Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (3 page)

“Ah yes!” Lord Rochford said loudly, snapping his fingers. “These are the two young ladies you have saved from Cromwell’s scythe at the abbey, sister! Is not one of them some distant relation of ours?’

“That is correct, brother,” the queen replied happily. “Young Bridget here is a kinswoman of ours, and Joanna is a relative of the Abbess Joan. I believe you visited the abbey once, did you not? Only for purposes of prayer, of course.” They exchanged a private look, which Lord Rochford was the first to break. A few others in the room snickered, and Lady Rochford pursed her lips in disgust. Bridget too felt her face start to warm as she realised the implications of the silly laughter and Rochford’s shamefacedness. She directed her eyes resolutely at the floor.

The queen let the laughter die down, then sensibly changed the subject. “See how pretty they are, George!” she said. “They will make a fine addition to our court. Heaven knows I need some young people about me. I find the air in here has grown stale and old of late.” Both Lady Rochford and Jane Seymour bristled a bit at the queen’s statement and shared a brief glance between them.

“They are certainly pretty, Majesty,” Lord Rochford concurred, his dark gaze roving openly over their trim figures. “The blonde one has your eyes, Anne. Do you not agree, gentlemen?” Sir Henry Norris merely nodded and smiled a neutral smile. He was a pleasant-looking man, blond with summery blue eyes and a trustworthy face. Bridget had noticed that the entire time he had been there, his attention had barely wavered from the queen, whilst Madge Shelton had tried to catch his eye on a number of instances. She had yet to succeed.

“Lord Rochford, I think you do these ladies a disservice,” Sir Francis Weston said, his laughing voice filling the chamber, “for surely their beauty deserves a more fitting description than merely ‘pretty’? Why, I am pretty, you are pretty, the musician Smeaton is
very
pretty.” At this, he raised an eyebrow, and Rochford looked slightly embarrassed. “But we are as nothing compared to these young maidens. They excel us as the day excels the night. Why this one,” he said, moving towards Bridget and taking her hand, “this one is a lovely English rose. She is all lush innocence with perhaps just a few drops of morning dew sitting delicately upon her untouched petals.” Bridget blushed violently. She had seldom been this close to a man before, let alone one as attractive as Sir Francis Weston. His hand felt like warm velvet wrapped around hers. A little shiver swept through her body. Aware of her response, Sir Francis gave her hand a final squeeze and then moved on to Joanna.

“And this young lady,” he continued, gently cupping Joanna’s cheek. “This maid looks like a glorious sunset, the kind that paints the whole sky with fire and flame.” Bridget thought that Joanna might faint with pleasure at this compliment. Instead, she giggled and almost jumped up and down with excitement. “Come, my Lady of the Sunset, dance with me,” Sir Francis cried, and without further ado, he put his arm around Joanna’s waist and began to dance her about the room.

The queen clapped her hands and looked on with amusement. Bridget tried to smile but could not do so because of her growing unease. She had become aware that Anne was the only person in the chamber who viewed the spectacle before them with pleasure. Lord Rochford had lost all interest in it; Sir Henry Norris had eyes only for the queen, and the other ladies had tactfully averted their gazes from the scene except for one. Lady Rochford watched as if nailed to the spot. Her face was a blank canvas, but her pale eyes surveyed the dancers with keen interest and calculation. They did not miss a step.

Chapter Two

“Have you seen Mistress Seymour, Catherine?” the queen asked briskly a few days later. Anne and her ladies were in her private apartments at Greenwich, where the unseasonably warm sunlight was streaming in the windows and casting slanted shadows across the floor.

Catherine Carey looked up with surprise and quickly glanced about the room. “No, Your Majesty.” she replied. “I have not seen Mistress Seymour today.”

The queen’s lips thinned and Bridget saw her throat work, as if something was stuck there. Her face settled into lines of anger. “How about the rest of you? Hmm? Nothing to say? Nobody has seen Jane Seymour? Well, how interesting. She has performed a vanishing trick. She must be cleverer than I thought.”

The ladies all lowered their heads and became very interested in their feet. Anne regarded them with frustration as well as a hint of suspicion. Her ebony gaze settled upon Lady Rochford. “You must know where the Seymour wench is, Jane,” the queen said sharply. “After all, she is a great friend of yours, is she not? I see the two of you whispering together like a couple of dairymaids when you think no one is looking. So, where is she?”

Jane Rochford assumed an innocent air and quietly shook her head. “I know not, Your Majesty” she replied, folding her hands in her skirts. “I have not seen Mistress Seymour since last evening. Perhaps she is at prayer, or helping the poor in some way? Your Majesty knows what a kind nature she has.”

The queen snorted in disbelief and waved her hand dismissively at Lady Rochford. “I see that I am going to have to solve this riddle myself.” Her eyes scanned the room with cat-like intensity. Bridget tried to fade into the background and do nothing to attract attention. She busied herself unpicking Joanna’s sewing, a result of the young maid’s constant daydreaming about Sir Francis Weston. She was so focused on this task that she did not notice that the Queen of England was standing right in front of her.

“Bridget,” the queen said, almost causing Bridget to jump out of her skin. Bridget looked up at her mistress, the shirt she had been working on falling to the floor. A touch clumsily, she leapt to her feet and tried to pick up the shirt and curtsy at the same time. Everyone, even Lady Rochford, looked at her sympathetically.

“Never mind that,” Anne said curtly, “you are coming with me.” She reached out, grabbed Bridget’s arm, and together they swept from the chamber. Leading the way, the queen strode through the twisting corridors of Greenwich Palace, Henry VIII’s birthplace and perhaps the most beautiful of his many residences. Anne was clearly a woman on a mission, and Bridget had difficulty keeping up until her mistress stopped abruptly and Bridget nearly barrelled into her.

“I do not trust the Seymour girl,” Anne said, half to herself. “She was once in Catherine’s service and she remains loyal to that woman’s daughter, the Lady Mary. People like her, like her family,
they have no love for me or mine. And now, somehow, by some miracle, she has caught the eye of the king! How she has done this, I have no idea. She has no beauty, no wit, and no personality. None of the things Henry loves, or I thought he loved, and yet I have seen . . .” she trailed off and seemed to struggle to collect her thoughts.

Visibly gathering herself, Anne said, “I have decided to trust you, Bridget, even though you are new to my service and to this court. Abbess Joan, whom I greatly esteem, spoke highly of you, and I have been impressed with you in the short time you have been here. You are sober, hardworking, God-fearing, and you do not indulge in all the tittle-tattle that the other ladies do.” Bridget smiled wryly, and Anne laughed. “Well,” she amended, “perhaps not so much as the others do.” She turned serious again. “You seem honest, and I need such people about me, especially in these difficult times. Even better than that, you are my cousin. A Boleyn. And there is none so worthy as a Boleyn.” As if to confirm this, the queen fondly touched the golden “B” pendant she wore around her neck.

Bridget was both surprised and honoured at the great compliments her mistress had bestowed on her. But the reference to her Boleyn connection made her uncomfortable. “I thank your Majesty for your great praise, and I will try to deserve it. God knows you have done so much for me by raising me to your household and putting your trust in me, but surely your Majesty realises that our family connection is so slight as to be non-existent? I fear the Abbess may have overstated matters somewhat in that regard.”

“Oh, nonsense,” the queen replied smartly. “Blood is blood, and we share some. It may be some way back, but it is there nonetheless. You will learn that even the most fragile connection has value at this court. Do not be so quick to dismiss the importance of it. Now that I have dispensed with that,” she said firmly, picking up her midnight-blue skirts and turning away, “we must find the errant Mistress Seymour so I can dispense with her too.”

Anne and Bridget made their way through the palace at a fast clip, rushing past what seemed to be a bewildering array of chambers, antechambers, alcoves, and galleries without number. Bridget had never been in this part of the palace before, and she was soon feeling disorientated. It seemed they were going around in a circle until they passed one room where the door was slightly ajar, and Bridget caught a just flash of something on the edge of her vision. She stopped, quickly glanced in, and glimpsed a couple, the female dressed in moss green, sitting on a male’s lap. The lady was small with very white skin.

The queen was looking impatiently behind her, having noticed that Bridget had stopped dead. She almost told her to hurry up when she caught the look in her maid’s eye. Anne halted for a moment, as if anticipating a blow, then she walked purposefully toward the door Bridget was standing just outside of. Bridget stepped back quickly and let her pass.

Queen Anne pushed open the heavy door with a crash. There followed the sounds of mad scrambling and a man swearing. Bridget came up behind her mistress, making sure she remained hidden in the shadows, but she could not suppress emitting a small gasp at the scene that lay before her.

Jane Seymour, her chalky complexion turned flaming red, was hurriedly pushing her petite breasts back into her gown, which was partially unlaced. Her fingers visibly trembled as she completed the task, whether from fear or interrupted pleasure, Bridget could not tell. The man, whom Bridget realised was King Henry, had his face angled away and was obviously angry. Though she had never seen him before, she had no doubt that this was Henry Tudor in front of her. There was no mistaking his famously strong build and his regal head, with its thinning, fiery-red hair, not to mention his gorgeous attire and fistful of jewels. He fairly sparkled and gleamed, like a gemstone in a shaft of sunlight.

Anne had gone very still, as though she had been turned into a pillar of stone. Bridget watched the silent tableau with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, as one watched the approach of a storm. It was just a question of time until it broke over your head and you were caught in the resulting deluge.

The queen broke out of her frozen state with a roar that sounded like an animal in pain. “What is this?” she cried, pointing a long accusing finger at the surprised pair. “While I am doing my duty, while my belly is doing its business, you are wenching with this . . . this strumpet! This little scrap of nothing, with her plain face and her pinched mouth! This is what you prefer, Harry? This is what you like, is it, my lord?”

While Anne was venting her spleen, Jane Seymour was quietly trying to escape through a side door. She did not succeed. The queen saw her sidling away and moved quickly to prevent her. She lunged at her rival, grabbing her arm, and managing to scratch it before the king intervened. “Stop this, sweetheart” he soothed. “Peace be, my love, and all will be well. Think of our son safe in your womb and all will be well. Shhh, Anne . . .”

Tears streamed down the queen’s face, and her body shook as Henry took her in his arms and rocked her gently, all the while relaxing her with soft words. Bridget saw a flash of green as Jane Seymour ran past her, like one pursued by the devil. She was so intent on flight that she never even noticed Bridget’s slim frame watching her in the dim corridor.

“I want her gone,” Anne said to Henry. “She is to leave my household at once; I will not have her in my sight. I do not need her, I have plenty of maids. Bridget here may take her place. She will be a fine replacement.”

The king stepped away from his wife and gave her a dogged look. “Mistress Seymour is not to be replaced,” he said, his voice now devoid of softness. “I wish her to remain in your household, as one of your ladies. That is where she belongs.”

“Henry!” Anne shouted, her voice full of renewed anger. “How can you ask me to endure her presence? Especially at this delicate time, when I am carrying your son? I know that Catherine turned a blind eye to your amours, but I love you so much more than she did. I find I cannot feign ignorance as readily as she was able to, particularly when one of my ladies is involved.”

Henry lowered his head and had the grace to look abashed. Nevertheless, he would not be moved and he repeated his command. “Mistress Seymour shall remain where she is and that is an end of it. I will not entertain any further arguments about it. Now, I have a question for you, madam. Who on earth is Bridget?”

Anne looked behind her, her black eyes red-rimmed, and beckoned to her maid. Slowly, Bridget stepped forward and made a deep curtsey to the king, her nose almost scraping the floor. She rose but kept her gaze downcast, avoiding Henry’s frankly appreciative one. “This is Mistress Bridget Manning,” Anne announced. “She is one of my new maids, one of two young ladies I took in from Rivers Abbey. She is also a kinswoman of mine.”

Henry laughed heartily at that piece of intelligence and shot a disbelieving look at Anne. “Another Boleyn, is it? As if we didn’t have enough of them already. She does not really look like one of your kin. All that blonde hair and those . . .” the king trailed off and allowed his eyes to linger on Bridget’s full bosom, a marked contrast to his flat-chested queen.

Anne’s features turned disapproving, and Henry smiled and made a little shrug. He then bowed to Bridget, his eyes never leaving her face. “Welcome to my court, Mistress Manning,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and now I have a job for you. Please take the queen back to her apartments and make sure she rests for the remainder of the day. I do not want her subjected to any more disturbances or upsets. I place her in your capable hands.”