Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England

by Lynne, V. E.

  The queen was once again pregnant, and the whole country prayed for a prince. Bridget could remember praying during Anne’s previous pregnancies, but no boy had been forthcoming. All Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn had to show for their years of struggle to be man and wife was one girl, the Princess Elizabeth. The general consensus seemed to be that a female could not, and should not, rule England. The kingdom required a male heir, but despite many people not liking or supporting the Boleyn marriage, they prayed that a prince would be born. The stability and security of the realm depended on it.

  The queen certainly looked healthy enough, Bridget mused, as she and Joanna took up the king’s shirts and retired to the back of the chamber to work on them with another of the queen’s maids, her niece Catherine Carey, whom they had met earlier. Anne’s colour was bright, she moved easily, and the goodly size of her belly indicated that her pregnancy was advancing rapidly. Childbirth though was fraught with danger, as all women knew. Bridget’s own mother had died of childbed fever after delivering a stillborn daughter. Her father followed her to the grave only a few months later, broken by grief. A cold shudder passed down Bridget’s spine at the remembrance. She silently asked God to send the queen a happy hour.

  From her position at the back of the large room, Bridget observed the rest of the company, which included several of the queen’s ladies. There was a blonde woman, of middling looks, with a narrow face and even narrower blue eyes that were as sharp as daggers. They had bored into Bridget when she had first entered the chamber, as if she were a fresh, interesting specimen to be closely monitored. Being a newcomer to the court, Bridget had no idea who she was. Timidly, she inquired Catherine Carey as to the lady’s identity.

  Catherine looked up from her work with a smile on her face. She was only a young girl, perhaps thirteen years old, but nonetheless quite self-possessed. She had coppery hair and creamy skin, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There were well-known whispers that she was really the daughter of the king, the result of an affair with her mother, Mary Boleyn, conducted before his relationship with Anne. Her Tudor colouring only confirmed the rumours in some minds. Most people though deemed it prudent to ignore such gossip.

  Catherine followed Bridget’s gaze, the expression on her face faltering a little. “That is Lady Rochford, my uncle’s wife,” she said in a cautious, measured voice. She offered no further information. Bridget regarded the lady with a greater awareness, now realising her familial connection to the queen. Everyone knew that Anne and her brother, George, Viscount Rochford, were close. Some of the older nuns had murmured about it at the abbey, always with a touch of disapproval. Bridget had not fully understood this because closeness to a sibling seemed perfectly natural to her. Then again, as she had never had a sibling, she had nothing to judge it against.

  That notorious intimacy did not seem to extend to George’s wife, however. Bridget observed that the queen seemed more interested in her other ladies and hardly ever looked at Lady Rochford when she spoke. Bridget also noticed that the queen’s sister-in-law had a habit of clenching and unclenching her hands, as though in a constant state of anxiety.

  Catherine watched her with a placid countenance. “Would you like to know who the other ladies are?” she asked lightly. Bridget nodded, feeling a little embarrassed at her lack of knowledge. “Well,” Catherine began, “the lady standing next to Her Majesty is our cousin Margaret Shelton, whom we all call Madge.” Bridget looked at Madge and felt immediately that she would like her. She was an attractive brunette, with a buxom figure and an open, guileless face. She looked like a high-spirited lady with few worries who enjoyed life. “You’ll like Madge,” Catherine said, echoing her own thoughts.

  “The next lady, just to the right of Madge,” Catherine continued, “is Jane Seymour. She has been at court for many years and was in service to the late queen. I mean to say,” Catherine stammered, correcting herself, “the late Princess Dowager, who was never truly our Queen.” Catherine blushed at her mistake, but it was an easy one to make. Everyone had thought that Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s dearly beloved consort, was their queen for many years, and some people had never stopped thinking that. Her recent death had done nothing to diminish that view.

  Bridget shifted her attention to Jane Seymour. Her first thought was that she had never seen anyone with such white skin before. Her complexion was so fair that it almost resembled chalk. No one would say that she had much beauty, but her nearly transparent colouring did lend her an air of vulnerability. She looked like a fragile flower that could be blown over in the first spring breeze. Bridget wondered if that was really the case.

  “And the last lady,” Catherine concluded, “is the Countess of Worcester. She is a good friend to Her Majesty.” Indeed, at that moment, both women were laughing at some private joke, their eyes alive with merriment. Lady Worcester was tall and slim, with an erect posture and a proud tilt to her head.

  All of a sudden, the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the chamber door. In no time at all, it was flung open, and a trio of men entered. All were fairly young and aristocratic looking. The youngest of the group was the most handsome, a dark-eyed gentleman whose insolent gaze swept the room. It stopped briefly on Joanna, causing her to titter uncertainly. Bridget pinched her arm.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. You all look most fetching today,” the man at the forefront said, a roguish smile lighting up his face. He turned toward the queen and approached her. “Greetings, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, his voice tender. “How does our prince today?” He kissed the queen on her mouth whilst placing his hand on her belly. Bridget started a little at this display of familiarity, but Anne seemed delighted with it. She laughed and placed her own hand over the man’s.

  “He is thriving, George,” she replied. “He is a Boleyn, after all.” The man and his companions chuckled, causing the rest of the room to join in. Everyone, that is, except Lady Rochford. She was clenching her hands so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

  “That is the queen’s brother, Lord Rochford,” Catherine whispered, although Bridget had worked out his identity for herself. “The others with him are Sir Henry Norris and Sir Francis Weston. They are members of the King’s Privy Chamber and high in his favour.”

  They looked like they knew it as well, Bridget thought, especially the most youthful of the band, Sir Francis Weston. He had been staring boldly at Joanna since he had entered the room, the invitation in his eyes unmissable, even to one brought up amongst nuns. In response, Joanna was reddening furiously, causing her already florid complexion to turn scarlet. Sir Francis smiled at her reaction, making him look very boyish. He really was young, Bridget realised, probably not older than five and twenty. Perhaps he was not quite as worldly as she had at first presumed him to be. In any case, he would have far more experience than Joanna. Bridget resolved to keep an eye on him.

  Sir Francis stopped watching Joanna and leaned towards the queen. He spoke very quietly and, as he talked, Anne’s head swivelled in the direction of Bridget and the other maids, as if suddenly remembering that they were there. She beckoned them over. Carefully laying down their sewing, Bridget and Joanna quickly stood and approached their mistress. Catherine remained seated, realising that the invitation had not included her.

  The two maids curtsied to the queen and her circle. Anne regarded them benignly and indicated that they should come closer. “Sir Francis here,” she said, motioning towards the handsome courtier, “would like to know who you both are. Why don’t you tell him?”

  There was a cryptic smile on the queen’s face and Bridget realised that they were being tested. The abbess had told her that Queen Anne liked to keep lively, interesting people about her, not milksops. People who had some spark in them. Anne herself was known for her quick wit and personal charisma. Perhaps she now wanted to see what her new maids were made of.

  Bridget squared her shoulders and ran her tongue over her dry lips. She inc
lined her head slightly to the queen, then shifted her gaze to Sir Francis. “My name is Bridget Manning and this is Joanna De Brett,” she announced, her voice surprisingly firm. She could almost feel Joanna sag in relief that Bridget had answered for her. We are newly arrived in the queen’s service, having been previously at Rivers Abbey.”

  “Ah yes!” Lord Rochford said loudly, snapping his fingers. “These are the two young ladies you have saved from Cromwell’s scythe at the abbey, sister! Is not one of them some distant relation of ours?’

  “That is correct, brother,” the queen replied happily. “Young Bridget here is a kinswoman of ours, and Joanna is a relative of the Abbess Joan. I believe you visited the abbey once, did you not? Only for purposes of prayer, of course.” They exchanged a private look, which Lord Rochford was the first to break. A few others in the room snickered, and Lady Rochford pursed her lips in disgust. Bridget too felt her face start to warm as she realised the implications of the silly laughter and Rochford’s shamefacedness. She directed her eyes resolutely at the floor.

  The queen let the laughter die down, then sensibly changed the subject. “See how pretty they are, George!” she said. “They will make a fine addition to our court. Heaven knows I need some young people about me. I find the air in here has grown stale and old of late.” Both Lady Rochford and Jane Seymour bristled a bit at the queen’s statement and shared a brief glance between them.

  “They are certainly pretty, Majesty,” Lord Rochford concurred, his dark gaze roving openly over their trim figures. “The blonde one has your eyes, Anne. Do you not agree, gentlemen?” Sir Henry Norris merely nodded and smiled a neutral smile. He was a pleasant-looking man, blond with summery blue eyes and a trustworthy face. Bridget had noticed that the entire time he had been there, his attention had barely wavered from the queen, whilst Madge Shelton had tried to catch his eye on a number of instances. She had yet to succeed.

  “Lord Rochford, I think you do these ladies a disservice,” Sir Francis Weston said, his laughing voice filling the chamber, “for surely their beauty deserves a more fitting description than merely ‘pretty’? Why, I am pretty, you are pretty, the musician Smeaton is very pretty.” At this, he raised an eyebrow, and Rochford looked slightly embarrassed. “But we are as nothing compared to these young maidens. They excel us as the day excels the night. Why this one,” he said, moving towards Bridget and taking her hand, “this one is a lovely English rose. She is all lush innocence with perhaps just a few drops of morning dew sitting delicately upon her untouched petals.” Bridget blushed violently. She had seldom been this close to a man before, let alone one as attractive as Sir Francis Weston. His hand felt like warm velvet wrapped around hers. A little shiver swept through her body. Aware of her response, Sir Francis gave her hand a final squeeze and then moved on to Joanna.

  “And this young lady,” he continued, gently cupping Joanna’s cheek. “This maid looks like a glorious sunset, the kind that paints the whole sky with fire and flame.” Bridget thought that Joanna might faint with pleasure at this compliment. Instead, she giggled and almost jumped up and down with excitement. “Come, my Lady of the Sunset, dance with me,” Sir Francis cried, and without further ado, he put his arm around Joanna’s waist and began to dance her about the room.

  The queen clapped her hands and looked on with amusement. Bridget tried to smile but could not do so because of her growing unease. She had become aware that Anne was the only person in the chamber who viewed the spectacle before them with pleasure. Lord Rochford had lost all interest in it; Sir Henry Norris had eyes only for the queen, and the other ladies had tactfully averted their gazes from the scene except for one. Lady Rochford watched as if nailed to the spot. Her face was a blank canvas, but her pale eyes surveyed the dancers with keen interest and calculation. They did not miss a step.

  Chapter Two

  “Have you seen Mistress Seymour, Catherine?” the queen asked briskly a few days later. Anne and her ladies were in her private apartments at Greenwich, where the unseasonably warm sunlight was streaming in the windows and casting slanted shadows across the floor.

  Catherine Carey looked up with surprise and quickly glanced about the room. “No, Your Majesty.” she replied. “I have not seen Mistress Seymour today.”

  The queen’s lips thinned and Bridget saw her throat work, as if something was stuck there. Her face settled into lines of anger. “How about the rest of you? Hmm? Nothing to say? Nobody has seen Jane Seymour? Well, how interesting. She has performed a vanishing trick. She must be cleverer than I thought.”

  The ladies all lowered their heads and became very interested in their feet. Anne regarded them with frustration as well as a hint of suspicion. Her ebony gaze settled upon Lady Rochford. “You must know where the Seymour wench is, Jane,” the queen said sharply. “After all, she is a great friend of yours, is she not? I see the two of you whispering together like a couple of dairymaids when you think no one is looking. So, where is she?”

  Jane Rochford assumed an innocent air and quietly shook her head. “I know not, Your Majesty” she replied, folding her hands in her skirts. “I have not seen Mistress Seymour since last evening. Perhaps she is at prayer, or helping the poor in some way? Your Majesty knows what a kind nature she has.”

  The queen snorted in disbelief and waved her hand dismissively at Lady Rochford. “I see that I am going to have to solve this riddle myself.” Her eyes scanned the room with cat-like intensity. Bridget tried to fade into the background and do nothing to attract attention. She busied herself unpicking Joanna’s sewing, a result of the young maid’s constant daydreaming about Sir Francis Weston. She was so focused on this task that she did not notice that the Queen of England was standing right in front of her.

  “Bridget,” the queen said, almost causing Bridget to jump out of her skin. Bridget looked up at her mistress, the shirt she had been working on falling to the floor. A touch clumsily, she leapt to her feet and tried to pick up the shirt and curtsy at the same time. Everyone, even Lady Rochford, looked at her sympathetically.

  “Never mind that,” Anne said curtly, “you are coming with me.” She reached out, grabbed Bridget’s arm, and together they swept from the chamber. Leading the way, the queen strode through the twisting corridors of Greenwich Palace, Henry VIII’s birthplace and perhaps the most beautiful of his many residences. Anne was clearly a woman on a mission, and Bridget had difficulty keeping up until her mistress stopped abruptly and Bridget nearly barrelled into her.

  “I do not trust the Seymour girl,” Anne said, half to herself. “She was once in Catherine’s service and she remains loyal to that woman’s daughter, the Lady Mary. People like her, like her family,

  they have no love for me or mine. And now, somehow, by some miracle, she has caught the eye of the king! How she has done this, I have no idea. She has no beauty, no wit, and no personality. None of the things Henry loves, or I thought he loved, and yet I have seen . . .” she trailed off and seemed to struggle to collect her thoughts.

  Visibly gathering herself, Anne said, “I have decided to trust you, Bridget, even though you are new to my service and to this court. Abbess Joan, whom I greatly esteem, spoke highly of you, and I have been impressed with you in the short time you have been here. You are sober, hardworking, God-fearing, and you do not indulge in all the tittle-tattle that the other ladies do.” Bridget smiled wryly, and Anne laughed. “Well,” she amended, “perhaps not so much as the others do.” She turned serious again. “You seem honest, and I need such people about me, especially in these difficult times. Even better than that, you are my cousin. A Boleyn. And there is none so worthy as a Boleyn.” As if to confirm this, the queen fondly touched the golden “B” pendant she wore around her neck.

  Bridget was both surprised and honoured at the great compliments her mistress had bestowed on her. But the reference to her Boleyn connection made her uncomfortable. “I thank your Majesty for your great praise, and I will try to deserve it. God knows you have don
e so much for me by raising me to your household and putting your trust in me, but surely your Majesty realises that our family connection is so slight as to be non-existent? I fear the Abbess may have overstated matters somewhat in that regard.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” the queen replied smartly. “Blood is blood, and we share some. It may be some way back, but it is there nonetheless. You will learn that even the most fragile connection has value at this court. Do not be so quick to dismiss the importance of it. Now that I have dispensed with that,” she said firmly, picking up her midnight-blue skirts and turning away, “we must find the errant Mistress Seymour so I can dispense with her too.”

  Anne and Bridget made their way through the palace at a fast clip, rushing past what seemed to be a bewildering array of chambers, antechambers, alcoves, and galleries without number. Bridget had never been in this part of the palace before, and she was soon feeling disorientated. It seemed they were going around in a circle until they passed one room where the door was slightly ajar, and Bridget caught a just flash of something on the edge of her vision. She stopped, quickly glanced in, and glimpsed a couple, the female dressed in moss green, sitting on a male’s lap. The lady was small with very white skin.