Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (4 page)

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bridget replied, curtsying deeply again as the king took his leave. “Madam, shall we go back now?” she enquired, placing a tentative hand on the queen’s elbow.

Anne turned sharply, her face ablaze with suppressed ire and determination. “I tell you this, Bridget,” she said. “I do not care what the king says; I will not tolerate Jane Seymour in my presence. She thinks to replace me in my husband’s affections. But she is playing a game that she does not understand. I will not be beaten at it.”

“Again, Mark, give me the song again,” the queen ordered in her apartments at Greenwich. The young musician, whose full name was Mark Smeaton, took a deep breath and began his haunting song for what seemed like the hundredth time. Despite the purity of his voice, a dull, depressed air filled the beautiful rooms. Anne had been pensive ever since her confrontation with the king and Jane Seymour earlier in the day. She seemed dejected and sunk in her own thoughts.

Jane Seymour had wisely made herself scarce. Bridget presumed she had gone to the tournament to watch the king. Most of the ladies had gone there, except for the maids, Catherin Carey and Joanna De Brett, and the ever-present Lady Rochford, who was regarding the boy Smeaton with a look that could freeze water. Joanna was chattering in Bridget’s ear about a visit Sir Francis Weston had made earlier in her and the queen’s absence. “He is such a handsome man, Bridget,” Joanna said excitedly, “and he is charming, and intelligent, and a wonderful dancer. I have never met anyone like him before. I think he likes me too.” She sighed dreamily, and Bridget and Catherine exchanged a look.

“Joanna, of course you have not met anyone like him before,” Bridget said patiently. “You were brought up amongst nuns in Norfolk. The Sir Francis Westons of this world were entirely missing at Rivers Abbey.” That was true, as far as it went, but Bridget did recall at least two occasions when some of the nuns had been caught entertaining young men in their quarters at night. At the time, she had not understood all the implications, but now, away from the abbey and ensconced at Court, her former innocence was disappearing fast. She no longer felt as naïve as she once had, but she was not so sure about Joanna. She had always been in need of a bit more guidance and a sensible hand. Bridget would have to make certain that she was around the next time Sir Francis paid a visit.

“Sir Francis also had another man with him, not Sir Henry Norris this time,” Joanna continued, “but an older gentleman, not so handsome, called Sir William Brereton. I did not like him very much. I felt like he was undressing me with his eyes.”

Catherine leaned across and said, “You should be wary of Sir William. He is a powerful man, especially in the Welsh Marches, but his reputation is slightly dubious. I hear that he and Master Secretary Cromwell do not get along; there is some bad blood there. It is said that he once ordered an associate of Cromwell’s to be hanged, on his lands, where his word is law. Master Secretary has not forgotten about it.”

Joanna yelped, a sound that seemed to echo in the chamber and caused Mark Smeaton to falter in his song. “Are you unwell, Mistress De Brett?” the queen asked archly.

“No, Your Majesty,” Joanna replied quietly. “I am very pleased to hear it. Since you are quite well, I do not expect to hear you yelping like a dog whose tail has been trod on. I wish to hear only the sound of young Smeaton’s voice in this chamber. Pray continue, Mark,” she said, waving a hand at the singer.

The musician resumed his sad song, his honeyed voice hitting all the right notes perfectly. He was incredibly good; Bridget had been privileged to hear some beautiful singing at the abbey. And yet, despite the beauty of his voice, there was something off-putting about this young man, something that sounded a discordant note. His demeanour radiated a certain insolence that was not in keeping with his somewhat lowly status. For someone so youthful in appearance, he was an old hand at court, having started out in the service of Cardinal Wolsey. After that eminent man’s fall, he had joined the King’s Privy Chamber. He was reputedly a baseborn Fleming, perhaps about four and twenty years old, who had risen so far on account of his outstanding musical ability, which included not just his pleasing voice but also extended to playing the lute and the virginals. The king, like the queen, loved music, and was reportedly very fond of Smeaton. The singer looked to be well aware of the fact.

The queen applauded with as much enthusiasm as she could muster as Smeaton’s last note died away. “Lovely as always, Mark,” she said, with a wan smile.

“I live to serve your Majesty,” he replied with a theatrical bow, his clear, blue eyes shining at the compliment. Lady Rochford coughed and covered her mouth. “May I play the lute for you now, Madam?” Smeaton enquired, but before the queen could answer there was a commotion at the door.

An old man, with the face of a hawk and a full head of incongruous black hair, walked in and performed a sharply abbreviated bow. Anne leapt to her feet, her face tight. “Madam, I bring grievous news,” the man began. “The king has taken a heavy fall from his horse. He is alive, but he has not stirred since he fell. His Majesty’s doctors are attending him now, but I must tell you, my lady, his life is despaired of.”

Anne’s face went a pure white, and she grabbed the arm of her chair in an attempt to steady herself. “He is going to die? How long ago did this accident take place, Uncle?”

The man, who Catherine had whispered to Bridget was the Duke of Norfolk, considered a moment, and then replied, “About an hour ago, Madam.”

“An hour!” Anne exploded. “An hour and he has not awoken? The king, my husband, is gravely injured and lying near death and I, his queen, am only told about it a full hour after it happens! You had no business keeping such news from me. I must go to him.”

“No, niece,” Norfolk said, placing himself between the queen and the door. “You must stay here and not allow yourself to become hysterical. The king is being well cared for, and there is nothing you can do for him. You were not informed earlier because of your delicate condition. We did not want to worry you.”

Anne hugged her belly and sat down heavily. Little beads of sweat had broken out on her top lip and along her hairline. She wiped them away distractedly. She nodded at the duke and he left without another word. Bridget watched his rigid back as he walked away. It was clear from the bald manner he had delivered his bad tidings to the queen and the minimum of courtesy he had employed when speaking to her that he had no great regard for his niece. In light of that, Bridget wondered what the true state of the king’s health was. It seemed incredible that a person could lie insensible for such a long time after taking a fall. There was a terrible occurrence once at the abbey when one of the sisters had tumbled down a flight of stairs. She had been unconscious for only about ten minutes before she had taken her last breath. Bridget felt her heart constrict with fear at the prospect of King Henry dying.

Lady Rochford had sprung into action after the duke’s departure. She began mopping the queen’s sweaty face and ordering Joanna and Catherine to loosen Anne’s gown and fetch some refreshments. Anne herself seemed struck dumb by the awful news and looked unsure how to proceed. Wringing her hands, the queen looked about her with troubled eyes that eventually stopped upon Bridget.

“Mistress Manning, come here,” she ordered shakily. “I want you to go out to the tiltyard and discover what in Heaven’s name is happening. I would go myself, but I must not risk any harm coming to my unborn son. However, I must have the truth, and I do not entirely trust my uncle to provide it. I know that you will not fail me. Go on now and hurry back.”

“But, Madam,” Bridget argued, “it is surely my duty to stay by your side.”
Besides,
Bridget thought frantically,
I do not exactly know where the tiltyard is, or many of the men who will be there. They will not tell a mere maid of honour anything.

The queen seemed to read her thoughts. “Take Joanna with you. She will know the way. Now go!”

The last was said with finality that Bridget dared not defy. Joanna grabbed her arm and walked her briskly out the chamber door. “Do not fret, Bridget,” she assured her. “The queen is right. I do know the way.”

Amazed at Joanna’s confidence, and wondering where it had come from, Bridget allowed herself to be led like a lamb to their destination. The palace and the surrounding grounds were very quiet, the air heavy with a mixture of dread and expectation. It felt like the whole world was holding its collective breath.

In no time at all, they reached the tiltyard and found the place virtually forsaken. The smell of sweat and horses was still redolent in the air, laced with a sour top note of fear. Bridget noticed a large patch of blood on the ground, presumably marking the spot where the king had fallen to the earth. She averted her eyes from the sight, a sick feeling roiling in her stomach.

A little apart from the yard, a grand tent had been erected, where a throng of men was standing around, buzzing like bees around a honey pot.
Or perhaps vultures around their carrion would be a better comparison,
Bridget thought, surprising herself with her cynicism. The court environment was already having its effect on her.

Bridget scanned the crowd but saw no one she knew. Feeling like a fish out of water, she looked in frustration to Joanna for help. “Do you know any of these men?” she asked desperately.

“Yes, but only a little,” Joanna answered. “You must remember, Bridget that I had visited the court before you and I joined the queen’s household. The abbess brought me with her when she was asking, or rather pleading, with Master Secretary Cromwell to save the abbey. That is him over there,” she said, pointing out a squat man, all in black, who was hovering outside the tent flap. He had a young man with him who drew Bridget’s eye.

The young man was tall, possibly scraping six feet, a fact which caused him to tower over all the others who were hanging about. He had golden-brown hair and a smooth face, with just a hint of boyishness. He appeared to observe the scene before him with an unruffled calm, perhaps even a hint of amusement, as a parent sometimes looked at a slightly maddening child. He stayed close to Cromwell, and had to incline his head considerably to catch what he was saying. Bridget saw that the latter barely opened his mouth when he spoke, the words, in consequence, seeming to spill out the sides.

“Since you know the Master Secretary,” Bridget said, “we will ask him and that young man he is speaking to what is going on.”

“Bridget, Thomas Cromwell is not the kind of man you just walk up to!” Joanna answered, but Bridget stubbornly ignored her friend’s protest. She had made up her mind, and the two men watched her fast approach with obvious curiosity.

Bridget bobbed a curtsey and smiled to hide her nerves. “Master Secretary Cromwell, young sir,” she began, looking at each man. “I am Bridget Manning, maid of honour to the queen, and this is . . .”

“Yes,” Thomas Cromwell interrupted silkily. “I know who you are, Mistress Manning. Additions to the queen’s household are always of interest to me, and of course I already know your young colleague here, Mistress De Brett. Tell me, how does the abbess these days?”

Joanna looked amazed that Cromwell had spoken to her, and she stammered a little in her response. “Sh-she is well, sir, thank you for asking.”

Cromwell smiled, exhibiting a set of small, even teeth, and looked genuinely pleased. “I am glad to hear it. A most capable woman is the Abbess Joan. Wasted in the church really, like so many people of talent are. My young friend here, Master Redcliff, once considered going into the church before I managed to talk him round. He was meant for greater things. Isn’t that right, Will?”

The young man, now identified as Will Redcliff, merely smiled and looked a little bashful. Cromwell laughed and clapped him once on the back. “I fear I have embarrassed him and in front of such pretty young ladies too! My apologies, Will, you have a most inconsiderate master.” He turned from his servant and all amusement fled from his face. His expression hardened. His dark eyes fixed on Bridget, and she quaked a little inside. He had the most intelligent, searching eyes she had ever seen, even more so than the abbess’s or Anne’s, and they were both formidable personages in their own right. But this man, this square-shaped block of a man, fairly radiated both intellect and power. He had clasped his hands before him and Bridget glanced at them. She noticed how big and rough they were, the hands of a labourer, not a courtier. This man was no pampered gentleman, born to a life of softness. No, this man was a brawler, a scrapper, a street fighter. A survivor.

“Have a care, young lady,” Cromwell said softly, his eyes peculiarly bright. “You have not learnt to hide your thoughts. They show on your face.” Before she could respond, Cromwell continued in a louder tone, “So, I imagine the queen has sent you here to find out how the king is?” Bridget and Joanna nodded in unison. “In that case, I fear you shall return to your mistress with no good news.”

Suddenly, a roar emanated from inside the tent. Cromwell immediately rushed inside without uttering another word. Will and the two maids remained where they were, all three straining to hear what was happening within.

After the initial roar, everything went quiet. Impatient, and anxious to return to the queen with at least some information, Bridget spoke to Will Redcliff. “Sir, might you enter the tent and see what is happening? Her Majesty is most concerned for the king, and I need to bring some news to her, to calm her nerves.”

Will regarded Bridget with a half-smile. “My master will shortly let us know what the true situation is, Mistress Manning. Nobody knows the true nature of things better than he does.”

Bridget nodded and began shuffling her feet, realising she had no alternative but to stand there and wait. She felt Will’s eyes sweep over her and linger for a moment before sliding slowly away. She felt her own gaze being drawn to him, as a moth to a flame. He looked to be about five and twenty and, judging by his appearance, not rich and yet not poor. His six-foot frame filled out his dark brown jacket quite nicely; he had muscular forearms and a solid chest. Clearly he was no idle young man. Bridget did not think that Thomas Cromwell would have idle people about him.