by V. E. Lynne
“Next time I see Will, I will ask him to tell me what he knows?” Bridget said, earning her a hug from her companions. “But do not get your hopes up. He may be in the dark, and besides, I do not know precisely when I may see him again.”
“Oh that part is simple,” Joanna said airily. “You may easily contrive a meeting with him. He is often to be found by the gates at dusk, ’tis said that he meets people there.”
Catherine and Bridget looked at her with enquiring expressions, but Joanna merely responded with a shrug of mock coyness. “What?” she said. “That is what I heard,” and with a wink she picked up a stick and hurled it towards the dogs who all went racing after it.
Chapter Fifteen
Bridget gathered her dark cloak tightly about her narrow shoulders and looked out into the rapidly darkening night. Dusk had come and gone and still Will Redcliff had not appeared. She could not stay out here much longer before the queen would become concerned and wonder where she was. She had already spun a story to her mistress about losing an earring with sentimental value that she simply had to find. The queen had seemed to believe her, but it did not take this long to search for an earring. She knew that people would soon be sent out to look for her.
Just as she made the decision to go back, Will came around the corner, obviously making for the gates. Bridget took a deep breath and stepped out of the gloom. She so surprised him that he jumped backwards and put his hand to his waist, where he carried a knife. “It is only me,” Bridget whispered, throwing back the hood of her cloak to reveal her face.
“God’s wounds, Bridget, I could have thrust my dagger into you! What on earth are you doing out here by yourself? I do not have time for an interlude right now, as fetching as you look in the darkness.”
Bridget put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I have no time for an interlude either, but I had to see you. Not just because I miss you, but because I have to ask you something very important. It is about your master.”
The flirtatious smile faded from Will’s visage and was replaced by a quizzical look. “My master is ill at present,” he said carefully. “If Her Majesty wants to convey her good wishes to him, I shall gladly carry them.”
Bridget shook her head and moved closer to Will. “No, I bear no message from the queen. I come to you of my own accord. As I am sure you know, there are many rumours circulating concerning your master and his absence from court. Some say that his illness is merely diplomatic and that he is planning something at his house in Stepney. I do not trust court gossip, but I do trust you. Tell me, Will, what is the truth?”
Will’s whole body went stiff, like a plank of wood, and his eyes flickered with uncertainty before seemingly retreating into his skull, shuttering his thoughts. He paused for a moment before he answered, “My master has been slightly indisposed . . . that part is true. It is also true that the king was most displeased with him, and my master thought it wise to remove himself from His Majesty’s sight for a while. As for planning something . . . I am only a servant, Bridget. A great man like Thomas Cromwell does not tell me much of his plans. But, I do know one thing.”
Will stopped to take a breath, then he cast his gaze to the ground. “Go on,” Bridget urged, placing her hand encouragingly on his arm.
Will touched his own hand to hers before continuing. “I, too, have heard the rumours, but perhaps I know a little more. I know that there is some talk that the queen has engaged in sorcery, witchcraft, I mean, and that is why she lost her last baby, which was apparently deformed. The king and my master are well aware of this talk. The king is supposed to have said that he only made his marriage through Anne casting some form of enchantment over him. There may be an investigation into all of this, which would include her household. That means you, of course. The time may be coming when you will have to exercise great caution.”
A cold wave rippled through Bridget, momentarily halting the flow of blood in her veins. So, they were going to accuse the queen of being a witch. Bridget thought back to an earlier conversation she had had with Anne, on the night she miscarried her son, when she had spoken of the prophecy that a Queen of England would be burnt and that everyone thought that she was a sorceress. It was all nonsense, of course. The queen was actually a woman of deep religious faith who wanted to reform the church, not some practitioner of the black arts so intent on capturing a king that she had cast a spell on him. But maybe, if Cromwell was desperate enough and the king eager enough to take a new wife, this was the card they would play. In any event, the queen needed to know.
“The queen is no witch!” Bridget exclaimed. “I cannot believe that a man as intelligent as your master would credit such stories. I am sure that the king never would.”
“Doubtless you are right,” Will replied quickly, as he adjusted Bridget’s cloak around her shoulders. “It does sound ridiculous, but who is to say what stories people above us in rank will or will not credit? They are our betters, after all.” Will raised an ironic eyebrow at his last remark.
Bridget hardly noticed, her mind was racing so fast. “Is this all you know, Will? There is no more?”
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. Then he cupped Bridget’s face in his big hands and slowly but sweetly kissed her. The contact seemed to last a long time, and Bridget momentarily forgot their conversation and allowed her mind to be filled only by the feeling of his lips on hers. Eventually, he broke the kiss but did not take his hands away.
“Bridget, I swear to you on my immortal soul that I know no more. You can trust me; I would never allow you to fall into danger.”
“Or the queen?” Bridget asked, looking Will straight in the eye.
“Of course,” he confirmed, his green gaze unwavering.
Bridget exhaled as relief washed over her, the comfort of it replacing the cold of the deepening night. “Thank you, Will,” she said, standing on tiptoe and planting a kiss on his cheek. “You are wonderful. And now I must say good night before Her Majesty sends out a search party.” She flipped the hood of her cloak over her head and started back towards the palace.
Will watched her go as an increasing sensation of guilt gnawed away in the pit of his stomach. “God forgive me,” he said.
Bridget hurried back to the palace, her steps light. In fact, her whole body felt lighter now that she knew the nature of the forces that menaced the queen. Yes, charges of witchcraft were a dangerous business, but those stories had been around so long that it was inconceivable that anyone would take them seriously. She knew that the queen feared such accusations, but at the same time, she would know how to fight them and she would be confident that the king, ultimately, would not truly believe them. In any event, Will’s revelations constituted a light in the darkness, and the light was always preferable to the dark.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, Bridget nearly blundered into a party walking the other way. “Excuse me,” the man said coldly as he sidestepped Bridget thus preventing a collision.
“I am sorry, sir,” Bridget apologised, and then she recognised the man and his companions. It was Sir Edward Seymour accompanied by his wife, Anne, and his sister, Jane. Husband and wife regarded Bridget as if she were an insect, while Jane lowered her gaze and stopped dead in her tracks.
Sir Edward had blue eyes the colour of winter, sharp and chilly. He looked Bridget up and down, lingering only very briefly on the swell of her breasts, before he fixed his attention on a spot just behind her head, as though he had examined her and found her to be of no consequence. It was his wife who spoke. “And who might you be?” she demanded, her haughty mouth fairly spitting out the words.
Bridget tamped down her annoyance and replied with studied politeness, “My name is Bridget Manning, my lady. I am maid of honour to the queen.” The mention of Anne made Lady Seymour’s nostrils flare, causing her to very closely resemble a horse.
“Oh, yes, now I recognise you. You are that little drab the queen rescued from the abbey.” Her voice was acid. “Isn’t that corr
ect, Jane?”
Jane Seymour raised her watery eyes and looked at Bridget. Her pallid face revealed nothing. It was a closed book, like everything about her, Bridget mused. Jane Seymour was a mystery kept carefully hidden from the world, perhaps even from herself. “Aye, sister, this is Mistress Manning, who was once at Rivers Abbey. She is also a distant connection of Her Majesty’s, I believe.”
Lady Seymour sucked air between her teeth, and Sir Edward looked at her with sudden interest. Obviously, this piece of intelligence had transformed Bridget into a creature worthy of his notice. “How singular,” he said, “and how fortunate for you to belong to such an . . . illustrious family, albeit only distantly.” His wife laughed shrilly, and even Jane bit her lip in amusement.
“I do not think I would use the word fortunate, my dear,” Lady Seymour said, “for surely a pretty, young maid such as this should enjoy a longer day in the sun that the one she shall have. Do you not think so, Jane?”
Jane merely nodded, an almost imperceptible movement that carried with it a hint of embarrassment. She avoided looking at Bridget.
“Yes, I would say that it is most unfortunate!” Lady Seymour blithely continued, her lips forming a crocodile smile. She looked as if she was just starting to enjoy herself before her husband cut her amusement short.
“Come, ladies, we do not want to be late,” Sir Edward said, and he shepherded the two women before him down the passageway. He remained for a moment, and Bridget noticed that those wintry eyes of his had thawed a little. “A pleasure to meet you, Mistress Manning. I am sure it will not be the last time.”
Bridget watched him go, shook her head at the strange encounter, and continued on to the queen’s rooms, thoughts of Cromwell, witchcraft, and Will temporarily banished to the back of her mind. When she reached the apartments and walked through the presence chamber into the queen’s privy quarters, she found the place very nearly deserted. There were no men, and only Lady Rochford, Lady Worcester, and Catherine Carey in attendance.
“Ah, Bridget, you return! You found the earring, I trust? I hope so, for you were an extraordinarily long time looking for it! I nearly sent Lady Rochford out to search for you!” The queen laughed and the others dutifully joined in.
“I am sorry, Majesty, it took me a little longer than I anticipated. However, I did manage to find it.” Bridget produced the small pearl earring, which was never lost in the first place, from the folds of her cloak.
The queen congratulated her on her good fortune and cautioned her to be more careful next time. “I cannot have my maids losing things of value, otherwise where will it all end? First earrings, then maidenheads. ’Tis but a short step from one to the other.” The queen light heartedly chucked Bridget under the chin while Catherine Carey blushed beside her.
“But losing one’s maidenhead can be a very wise move, can it not, Majesty?” Lady Rochford asked, her voice all silky innocence. “Perhaps young Bridget here seeks to gain some advantage. After all, she does spend rather a lot of time with young Will Redcliff, whose good looks have become famous at court. What better way is there to secure him as a husband than by having his babe in her belly? No man can resist such an inducement, not even a king.”
For a moment nobody spoke. Even Lady Rochford seemed to realise that she had gone too far when she looked about the room and saw appalled expressions all around her. “Of course, I do not mean to say anything untoward against Mistress Manning or against Your Majesty,” she said, her words tumbling out in a torrent. “I only meant that—”
“I know perfectly well what you meant, Jane,” Anne replied calmly, her black eyes narrowed down to small pinpricks of light. “Your vile insinuations were directed at me, not at Bridget, who does not deserve to be dragged into your relentless campaign of malice. Do you imagine that I do not know exactly what you think and exactly what you say of me? I know and I have always known. Everybody knows about nasty, gossiping, Lady Rochford, whose jealousy and spite eats away at her like a canker. All because her husband does not love her and she blames me for that. Don’t you, Jane?”
Lady Rochford did not answer and appeared to be caught between giving in to tears or an outbreak of temper. Despite what she had said, Bridget felt sorry for her. She had seen the truth of her marriage with her own eyes. Anne regarded her impassively for a long minute, then a look of compassion came over her features. “Jane, I have never wanted George to treat you badly. He should have been a much better husband to you, more solicitous of your welfare, more—”
But Lady Rochford did not want to hear it, as she bolted from the room, her face buried in her hands. The queen stood still for a moment, sadness written on her face.
“I am sorry Lady Rochford said such things about you, Bridget. She was not quite herself, and I am sure she will make amends with you in due course. I know she spoke only to vent her anger against me and did not mean to be unseemly towards you.”
Bridget thanked the queen and curtseyed deeply to her. “Up, up!” Anne ordered all impatience now. “I cannot stand the atmosphere in here. Let us have some singing to lighten our spirits. Catherine, you have a sweet voice. Sing us something and nothing too dreary. I am done with cheerlessness.”
It was not until the early hours of the next morning that Bridget could contrive to speak to the queen about what she had learned. She was on duty in the queen’s bedchamber that night, sleeping on a pallet on the floor not far from the queen’s bed. She had already taken Joanna and Catherine into her confidence about her conversation with Will and the talk of an investigation into witchcraft that he had spoken of. Both were concerned, but as Joanna had said, “It could be worse.”
“How much worse?” Catherine had replied dryly, and a small argument between the pair had ensued.
“Whatever the case, I will tell the queen tonight,” Bridget had assured them. “She must know what is afoot.”
But frustratingly there had been no opportunity to do so until now. Lady Worcester had monopolised Anne with talk of her pregnancy, and Lady Rochford, when she had finally returned, had dominated the rest of the evening with her brooding presence. Now, Bridget lay awake in the small hours listening to the queen tossing and turning. Anne was a notoriously poor sleeper and suffered from nightmares. Bridget had already woken her several times on previous occasions from a bad dream, the recurring one featuring a character that Anne called “The Creeping Man.”
“I never see his face, but I feel as if I know him,” she had said, her face covered in sweat. “He steals up behind me, and every time I dream about him he gets closer. He never says a word to me, but I can feel him. I know that he is there. I can feel his breath on my neck.”
Bridget soothed her and she always fell back to sleep swiftly after that. But tonight, Bridget felt certain that she had never fallen asleep; she had just lain awake, shifting from one side of the bed to the other, blessed oblivion in the arms of Morpheus proving elusive. So Bridget, sensing that her opportunity had come, took her chance.
“Majesty?” she whispered, her voice as quiet as she could make it in the echoing silence of the room. A beat passed before the queen answered.
“What is it, Bridget?” she said, sitting up in bed. “Is something amiss?”
“No, Majesty, nothing is wrong, it’s just that I need to speak with you about a matter of some . . . delicacy.” Bridget heard the queen move closer.
“Come here,” she instructed, and Bridget tiptoed quickly to the side of the bed where Anne beckoned her to sit. “Do not tell me that Lady Rochford was right about you after all?” she asked, with a mixture of humour and trepidation.
Bridget suppressed a smile and hurriedly assured the queen that she had not been correct. “No, madam, it is nothing like that. I must tell you about a conversation I had with Will Redcliff just yesterday regarding his master, Mr Secretary Cromwell.”
Bridget could see that she had Anne’s full attention now. The queen moved a little nearer and bent her head towards her so she could hear he
r every word. “Will told me that Cromwell’s absence from court is not entirely due to illness or to his argument with the king. It is said that he is planning an investigation into rumours that are swirling about your Majesty. These rumours speak of witchcraft.”
Bridget heard the queen’s sharp intake of breath and saw one of her smooth, white hands fly to her throat. It was the hand with the fabled sixth finger, which was in fact a sixth fingernail. Bridget had never seen it this close before, and she was momentarily distracted by it.
“A Queen of England shall burn,” Anne muttered, twisting her free hand in the bed sheets. With a visible effort, she collected herself and cleared her voice. “Is that all young Master Redcliff said? That Cromwell wants to charge me with witchcraft?”
“He said that all he knew was that an inquiry was planned and that his master was involved. He assures me that that is all he knows of the matter.”
Anne sat up higher in the bed and looked deep in thought. “Thank you for bringing me this information, Bridget. It is something I have long suspected that my enemies would throw at me, for they have nothing else. Well, let them accuse me—they can offer no proof, only superstition and old wives tales. The king knows that I am no witch. Even if they do succeed with their wretched ‘inquiry,’ which I doubt, such a thing is not without precedent in this country. King Henry IV’s widow was accused of witchcraft, because her stepson Henry V wanted her money. She was eventually let go. Then there was Eleanor Cobham, wife of Humphrey of Gloucester, who was sent to the Isle of Wight for sorcery, and even Elizabeth Woodville’s mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, was accused of being a witch by the Earl of Warwick. She was declared innocent. Compared to all of those ladies, especially Eleanor Cobham, I am pure as Our Saviour’s blessed mother.”
