Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (22 page)

The courtiers watched on with a range of reactions evident on every face. Exeter, Neville, Carew and the rest of the White Rose faction glowered, as if they could not believe that they had to tolerate such a display, the Seymours looked perplexed and Cromwell observed it all as though it was the most amusing thing he had ever seen. Sir Richard, who had removed his mask, tried and failed to hide his dismay as the king lifted his wife into the air, his big hands firmly spanning her waist. Will, who had kept himself resolutely to the back of proceedings, did not look at all.

The music ended and the king drew back and bowed to Bridget with practised ease. She curtseyed in response, but that was not the end: the king was not finished with her yet. He took her hand, turned her toward the sea of wondering faces that surrounded them, and raised it high. “My loyal subjects, I give you the Duchess of Milan, your future queen!”

Despite the ringing confi
dence of the king’s declaration, a dreadful pause ensued before a tentative round of applause started up, beginning in one corner and then spreading out across the entire hall. The king, oblivious to the lack of fervour, laughed in triumph and raised Bridget’s hand ever higher, his fingers locked over hers in a grip that Bridget could not break.

Chapter Fourteen

The events of the masque, and the king’s behaviour towards
Bridget, was the obsession of the court over the next few days. Bridget herself could not go anywhere without courtiers either falling quiet, eyeing her watchfully or approaching her and fawning over her as if she were the most important woman in the kingdom. Only two people did neither of those things and entirely kept their distance—Sir Richard and Will.

Sir Richard had adopted his default position of icy, wordless indifference. After the masque, Bridget had tried to speak to her husband, but he would have none of it.

“I perceive perfectly we
ll the state of things, madam,” he said through gritted teeth. “The king is determined to have you. I suppose I should be flattered, other men have been, but I find I cannot be. After all, the only reason I married you, a little nobody, a stray from my sister’s blasted abbey, was because I thought you would give me a son. That was my hope and perhaps that is the king’s hope—he wants another bastard, another Fitzroy, to go along with his legitimate heir. If so, he will be sorely disappointed in you. You are my barren wife and soon you will become his barren whore. Mayhap he will get more joy of you than I ever did.”

Bridget bit her tongue at the accusation of infertility knowing full well that his lack of an heir was her husband’s Achilles heel. But she would not stand there and be branded a whore, by him or by anyone.

“Husband
,” she began, “the king flatters me, and he pays attention to me. What would you have me do? Shun him? Upbraid him? He is the king. I am his subject, as are you. We are his to command however,” she took his arm, but he wrenched it away, “he has not sought to make me his ‘whore,’ as you so charmingly put it. He has made me no offer, and even if he did, I have no intention of playing that role. I am no man’s whore.”

Sir Richard shrugged indifferently and moved toward the chamber door. “His offer will not be long in coming. When it occurs, you must do as you see fit, my dear, and I must do the same. Who knows, there may even be some manner of reward in this for me. After all, more and more religious houses are being suppressed every day, and I would not say no to one if it was
offered
. I suppose your transformation into a strumpet might then be worthwhile.”

Bridget clenched her jaw and willed herself to remain calm. Sir Richard seemed to be waiting for a response, wait
ing for her to argue, but she refused to give him the satisfaction this time. Clearly he had made up his mind and would not be shifted. There was, and never would be, any love lost between them.

Sir Richard put on his doublet, the one bedecked with Tudor roses,
and donned a blue velvet cap. “The king is to debate the heretic Lambert today,” he said casually, “and all of the gentlemen of the privy chamber are expected to attend. It would probably be a good idea for you to show your face as well. Purely as a loyal subject, you understand.” He threw her a glance of total dismissal and left the room.

Bridget did deem it politic to attend the debate, which was really just a chance for the king to display his theological knowledge and advertise to the court and to the kingdom at large which way the compass was currently pointing
in regard to religion. That was possibly the reason the reformers, Thomas Cromwell amongst them, looked so ill at ease as the guards led John Lambert, the “heretic,” into the Great Hall at Whitehall Palace.

The hall was heaving with spectators, packed in shoulder to shoulder on tiered seats that had been placed there specially to accommodate the great number of people who wished to view the event. Lambert, a devotee of Luther, who had been arrested for heresy, was escorted in and brought before the king who sat enthroned, swathed in shimmering white silk, under his canopy of estate.

Bridget could see Lambert’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he stepped forward and bowed, and her heart went out to him. She was a traditionalist when it came to religion, and mourned most of the old way of life, but not the power of the pope and his legates in their lives. She acknowledged that the reformers had a valid point about the abuses and corruption of the Church; no one could fail to admit that. But the reformers only ever saw the bad—they only ever saw the dishonesty and immorality of a few and not the dedication and true spirituality of the many monks and nuns, priests and abbesses who had formed the heart and soul of the Church, the men and women who now thronged the highways of England as beggars. The former churchmen who ended their days on the scaffold. She respected the reformers’ depth of faith but could not see that death and destruction was the way to build a better kingdom.

The king, flanked on one side by his bishops, resplendent in their purple ecclesiastical robes, and on the other by judges, lords and gentlemen of the Privy Council, smiled good naturedly at Lambert. The man did not return the smile; instead, he stared fixedly ahead, as if steeling himself for the ordeal that he was shortly to undergo.

“
Ho, good fellow, what is thy name?” the king asked, his tone even and affable.

“My name
, sire?” Lambert echoed, as if the question confounded him. “My name is John Nicholson, though I am commonly called John Lambert.” The crowd murmured disapprovingly at this, and the prisoner glanced nervously about him. The king, all pretence at affability gone now, frowned and beheld Lambert, or Nicholson, with severity.

“A man with two names? Why, only scoundrels, rogues and liars go by two names. I do not think I would trust you, sir, having two names, though you were my brother.”  Lambert flushed dully and looked at the audience in desperation, as if one of their number might be able to render him some assistance. All he was met with was a sea of flinty stares.

Without warning, he fell to his knees, his hands clasped before him in supplication. “Your Majesty, I apologise most humbly for offending you by adopting two names. I am but a poor man and ill-educated. I meant no harm, sire. I do not possess your wisdom, your judgement, indeed your breadth of knowledge and learning that is justly famed throughout Christendom.”

The king, usually a lover of flattery, was unmoved by this plea. He sighed loudly and held up his hand. “Hold, Lambert, I did not come hither to hear my own praises sung. I came here to examine you. Tell me, do you believe in the doctrine of transubstantiation?”

Lambert struggled to his feet and looked down at them for quite some time as he strove to formulate an answer. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said at last, “it is a difficult question, and I—”

“Difficult? No, good fellow, there is no difficulty
,” the king said. “Either you believe that the sacred bread and wine becomes the body and blood of Our Saviour Jesus Christ, through the miracle of the Mass, or you do not. Now I will give you another chance and this time I will have your answer. What do you believe?”

Lambert, however, would not be forced into such a ready capitulation, and he and the king argued the point back and forth for some time, neither man conceding an inch. Eventually, John Lambert rocked back on his heels, cast his eyes heavenward and declared in a firm voice, “You compel me to an answer, Your Majesty, and it can be only this: I do not believe in transubstantiation. I deny it. Bread is bread and wine is wine. They cannot be changed into anything other than what they are.”

Bridget watched the king as Lambert gave his answer and she perceived a sadness pass across his features before a regal detachment, mixed with pity, swiftly took its place. “I see that you are set on this opinion, Lambert, utterly false though it is, but still I am a merciful prince and I will give you one last chance to recant. Will you live or die? You have yet a free choice.”

John Lambert stood still and offered nothing, voicing neither a confirmation of his views nor a recantation. The king gave him a few moments more and then he stood. “You have nothing further to say? That being the case then you must die, for I will not be a patron unto heretics. Lord Cromwell,” the king gestured to his chief minister, “you may read the verdict.” Lambert turned his head to the side as Cromwell, in a monotone, informed him that he was to be taken to Smithfield, tied to a stake, and burnt to death. The king processed out, followed by his entourage of gentlemen, his ears utterly closed to the condemned man’s cries of “none but Christ!” as he was led away.

The next week, Sir Richard came to Bridget in their rooms. It was the first time she had seen him since the day of the Lambert trial, as he had gone off for a few days hunting with the king. He knocked once upon the door and entere
d without waiting for an answer. Bridget left off from the letter she had been writing to the abbess and rose to greet him. Once the pleasantries, which were less than pleasant, had been exchanged, they simply stood and regarded one another as one might a stranger.

Sir Richard advanced into the chamber and threw his cap onto a table. “Wife, I bring news
,” he said. “The king has given me a great honour. He has restored to me the title of Viscount De Brett that was taken from my grandfather fifty-three years ago. In addition, His Majesty has presented me with two new manors, one in London and the other a former priory in Norfolk.”

Cold fingers of fear placed themselves around Bridget’s throat and squeezed so hard that she could force no words past their constriction.

“Well, do not look so pleased
, my dear,” Sir Richard, or rather, Lord de Brett, commented sarcastically. “You are now a Viscountess. That is no mean feat for someone who was not remotely born to occupy such an exalted station. And who knows? Once you have finally parted your thighs for His Majesty, even grander titles may be in store. After all, he made that Boleyn woman a marchioness in her own right, did he not? Not that it did her much good. But I suppose I do not need to tell you that.”

“My God, you speak of the king claiming me with a good deal of humour, sir, which is quite a change from your previous position. I recall that you were quite distraught at the prospect of never planting a son in my womb, but now it seems a couple of manors and the return of a title is adequate compensation for you. If you were going to sell yourself, and by extension me, you could have held out for an earldom at least.”

With a roar, Sir Richard picked up the side table and sent it crashing to the floor. He then kicked aside a chair that had stood as a barrier between himself and his wife. Before she had time to react, he grabbed her, pulled her to him and slapped her across the face, the sound of it echoing like a cannon shot. Bridget’s head snapped to the side, and her senses reeled under the shock of the impact. She tried to get away, to make for the door, but her husband was surprisingly nimble and he easily blocked her exit.

“Not so fast, my lady, I am not finished with you yet. If I cannot have you any longer, if you are to become the king’s property and cease to be mine, then, yes, I shall extract the maximum of advantage that I can whilst I can. I have the viscountcy back, and the earldom will follow. Two manors now, two more once he’s had you, twenty more if he manages to seed you, though God knows if it is possible with the tales of him one hears. Mayhap I shall save him the bother and send you to him with a babe already in your belly, although you have proven sadly barren up until now, but perhaps it is just that I have been too gentle with you. I can assure you that the king will not be.” He kissed her brutishly. “The king is not a ‘gentle’ man.”

Sir Richard seized Bridget around the waist and half-carried, half-dragged her into their bedchamber. She struggled and fought hard, using both teeth and nails, but he soon had her pinned underneath him on the bed, his whole weight pressing her down. His hand probed under her skirt and between her legs, his fingers rough in their exploration. “Dry, as always,” he spat. “No wonder I could never get a child on you. You are a frigid bitch, aren’t you? Nothing more.”