Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2)

by V. E. Lynne

  “I do not know what you have heard, my lord,” Bridget began cautiously, “but I am here purely as the wife of Sir Richard de Brett. I do not seek out any favour or attention from the king. Quite the opposite in fact.”

  Wiltshire smiled wearily and folded his arms across his chest. “I believe you, my lady, I do. After all, what woman would willingly seek the favour of this king? The answer is none would. Not these days.” A surge of emotion flooded across his countenance, showing up all the deep grooves and loose flesh that Bridget had never really noticed before. Wiltshire had aged considerably. He was a man full of disappointments and regrets, a despairing man trying to hold on to a court that had passed him by. Despite herself, Bridget felt a touch sorry for him.

  Aware that he had showed her a moment of weakness, Wiltshire coughed several times to cover it. “It is known amongst the court that the king has sent you a present. He is nothing if not predictable in his modes of courtship. It is how he always starts, his opening gambit, if you will—gifts of jewellery, small and modest at first and then steadily more lavish, followed by letters that speak of undying love. You must understand, he still likes to imagine himself as a nervous, young man courting a fair maiden, begging her for her favour. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth, but he does not see it that way.”

  “I am cognisant of this, my lord, and if you are trying to scare me or warn me you may save yourself the trouble. I am a wife, not a fair maiden, and therefore wholly unavailable to be courted by anyone. Even by a king.”

  Wiltshire laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, my dear, do you forget to whom you speak? Do not come the innocent with me and for pity’s sake, get down off that high horse of yours before you fall off headfirst into the dust. Truly, the spectacle you make of yourself about the court is quite ridiculous. Do you think I have not seen you? Do you think we have not all seen you walking about with your nose stuck in the air, as if you are somehow above it all, clinging to your dull husband, whom the king only tolerates because he wants you, in case you have not realised it. Your eyes so full of judgement. Did you think I did not perceive the way you looked at me at Prince Edward’s christening? You glared at me as though as I was a piece of excrement you had just scraped off the sole of your shoe.”

  “Did I my lord? Well then, how else should one look at a man who killed his own children?”

  Wiltshire inhaled sharply, and his face went the colour of chalk. Bridget knew she had gone too far; she had let all her fears get the better of her, and for one terrible second she thought Wiltshire might strike her. She could see the temptation to do so rise in his eyes before all his years of diplomatic training took over and he managed to compose himself.

  “So, you finally said it. You finally gave voice to the thoughts I have seen reflected in your eyes. I killed my children, did I? That is not quite the way I remember it. In my recollection of events, it was the king who killed my children. He and his chief henchman, Thomas Cromwell.” A glob of spittle flew out of his mouth. “They are the ones who sent my children to die. Do you think I did not try to save them? George was my heir, my only son. Anne was my beloved daughter. They were my life. I tried to protect them. I failed, and I am tormented by that failure. Do you imagine that I do not see them everywhere I go? That their shadows do not dog my every step? When I was walking in that procession for the Seymour woman’s whelp, Anne was so close to me that I could almost have touched the hem of her gown, seen the proud tilt of her head. The head she lost because she could not give the king the one thing he wanted. They haunt me, Lady de Brett. My lost children haunt me constantly. But I did not kill them. I am not a perfect man, but that is one sin I will not lay claim to.”

  Bridget could not help but be moved by Thomas Boleyn’s words, but still they smacked to her of self-justification, a version of history he had created in order to soothe his troubled conscience. “You sat in judgement on them, I saw you. You say you tried to save them, but in in the end all you saved was your precious title. Now you serve the men who exterminated them. You may seek to alter the record, sir, to make yourself sleep easier in your bed, but you forget. I was there when it happened.”

  A fresh volley of coughs erupted once more from Wiltshire’s throat and this time he struggled to control them. In the end, he was forced to press his hand hard against his chest to halt the fit that racked his body.

  “My lord?” Bridget grew alarmed at his state. “Here, sit down. Let me fetch you some wine or ale.” The earl haltingly declined her offer.

  “No,” he croaked, “the worst is over now. Age is creeping up on me, I am afraid.” He fished out a handkerchief from his sleeve and discreetly wiped his mouth. When he drew the cloth away, it was spotted with blood.

  An awkward silence fell, the weight of the harsh words they had exchanged and the past they had conjured up, hanging uneasily between them. Wiltshire replaced his handkerchief, smoothed his attire, and resumed the mien of the polished courtier that he usually wore so effortlessly. But, as hard as he tried, there was no disguising the truth. Thomas Boleyn was an old man, a beaten man, and his fast-approaching mortality was clearly stamped on every line, contour and feature of his gaunt visage.

  “You asked me before whether I meant to warn you,” he said, “and I know you won’t believe me, but that was exactly my intention. You clearly have the lowest possible opinion of me, but I still remember the fact that you are my kinswoman, and that you were good to my daughter. It is with that in mind that I offer you this advice. The king has always possessed a changeable spirit, but ever since he took that fall from his horse at Greenwich and the trouble with his leg started, no one knows what he may do from one moment to the next. He destroyed Anne, whom he loved so much, he destroyed George, he destroyed all the others within a matter of weeks, and he did not bat an eyelid over it. He eliminated them all and then quite calmly stepped through their blood to marry Jane Seymour. She did not last long, and even though he lost her, he still got what he desired - a son, and there is nothing he won’t do to protect that boy’s inheritance. The Exeters and the rest of the White Rose faction ought to take note of which way the wind is blowing and leave court, but they won’t do so. Too proud. You, however, still have a chance to get away, for once the king takes a woman and raises her high, it is only a question of time ‘til she falls. You may trust me on that.”

  Bridget accepted his advice with an approximation of a smile, unwilling to show that any of his words had hit home. Wiltshire shrugged, as if to say, “I have done my best,” and then continued on his way as a new cacophony of coughs overtook him once more. Bridget turned and watched him go, the last of the Boleyns at court, with a creeping certainty that she would never see him again.

  Bridget arrived at her rooms to find a coldly furious Sir Richard stood there remonstrating with Joanna. “How could you let her come here, niece? How could my sister allow her to leave Thorns?” Bridget heard him say from outside the door. “We are soon to go on a progress through the south, and the last thing I want is for my wife to be within striking distance of His Majesty when he is at his leisure. Do you not realise, do none of you realise, that I need an heir? I grant you that Bridget has proved just as barren as all of my previous wives were, so perhaps God does not intend for me to have a son, but be that as it may, I have no ambition to don the horns of a cuckold at my age. Not even for the king.”

  “And I have no intention of causing you to wear them,” Bridget declared calmly as she walked into the chamber.

  Sir Richard spun around and shoved the door closed behind her with a crash. “Greetings, madam,” he began frostily. “Walters told me that your aim in coming here was to surprise me; if so you have well and truly succeeded. I, however, do not like surprises of any kind, especially ones that imperil my marriage. You should not have come here, my lady. Everyone knows that the king sent you a gift, and we do not need telling what that betokens. He has been without a woman for some time now and his eye has fallen upon you. He must fill t
he yawning gap in his bed and you are to be the filler until Lord Cromwell can find a foreign princess willing to marry him.”

  An unenviable task, Bridget mused, but no doubt one Cromwell approached as a welcome opportunity to increase his own power. Did it therefore suit his agenda to have the king distracted from the political considerations of marriage by dallying with a woman situated much closer to hand and one who was his own subject? A lady he could command and then cast aside with no fear of the consequences? Bridget’s spine stiffened as an icy shiver ran down it.

  “I have come here, sir, to take my place by your side as your wife. There was no point to my remaining at Thorns. The gifts and the letters would have kept on arriving, and how could I have kept on rejecting them? That is playing with fire. The king is someone who likes the proper decencies to be observed. He is not liable to pay court to me while my husband is present. In fact, I doubt he will so much as throw a glance in my direction as long as I stay close to you.”

  Sir Richard frowned and was plainly unconvinced by her argument, but there was little he could do about her presence now. “Just keep your eyes down, only speak when spoken to and just pray that Cromwell gets His Majesty’s signature on a marriage treaty sooner rather than later. A new wife is about the only thing that will be enough to divert him from bedding mine—permanently.”

  The next day, Sir Richard was required to attend upon the king in his presence chamber and Bridget, sticking to the plan, went along with him. She had not seen the king since his brush with death back in May and was unsure what to expect. Had he aged overnight in the manner of the Earl of Wiltshire? Was his leg still causing him pain? Rumour had it that Henry had made a good recovery from his illness and was in much better spirits, and for once rumour had underplayed the true state of things. Bridget was unprepared for just how well the king had bounced back.

  He looked almost young, holding court with dash and aplomb, his strong laughter ringing throughout the apartments, the limp that was often quite pronounced now barely noticeable. He greeted Sir Richard with warmth, and his eyes widened in joy when he saw Bridget standing just behind her husband’s shoulder. Her heart began to thump in double-quick time, and she began to think that perhaps Sister Margaret and Joanna were right - deliberately placing herself into the lion’s den had been a terrible mistake. She had made every effort to downplay her looks by wearing an old, ugly green gown that caused her to appear bilious, the look finished off by the bulkiest gable hood she owned. It made no difference. The king gazed at her, and only her, as if she were the goddess Aphrodite made flesh.

  “Lady de Brett,” the king said, coming forward and sweeping her upwards from the curtsey she had automatically sunk into. He looked at her hand, searching for the ring he had sent her and a little burst of anger arced across his face when he saw she sported only her wedding band. He bent his head close to hers and the full blast of his stale, unwashed, sweat-soaked odour invaded Bridget’s senses. She longed to take a step backwards but did not dare to. Instead, she followed her husband’s advice and kept her eyes firmly anchored on the floor, in as decorous a manner as she could, and hoped the king would soon move on. He did not. The king grasped her chin and forced it upwards until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His small, blue eyes bored into hers, and what she saw reflected there turned her insides to water. They burned not just with ardour but also with ambition, with the light of combat, as if Bridget represented a challenge, a prize that he had determined to win. Maybe Wiltshire had been correct. Maybe she should have run while she had still had the chance.

  “You do not wear the ring I sent you, madam,” he murmured, so low that only Bridget could hear him, despite the countless pairs of ears that eagerly strained forward all around them.

  “Majesty, I—”Bridget stammered, but the king silenced her with an upraised finger.

  “My lady, do not distress yourself. I understand fully the position you have taken. And I admire you all the more for it. You have conducted yourself well. With honour, as all women should. Your husband is a lucky man. I envy him.”

  He bowed before her, and the surrounding courtiers watched him do so in astonishment, their faces forming a gallery of puzzlement. Bridget, for her part, felt no less puzzled: the King of England was paying homage to her and she hardly knew where to place herself. She spotted Will staring at her in undisguised bafflement and a wave of guilt washed over her, nearly dragging her under. She twisted her hands in the folds of her gown and clenched them until the knuckles went white.

  The king, after what seemed like an eon, straightened up and swivelled toward Sir Richard. “Sir, I was just complimenting your wife on the most decorous manner in which she comports herself. I am a great admirer of decorum in a woman; it is a greatly underrated quality. If I ever marry again, the lady in question must display the utmost in decorum, propriety and modesty. Do you not agree?”

  Sir Richard opened his mouth to answer, but Cromwell beat him to it. “I fully concur, Sire, and, if I may say so, the sisters of the Duke of Cleves, the Lady Anne and the Lady Amelia, are particularly renowned for not only their beauty and grace but also their extreme decorum and modesty. In fact, they are considered to be the exemplars of those qualities throughout Europe.”

  The king sighed forcefully and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Cleves, Cleves, Cleves, it is always bloody Cleves with you!” he roared in a cruelly accurate approximation of Cromwell’s voice. He strode over to where the Lord Privy Seal stood and without warning he cuffed him violently about the head, causing Cromwell’s cap to fly off sideways, where it hit the floor with a thud. Cromwell staggered backwards.

  “I do not want to hear any more of accursed Cleves! I know you think you are in sole charge of affairs in this country, my lord, but I am still king, and I will decide whom I will or will not marry! God knows I had rather not marry at all, but you, and others, nag me into it without cease. If I succumb to your harassment and I do take a wife, it will be one of my choosing, and I shall not undertake to wed her until I have seen her myself or had a likeness of her courtesy of Master Holbein. We have in fact just dispatched him to paint the Duchess of Milan and we eagerly await his return. In the meantime, remember this,” he was nose to nose with Cromwell, “your beloved ladies of Cleves are, with all their wonderful qualities, strangers to me, and until that changes I will not be bounced by you into making a decision about them. By Jove, as I told the French ambassador, this thing touches me too near. Do you understand me, Thomas? Have I made myself clear?”

  “Y-yes, Majesty, I understand and I crave your pardon if I have spoken too freely, I meant no offence. Please forgive me, Sire.” Cromwell fell to his knees and all but crawled on all fours in his effort to make amends.

  Bridget glanced at the crowd of courtiers and noticed the Marquess of Exeter and Sir Edward Neville taking inordinate pleasure in the pathetic spectacle Cromwell was making of himself, Neville even re-enacting the cuff the king had dished out to the amusement of his close companions.

  Henry merely looked down on his servant with a mixture of impatience and contempt. “Oh, get up, man,” he said irascibly. “You are embarrassing yourself. Are you not my chief minister? My master secretary? Act like it. Now then, where is Lord Hertford?” Edward Seymour started to attention. “I wish to talk with you in my privy chamber. We have important matters to discuss.” He signalled to some other gentlemen to follow, amongst them Sir Richard and Will. The door to the privy chamber opened and closed with a bang, and an uneasy silence settled over those who were left outside.

  Exeter and Neville advanced across the chamber and stared at the fallen Cromwell, their shared glee at his plight writ large on their faces. As they walked past him, Neville extended his hand, as though to help him up, but withdrew it at the last moment just as Cromwell grasped it, causing the Lord Privy Seal to fall backwards once more. The aristocratic duo exited the chamber laughing.

  It was left to Bridget to take pity on the king’s minister. She spi
ed where his cap had landed and went and retrieved it for him. She passed it over with one hand and offered the other to help him up. He did not need her help, though; he got to his feet, unaided, snatched the cap from her and slapped it vigorously onto his head, pulling it downward with an emphatic tug. He then dusted himself off and forced a laugh out through his whitened lips.

  “It seems His Majesty extends tolerance only to you today, my lady,” he remarked, “and bestows precious little upon myself, his poor, benighted servant. It is quite understandable; the fact that I have a face that would sink a thousand ships does not help my cause. Perhaps if I did not, perhaps if I had a pretty face like you, he would send me a little garnet ring and a prettily worded letter and I would not have to grovel about on the floor in my old age. But then I see you are not wearing your ring; in fact, you never accepted it. Is that because it was not to your taste or because you already possess one exactly like it?”

  His eyes adhered to the spot where her long gold chain disappeared into her bodice. Bridget unconsciously placed her hands over the tiny bump that the hidden ring formed and then dropped them to her sides as though the brocade of her gown itself had betrayed her.

  Cromwell crossed his arms over his chest and smiled perceptively. “How did I know?” he asked. “I did not, leastways not for certain ’til this very moment. Prior to that, I had merely added two and two together and come up with four. ’Twas not difficult to do. The king often gives a garnet ring to his prospective paramours. You get the garnet before you get the ruby or the pearl or the diamond. It is like climbing a gemstone-studded ladder of success. I am sure we both recall the incident when Jane Seymour received her garnet ring and Queen Anne,” he dropped his voice, “ordered you to throw it out onto the frozen Thames, a task that Will rescued you from having to perform. The queen, of course, still had her original ring, which was not found amongst her possessions after her death. That begged the question: what became of it? A small detail perhaps, and one that escaped others, but not me. I find that the small details are often the most important.”