Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (23 page)

Madge shook her head. “No, madam, I did not, but there are a great many courtiers there. The council has been sitting for hours and some kind of announcement is expected tonight. Shall I go back and wait with the others?”

Anne drew her nightgown tight about her, so tight that the skinny outline of her body was fully visible. Bridget was aghast to see how much weight the queen had lost. She was little more than skin and bone.

“No, Madge, you stay here. Bridget,” the queen turned to her, “you go and wait for the announcement, and then bring the news back here as fast as you can. We will be waiting.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bridget replied, her stomach churning with dread.
Tonight must be the night,
she thought as she made her way swiftly to the council chambers.
Tonight Cromwell makes his move.
His men had been questioning, probing, bribing, and cajoling for days, possibly weeks, and now he felt he had enough evidence to put before the king. What that meant for her mistress, Bridget could only guess, but an annulment and exile seemed to be Anne’s worst fear.
No, that is not true,
Bridget silently corrected herself. In her heart of hearts, Anne’s worst fear was that the old prophecy would come true. She feared that the king would have her burnt.

It did not take long for Bridget to locate the throng. It was in fact more akin to an excited mob; such were the looks of open anticipation that were apparent on many faces in the crowd. Bridget searched the large group for a friendly face, someone she could conceivably get some information from, and found none until her eyes strayed towards the back of the buzzing multitude and locked onto a familiar figure—Will Redcliff.

She pushed her way through the crush, several sharp elbows catching her in the ribs on her way through. Slightly out of breath, she reached Will, who took her hand and pulled her away from the swarm. “Good evening, Bridget,” he said, drawing her close. “I have missed you.”

He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it, his lips insistent. Bridget felt some of the dread in her stomach drain away, replaced by a feeling of delicious warmth. There was something so reassuring about Will—his solid frame, his dependable face, his plain speaking, and the honest desire that shone out of his eyes. Bridget felt safe with him.

“Will, what is going on? We hear that some kind of announcement is expected tonight,” she said, her small hand still held by his.

“Yes, something important is anticipated, but I do not know what. And no, before you ask, Mister Cromwell does not tell me everything.”

Will dropped her hand and moved away a little, as if he could not speak to her and be physically close to her at the same time. His green eyes had turned serious and he seemed to be struggling inwardly with something. Finally, he opened his mouth.

“Bridget, do you have anywhere you can go?” he said. “I know you are an orphan, but you must have some family left, or someone you can go to. Perhaps the De Brett’s would take you in, or the abbess herself? Ask Joanna and start making plans. London may not be the . . . best place for you soon. I would see you safe in the countryside somewhere.”

Bridget regarded Will with surprise as the dread flooded back into her belly. “I have no one. I hardly know my mother’s family, the abbess and Joanna are my only real family. I could certainly go the abbess; there is always a place for me with her. But why do I need to leave London? I belong with the queen.” Bridget reached once more for his hand and noticed that it was bruised, with several cuts running across it. “Will, how did you come by these injuries?”

Will did not answer. She tried another tack. “What is really going on here, and don’t tell me you don’t know. Tell me your master’s true plan and do not try and misdirect me this time. Her Majesty’s future is at stake.”

“Her future?” Will snapped, snatching his hand away. “Bridget, you must wake up! The queen has no future and neither will you if you do not leave court and lie low for a while. After an interval has passed, Mister Cromwell may be able to secure another place for you at court, but time is running out. I cannot say—”His words were drowned out by the opening of the chamber door.

A servant of the king, the Tudor rose prominent upon his breast, made a brief announcement to the suddenly hushed crowd. “His Majesty King Henry the Eighth would like it to be known that he and Her Majesty Queen Anne will no longer be travelling to Calais next week. Their Majesties’ journey is postponed indefinitely.” A collective gasp rippled through the assembly and several questions were called out, but the servant had already turned his back and closed the door.

Bridget rounded on Will. “The king and queen are no longer going to Calais? This is your master’s work, isn’t it? She prodded him in the chest. “And you
knew
exactly what that man was going to say. You were not waiting here for the announcement, or in the hope of seeing me. You are waiting for Cromwell to turn up, no doubt, so he can give you further orders. Tell me the truth, Will. Is the king about to send the queen into exile? Or is Cromwell about to have her proclaimed as a witch?”

Will attempted to quieten Bridget, to draw her close to him, but she was having none of it. He dropped his arms to his sides and his features darkened, all his boyish charm gone. “Your mistress is in a great deal of trouble, as she and you are already aware, but only the king himself knows what he may do. My master and I do his bidding and that is all.”

Bridget snorted in disbelief. “Your master has spent all his time since his return to court questioning people and bribing them and collecting tales from malcontents and hateful liars whose sole interest is in toppling the queen and replacing her with their own candidate! That is the business your master has been engaged in and you have helped him!”

Bridget whirled around and started to leave, but Will was too quick for her. He deftly stepped in front of her and barred her exit. She turned her head away, but he forced her to look at him.

“You are a little imbecile, Mistress Manning, to speak of my master in that way. You know nothing of him or of me. I am an orphan like you, except I did not have high and mighty connections to fall back on, like you did. There was no aristocratic abbess for me, no secure and welcoming abbey to grow up in. I had to fight for my bread until Thomas Cromwell took me in, and gave me a home and an education. He gave me a future. Everything I am and everything I have I owe to him.” Will’s voice shook and he took a moment to control it. “He is like a father to me, and I honour him as such, but more than that he is the man who holds the key to this court and it would be wise for you to realise that.”

“Or else what?” Bridget asked. “Is that why you wanted me to flee to the country, because you fear what Mister Cromwell, your honoured ‘father,’ may do to me? Is that it?”

Will shook his head sadly. “No, Bridget, I know my master does not mean you harm, but powerful forces are at work here, and yes, I want you to be safe. Please, just go to the country—”

“Yes, I will go, but not to the country. I will go to the queen.” Bridget pushed past Will, who made no attempt to stop her this time. “I must warn her of what your master has done.” Bridget did not wait for a response, and Will was too dejected to offer one. She hurried away, hot tears spilling down her face.

Anne was standing in front of the large fireplace in her chamber, staring into the flames, when Bridget returned. Despite the fire, the room was cold. “Your Majesty, I am sorry I took so long, but I have news—”

The queen turned her drawn face toward Bridget, her black eyes huge. “Apologies are not necessary, Bridget, I already heard the news. Lord Rochford came and told me. We are not to go to Calais after all.” The queen paused and idly stoked some dying embers, trying in vain to coax them back to life. “He has left me. The king has left me and now I stand unprotected, naked to my enemies. The only question that remains is when.”

“When what, your Majesty?” Bridget prompted.

Anne laughed mirthlessly and ran a distracted hand through her brown hair. “When they will strike me down of course.”

May Day 1536

After a restless night, the queen was up at dawn, a determined look upon her face. She spent a great deal of time selecting her outfit for the day, finally deciding on a feminine light blue dress complemented with a jaunty veiled cap. She seemed in a better frame of mind, despite her lack of sleep and the disturbing events of the night before. “I have hours to spend with the king today at the tournament,” she said, her voice unnaturally bright. “Perhaps I can change his mind about Calais. After all, the trip is only postponed, not cancelled. That means that the decision may be reversed, and before you know it, we shall all be sailing across the Narrow Sea with England receding behind us and a fair wind in our sails.”

The ladies readily agreed with their mistress, all trying very hard to look and sound excited. Lady Rochford watched on with a sardonic smile.

On the way to the tournament ground, she began a conversation with Bridget. “Beautiful day, is it not, Mistress Manning? May Day is one of the great occasions of the year. I wonder how Sir Henry Norris will acquit himself in the tournament. He is a magnificent jouster and cuts quite a dash on his horse. But whose colours shall he wear? Madge’s or the queen’s? Perhaps he will decide to have both.” Jane looked at her, expecting a reply, but Bridget did not provide one. She pressed on regardless. “My husband is also an excellent exponent of the joust, being an expert with his lance, but then I already made you aware of that didn’t I!” Jane laughed and elbowed Bridget sharply in the side. Still she said nothing. “Of course,” Jane went on craftily, “he may not perform so well today, considering that his most devoted admirer is missing.”

Bridget stopped walking and regarded Lady Rochford carefully. “And who is that, my lady?”

“Oh, that’s right, you do not know, how silly of me! Why, I mean Mark Smeaton, that whey-faced musician whose attentions my husband so enjoys. Unfortunately for him, young Mark has been arrested and taken to Master Secretary Cromwell’s house at Stepney. He may even be in the Tower by now, although I am not certain on that point. Either way, I hear he has been subjected to some harsh questioning.”

Will’s injured hand flashed into Bridget’s mind. Had he gotten those marks from ill-treating, perhaps even torturing Mark Smeaton? Bridget had always thought of Will as a gentle person, but she also knew after his words last night that he would do anything for Cromwell. And Bridget had absolutely no doubt that torture was not something that Thomas Cromwell would baulk at.

But why Mark Smeaton? What had he done except dally with the queen’s brother? He also had a penchant, in common with many young men, for showing off and preening about the court. Hardly grounds for arrest and torture. It seemed so extraordinary that Bridget was not sure she believed Jane Rochford. “Mark Smeaton is arrested? What on earth for? He is just a musician, he plays the lute and the virginals, he has a pleasant singing voice. He is of no great consequence. Are you sure about this intelligence, my lady?”

Jane chuckled and gave Bridget a look that could only be described as devious. “Oh yes, Mistress Manning, I am quite sure. Smeaton’s movements have been of significance to me for some time, as I am certain you can imagine. He was taken by Cromwell’s men, that is not in doubt, and I hope he is upon the rack as we speak. As for the reasons behind it all, they will be revealed in due time.”

Lady Rochford shrugged her shoulders in mock puzzlement and trotted off to catch up with the others. Bridget wandered behind in a daze until they reached the tournament ground, where the king greeted the queen with a kiss. Henry looked dazzling in cloth of silver, with sleeves slashed to reveal puffs of scarlet silk underneath. A jewelled velvet cap with an enormous ruby brooch, surrounded by pearls, rested on his head. His countenance was smooth and untroubled.

The tiltyard itself was en fete, pennants flying from every turret, the Tudor colours of green and white particularly in evidence. The May Day tournament was one of the high spots of the year, and the whole court was in a celebratory mood, despite the tension of recent weeks. The sound of excited chatter already filled the air before the first course had been run.

The king and queen were seated beside each other high up in the royal stand, between the tiltyard’s twin towers. The newly built Banqueting Hall loomed behind them. From Bridget’s vantage point, seated below, they looked glorious, like a pair of golden monarchs out of an old fairy story. They effortlessly commanded the attention of the whole crowd until the king graciously gave the signal that the tournament could commence.

Bridget tried to concentrate on the opening jousts but found it impossible to shift her mind from thoughts of Mark Smeaton. She could not think of a single reason Cromwell would be interested in him—he was of common birth, with no rich or important relatives, whose musical talents everyone admired, but whose vanity could be irksome. It could not be his association, to put it delicately, with Lord Rochford that so concerned Cromwell, because the queen’s brother had not been arrested. He was here today, participating in the tournament as the leading challenger.

Bridget wondered whether Joanna or Catherine had heard anything. Just as Lord Rochford began to run a course, his armour gleaming in the warm sunshine, Bridget leaned across to her fellow maids and asked them what they knew about the situation with Smeaton. Both shook their heads and were shocked when Bridget told them what she had found out from Jane Rochford. “Why would anyone bother with that peacock?” Catherine said. “I mean to say, he plays and sings beautifully but aside from that . . . well, what is he? He is nothing.”

Joanna lowered her voice and asked, “Maybe Mr Cromwell found out about him and Lord Rochford?” Bridget and Catherine looked at her with faint surprise.

“You know about that?” Bridget queried.

Joanna nodded in mild annoyance. “Yes, I know about it, I am not completely empty headed. And that is not all I know. I heard that Jane Seymour has left court. She has apparently been sent to Sir Nicholas Carew’s residence at Beddington Park in Surrey.”