Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England

by Lynne, V. E.

  Bridget curtseyed hurriedly and tried to wish herself into an insignificant ball. She could feel the emotion radiating out of the king, pouring off him in waves. His face was flushed, and his blue eyes were nearly darting out of his head. His furious gaze took in the room and stopped on Bridget. “Leave us, girl,” he said roughly, his tone brooking no opposition.

  Bridget nodded and tried to leave, but Anne still held her arm in a vice-like grip. Aside from her hold on her arm, the queen had changed since her husband walked in the room. No longer so fearful, she sat straighter in her bed, her eyes blazing with dark fire. “This is not my fault, Henry,” she asserted loudly, her fingers digging into Bridget’s flesh.

  “You have lost my boy, madam,” the king responded tightly. “Whom should I blame for that?”

  “Yourself!” Anne shouted, the full extent of her anger now unleashed. “You have neglected me, you have placed other women before me, especially that wench, Jane Seymour! You have caused me so much trouble of heart and mind that I have lost our son! You seek to blame me, sir, but it is not my fault—it is yours and yours alone!”

  Anne closed her mouth quickly as if realising that she had gone too far. The king looked unsteady, like someone had punched him in the face. He rubbed his forehead vigorously before making a great effort to collect himself. “Well then, madam,” he said, his low tone edged with menace, “if that is your opinion, then you shall have no more boys by me. I will speak with you again when you are up.”

  He said nothing else before stalking from the room, the door to the chamber slamming shut behind him. In response, Anne finally let go of Bridget’s arm and attempted to get out of bed, muttering, “I must go to him! I must go to the king!” Bridget called out to Mistress Marshall, but it was Lady Rochford who entered and stopped the queen from going anywhere.

  “You must lie down, Your Majesty, you are not well,” she said, her voice surprisingly soothing. “The king will come again later, and then you may speak with him.” But Bridget could see from the stricken expression in Anne’s eyes that she feared that Henry was not coming back. She feared that when he had slammed her chamber door shut, he had also slammed the door on his second wife.

  Chapter Six

  It was the deepest part of the night in Greenwich Palace. Inside the queen’s apartments, the ladies slumbered, except for two—Queen Anne Boleyn and Mistress Bridget Manning. Anne could not stop talking, and Bridget had no option but to sit beside her and listen to her mistress’s desperate stream of words.

  The queen seemed obsessed with the fact that Catherine, or the Princess Dowager as they were all supposed to call her, had been interred on the same day as the miscarriage had happened. “’Tis no accident,” she averred for the hundredth time. “Catherine managed to reach out of her coffin and snatch my son away. And they say that I am a witch! How she must be laughing at me, at my ruin!” The last comment was said so softly that it was barely audible.

  Bridget squeezed her hand and said, “It is late, Majesty, and you are very tired. You must try to get some sleep now.”

  Anne sighed deeply and sat up in bed. “I cannot sleep, Bridget; I cannot stop my mind from going round and round.” She paused. “They do say it, you know.”

  “Say what, madam?” Bridget asked.

  Anne gave her a long look. “That I am a witch.”

  Bridget laughed a little, thinking that the queen must be joking, but Anne was in earnest. “Oh no, I do not jest with you, I have been accused of witchcraft ever since the king decided to put Catherine away and marry me. My enemies say that I seduced him through sorcery, that I have corrupted him both body and soul, that the marks I have upon my person are not moles but devil’s teats, and that the double nail I have is in fact a sixth finger. And that is not the end of it. They also say that I poisoned Catherine and tried to poison the Lady Mary, and that I caused Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More to be sent to the block. All this I have achieved through witchcraft. There is no end to the evil they attribute to me.”

  Bridget was taken aback by the queen’s outburst, and not a little concerned by the close proximity of Lady Rochford, who was feigning sleep in a pallet bed not far away. She could tell from the angle of her head that she was listening to every word. “Majesty, perhaps it is not wise to repeat these things. No good can come of it, and surely the king, and all sensible folk, do not take such tales seriously.”

  “Oh, but they do, and anyway, I do not say anything that is not commonly uttered at the court and in other places as well. I can see you are not superstitious; no doubt your shrewd, little abbess had something to do with that, but sadly most people here are not like her. They all talk about me, constantly gossiping and sniping, and now that I have lost my boy, they will not bother to hide any of it. They will spout their venom openly, thinking that I am now weak. But they are wrong. One thing I have never been, little cousin, is weak.”

  Anne stared intently into the shadows, as though they held a great secret that she would divine from them. Bridget breathed deeply and willed her to stop talking, to grow tired, and to fall asleep. She knew that she talked from a combination of shock, stress, fear, and weariness but even so she seemed to have no concept of the danger that so many pairs of listening ears might pose to her. The silence went on, and the queen finally closed her eyes. But, much to her maid’s dismay, she was not yet finished speaking.

  “There are prophecies about me,” she said darkly. “There are people who have foreseen my death. A few years ago, I found something in my room; it was a set of playing cards arranged into a book. They showed Henry and Catherine and me, only I had my head cut off.”

  Bridget shivered, and coldness ran down her spine. Anne glanced at her, her expression unreadable. “There has long been a prediction that a Queen of England shall be burned. The prophecy goes, ‘When the Tower is white, and another place green, then shall be burned two or three bishops and a Queen, and after all this be passed, we shall have a merry world.’”

  The dreadful lines fell into a pool of silence. Even Anne seemed sobered by them. Blinking slowly, she turned to Bridget. “What do you think, Mistress Manning? Do you think that prophecy is about me? Do you think I am the Queen of the White Tower, destined for the flames like all witches and heretics?” Anne’s voice had risen and taken on a note of hysteria.

  “No, madam, I do not think or believe in such things,” Bridget soothed, stroking the queen’s hand like one would a frightened child’s. “It is just a story, designed to scare you, and nothing more. You should not give it another thought.”

  The queen seemed a little mollified by these words, and she nodded tiredly in response to them. Her eyes clouded with fatigue and finally she yawned. “Thank you, Bridget,” she said. “You are a sensible girl; I can see it was wise of me to bring you here. Now, I think I will sleep.” She yawned again and lay down under the covers. “You may retire. Good night.”

  “Good night, Your Majesty,” Bridget replied, and she gratefully left the bedchamber. Her head was spinning from everything that the queen had said, or rather confided, to her. Did people truly believe that Anne was a witch who was forecast to die at the stake? It was so fantastic a notion that she could barely credit it. Anne was queen, and no Queen of England had ever been burned, or beheaded, or executed in any other way. Such a thing was unheard of. The worst that Bridget had ever heard happening to a queen was what had befallen Anne’s predecessor, Catherine of Aragon. She had been cast off, then locked up in a series of unhealthy houses, far from her daughter and her supporters. Not even King Henry, who was not unfamiliar with summoning the headsman, had contemplated sending Catherine to the scaffold. Yet Anne really did believe that these prophecies could come true. Bridget had heard it in her voice.

  Bridget wandered back to the maids’ antechamber, her mind still racing. She doubted she would get any sleep that night. “Bridget,” a small voice whispered, “could you come here please?” It was Catherine Carey, Anne’s niece and her youngest atte
ndant. She sounded and looked a little fearful in the gloomy room. “How does the queen?” she asked. “Does she sleep?”

  “Yes, at long last,” Bridget answered, “though it has been a struggle. The events of yesterday are weighing very heavily upon her.” Bridget thought it prudent to omit the details of the queen’s conversation and concentrate on the main source of her distress. Catherine nodded and looked relieved. Bridget made her way to her bed, then noticed Joanna was missing. “Catherine, have you seen Mistress De Brett?” she asked, a sensation of dread stealing over her.

  “No . . . at least, not for a while,” Catherine replied haltingly. “She slipped away, I know not where. Sorry,” she finished lamely. Bridget clenched her jaw and quickly threw a dark cloak around her shoulders. She then walked as quietly as possible out of the antechamber, through the queen’s apartments, and into the palace proper.

  On silent feet, she crept through the vast building, with no real idea in her mind as to where she was going, but with a sinking feeling in her stomach as to what she might find when she got there. God only knew what she would say if she were discovered. But the place seemed deserted, and besides, Bridget had always been good at moving without being noticed.

  Her eyes having adjusted to the dark, Bridget walked with more confidence, pulling her cloak tightly around her to ward off the cold. She passed by a window, then backtracked, having seen two figures in the distance. Hugging her body close to the wall, she peered out and breathed a small sigh of relief that neither of the individuals were Joanna. In fact, they were older men, relatively short, and well built.

  They had their heads angled close together and one of them was talking very fast. Then they parted quickly, like an adulterous couple who feared discovery. It was not until they sprang apart that Bridget recognised them. One was the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, whom she had memorably run into once before. He had called the queen a whore and a heretic. The other man she had also met before, on what felt like that long ago day at the tiltyard. It was Thomas Cromwell.

  Bridget shrank back into the darkness as the two men took their leave of each other and walked away. She was confident that neither had seen her, but she rapidly felt very vulnerable, wandering about Greenwich in the dead of night. She decided the most prudent course of action was to make her way back to the queen’s apartments and hope Joanna returned of her own accord, but then she heard a noise. It sounded like a gasp, a distinctly female one. It had emanated from just around the corner.

  Bridget moved as silently as she could towards the source of the sound. As she inched along the wall, the ragged breathing of the female became more pronounced, and now the voice of a male was also audible. He was whispering in a laughing tone. Bridget thought she recognised it.

  She had reached the end of the wall and, with rising trepidation, Bridget poked her head around the corner. In an alcove was a couple, entwined in an unmistakably intimate embrace. The male was pressed against the female, his hand sliding up her skirt, his face buried in the curve of her neck. The female had her legs loosely wrapped around her companion and her head thrown back, her hair gleaming red in a shaft of moonlight. The young woman in question was Joanna, and the man she was so nearly giving herself to was none other than Sir Francis Weston.

  Bridget felt both hot and cold at the same time. Without making a sound, she walked towards the oblivious couple until she was close enough to smell the sweat coming off their bodies. Joanna opened her eyes and, upon seeing Bridget, all pleasure flew out of them. She yelped and pushed against Sir Francis’s shoulders. He said, “What is it?” and turned around to see what, or who, Joanna was pointing at. He had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed before an impish smile lit up his face. He pulled away from Joanna and nonchalantly rearranged himself, not bothering to hide his exposed member from Bridget’s view. She pretended to ignore it.

  Meanwhile, Joanna hastily pulled down her skirts and covered her bare breasts as best she could. She looked pleadingly at Bridget and tried to find an explanation. “Please, Bridget, I am sorry, but we just got carried away. You will not tell the queen? It is just that—”

  Bridget cut her off. “Get back to our quarters, we will talk later. Just hope that Mistress Marshall does not get to hear about this.” Reeling at the hardness in her friend’s voice, Joanna did not attempt to argue and meekly did as she was bid. Once she had gone, Bridget regarded Sir Francis with what she hoped was a flinty stare. He merely leaned against the wall and looked amused.

  “Sir, Joanna is just a young girl, with no experience of life, and certainly none of men such as you. She is naïve and easily led and perhaps even a little foolish. But she is also a sweet girl, with no harm in her, and I do not want to see her dishonoured. Apart from that, she is one of the queen’s maids and therefore out of bounds. Her Majesty keeps strict rules within her household.”

  “Does she?” Sir Francis exclaimed, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I am glad you think so, but it is news to me, I must say. You have not been with us very long, little Bridget, and obviously you have some strange notions into your head. I should be glad to . . . disabuse you of them.”

  He smiled that roguish grin of his and walked towards her. He looked at her for a moment, then ran his hand down her cheek with surprising tenderness. Bridget shivered and felt an awakening of desire, which she quickly tamped down. Sir Francis Weston was temptation personified, all dark good looks and physical allure. Bridget could see how Joanna had been unable to resist him. Yet, there was also something risky about him beyond his obvious attractions. Something dangerous. Apart from anything else, he was married and therefore could offer a single woman nothing, except some brief, snatched moments of pleasure and a permanent stain on her reputation. Bridget resolved to be on her guard against him.

  “You are right, Sir Francis,” Bridget said, taking a step back from him. “I am still new to court and perhaps I do not know all of your . . . ways. One thing I do know is that Joanna De Brett is not available to be your mistress. You are married, and she is far too young to throw her prospects away on an affair with you. Please stay away from her. As for the queen, despite what you say, I am sure she would not be pleased to discover what happened here tonight. I would rather she did not find out, and I am sure you would agree with me.”

  Sir Francis looked surprised that Bridget had had the temerity to speak to him in such a direct way, and a new light of admiration dawned in his eyes. “Well, Mistress Manning, you are not the shrinking, little flower that I had you pegged for,” he said musingly. “I congratulate you for defending your friend, and you have my word that I will not seek her out again. She is perhaps a little young for my tastes in any case. Oh, and you are right about the queen. She would not be pleased to discover what happened, or almost happened, here tonight.”

  “Almost?” Bridget questioned, and Sir Francis grinned rakishly.

  “My, you are an innocent, aren’t you? There was no, shall we say, denouement to my encounter with Mistress De Brett—your sudden arrival rather put an end to things. So you need have no fear that your friend is carrying a Weston heir, albeit a baseborn one. Now, that really would displease the queen!”

  He held Bridget’s embarrassed gaze for a long second, then took his leave, whistling as he went. Bridget put her hand against the wall and took a few moments to clear her head. It had been such a long night and she was very tired and quite homesick. Exhaling loudly in the stillness, she began to make her way through the gloomy palace, a sense of longing for her old life enveloping her. She had been content at the abbey. It was gentle and peaceful, with its time-honoured rituals and old certainties. Of course, they had proved to be anything but certain in the end. Centuries of tradition had been wiped away in the space of a few months. In coming to court, Bridget had hoped to find a place with a bit more permanence. She had longed for a different version of the abbey really. She could not have been more wrong.

  Her mind was so full of the memories of her former lif
e, and the pitfalls of her present one, that she did not notice a man walking directly into her path. He too seemed very preoccupied with his own thoughts, his head bowed and his pace rapid. Bridget was forced to step hastily to one side to avoid a collision with him. He raised his head and his eyes flared with alarm and then recognition.

  “Mistress Manning,” Thomas Cromwell said silkily, his voice barely above a whisper. “What an unexpected surprise, but nonetheless a pleasant one.”

  Bridget smiled graciously while inwardly cursing her ill luck. “Master Secretary,” she replied, “I was just returning to the queen’s apartments. I am sorry if I startled you.”

  “No, not at all,” Cromwell answered. “It takes a great deal more than a little maid of honour to startle me. I trust that the queen is resting comfortably after her great tragedy. Certainly the king was most upset at the grievous event, as were we all.”

  Bridget would not have used the word “upset” to describe the king’s reaction. More like enraged, followed by mortified at Anne’s display of anger, and then finally coldly dismissive of his wife. Perhaps Cromwell was not aware of this or, more likely, he was merely putting the best face on his master’s reaction.

  “Yes sir, His Majesty was, as you say . . . upset, but the queen is strong and, with the proper rest, will make a full recovery. And now I need some rest, as it is very late. Good night to you sir.” Bridget made a move away, but Cromwell blocked her path.