Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (9 page)

Anne threw a stick to the dogs and they all went galumphing after it. Lady Rochford hung back and fell into step beside Bridget. “I must ask you something, Mistress Manning,” she said, that odd but now-familiar note of anticipation in her voice. Bridget had learnt that there was nothing Jane Rochford liked more than talking, whether she was seeking information, or parcelling out the nuggets of gossip that she mined like gold. Perhaps it was because her own marriage was so dormant that she took such a keen interest in the doings of others. Whatever the case, she was not one to bite her tongue or close her ears to any news.

“What is it, Lady Rochford?” Bridget replied as carefully as she could.

Jane’s eyes lit up and she moved an inch closer. “I hear tell that you have become close to a servant of Mr Cromwell’s, a man called Will Redcliff. I also hear that you have been seen in conversation with the Master Secretary himself. That being the case, you must know of the rumour surrounding him and the Imperial Ambassador?”

Bridget looked at Jane Rochford and felt a sneaking sense of admiration. She truly missed nothing. The first part of her statement was indisputably correct—she was close, or was becoming close, to Will Redcliff. She had spoken to him two or three times since the queen’s miscarriage, not for very long, but each time they met she liked him more and more. He was not only handsome, but he was honest and free from conceit, a very rare quality in men associated with the court.

He did, however, work for Thomas Cromwell. That meant that Bridget was careful with what, and how much, she said to him. Even though the Master Secretary was allied to the queen’s family, Anne even going as far as to call him “her man,” Bridget thought it prudent to keep as much from his ears as possible. Ever since she had seen him with Ambassador Chapuys, no friend to the queen, Bridget had suspected he was playing a double game. Or perchance, he played his own game, and was no one’s “man.” She did not know where the truth lay.

Bridget returned her mind to her conversation with Jane Rochford. “You are right, Lady Rochford, I do hold Master Redcliff in good esteem. As for the Master Secretary, I may have spoken a few words to him, but that is all. Such a gentleman would have no interest in speaking to a maid such as me.”

Jane raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. “That being the case then,” she said wryly, “you have not heard the rumour surrounding Cromwell and the ambassador. It is said that they have formed a friendship. They have held meetings in an attempt to forge an alliance between the king and the emperor. It seems quite strange, considering that Chapuys and his master have no love for the queen and in fact do not even acknowledge her marriage as valid. Perhaps your new friend Redcliff may know something about it?”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Bridget answered quickly. “Will is not terribly senior in Cromwell’s service; he would hardly confide such serious matters to him.”

Jane looked at her for a moment. “Well, if he does, make sure that you do not keep it to yourself. After all, it is your duty as the queen’s maid and kinswoman,” she said ironically, “to keep her abreast of all developments.”

Up ahead there was a commotion as one of the dogs had tripped up Madge Shelton, who had been knocked onto her ample backside. The unfamiliar sound of the queen’s laughter rang out across the park, as Joanna and Catherine Carey helped Madge to her feet. As they aided Madge in dusting herself off, they all noticed a messenger making his way towards them. Anne’s eyes took on an expectant glow, and she walked over to meet him. Bridget saw the messenger grimace at the queen’s approach. Clearly, she was not the party he sought.

He bowed low before Anne, then stood up awkwardly, his young face ablaze with embarrassment. “Your Majesty, I come bearing a gift for Mistress Jane Seymour,” he announced, with hardly a breath between words. Anne’s features turned to stone, but she did not try to prevent him delivering the gift to the obviously pleased Jane. He then hurriedly bowed for the second time and left as quickly as he had arrived.

Jane made a great show of opening her present, which consisted of a letter and a pretty, little garnet ring set in gold. She placed it on her small, slender finger and held it up in the wintry air, letting the stone catch the few rays of sunlight that were available on such a grey day. Anne watched her with an expression that could only be described as poisonous.

Tearing her gaze away from Jane, the queen grabbed Bridget’s arm, her nails digging into her soft flesh. Swallowing a cry, Bridget allowed herself to be pulled along by her angry mistress, who had evidently decided that she had had enough of the display that Mistress Seymour was putting on.

Without a word, Anne snatched the letter out of Jane’s hands and read it. It took her only a moment before she gave a derisive snort and said, “He used to write me much better poetry than that.” She then ripped the missive into several pieces and tossed them contemptuously onto the ground. Jane said nothing, nor did anyone else. They all just watched Anne, whose wrath was both a sight to behold and to fear.

Finished with the letter, the queen turned her attention to the garnet ring, which Jane was twisting on her finger. Anne roughly took her lady in waiting’s hand and tore the offending object from her small finger, her nails scratching the delicate skin. A faint line of blood appeared. The queen inspected the ring for a moment, then turned to Bridget. “Take this,” she said, thrusting the ring into her palm, “and throw it into the river. I want it out of my sight.”

“Majesty, the river is half frozen, and do you not think . . .” Bridget began, but the queen was having none of it. Anne stepped up close to her and grasped her chin. Those black eyes, virtual twins of her own, seemed to flash with anger.

“I do not care if the river is half frozen; throw the blasted thing onto the ice. When the thaw comes, the waters will claim their prize. And it is not for you to tell me, your queen, what to think. Just remember that you are here through my generosity, and
my
generosity alone, and I can assure you that it is not infinite. Do not question me again.”

Bridget’s face flamed in humiliation, and she could only nod in response. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest, she was certain everyone must be able to hear it. “Well, off you go then,” the queen said, dismissing her. “Go and throw that bit of brass away.” The others all affected to studiously ignore Bridget as she curtseyed and walked off, with what she hoped was a purposeful stride towards the Thames.

Bridget reached the water stairs and breathed in the bracing air. Not many people were about, and the river was one wide, imposing, expanse of ice. She looked at the delicate ring in her hand, the gold glinting in the weak sunlight. This was a gift from the king, the all-powerful Henry Tudor, a gift not for her, or even for his wife, but for his new love, Jane Seymour. Bridget shuddered to think what his reaction might be if he learnt that it had been thrown away like a piece of rubbish. Would she be blamed? There was no way to know. She could not predict the king’s reaction, but she could predict the queen’s if she did not carry out her command. She had been told, quite clearly, that it was her role to obey, not to question. But Bridget had never been very good at blindly following orders. “Something the matter?” a voice close to her asked.

Will Redcliff had sidled up to next to her on silent feet and wore a quizzical expression on his smooth face. He was dressed in a thick winter cloak, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Bridget was very relieved to see him. “Yes, Will, there is something the matter,” she began. “The queen wants me to throw this ring onto the river, but I wonder if that is the best idea because it came from the king. It was a gift intended for Mistress Seymour.”

“And you do not want to fling away a piece of expensive jewellery, especially if His Majesty gets to hear about it. Yet, you must obey your mistress. I see your dilemma.” Will took off his glove and gently lifted the ring from her palm. His fingers were cold, and the touch of them on her skin made her jump. “’Tis a pretty ring,” he murmured, turning it over in his hand. He glanced over towards the park, where the queen and her ladies were engrossed in the antics of the dogs and were not watching him. In a flash, he threw the ring sideways onto the river. It made a soft clunk as it hit the ice, then skittered along the surface till it came to a stop, a glitter of gold in sea of white.

“Will!” Bridget exclaimed. “Why did you do that? The ring was my responsibility; you should not put yourself at risk for me.”

“A mere thank you would have sufficed,” Will responded dryly, a smile upon his face. “Besides, there are no grounds for concern. The king is not likely to find out, and even if he does, he will blame the queen, not you. In any case, I work for Thomas Cromwell, who will protect me from all possible . . . consequences. You have no such protector, leastways not a reliable one. Therefore, the role of guardian falls to me. I would not see you in peril, not when we are just starting to get to know one another.”

The last comment caused his features to break into a wide grin. Bridget grinned back, despite her unease over what he had done. “The queen would have spoken for me,” she said. “She would not have allowed me to get into trouble.”

Will’s face turned serious. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “then again, perhaps not. The queen is vulnerable since she lost her babe. She is no longer as powerful as she once was. Everyone knows that the king was not speaking to Her Majesty when he left Greenwich, and the attention he pays to Jane Seymour is similarly well known. The king has set aside a wife before as you may recall, and not that long ago either.”

“Yes, but that marriage was shown to be false, as we
all
recall,” Bridget emphasised, her heart beating a bit faster, at both his words and his close proximity. “The king could not possibly set aside this queen, not after all the years he spent trying to marry her. Aside from that, I am sure he still loves her and they are both young enough to have another child. A son this time.”

Will nodded, clearly loath to argue the point. “I am certain you are correct,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “and now I fear our conversation must come to an end. The queen is looking this way. She must be wondering what is taking you so long.”

Bridget glanced behind her and saw that Anne’s steady gaze was turned in their direction. “You are right, I must go,” she said hurriedly, then she reached out and touched Will’s arm. “Thank you for helping me. I am indebted to you.” She caressed his arm. “Good day, Mr Redcliff.” She broke contact and strode away across the park. She could feel Will’s eyes on her back as she departed.

“Is it gone?” the queen asked when Bridget re-joined the group.

“Yes, Majesty, it is gone. I threw it out onto the river, just as you told me to.”

Anne smiled gleefully and clapped her hands together. “Excellent,” she declared, “and good riddance to it. I hope when the ice melts it sinks to the bottom and finds a home in the mud. It is just a pity that we may not throw Mistress Seymour in after it. Is it not, ladies?”

The women chorused their approval, even a chastened Jane managed a laugh, and then they obediently followed the queen across the park. Bridget fell in with Joanna and Catherine, who were chattering about some trick they had taught the dogs to perform. Bridget half looked behind her, interested to see if Will was still there, watching her. He was, but now there was another man whose eyes were upon her. They belonged to Will’s master, Thomas Cromwell, and they were trained on Bridget like a falcon on its prey. She quickly looked away.

The queen’s apartments were in a tumult, but it was a happy one this time. The ladies hurried around the rooms, gaily unpacking their mistress’s clothes and other possessions, their babbling voices full of excitement. They had left Greenwich and were now in the large and magnificent set of apartments at York Place in London. The king had sent for Anne.

The queen herself was in high spirits, the merriest Bridget had ever seen her. She seemed to be fully recovered from her miscarriage and was ready to re-enter court life. She was certainly eager to return to her husband and with very good reason.

After the incident with the garnet ring, other presents had continued to arrive throughout the month for Jane. She had not repeated her initial mistake of flaunting her trinkets from the king in front of Anne, which meant that Bridget, to her relief, had not been prevailed upon to throw anything else into the Thames.

The queen had, however, taken to asserting her authority over her lady in waiting in other ways. Jane’s pale skin was a patchwork of bumps and bruises, marks which bore silent testimony to Anne’s frustration and anger, emotions she had no compunction in expressing physically. She had pinched Jane, thumped her on the arm, and had even slapped her across the face. Jane took it all without complaint. As Anne’s servant, it was her place to do so.

Bridget had been subjected to no such abuse—in fact, quite the opposite—and she now basked fully in the sunshine of the queen’s favour. Anne liked Bridget to dress her hair for her, and it was this task she was performing now, winding the thick chestnut tresses on top of her head, before the queen put on her favourite French hood. She preferred its subtle, curved style to the bulky English gable hood, which did not flatter her sharp features. Of course, some people would say that with her background and her tastes, she just preferred French ways full stop.

Bridget, Catherine, and Joanna helped Anne with her gown, deep russet velvet that highlighted her eyes, and Madge Shelton fastened the B pendant, with its three-drop pearls, around her neck. The queen admired herself in the looking glass and sighed with pleasure. She did look truly marvellous. “You look wonderful, Majesty,” Lady Worcester exclaimed, speaking for all of them.

Anne looked happily at her ladies, her gaze faltering as it fell on Jane Seymour. The young woman was dressed demurely in a pale grey gown that washed her colouring out even more than usual. She was unaware of the queen’s stare because she was too interested in opening and closing a jewelled pendant that hung around her neck. It was an insubstantial, flimsy item, attached to a gold chain, and Jane seemed endlessly fascinated with it.