by V. E. Lynne
After a few minutes, Bridget decided to break the silence. “I hear you have lately been in Cleves, sir. Tell me, were the tales of the duke’s sisters true? Did you find them to be as beautiful as all the ambassadors promise us they are?”
Holbein’s assistant tittered, and his master threw him a warning glance. The young man obediently covered his mouth and pretended that he had merely been clearing his throat. “Aye, madam, I did,” Holbein answered cautiously, “though they are extremely modest ladies and are kept closeted away from the eyes of men by their brother, Duke William. In fact, when I arrived I feared I would not be able to paint them at all, as nothing of their faces could be seen. They were veiled from head to toe. Fortunately, the diplomats were able to resolve the matter, though not without much grumbling on the part of the duke and his advisors. Still, I think I have managed to capture both sisters in a manner that will please His Majesty. The Lady Anne in particular.”
And do not forget about pleasing Cromwell, Bridget thought. Lord Cromwell’s desire for an alliance with Cleves was as great as ever and certainly would not have been lost on Hans Holbein who, after all, was a client of Cromwell’s. All portraits of royal personages were exercises in politics to some extent at the best of times, but this one would be especially so. Bridget looked forward to seeing it, far more so than she anticipated seeing Holbein’s efforts on her own behalf. She was never going to be queen; it sounded as if Anne of Cleves stood a very good chance of becoming so. She was interested to see what the lady looked like.
“Bridget!” Joanna burst into the room, her sudden entrance startling both painter and subject. “Bridget, you must come at once. I have been conversing with Will and he has told me the most grievous news. He says that Lord Crom— ” Her wild-eyed gaze strayed to the obviously listening Holbein, and she abruptly cut short her sentence. Taking a breath, she resumed at a slower pace, choosing her words more carefully. “Please, madam, it is imperative that we speak. In private. I apologise for interrupting Master Holbein when he is at his work, but it cannot be helped. This matter—it cannot wait.”
“Do not apologise, young mistress,” Holbein replied good naturedly. “Lady de Brett’s portrait is close to completion. It will not inconvenience me too much to finish it off elsewhere.” He bade his man to gather up the paints and brushes whilst he himself carefully covered up the precious canvas.
“Thank you, Master Holbein, for your time and I, too, beg forgiveness for this unexpected interruption. If you need me to sit for you again, I will be only too eager to oblige.” Holbein reassured her that it would not be necessary, and with a bow and a smile he left.
“What’s wrong? What has happened? Is it the abbess, is she ill?” Bridget demanded as soon as Holbein was gone. Joanna shook her head and put her finger to her lips. She tiptoed to the door, placed her ear against it and listened. Satisfied that Holbein and his assistant had fully retreated, she warily poked her head outside and nodded to an unseen person. In response, a hooded Will Redcliff slunk past her, like a thief fearing capture, and entered the chamber.
“Will? What is the meaning of this? You should not . . . nay, you cannot be here. You know that. What if the king found out? It would go ill for all of us. If you are involved in some scheme of Cromwell’s, I cannot believe you have been so stupid as to involve Joanna in it! Though you seem to spend rather a lot of time in her company these days—”
Will removed his hood, crossed the floor and clamped his hand over Bridget’s mouth. “Be quiet and listen to me. Yes, you are right, I should not be here. These are your private quarters, and His Majesty would flog me himself if he found me here not to mention what Lord Cromwell would do. Therefore, only the most serious of matters would compel me to come. I have taken a great risk approaching firstly Joanna and now you. I have done so because I would happily submit to a thousand floggings if it meant saving you. Saving either of you. I have it on good authority that members of your household at the Manor of Thorns are in great danger. The word is that one of them is to be arrested.”
“Arrested?” Bridget removed Will’s hand roughly from her mouth. A hundred thoughts collided in her brain at once, and she struggled to separate and make sense of them all. This could only mean one thing: Cromwell was moving against the abbess. But why? She thought she had reached an accommodation with him months ago. After all, had she not done everything he had wanted her to? Everything he had asked? She had surrendered herself to the king and made it known to him, at every possible opportunity she had, that she was in favour of all that Thomas Cromwell was, most especially the mooted Cleves marriage. It was only as recently as the previous evening that she had lauded Cromwell to the king as his “most faithful servant and the one man who has only your best interests at heart.”
Cromwell had told her that true safety for England lay in an alliance with the Duchy of Cleves. Marriage with one of the Duke’s sisters was the only way of completely securing the realm for Prince Edward and of providing new heirs. It was a pressing concern, especially since the so called treachery of the Exeters and their accomplices had been exposed and punished. Protecting the prince’s inheritance must take precedence over all else.
“So, your master has taken the abbess and I am marooned out here in the countryside where I may do nothing to rescue her?” Bridget said. “She could already be on her way to Tyburn for all we know. Will, be honest with me. Do you think I have any time to stop this?”
He regarded her grimly and shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know if you have time to avoid the actual arrest,” he said, “but I would not be here if I thought there was no opportunity whatever to remedy matters. The abbess, if it is she, will be nowhere near Tyburn, at least not yet. There is time, but you must not waste a moment of it.” He walked to the door and checked the corridor. It was empty. He then flipped his hood up over his head and prepared to leave. “Go the king, Bridget. That is the only card you have to play. He cares for you; I know that for a fact. He may listen to your pleas. I cannot tell you if you have a week, an hour or a day to change his mind, but if I were you, I would not waste a single second. Go now, do not wait. And good luck. I truly mean that.”
Will smiled sadly in farewell, and Bridget could not help but notice that his smile, once reserved only for her, was now meant equally as much for Joanna’s sake. He looked at her differently now, as if they were brother and sister and nothing more. He had removed himself from her, and she did not blame him—she had wanted him to. There had been no other choice. But it did not stop the little ache of desolation that rose up in the pit of her stomach every time she saw or thought of him. He liked Joanna, and she him, that much was now painfully clear. She should let them be together; she should write to her husband and suggest the match. But no, not yet, she could not think of that now. Joanna, meanwhile, did have writing a letter in her mind. She had hastened over to Bridget’s desk where she had picked up a quill. “No, Joanna there is no time for that,” Bridget said to her harshly. She grabbed the pen and threw it away.
“Bridget, my uncle must be informed! He may be able to help us. And what of the abbess? We must send a message to Thorns. The arrest may not have happened yet—there may still be an opportunity for her to escape.”
“My husband will be able to do nothing, except to save his own skin, a talent he is already well versed in. As for the abbess, by the time a messenger reaches Thorns, if he is not intercepted by Cromwell’s men, it will be too late. If we were at Greenwich, I would hire a boat and go there myself, but we are too far away. No, Will is right. The only course open to me is to go to the king. He is out hawking at present, but he should return soon. I shall present myself in his chamber and fall at his feet in front of the whole court if need be. I shall ask pardon for the abbess; I shall try to obtain permission to leave court. While I am gone, you wait here and pack some things. If I succeed, I intend to be bound for London on the next tide.”
Bridget wasted no time in throwing off her gown and putting on the o
ne the king loved best, the cloth of silver that clung to her like a glove, and she decided to wear the “B” pendant with it for good measure, even though she could hardly face it today. But that did not matter; the king liked it. It was best to do what the king liked when going to plead for the life of a supposed “traitor.” Suitably attired, she swiftly made her way to the king’s apartments, the guards standing aside to let her through as soon as she reached the set of great double doors.
She walked in to find the rooms close to deserted with only a handful of attendants loitering in the presence chamber. Henry must not be back yet. They gawped at her in unison as she passed them, headed for the privy chamber, her back straight and her chin held as high as she could manage. She should not be here, not like this. Normally, the king sent for her when he required her presence, and normally that was in his most private quarters, those kept entirely separate from the public ones. Alternatively, when they were at Greenwich, he summoned her to ‘Mireflore’. Either way she did not simply turn up of her own volition and wait for him to arrive. She was taking a risk, and the shocked expressions that surrounded her confirmed it. All except for one.
Thomas Culpeper leant against the privy chamber door, a model of carefully constructed nonchalance. He let out a long, low whistle as Bridget approached him. “Well, well, what an unexpected honour this is. Must be my lucky day, boys, for none other than the Viscountess de Brett has come amongst us! My lady,” he bowed sarcastically. “Is something amiss, madam? Have you lost your way? Usually I am called upon to escort you down some deserted corridor in the dead of night where the king can, now how can I phrase this politely, copulate with you in private. Are we to receive a public viewing today? I must say I hope so, because you do look an absolute vision in silver, like Diana, the goddess of the moon, made flesh. Oh, but what am I saying? Diana was a virgin goddess! That rather counts you out.”
Bridget, with difficulty, ignored him and went to open the door to the privy chamber herself, but Culpeper prevented her by placing himself in front of it. “Not so fast. If you are here for some bed sport with His Majesty, I am afraid to say you will have to wait. He has yet to return from hawking. I, however, am available if you are really too eager to delay. I think you would find me a more than adequate replacement.” He stepped closer to her. “You must have tired of opening your legs for that fat, old man by now. I’ve heard that he can barely do it most of the time. If you took me between those sweet thighs of yours, I promise you that I would be more than up to the task.”
He grinned at her, so utterly sure of himself, and for a moment the face of another swaggering young courtier, Sir Francis Weston, swum before her. She could see him now, as though it was he and not Culpeper standing there, his blue eyes staring out at her in fear. She staggered a little, and Culpeper’s smug smile dimmed. “My lady?” he grabbed her elbow, “are you quite well?”
She shrugged him off. “I am fine, sir,” she replied briskly. She turned to Culpeper. “You have always reminded me of someone and I just realised who. He was young and handsome like you. Full of himself, just as you are, though I must say he was possessed of considerably more charm and wit. But the most important similarity between you and him is that he did not know when to keep his mouth shut either. For that, he now rots headless in an unmarked grave at the Tower. Courtesy of that ‘fat, old man’ as you called him. His name was Sir Francis Weston. Something to think on, is it not, Master Culpeper? I would certainly do so, if I were you. Now, if you would be so good as to stand aside, I intend to wait for His Majesty’s return in his privy chamber. Unless you are absolutely determined to detain me with more of your foolish talk?”
Culpeper, his insouciance gone, mutely stepped aside and allowed Bridget through. She swept past him, her skirts trailing behind her like smoke, and entered the silent space. Now that she was here, in a suite of rooms that were usually closed to her, she had no idea of the best way to approach the king. She knew he was tiring of her; he did not spend nearly as much of his time with her as he once did. There had been no more presents and no more new gowns. He no longer asked her if she had bled that month. On the one hand, she rejoiced at the lessening of his interest, but on the other, it placed her in a much less powerful position at a time when she desperately needed to exert some.
The rustle of velvet and silk, followed by a chorus of “Your Majesty’s” alerted Bridget to the fact that Henry had come home. She wondered whether anyone would forewarn him of her presence in his chamber, but she could hear no indication of that, no frantic whisperings dropped in the royal ear. Instead, she barely had time to curtsey before the door was thrown open and he strode in.
“Majesty, I really think that the Lady Anne is to be preferred to the Lady Amelia,” Thomas Cromwell was saying. “Master Holbein has assured me that she is the greater beauty. You shall shortly see for yourself once the portrait is finished. It will be his finest work I believe.”
The sight of Bridget nearly prostrate on the floor stopped him in his tracks, as it did for all of the king’s companions. She did not need to look up at them to know this; she could feel the heat of the assembly’s gazes boring down onto the crown of her head, like the concentrated warmth of a hundred suns. Her mouth went dry and her skin prickled with sweat, but she did not say a word nor move a muscle. She stayed completely and utterly still, as if magically turned to stone, and waited.
And waited. Finally, just as her legs began to cramp, the king reacted to her presence. “Leave us,” he intoned in a voice that no one, not even Cromwell, would attempt to argue with. The attendants trooped out meekly, with nary an objection, and quietly closed the door behind them.
“Stand up,” the king ordered once they were gone, and Bridget gratefully obeyed. Once she was upright, the king folded his arms across his chest and looked at her. His face was a blank, something that caused Bridget’s stomach to turn a somersault. It was not when he was openly displaying anger that Henry Tudor was at his most frightening—it was when he was calm and in control, his features unreadable, that he was at his most dangerous. That was when he could summon the guard, have one of his courtiers taken away to the Tower and then sit down to enjoy a hearty meal, full of jokes and smiles, without a second thought.
Bridget dropped her gaze and assumed her most self-effacing mien; the king loved docility in a woman almost as much as he loved cravenness in a subject. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for my presumptuousness. I realise that to appear in your rooms without notice is a grave offence. I have behaved in a manner that is well above my lowly station, but I have only dared to do so because of a matter of the utmost importance. Sire, I most humbly beseech you to show mercy—”
“Oh Lord, you have not come to me about the wretched Lady Exeter again, have you? If you have, madam, I warn you that you have incurred my displeasure for naught!” he shouted. “I have shown nothing but mercy to that woman! Did not her husband and all their kin plot and scheme to dethrone me and disinherit my son? Did they not? Yes, that is precisely what they did. Were it not for the efforts of Lord Cromwell in discovering their treason it would be my head rotting on London Bridge right now and Cardinal Pole would be wearing my crown! Is this the woman you have come to my private rooms for, my lady, as if you were the queen, to plead mercy for?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Bridget croaked, unnerved by his anger. “My presence here has nothing to do with Lady Exeter, whom you have already extended great compassion towards. It is not for her sake but for the sake of my aunt, Mistress Joan De Brett that I have come hither. Information has been communicated to me, very disturbing information, that has caused me to fear for her safety. To be blunt, sire, I have heard that she is to be arrested. For what reason, I know not. What I do know is that she is a faithful subject unto Your Majesty and always has been. She would never involve herself in any enterprise that would threaten Your Majesty in any way. If I could be allowed leave from court in order to see her and discover the truth of all this, I am sure this matter c
ould be very easily resolved. To that end, sire, I ask—”
The king held up his hand for silence, and Bridget instantly complied. He strode across to the chamber door, wrenched it open, and beckoned outwards. The block-like figure of Thomas Cromwell soon filled the doorway, his arrival sucking the atmosphere out of the chamber and replacing it with his own, as was his habit. He nodded to Bridget and smiled, showing her two rows of even, white teeth.
“Lord Cromwell,” the king said, “you are the right man to ask about this matter. The Viscountess de Brett is here on serious business pertaining to her aunt, Mistress Joan. Are you familiar with that lady?” Cromwell confirmed that he was. “Good. It seems that Lady de Brett is under the impression that the said Mistress Joan is to be arrested. Do you know anything of this? Is it true?”
Cromwell’s eyes swivelled between the king and Bridget, and his mouth fell open in a perfect oval of surprise. “Arrest? Mistress Joan? Why no, sire, nothing could be further from the truth. I am a great admirer of that lady; she is a true and loyal subject who performs stalwart charity work for the poor and indigent of London. She is an exemplar of a Christian woman one might say but –“he paused. “It is this compassionate spirit of hers that has caused her to become the victim of the most odious of betrayals. I was going to bring this matter to your attention later today, Majesty, but it seems that Lady de Brett’s arrival here has pre-empted me. Her intelligence network must be superior to mine.”
He drew out a letter from an inside pocket of his gown and handed it across to the king. Henry scanned it quickly and, with his mouth formed into a hard line of anger, he passed it to Bridget. She had expected to be presented with the beautiful, fluent hand of the abbess and she steeled herself to show no reaction to it. But she was met with no such thing. Instead of the abbess’s hand, she was faced with the spidery scrawl of Sister Margaret, her writing grown so cramped and irregular with age that it was now rendered almost indecipherable. Almost, but not quite. The opening line of the missive was clearly, horribly legible: it read “My Lady Exeter” in sharp, bold script. The blood in Bridget’s head roared, and she fought to hold the page steady. She did not need to read any more. With those three, deceptively simple words she knew that Sister Margaret, and possibly the abbess as well, had lied to her. She knew that Sister Margaret in her desperation, her anger and her grief at the end of the only life she had ever known, the conventual life, had probably committed treason. And, for that she knew, above all, that Sister Margaret was a dead woman.