by V. E. Lynne
“His Majesty’s leg has never fully healed from that accident. The physicians do their best with it—they bind the wound up, and that works for a while. But it always bursts open again,” Will explained. “And this time has been particularly bad. He has been in such distress that he weeps from the pain, it is so intense. The extent of his ailment, and the seemingly incurable nature of it, has caused some to . . . consider their options.”
Bridget was perplexed. “Options? If the king were to . . .” she mouthed the word “die,” which safer than uttering it aloud, “then Prince Edward would be king.”
“Yes and he is a baby. An infant on the throne,” Will said, “would mean, of necessity, that the country would have to be run by others, by a regency council, headed most probably by Lord Hertford, as the king’s senior uncle. What would that state of affairs mean for the kingdom? Would it mean yet more alteration in religion? Such a scenario is fraught with danger, and some would seek to avoid it by placing an adult ruler, in the form of the Lady Mary, on the throne. She is of full age and, depending on your point of view, of the right religious persuasion. These are the tides of peril that currently swirl about the king, and this is the reason I personally fear no repercussions from what has occurred today. His Majesty knows that I, and my men, are fighting on the right side—his side—and that of his son.”
Despite his brave words, his hands shook as he shrugged on his jacket, and Bridget had to complete the task for him. Their fingers entwined and the air between them stilled. “Bridget, why have you done this? I am grateful you helped me, I acknowledge now that I required it, but you did not have to be the one to do it. One of my men would have hauled me away, eventually. You should have just left me, removed yourself from the situation. You are after all, a married woman.” He grimaced. “For my sake, you have placed yourself in a potentially compromising position and I must ask myself why, especially in light of the fact that I have not treated you very . . . courteously since your return.”
Bridget smiled wryly and considered her response. “It is true, your behaviour to me lately has been that of a spoiled child who needs a good whipping.” Will laughed ruefully. “But that does not mean that I would fail to come to your aid when you need it. When I saw that you were being attacked by those men, when I saw you fall . . .” her voice wavered, “I did not hesitate to go to you, regardless of the rights and wrongs of it all, regardless of my ‘position’. I couldn’t just leave you. I couldn’t just turn away. I had to make sure that you were all right. That you were safe.”
“Did you not think of your husband? Did you not think about that ring on your finger? Because I did, I do. I think about it all the time. It gnaws away at the back of my mind and will give me no rest. I think about the fact that you are lost to me, that you bear another man’s name and share another man’s bed. And it is my fault that it is so, I admit it. It is all my fault. Every day I reproach myself for the way I acted toward you at Greenwich after you had just witnessed, participated really, in the queen’s execution. I should have realised that you were in shock, that it was the worst possible time to ask you to make any kind of decision. I should have just taken you in my arms and let you cry on my shoulder. But no, I pushed you, and then my vanity got in the way and I made a mess of things. And, because of that, I lost you.”
“Will,” Bridget reached out and touched his cheek, “do not speak so. What happened was not entirely your fault and nor was it as simple, or as clear-cut, as you seem to remember. Yes it’s true, I was in shock, but things had happened so fast between us anyway that it was bound to go awry. And then there was your loyalty to Thomas Cromwell—” Bridget cut short her words at the sound of footsteps approaching down the corridor. The two of them moved apart, thus creating enough of a chaste distance when the door opened a moment later. Joanna entered whom, in the uproar and confusion, Bridget had entirely forgotten that she had sent on an errand to locate Lord Cromwell. She saw, to her chagrin that she had not failed in her assignment.
Bridget’s discomfort at the arrival of the master secretary was as nothing however compared to the expression of horror that quickly emblazoned itself on Will’s countenance.
“My lady, I have fetched Lord Cromwell, as you asked,” Joanna announced, rather unnecessarily.
Bridget did not immediately answer, leaving Cromwell himself to fill the void. “Yes, Mistress, I am sure Lady de Brett can see that I have been fetched. I am not invisible, after all, although she rather looks as though she wishes she were at this moment.” He took in the sight of Will and Bridget, noting the rumpled clothes and flushed faces, and his eyes narrowed into tiny slivers of ebony light.
Will was the first to recover himself. “My lord, as we feared, the tension at court has come to a head. There was trouble with Sir Gavin Carew’s men, they caused the death of a yeoman and beat a serjeant at arms. I and others were forced to step in and stop them before they did any further damage. Lady de Brett came upon the scene and she has kindly rendered me some assistance with the injuries I sustained.”
Cromwell’s black gaze raked him from head to foot. “Injuries, Will? You seem to be in one piece to me.”
“His ribs, sir, they are hurt, possibly broken,” Bridget interposed. “I have done what I could for him, but he most likely needs the care of a doctor. He was fortunate, all in all, to emerge relatively unscathed, considering the violence of the situation.”
“Yes, yes, you are correct, my lady. He is most fortunate. The court is spiralling out of control and steps must be taken to restore the proper balance,” Cromwell muttered, mostly to himself, “and they will be taken. Meanwhile, I am happy to report that the guard is back in full command and the ringleaders have been rounded up. Acts of violence committed within the verge are treated with the utmost gravity. The king’s security has been threatened and he will have something to say about it.” He fixed Will with a hard look. “But for the time being, I thank you, Lady de Brett, for rushing to Master Redcliff’s relief and for ministering to his wounds, such as they are. I will see to it personally that his ribs are closely monitored from now on.”
He jerked his head toward the archway and then shepherded Will through it, his hand firmly placed on the back of the young man’s neck. The door crashed shut behind them, and Bridget and Joanna both exhaled deeply and sank into chairs.
“My God, Bridget, I have never been so fearful of anyone in my life as when I had to approach Lord Cromwell and tell him what was afoot. His expression . . . it turned, well, murderous. I almost fled, but I thought that Will may be in real peril, and you along with him, and Lord Cromwell would be the only man, under those circumstances, capable of saving you both. Did I make the right decision in bringing him here? I know you told me to, but I thought you were going to faint when you saw him looming up behind me.”
Bridget patted her hand in reassurance. “Do not fret, you did the right thing, and as you say, you were only doing as I bid you to. Lord Cromwell says that the guard is back in command and now all we can do is wait and see what the outcome of this incident will be. What will the king do? A man has been killed; blood has been spilled in the confines of his palace. A very harsh reckoning must be in store for someone. I just hope that Will is not that someone.”
As events turned out, there was no reckoning, at least not immediately. There was, in fact, a concerted effort to hush things up: the blood was cleaned away, the victims were speedily buried and, for the perpetrators, life continued on. It was a strange reaction to a strange event but perhaps the king, and Cromwell, thought it best to maintain the normal veneer of the court, at least for the present, because they had another, much more serious situation to grapple with. The declining state of the king’s health.
His leg grew worse and worse. It pained him constantly, and the doctors could offer no solution. The abscess that had caused him so many complications had closed over, and as a consequence the king’s body had filled up with evil humours that had no means of escape. It was said t
hat his blood had become so infected that he had gone black in the face and could barely open his mouth wide enough to breathe. The confident expectation of all was that he would die.
Accordingly, the palace seethed with rumour and speculation. There was even a whisper, a very strong one, that His Majesty had in fact already died and the death was being covered up until the Lady Mary could be transported to court, under cover of darkness, to ascend the throne. The tale proved to be false, but for a couple of hours, the Seymours and their adherents scrambled to protect the inheritance of their heir, the seven-month-old Prince Edward, while the men of the White Rose kept close to each other and waited for their long anticipated moment.
Sir Richard was almost constantly in or about the king’s rooms, along with Will, and when they emerged from the inner sanctum their expressions were always grave. The doctors talked, hovered, paced up and down and shook their heads together in resignation. Bridget and Joanna were standing in the Watching Chamber, waiting for any news or to catch a glimpse of Sir Richard, when a group of physicians came out and walked past them, their voices low and melancholy.
“It is quite hopeless I am afraid,” one doctor whispered to another. “His Majesty’s leg is poisoning his whole body. The infection spreads further and further every day, and no remedy we attempt seems to make any difference. All that the ones we have tried do is to make the king to scream with agony. I fear, unless the Lord heeds our prayers, that we will soon have a babe-in-arms as our king.”
Bridget and Joanna glanced at each other as the knot of sorrowing doctors passed them. The prospect of the king dying, with only an infant or a single woman to succeed him, was a sobering one. The accession of Prince Edward, as Will had said, would mean in practice the accession of another Edward—his uncle Seymour. What would that mean for the country? Lord Hertford was a reformer, not a traditionalist in his beliefs as the king was. Would that mean the eradication of every vestige of the old ways in England, not just the monasteries and nunneries, but every tenet of the faith? Further change away from Catholicism would invite a response from the conservatives, many of whom represented the remains of the Plantagenet dynasty, the White Rose faction, who had a better claim to the throne than any Tudor. Bridget thought back to the discussion at Austin Friars about the Exeters, the Lady Mary and Cardinal Pole. Marrying Pole to Mary would combine the forces of religious conservatism and dynastic right, and once that happened, it would be hard to see any other outcome than civil war. England had already been through a civil war in the not-so-distant past, a war which had been brought to a bloody end on Bosworth Field by the present king’s father. A return to it was a terrible fate to imagine.
Bridget was contemplating all these things when her husband came out into the chamber, walking just behind the Marquess of Exeter and Sir Edward Neville. Those two gentlemen were quite animated and seemed keen to engage Sir Richard in their conversation. He, however, was the picture of reluctance, probably because the same thoughts were revolving in his mind as in Bridget’s, but at the same time, he had to hedge his bets. These men were higher in rank and may soon occupy positions of influence. He therefore nodded meekly along with them without opening his mouth.
The marquess, who was a cordial man, saw Bridget standing there and acknowledged her presence. “Your husband comes, my lady,” he indicated over his shoulder. “He has been doing stalwart service these last few hours in the king’s sick room, but there is no way but one with His Majesty. Is that not right, Neville?”
“Oh, yes,” Sir Edward agreed with his usual breezy incautiousness. “God is readying himself to take the king to his bosom, and we shall all be ruled by my lord Hertford in the name of his bawling nephew. I am afraid we shall have to make ourselves as ridiculous at the court of the Seymours as we have been forced to do at the court of the Tudors.”
“But what of my lord of Exeter’s kinsman, Cardinal Pole? I am sure I remember you saying that he would come home, marry the Lady Mary and thereby secure the succession from the clutches of knaves and heretics.”
Bridget regarded her husband’s outburst with open astonishment, and even Sir Edward Neville seemed blindsided by such a bold statement. It did not take him long to recover his equilibrium, though, and he confirmed Sir Richard’s words with a firm nod of his head.
“I would not like to speak too loudly, or too far, of the cardinal’s intentions, but ’tis true that such a union would solve most of the problems that so bedevil the kingdom. The Church’s lands and position would be restored to it, and the monks and nuns could go about their proper business again instead of shamefully begging in the streets, as many have been reduced to do. And, as for those knaves, as you so rightly call them, who run the court and consider themselves so high and mighty . . . well, they would receive their just desserts.” He rubbed his hands together. “I can assure you of that. God almighty, when I think of what a fool I have made myself amongst them! What idiocy I have been constrained to participate in just to pass the time and to keep my place. I long for the hour when I can get my own back, especially on that shearman’s son—”
At last, the marquess intervened and quietened his companion. “Yes, we all hope to live to see a better world,” he remarked diplomatically, “but Prince Edward is the heir and the cardinal is a prince of the church and therefore cannot marry anyone, let alone the Lady Mary. Sir Richard,” he glanced at him, “I would counsel you not to pay too much attention to what Neville says. He has been abused and demeaned by the rogues and base-born scoundrels who surround the king too many times, as we all have, and it has caused a certain . . . resentment to fester in him and in us. ’Tis only natural that we should look forward to the day we may give them all a buffet, but we ought to,” he looked at Neville “choose our words very carefully. And our deeds.”
With that, he put his arm around Sir Edward and hustled him out of the chamber.
“My lord,” Bridget said sharply, “what made you say such a thing to Sir Edward? Everything that he has just uttered has been either treason, plain and simple, or perilously close to it. Why would you seek to place yourself, not to mention him, in such danger?”
“Wife, do you not recall our dinner at Austin Friars with Lord Cromwell? Do you not recall what he said about the scions of the White Rose, Exeter and Pole?” Bridget confirmed that she did. “Well, something happened after that discussion, once we were back at court. He asked me to find out more of their views which has proved an easy task. I have known them for some time, meaning they are prepared to speak fairly unguardedly to me, though it must be said that Sir Edward is prepared to tell anyone who will listen his true thoughts. For a nobleman, he is a born fool.”
Bridget was silent for a moment as she allowed her husband’s words to sink in. When she did speak, it was with a contemptuousness that Sir Richard shrank from. “I knew that you were frightened by the discussion at Austin Friars, but I did not imagine that would cause you to become one of Cromwell’s informers, another strand in his web of intrigue. You do realise that you may be helping him to place those two men upon a scaffold and do not,” she held up her hand to ward off Sir Richard’s objection, “trick yourself into believing that it is not Cromwell’s ultimate objective. Let me give you an absolute assurance that it is.”
Bridget’s words hit home, and the flames of red hot guilt, flooded Sir Richard’s weathered features. But the stain of his embarrassment soon faded when Thomas Cromwell himself walked into the chamber. They exchanged a smile, and Sir Richard made to walk across to his new patron. As he did so, he dropped his voice and hissed to Bridget, “I realise it well, wife. And do you know my response? Better them than me, my dear. Better them than me.”
Chapter Twelve
Against all the odds, to the delight of some and the chagrin of others, the king rallied. He fought his way back from the valley of the shadow of death and was up and about again by the end of May 1538, his troublesome leg much improved and hardly causing him any discomfort at all.
It was from that point that the presents started. Bridget and Joanna had returned to Thorns during the time of the king’s illness on the orders of Sir Richard. “If the worst does occur, if His Majesty does not survive, then I do not know what may happen after that. The likeliest scenario is that Lord Hertford will take over as regent, but equally there could be a move to place the Lady Mary on the throne. Either way, I want my family well clear of the maelstrom. Go back to Thorns and I will write to you when all is settled.”
In truth, neither Bridget nor Joanna, minded going home. It was nice to be away from the oppressively uncertain atmosphere of the court and back with the abbess and Sister Margaret again. The abbess’s mood had undergone a welcome change; she had shaken off the pall of depression that had enveloped her earlier in the year and she now presided over the Manor of Thorns as if it was a miniature version of the abbey. The house was in its best state of repair for many years and the gardens, once so overgrown and neglected, now swept down to the Thames in a smooth sea of emerald green. Even the small orchard located at the side of the house looked as if it had been ruthlessly organised and whipped into the shape. All the trees sported new leaves and their branches hung heavy with ripening fruit.