Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (14 page)

“What are you about, madam, allowing your man Skip to rebuke me in public for my supposed ‘carnal appetites’ and my supposed taking of ‘concubines’? Not to mention your pathetic, little almoner’s denunciation of my policies and my ministers! Have you run mad?”

“Oh, Henry, everyone knows about you and Jane Seymour, it is no secret! I cannot turn a blind eye as Catherine did because of the great love I bear you. I do love you, Henry, and my most ardent desire in this world is to bear you a son. For that to happen I need you with me, to be with
me
, not off with some pale-faced bit of stuff! And as for your ministers—”

“Have a care what you say, wife. I and my ministers are of one mind, on the subject of the monasteries and all else! Matters of state are my affair, and I will not have you meddling in them. Is it not enough that I have raised you to be Queen of England, a state that you were certainly not born to occupy? Have I not given you everything, Anne? I have alienated the world for you, and all I asked in return was a son. A son you have not provided. I suggest you allow that problem to concentrate your mind and
not
the policies of this realm! Just remember that, as I have raised you, so can I lower you, and the latter would prove much easier to achieve than the former!”

Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor, and the ornate chamber door crashed open and closed. “Henry, please! Do not go!” Anne cried out, but the king had no more to say to her. He had already walked away.

The next few days were filled with tension. Henry avoided Anne’s company as if she carried the plague and seemed, once again, to have cast his wife into the outer darkness. He surrounded himself with the Seymour clan and with his friends from the old days, like the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Nicholas Carew. The court was still abuzz over Skip’s sermon and the king and Cromwell’s furious reaction to its contents was well known. Skip himself had been taken in for questioning, but Anne had moved hastily to save him. She still had it within her power to save her own. She spent a great deal of her otherwise empty hours with her daughter, whose childish laughter lightened the otherwise strained mood in her apartments.

She kept her maids of honour close to her, meaning that Bridget had little chance to see Will. He had often been at court with Cromwell, who was assiduously cultivating the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, in an attempt to secure an all-important alliance with his master, the Emperor Charles V. Once again, Anne found herself on the outside, due to her strong French sympathies, her falling out with Cromwell and the long-standing imperial antipathy towards her. But, she was determined to change all that.

“You must make yourself amenable to Chapuys and find a way to reconcile yourself to Cromwell, at least superficially,” the queen’s father, the earl of Wiltshire, told her. They were sitting in Anne’s privy chamber, discussing tactics.

“Yes, Anne, there is no alternative,” Lord Rochford chimed in, his face unusually serious. “It is in our interests and in England’s. The war between France and the Empire puts us in a key position—the Emperor needs to ally himself with us and there is no point continuing to promote the French. Not at the moment, anyway.”

Anne sighed and looked deep in thought. “But the Emperor despises me. He has never acknowledged my marriage or the legitimacy of Elizabeth. I cannot throw my lot in with him, not if it means downgrading myself and my daughter.”

“Of course not,” Wiltshire soothed, “do you think we would ever pursue such a course? Elizabeth is our heir. But now that his aunt Catherine is dead, and the Emperor finds himself at war, he may be more receptive to our cause than in the past. We must show ourselves sympathetic to him and ready to support an Imperial alliance. You must speak in favour of this to the king.”

“Ha! Speak to Henry? A chance would be a fine thing, Father. Ever since Skip’s sermon, he has closeted himself with the Seymours and absented himself from me, most importantly from my bed. I cannot get near him.”

“Then you must find a way, Anne!” Wiltshire snapped, “or I fear for us all! The Seymours seek to emulate our rise by coaching that plain girl of theirs to play the coy, young damsel with the king—refuse his advances and pretend as if she is the second coming of the Virgin Mary! She flutters her eyelashes at him and will not speak to him without that brother of hers present, and His Majesty laps it all up! It cannot continue, daughter, lest you find yourself out in the cold and us along with you!”

Anne looked away from Wiltshire and rested her chin on her hands. “I know all of this, Father, but what should I do? I tried to have Jane removed from my service and the king would not have it. I tried to appeal to him, to his better judgement, through Skip’s sermon and he rejected it. Now, he disdains my company and I try to put a brave face on it all, to turn the other cheek, as Catherine would have done. He likes his women to be submissive and sweet, to say ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ and ‘Right you are, Your Majesty.’ I am trying to conform myself to him but short of flaunting myself in front of him naked, which would not be very docile or meek of me. I am not sure what else you can reasonably expect me to do.”

Wiltshire fell silent, his face a picture of frustration. Rochford approached his sister and put his arm about her shoulders. “Do not fret, Anne,” he said calmly. “The Seymour girl is merely a passing fancy, as so many others before her have been. You know what he is like. They come and go because they cannot compare to you and, in his heart, the king knows this. All you have to do is keep your dignity, look as beautiful and desirable as possible, which is not difficult for you, and he will soon come to his senses. After all, your bed is hot and Jane’s is very cold.” Anne smiled and Rochford returned it with one of his own.

Wiltshire cleared his throat. “Now, to the question of Cromwell . . .” he began, but Anne would not allow him to continue.

“Father, that man is not on our side. That much is clear now. He has gone against me and curries favour with the Seymours. I need to find a way to have him removed, not reconcile with him.”

“No, daughter, that is the last thing you should do! For God’s sake use your brain!” Wiltshire argued, crossing the room and taking Anne’s face in his hands. “Cromwell is the rising star in the king’s service; His Majesty values him more than you realise. He was once our ally and he can be again. All this nonsense over the religious houses is just that—nonsense. Let the king and Cromwell take their wealth; the treasury certainly needs it. Let them do whatever they like with the monks and their blasted relics. It is not a matter for you to concern yourself with.”

“Father, I believe that the religious houses should be converted for better purposes and the ones who do a good job should not be dissolved. Cromwell and his agents would have us believe that they are all dens of iniquity, but that is not true. This cause is important; do not ask me to abandon it.”

“You do not have a choice!” Wiltshire thundered. “Causes are for people who have the luxury of security, which you assuredly do not! Have you understood nothing of our conversation? Your position is in peril. You have produced one living child in three years and you do not grow younger, Anne! Giving birth to a son should be your one and only cause, not whether some useless priests can keep their riches or not. You need a son, and for that you need your husband back. Disaffecting his ministers and throwing his amours in his face publicly is not the best way to do it.”

Rochford chimed in, “Father is right, Anne. The sermon did not work, and the Seymours grow in influence daily. You cannot afford to pursue anything other than reconciliation with the king at this time. That is why we must make love to the Imperialists and to Cromwell too. And why not use this little maid here to help accomplish it?”

Bridget looked up from her place in the corner to find all eyes upon her. “Come here, young lady,” Rochford ordered, and Bridget, with a little hesitation, obeyed. “Now, we know that Mistress Manning here is close to Will Redcliff, a protégé of Cromwell’s of whom he is very fond. We can use her to promote our cause to Redcliff and thereby to Cromwell himself. She has a few drops of our blood; we may as well use the connection. Besides, who could resist such an innocent face?”

Wiltshire did not laugh at his son but instead looked deadly serious. “Can we trust her? After all, she is young and unpractised in the ways of the court.”

Anne spoke up firmly. “Yes, we can trust, Bridget. She is utterly loyal to me.”

Wiltshire assessed Bridget thoughtfully. She squirmed slightly under his frank examination. “She has your eyes, Anne. I never really noticed before. Remarkable. Now, what say you girl? Can you feed this friend of yours the kind of information we wish his master to hear?”

Bridget looked directly at the Earl. “Yes, my lord. I am, as Her Majesty said, utterly loyal. The queen has been very good to me. Without her, I would have no place in the world. I am at your service.”

“Good,” Wiltshire replied, rare smile lighting up his patrician features. “Then the next time you are with young Redcliff, you shall sing the queen’s praises to the skies, and you shall tell him that she extols his master daily and also the Imperialists, specifically Ambassador Chapuys. Any information you receive in return you shall report to us forthwith. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Bridget answered, “it is perfectly clear.”

Bridget did not have long to wait before she could contrive to speak with Will. It was another sunny day, unseasonably warm for April, and the queen and her ladies were all outside in the park, playing with the dogs and the little princess, everyone in a fine mood.

“Mama, race me!” the princess called out, as she ran up and down across the grass.

“Sweetheart, I have been running around after you all morning!” Anne replied laughingly. “Why don’t you get Bridget or Joanna, or even Lady Rochford to have a race with you? I am sure they would not mind.”

Anne looked merrily at Jane Rochford, who had a carefully plastered on smiled upon her face. Bridget stepped forward, taking Joanna with her. “We shall race you, Your Highness,” she said to the little girl, who clapped her hands in delight. “Stand over here!” she ordered in her best princess voice, pointing imperiously towards a spot upon the ground.

The two maids, plus Lady Rochford and Madge Shelton, obediently made their way to the starting line. Elizabeth yelled, “Go!” and took off like the wind, her red hair streaming behind her.

“Be careful!” Lady Bryan bellowed after her charge, but the princess paid her no heed. She was too intent upon reaching the winner’s post.

The ladies chased after her at a moderate pace, prudently allowing the little girl her victory. “You are slow!” Elizabeth cried, her chest rising and falling. “Come, race me again!” and she hurried back to the starting line. Madge and Joanna laughed, and Lady Rochford could not help but sigh with discontent. Bridget made no reply because her attention had been diverted by something, or rather, someone else. Will Redcliff was walking across the park, his gait by now unmistakable to her.

She glanced across at the queen, and Anne indicated with her eyes that she too had spied Redcliff and that Bridget should join him. Her heart beating fast and not only from the exertion of the running race, Bridget made her way quickly across the park, calling out to Will as she went. He however did not stop.

“Will!” she called again, but still he ignored her. In fact, he picked up his pace and Bridget had to break into a run to keep him in sight. She was out of breath when at last she caught up with him on the approach to the courtyard. “Will, slow down!” she said. “You must have heard me calling out to you.”

Will finally stopped and turned. He had a strange look on his face, part annoyance and part regret. “Yes, I heard you, Mistress Manning, but I am very busy at present and do not have time to talk you. If you will excuse me.” He made to leave, but Bridget grabbed his arm to hold him back. His skin was warm through the fabric of his jacket.

“What is wrong Will? You are never too busy to speak with me. And why do you call me Mistress Manning? Are we not on a first-name basis with each other anymore? That is not how I remember things.”

Will took a moment to respond. “Mistress Man . . . Bridget. Surely you must realise the way things stand between the queen and my master at the present time? You were there when Skip gave his sermon, nearly the whole court was. You know what was said. Your mistress as good as made a declaration of war against Master Secretary Cromwell. That means that you and I find ourselves on different sides. We must be careful and not meet for a while, at least not openly, till matters are . . . resolved.”

“Will, you and your master have things wrong.” Will folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow. “I know you do not believe me, but it is true.” Bridget took a deep, fortifying breath. She indicated a stone bench not far from where they were standing. She went and seated herself and Will followed suit.

“Now, please just listen to me. The queen acknowledges that Almoner Skip went too far in his sermon. Her Majesty does feel strongly about the status of the religious houses but she, as always, bows to the king’s will in these matters. As for Mr Cromwell, she does not see him as Skip does, as Haman the evil counsellor, but as someone who is important to the king and was once important to her. Her Majesty regrets the breach between them and would like to heal it, for the good of the realm, and also for the advancement of the Imperial alliance which we all desire.”

Bridget smiled her most persuasive smile and looked expectantly at Will. The young man stared resolutely out into the courtyard. Eventually, he turned to Bridget and took her small hands in his. He leaned in and spoke very lowly to her. “Do not do this,” he whispered, “do not get involved in these games. You do not know how high the stakes you play for are, or how steep the drop is if you lose.”

Little goose bumps sprang up all along Bridget’s arms. She determinedly rubbed them away. “I play no game, Will,” she said, her face a mask of innocence. “I tell you the truth, and I hope you will do the same when you speak to your master. Will you tell him what I have said about the queen?”