Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (19 page)

“Say nothing of it
, Walters, it was not your fault. Mistress Joanna and I have arrived a little earlier than my husband expected. I thought he may like a surprise.”

Walters could not prevent the grimace that flitted across his face. “Well, madam, I think you may depend upon Sir Richard’s being surprised,” he remarked. “In fact, I would stake my life on it.”

A little trickle of unease ran down Bridget’s spine at
Walters’s ominous tone. Sir Richard was a man who liked to be in command, and he did not care for his wife making her own decisions or using her own initiative.
Well, we are here now and
he
will just have to get on with it,
she thought,
unless he fancies the prospect of becoming a cuckold.
She knew he probably would not care for Bridget’s own sake; he loved her no more than she loved him, but he did very much want a son. He wanted a son more than anything. His wife becoming the king’s mistress was not the best way to go about getting one.

Walters led them through the palace, having confirmed to them that they had been allocated the same apartment, and Bridget allowed her mind to wander. Until that is she spied Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, walking toward them. He spied them at the same instant - he stopped, doffed his cap and performed a perfect bow in that supremely unctuous manner he had turned into such an art form. It never failed to grate on Bridget’s nerves and today was no exception.

“Good morrow
, ladies,” he greeted them with studied cordiality, and they dutifully returned his salutation. “Are you in search of your husband, Lady de Brett? If so, you are going the wrong way. You must turn around and head in the direction of the king’s chambers. Sir Richard may be found there engaged in a game of post and pair. I am afraid he was struggling somewhat last I saw, having lost a number of bets, and he therefore may be some time winning his coin back. Of course, if it is not your husband you seek, but the king, then you are in luck. His Majesty was not gambling but merely speaking with Lord Cromwell, which constitutes a kind of gamble in and of itself really. No doubt he would abandon that onerous task completely if you presented yourself before him.”

Walters looked at the earl in open astonishment and was clearly caught between defending his master and observing the deference that was Wiltshire’s due. Bridget felt no such dilemma. She told Walters and Joanna to go on ahead; she wished to speak to the earl. They obeyed, albeit a trifle reluctantly, and she waited until they disappeared down the passageway before she turned to Thomas Boleyn and looked him full in the face. His mannered exterior fell away, and his eyes dimmed into two darkly burnished orbs.

“I do not know what you have heard, my lord,” Bridget began cautiously, “but I am here purely as the wife of Sir Richard de Brett. I do not seek out any favour or attention from the king. Quite the opposite in fact.”

Wiltshire smiled wearily and folded his arms across his chest. “I believe you
, my lady, I do. After all, what woman would willingly seek the favour of this king? The answer is none would. Not these days.” A surge of emotion flooded across his countenance, showing up all the deep grooves and loose flesh that Bridget had never really noticed before. Wiltshire had aged considerably. He was a man full of disappointments and regrets, a despairing man trying to hold on to a court that had passed him by. Despite herself, Bridget felt a touch sorry for him.

Aware
that he had showed her a moment of weakness, Wiltshire coughed several times to cover it. “It is known amongst the court that the king has sent you a present. He is nothing if not predictable in his modes of courtship. It is how he always starts, his opening gambit, if you will—gifts of jewellery, small and modest at first and then steadily more lavish, followed by letters that speak of undying love. You must understand, he still likes to imagine himself as a nervous, young man courting a fair maiden, begging her for her favour. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth, but he does not see it that way.”

“I am cognisant of this, my lord, and if you are trying to scare me or warn me you may save yourself the trouble. I am a wife, not a fair maiden, and therefore wholly unavailable to be courted by anyone. Even by a king.”

Wiltshire laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, my dear, do you forget to whom you speak? Do not come the innocent with me and for pity’s sake, get down off that high horse of yours before you fall off headfirst into the dust. Truly, the spectacle you make of yourself about the court is quite ridiculous. Do you think I have not seen you? Do you think we have not
all
seen you walking about with your nose stuck in the air, as if you are somehow above it all, clinging to your dull husband, whom the king only tolerates because he wants
you,
in case you have not realised it. Your eyes so full of judgement. Did you think I did not perceive the way you looked at me at Prince Edward’s christening? You glared at me as though as I was a piece of excrement you had just scraped off the sole of your shoe.”

“Did I my lord? Well then, how else should one look at a man who killed his own children?”

Wiltshire inhaled sharply
, and his face went the colour of chalk. Bridget knew she had gone too far; she had let all her fears get the better of her, and for one terrible second she thought Wiltshire might strike her. She could see the temptation to do so rise in his eyes before all his years of diplomatic training took over and he managed to compose himself.

“So, you finally said it. You finally gave voice to the thoughts I have seen reflected in your eyes. I killed my children, did I? That is not quite the way I remember it. In my recollection of events, it was the king who killed my children. He and his chief henchman, Thomas Cromwell.” A glob of spittle flew out of his mouth. “They are the ones who sent my children to die. Do you think I did not try to save them? George was my heir, my only son. Anne was my beloved daughter. They were my life. I tried to protect them. I
failed
, and I am tormented by that failure. Do you imagine that I do not see them everywhere I go? That their shadows do not dog my every step? When I was walking in that procession for the Seymour woman’s whelp, Anne was so close to me that I could almost have touched the hem of her gown, seen the proud tilt of her head. The head she lost because she could not give the king the one thing he wanted. They haunt me, Lady de Brett. My lost children haunt me constantly. But I did not kill them. I am not a perfect man, but that is one sin I will not lay claim to.”

Bridget could not help but be moved by Thomas Boleyn’s words, but still they smacked to her of self-justification, a version of history he had created in order to soothe his troubled conscience. “You sat in judgement on them, I saw you. You say you tried to save them, but in in the end all you saved was your precious title. Now you serve the men who exterminated them. You may seek to alter the record, sir, to make yourself sleep easier in your bed, but you forget. I was there when it happened.”

A fresh volley of coughs erupted once more from Wiltshire’s throat and this time he struggled to control them. In the end, he was forced to press his hand hard against his chest to halt the fit that racked his body.

“My lord?” Bridget grew alarmed at his state
. “Here, sit down. Let me fetch you some wine or ale.” The earl haltingly declined her offer.

“No
,” he croaked, “the worst is over now. Age is creeping up on me, I am afraid.” He fished out a handkerchief from his sleeve and discreetly wiped his mouth. When he drew the cloth away, it was spotted with blood.

An awkward silence fell, the weight of the harsh words they had exchanged and the past they had conjured up, hanging uneasily between them. Wiltshire replaced his handkerchief, smoothed his attire, and resumed the mien of the polished courtier that he usually wore so effortlessly. But, as hard as he tried, there was no disguising the truth. Thomas Boleyn was an old man, a beaten man, and his fast-approaching mortality was clearly stamped on every line, contour and feature of his gaunt visage.

“You asked me before whether I meant to warn you,” he said, “and I know you won’t believe me, but that was exactly my intention. You clearly have the lowest possible opinion of me, but I still remember the fact that you are my kinswoman, and that you were good to my daughter. It is with that in mind that I offer you this advice. The king has always possessed a changeable spirit, but ever since he took that fall from his horse at Greenwich and the trouble with his leg started, no one knows what he may do from one moment to the next. He destroyed Anne, whom he loved so much, he destroyed George, he destroyed all the others within a matter of weeks, and he did not bat an eyelid over it. He eliminated them all and then quite calmly stepped through their blood to marry Jane Seymour. She did not last long, and even though he lost her, he still got what he desired - a son, and there is nothing he won’t do to protect that boy’s inheritance. The Exeters and the rest of the White Rose faction ought to take note of which way the wind is blowing and leave court, but they won’t do so. Too proud. You, however, still have a chance to get away, for once the king takes a woman and raises her high, it is only a question of time ‘til she falls. You may trust me on that.”

Bridget accepted his advice with an approximation of a smile, unwilling to show that any of his words had hit home. Wiltshire shrugged, as if to say, “I have done my best,” and then continued on his way as a new cacophony of coughs overtook him once more. Bridget turned and watched him go, the last of the Boleyns at court, with a creeping certainty that she would never see him again.

Bridget arrived at her rooms to find a coldly furious Sir Richard
stood there remonstrating with Joanna. “How could you let her come here, niece? How could my sister allow her to leave Thorns?” Bridget heard him say from outside the door. “We are soon to go on a progress through the south, and the last thing I want is for my wife to be within striking distance of His Majesty when he is at his leisure. Do you not realise, do none of you realise, that I need an heir? I grant you that Bridget has proved just as barren as all of my previous wives were, so perhaps God does not intend for me to have a son, but be that as it may, I have no ambition to don the horns of a cuckold at my age. Not even for the king.”

“And I have no intention of causing you to wear them,” Bridget declared calmly as she walked into the chamber.

Sir Richard spun around and shoved the door closed behind her with a crash. “Greetings
, madam,” he began frostily. “Walters told me that your aim in coming here was to surprise me; if so you have well and truly succeeded. I, however, do not like surprises of any kind, especially ones that imperil my marriage. You should not have come here, my lady. Everyone knows that the king sent you a gift, and we do not need telling what that betokens. He has been without a woman for some time now and his eye has fallen upon you. He must fill the yawning gap in his bed and you are to be the filler until Lord Cromwell can find a foreign princess willing to marry him.”

An unenviable task, Bridget mused, but no doubt one Cromwell approached as a welcome opportunity to increase his own power. Did it therefore suit his agenda to have the king distracted from the political considerations of marriage by dallying with a woman situated much closer to hand and one who was his own subject? A lady he could command and then cast aside with no fear of the consequences? Bridget’s spine stiffened as an icy shiver ran down it.

“I have come here, sir, to take my place by your side as your wife. There was no point to my remaining at Thorns. The gifts and the letters would have kept on arriving, and how could I have kept on rejecting them? That is playing with fire. The king is someone who likes the proper decencies to be observed. He is not liable to pay court to me while my husband is present. In fact, I doubt he will so much as throw a glance in my direction as long as I stay close to you.”

Sir Richard frowned and was plainly unconvinced by her argument, but there was little he could do about her presence now. “Just keep your eyes down, only speak when spoken to and just pray that Cromwell gets His Majesty’s signature on a marriage treaty sooner rather than later. A new wife is about the only thing that will be enough to divert him from bedding mine—permanently.”

The next day, Sir Richard was required to attend upon the king in his presence chamber and Bridget, sticking to the plan, went along with him. She had not seen the king since his brush with death
back in May and was unsure what to expect. Had he aged overnight in the manner of the Earl of Wiltshire? Was his leg still causing him pain? Rumour had it that Henry had made a good recovery from his illness and was in much better spirits, and for once rumour had underplayed the true state of things. Bridget was unprepared for just how well the king had bounced back.

He looked almost young, holding court with dash and aplomb, his strong laughter ringing throughout the apartments, the limp that was often quite pronounced now barely noticeable. He greeted Sir Richard with warmth, and his eyes widened in joy when he saw Bridget standing just behind her husband’s shoulder. Her heart began to thump in double-quick time, and she began to think that perhaps Sister Margaret and Joanna were right - deliberately placing herself into the lion’s den had been a terrible mistake. She had made every effort to downplay her looks by wearing an old, ugly green gown that caused her to appear bilious, the look finished off by the bulkiest gable hood she owned. It made no difference. The king gazed at her, and only her, as if she were the goddess Aphrodite made flesh.