Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (11 page)

              The abbess eventually muttered in something like agreement, but her eyes refused to meet Bridget’s. She was about to launch into another argument until Tilly appeared in the archway. She looked worried, after all the food would be getting cold by now, but even so Bridget could tell that the maid was in two minds whether to interrupt their conversation or not.

Bridget called out to her
. “Do not fret, Tilly. We will be along soon.” The appearance of the maid shifted the abbess’s mood and some of her truculence diminished. She picked up her basket of herbs and disconsolately hung it over the crook of her elbow.

“I know I should not have written to Aske
,” she quietly admitted, “and I know I should not have kept the letters. It was foolish of me. But I admired him, Bridget, I admired all of them. They showed a kind of bravery that always eluded me. I wanted to support them at least in words, as deeds were forbidden to me. They had courage, real courage, and I do not think I showed that when the abbey was suppressed. I just let those men come in and destroy us, destroy our home. I have always reproached myself for that; so has Sister Margaret. Oh, not verbally, but I see it in her eyes sometimes. I suppose I saw the rebellion as my last chance at redemption, in this world at least.”

              Bridget put her arm around her. “I understand,” she soothed, “but you are wrong. You are a tremendously brave woman, and you
did
try to save Rivers. You wrote to the queen, you went to court to plead our cause, you did everything you could. Were you supposed to lie down in front of the carts? Ultimately, the king and Cromwell had their way. I will not have you think of yourself as a coward. And just remember: there are other ways to show courage than by taking a path of opposition to the king. That, I promise, is a path that leads to only one destination.” The abbess bobbed her head and met Bridget’s eyes. . At last, Bridget saw a measure of understanding dawn there and relief surged through her. They linked arms and walked into the house.

              “Oh, I nearly forgot,” the abbess said, as they approached the dining hall. “You found the letters which must mean you also found the . . . banner. It was Sister Margaret’s; she made it as her own form of rebellion. What did you do with it?” The abbess’s voice was low, but her tone was sharp, and Bridget could clearly discern that the banner was important. In some ways, it posed more of a danger than the letters, as it so unambiguously portrayed the loyalties of the maker, whereas a letter was always open to interpretation. Bridget had not taken the risk of burning it, lest some small remnants of it had remained in the ashes and been found by an enquiring servant. She had decided instead to cut it up into the tiniest pieces possible and then had waited for nightfall. Once it was fully dark, she had gone down to the jetty and flung the remnants of the banner out upon the river. She had watched as the tide had taken them and floated them safely away.

              But she did not tell the abbess that; especially now that she knew that Sister Margaret had a direct role in all this. She had suffered the most from the loss of the abbey and her act of defiance was the most easily understandable one to Bridget, even more so than the abbess’s. She would not want her to know that the banner was gone - it was unnecessary and would hurt her. So instead she said, “Oh, the banner . . . well, I did not like to burn such an object, so I have put it away very secretly, where it may be discovered by no one. Perhaps one day it may be . . . acceptable to look at it again.” The abbess smiled and seemed content with the answer. With a lighter tread, she entered the dining hall and sat down to eat her, by now cold, meal. Bridget, however, could not. Her mouth was full of the taste of deception, and she found she could not stomach a single bite.

Chapter Eight

              The pleasant weeks of August and September slipped away, and Joanna’s health went from strength to strength. The trio of de Brett women, plus Sister Margaret, spent much time in the gardens, enjoying one another’s company, as well as the fading summer. Bridget had received a couple of missives from her husband, written in his curiously impersonal style, enquiring in the main after his niece’s well-being, as well as keeping her informed of the latest news from court.

              She knew then that the queen had taken to her chamber at Hampton Court, heralding that the potentially long time of waiting had begun. Joanna’s affliction could not have been better timed, as it had saved Bridget from having to dance attendance on Her Majesty and even perhaps of having to accompany her into confinement, although the latter scenario was very unlikely. No doubt the women who had been chosen to do so fancied themselves as very privileged; they could well be witnesses to the birth of the future king. Unless anything went wrong, of course, and then the wrath of the present king would be brought down upon their heads. Bridget did not envy them; they were welcome to such a dubious privilege. She would not have traded places with any of them for a treasure chest full of gold.

              In fact, she was so content with life at Thorns that she hardly thought of returning to court at all. Until the day that Sir Richard’s third letter arrived. It began thus: “Wife, now that Joanna is well again and there is no more danger of plague in London, it is time for you to re-join me . . .” Bridget sighed as she read it. The days of her contentment had come to an end.

              She informed the abbess, Joanna and Sister Margaret of her summons and received a mixed reaction. Joanna was excited, as this time she would be accompanying Bridget to court. The abbess was morose, as she would miss Bridget’s presence, and Sister Margaret was against her going at all. She disapproved of the court entirely. “A nest of vipers,” she muttered. “That is all the court is. Why would anyone want to waste their time there?”

Bridget
tried to raise her spirits. “Sister, you are right. The court is a terrible place, but that needn’t worry you, for you have the better of me. You and the abbess are due to go to Lincolnshire soon, and you both love it there, away from the odours and disease of London. Nothing but fresh air and wide-open sky. Just like being back at Rivers.” The abbess concurred, grudgingly, but Sister Margaret was not so easily distracted. She showed not an ounce of enthusiasm at the prospect.

              Bridget felt sympathy for her, but there was nothing she could do. She had her orders and she must obey them. The next week therefore was one of furious preparation that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and soon she and Joanna were ready to set out on the road to Hampton Court. The whole household gathered in the courtyard, early in the morning, to see them off. The abbess cried, warned each of them to “be careful” and kissed them both on the cheek. Tilly sobbed energetically, and Sister Margaret hovered in the background, clad in her full habit, like a storm cloud ready to break. Bridget waved her goodbye as the horses took off in a choking cloud of dust. She received no acknowledgment in return.

              They made their way slowly through the press of the lively city, the narrow streets teeming with people going about their daily business, calling out their wares, pushing barrows full of fish, fruit or fowl and exhorting passers-by to part with their coin. On one street corner, a man entertained bystanders with the antics of a dancing monkey; on another, a woman displayed a collection of songbirds in cages, assuring the crowd that their songs were just as good as “the Lord’s angels.” When challenged to put her assertion to the test, instead of singing obligingly on cue, the birds did nothing but screech and squawk as if being strangled, and in response, one man in the crowd laughed and shouted out, “As good as the Lord’s angels is it? They sound more like my cat when she has caught her tail in the door!”

              Bridget and Joanna smiled at the commotion as they went by. Soon the traffic in the roadway became so thick that the cart could not continue. There were forced to halt.

“Look!” Joanna said. “That woman over there is reading palms!”

Bridget turned and saw a woman
dressed incongruously in a heavy winter cloak. She was standing a little way back from the roadside, surrounded by a group of chattering women. She accepted a handful of coins from one, then held her palm upwards, inspecting it closely, as though it held all the secrets of the ancients. The palm reader would whisper whatever it was she saw there, and the woman who had had her palm read would then hurry away, either smiling or frowning, and be replaced by another.

“Remember when some of the sisters would allow that gypsy to come and tell their fortunes at the abbey?” Joanna continued. “They would smuggle her in on a winter’s night, so the abbess never found out, and that is what she would do—read their palms. I always wanted to try it. Oh, please, Bridget, don’t look like that, it will be fun! I survived the Sweat; don’t I deserve to have a little fun?”

Before Bridget could protest, Joanna was out of the stationary cart and striding across the road. Suppressing a sigh of frustration, Bridget had no choice but to follow her. By the time she made her way across the street, the gypsy already had Joanna’s coins in her pocket and her palm held upwards.

“Ah!” she murmured
. “This is the hand of a romantic! The line that represents your heart is very strong. I see a handsome husband waiting for you, a man with green eyes. He is a very protective man, an honourable man, and he will take care of you. You will have children by him. Now then, your life line . . .” the woman’s eyes strayed a little, and Bridget saw her bite her lip. “That is strong also. I see happiness in store for you, my dear. Great happiness.” Joanna beamed and gazed at her own palm in wonderment.

The gypsy nodded her head in satisfaction and then fixed her gaze on Bridget. “And you, my lady?” she asked. “Would you like your fortune read? I already sense that a great future awaits you, and if you would only cross my palm with silver, I shall tell you of it.”

Bridget demurred but Joanna, for once, would not entertain her protests. She paid the woman
from her own purse and grabbed Bridget’s hand, turning it over so that her palm faced the sky.

“You are
entirely too serious, Bridget,” Joanna exclaimed. “Remember that you are not even twenty years of age! Do something amusing for a change. Even if,” she dropped her voice so the gypsy would not hear, “it is a load of old rubbish.”

Despite her efforts, there was nothing wrong with the gypsy’s hearing, and she perfectly made out Joanna’s words. Her face flushed a little and she frowned. As though she wanted to prove something, she took Bridget’s palm firmly in both her hands and fixed it with a fierce glare. Her grip tightened and tightened, and Bridget began to feel a hot pain shooting through the ends of her fingers. She tried to pull away, but the woman held on even tighter. She continued to stare, as if she had fallen under some enchantment. Finally, she looked up and let Bridget’s hand drop away. Her sallow face had gone a strange, ashen colour, and she huddled into her cloak as though a sharp chill had assailed her.

“Well
?” Bridget asked, her curiosity overcoming her natural scepticism. “What did you see?”

“Blood,” the gypsy answered simply. “I saw blood.” Now it was Bridget’s turn to feel a chill. “You have a line of fate on your palm, a physical feature which most people do not possess. It means that destiny has marked you out, has set you on a journey. You have already completed some of that journey when you served the last queen. That is when blood stained you for the first time. It is still, I am sorry to say, going to play a large role in your future.

“
My dear, your beauty is your curse, for it attracts great men to you. There are many who are drawn to it, some for good and some who seek only to use you for their own ends. But, as beauty is your burden, your innate goodness and strength are your blessings, and they will show you the right road to take, if only you will listen when they speak. You
must
listen. God bless you, Bridget Manning; I wish you well.

“
Oh, and there is one more thing—beware of the brewer’s son. He is a man of many parts, some good, some bad, most of them secret, even unto himself. He will try to entwine his path with yours, for you have beguiled him. Even against your own inclination you have done this. You must resist him. His path in life is already set. Yours is yet fluid. Do not do anything to jeopardise that.”

The gypsy patted her hand and spun away. Bridget stood there, unable to move, feeling thoroughly stunned. “Oh, do not listen to her,” a chastened Joanna said. “She’s just a gypsy; they enjoy scaring people. Line of fate indeed! Beware of the brewer’s son! What nonsense. Probably all a part of her act. Come on, Cooper is signalling to us. He has managed to clear the way. We had best get moving.”

“Yes
, you are quite right, we must get moving, as we have tarried too long,” Bridget agreed tonelessly, and she allowed herself to be led, like a new-born foal, back to the cart. They clambered onto their seats, and Cooper whipped the horses forward.