Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (36 page)

Bridget told herself to bite her tongue in the face of Lady Rochford’s hostility, but she could not quite manage it. “You are very confident in giving out orders, madam, for the widow of an executed traitor. If Joanna and I are no longer welcome in this place, then how shall you fare? After all, your husband is now headless, and that must render you penniless as well as friendless, which admittedly is no novelty for you. All in all, that sounds like a perilous situation for any person to be in, let alone a woman as monstrous as you.”

Jane Rochford smirked and clicked her tongue. “I have told you more than once that I always look after my own interests and so I shall. So I have. Yes, I may have to make myself scarce for a time, but that time will be short. There is perfect amity between myself and the Seymours, and I am sure that Jane will want me in her household. When she is queen, I shall serve her and serve her well. I am not in the least apprehensive. But enough of me and my future, for that is assured. I wish you to answer me something.” She leant in close, and Bridget could smell her sour breath. “At the end, when the sword was about to cleave her neck in two, did your whore mistress beg for her life, or did she manage to act, at the last, like a queen?”

Bridget itched to slap the smug grin clean off Jane Rochford’s face and, had they been alone, she might have done so. As it was, she had to put her hands behind her back to prevent them striking out of their own accord. Summoning up a benign smile, she replied, “My mistress was no whore and she was certainly no coward. I wonder if anyone could say the same of you, my lady? Would anyone say that you are brave, the woman who sent her own husband to the block, because she was jealous and consumed with bitterness that he could not love her? I very much doubt that they would, just as I doubt any man will ever want you again. But then, that has been the problem all along, has it not? No man has ever wanted you and now none ever shall, unless you can find one who has a head to spare.”

With a toss of her blonde hair, Bridget walked away, leaving an ashen-faced Lady Rochford in her wake. She was almost to the door of the chamber when she felt a hand on her arm. It was Lady Worcester. “I never meant for this to happen,” she said tearfully. “I never thought he would actually kill her! I said things to my brother that I should not have and then it all fell apart and I feared for my own safety. Master Secretary Cromwell made me believe that I was in danger or that my husband may divorce me if he thought that I was involved with men at court.”

She began to weep noisily. “So I told him every tale and rumour I had ever heard. I did not know if any of them were true, only that people spoke of them. Such was my fear, I did not care. I thought she would be sent into exile—I mean, no one executes a queen! But he did, the king did, and I must live with the guilt. Tell me,” she brushed away a tear, “did the queen forgive me?”

“The queen prayed for you. And for your child.”

Lady Worcester rubbed her stomach, which had grown more pronounced. “The babe moves more now. If it is a girl, I shall call her Anne. In the queen’s honour.”

Bridget said nothing; she did not want to speak to this woman. The countess cast her eyes down and moved away, back into the privy chamber.

Letting out a long sigh, Bridget finally left the room and joined the abbess, who herself had been joined by Joanna. “Oh, the boat was late!” she said. “I thought we would never get here! Am I allowed to go in?” She looked uncertainly at the firmly closed doors.

“No, I have your things here.” Bridget handed them to her. “There is nothing left for us in those rooms.”

The abbess exhaled in relief. “Let us leave then,” she said. “We are to stay at my brother’s house on the Strand for a time and then we shall make our way to Lincolnshire. We shall all have to try to make a new life”

She linked arms with Joanna and Bridget and, as a trio, they made their way outside. In the courtyard, Bridget turned and looked back at the magnificent palace, its red bricks glowing softly in the late afternoon sunlight. This was a building Anne had loved, where her daughter had been born, and where she had spent some of her happiest and some of her darkest days. As a shadow fell over the rooftops, Bridget offered up a silent prayer for her fallen mistress and she allowed herself to wonder whether this was the last time she would ever stand here, whether she would ever see this place again. Something inside, a little, insistent voice, told her that she would.

7 June 1536

The banks of the Thames were crowded with throngs of excited spectators, and out on the river itself every kind of craft bobbed upon the waters, their happy occupants all waving and shouting with joy. “Here they come!” someone cried and, sure enough, the royal barge hove into view, its golden prow cutting through the waters, the many oars powering the boat slapping gently on the surface of the waves. The glorious vessel was bedecked in a riot of flags and pennants, the Tudor rose and the rising phoenix being the most prominent among all the colours and designs. The large crowd cheered as one and cried out lustily “God save King Harry!” and “God save Queen Jane!” as the barge turned off the river and approached the quayside.

They shouted themselves hoarse as the royal couple stepped off the boat and emerged into their midst. The king was bringing his new wife to Westminster, where they would hear Mass in the abbey, before returning to York Place, or Whitehall, as people now called it. This was his chance to show her off to the people. She cut an impossibly small, fragile figure in a rich, red velvet gown that seemed weighed down with jewellery. A delicate gold coronet, with enormous diamonds and rubies winking in the sunshine, glittered upon her blonde head.

Bridget had not wanted to come and see them, but the abbess and Joanna had insisted. “We go to the country soon and you will have no opportunity to be part of an occasion such as this,” the abbess had said. “Besides, it is good to show your face as a loyal subject, and you have been too long indoors. You need the fresh air.”

And so, Bridget found herself here as a reluctant member of a quasi-welcoming party, but she found she could not cheer the new queen. The memory of the old one was still too raw.

She saw Thomas Cromwell walking carefully behind the king, dressed in his usual black. With a sense of relief, she did not observe Will with him. She was not ready to see him again, and she did not know if she would ever be ready. She missed him and in some ways she also missed the court, its bustle and purpose, its energy and drive, its never-ending whirl. Her days were long and largely empty now. But there was a dark side, to Will, to the court, to everything. It was that dark side that kept her awake at night.

The king and queen happily greeted the members of the procession and waved enthusiastically to the buzzing throng. The king scanned the faces of the multitude and halted when he saw Bridget standing amongst them. Their eyes briefly met and his heart lurched in his chest. Those eyes were so similar to . . . no; he would not even think her name. She was gone, dead and buried, and he and the kingdom were the better for it. And yet something about that girl tugged at him, grabbed at his sleeve and wouldn’t let go. Her name danced at the back of his skull, just out of his reach.

He signalled to Thomas Cromwell, who was walking a discreet few steps behind, to approach. “Yes, Your Majesty?” Cromwell asked. “Is something amiss?”

“You see that girl over there?”

Cromwell followed his monarch’s gaze and his chest tightened. “Yes, Majesty, that is Bridget Manning, who was one of the . . . former queen’s maids of honour.”

“Yes, her name is Bridget, I remember now. Extraordinary girl,” the king mused. “Tell me, is she going to join my wife’s household?”

Cromwell took a moment to answer. “No, I would think perhaps not at this time, sire, but if you would like me to . . . ?” The question was left hanging. The king merely raised his eyebrows and moved on, back into the procession.

Thomas Cromwell was left in no doubt of his intentions. He resumed walking behind his sovereign, his shadowed gaze covertly upon Bridget, his agile mind full of plans.

The End

Ambition’s Queen
is very much a mixture of fact and fiction. Sadly, to the best of my knowledge, Bridget, Will, Joanna, the abbess, and Rivers Abbey never existed. They are products of my imagination. All other characters, places, and events outlined in the story are drawn from the historical record. What is true is that Anne Boleyn was accompanied to her execution by four women, described in the accounts as “four young ladies,” whose identities have never been firmly established. These women must have been close to her, women that she liked and trusted. Their grief on the scaffold at the death of their mistress made a huge impression on all who witnessed it. I have always been fascinated by those ladies—who were they?—and this fascination formed part of the idea for this book. Catherine Carey and Lady Lee are two of the likely historical candidates for Anne’s entourage. As for the other two ladies, whoever they were, I hope they were as loyal, supportive, and courageous as Joanna, and especially Bridget, in Anne Boleyn’s last days.