who was known to enjoy a courtly flirtation or two. The countess’s husband was not present, but her brother, Sir William Fitzwilliam, the king’s treasurer, was. He regarded his sister with evident disapproval and tried in vain to catch her eye. She resolutely ignored him and continued to let her gaze admire Wyatt.

  Fitzwilliam was one of the members of the congregation who was no real supporter of the queen. He had worked for the late Cardinal Wolsey, who had been so fond of him that he had called him his “treasure.” Anne’s enmity towards Wolsey was infamous and many people, no doubt Fitzwilliam included, blamed her for his downfall. In fact, the majority of the lofty assemblage nursed a grudge against the queen for something or other.
The old nobility, the likes of the Marquess of Exeter and Sir Nicholas Carew, the “white rose families,” some of whom had a greater claim to the throne than any Tudor possessed, blamed Anne for everything: the repudiation of Catherine, the shabby treatment of the Lady Mary, the promotion of inferior people to positions of power, and the state of the country at large. Many still felt a quiet loyalty towards Catherine and Mary and what might be termed the “old religion.” The executions of Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More the previous year were also laid squarely at Anne’s door. They saw her as a heretic and a whore with blood on her hands and a bastard child she sought to promote ahead of the true heiress, the Lady Mary.

  While the queen remained preeminent in Henry’s affections, these people and their festering resentments were given no outlet. But now that the queen had miscarried a son and the king paid open court to Jane Seymour, Anne’s enemies had grown in confidence. They keenly supported the Seymours, apparently coaching Jane on the best way to handle Henry. They held meetings and talked behind their hands. Anne knew that they were emboldened; she heard the rumours as well as anyone.

  Bridget had been so preoccupied by her thoughts that she had not heard Skip begin his sermon. She looked about her and realised that the congregation seemed mesmerised by him, which was unusual in Bridget’s experience of sermons. She glanced across at Thomas Cromwell, who was sitting perfectly upright, like a man carved of marble. The only indication that he was actually flesh and blood was the faint tremor that ran through his body and the dull, red tide that had swept up his neck. He had the appearance of a man who was barely restraining himself from committing an act of violence.