by Lynne, V. E.
The queen smiled bravely, but she could not keep up the pretence for long. Soon, huge, silent tears began to roll down her high cheekbones. “Do not weep, Majesty, all will be well. As you say, your enemies cannot prove anything. The king will support you.” Bridget saw fit to ignore the rules of propriety and she stroked the queen’s hand. It was cold and clammy.
“I do not weep for myself, but for my daughter,” Anne whispered. “If I am removed, sent into some dreadful exile somewhere like Catherine was, then what will become of her? Who will speak for her interests? Especially if the king gets a son on Jane Seymour, my Elizabeth will be cast aside and utterly forgotten. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“Madam, it will not happen. You are queen and the king will not believe these mad accusations. Besides, your father and brother are powerful men. They will protect you and the princess.”
Anne nodded and wiped away her tears. “You are wise for such a little maid,” she said, the old note of humour back in her voice. “In any case, I know Thomas Cromwell. These are probably just scare tactics he is employing, designed to frighten me into submission. He would not seriously make such a move against me, especially on such a flimsy pretext. No, he is grasping at straws now that he sees I still hold the upper hand with Henry. I will not let him make me afraid of my own shadow. Now,” the queen yawned and stretched her arms above her head, “it almost morning. Let us both try and get some sleep.”
Bridget nodded and returned to her pallet bed. She lay down and closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. She was sure that that was the case for her mistress too.
Chapter Sixteen
Over the next two or three days, life in the queen’s household returned to something approaching normality. The king even paid a visit to his wife one night, although he did not stay, and the queen was subdued the next morning, her mood leading to meaningful looks between Lady Rochford and Lady Worcester. Other than that, no storm had broken over their heads; no lightning bolt had struck them from above. Even so, the queen had turned very watchful and had become careful with her words. She had the demeanour of one who was upon a stage being observed by a thousand eyes, both seen and unseen. And like any good actor, she did not want to forget her lines.
Bridget had not seen Will Redcliff since their conversation by the gates. She presumed that he would be away from court for as long as his master continued to be. The word was that Cromwell was trembling with fear at the prospect of speaking to the king again and, because of his terror, he prolonged his “illness” for as long as he could. Bridget could only hope that that was truly the case.
The final days of April were mild and pleasant, and one could smell the approach of summer on the breeze. Anne liked to take the opportunity to get outside into the fresh air, away from the hemmed in atmosphere of her apartments, where she waited in vain for a husband who did not come. A husband who might be entertaining the possibility that his wife was a witch.
The queen was doing her best to not allow her inner turmoil to show through. She went about her days with calmness and dignity, and she made sure that everyone knew how zealously she attended to her religious devotions and how generously she gave to the needy. She was certainly lavish with her alms, and Bridget and the other maids spent a great deal of time sewing shirts for the poor. Although these acts were not entirely selfless, Bridget also knew that the queen was a genuine reformer who did want to see the general state of the kingdom improve. She also realised that, as far as her detractors were concerned, no acts of charity would ever be enough to convince them that she was not a heretical whore bent on destroying the England that they knew. Their hatred for Anne knew no bounds.
Since the installation of Jane and her family as the reigning favourites, most of Anne’s opponents felt no need to disguise their antipathy much anymore. The White Rose faction, led by the Exeters and the king’s old boon companion, Sir Nicholas Carew, openly fawned over the Seymours, and Carew was even supposed to be coaching Jane on how to keep Henry interested in her. Essentially, the ploy was the same as the one Anne herself had employed for so many years—dangle your maidenhead like bait and never let him have it till you were certain that marriage was within your grasp. If it worked for Anne and the Boleyns, then why should it not work for Jane and the Seymours?
Yet the king had not abandoned Anne entirely. He still made occasional, if brief, appearances in her apartments and had even made a nocturnal visit only a few nights ago, but according to Lady Rochford, nothing of a carnal nature had taken place. Still, he was clearly not indifferent to his wife, and the plans for them to make a joint visit to Calais continued apace. The queen was greatly excited at the prospect of the journey, not only because Calais was in close proximity to her beloved France, but because it would allow for her and the king to spend time together, sans the Seymours. Already, Anne was predicting a New Year’s prince as a result.
“Have you ever been across the Narrow Sea, Bridget?” the queen asked as the sun streamed down on them in the gardens at Greenwich.
“No, madam, I have not. I have heard that it can be a rough crossing.”
“Oh, indeed, yes!” Anne replied. “I first made the crossing as a young girl, when my father sent me to be educated at the court of Margaret of Austria in the Netherlands. I got terribly seasick, such was the pitching and rolling of the vessel. It seemed to go on forever, and the wind! I thought for certain that the mast would break and we would all be lost. But somehow we struggled on and reached dry land, safe and sound. That journey was the start of some of the happiest times of my life, being in the household of such a great lady and then later, when I went to serve the Queen of France, I was a part of the most elegant court in the world. Those were wonderful days. I hope this trip will be the start of something similarly wonderful.”
The three young maids, Bridget, Joanna, and Catherine, all shared a smile with the queen while Lady Rochford frowned and Lady Worcester looked away. Elizabeth Worcester had been especially uncomfortable lately and the queen felt great concern for her. The countess’s pregnancy was proving problematic, and Anne always had sympathy for any woman in that situation, given her own obstetric history. Bridget, however, suspected that Lady Worcester’s discomfort was not limited to the babe in her womb. She had seen her engaged in further angry conversations with her brother Fitzwilliam, and she had no doubt that they concerned the same subject she had heard them arguing over before, which was the flirtatiousness of Lady Worcester and, by extension, of the queen. Anne, though, regarded the countess as a true friend and had dismissed Bridget’s concerns.
Across the gardens, two men were approaching. The tall, erect figure of the Earl of Wiltshire led the way followed by his handsome but strangely deflated-looking son, Lord Rochford. Wiltshire wore a thunderous expression and made a beeline straight for his daughter. “I thought you said that you had gotten the Garter for George?” he barked. Anne looked confused and she glanced quickly between the two men.
“Yes, Father, I did,” she replied uncertainly. “I asked the king for it and he assured me that my brother should have the honour. Why, what has happened?”
Rochford stepped forward, deep disappointment etched on his features. “Carew got it,” he said simply. “Carew was made a Garter knight, and I stood there, looking like a fool, while his supporters revelled openly in their triumph.”
The queen looked stunned. That day there had been a chapter meeting of the Order of the Garter, the highest order of chivalry in the land, and the king, along with the leading nobles, had all attended the ceremony. There was a vacancy for a knight, and the queen had been determined to secure it for her brother. She thought she had succeeded, but it seemed Henry had opted instead for Sir Nicholas Carew, a man whose antipathy towards Anne was no secret. The queen sat down heavily on a stone bench and rested her chin in her hands. All her previous sunny optimism drained out of her.
“You know what people will say about this, daughter? They will say that this proves you no long
er have enough influence with your husband to advance your family anymore. Your star is on the wane, and His Majesty only wants those whom Jane Seymour favours around him now. I tell you plainly, Anne, that unless you do something, we are all bound for some wretched fen in the middle of nowhere, sent there to rot like Catherine was. Or worse.”
“Worse, Father? What could be worse?” Anne asked tiredly.
For once, Wiltshire looked hesitant and there was a spark of fear in his eyes. “I am on the Council and I hear things. The king wants to take another wife. All the people who hate us—the Exeters, Carew, Francis Bryan, and the Seymours, of course—they plot day and night to remove you. They never cease. There is also some vague rumour of some manner of inquiry that is afoot, people being questioned—”
“Yes,” Anne interrupted, “all the old stories of witchcraft are being raked up again. Cromwell is behind it.”
Wiltshire paled and the spark of fear in his eyes turned into a fully-fledged flame. “Daughter, this is serious. If our enemies are trying to portray you as a witch, then what else might they try? Maybe they are attempting to bring that damned prophecy about. You know the one that says—”
“Yes, Father, I know, the one that says that a Queen of England will be burnt. That prophecy has been recited so many times that we all know it off by heart. When the Tower is white and another place green . . . and so on and so forth. If they want to send me to the stake, they are going to have to do better than tired old tales of sixth fingers and devil’s teats.”
Wiltshire regarded his daughter closely. “You are not concerned, Anne?”
The queen turned her eyes skywards and sighed deeply. “Of course I am concerned, but I cannot let those people see that! If they want me gone then they had best be prepared for a fight, because the king and I journey soon to Calais and I fully intend to return with the next Tudor king in my womb. And then we shall see what my enemies say.”
Wiltshire looked slightly mollified but Rochford did not. In fact, his usual devil-may-care insouciance was wholly absent and had been replaced by a countenance of complete seriousness. “I hope that you do, Anne,” he said. “Actually, I pray that you do because our whole future may depend on it. The fact that you could not get the Garter for me speaks volumes about our reduced power and now there is an even worse development.”
Rochford let his words hang in the air for a moment while the whole group stared at him in anticipation. Finally, Anne could stand the suspense no longer. “Spit it out, George,” she ordered.
Lord Rochford turned his dark eyes upon his sister and delivered the blow calmly. “Cromwell is back.”
Bridget did not see any sign of Cromwell or Will at court immediately. They seemed to be keeping a low profile, that is, until she received a message from Will, via one of the queen’s porters, to meet him in the chapel after sunset. It was not difficult to slip away, with the queen being preoccupied with her little daughter and one of her favourite tasks associated with her welfare—ordering the princess’s clothes. Only the best for her Elizabeth was good enough. The queen was so absorbed in gloves, mantles, and dresses that Bridget was able to leave almost without being noticed.
She hurried from the queen’s rooms to the chapel and crept inside. The place was empty and in semi-darkness, the only light provided by the candles that burned at the altar. Bridget sat down, breathed in the still, scented air, and then nearly jumped out of her skin. Will had entered on silent feet and was now sitting behind her.
“You scared me!” Bridget exclaimed.
Will shushed her by placing his hand over her mouth. “I am sorry I scared you,” he said, “but we must be quiet. We cannot afford to attract attention. I arranged this meeting, not for us, but for another reason, one of great importance. My master wishes to speak with you.”
“Will, what do you . . .” Bridget started to say, but Will had already slipped away and been replaced by his master. Bridget turned and found herself face to face with Thomas Cromwell. His visage was half in shadow, which meant she could not read whatever expression resided there.
He began cordially enough. “Mistress Manning, it is a pleasure to see you again. I am sorry for the subterfuge that Will was forced to employ to obtain your attendance here, but I needed to speak with you on a matter of some sensitivity, and I knew that the prospect of seeing Will would be too great an inducement for you to resist.”
Bridget did not reply and a brief pause ensued. She strongly suspected what, or rather who, this meeting was about, and she was therefore determined to say as little as possible. Cromwell merely looked at her, and she thought she heard him chuckle under his breath.
“You are loyal to Her Majesty, are you not?” Cromwell said. “Your dedication, even after so short a time, has been noted, and I must tell you that dedication is a quality I greatly admire. In fact, there is not nearly enough of it to be found in this world; betrayal is so often the way of things. But, as admirable as your dedication to the queen is, you owe your primary loyalty to the king, as do we all. As the queen herself does. That is why I do not want you to think that you may be betraying your mistress by answering my questions. The truth can only assist her and indeed the king. The truth can hold no fears for anyone. It sets us free, does it not?”
Bridget could feel her throat closing up and she swallowed against the sensation. With all the conviction she could muster, she said in an even tone, “I am aware of my loyalties to the king and queen, sir. I would never betray them. Ask your questions.”
Cromwell leant towards her, a hint of his spicy scent invading Bridget’s senses. “Is it true that you were present when the queen miscarried back in January?” he began.
“Yes, it is.”
“Did you see the babe?”
Bridget hesitated fractionally. “I did, sir. The child was born and then the midwife quickly took it away to show the doctors.”
“Did it seem normal to your eyes?”
“Yes, sir. Very small but quite normal.”
“It was not malformed?”
“No, sir.” Bridget did not add that she had only very briefly glimpsed the child.
Cromwell fell silent and seemed to be considering her answers. Then he fired questions at her like an archer shooting a volley of arrows. “Would you say that the queen is a devout woman?”
“Yes, sir, very much so. Her Majesty often reads the Bible and spends much time at her devotions.”
“You have never seen her use anything unusual, irreligious perhaps, such as a waxen image?”
“No, sir!”
“She has never tried to cast a spell or concocted a potion to ensure she has a son?”
“No, sir!”
“Does she ever have her horoscope cast?”
“No, sir!”
“Does she kiss her brother?”
“Yes, sir—” Bridget stopped, clamping her mouth closed so quickly that she bit her tongue. She glanced pleadingly at Will, who stood in darkness against a side wall, as if seeking his assistance. He did not look at her. A cold breeze blew through the chapel and one of the candles flickered briefly and went out.
“Thank you, Mistress Manning, for your time and your honesty. I appreciate it greatly. I require nothing more from you, at least for now.” Cromwell smiled genially as he got to his feet.
Before he could make for the door, Bridget tried vainly to correct her mistake. “Mr Secretary, why did you ask about Her Majesty’s brother? I did not mean to say—”
“You did not mean to say what?” Cromwell demanded, his whole demeanour altered in an instant. The genial smile disappeared and was replaced by a hard stare that caused Bridget’s palms to dampen with sweat.
“I . . . I did not mean to say anything awry about Lord Rochford. Yes, he is close to Her Majesty, but it is quite common for brothers and sisters to be close, I believe. Having said that, he has always behaved decorously with the queen . . .”
Cromwell held up his hand to halt Bridget’s words. “Yes, Lord Ro
chford is the epitome of decorum I am sure. Do not fear, Mistress Manning, you have said nothing wrong. I am perfectly content with your answers, as you yourself should be. Will!” he called to his servant. “Let us leave.”
Will looked up and finally met Bridget’s eyes. An expression of regret and deep sadness flitted across his face until he drew himself up, plastered on a boyish grin, and bowed to Bridget in farewell. He then followed his master out the door.
Bridget took in several gulps of air and buried her head in her hands. What did the question about the queen’s brother mean? Of course Anne had kissed him; they were like two sides of the same coin, and the whole court knew that. At times, Bridget had thought that they were very familiar with one another, but having grown up without a brother, she had no real idea of how brothers and sisters should behave with one another. Certainly she had seen nothing untoward between them.
Then an image came galloping into her mind, of Lord Rochford pressed up against a chamber wall with Mark Smeaton kneeling before him. Jane Rochford had shown her that sight, just as Jane Rochford had told her of the rumours that the queen took other men to her bed, that she so dominated and controlled her brother that he had neglected his wife as a result. She had effectively accused Anne of ruining her marriage. If she had been prepared to say these things to Bridget, what might she have said to others? What might she have said to Thomas Cromwell?