by V. E. Lynne
But she did not tell the abbess that; especially now that she knew that Sister Margaret had a direct role in all this. She had suffered the most from the loss of the abbey and her act of defiance was the most easily understandable one to Bridget, even more so than the abbess’s. She would not want her to know that the banner was gone - it was unnecessary and would hurt her. So instead she said, “Oh, the banner . . . well, I did not like to burn such an object, so I have put it away very secretly, where it may be discovered by no one. Perhaps one day it may be . . . acceptable to look at it again.” The abbess smiled and seemed content with the answer. With a lighter tread, she entered the dining hall and sat down to eat her, by now cold, meal. Bridget, however, could not. Her mouth was full of the taste of deception, and she found she could not stomach a single bite.
Chapter Eight
The pleasant weeks of August and September slipped away, and Joanna’s health went from strength to strength. The trio of de Brett women, plus Sister Margaret, spent much time in the gardens, enjoying one another’s company, as well as the fading summer. Bridget had received a couple of missives from her husband, written in his curiously impersonal style, enquiring in the main after his niece’s well-being, as well as keeping her informed of the latest news from court.
She knew then that the queen had taken to her chamber at Hampton Court, heralding that the potentially long time of waiting had begun. Joanna’s affliction could not have been better timed, as it had saved Bridget from having to dance attendance on Her Majesty and even perhaps of having to accompany her into confinement, although the latter scenario was very unlikely. No doubt the women who had been chosen to do so fancied themselves as very privileged; they could well be witnesses to the birth of the future king. Unless anything went wrong, of course, and then the wrath of the present king would be brought down upon their heads. Bridget did not envy them; they were welcome to such a dubious privilege. She would not have traded places with any of them for a treasure chest full of gold.
In fact, she was so content with life at Thorns that she hardly thought of returning to court at all. Until the day that Sir Richard’s third letter arrived. It began thus: “Wife, now that Joanna is well again and there is no more danger of plague in London, it is time for you to re-join me . . .” Bridget sighed as she read it. The days of her contentment had come to an end.
She informed the abbess, Joanna and Sister Margaret of her summons and received a mixed reaction. Joanna was excited, as this time she would be accompanying Bridget to court. The abbess was morose, as she would miss Bridget’s presence, and Sister Margaret was against her going at all. She disapproved of the court entirely. “A nest of vipers,” she muttered. “That is all the court is. Why would anyone want to waste their time there?”
Bridget tried to raise her spirits. “Sister, you are right. The court is a terrible place, but that needn’t worry you, for you have the better of me. You and the abbess are due to go to Lincolnshire soon, and you both love it there, away from the odours and disease of London. Nothing but fresh air and wide-open sky. Just like being back at Rivers.” The abbess concurred, grudgingly, but Sister Margaret was not so easily distracted. She showed not an ounce of enthusiasm at the prospect.
Bridget felt sympathy for her, but there was nothing she could do. She had her orders and she must obey them. The next week therefore was one of furious preparation that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and soon she and Joanna were ready to set out on the road to Hampton Court. The whole household gathered in the courtyard, early in the morning, to see them off. The abbess cried, warned each of them to “be careful” and kissed them both on the cheek. Tilly sobbed energetically, and Sister Margaret hovered in the background, clad in her full habit, like a storm cloud ready to break. Bridget waved her goodbye as the horses took off in a choking cloud of dust. She received no acknowledgment in return.
They made their way slowly through the press of the lively city, the narrow streets teeming with people going about their daily business, calling out their wares, pushing barrows full of fish, fruit or fowl and exhorting passers-by to part with their coin. On one street corner, a man entertained bystanders with the antics of a dancing monkey; on another, a woman displayed a collection of songbirds in cages, assuring the crowd that their songs were just as good as “the Lord’s angels.” When challenged to put her assertion to the test, instead of singing obligingly on cue, the birds did nothing but screech and squawk as if being strangled, and in response, one man in the crowd laughed and shouted out, “As good as the Lord’s angels is it? They sound more like my cat when she has caught her tail in the door!”
Bridget and Joanna smiled at the commotion as they went by. Soon the traffic in the roadway became so thick that the cart could not continue. There were forced to halt.
“Look!” Joanna said. “That woman over there is reading palms!”
Bridget turned and saw a woman dressed incongruously in a heavy winter cloak. She was standing a little way back from the roadside, surrounded by a group of chattering women. She accepted a handful of coins from one, then held her palm upwards, inspecting it closely, as though it held all the secrets of the ancients. The palm reader would whisper whatever it was she saw there, and the woman who had had her palm read would then hurry away, either smiling or frowning, and be replaced by another.
“Remember when some of the sisters would allow that gypsy to come and tell their fortunes at the abbey?” Joanna continued. “They would smuggle her in on a winter’s night, so the abbess never found out, and that is what she would do—read their palms. I always wanted to try it. Oh, please, Bridget, don’t look like that, it will be fun! I survived the Sweat; don’t I deserve to have a little fun?”
Before Bridget could protest, Joanna was out of the stationary cart and striding across the road. Suppressing a sigh of frustration, Bridget had no choice but to follow her. By the time she made her way across the street, the gypsy already had Joanna’s coins in her pocket and her palm held upwards.
“Ah!” she murmured. “This is the hand of a romantic! The line that represents your heart is very strong. I see a handsome husband waiting for you, a man with green eyes. He is a very protective man, an honourable man, and he will take care of you. You will have children by him. Now then, your life line . . .” the woman’s eyes strayed a little, and Bridget saw her bite her lip. “That is strong also. I see happiness in store for you, my dear. Great happiness.” Joanna beamed and gazed at her own palm in wonderment.
The gypsy nodded her head in satisfaction and then fixed her gaze on Bridget. “And you, my lady?” she asked. “Would you like your fortune read? I already sense that a great future awaits you, and if you would only cross my palm with silver, I shall tell you of it.”
Bridget demurred but Joanna, for once, would not entertain her protests. She paid the woman from her own purse and grabbed Bridget’s hand, turning it over so that her palm faced the sky.
“You are entirely too serious, Bridget,” Joanna exclaimed. “Remember that you are not even twenty years of age! Do something amusing for a change. Even if,” she dropped her voice so the gypsy would not hear, “it is a load of old rubbish.”
Despite her efforts, there was nothing wrong with the gypsy’s hearing, and she perfectly made out Joanna’s words. Her face flushed a little and she frowned. As though she wanted to prove something, she took Bridget’s palm firmly in both her hands and fixed it with a fierce glare. Her grip tightened and tightened, and Bridget began to feel a hot pain shooting through the ends of her fingers. She tried to pull away, but the woman held on even tighter. She continued to stare, as if she had fallen under some enchantment. Finally, she looked up and let Bridget’s hand drop away. Her sallow face had gone a strange, ashen colour, and she huddled into her cloak as though a sharp chill had assailed her.
“Well?” Bridget asked, her curiosity overcoming her natural scepticism. “What did you see?”
“Blood,” the gypsy answered simply. “I s
aw blood.” Now it was Bridget’s turn to feel a chill. “You have a line of fate on your palm, a physical feature which most people do not possess. It means that destiny has marked you out, has set you on a journey. You have already completed some of that journey when you served the last queen. That is when blood stained you for the first time. It is still, I am sorry to say, going to play a large role in your future.
“My dear, your beauty is your curse, for it attracts great men to you. There are many who are drawn to it, some for good and some who seek only to use you for their own ends. But, as beauty is your burden, your innate goodness and strength are your blessings, and they will show you the right road to take, if only you will listen when they speak. You must listen. God bless you, Bridget Manning; I wish you well.
“Oh, and there is one more thing—beware of the brewer’s son. He is a man of many parts, some good, some bad, most of them secret, even unto himself. He will try to entwine his path with yours, for you have beguiled him. Even against your own inclination you have done this. You must resist him. His path in life is already set. Yours is yet fluid. Do not do anything to jeopardise that.”
The gypsy patted her hand and spun away. Bridget stood there, unable to move, feeling thoroughly stunned. “Oh, do not listen to her,” a chastened Joanna said. “She’s just a gypsy; they enjoy scaring people. Line of fate indeed! Beware of the brewer’s son! What nonsense. Probably all a part of her act. Come on, Cooper is signalling to us. He has managed to clear the way. We had best get moving.”
“Yes, you are quite right, we must get moving, as we have tarried too long,” Bridget agreed tonelessly, and she allowed herself to be led, like a new-born foal, back to the cart. They clambered onto their seats, and Cooper whipped the horses forward.
They made their way out of the city to a place a little upriver where they were to board a boat. Their own jetty at Thorns was in dire need of repair and had been deemed unable to take the weight of their belongings. Cooper and his assistant, James, got down off the cart and loaded their luggage onto the craft that had been sent for them, the sides painted jauntily with the blue-and-grey livery of the de Bretts. They embarked and gradually, with the dip of every oar, London receded far into the distance.
Bridget tried to forget about the gypsy by concentrating on the loveliness of the passing riverside scenery, but the woman’s words kept hurling themselves at her consciousness. How did she know who she was? How did she know she had served Queen Anne? Was it true, did she possess this so-called “line of fate”? She glanced at her palm and could see nothing special or out of the ordinary contained there. Mayhap Joanna was right—the gypsy just made it up as part of her act. But why would she? She hadn’t bothered to do so with Joanna; she had seen a handsome, green-eyed husband and babies in her future. But with Bridget, she had seen only blood and a mysterious brewer’s son. Who could he possibly be? The only brewer Bridget had ever known was the one who had come to Rivers, and he had not had a wife, let alone a son. Oh, just stop it, she reprimanded herself. You are tormenting yourself with gibberish. The gypsy was nothing but a trickster, a professional peddler of nonsense who profited and preyed upon people’s fears and self-doubts. She castigated herself for ever having listened to the woman, let alone allowing Joanna to pay her, and then she dismissed her summarily from her mind.
The journey was long and uncomfortable, as Joanna was a little prone to seasickness, but it was all made worth it by their first glimpse of Hampton Court. It rose on the left out of the rolling fields, a great, rambling mansion of red brick set in a sea of green. It had once belonged to the late Cardinal Wolsey, the king’s chief minister before he had fallen from grace, who had given it to the king as a last ditch attempt to win renewed favour. It had not worked, of course, and the cardinal had died in ignominy. But the king had gained a splendid new home, one more gloriously situated perhaps even than Greenwich was. Both Bridget and Joanna stared in awe at the gatehouse as it rose above them, and the boat was rowed sedately up to the pier.
Cooper disembarked first and oversaw the unloading of the baggage and the payment for the boatmen. He and James gathered up Bridget and Joanna’s belongings and set out for the palace, the young ladies following closely behind. Once there, they spoke earnestly to the grim-faced guards at the gate. There was much gesticulating backwards and forwards, both sides arguing their case, and then Bridget saw Sir Richard striding furiously towards them. His expression was hard. He spoke brusquely to Cooper, and then to the guards, and impatiently signalled for his wife and niece to enter. Sir Richard’s man, Walters, came forward and assisted Cooper and James with the baggage. Bridget and Joanna bid the two servants good-bye and thanked them both for a safe journey.
“You have arrived at a most inconvenient time, wife,” Sir Richard said, without as much as a word of welcome. “Her Majesty the Queen has been in labour for the past day and night, and the whole court waits anxiously for news. The king is constantly at prayer in the chapel. In fact, I have just come from there and must return to him forthwith. Walters will have to escort you to our rooms. Joanna,” he finally acknowledged his niece, “it is good to see you have fully recovered. You have the bloom back in your cheek. My lady,” he nodded once to Bridget, “I will speak with you later.”
With that, he left them, and Walters wasted no time in escorting the ladies to their rooms, situated once again in a far corner of the palace complex. The suite they had been allocated was fairly Spartan and smelled strongly of dampness. Bridget hoped this was not an indication that the king was tiring already of the company of her husband. Walters deposited their effects and asked Bridget if there was anything else she required.
“No, not at this time, Walters,” she replied. “You may return to Sir Richard. Thank you for your assistance.” He bowed and departed.
Joanna gazed about, the bloom in her cheek beginning to fade. “A bit of a come-down from the queen’s apartments,” she commented wryly. “These must be the rooms Cardinal Wolsey kept his old vestments in. I would wager that that was the last time they were put to any use. Even the walls smell positively moth-eaten.”
Privately Bridget agreed, but this chamber represented their new place in the world and Joanna had best get used to it. “The days of the queen’s apartments are long gone,” she said. “Others occupy that position now. We were given fairly nice, though small, rooms at Greenwich. I am sure that Sir Richard was assigned these ones because the queen is about to give birth and the palace is full. Hampton Court must be bulging at the seams with members of the Seymour family alone. Compared to the status of them and their adherents, I’m afraid we are at the bottom of the list.”
Joanna grimaced, as though she was forcing herself to digest a new and wholly unsatisfactory truth. After a few moments, she shrugged her shoulders and set about the job of unpacking their clothes. Bridget helped her and in no time at all, the task was completed. At a loss as to what to do next, they decided to make their way through the unfamiliar passageways to the Great Hall.
After some little time meandering and admiring the impressive furnishings and ornamentations, they found their way there. “Good Lord,” Joanna breathed as they entered. “What a place this is.” She could not have been more right.
The Great Hall was indeed great. It stretched over a hundred feet and was hung with the most stunningly woven tapestries that Bridget had ever beheld. Above them soared a magnificent hammer-beam roof that featured the personal badges, emblems and entwined initials of King Henry and Queen Jane in gloriously bright hues. Beneath their feet, the floor was tiled in green and white, the Tudor colours that formed such a central part of any of the king’s residences. The tiles were so beautiful that Bridget did not really like to stand on them. The entire hall was, in fact, a work of art, and Bridget could not stop herself staring at it, so much so that she did not notice that a man had come up and stood next to her.
Joanna’s eyes were quicker. “Will!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you! Are you well
? You are certainly looking very prosperous. Do you still serve the king in his privy chamber?”
“Aye, Mistress de Brett, I do, and may I say how well you look. We heard that you were dreadfully ill . . . the Sweat, was it not?” His voice trailed into a whisper.
“Yes, we think so, but only a mild dose. I was very fortunate in that, and also very fortunate in the nurses who attended to me at all hours of the clock. I refer, of course, to Bridget . . . I mean, Lady de Brett, the abbess and Sister Margaret, who was with us in the old days at Rivers. She lives with us at Thorns now. Together, they saved my life.”
“Really?” Will gave Bridget an admiring look. “I had not thought of you hitherto as a nurse, but I congratulate you, my lady, for proving me wrong. It seems there is no end to your talents.” The sarcasm dripped off his tongue, and Joanna’s eyebrows lifted a little.
Bridget decided not to rise to his insolent manner. “Tell me, Master Redcliff,” she asked with careful politeness, “is there any news of the queen?”
“Alas, no. I have just left His Majesty, who is at his devotions. Queen Jane labours still, the last that we heard. We all pray for a happy hour and that she will be delivered soon.”
