by V. E. Lynne
They had married on a bone-chilling day in January 1537, in the tiny chapel at Thorns, with the only music to accompany the ceremony the sound of the rain lashing down and the icy roar of the wind rattling every pane of glass in the house. Afterwards, once the wine had been drunk and the few guests had departed, Sir Richard had come to her bed and climbed in next to her. This was going to be the worst part, the part Bridget had dreaded since the day she had accepted his proposal. She had lain under him as stiff as a plank of wood, gritting her teeth determinedly against the expected pain, as he had eagerly, hurriedly and clumsily consummated their union. Once he had finished his task, he had planted a kiss on her cheek, turned over and gone noisily to sleep, his snores competing for supremacy with the incessant whistle of the wind. Bridget had remained awake and she had wept for everything and everyone she had lost in her brief existence—her parents, her life at Rivers Abbey, Anne and Will. God, how can I even think of Will? She had remonstrated with herself as she had lain there with her virgin’s blood between her legs and her new husband snuffling contentedly next to her. Just stop it. Not only was it futile to think of what was gone; it was doubly pointless to mourn for what had never been and could never be. She had chosen her path—albeit, she had had few options to pick from, but still she had chosen it. She had married Richard, and it was her duty now to be a good wife to him and eventually a mother to their son. More than that, it was her duty to endure, to go on. To survive. That was precisely what she planned to do.
And she had done so, at least thus far. She had anticipated that her husband would be enthusiastic in exercising his conjugal rights, and she had steeled herself for it, but she found that he was not. He had proved incapable several times and had retreated, more than once, from her bedchamber in a fury of embarrassment; since then, he had limited the number of his nocturnal visits to her rooms. Fortunately, on the occasions when he was capable, he was quick about his business. She found that if she went to another place in her mind that after the initial discomfort, she could easily bear it. Sir Richard was a fairly cold man but he was polite and well mannered, and seemed pleased, up to a point, with the marriage. She knew, of course, that he wanted a son, as all men did, but as yet there was no sign that one was on the way. Still, it was early days. All in all, things could have been worse.
They arrived at the water stairs. Bridget pushed thoughts of her marriage to one side, took her husband’s hand and stepped out of the boat. She thanked the oarsmen for delivering them safely and Richard paid them their fee, fishing out the coins one by one from his leather pouch, embossed with the ever present badge of thorns that he always carried. They accepted their payment eagerly and, once the money had been safely stowed away, pushed off at once from the wharf. She watched them row into the distance, a part of her wishing that she could call them back, for the palace that loomed behind her held more fears than it did charms. But such an action was wholly out of the question; there was, and could not be, any escape for them now. Her husband had received a summons from the king to attend court and it was her place, as his wife, to accompany him. Whatever misgivings she had, whatever the qualms and worries that were swirling around inside her, she had to squash them down as far as they would go. She was no longer Bridget Manning, maid of honour to Queen Anne Boleyn; that woman was as dead as her mistress. She was now Lady de Brett, the carrier of an ancient and venerable name. It was no time to cower in dread but to dust off her courtier’s smile, square her shoulders, stiffen her spine and re-enter the fray.
In complete contrast to his wife, Sir Richard was beset with nothing that remotely resembled a misgiving, let alone a worry. Quite the contrary; he was fairly chomping at the bit to get his foot in the door of the court. His family had enjoyed royal favour for well over a century until what he regarded as their personal apocalypse had occurred: the Battle of Bosworth. In 1485, when Richard was two years old, his namesake King Richard III of the House of York had clashed with the forces of Henry Tudor, the last remaining scion of the House of Lancaster. Richard’s grandfather, William de Brett, ever a loyalist of the white rose, had ridden into battle for his king on that long ago day. But he had chosen the wrong side. He fought and died under the banner of Richard III on that bloody field in Leicestershire like so many others had. After King Richard had been defeated and killed the new dynasty, the Tudors, had assumed the throne and the fortunes of the de Bretts had ebbed steadily away. The new king had degraded them from a viscountcy to a baronetcy, and that was not the end of it. He had also claimed most of their lands for his own, graciously permitting just a fragment in Lincolnshire and London to remain in their keeping. Even more seriously than that, there had been no place for Richard’s father at Henry VII’s court and, consequently, no place for any of his sons either. Sir Richard’s second marriage to a relative of the Duke of Buckingham, a wealthy noble with strong claims to the crown, had not helped his cause, especially once the present king sent the duke to the headsman in 1522. Hence, the king’s summons, received so joyfully just one week ago, represented Richard’s last throw of the dice at securing both acceptance and promotion under the Tudors. He was set on making the most of it. Indeed, he could hardly wait to get started and had been in a state of extreme haste all week; and now that they were finally here at court he wasted no further time. He quickly made their identification to the guards, organised the servants with their baggage and led the way, barking at Bridget to hurry, to their rooms.
They had been allocated a very small apartment, comprising just one main chamber and two tiny antechambers, situated in a lonely corner of the palace. Bridget, at first sight, regarded the isolated suite with dismay, but her husband was not in the mood to be disappointed; he was positively enchanted with it.
“How like you our rooms, wife? They are excellent, are they not? Much better than anything we have at home. That is a particularly fine tapestry on that wall, it depicts Camelot I believe, and look at the size of that fireplace! I think we could not have been shown more favour from His Majesty than the allocation of these rooms.”
Bridget made no answer, as none was either necessary or helpful, and in any case, she did not want to dampen his good spirits. These were the rooms they had been given and they had no choice but to make the best of them. To that end, she began unpacking. She really should have had a maid with her. In fact, her fellow former maid of honour and now her niece, Joanna de Brett, was supposed to have accompanied her, but she had come down with a cold at the last minute and had been unable to make the journey with them. Bridget, worried at how rapidly she had fallen ill, had ordered her to stay at home and rest until she was fully recovered. ‘Til that happened, and Joanna was well enough to travel, she would have to manage without a maid and female companion.
Fortunately, as they only anticipated a relatively short stay, Bridget had not brought many clothes with her, thus enabling the unpacking to be accomplished in fairly short order. She quickly changed out of her travelling garb and into a very modest, square-necked gown in deep, lustrous green silk, topped off by a French hood. She chose only two items of jewellery to adorn the ensemble: a small, pearl-encrusted cross that her husband had given her as a wedding present, and a long gold chain onto which she had attached a ring. It was a garnet ring, set in gold, flanked by two pearls, which had once belonged to Queen Anne. Anne had given it to Bridget on the last night of her life, and hence it was Bridget’s most treasured, and her most secret, possession. She had never told Sir Richard about it, nor had she ever dared to openly display it on her hand at Thorns and she would not do so here. It was possible someone might recognise it and that could go ill for herself and her husband. No one wanted any reminders whatsoever of the executed queen.
Bridget fastened the chain around her neck, with the smooth side of the ring facing outwards, and tucked the long end of it into her bodice. She patted it down flat until she was reasonably sure it would not be noticed by any prying eyes. Once she was ready, she glanced fleetingly at herself in h
er burnished mirror and was tolerably pleased with what she saw. She was a tall, slender young woman, with pale skin and dark eyes that dominated her face and provided an arresting contrast to her blonde hair. All told her that she was beautiful but, as a child of the convent, she had been brought up to reject vanity as a sin and therefore did not see herself that way. She asked only that she was presentable and she decided, with a last, critical look, that she was. Her husband, with no word of admiration or condemnation on her attire or looks, proffered his arm, she took it, and they walked in stately silence to the room where they would present themselves to the king—the Watching Chamber.
They entered, Sir Richard letting his wife go first, and Bridget immediately felt as if she had been transported back in time. Everything looked, sounded and smelled exactly as she remembered it. It was as though the previous year’s events had never happened. Groups of courtiers milled about, bedecked in silks, velvets and brocades, oblivious to anyone and anything except the archway through which the king would soon appear. They bestirred themselves briefly when the two de Bretts walked in, but as soon as they comprehended that they were not people of importance, they immediately dismissed them and resumed watching the archway. Bridget recognised a few faces amongst the throng but not a great many. Clearly, with the elimination of the Boleyns and their supporters, a new faction had taken charge at court. It was seemingly comprised of mostly young men, and while some of them noticed Bridget and threw an appreciative look or two her way, they did not consider her interesting enough, or indeed consequential enough, to approach. They dismissed Sir Richard, an elderly man in a garish, ill-fitting doublet, with barely a blink.
They were left standing there, a little duo of indecision, until a man walked up behind them and cleared his throat. They turned in unison, and Bridget was glad she still had her hand upon her husband’s arm to keep herself steady. Without it, she might have disgraced herself by crumpling into a heap on the floor at her first meeting, in well over a year, with Thomas Cromwell.
“Greetings, greetings! Welcome back to court, Mistress Manning. Oh, I beg your pardon, you are Lady de Brett now,” Cromwell said with a bow. “You have joined the ranks of both the married and the titled. My heartiest congratulations to you. And this must be the instrument of your elevation, your new husband, Sir Richard de Brett?” He smiled and shook Richard’s hand. “You are a very lucky man, doubtless I do not have to tell you so sir, to have contracted a union with such a lovely, young lady. I must inform you, however, though it may be that you are already aware of it, that your wife made quite the impression the last time she was with us at court. Oh, yes, my good sir, we were all positively bowled over by her, entranced even. Such charm, prudence, loyalty and, of course, unparalleled beauty as hers is rarely seen at court. She impressed us all as a lady of great quality, and no doubt all of her very estimable traits have grown greater since then. I can see that her beauty certainly has.”
Sir Richard beamed at Cromwell’s fulsome compliments and failed, with his habitual lack of perspicacity, to perceive what was not said as much as what was. Bridget did not miss any of the gaps in Cromwell’s praises, but she did not let it bother her. She had resolved before she came that her days of being unnerved by this rough-hewn, powerfully built, deeply disquieting man were over. As ever, he looked at her as if he could read her thoughts, thoughts that he had once told her showed all too easily on her face. With a decided effort, she pulled the shutters closed across her mind and regarded both her husband and Cromwell with a broad smile.
“You are far too kind to me, sir, and I fear you exaggerate my virtues greatly. Oh, where are my manners? Forgive me before I say anything further to you.” She sank into a curtsey, and both her companions beheld her in surprise. “I have failed to address you with the proper degree of respect. I called you ‘sir,’ but I really should have addressed you as ‘my lord,’ for that is the case now, is it not? You, too, have joined the ranks of the titled and have become Lord Cromwell of Oakham, as well as taking over the role of Lord Privy Seal, a post previously held by Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, unless I am much mistaken. It seems then that we have both acquired new names, and new positions, since last we met.”
Cromwell went an unaccustomed shade of red. He appeared a bit lost for a response, and such was Bridget’s pleasure to have knocked the wind from his sails, even just for a moment, that she did not notice that a young man, well dressed in a dark-brown doublet, had appeared just behind his shoulder. When her gaze at last left Cromwell’s and finally slid in the other man’s direction, she felt as though an ice-cold hand had reached inside her chest and grabbed her heart in its frozen grip. The young man was none other than Will Redcliff.
Nobody spoke, no observations were made or introductions offered, and a heavy silence descended for a time until Cromwell came to himself once more. “Ah, Will, here you are at last. I was wondering where on earth you had disappeared to. Look who has re-joined us— Mistress Manning. You remember her, do you not? I am happy to inform you that she has now become Lady de Brett of New Place in Lincolnshire and the Manor of Thorns on the Strand. This is her husband, Sir Richard de Brett, third baronet. Sir Richard, this is Master William Redcliff of the king’s privy chamber, at your service.”
Richard greeted him with painfully correct courteousness; Will merely nodded and smiled as blandly as he could. His face betrayed him only once. An intense flicker of wounded pride had overcome him as Cromwell had told him that Bridget was married and had then reeled off all her new homes and titles. Other than that, there was nothing. No response, no emotion. He just looked at her and said nothing.
Standing there, so close to him, Bridget could have sworn that her dress had grown very tight. It felt as if she was encased in a vice that was slowly but surely squeezing her to death. The sensation grew so bad that she could hardly catch her breath. Alarmed, she tugged on Sir Richard’s arm, but he paid her no heed. He was taken up in conversation with Cromwell again and was oblivious to her distress. It was, in fact, Cromwell himself who finally noticed that something was amiss. “Lady de Brett, what is wrong? Are you unwell? You have gone very pale”.
“Oh, yes, my dear, you have . . . you are exceedingly pale,” Sir Richard agreed, his manner now changed to one of attentiveness and concern. “Come and sit down. I will fetch you some wine. It is rather hot in here.” But as he made to depart, his interest, and everyone else’s, was caught by a far greater consideration than his wife’s distress. The Watching Chamber had burst suddenly into life, for the king and queen had, at long last, arrived.
Chapter Two
The assembly bowed and curtseyed as one, Bridget hanging onto Sir Richard’s elbow for grim death, lest she feel faint again, as the royal couple entered the chamber. They made quite the pair - King Henry VIII was dressed top to toe in scarlet and gold, the sleeves of his doublet slashed to reveal great, billowing clouds of red silk underneath. He had grown bigger since last Bridget had seen him, and his increased bulk seemed to strain every single seam of his magnificent garb. Despite his greater girth, there had been no corresponding reduction on the visual effect he was able to make on people: he looked stunningly powerful and imposing not to mention a little daunting. Queen Jane tottered along beside him, a complete contrast to her awe inspiring spouse. She cut a diminutive figure, in a flowing gown of red and gold in imitation of her husband, the skirts so wide and heavy that they almost swamped her in fabric. Next to Henry, she looked like a mouse caught in the shadow of a lion.
The queen’s colours may have been the same as her husband’s, but instead of magnifying her presence as they did for the king, Jane was nearly swallowed up in their vermilion jaws. She was bedecked— no she was drowning really—in jewellery of just about every shape, size and hue: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts and pearls were all on show. They sparkled, shimmered and shone from every tiny inch of her. As she walked, she placed her heavily be-ringed hands, one on top of the other, over her stomach, r
evealing in doing so the merest hint of a mound. So, it is true, Bridget thought. Jane is pregnant.
The king then had secured another chance at a prince, and Bridget silently prayed that this time one would be born to him. She had never been an adherent of Jane’s, or of the Seymour family in general, but she had seen first-hand what happened to a queen who did not, or could not, give birth to a living son. That kind of failure, the worst sort for a queen and especially for a queen of Henry VIII’s, led to only one of two possible outcomes: divorce and exile, or death. If Jane failed, and she was at as much risk of doing so as any other woman, her fate would be no different from the queens who had gone before her. It was no wonder then that she gripped her belly so tightly; its little occupant would prove to be either her saviour or her killer.
Henry and Jane walked slowly through the main body of the chamber, acknowledging various people as they went. They were closely followed by a solitary young lady, very richly dressed, as well as by a line of smug courtiers who trailed eagerly behind them like puppies. Bridget bowed her head, but from underneath her eyelashes, she was able to identify some of them. There was the eldest of the Seymour brothers, Edward, now ennobled as Earl of Hertford, and his famously haughty wife Anne. She clung tenaciously onto his arm, like it was the greatest prize in the world, whilst surveying the stooping multitude all around her with utter disdain. Following were the two dukes, Norfolk and Suffolk, the former sporting a baleful stare as was his wont, whilst the latter could not hide his complete boredom with the whole charade. They were the only dukes remaining in England since the sudden death last year of the king’s natural son, Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, and thus they occupied extremely senior positions in the hierarchy of the court. It would be impossible to find a more unlikely twosome.
