by V. E. Lynne
Eventually, he waved the courtiers with whom he had been playing away from the table and bade Sir Richard and Bridget be seated. “We were playing Primero. Are you familiar with the game?”
Sir Richard said that he was, and Bridget nodded along in agreement, even though it was mostly a lie; she had of course seen the game played but never participated in a round directly. That however was about to change. The king started things off by throwing some coins into the betting pot and Sir Richard followed suit, betting for both himself and his wife. The king then dealt each of them a hand of four cards and the game began.
“I was pleased to see you in conversation with my daughter today, Lady de Brett,” the king said. “You are of an age with her, and she needs to make some new acquaintances to draw her out of her shell. She has grown most introverted I fear in her absence from my care. Doubtless the result of being in the company of all those embittered, old harpies who so slavishly worshipped her mother. They have been allowed to exert far too much of an influence on her. Jesu only knows how we will ever find her a husband! She is my entirely beloved daughter, but she does not have much beauty, and beauty goes a long way in securing a husband. Even for the daughters of kings. You, however, would not understand such a consideration, my lady. You are a flower—Sir Richard here would have been panting to pluck you.”
Bridget demurred, with great embarrassment, but the king would have none of it. “Do not be modest, my lady. I abhor false modesty. You are a rose, the comeliest one I have seen in a long while. You, of all people, would not disagree with me, would you, Sir Richard?” Sir Richard did not disagree, but he had gone very still, unsure whether he should be concerned at his sovereign’s flirtatiousness with his wife, or whether he should simply play along. He chose the latter.
Bridget did the same, for lack of a better alternative, and then tried to steer the discussion away from herself and back toward the safer waters of the Lady Mary. “I was very honoured that your daughter chose to speak to me, Your Majesty. I must, if I may, protest at your assessment of her. I thought she had a very pretty manner, as well as a beautiful complexion and a quiet dignity that is much to be praised. I am certain that many a prince would be only too happy to ally himself to her and thus to Your Majesty’s illustrious house.”
“Really?” was the king’s only reply, and Bridget worried that she might have managed to say the wrong thing. Henry’s disposition was famously chancy, but the flash of temper that had passed over his face soon faded as he won another round, throwing down his cards in triumph and claiming his prize of a fistful of coins with relish. His mood was further improved by the arrival of Will Redcliff. The king greeted him as if he were a long-lost son newly returned in glory from war with France.
“Will! Come over here, my boy, and join us. I am playing Primero with the de Bretts, but you may take Sir Richard’s place at the table. He plays very ill, I am afraid.”
Sir Richard blushed to the roots of his grey hair at the king’s mild reproof and hastily gave up his seat, amid a flurry of apologies, to the younger man. Will bowed deeply before taking it, and Sir Richard backed away into a corner, where he was reduced to the status of an observer. Will favoured Bridget with a distant “good evening, my lady” before he took up his cards and focused all his attention on the game. Henry cuffed him gently around the ear and chided him for his lengthy absence from his chamber. “As always, Master Redcliff, you were needed here and yet nowhere to be found! But I forgive you. You are the best-looking of my courtiers, and I can still remember what it was to be young, handsome and desired by the ladies. I would wager that you can barely move through the passageways for swooning maidens.”
Will laughed self-deprecatingly and promised the king that that was not the case. “No swooning maidens were involved, sire. I was merely conversing with Lord Cromwell and I lost track of the time.”
The king guffawed at this explanation, the deep sound of his laughter echoing around the chamber. “I can well believe it, Will. Lord Cromwell has that effect on many people, myself included. Oftentimes I have fallen into conversation with him only to find that half the day has elapsed without my noticing it. ’Twould be possible to drown in his words, I have no doubt, such is the depth of them. Still, despite his tendency to talk the day away, he is a useful man for a king to keep about him. He has a finger in every pie and an ear at every door. All kings require a servant such as him.”
Bridget glanced up from her poor hand, as though the mere mention of Cromwell would cause the man himself to materialise in front of them, Lucifer-like, and begin engulfing them with his words. But no, the only figure who appeared was a servant who edged quickly forward at a flutter of the king’s hand and deposited a plate of comfits in front of his monarch before sidling, with equal alacrity, away.
The game continued on and on, the king dominating, due to Bridget’s inexperience and Will’s tactful errors. Time passed, the candles burned low, and Sir Richard, watching on, was forced to hide several yawns behind his hand. Bridget’s own eyelids were drooping and she yearned to retire, for she was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything, let alone the cards arrayed before her.
The king glanced across at her, a teasing rebuke for her inept play ready on his lips, but he bit it back at the sight of her weariness. With a loud sigh, he threw down his cards face up, displaying a non-winning hand, and stood. Will leapt to his feet and, in concert with three others, came forward to assist him. Henry waved them away with impatience.
“Hold your horses, gentlemen. I am not so decrepit that I cannot make it to my bedchamber under my own strength. Sir Richard,” he nodded at him, “and Lady de Brett, it was a pleasure to be in your company tonight. I trust you will not be strangers to my chamber. In fact, I would like you to attend on me many more times in the future.”
He collected up his winnings and made to leave, but then turned back and crooked his finger at Bridget. With no little amount of apprehension, she walked toward him in four uneasy steps. He bent his face close to hers, and the hot blast of his pungent breath, rendered only slightly sweeter by consumption of the comfits, nearly overcame her. “I require you and your husband to follow us to Windsor,” he murmured. “I would like to spend more time with you. Clearly, you lack skill at Primero, whereas I am an expert player. Mayhap I could teach you the rules of the game.”
He caressed her cheek and then departed, his retinue following close behind. Bridget rubbed the spot where Henry’s finger had grazed, as if by doing so she could erase the unwelcome burn of his touch. Her stomach roiled, and all the wine she had consumed that night threatened to swamp her senses.
Behind her, Sir Richard coughed loudly and said, “Come along, wife. It is time to retire.” He took her arm, not entirely gently, and they proceeded back to their rooms. Once there, Sir Richard disrobed in silence and waited, impatiently, for Bridget to do the same. Once she had done so, she climbed into bed and lay there, expecting to have to endure his attentions. But Sir Richard was seemingly uninterested in exercising his conjugal rights that evening. Instead, he slid under the covers, blew out the candle, lay down and went to sleep. His back remained firmly turned toward his wife all night.
Chapter Four
For the next few days, Sir Richard barely spoke to Bridget. He was polite enough, and showed her all the proper courtesies when they were on display to the court, but he kept his own counsel in private, directing most of his speech to his servants.
Bridget could only surmise that he was jealous of the attention the king had paid her in his privy chamber the other night but, if so, his childishness irritated her. She had not wanted, nor encouraged, His Majesty’s attention. In addition to that, it was hardly something she could do much about. He was the king. They were all subject to his will—if he snapped his fingers, they must jump; if he called a tune, they must dance; if he summoned them to his chamber, they must come. Sir Richard knew all of that as well as anyone, and besides, if anybody could be accused of en
couraging the king, it was surely him. He was the one who had been all eagerness to come to court in the first place. He was the one who had basked in the few minutes of attention the king had bestowed on him. He was the one who wanted desperately to rise. If the king’s reaction to her caused him to sulk and punish her with the silent treatment, so be it. It made no real difference to her.
That morning, even if she had wanted to speak to her husband, she would have been unable to, as he had left her alone in their rooms. Sir Richard had headed out early to watch a tennis match at the behest of two unlikely companions, Sir Nicholas Carew and the Marquess of Exeter. He had stiffly enquired of Bridget whether she wanted to accompany them, but she had cordially declined the invitation. The memory of the last tennis match she had attended at Greenwich was still too raw. A tennis match was the last event Anne had attended before her arrest, before they had made their journey together upriver to the Tower, a journey from which only one of them had returned. She shivered. No, Sir Richard was welcome to his tennis match.
Bridget crossed the room and seated herself at a small writing desk. She took out a piece of parchment, smoothed out the creases, and picked up her quill. She was writing to three people: the abbess, Joan de Brett, the abbess’s niece Joanna, and to Sister Margaret Welles, their newest resident at the Manor of Thorns. Sister Margaret had come to them in the New Year, when her only remaining family, her brother, had died, and she had been left on her own. Now aged over sixty, she had spent most of her life at Rivers Abbey and she missed it badly. When Abbess Joan had heard of her plight, she had unhesitatingly offered her a home with them. She had settled in as well as could be expected, and seemed content enough, although she had protested volubly when Bridget and Sir Richard had left for court. “Why would anyone want to serve that monster?” she had demanded. “The king has been the ruin of us all.” Despite this outburst, Bridget wanted to keep her, and the others, informed of everything that had had happened thus far and, more importantly, she wanted to enquire as to the state of Joanna’s health. In truth, she had grown a little concerned; she had expected to have heard from Thorns by now. When she left, Joanna had been suffering from a mere cold. She prayed that she had not taken a turn for the worse.
She began to write, but the quill had barely touched the surface of the parchment before she was interrupted by the sound of a single knock. She hastily finished her opening sentence, set down the pen, traversed the chamber and opened the door. She was met by the sight of a young girl standing impatiently in the corridor.
“Lady de Brett?” the girl asked rapidly, and just a touch insolently for one who appeared to be not yet fifteen.
Bridget crossed her hands demurely in front of her and looked the girl straight in the eye. “Yes, I am Lady de Brett. And you are?”
“I am Anne Bassett, maid of honour to Her Majesty Queen Jane,” the girl replied gaily. “I bear a message for you from my mistress. She would like you to present yourself in her quarters forthwith. I am to conduct you there, my lady, if that is acceptable to you.”
Bridget dug her fingers into the folds of her gown and tried to keep her expression as impassive as possible. Jane wanted to see her? Whatever for? Lady Rochford had told her that the queen had no use for her, which was no surprise, given the events of the recent past. So why the peremptory summons? She had no option but to find out. “It is perfectly acceptable to me, Mistress Bassett,” Bridget responded calmly. “In fact, I would be honoured to accompany you to Her Majesty’s apartments, but as you can see, you have found me at my leisure and therefore I am not properly attired to see the queen. Please allow me a few minutes to don an appropriate dress.”
Anne Bassett nodded, and Bridget headed to a tiny antechamber where she furiously began combing, pinning and piling her blonde hair on top of her head, preparatory to covering it with a French hood. She threw off her robe and changed into a dark grey gown, one of her oldest and simplest, which she thought would please Jane. It was difficult putting on even the most basic of gowns on her own but finally, once everything was in place, she checked her reflection in the mirror and was reasonably content with what she saw there. She returned to the doorway and fixed the young maid with a brilliant smile. “Come then, Mistress Bassett, lead the way. I am ready to go.”
Anne Bassett spun around and, with a self-assurance that belied her years, led Bridget away from her lodgings and towards the queen’s. On the way there, Bridget had time to further ponder what on earth Jane could want with her. Bridget was inextricably linked with Jane’s predecessor, a woman Jane herself had had no regard for in life and would not want to be reminded of in death. Lady Rochford had let Bridget know that her presence was unwelcome, and Sir Richard was not so important a person that his wife’s friendship needed to be cultivated. Her mind ticked over at a brisk pace, trying to hit upon the right reason for her summons, but so far she could only draw a blank. She sighed and Anne Bassett glanced back at her, a strange smile playing around at the edges of her lips. Clearly, Bridget’s summons was no mystery to her. This pert, little maid, with her freckled face and vivid blue eyes, knew exactly what was going on. Bridget’s heart rate picked up, and she tried, unsuccessfully, to loosen the stomacher of her gown.
They soon came to a part of the palace that Bridget recognised, and she no longer had to pay such close heed to the direction of Anne Bassett’s steps. She knew now exactly where she was. She looked around at the familiar scenery and took note of the changes that had taken place. They were many. She passed by the section of wall where a portrait of Queen Anne had once hung, the portrait she had seen torn down by laughing tradesmen on the day of Anne’s execution. A new tapestry depicting the Three Fates had taken its place, and Bridget glanced at it as closely as she could as they trooped past—the figure of the most lethal of the Fates, Atropos, her gleaming golden shears gleefully cutting the thread of life, seemed to leap out at her.
Anne Bassett came to the great double doors and entered breezily through them. Bridget followed and bowed her head modestly as they passed through the presence chamber, keeping her eyes carefully averted from the curious gazes that met her there. Mistress Bassett then came to the privy chamber and walked with more circumspection through its entranceway. Everyone gathered there turned as one at her arrival. The queen stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by her attendants and, at her right hand, by the Lady Mary. All the women, led by Lady Rochford and Edward Seymour’s wife, Lady Hertford, regarded Bridget’s ingress with disapproval bordering on hostility. The Lady Mary was the only one who smiled and showed a hint of kindness in her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Anne Bassett announced, “Lady de Brett is here.” She stepped aside and Bridget took her place. The queen looked her up and down for a few moments and then signalled, with a toss of her head, that she should approach further. With downcast eyes, Bridget walked as close as she dared to the queen and sank into the deepest curtsey she could manage, her skirts spreading out around her like a silver puddle. The silence in the room was deafening, and Bridget had to work hard to stay in position and not topple over sideways.
Eventually, just when Bridget thought she was going to collapse in a heap, Jane spoke. “Stand up, Lady de Brett,” she ordered, her voice shot through with queenly imperiousness. “We have looked upon your nimble curtsey long enough.”
Bridget stood up slowly, careful not to allow even the slightest wobble in her legs. She lifted her gaze with equal deliberation and met, dead on, the wintry stare of Queen Jane Seymour. Her eyes held all the warmth of an icicle, and her face was whiter than snow. She regarded Bridget as if she was the last person in the kingdom that she wanted, or had ever wanted, to see.
Bridget returned her look in what she hoped was a suitably submissive manner. While the queen remained deliberately mute, she had time to contemplate her appearance at close quarters. Jane was quite possibly wearing every gemstone that the king’s Jewel House possessed within its considerable coffers. The diamonds around her neck a
lmost seemed as if they were choking her, and every one of her delicate fingers, resting proudly across the expanse of her belly, glimmered with wide golden rings. Anne Boleyn had set out to stamp her authority on the court by the sheer force of her presence and personality; that approach was not available to Jane Seymour. Lacking that type of charisma, she had chosen another way to make her mark: a flagrant display of wealth to advertise her newly acquired power. In the end, though, no amount of flashing diamonds or softly glowing rubies would matter. Jane would be judged not by the impressiveness of her jewels but by the issue of her womb.
The queen was a short woman, tiny really, and thus the curve of her stomach was rendered especially pronounced. Bridget recalled that a Te Deum had been sung at St Paul’s to give thanks for Jane’s quickening in May. It was now nearly August, which meant that the queen must be fast approaching her time. Soon she would take to her chamber with her women and await the birth of her child. God willing, it would be a boy. Did Jane want Bridget to be one of the ladies who attended her through the travails of childbirth? No, she dismissed that idea immediately—it was so absurd. The reason for her summoning to the queen’s privy chamber could have nothing to do with the forthcoming royal confinement.
