Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (35 page)

Bridget started to decline the offer, but Lady Lee cut her off and took her aside. “Go with him,” she said. “He serves a powerful man, and if you have any thought of remaining at court, you will need a protector. Your Boleyn connection, and the fact you attended the queen on the scaffold, will be no help to you in the age of the Seymours. Jane will not want those eyes of yours following her too closely. I know you do not like Master Cromwell, nor do I, but we are women, and we live in a hard world and have few good choices available to us. We must try to make the best one we can. Besides, that young man is handsome and obviously cares for you to wait around for you this long. Go, and I wish you well.”

Even though a part of her rebelled, Bridget’s sensible nature prevailed and she recognised the wisdom in what Lady Lee said. She bid a temporary good-bye to Joanna and Catherine with the words, “I will see you at Greenwich,” and then she nodded across to Will.

He came forward and took her hand. “We must hurry.”

They hastened across the cobblestones, retracing the path Anne and Bridget had taken when they had arrived at the Tower barely three weeks ago. They came to the mossy steps and found the boat waiting, the oarsmen sitting ready. “Will! I nearly left without you, my boy!” Thomas Cromwell called out. The teasing note in his voice died when he saw Bridget. “I see you have my favourite maid of honour with you. Hurry along, mistress, the tide waits for neither man nor maid.”

Will went before her and helped her onto the boat. Thomas Cromwell looked remarkably calm for someone who had just witnessed the death of a woman who had once been his queen, a mere few hours earlier. Then again, it had been a death he had sought, so he probably thought of it as a job well done. Whatever he was thinking, Bridget did not want to look at him. She stared out at the walls of the Tower as they receded from view, happy to put the bleak stronghold behind her at last.

Cromwell took a handkerchief out of his sleeve and dipped in the water. “Here,” he said softly, “for your face.”

Bridget took the cloth and for the first time met the Master Secretary’s gaze. “Do the smears of blood offend you, sir? I had rather thought they would please you. After all, they are the results of your handiwork.”

Cromwell and Bridget regarded each other evenly. Will took the handkerchief and gently wiped away the bloodstains himself. When he was finished, he threw the reddened rag into the river. “The queen,” Cromwell replied, “was a traitor and an adulteress. The law says that the penalty for her crimes is death. Surely, you do not speak against the law, Mistress Manning? Even the queen herself did not dare to do that in her final speech, which was a marvellous one I might add.”

“Do not speak of the law, sir. The law knows nothing of innocence; it is not concerned with it. It is not in the business of innocence. The law that you so admire killed an innocent woman,” Bridget said simply, “and you know it.”

Cromwell studied Bridget for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You really are what you seem, aren’t you? I always wondered whether anybody, let alone someone with even a thimbleful of Boleyn blood in their veins, could be as idealistic, as naïve and as frighteningly honest as you are. I thought it must be an act. But it is no act. You really believe what you say.”

“I do not envy you, Will” he continued. “This young lady belongs in poor old Thomas More’s utopia, not in the bear pit of the court!”

“Sir,” Will began, “I do not think—”

“And why should I not believe in what I say, Master Cromwell?” Bridget snarled. “I was brought up to be truthful, although I can see now that truthfulness is not the best way to advance oneself at court.” Cromwell’s eyelids flickered. “Nor is it the best way to keep one’s head, as my mistress discovered, but since we are all required to account for ourselves at the final day of Judgement, I prefer to remain an idealist, as you put it, rather than a liar.”

“You think I am a liar?” Cromwell asked, the pitch of his voice deceptively low.

“No, of course she does not—she is tired and suffering the effects of the day,” Will scrambled to take the sting out of Bridget’s words. He looked pleadingly at her and his eyes begged her to be quiet.

The word “yes” danced on the tip of Bridget’s tongue, then the advice of Lady Lee came back to her. If she ever wanted to be at court again, if she ever wanted to be with Will—and she did not know if she wanted those things—but if she did, she could not afford to cross this man.

“It is not for one such as me to say, sir. All I know is that Anne, the queen, was innocent. She did not do those things she was accused of.” Her vision blurred with sudden tears. A long silence fell upon the boat, broken only by the sound of the oars dipping into the water. Cromwell ran his square-shaped hand along the side of the vessel and stared out at the passing river. “The queen had more courage than a lioness,” he said at last. “She died bravely and you served her well. Be content with that and do not concern yourself with matters that are not your business and that you do not understand. You will only lead yourself into trouble if you do. And never speak against the law again. It is the same as speaking against your king.”

Bridget thought it best not to reply and the rest of the journey passed quietly. Eventually, the boat pulled up to the water stairs at Greenwich, and Will disembarked, helping first his master and then Bridget ashore.

“I have some matters to attend to here and then I go to Hampton Court. I will see you in a few days, Will. Mistress Manning,” Cromwell bowed with surprising grace, “I wish you well, and no doubt we shall meet again, I hope in happier circumstances.”

Will bade him farewell, then he turned to face Bridget. He took her in his arms and held her for a long time. She gave herself up to the warmth and safety of his embrace, even though she was no longer sure if she wanted it. This was the man who worked for Thomas Cromwell, who was at his command. The man who had helped torture a false confession out of Mark Smeaton. The man who had told her lies, with the express purpose of tricking the queen. Yet, she also knew that for someone like Will, there were not a wealth of options available in life. He either allied himself to someone powerful or he languished in obscurity. That meant he was forced to do things that he would not ordinarily do. At least Bridget hoped that was the case. But did she really know him; did she really comprehend who he was? Her mind reeled in confusion. After some minutes, he stepped back and ran his hand down her damp cheek. Then he kissed her, slowly and skilfully and with increasing passion. Bridget opened her mouth and returned the kiss, an edge of desperation in her response.

“Bridget,” Will breathed, tearing his mouth from hers, “do not leave court. Stay. We will be married; you must know how I feel about you. You must know that I love you. Stay here and my master will arrange everything.”

“Your master, Will? You speak of love and then you speak of Cromwell, and those two words do not belong together. No matter how you or I may feel, it always comes back to your master. I cannot tie myself to him as you have. Perhaps if you left his employ then things could be different . . .”

He cursed in response and crossed his arms over his chest. “Leave Master Cromwell? I cannot do that, Bridget. Without him I would have nothing, I would
be
nothing. He has been so good to me—he took me in as a boy, he taught me everything, gave me everything. He gave me my life. I know you blame him for the queen’s fate, but it is not as simple as that.”

“Is it not?” Bridget answered, her voice rising “Well, who should I blame? Master Cromwell felt that he was under mortal threat. He thought his own life, his very existence, was at stake, so his manner of saving it, of securing his own neck, was to send the queen and those men he accused to die instead. They did not deserve it, Will, none of them. It was cruel. It was not justice.”

“Yes, they did deserve it!” Will exploded. “They played for high stakes and they lost! Losing in this world means death. I am sorry for the queen and for the others, but had Master Cromwell not triumphed it would have been him upon that scaffold this morning, your mistress would have made sure of that! The law judged them guilty, that is the beginning and the end of it. You need to look to your own future now.” He kissed her fiercely. “Thanks to my master, I have secured a place as a member of the King’s Privy chamber. If my master continues to rise, as surely he must, there may be greater things in store for me. When the king marries again, you could even join the new queen’s household. All things are possible. Do not go off and moulder with the abbess. Become my wife and take your place at my side.”

Will’s eyes shone with both adoration and longing, and Bridget felt she was being torn in two. The logical part of her brain knew he was right. She did need to look to her own position, and allying herself to Will, as his wife, made sense. She also could not deny her personal desire to be married to him. But being married to Will meant being on the side of Thomas Cromwell—it meant forgetting his part in everything that had happened and Bridget could not countenance that. Despite Anne urging her to stay at court, it all felt like a betrayal. It felt like she was donning the cloak of ambition and she did not want that. She could not do it; she had seen where it led.

“I cannot marry you, Will. Not now. I do not know how I feel about anything. How I feel about you. I have just buried the queen; I held her head in my hands. She is not yet cold in the ground. I do love you despite everything,” she pressed her lips to his cheek, “but your master . . . he disturbs me. Sometimes you disturb me. I know he has been kind to you, but I cannot trust him. He plays his own game and the scaffold is his tournament ground. As for serving Jane as queen, do you think she wants the woman as a maid in her household who was with her predecessor in her last moments on earth? Do you think she wants to look at me every day? No. She will appoint her own people, those loyal to the Seymours, and I cannot see myself among them.”

“My master can—”

“Your master can organise things? Yes, I am sure he can, I just do not know if I want him organising me. I am leaving the court, at least for a time, and you are making your way there. There is no future for us. You must understand that.”

Will clenched his jaw and took a minute to respond. Finally, he looked up and his eyes were shuttered and hard. “Yes, I understand. You blame me, you hate my master, and you cannot see the truth. You want to throw your life away for the memory of a dead queen and a cause that is lost. Well, I wish you luck, Bridget, but I shall not be wasting my time any further. Good-bye.”

Will walked quickly away and did not look back. Bridget stood still for a long time, her mind and body exhausted and her soul in pain. Finally, she made her way up the stone steps and into the palace. The last time she had been here, the grand halls and galleries had been quiet and subdued, but now they were filled with noise and eager activity. Workmen were running everywhere, feverishly eradicating any trace of Anne Boleyn from Greenwich. The familiar, entwined “H&A”” device, which adorned numerous ceilings, gateways, walls, and even floors in the royal residence, was being hurriedly altered to read “H&J.” In front of her, three men were taking down an impressive portrait of Anne clad in her coronation robes, St Edward’s crown upon her head, her pregnant belly just visible to the observant eye. One of the men wrenched the side of the painting from its frame and laughed as it ripped asunder in his hands. Anne was being erased, torn out of history, as though she had never been.

Bridget arrived at the queen’s apartments to find more workmen in attendance and the Abbess Joan standing outside. “Lady Abbess!” Bridget cried out, and like a child she ran into the older lady’s outstretched arms. Bridget wept tears of joy and grief as the abbess smoothed her hair and murmured sympathetic words to her.

“Hush, child, it’s all over now, it will be all be all right. Dry your tears.”

Bridget took a deep breath and allowed herself to enjoy a moment more in the abbess’s embrace. With a sigh, she stepped back and dashed her remaining tears away. “I am so glad to see you; I find I cannot adequately express myself.”

The abbess laughed. “Bridget Manning cannot express herself? Then things are worse than I thought!” Bridget smiled and the abbess looked pleased. “There is the Bridget I know. Now, collect whatever it is you still have in there and be quick about it. The women were none too friendly when I arrived.”

Bridget went into the presence chamber and found an army of glaziers speedily removing Anne’s emblem of the crowned white falcon from the windows and replacing it with Jane’s phoenix rising from a burning castle. Bridget wondered, given the indecent haste in which Anne’s presence was being scrubbed out, whether the king had married Jane the moment he had heard the Tower guns thundering from the ramparts, signalling his wife’s death. Nothing would surprise her now.

She made her way through to the privy chamber and there encountered three ladies she would rather have avoided—Sir Edward Seymour’s wife, Lady Anne, Elizabeth, Countess of Worcester, and Jane, Viscountess Rochford. All three regarded her with surprise, and Lady Worcester’s eyes widened in horror when she saw the dark stains on Bridget’s dress.

Bridget had no desire to converse with any of these women, so she stated her business quickly. “I have two dresses here; I have come to collect them.”

“You do?” Lady Seymour drawled. “Oh yes, I think two very plain garments were found, but we thought, considering they were so ugly, they would better serve as dusters. They are over there if you would like them”. She pointed haughtily towards a chair in a far corner of the room. “You are welcome to them. They are of no further use to us.”

Bridget picked up the two dresses, which were filthy, but thankfully had no holes or tears in them. Once washed, several times over, they would still be wearable. “Thank you,” she muttered, and with a much-abbreviated curtsey, she turned to leave.

“Wait, Mistress Manning,” Lady Rochford said. “There is something else. These gowns belong to your friend Joanna, I believe.” She thrust three crumpled dresses at her. “You take them to her. She is no longer welcome in these rooms. Neither are you.”