Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (30 page)

“Ye
s, I understand perfectly, Lady de Brett. Thank you so much.” Lady Exeter’s visage, previously pulled taut with tension, relaxed and she smiled a genuine smile. “A word from you, in our favour, dropped into the king’s ear is all I ask.” She lifted Bridget’s hand, still held firmly in her grasp and kissed the garnet ring, the ring that had once been Anne Boleyn’s, as though Bridget were now the queen and she her humble supplicant. Bridget accepted her thanks and nodded her head in appreciation, but inside she quaked.

Chapter Twenty

“Bridget, please do not do this!” Joanna pleaded for the hundredth time as she laced her mistress into her gown. “You are placing yourself in unbelievable peril asking the king for a favour, any favour, let alone one for the Exeters! For heaven’s sake, not only are they nothing to do with us, but we have all heard them speak rashly and disdainfully sundry times about His Majesty. Why, Sir Edward Neville will happily disparage the court and most especially Lord Cromwell to anyone within five feet of him. And speaking of Lord Cromwell, Will told me—”

“Do you know
,” Bridget observed, “that you employ that phrase ‘Will told me’ rather a lot these days?” She had intended it as a playful remark, but the instant she saw the blush that spread across Joanna’s cheeks Bridget’s stomach lurched. She knew that the two of them spent time together but she had told herself it was nothing more than a mere friendship. But was there more to it than that? Did Joanna have true feelings for Will and, more importantly, did he reciprocate? Was it possible?
Well
,
why would it not be?
A small, inner voice demanded mockingly.
They are both young, both handsome and, most crucially, promised to no one. Will is a member of the privy chamber and a protégé of Thomas Cromwell, the most powerful man in England, excepting the king. Joanna is an heiress, whose importance grows every single day that you do not produce a son. And furthermore,
the mocking voice continued,
you will never give birth to the de Brett heir, not now you belong to the king and your husband is gone away.
A union between Will and Joanna made perfect sense. How could she have been so blind to it?

“Bridget?” Joanna broke into her thoughts
. “Did you hear me? You have gone a funny colour. Do you need to sit down?”

Bridget brushed her concerns aside
and adjusted the sleeves of her gown. She then fastened a double strand of pearls around her neck, the king’s most recent gift. Henry liked her to wear every piece of jewellery he had ever bestowed upon her so tonight she intended to honour his wishes and wear them all. She would go to him like a chest of jewels come to life. The golden “B” pendant nestled comfortably between the pearls, just above the swell of her breasts, and seemed to wink scornfully at her in her burnished mirror. She turned away from the sight and faced Joanna.

“I heard you; I am well acquainted with your fears. You ask me, why would I involve mys
elf in this matter, which appertains to me directly not at all, and what is more it is for the sake of the Exeters of all people? They are, as you so succinctly put it, nothing to do with us. And furthermore they were no friends of the late Queen Anne’s; in fact, quite the contrary.”

“
Yes, exactly!” Joanna agreed furiously. “They hated her! They and their allies worked assiduously to bring about the queen’s destruction, and once that task was so bloodily achieved, they paraded about the court like a mob of conquering heroes. They would have carried her head before them if they could have. But now all has changed—the positions are reversed, and it is
they
who stand in the shadow of the scaffold. Such is the depth of their trepidation they were forced to send Lady Exeter unto you for aid. Why, in the name of the Virgin, should you give it to them? Why do they deserve it?”

“You are right in much of what you say
, but oh God, Joanna . . . you did not see her. You did not see the misery in her eyes, the sheer, naked fear. She is afraid, truly afraid. She told me so. I know that she and her husband and all their kin hated Anne and gloried in her death. I have not forgotten that, and if it were Carew or Suffolk or, Jesu forgive me, Lady Rochford, I would not lift a finger to aid them, but I do not think the Marchioness of Exeter is a bad person. She has been kind to me. I also do not think her husband is a genuine traitor. No one who truly was would speak as indiscreetly as he does. But she does not only fear for him; she thinks they may even kill her son. He is but ten years old! You mentioned the scaffold; well, you and I have actually stood upon one, though it was not one built for us. We have borne witness to the kind of terrible death that is practiced upon its boards. Would you not save someone from that fate if you could? If perhaps, in some way, it lay within your power to do so? Would you not?”

“For your sake I would, and for
the abbess, my uncle, Sister Margaret. Will,” she licked her lips, “but not for the sake of the Marchioness of Exeter and her family. Bridget, they are amongst the richest nobles in the land, and they are relatives of the king. Full up to the hilt with Plantagenet blood and Plantagenet pride. Let them save themselves, as harsh as that may sound. You cannot be their saviour. You cannot run that risk.”

There was a knock at the door. “That will be Master Culpeper
,” Bridget said, without responding to Joanna’s last plea. “I must go. His Majesty does not like to be kept waiting. And, Joanna, please do not fret.” She favoured her with her best smile. “I have listened to all you have said, to all your concerns, and I will not place myself in any real peril. The king is fond of me, perhaps more than fond. I do not stand in harm’s way. I am quite sure of that.”

Bridget followed Thomas Culpeper along
the well-trodden path toward the king’s secret rooms, his most private, jealously guarded lodgings located deep in the heart of Richmond Palace. Only a handful of people ever came to know about them, let alone gain access to them. As they drew inexorably nearer, Bridget’s pulse was racing so wildly that she felt close to losing control. Here she was, shimmering head to toe in cloth of silver, bedecked in pearls, swathed in diamonds and rubies, going to the King of England to ask him to spare the lives of the greatest nobles in the realm, people she hardly knew and was not related to. People who would never perform the same office for her. A laugh threatened at the absurdity of it all and she could not quite prevent it escaping.

Culpeper stopped
in his tracks and looked at her. “You laugh madam? Has something amused you?” he asked in that unctuously suggestive voice of his. He was indubitably a handsome young man, with thick blond hair, strong, even features and clear blue eyes, but there was nonetheless something about him that caused a cold shiver to run down Bridget’s spine. He radiated his own particular brand of conceitedness, a sort of smug self-satisfaction that never failed to strike an ill note with her. He was always the one who stood too close, who laughed too loud and stared too long, the invitation in his eyes deliberately blatant. Most of the women at court, few though they were, giggled at him, enjoyed his attentions and obligingly fluttered their eyelashes when he gazed in their direction. Bridget just tried to stay out of his way.

“No
, Master Culpeper, your ears have deceived you. I did not laugh; I merely coughed, for my throat is dry. A cough betokens no level of amusement I can assure you.”

Culpeper regarded her in a somewhat serpentine fashion, as though he desired
nothing more than to wrap himself around her. Bridget could almost feel his hands on her, and her skin crawled in response. Oblivious to her discomfort, he came forward and touched the pearls around her neck, rolling the fat, ivory beads lazily between his fingers. “A cough was it, my lady?” he murmured. “What a shame. A woman as beautiful as you are should laugh and laugh often. It is almost a crime for her not to. I have noticed that you hardly ever laugh; I warrant I could make you do so, if I chose. I warrant I could make you do a lot of things.”

His grip tightened on the pearls before Bridget grasped them and twisted them away. “Master Culpeper
,” she said, injecting as much outraged hauteur into her voice as she could. “You forget your place. I am the Viscountess de Brett, the king’s beloved. You are merely his servant. You are in no position to make me do anything. Quite the reverse in fact. I should hold my tongue if I were you, lest you find yourself without it.”

Culpeper’s generous mouth contorted into a smile, one that did not reach his eyes,
which were now transformed into two sapphire orbs of ice. Without another word, he showed Bridget his back and resumed leading her to the king’s quarters. In sullen silence, they came to an isolated part of the palace where the king kept his most secluded apartments. A small contingent of the guard waited outside, as always, and they sprang to attention when they saw Culpeper and Bridget. Culpeper ignored them completely and marched up to the door. He rapped three times before the voice of the king could be heard to call out “enter!” They duly did so.

“T
he Viscountess de Brett,” Culpeper announced, his tone dripping with sarcasm, not lost on Bridget but entirely so on the king. He beamed at her and cast no more than a fleeting glance at his faithful, young servant.

“Thank you
, Culpeper,” he said distractedly. “You may retire for the evening. I shall not need you again.”

“As you wish
, Majesty,” Culpeper replied, this time displaying the full measure of heartfelt sycophancy, and departed with a deep bow. The moment the door was closed the king came forward, took Bridget by the hand, and led her to his favourite chair by the fireside. He sat and took Bridget with him, pulling her down into his lap.

“Dear heart” he said
between kisses that he distributed liberally all over her face, neck and breasts, “how I have longed for you all day, but sadly the business of State never stops. Lord Cromwell is a hard taskmaster; he keeps me well occupied.” He chuckled at that and caressed her pearls, in much the same way Culpeper had. “I like to see you wearing these. They become you so well; they make your skin look like the finest, whitest silk. And yet there is something missing—the effect is not quite complete.” He reached down beside his chair and picked up a small, silver box inlaid with a Tudor rose. “I have just the thing that will finish it off.”

Bridget took the box, opened it and gasped in spite o
f herself. Inside, nestled on a tiny velvet cushion, rested a collection of sparkling diamonds—a necklace, a brooch and a ring. “Majesty, they are magnificent,” she breathed, “and please do not think me ungrateful, but,” she steeled herself, “I cannot accept them. You have already been so generous to me, so wonderfully generous. I do not deserve any more. Besides, it would not be right to accept a gift when I have a favour to ask of you. Not for myself but for someone else. Someone who came to me in great distress. Someone who is in fear for her life.”

She rose from the incredulous
king’s knee and fell at his feet, words tumbling from her lips like a waterfall, rushing out of her in a flood before she lost the nerve to speak them. “Sire, the Marchioness of Exeter has come to me and asked me to speak to you on her behalf. Your Majesty, the marchioness wishes you to know that she and her husband are faithful, true subjects unto you and always have been. They are utterly loyal to you, to your dynasty and to your heir, His Highness, Prince Edward. Furthermore, the marchioness—”

“Silence.” The king got up
, reached down and yanked Bridget to her feet in one movement. All the tenderness and affection he had displayed just a few moments ago fled entirely from his face; his countenance was now composed of pure, unadulterated anger. “My God, madam, if you value your life, do not say another word,” he muttered. “There are guards stationed not six feet from where you stand. All it would require is one word from me and they would drag you away into their custody, kicking and screaming if need be. By this time tomorrow you would be in the Tower, imprisoned in the smallest cell they have there—I believe they call it the ‘Little Ease.’ Within its close embrace a prisoner may neither sit nor stand nor lie down. All they can do is crouch in ever-increasing agony, their muscles screaming for a release that will never come. I am told that, on a still night, their cries can be heard echoing across the river, like those of a banshee. All it takes is one word from me and that would be your fate, sweetheart. Just. One. Word.”  He clicked his fingers; to Bridget it sounded like the snap of her own bones breaking.

The king stalked across the
room, and for one moment Bridget thought he was about to make his pronouncement come true: that he was about to summon the guard. Instead, he leant heavily against the window embrasure, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of his displeasure. Bridget stood still. She could cheerfully bite off her own tongue for the way she had broached the subject of the marchioness; as soon as she had uttered her name it was obvious that she had made a bad mistake. Joanna had been right; she should have left well enough alone. But it was done now, she had opened her mouth and words once said could not be called back. They had flown away, out of mortal reach, and all that could be accomplished was to try to soften their impact. Bridget mustered up her courage and approached the king.