by V. E. Lynne
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.
“The 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 of 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.
“Harry,” for once his Christian name flowed from her without effort or self-consciousness, “I am sorry for speaking to you as . . . importunately as I did. Forgive me. It was thoughtless and foolish. I forgot myself. I forgot it is not my place to question you. You are the king and I am nothing.” She tentatively touched his arm. A long second elapsed before Henry accepted her gesture. He closed his fingers over hers, gently at first and then so hard that Bridget bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from gasping. But she did not pull her hand away. Not for a moment.
“You are correct, my lady, I am the king” he said, his face now turned fully toward hers, “and do you know how that came about? No? Well, let me tell you. My father won a battle. That is all. A single, solitary battle at a place called Bosworth Field. His forces defeated and slew the Plantagenet king, Richard, and my father took his crown. He picked it up from where it had fallen on the battlefield and placed it on his own head, thus crowning himself. But that was not the end of his war. It was only the beginning of it.”
The king let go of her hand, and Bridget cringed at the painful sensation of the blood running back into the ends of her fingers. Henry did not notice; he was too intent on the history lesson he was imparting.
“You see, the Yorkists, those loyal to the claims of the White Rose, would not so easily accept their defeat. They
put forward pretended heirs: Lambert Simnel, who is now my falconer, and that pitiful boy Perkin Warbeck. The Irish even anointed him as their king, thinking he was Richard of York, one of the lost princes! He was, of course, no more than a jumped-up Fleming, coached by liars and flatterers to cheat my father out of his hard-won rights. Well, he fought them all and he beat them all. He put a rope around Master Perkin’s neck, and then he took the head of the Earl of Warwick, yet another Plantagenet, who had connived with Warbeck in the Tower. And still, even after blood was spilt, it did not stop. Still, we were not safe.”
The king walked across the room, his footsteps heavy. He picked up the silver jewellery box and stared at the symbol of his dynasty, the red-and-white rose that adorned the lid. “You ask favour for the Marchioness of Exeter and her kin. They are my faithful subjects you said. Hear me well, madam—I am a Tudor. We do not have ‘faithful subjects.’ We preside over a court of traitors. We rule over men and women who would take our crown, either for themselves or on behalf of whichever of the sprigs of the White Rose that are closest to hand. My father knew that; I know it, too. That is why we have promoted the so-called ‘new men,’ men like Lord Cromwell, who owe their very existence to us. Men who do not dare to take a breath unless we allow them to do so. The Exeters and their brethren of the old nobility have no love for me, let alone loyalty—they rail against my rule in private, and long for the day their beloved Cardinal Pole will come and save them. Let him try. There is a spike waiting to receive his head on London Bridge, right next to the ones reserved for his accursed relatives. For my naïve, soft-hearted, little love . . . that is the only way to deal with traitors. My father taught me that, and it was a lesson I have learnt well. I shall teach my own son when he is old enough. It is the only way for our line to be secure; the only way for it to survive.”
“I understand, sire” Bridget concurred, her voice subdued. “Of course traitors must be dealt with severely, and I would never presume to tell you of how to proceed on such a serious matter. I am a mere woman after all.” The king nodded in prim agreement.
Bridget hesitantly continued. “The marchioness is not only a woman but a mother, and she feels a mother’s concern for her family, especially for her young son. She came to me, in all sincerity, and I felt it my duty, as a Christian, to speak to you and ask that perhaps some mercy could be extended unto her. I do believe her to be a good woman.”
The king put down the jewellery box and beckoned to Bridget. Heart thumping anew, she crossed to his side. When she got close enough, he pulled her roughly to him and kissed her hard.
“I have heard enough talk of Lady Exeter and her blasted family. You say it was your Christian duty to speak up for her and perhaps it was, though she would never do the same for you. That shows you have a good heart; you have put another’s well-being before your own. I cannot remember the last time anyone did that at my court. I appreciate it. Your words, and the kindness you have displayed, will be taken into consideration. But that is for the future. Now, madam,” he began to work away at the lacings of her gown, “I require another kind of display from you.”
Bridget knew she had reached the limit of the king’s patience. She could press no further, not if she wished to remain in his good graces. She had done for the marchioness what she could, and she hoped it had been enough, but now the time had come to help her own cause. With the horrid prospect that Henry had conjured up, the image of the cell called ‘Little Ease’ at the Tower, she aided the king in removing her remaining garments, and then let him guide her to the bed. She lay down obediently upon it and welcomed the carnal attentions of her sovereign like the good subject she was.
Chapter Twenty One
A thunderstorm had broken over London on the December day that the Marquess of Exeter, Sir Edward Neville and Lord Montague lost their heads. As a result, only the most hardened of spectators had been prepared to come out and watch the three noblemen, their boots squelching and slipping in the mud, make their way haltingly out of the precincts of the Tower and up the silent hill to the scaffold. There the headsman had most anxiously awaited their presence. He complained to the officials that he hated it when it rained on an execution day; it made the axe handle hard to grip.
“Despite the circumstances, which were very trying, they made a good end,” Cromwell had told the court over the Christmas celebrations at Greenwich. “All except for Sir Edward Neville, of course. He could not resist the temptation to proclaim his innocence. Fortunately, not many could hear him such was the incessant clamour of the rain. He tried, poor man, but eventually he had to lay his head down just as his fellow traitors had done. And then all was over.”
The king had at first been agog to hear every gory detail of the executions, though he had, as was his wont, made himself scarce from London on the day that they had been carried out. Henry Tudor was not a ruler who liked to see his own justice done. An increasingly long list of courtiers, churchmen, kinsmen and most famously of all, his second wife, had trodden the well-worn path to their deaths well out of the sight of their king. Out of his sight perhaps, but not out of his mind.
The latest rash of arrests and beheadings had caused not just the usual cold gusts of terror to blow through the court, but they had also, more unusually, triggered a discontented murmuring at the fate of the three men. Some grumbled quite openly that it was disgusting that noblemen of such impeccable and ancient lineage should be condemned to suffer traitor’s deaths based on nothing more than the ravings of Lord Montague and Cardinal Pole’s brother, Sir Geoffrey. Lord Cromwell, who had interrogated Pole, was forced to defend himself on the matter several times, even to the august likes of Imperial Ambassador Eustace Chapuys.
“You see, Eustace,” he had asserted, “I, too, grieve for the ruin of so great and glorious a family. It gave me no pleasure to witness it, I can promise you. But be that as it may, treason cannot be allowed to take root in this kingdom and make no mistake about it, those men were traitors. They planned to make Cardinal Pole king and marry him to the Lady Mary. Sir Geoffrey told us it all; we could hardly shut him up in the end. Now why would he lie, why would he condemn his own brother to the axe? No, I saw the truth of it in his eyes. Why, we even found a banner embroidered with pansies and marigolds in the home of the Pole matriarch, the Countess of Salisbury. Those flowers were meant to represent the union of her son Reginald and the Lady Mary. Nothing could be plainer.”
Chapuys and others had been unconvinced, but their opinions were of little importance. The king was the only man who counted and he was certain of their guilt, certain that they had formed a nest of vipers in his “court of traitors,” as he had once described it to Bridget. “The Holy Virgin be praised that the wretched marquess and his confederates have been justly dealt with,” he had proclaimed. “My son’s inheritance has been secured.”
It had not only been the luckless marquess and his kinsmen who had suffered though—the net had been spread far and wide and had enmeshed the aged Margaret Pole, she of the banner, as well as her young grandsons, Henry Pole and Edward Courtenay. And who had been the last to go, the last one who had been marched out the door by the halberdiers, protesting all the way? Gertrude Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter.
She had been imprisoned along with the rest of them. Imprisoned but not executed. That, at least, was some comfort to Bridget; perhaps her efforts on Lady Exeter’s behalf to the king had not been entirely in vain.
“Lady Exeter and her son still live,” Bridget had said to Joanna as Christmas had passed and the New Year of 1539 had come in. “I think the king and Cromwell will not avenge themselves further on that family now. They have the heads they desired.”
“Perhaps, but they are not completely satiated. Carew is next. That is what Will says,” Joanna had responded without thinking.
Bridget had been unsurprised by this piece of intelligence. She knew, from the king’s private rants, how much he had come to despise Sir Nicholas Carew. And once again Joanna was proved
right. As one of the prime movers in the downfall of Anne Boleyn, Bridget had shed no tears when Carew had been arrested and tried in February, for having supposedly conspired with Exeter to depose the king. He had gone to the block in March. Bridget had felt little, but that was understandable; she had not been his companion since childhood, she had not hunted with him, played endless games of cards and dice with him, shared jokes and ambitions and confidences with him. She had never been his friend. The king had, and while Carew’s death had left her personally cold, it had made her heart thump to observe how quickly and callously the king disposed of his friends. And all without a tear shed on his part either.
“Madam, Master Holbein is here,” Joanna announced. The court painter’s arrival brought Bridget’s attention firmly back into the present and out of the unhappy events of the recent past. She turned from the window that looked out across the beautifully manicured grounds of Hampton Court, at the knot garden, the lake and the fountain, and then she greeted the returning artist with a convivial smile. As ever, Hans Holbein was in a rush. He bustled in, laden down with brushes and paints, his young assistant trailing behind him, dutifully carrying the canvas that bore her image. The image that was still shrouded from all eyes and would remain so until it was, at last, unveiled to the king.
Holbein bid Bridget to sit and angle her face toward the light. “You know the routine by now, my lady,” he said playfully. She laughed and he set about his work without another word.