Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (24 page)

“How did you find that out?” Catherine asked, her astonishment evident.

“Lady Rochford told me. She spoke to Mistress Seymour this morning and had the news from her that she was leaving.”

Bridget quickly scanned the faces in the crowd. Jane Seymour was indeed absent, as were both of her brothers. “He is clearing the decks,” she whispered to herself.

She looked up at the queen and tried to catch her eye, hoping that Anne would beckon to her, but she was engrossed in the tournament. Sir Henry Norris, resplendent in his shimmering armour, had taken the field as the leading defender. Just as he was about to begin, his horse shied away from the lists, almost unseating him. Cries of alarm echoed around the tiltyard and the queen leaned forward in her chair, clearly alarmed. The king looked at her, his expression blank, and then he got to his feet. “Norris!” he called out. “You may use my horse!”

Sir Henry dismounted his distressed horse, bowed humbly to the king, and gratefully accepted his offer. Anne smiled in approval and whispered something to her husband. He merely inclined his head and said nothing. Norris successfully completed his course upon the king’s mount, breaking his opponent’s lance and knocking him to the ground.

The tournament continued in a similar, exciting vein, with many lances shattered and several riders tossed unceremoniously to the dirt. Joanna shifted in her seat when Sir Francis Weston took a fall, but the bold, young man got to his feet as quickly as his armour would allow him and lifted his visor, displaying his usual confident grin to the crowd. Sir William Brereton also took part, acquitting himself with distinction.

About halfway through proceedings, Bridget noticed Will Redcliff making his way amongst the spectators, his path leading him straight towards the king and queen. He walked with purpose, his tall frame moving up the stairs with urgency. He held a letter in his hand, the envelope fastened with a red waxen seal.

Bridget’s heart jumped in her chest and she half rose to her feet. “What is wrong?” Joanna asked. “Are you unwell?” Bridget did not answer. She could not tear her eyes away from Will and that letter he carried.

When he reached the king, he bowed deeply and said a few words before handing over the missive. Henry tore it open and rapidly scanned its contents, his eyes moving quickly across the page. Bridget watched as the colour drained entirely from his face and a look of powerful anger, mixed with utter sorrow, replaced it. He crumpled up the piece of paper in his fist and spoke to Will, who nodded almost imperceptibly in response. He bowed again and took his leave. Anne meanwhile had noticed her husband’s change of mood and she touched his arm, her face full of concern.

“I must go,” Bridget said, wrenching her gaze away from the king and queen. “I have to catch up with Will.” Something had happened. She made her way past a protesting Catherine and Joanna and left the stand just as the crowd applauded another successful course run by Lord Rochford.

Bridget paid no attention. She strode away from the environs of the tiltyard, the sound of horses’ hooves and clashing lances fading into the distance. She broke into a run when she saw Will up ahead of her. “Will! Wait, I have to speak to you!”

He stopped and whirled around, a strange, unreadable look on his face. “Bridget, I do not have time for another argument with you now. I have things to do.”

He started to walk away, but Bridget stayed his arm. He looked down at her hand and something sparked between them, darker than before. Slowly he raised his head and met her questioning eyes.

“Things to do, is it? By that, you mean you have to return to torturing Mark Smeaton? I know that is how you hurt your hand, do not deny it. Is that what that letter was about? Did it contain the details of Mark’s suffering?” Will did not answer, his expression tight.

Bridget continued, “Why is the king doing this? First, he cancels the trip to Calais, and then he allows Cromwell to arrest and torture Smeaton? Mark is a member of his own Privy Chamber for goodness sake! Tell me the reason, Will, I must inform the queen—”

“Forget the queen and look to yourself. It is not too late to leave, there is still time, just barely. Grab your friend Joanna and go to the abbess and do not look back. As for Smeaton, even you must know his reputation as a . . . well, a sodomite?”

Bridget nodded. Will sighed and ran his hand through his curly hair. “And that is the extent of your knowledge? Then you are fortunate. You do not have the information that I, my master, and now the king possess. But I fear you soon will. You and the entire court will know the truth. And not just about Mark Smeaton, but a good deal else besides.”

Bridget started to ask him what he meant, but they were distracted by the sounds of horses close by. It was the king, leaving the tournament, with only a small party of six men accompanying him, one of whom looked like Sir Henry Norris. “The king goes to York Place,” Will said solemnly. “It has begun. I can tarry no longer, but please,” he drew Bridget to him and urgently kissed her, “
please
take my advice and go to the country. Feign sickness if you have to. The queen has a powerful family; let them defend her if it comes to it. People like us, who have grown up on the outside, only ourselves as our defenders. We must always survive on whatever resources we have. Use yours and go.” He kissed her good-bye and strode away.

Bridget hurried back to the tiltyard, her feet barely touching the ground in her haste to return. She found a scene much changed from the one she had so recently left. Anne was seated by herself, a little island of solitude in a sea of confusion. The tournament continued, but no one was paying much attention to the combatants. The crowd was either talking amongst themselves or watching Anne with unwavering interest. Painfully aware of the scrutiny, she sat a bit higher in her chair and smiled bravely at them all. But her eyes were like two pools of fear.

Bridget determined to make her way to her mistress but was waylaid by Catherine, Joanna, and Lady Rochford at the bottom of the stairs. “Bridget, did you find out anything?” Catherine asked anxiously. “The king just up and left without a word, and the queen is agitated. What was in that letter?”

Lady Rochford smirked and provided her own answer. “It was about Smeaton. He has opened his stupid mouth and revealed the queen’s secrets. That is why the king left. He could stand being in her company no longer.”

Bridget bridled at the comments and turned on her. “If that is true, my lady, do you not fear for your husband? After all, it is common knowledge that Lord Rochford prefers Mark’s bed to yours. And, if you do not care about what happens to him, then what about yourself? If your husband is disgraced, then surely you will have to join him in whatever rat hole he is banished to. That would be a fate greatly to be dreaded, for one such as you.”

Jane Rochford crossed her arms and smiled slowly. “I appreciate your concern for my future accommodation, Mistress Manning, but it is misplaced. As I told you once before, I always protect my interests. You need have no fears for
my
fate.” With that, Jane moved aside and let Bridget pass.

With her mind in a whirl, Bridget ran up to the royal box and approached her mistress. “Your Majesty,” she began, “I have news . . .”

Anne crooked a long finger at Bridget, her concentration still seemingly taken by the contest below. “I do not dare turn my face away for a single moment,” she said, “lest it be thought that I am worried. I will not give them the satisfaction of that. Tell me your news.”

Bridget took a breath before speaking. “Madam, the letter that was passed to the king contained a message about Mark Smeaton. He has been apprehended by Cromwell’s men and subjected to some kind of torture. I know not what he has said, but it must be damning for His Majesty to have left so abruptly. Also, I saw the king riding away and I am fairly certain that Sir Henry Norris was with him. They were bound for York Place.”

“He had Norris with him?” Anne said wonderingly. “And Smeaton has been tortured? I am fond of his singing, but apart from that, he is nothing to me. I do not understand any of this. But I dare not leave—the king left me in charge of proceedings and I must see them through. I am queen after all.”

Anne’s knuckles were white and a rapid pulse beat in her throat. Beyond that, she did not flinch from her duty, presiding over the tournament to the end. She presented the prizes to the winners, including a flushed and elated Sir Francis Weston, and through it all she offered an unflustered face to the crowd.

Once the formalities were completed, the queen sought out her brother. “George, something has happened,” she said, coming upon him as he divested himself of his armour. “The king is gone to York Place, and he has taken Norris with him. In addition to that, Cromwell has Mark Smeaton in his clutches and torture is spoken of. You have not confided anything stupid to him, have you?”

“No, of course I have not, Anne. You say Mark has been tortured?” Lord Rochford gulped. “I will go to York Place immediately and see the king.” Rochford swung himself up onto his horse and grasped the reins. He leant down and gently kissed Anne’s cheek. “Do not fear. This is all a misunderstanding that shall soon be put right. I will not let anything happen to you. Or to me,” he added wryly before wheeling his horse around and thundering away.

Anne watched him until he was just a speck in the distance. With a deep sigh, she turned to her ladies. “My brother will speak to the king and all will be well. In fact, we will no doubt be summoned to York Place first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, there is nothing to do but wait.”

Anne and her attendants returned to the royal apartments through a palace that felt lifeless. Bridget presumed that some courtiers had followed the king to York Place, abandoning Greenwich to the queen and her dwindling band of supporters.

Lady Worcester was waiting in the queen’s presence chamber, a sad figure, her hand as ever upon her stomach. “Still nothing?” Anne enquired gently, touching her friend’s shoulder. Lady Worcester shook her head miserably. She seemed embarrassed at the queen’s show of sympathy.

Anne had expressed the view that her father would come and bring her some news or perhaps even Rochford would return, bringing good tidings of his conversation with the king. There was only silence. Anne waited and waited, eating only some bread for her supper, and still no one came. At last, in the early hours, she gave up her vigil and went to bed exhausted, issuing strict instructions that she was to be woken immediately if either Wiltshire or Rochford arrived. They never did.

The next morning, Anne once again picked at her meal and kept one eye on the door, expecting her father and brother at any moment. At length, she grew frustrated and announced, “Let us go and watch the tennis match. I cannot stand it in here any longer.”

The queen and her ladies went down to the tennis court, their entrance halting all activity and conversation. Sir Francis Weston smiled at Joanna and Bridget as they arrived, his eyes twinkling with their customary mischief. He was involved in a titanic match with another player, whom Bridget did not recognise, and wagers were going back and forth on who would prevail.

The game seesawed back and forth, both men taking and then losing the advantage, and the queen could not decide whom to bet on. When Weston finally won, his shout of triumph echoing around the court, Anne was vexed with herself. “I should have placed a bet on him,” she said. “He has always had good luck.” The crowd was still applauding his victory when a gentleman messenger entered and walked up to the queen.

He bowed swiftly and delivered his message without delay. “Madam, you are commanded, by order of the king, to present yourself before the Privy Council at once. I shall conduct you there forthwith.”

Anne glanced about Bridget uncertainly and said to the man, “Why must I go?”

But he offered no explanation, merely repeating his original message. “Please, madam, you must come with me now.”

“Very well,” Anne replied firmly. “If the king orders it, then I must obey. Bridget, you will accompany me.”

“Your Majesty, the presence of the maid is not necessary,” the messenger protested, but Anne silenced him with an icy look.

“It is necessary to me. Come, let us go.”

The queen and Bridget followed the man through the palace towards the Privy Council chambers.
This must be the point that Cromwell had been working towards, the disgrace of the queen,
Bridget thought. For witchcraft? For lack of a son? For whatever crime Smeaton had “confessed” to under torture? It was impossible to say. Whatever the case, Bridget feared that they had spent their last night in the comfort of Greenwich Palace.

They reached the chamber door and the messenger announced Anne’s arrival. “Her Majesty the queen,” he intoned, then he stepped aside to allow her to enter. Anne exhibited no nervousness, except for her action of grabbing Bridget’s hand and pulling her into the room with her. The queen’s palms revealed her true state of mind. They were slippery with sweat.

Within the room, three men were seated at a wide table. They immediately stood and bowed as one. Anne curtseyed in response and said, “Good day, my lords. I must say I am annoyed to be called here at such short notice. I was enjoying a tennis match.”

The men did not reply. All three of them were unsmiling, their faces hard. Bridget recognised two of them—the queen’s uncle, the hawk-like Duke of Norfolk, who was no friend these days to his niece. His eyes glittered with resolve and with another emotion . . . was it regret? It was there and gone so quickly that Bridget barely caught it. The second man was Sir William Fitzwilliam, treasurer to the king and brother of the Countess of Worcester. He looked immensely pleased with himself, and Bridget’s mind jagged back to the conversation she had overheard between Fitzwilliam and his sister, wherein she had said that her behaviour was no worse than the queen’s and he might ask Mark Smeaton about it if he liked. Perhaps he had taken his sister’s rash advice. In Bridget’s head a little piece of the puzzle clicked into place.