Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (12 page)

They made their way
out of the city to a place a little upriver where they were to board a boat. Their own jetty at Thorns was in dire need of repair and had been deemed unable to take the weight of their belongings. Cooper and his assistant, James, got down off the cart and loaded their luggage onto the craft that had been sent for them, the sides painted jauntily with the blue-and-grey livery of the de Bretts. They embarked and gradually, with the dip of every oar, London receded far into the distance.

Bridget tried to forget about the gypsy by concentrating on the loveliness of the passing riverside scenery, but the woman’s words kept hurling themselves at her consciousness. How did she know who she was? How did she know she had served Queen Anne? Was it true, did she possess this so-called “line of fate”? She glanced at her palm and could see nothing special or out of the ordinary contained there. Mayhap Joanna was right—the gypsy just made it up as part of her act. But why would she? She hadn’t bothered to do so with Joanna; she had seen a handsome, green-eyed husband and babies in her future. But with Bridget, she had seen only blood and a mysterious brewer’s son. Who could he possibly be? The only brewer Bridget had ever known was the one who had come to Rivers, and he had not had a wife, let alone a son.
Oh, just stop it,
she reprimanded herself.
You are tormenting yourself with gibberish
. The gypsy was nothing but a trickster, a professional peddler of nonsense who profited and preyed upon people’s fears and self-doubts. She castigated herself for ever having listened to the woman, let alone allowing Joanna to pay her, and then she dismissed her summarily from her mind.

The journey was long and uncomfortable, as Joanna was a little prone to seasickness, but it was all made worth it by their first glimpse of Hampton Court. It rose on the left out of the rolling fields, a great, rambling mansion of red brick set in a sea of green. It had once belonged to the late Cardinal Wolsey, the king’s chief minister before he had fallen from grace, who had given it to the king as a last ditch attempt to win renewed favour. It had not worked, of course, and the cardinal had died in ignominy. But the king had gained a splendid new home, one more gloriously situated perhaps even than Greenwich was. Both Bridget and Joanna stared in awe at the gatehouse as it rose above them, and the boat was rowed sedately up to the pier.

Cooper disembarked first and oversaw the unloading of the baggage and the payment for the boatmen. He and James gathered up Bridget and Joanna’s belongings and set out for the palace, the young ladies following closely behind. Once there, they spoke earnestly to the grim-faced guards at the gate. There was much gesticulating backwards and forwards, both sides arguing their case, and then Bridget saw Sir Richard striding furiously towards them. His expression was hard. He spoke brusquely to Cooper, and then to the guards, and impatiently signalled for his wife and niece to enter. Sir Richard’s man, Walters, came forward and assisted Cooper and James with the baggage. Bridget and Joanna bid the two servants good-bye and thanked them both for a safe journey.

“You have arrived at a most inconvenient time, wife,” Sir Richard said, without as much as a word of welcome. “Her Majesty the Queen has been in labour for the past day and night, and the whole court waits anxiously for news. The king is constantly at prayer in the chapel. In fact, I have just come from there and must return to him forthwith. Walters will have to escort you to our rooms. Joanna,” he finally acknowledged his niece, “it is good to see you have fully recovered. You have the bloom back in your cheek. My lady,” he nodded once to Bridget, “I will speak with you later.”

With that, he left them, and Walters wasted no time in escorting the ladies to their rooms, situated once again in a far corner of the palace complex. The suite they had been allocated was fairly Spartan and smelled strongly of dampness. Bridget hoped this was not an indication that the king was tiring already of the company of her husband. Walters deposited their effects and asked Bridget if there was anything else she required.

“No
, not at this time, Walters,” she replied. “You may return to Sir Richard. Thank you for your assistance.” He bowed and departed.

Joanna gazed about, the bloom in her cheek beginning to fade. “A bit of a come-down from the queen’s apartments,” she commented wryly. “These must be the rooms Cardinal Wolsey kept his old vestments in. I would wager that that was the last time they were put to any use. Even the walls smell positively moth-eaten.”

Privately Bridget agreed, but this chamber represented their new place in the world and Joanna had best get used to it. “The days of the queen’s apartments are long gone,” she said. “Others occupy that position now. We were given fairly nice, though small, rooms at Greenwich. I am sure that Sir Richard was assigned these ones because the queen is about to give birth and the palace is full. Hampton Court must be bulging at the seams with members of the Seymour family alone. Compared to the status of them and their adherents, I’m afraid we are at the bottom of the list.”

Joanna grimaced, as though she was forcing herself to digest a new and wholly unsatisfactory truth. After a few moments, she shrugged her shoulders and set about the job of unpacking their clothes. Bridget helped her and in no time at all, the task was completed. At a loss as to what to do next, they decided to make their way through the unfamiliar passageways to the Great Hall.

After some little time meandering and admiring the impressive furnishings and ornamentations, they found their way there. “Good Lord,” Joanna breathed as they entered. “What a place this is.” She could not have been more right.

The
Great Hall was indeed great. It stretched over a hundred feet and was hung with the most stunningly woven tapestries that Bridget had ever beheld. Above them soared a magnificent hammer-beam roof that featured the personal badges, emblems and entwined initials of King Henry and Queen Jane in gloriously bright hues. Beneath their feet, the floor was tiled in green and white, the Tudor colours that formed such a central part of any of the king’s residences. The tiles were so beautiful that Bridget did not really like to stand on them. The entire hall was, in fact, a work of art, and Bridget could not stop herself staring at it, so much so that she did not notice that a man had come up and stood next to her.

Joanna’s eyes were quicker. “Will!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you! Are you well? You are certainly looking very prosperous. Do you still serve the king in his privy chamber?”

“Aye, Mistress d
e Brett, I do, and may I say how well you look. We heard that you were dreadfully ill . . . the Sweat, was it not?” His voice trailed into a whisper.

“
Yes, we think so, but only a mild dose. I was very fortunate in that, and also very fortunate in the nurses who attended to me at all hours of the clock. I refer, of course, to Bridget . . . I mean, Lady de Brett, the abbess and Sister Margaret, who was with us in the old days at Rivers. She lives with us at Thorns now. Together, they saved my life.”

“Really?” Will gave Bridget an admiring look. “I had not thought of you hitherto as a nurse, but I congratulate you, my lady, for proving me wrong. It seems there is no end to your talents.” The sarcasm dripped off his tongue, and Joanna’s eyebrows lifted a little.

Bridget decided
not to rise to his insolent manner. “Tell me, Master Redcliff,” she asked with careful politeness, “is there any news of the queen?”

“Alas, no. I have just left His Majesty, who is at his devotions. Queen Jane labours still, the last that we heard. We all pray for a happy hour and that she will be delivered soon.”

Joanna seemed to take
his words as an invitation that they should all pray and so they all did so, their voices united as one for the safe travail of the queen. Will finished it off with a heartfelt “Amen” that was interrupted by the arrival of a man who whispered urgently in his ear.

“Ladies, I am needed elsewhere
. I bid you a good evening. Mistress de Brett,” he raised Joanna’s hand and kissed it, “I am so glad that you still walk amongst us. The world cannot afford to lose beauty such as yours.” He let his hand linger on hers before stepping back and bowing to them both.

Joanna reddened and laughed self-consciously at his gesture, avoiding Bridget’s gaze as she did so. Bridget told herself she did not care—let him pay attention to Joanna if he must. Let him kiss her hand. She sat down at one of the long trestle tables set up against the side of the hall. Conveniently, a cup of wine was at hand, and she drank it down in one gulp. It slid down her throat, the spices in it hot and fiery, like molten envy.

Chapter Nine

“A prince! A prince! Wake up, wife, England has a prince!” The bedchamber door crashed open and a red faced Sir Richard entered through it like a whirlwind, his countenance wreathed in unaccustomed smiles. “The queen has delivered a prince!” he repeated, and Bridget sat up in bed, fully awake now, a feeling of relief shooting through her veins. So then, at long last, the king had his heir, he had the son whom he had sacrificed everything for: the church, the pope, his first wife, his second wife. All disestablished, cast away and beheaded in order to get to this moment. After the endless years of struggle,
he
was here. The golden boy. Surely now, the king and the kingdom would be content.

“And what of the queen?” Bridget asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Is she well?”

“Oh
, yes,” Sir Richard replied, somewhat offhandedly. “She is fine. She is already sitting up and able to receive visitors in her chamber. Now come along.” He tugged at the bed sheets. “There is to be a Thanksgiving Mass held in the chapel soon and we must attend. Joanna!” He walked over to where the young woman lay. “Wake up, girl! We have a new prince! We must go and offer our thanks to God for bestowing upon us such a gift. This is no time to slumber!”

After a hurried breakfast, they attended Mass and never before had that ceremony been conducted with such naked excitement. During and afterwards, people openly wept with elation at the prince’s birth, embracing each other spontaneously. In the Great Hall, they drank, feasted and sang, and all the while the bells rang out for joy and the fountains ran red with wine. A large crowd of people had gathered at the gates and they called incessantly for the king, the queen and the prince to be brought out to them. The king, in the most exultant mood Bridget had ever seen him, went out to greet them in person and, as a reward for their display of loyalty, he showered them in handfuls of gold sovereigns. They cheered themselves hoarse and lauded his name. The years had miraculously fallen off Henry Tudor, and it was as if he had been transported back to the days of his youth, when he was the most celebrated monarch in Christendom and all the world lay open at his feet, ripe for the conquering. With the birth of his heir, the king himself had been reborn. All was made new again.

On the Sunday after the prince’s birth, he was christened in the chapel at Hampton Court. Sir Richard was to be a part of the procession and Bridget a mere spectator, but even so, she made sure she dressed as an Englishwoman for the occasion, her gable hood firmly in place, like a house, on her head. The ceremonials began at close to midnight and nearly four hundred people assembled to participate in them. A great crowd of knights, ushers and squires, carrying flaring torches, led the way followed by bishops, abbots, the whole of the Privy Council, ambassadors such as the Emperor Charles V’s representative, Eustace Chapuys, who was dressed in purple silk like he was the prince and behind them a host of lords, including Sir Richard. Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, walked amongst them with a measured gait, and Bridget caught his eye as he swept past her curtseying frame. His visage was as untroubled as ever, but something jumped in the depths of his steadfast gaze, a little pulse of grief that he quickly buried under all his accumulated layers of diplomatic polish.
What must it be like,
Bridget wondered,
to walk in a procession
to honour the son of Jane Seymour, the woman his daughter had been killed to make way for?
Did he think of Anne, lying in her grave at the Tower, with every step he took? Did he see her face everywhere he went? If he did, he made sure that no one would ever know it.

Following the
earl came his granddaughter, the Lady Elizabeth, carried in the stiff arms of the queen’s brother, Lord Hertford. The child had grown a great deal since Bridget had last seen her, and she appeared to be quite healthy and very sturdy. In looks, she was a disconcerting combination of both her parents—her fair skin and bright red hair shouted out her Tudor blood, but her dark eyes and strong, angular face proclaimed unmistakably who her mother had been. It must be a very unsettling experience for the king every time he beheld her.

Elizabeth was holding her new-born brother’s white christening robe in her plump hands, and behind her came the infant himself, borne on a crimson cushion by Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter, with the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk on either side supporting his head and feet. All three of them processed with almost painful slowness, as though they carried between them the most precious cargo in the world, which, of course, they did. Due to their slowness, Bridget was able to catch a fairly good glimpse of the prince as he went by. He was small, perhaps too small, with very white skin and downy blond hair. He already markedly resembled his mother.