Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (8 page)

“No . . . at least, not for a while,” Catherine replied haltingly. “She slipped away, I know not where. Sorry,” she finished lamely. Bridget clenched her jaw and quickly threw a dark cloak around her shoulders. She then walked as quietly as possible out of the antechamber, through the queen’s apartments, and into the palace proper.

On silent feet, she crept through the vast building, with no real idea in her mind as to where she was going, but with a sinking feeling in her stomach as to what she might find when she got there. God only knew what she would say if she were discovered. But the place seemed deserted, and besides, Bridget had always been good at moving without being noticed.

Her eyes having adjusted to the dark, Bridget walked with more confidence, pulling her cloak tightly around her to ward off the cold. She passed by a window, then backtracked, having seen two figures in the distance. Hugging her body close to the wall, she peered out and breathed a small sigh of relief that neither of the individuals were Joanna. In fact, they were older men, relatively short, and well built.

They had their heads angled close together and one of them was talking very fast. Then they parted quickly, like an adulterous couple who feared discovery. It was not until they sprang apart that Bridget recognised them. One was the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, whom she had memorably run into once before. He had called the queen a whore and a heretic. The other man she had also met before, on what felt like that long ago day at the tiltyard. It was Thomas Cromwell.

Bridget shrank back into the darkness as the two men took their leave of each other and walked away. She was confident that neither had seen her, but she rapidly felt very vulnerable, wandering about Greenwich in the dead of night. She decided the most prudent course of action was to make her way back to the queen’s apartments and hope Joanna returned of her own accord, but then she heard a noise. It sounded like a gasp, a distinctly female one. It had emanated from just around the corner.

Bridget moved as silently as she could towards the source of the sound. As she inched along the wall, the ragged breathing of the female became more pronounced, and now the voice of a male was also audible. He was whispering in a laughing tone. Bridget thought she recognised it.

She had reached the end of the wall and, with rising trepidation, Bridget poked her head around the corner. In an alcove was a couple, entwined in an unmistakably intimate embrace. The male was pressed against the female, his hand sliding up her skirt, his face buried in the curve of her neck. The female had her legs loosely wrapped around her companion and her head thrown back, her hair gleaming red in a shaft of moonlight. The young woman in question was Joanna, and the man she was so nearly giving herself to was none other than Sir Francis Weston.

Bridget felt both hot and cold at the same time. Without making a sound, she walked towards the oblivious couple until she was close enough to smell the sweat coming off their bodies. Joanna opened her eyes and, upon seeing Bridget, all pleasure flew out of them. She yelped and pushed against Sir Francis’s shoulders. He said, “What is it?” and turned around to see what, or who, Joanna was pointing at. He had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed before an impish smile lit up his face. He pulled away from Joanna and nonchalantly rearranged himself, not bothering to hide his exposed member from Bridget’s view. She pretended to ignore it.

Meanwhile, Joanna hastily pulled down her skirts and covered her bare breasts as best she could. She looked pleadingly at Bridget and tried to find an explanation. “Please, Bridget, I am sorry, but we just got carried away. You will not tell the queen? It is just that—”

Bridget cut her off. “Get back to our quarters, we will talk later. Just hope that Mistress Marshall does not get to hear about this.” Reeling at the hardness in her friend’s voice, Joanna did not attempt to argue and meekly did as she was bid. Once she had gone, Bridget regarded Sir Francis with what she hoped was a flinty stare. He merely leaned against the wall and looked amused.

“Sir, Joanna is just a young girl, with no experience of life, and certainly none of men such as you. She is naïve and easily led and perhaps even a little foolish. But she is also a sweet girl, with no harm in her, and I do not want to see her dishonoured. Apart from that, she is one of the queen’s maids and therefore out of bounds. Her Majesty keeps strict rules within her household.”

“Does she?” Sir Francis exclaimed, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I am glad you think so, but it is news to me, I must say. You have not been with us very long, little Bridget, and obviously you have some strange notions into your head. I should be glad to . . . disabuse you of them.”

He smiled that roguish grin of his and walked towards her. He looked at her for a moment, then ran his hand down her cheek with surprising tenderness. Bridget shivered and felt an awakening of desire, which she quickly tamped down. Sir Francis Weston was temptation personified, all dark good looks and physical allure. Bridget could see how Joanna had been unable to resist him. Yet, there was also something risky about him beyond his obvious attractions. Something dangerous. Apart from anything else, he was married and therefore could offer a single woman nothing, except some brief, snatched moments of pleasure and a permanent stain on her reputation. Bridget resolved to be on her guard against him.

“You are right, Sir Francis,” Bridget said, taking a step back from him. “I am still new to court and perhaps I do not know all of your . . . ways. One thing I do know is that Joanna De Brett is not available to be your mistress. You are married, and she is far too young to throw her prospects away on an affair with you. Please stay away from her. As for the queen, despite what you say, I am sure she would not be pleased to discover what happened here tonight. I would rather she did not find out, and I am sure you would agree with me.”

Sir Francis looked surprised that Bridget had had the temerity to speak to him in such a direct way, and a new light of admiration dawned in his eyes. “Well, Mistress Manning, you are not the shrinking, little flower that I had you pegged for,” he said musingly. “I congratulate you for defending your friend, and you have my word that I will not seek her out again. She is perhaps a little young for my tastes in any case. Oh, and you are right about the queen. She would not be pleased to discover what happened, or almost happened, here tonight.”

“Almost?” Bridget questioned, and Sir Francis grinned rakishly.

“My, you are an innocent, aren’t you? There was no, shall we say, denouement to my encounter with Mistress De Brett—your sudden arrival rather put an end to things. So you need have no fear that your friend is carrying a Weston heir, albeit a baseborn one. Now, that really would displease the queen!”

He held Bridget’s embarrassed gaze for a long second, then took his leave, whistling as he went. Bridget put her hand against the wall and took a few moments to clear her head. It had been such a long night and she was very tired and quite homesick. Exhaling loudly in the stillness, she began to make her way through the gloomy palace, a sense of longing for her old life enveloping her. She had been content at the abbey. It was gentle and peaceful, with its time-honoured rituals and old certainties. Of course, they had proved to be anything but certain in the end. Centuries of tradition had been wiped away in the space of a few months. In coming to court, Bridget had hoped to find a place with a bit more permanence. She had longed for a different version of the abbey really. She could not have been more wrong.

Her mind was so full of the memories of her former life, and the pitfalls of her present one, that she did not notice a man walking directly into her path. He too seemed very preoccupied with his own thoughts, his head bowed and his pace rapid. Bridget was forced to step hastily to one side to avoid a collision with him. He raised his head and his eyes flared with alarm and then recognition.

“Mistress Manning,” Thomas Cromwell said silkily, his voice barely above a whisper. “What an unexpected surprise, but nonetheless a pleasant one.”

Bridget smiled graciously while inwardly cursing her ill luck. “Master Secretary,” she replied, “I was just returning to the queen’s apartments. I am sorry if I startled you.”

“No, not at all,” Cromwell answered. “It takes a great deal more than a little maid of honour to startle me. I trust that the queen is resting comfortably after her great tragedy. Certainly the king was most upset at the grievous event, as were we all.”

Bridget would not have used the word “upset” to describe the king’s reaction. More like enraged, followed by mortified at Anne’s display of anger, and then finally coldly dismissive of his wife. Perhaps Cromwell was not aware of this or, more likely, he was merely putting the best face on his master’s reaction.

“Yes sir, His Majesty was, as you say . . . upset, but the queen is strong and, with the proper rest, will make a full recovery. And now I need some rest, as it is very late. Good night to you sir.” Bridget made a move away, but Cromwell blocked her path.

“I notice that you have struck up a rapport with my young friend Redcliff. I have only the highest regard for him. He is an excellent young man, bright, industrious and, most important of all, loyal. He is certainly the equal of any of his contemporaries at court, even those who are above him in station.”

Cromwell emphasised the last sentence, and Bridget felt little pinpricks of unease sweep over her. Had Cromwell seen the little confrontation between herself, Sir Francis Weston, and Joanna? How could he have? Bridget had observed him in the company of the Imperial Ambassador outside the palace, far away from where Weston and Joanna had been enjoying their tryst. Yet, somehow it would not surprise Bridget if Cromwell had managed to see it, or if he, in some way, knew about it. She thought he was a man of many eyes, all of them watchful.

With this in mind, Bridget hid her disquiet behind a mask of cordiality. “Yes, sir,” she agreed. “I find Master Redcliff to be a very fine man. As for the other gentlemen, I am afraid I do not know them very well, sir. I am a mere maid and I know my place.”

Cromwell laughed, his amusement real and spontaneous. “It is always well to know one’s place, Mistress Manning, especially where those of high rank are concerned. But then, you are of noble blood, are you not? Oh, do not worry,” he said at Bridget’s look of doubt, “my own family tree is somewhat less than clear as well, and yet here I am. We do not allow such niceties as our distant forebears to stand in our way.”

Cromwell fell into silence, his previous good humour gone. He now regarded Bridget with a mixture of interest and calculation, as if he were measuring her worth and considering the result. “Well, as you said, it does grow late and I must be on my way. I bid you a good evening, Mistress Manning,” he said as he began to walk away, “and I offer you a piece of advice. Keep your wits about you. The court can be a perilous place. Especially in the dark.”

Cromwell chuckled to himself, and Bridget listened to his footsteps fade and then disappear. She felt a headache starting in the back of her skull, a dull throbbing that heralded a painful end to what had proved to be a very taxing night. With a weary sigh, she turned and trudged back to the queen’s apartments.

February 1536

The king was gone and the queen was alone. Henry had departed Greenwich for York Place and the business of State. There was a final session of Parliament, which required the king’s presence, and then there were the Shrovetide celebrations to oversee. He also desired to be away from Anne, and his royal duties provided the perfect excuse for this. Everyone knew that when he left, he and the queen had not been on speaking terms. Gossip spread like a sickness that Henry had repudiated her for Jane Seymour. Bridget was not so convinced of that. She suspected that the king’s feelings were hurt, his Tudor pride was bruised, and he wanted a break from Anne. A temporary one. Certainly, that was what the queen believed, at least most of the time.

Anne had put on a brave face since the miscarriage. In its immediate aftermath, she had proclaimed that the child had been doubtful anyway, as it had been conceived during the lifetime of the Princess Dowager. Now that Catherine was dead, the queen’s next baby would be free from all such doubts. She also appeared confident that the king’s anger and his absence from her side was nothing to worry about. And yet, for all that, she did not sleep well at night and was plagued by bad dreams. She was haunted by the Creeping Man, as she called him, a figure whose presence in her nightmares caused her endless anxiety. As a result, she was often tired and her moods changeable. She kept a close watch on Jane Seymour, who seemed unaffected by the queen’s obvious scrutiny of her. She wore a permanent expression of complete serenity, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. It drove Anne to distraction.

For herself, Bridget was glad the king had left. He took the gentlemen of his Privy Chamber with him, which meant Sir Francis Weston. She and Joanna had barely spoken for a few days after she had discovered them together, but they were now back on good terms. Bridget had made Joanna see that it was foolish to throw herself away on a married man, however good looking and engaging he might be. She had also enlisted Mistress Marshall’s help, without telling her the full story of Joanna’s transgression. A dressing down from that redoubtable lady had also had a sobering effect on young Mistress De Brett. Bridget knew that Joanna understood that Sir Francis was not for her, but still she pined for him. Bridget hoped that the longer he was away, the quicker Joanna would forget about him. Unfortunately, given the bleak weather and the subdued atmosphere among the queen’s ladies, there was not much to divert her from thoughts of Sir Francis.

The queen had decided to take a walk that morning in the dank environs of Greenwich Park. Anne was a lover of the outdoors and hated to be cooped up in the palace for too long. She enjoyed the open spaces and the fresh air. The air was particularly fresh that morning, with more than a hint of ice in it. Despite that, she was enjoying being outside, with the dogs yapping and jumping about as usual and getting under everyone’s feet. No one much liked them except for Anne. She adored them and treated them almost as her own children. She had taken to walking them more and more, their uncomplicated bounce and joy a welcome distraction from her own problems.