by V. E. Lynne
“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.
Bridget gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment and wrapped her arms around Will, eager to draw him as close to her as possible. “God, I want you, Bridget,” he murmured, his lips shifting hotly from her mouth to her neck. Bridget arched herself against him and made a little mewling sound, like a cat, that made Will laugh.
“Sorry,” Bridget said, aware that she had broken the spell. “Do you not like that? I do not have the experience—”
Will placed his fingers upon her lips to quiet her. “Do not apologise. You are perfect and entirely too tempting. You drive me mad.” He rested his forehead against hers and for a long minute it felt as though they breathed as one.
Will was the first to move away. “Enough of this. I must go and you should return to the queen. She will think you are lost.”
Bridget smiled at him and quickly nodded her head. “Am I not lost already? But you are right, I have tarried too long, and your charms quite overwhelmed me.”
Will chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. “As yours have done to me,” he replied before planting a final kiss on her mouth. “Till the next time, sweetheart.” He departed.
Bridget ran her tongue over her lips and tasted Will’s kiss. Her heart beat in double time, and she gloried in the hot feeling running through her veins. Never had her old cloistered life at the abbey felt so distant from her new one at court. Had she adopted the debauched ways of the courtier? Was she now a sinner? Had she damned herself in the eyes of God? What would her old abbess, the woman she had admired most in the world, think of her stolen kisses with Will? Would Bridget tell her, or indeed anyone of how she felt? She sighed and crossed herself, a thousand doubts rapidly replacing desire in her mind as she returned to her queen.
Chapter Fourteen
Life continued at court without incident. It was common knowledge that the king and Chapuys had quarrelled and that His Majesty was angry with Cromwell. Wiltshire and Rochford were positively gleeful and could hardly wipe the smiles off their faces.
“The king has taken your side daughter,” Wiltshire asserted jovially. “He has demanded that the emperor recognise you as queen and he has told him, through that toady Chapuys, that he will deal with the Lady Mary as he sees fit! We have the upper hand again. The emperor will have to come to us now and accept our terms and not vice versa!”
Anne looked reflectively at her father. “Yes, it does seem that way, Father, however as we found out through the good offices of Bridget here, Edward Seymour was at the meeting between the king and Chapuys. And why should that have been, I wonder? Because he promotes that family of fawners relentlessly, that is why. Just as he once did for us. You say we have the upper hand; I still feel that I am on shaky ground.”
Lord Rochford sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. “That bloody family is all you ever talk about, Anne! As we have told you many times, little Jane and her rapacious tribe are a temporary problem; they are barely even a ripple upon the surface waters of the court. Here and then gone faster than one may blink. She is but a pale shadow of you, and as for her brothers . . . well, let’s just say that thoughts of them do not keep me awake at night.”
“Aye and we all know what does!” Sir Francis Weston remarked, sauntering into the room, as Sir William Brereton and Sir Henry Norris trailed behind him. Guffaws of laughter followed his comment, and Lord Rochford coloured slightly. Lady Rochford found Bridget’s gaze and favoured her with a knowing look. Bridget could not help but recall the scene she had witnessed between the queen’s brother and the musician Smeaton. Bridget wondered whether the queen actually knew about the liaison, as Lady Rochford assured her she did, or whether she had simply decided to turn a blind eye to the side of her brother’s life that did not please her. Perhaps she simply did not care. Anne’s closeness to Lord Rochford was well known, and Bridget imagined that nothing, not even an act the church would condemn as a mortal sin, could alter that.
“I will leave you young people to your entertainment,” Wiltshire said. “I have important matters to attend to.” The earl bowed to his daughter and departed swiftly.
Within a short time, the chamber was filled with raucous laughter as Sir Francis regaled them with one of the many tales he had accrued of his colourful life. He certainly had many female admirers and, once again, Bridget was glad that Joanna had managed to keep her maidenhead from being surrendered to him.
There was, however, no denying his charm and charisma, or his ability to amuse everyone with his stories and jokes. Joanna still looked at him with yearning in her eyes and she was far from the only one.
Sir Francis finished his story and the last of the laughter died away. Into the silence spoke the normally reserved Sir William Brereton. “I hear, from a reliable source, that Thomas Cromwell keeps to his house at Stepney, Your Majesty. Apparently, he is ill.”
The hairs on the back of Bridget’s neck stood up. The last time she had seen and heard the Master Secretary was a mere two days ago, and he had not seemed remotely sick then. Full of choler and frustration, yes. But unwell? No. Then again, she knew from her time at the abbey that seemingly healthy people could and did fall sick very quickly and sometimes died. That had been the case two years ago when the sweating sickness had swept through Rivers Abbey and carried off many of its inhabitants, including two of Joanna’s cousins and almost Joanna herself. Bridget could clearly recall nursing Joanna back to health after the terrifying illness had struck her down one quiet summer’s morning. Queen Anne had also caught the sweat a few years back and had barely escaped with her life. So, it was perfectly possible that Cromwell was genuinely ill, with the sweat or some other malady. But somehow Bridget did not quite believe it. It seemed too conveniently timed to be real.
It appeared that Anne thought so too. “Do you think this is a diplomatic illness, Sir William? Perhaps Mr Secretary needs some time to lick his wounds after recent events. The king was most displeased with him. Was he not, Bridget?”
Bridget readily agreed. “Yes, he was, Majesty. There was much shouting and Master Secretary Cromwell was himself angry and not a little afraid of the king’s ire being aimed towards him.”
Sir William clapped his hands and grunted with approval. “Excellent. Anything that discountenances that upstart is surely good news for us all. He needs to be shown his proper station in life. He has risen entirely too high for any self-respecting nobleman to tolerate. He has even in the past tried to interfere in business on my own lands! Fortunately, he did not succeed, but that kind of meddling from one such as him is not to be borne!”
“Cromwell may be meddlesome and lowborn, but he is not to be underestimated, Brereton. He is a most capable man and the king well knows it.” The quiet words of Sir Henry Norris dropped onto the heads of the conversationalists like an icy shower of rain. Rochford and Brereton exchanged a look, and Anne fixed Norris with an unblinking gaze.
“Yes, we are all well aware of Mr Cromwell’s capabilities,” the queen remarked acidly. “He has demonstrated them many times. Whatever one may think of him, he at least is a man who makes decisions, a man of action if you will, which makes him very unlike you, Sir Henry. Tell me, do you ever intend to actually marry my good cousin here?” The queen indicated a disconcerted-looking Madge Shelton. “If you do sir, you are taking your time about it. Or perhaps it is simply that you hope for better things?”
Anne’s words sucked all residual good humour out of the chamber and turned the atmosphere instantly cold. Sir Henry blushed crimson from the base of his throat to the sandy blond roots of his hair. The others all studiously avoid
ed looking at him and Lord Rochford coughed loudly. Sir Henry opened his mouth to respond but initially no sound came out. When it did, his voice was croaky and weak.
“Majesty, I do not know what you are talking about. Mistress Shelton and I do intend to marry, but neither one of us is in any particular hurry. Is that not right, Madge?” Madge looked appalled to be included in the discussion and could barely nod her head in agreement. Throughout it all, the queen’s eyes had not left those of Sir Henry’s, and now she rose from her chair and approached him directly. Sir Henry seemed mesmerised by her and, for the first time, Bridget sensed the presence of something between them, a faint crackle upon the air, like the distant sound of a house on fire.
“You are in no hurry, Sir Henry? Only a man could make such a claim. I am sure that my cousin is in fact in a great hurry, for she is a woman. A woman does not have all the time in the world to sit around waiting for a man to make up his mind. The years of childbearing are all too brief. Madge, like us all, desires a son. But then you have already been blessed with one, have you not? You do not have the pressure of providing an heir weighing upon your shoulders. One of the advantages of being a widower no doubt. I wonder if what you would really like is in fact a widow and not a young maid like my cousin. Is that the true reason for your delay, sir? You are waiting for me to be free—”
“Anne, stop it!” Rochford interrupted her, halting his sister’s words by stepping between her and Norris, whose red face by this juncture had faded to the colour of a January day. Bridget noticed that he was shaking, his solid frame riven by tremors of shock.
Rochford was speaking earnestly in the queen’s ear and soon she tossed her head to one side and laughed gaily. “Oh, George, I was teasing! Sir Henry knows I was only teasing him! You know that, do you not?”
Norris had, with effort, got his emotions under control and now wore the biddable smile of a courtier upon his face. “Of course, Majesty, I know that you speak only in jest.” He punctuated his words with a small, slightly ironic bow. The queen regarded him for a few moments, then put on her best smile, which lit up her whole face but did not quite reach her coal-black eyes.
“You see? It is all merely a game. And now, let us play one for real. I wish to play at cards. I am sure you gentlemen are interested.”
Weston and Brereton immediately expressed their agreement and joined the queen at a heavy table that ran along the side of the chamber. Sir Henry Norris did not follow quite so eagerly, and even Lord Rochford dragged his feet, his face unusually serious. Across the room, Madge Shelton, Lady Worcester, and Lady Rochford had formed into a little knot, their small bodies presenting a bulwark between them and the queen’s party. To Bridget, they did not look like jovial gamesters, content to go along with the queen’s innocent, teasing ways. They looked like huntresses, methodically saddling their horses before setting off in pursuit of their prey. And judging from their expressions, their prey was situated just across the chamber from them, almost within their grasp.
Later that day, Bridget, Joanna, and Catherine were strolling in the park, walking the dogs as had become a common pastime for them. The queen often accompanied them, but she was still too engrossed in her game to venture outside. The dogs though, especially Urian, would not wait for their mistress and had demanded to be let out. They had gotten their wish and now they frolicked happily, tearing backwards and forwards, in the slowly waning sunshine.
“Bridget, are you afraid?” Catherine Carey asked tautly, her right hand raised to shield her face from the last of the warm rays.
“Afraid of what?” Bridget replied.
Catherine took a moment to answer, then she spoke in a rush. “The king hardly visits the queen anymore; he spends all his time with Jane Seymour and her family, whom he includes in all things. The court is absolutely alive with every kind of rumour—that the king considers himself free to marry again now that Catherine is dead, that the queen will never have a son, that her last baby died because of witchcraft.”
“Shh!” Bridget reacted, placing a finger to Catherine’s lips. “Do not talk such nonsense; the queen is no witch, as you well know. God chose to take her last baby, and we are all subject to His Will. It is dangerous to repeat such rumours.”
Catherine sighed loudly and rubbed her hands up and down her arms vigorously as the sun drifted behind a cloud. “I know such talk is dangerous. Mistress Marshall has already remonstrated with us and others, but it does not stop anybody’s tongue! Of course the queen is no witch, but that is why I am afraid! People are saying these things and seem to have no fear of the consequences, as once they would have. It is as if the ground has shifted and the Seymours are the ones to be courted now, the ones to be deferred to, not the Boleyns. It feels like our star has faded and suddenly we all stand in the perilous dark. And then there is what Lady Rochford says . . .”
“’Tis true” Joanna said, before Bridget could interrupt her. “All these things are being talked of openly, and Lady Rochford tells us such awful tales not just about the queen but about her own husband! She says that the queen was corrupted in France and that she had a hundred men before the king and that is why she cannot have a son. I even heard her say that the queen and Lord Rochford have lain together, and that she knew this because her husband had told her one night when he had drunk too much wine.”
Catherine’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and even Joanna seemed shocked at her own words. Bridget stood rooted to the spot, as though she had transformed herself into one of the trees in the park. She shook off the sensation and spoke, as sternly as she could, to both her companions. “I do not care what Lady Rochford, or anyone else says; you do not heed such tales and you certainly do not repeat such . . . vile accusations against Her Majesty to anyone. Lord Rochford is the queen’s brother, for God’s sake! Loose talk about such a high ranking person could land you, especially you, Joanna, in serious trouble . . .”
Bridget had a sudden vision of Joanna being led through a crowd of baying spectators, a scaffold looming in the distance. She closed her eyes against the image. “Joanna, do you understand?” Bridget asked softly, taking her friend’s hand in hers. “Mistress Carey is right, there is some cause for anxiety at the present time, but repeating rumours will not help matters. We must support the queen and try to protect her from those who wish her ill. That is our sworn duty. As for the rest, I have faith that it will work out well for the queen. After all, the king did champion her cause to Chapuys, refusing to entertain his master’s demands until he acknowledges the validity of the king and queen’s marriage. Surely he would not do that if he was thinking of divorce.”
“He might,” Catherine Carey argued. “The king will never admit to any fault, never admit any wrongdoing. He cannot. He is king and therefore it is not for others to condemn him or to criticise his actions. He must insist on the validity of his marriage, for to do otherwise would be tantamount to him saying that he was wrong to put away Catherine. That course is unacceptable to him. That does not mean that he does not entertain thoughts of a new marriage. After all, he has already repudiated one wife, and she was a Spanish princess and greatly loved by the people.”
“And Anne is not a princess and not loved,” Bridget finished softly, recognising inwardly the underlying truth of Catherine’s argument. The three maids shared a look of realisation between them, a look that said that their mistress did stand in genuine peril, that the quarrel between the king and Cromwell did not necessarily mark a victory for Anne. It might simply signify only that Henry was not prepared to have his decisions questioned by anybody, not even by the all-powerful Emperor Charles V. Henry Tudor would be dictated to by no one. Then Bridget had a further realisation.
“That is why Thomas Cromwell is away from court,” she murmured, half to herself and half to the others.
“What do you mean?” Joanna asked.
“We are not the only ones who harbour fears,” she replied. “Cromwell does too. I heard him say as much after his argument
with the king. ‘The wrath of the prince is death’ were his words. He feels he is in danger, not only of keeping his position, but of keeping his life. Therefore, he needs some time away from court, some breathing space, in order to carefully plot his next move. And that may not augur well for Her Majesty.”
“Perhaps you could find out his plans, Bridget,” Catherine suggested. “After all, you are close to Redcliff, and he likes you as well. I have seen him look at you with warmth in his eyes. If you can find nothing out from him directly, ask Redcliff what his master’s plans are. That way the queen could be forewarned and she could act accordingly.”
“Yes, Bridget, you could do that!” Joanna happily concurred, her face breaking into a smile. “Will obviously loves you; he is bound to tell you all he knows! Then the queen will be able to easily avoid any trap that Mr Cromwell may be setting for her. All would be well and we could stop worrying.” Both Joanna and Catherine nodded in unison and looked at Bridget expectantly.
Bridget herself was not so convinced. She knew Will’s feelings for her were strong, but she was also well aware of his loyalty to Cromwell. Would he really tell her everything? And how much would a wily man like Thomas Cromwell realistically confide in his servant anyway? If he were truly planning to separate the queen from the king and presumably send her into exile, then he would have to play his cards very close to his chest. Still, one never knew, and given the precarious nature of things at court, it was worth an attempt at least.
