by V. E. Lynne
“No, no,” Holbein sighed, laying down his brush. “That side of your face is fine. I merely wished to tell you that I have finished for the afternoon. I have made good progress on your likeness, but I fear that it shall remain unfinished until I return from the Continent. The king has bid me go and paint the sisters of the Duke of Cleves. Their beauty is famed throughout Europe I am told.”
Bridget had heard the same thing about the duke’s sisters, mainly from Cromwell who spoke of them as if he intended to marry them himself. One was called Amelia and who was the other one? Ah, yes . . . Anne. Another Anne. If Holbein was being sent to paint them that meant that the king was seriously prepared to entertain the prospect of wedding one of them. Cromwell was therefore close to getting his way, once more: an alliance with one of the Protestant states of the Low Countries was one of his most cherished dreams. No, not dreams, schemes. Thomas Cromwell was not a man comprised of dreams.
“Another wonderful assignment for you, sir, I congratulate you. We have all heard of the beauty of the sisters of Cleves. I have no doubt that you are the man to capture it. Speaking of capturing things, may I see what you have captured of me? If I do not see something of the portrait soon, I will die of curiosity.” She started to her feet, but Holbein wasted no time in snatching up the canvas and holding it as far from her as he dared.
“I am sorry, madam, but I cannot allow that. As you know, I am under strict instructions from His Majesty. His eyes must be the first to see the portrait. I do not care to disobey him on this point as you must surely . . . understand.”
Bridget did understand and so she did not press him further. Holbein, his benevolent eyes clearly showing his gratitude, bowed to her and began to take his leave though not before Lady Exeter made her entrance into the room, Joanna hot on her heels. “I told the marchioness that you were closeted with Master Holbein and were not to be disturbed, but she would not listen to me. She insisted that she must speak with you at once.”
Gertrude Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter, indeed looked like a person for whom time was short. She was flushed in the face and so wound up both her hands were shaking. Throwing aside the fact that she far outranked Bridget, she sank into a curtsey and then seemed unable to rise from it of her own accord. Embarrassed at this display, and worried at what it might betoken, Bridget hurriedly ushered an astonished Holbein out of the room and then helped Lady Exeter to her feet. “My lady of Exeter,” she said gently, “what a very pleasant surprise. Joanna, could you fetch us some wine please and perhaps some sweetmeats as well? Thank you. Now then, madam, would you care to sit down here?”
Bridget directed her to the best chair in the chamber, a beautifully carved piece of furniture with velvet cushions, and waited until Lady Exeter had gratefully seated herself upon them before she followed suit. She arranged her countenance into one of benign interest but behind that façade her mind whirled. She had an inkling, more than an inkling really, of what had brought Gertrude Courtenay, one of the great ladies of the court, to her door, and that inkling caused her palms to sweat.
“Lady de Brett,” the marchioness began, “I have been trying to secure an audience with you for some time, but it has proved very challenging to arrange. You are so often in the king’s company it seems you hardly have a moment to yourself.” Bridget acknowledged this with a wry smile. Joanna brought in the wine; Lady Exeter took the cup she offered with alacrity. Bridget observed that the noblewoman’s hands trembled so much she had a difficult job keeping the goblet steady.
After some moments, Lady Exeter drank the wine and sighed. Bridget watched her calmly, allowing the silence to stretch out as much as she could. She knew why Lady Exeter was here—there was only one reason such an exalted lady would seek her out. She needed to speak to the king but did not dare to approach him directly or, more likely, was being prevented from doing so. There were many doors that separated the king from his subjects, and he could choose to close all of them if he wished. She suspected that that was precisely what he had done to Lady Exeter; the door to his presence was cut off to her and therefore, in her desperation, she had been forced to present herself at Bridget’s threshold.
Lady Exeter took the final draught of her wine and then stared down into the empty cup, as though the answers she sought lay there amongst the dregs, just waiting to be discovered. Eventually she put the goblet to one side and lifted her gaze to meet Bridget’s. Her dark eyes stared intently out of her ashen face—they were full of fear.
“Lady de Brett, you must know what has brought me here today. I do not like to ask favour of anyone, but sometimes it is necessary to do so. It is necessary for me to do so now and, to that end, I will be brief. My lady, your . . . influence with the king and also with Lord Cromwell has become well known throughout the court.”
Bridget had intended to let Lady Exeter talk without any intrusion on her part, but the reference to Cromwell brought her up short. “Pardon my interruption, my lady, but I fear you have been misinformed,” she said. “My ‘influence,’ as you call it, with the king is very slight, and as for Lord Cromwell I have no ability to influence that gentleman at all. I have yet to meet anyone who can, save for His Majesty, of course.”
Lady Exeter regarded her solemnly for a moment before she burst into peals of what could only be described as desperate laughter. “Goodness, I realised when I first met you with the Lady Mary, and then especially so on the night of the masque that you were a born innocent. Anyone could see then that the king wanted you; he would have taken you right there on the floor of the Great Hall if he had dared, but I never imagined that you were this naïve! I will therefore speak plainly to you, my dear, for I have time for nothing else and I see that only plain speech will suffice. You are the king’s mistress. We all know it, how could we not? He makes enough of a show of you. He has showered you with jewels,” Lady Exeter’s eyes raked over the diamonds at Bridget’s throat, “he takes his pleasure with you in the tower in the park at Greenwich. His eyes barely leave yours. It has happened before and no doubt it will happen for other ladies after you. But, for now, you are the lady who holds his attention. Let us not pretend otherwise.”
Bridget shifted in her chair and willed the tide of heat that had crept up her neck to recede, not that Lady Exeter seemed to notice her embarrassment. She was too caught up in herself, particularly now that she had moved on from the king and was speaking about a man for whom she had only contempt; a man who caused her black eyes to burn with hate. Thomas Cromwell.
“You say you have no influence with him,” she pronounced, “and yet I cannot believe that. He is the man who brought you back to court after you had soaked yourself, quite literally I am told, in the blood of that sorceress who so beguiled the king that he lost his head and married her. Until, that is, he woke up and had hers chopped off. You should have been finished after that, anyone else would have been, but you weren’t. Oh no, Lord Cromwell brought you back, complete with a husband, and now you occupy the king’s bed. Yes, you have some sway with the Lord Privy Seal, though perhaps you do not realise how much.”
“Lady Exeter,” Bridget enunciated Gertrude’s title carefully through her increasingly gritted teeth, “you said you came here to ask my favour. If that is so, madam, then I suggest you state your business quickly. Thus far the tenor of this conversation is hardly conducive to my doing anything for your benefit.”
The marchioness inhaled deeply. The anger that had flared in her as she had talked of Cromwell drained away, and Bridget realised that sitting here before her was a woman who was utterly desperate. Desperate and terrified.
“I apologise,” she said humbly, “if my words have offended you. It was not, I can assure you, my intention to do so. I said I thought you an innocent from the first, but I never said that I also liked you from the first. You clearly have a good nature, a kind nature, and that is rare in my experience. I need you to exercise, if you can, that kindness with the king because . . .” Tears sprang into the marchioness
’s eyes. “I am so afraid, Bridget. May I call you that?” Bridget nodded.
“I fear what is to become of my family. My husband, myself, even my son Edward, though he is only a boy, we are all in danger. Lord Cromwell works against us ceaselessly and now that he has taken our kinsman Sir Geoffrey Pole into custody, I am in constant dread of what may happen next. Of what he may do to us all.”
So, Cromwell had apprehended Cardinal Pole’s brother had he? There had been murmurs of such a thing and, according to Joanna, Will had been particularly tight-lipped lately, which was always a sure sign that the master secretary was up to something. Bridget thought back to her and Sir Richard’s visit to Austin Friars and the way that Cromwell had spoken about Reginald Pole, Lord Exeter and Sir Edward Neville, indeed the whole “White Rose” faction. He had laughed and made light of their scornful behaviour towards him, but despite his bonhomie, Bridget had been able to see past the cloak of his feigned good humour. Lady Exeter must have been able to do so, too; she must have discerned the sharp edge of the headsman’s axe pressing perilously close to the back of her husband’s neck, if not her own.
“I am truly sorry,” Bridget began slowly, “for the situation you and your family find yourselves in, but I am unsure how you think I can be of any assistance to you. Lord Cromwell is the king’s chief minister, he is Lord Privy Seal, and he is the Vicar General. He is second only to His Majesty. He does not, I promise you, take advice from me.”
Lady Exeter leant forward and took Bridget’s hand in hers, squeezing the delicate bones until they hurt. “Lord Cromwell may not take advice from you, or from anyone, but despite all his offices and his pretensions he acts only at the behest of the king and the king is the one person who may listen to you. I can understand your reluctance; it is a lot to ask and we are not your kin, but please . . . I beg of you. Think of my son—he is a mere child, and they may take him and lock him in the Tower or worse. You have been in that place; you know what it is like. Do not condemn him to it. If you need a further incentive, there would be a reward in this for you and your husband. We would not ask you to act without offering something in return.”
A conspiratorial smile lit up Lady Exeter’s otherwise sallow complexion and she squeezed Bridget’s hand ever tighter. “My husband is in possession of your former home, Rivers Abbey, and would be more than willing to sign it over into the keeping of Lord de Brett. ’Twould be no hardship; we regard ourselves purely as custodians, and not true owners, of the Church’s old lands. Think of how pleasant it would be to have your old home back; think of how your wealth and status could be increased. Think of your old abbess and Sister Margaret. Oh yes, I have met them” Lady Exeter said to Bridget’s raised eyebrows. “They are great ladies, they loved the old queen, Katherine, as I did and they love her daughter. I grieved with them when Rivers was suppressed – you could return it to them.
The king’s attention is fleeting, my dear,” she said sympathetically “and thus you must make hay whilst the sun still shines upon you. In addition to receiving the abbey, I could put in a good word for you with the Lady Mary, with whom I am occasionally in contact. She is the only true princess of the blood in the kingdom, and her favour would be a great asset for you to obtain—”
“My lady,” Bridget cut her off, feeling that the conversation had now taken an even more dangerous turn. “I thank you for the offer of Rivers. It is a place of which I am very fond, but it is yours, not mine. I do not require anybody’s lands nor do I wish to make contact with the Lady Mary. My husband and I have been treated most kindly by His Majesty, and that is sufficient for us. I also do not wish to interfere in any of Lord Cromwell’s doings, however, I am prepared to speak to the king and assure him of your family’s loyalty. I make absolutely no promises to you that my words will do them any good. I emphasise yet again that my influence is quite minimal. But I will speak to him. I will do you this favour.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly, Lady de Brett. Thank you so much.” Lady Exeter’s visage, previously pulled taut with tension, relaxed and she smiled a genuine smile. “A word from you, in our favour, dropped into the king’s ear is all I ask.” She lifted Bridget’s hand, still held firmly in her grasp and kissed the garnet ring, the ring that had once been Anne Boleyn’s, as though Bridget were now the queen and she her humble supplicant. Bridget accepted her thanks and nodded her head in appreciation, but inside she quaked.
Chapter Twenty
“Bridget, please do not do this!” Joanna pleaded for the hundredth time as she laced her mistress into her gown. “You are placing yourself in unbelievable peril asking the king for a favour, any favour, let alone one for the Exeters! For heaven’s sake, not only are they nothing to do with us, but we have all heard them speak rashly and disdainfully sundry times about His Majesty. Why, Sir Edward Neville will happily disparage the court and most especially Lord Cromwell to anyone within five feet of him. And speaking of Lord Cromwell, Will told me—”
“Do you know,” Bridget observed, “that you employ that phrase ‘Will told me’ rather a lot these days?” She had intended it as a playful remark, but the instant she saw the blush that spread across Joanna’s cheeks Bridget’s stomach lurched. She knew that the two of them spent time together but she had told herself it was nothing more than a mere friendship. But was there more to it than that? Did Joanna have true feelings for Will and, more importantly, did he reciprocate? Was it possible? Well, why would it not be? A small, inner voice demanded mockingly. They are both young, both handsome and, most crucially, promised to no one. Will is a member of the privy chamber and a protégé of Thomas Cromwell, the most powerful man in England, excepting the king. Joanna is an heiress, whose importance grows every single day that you do not produce a son. And furthermore, the mocking voice continued, you will never give birth to the de Brett heir, not now you belong to the king and your husband is gone away. A union between Will and Joanna made perfect sense. How could she have been so blind to it?
“Bridget?” Joanna broke into her thoughts. “Did you hear me? You have gone a funny colour. Do you need to sit down?”
Bridget brushed her concerns aside and adjusted the sleeves of her gown. She then fastened a double strand of pearls around her neck, the king’s most recent gift. Henry liked her to wear every piece of jewellery he had ever bestowed upon her so tonight she intended to honour his wishes and wear them all. She would go to him like a chest of jewels come to life. The golden “B” pendant nestled comfortably between the pearls, just above the swell of her breasts, and seemed to wink scornfully at her in her burnished mirror. She turned away from the sight and faced Joanna.
“I heard you; I am well acquainted with your fears. You ask me, why would I involve myself in this matter, which appertains to me directly not at all, and what is more it is for the sake of the Exeters of all people? They are, as you so succinctly put it, nothing to do with us. And furthermore they were no friends of the late Queen Anne’s; in fact, quite the contrary.”
“Yes, exactly!” Joanna agreed furiously. “They hated her! They and their allies worked assiduously to bring about the queen’s destruction, and once that task was so bloodily achieved, they paraded about the court like a mob of conquering heroes. They would have carried her head before them if they could have. But now all has changed—the positions are reversed, and it is they who stand in the shadow of the scaffold. Such is the depth of their trepidation they were forced to send Lady Exeter unto you for aid. Why, in the name of the Virgin, should you give it to them? Why do they deserve it?”
“You are right in much of what you say, but oh God, Joanna . . . you did not see her. You did not see the misery in her eyes, the sheer, naked fear. She is afraid, truly afraid. She told me so. I know that she and her husband and all their kin hated Anne and gloried in her death. I have not forgotten that, and if it were Carew or Suffolk or, Jesu forgive me, Lady Rochford, I would not lift a finger to aid them, but I do not think the Marchioness of Exeter is a bad person. She has b
een kind to me. I also do not think her husband is a genuine traitor. No one who truly was would speak as indiscreetly as he does. But she does not only fear for him; she thinks they may even kill her son. He is but ten years old! You mentioned the scaffold; well, you and I have actually stood upon one, though it was not one built for us. We have borne witness to the kind of terrible death that is practiced upon its boards. Would you not save someone from that fate if you could? If perhaps, in some way, it lay within your power to do so? Would you not?”
“For your sake I would, and for the abbess, my uncle, Sister Margaret. Will,” she licked her lips, “but not for the sake of the Marchioness of Exeter and her family. Bridget, they are amongst the richest nobles in the land, and they are relatives of the king. Full up to the hilt with Plantagenet blood and Plantagenet pride. Let them save themselves, as harsh as that may sound. You cannot be their saviour. You cannot run that risk.”
There was a knock at the door. “That will be Master Culpeper,” Bridget said, without responding to Joanna’s last plea. “I must go. His Majesty does not like to be kept waiting. And, Joanna, please do not fret.” She favoured her with her best smile. “I have listened to all you have said, to all your concerns, and I will not place myself in any real peril. The king is fond of me, perhaps more than fond. I do not stand in harm’s way. I am quite sure of that.”
Bridget followed Thomas Culpeper along the well-trodden path toward the king’s secret rooms, his most private, jealously guarded lodgings located deep in the heart of Richmond Palace. Only a handful of people ever came to know about them, let alone gain access to them. As they drew inexorably nearer, Bridget’s pulse was racing so wildly that she felt close to losing control. Here she was, shimmering head to toe in cloth of silver, bedecked in pearls, swathed in diamonds and rubies, going to the King of England to ask him to spare the lives of the greatest nobles in the realm, people she hardly knew and was not related to. People who would never perform the same office for her. A laugh threatened at the absurdity of it all and she could not quite prevent it escaping.
