Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (14 page)

“Ah, here is my good friend, de Brett and his wife, the beauteous Bridget,” the king declared, his voice warmly welcoming. He was still clad in mourning black, but his face did not reflect the gravity of his attire. He beamed at their approach and beckoned them to come closer. Sir Richard presented His Majesty proudly with the clock, and his face fell when His Majesty paid it scant attention.

“Put it
over there, put it over there,” the king directed him dismissively, and Sir Richard, flustered by Henry’s reaction, plonked it down so hastily that one of the cheeses was knocked over. Bryan Tuke, the king’s secretary, looked on censoriously as Sir Richard hurriedly righted the cheese; he recorded the gift of the de Bretts’ clock on a long scroll with an indifferent flick of his quill.

The king had stationed himself by a window, flanked on either side by Thomas Cromwell and Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, his brother-in-law. A little to the left of them stood Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, and Bridget could not help but startle a fraction when she spied him. He also had the same reaction when he saw her and he glanced quickly away. He had been kind to Anne when she was his prisoner but still to Bridget he conjured up only thoughts of death; perhaps she did the same for him. The king naturally was oblivious to all except himself.

“Sir Richard, I was just telling my good lords here of my plans for a new residence. I have acquired some land in Surrey at a place called Cuddington, where there is a village and a church of no account. I shall clear them all away and build a new palace in their place that will astonish the world. I shall call it Nonsuch, to reflect the fact that such a palace has never existed in this country before. I am confident it will put anything that the King of France can boast of to shame. It shall become the pearl of my realm.”

The king strode across the chamber and picked up a sheaf of papers, which turned out to be the plans for the new royal abode. Henry passed them around, ticking off, one by one on his fingers, all the wonders that Nonsuch would boast: towers, statues, scenes from mythology, gilding everywhere the eye could roam and all of it set, like the finest of gemstones, in the middle of a two-thousand-acre park well stocked with deer.

Sir Richard declared his hearty approval of the king’s plans to which Lord Hertford added gravely, “The treasury will be under considerable pressure, my lord, with this new project.” His voice was flat, as if he never wanted to hear the word “Nonsuch” again.

Bridget commented lowly to Cromwell,
who had inched up next to her, “I wonder if there are enough religious houses left in existence for you to appropriate in order to pay for it all?”

Cromwell looked at her in surprise
, then burst out laughing. “My, you sound more and more like a cynical courtier! It has taken you long enough. As it happens, some of the material that will be used for Nonsuch is to be sourced from the old priory at Merton, which is the best possible use it could be put to. But you do have a point. The Treasury will be put under great strain by the king’s new project. However, he is the most magnificent monarch in Europe, and he must have palaces that reflect that. Also, building Nonsuch may prove helpful in attracting a bride. Women always like a new house to live in, do they not?”

Bridget smiled in spite of herself. “I would not know, my lord. I live in a very old one. You say that the king wishes to marry again. It has not been three months yet since the queen died.”

“That is true
, my lady, and do not be deceived, His Majesty remains broken by grief at Queen Jane’s passing.” At that inopportune moment, the chamber rang with the sound of the king’s hearty laughter. “But he knows the good of the country is at stake, and Prince Edward requires a brother. I do not anticipate that it will take long to find a suitable candidate. There are many eligible ladies vying for the honour already.”

A dubious honour, Bridget mused, as the king’s marital record was enough to fill any potential bride with dread. One wife driven away, another executed, and a third dead from childbirth. Would any woman, let alone a foreign princess, be willing to enter into the bonds of matrimony with Henry of England? The king had, of course, previously married two of his own subjects, so perhaps he would not take a wife from abroad at all but choose one again from closer to home. Bridget touched the wedding ring on her finger and sighed in relief at its presence.

“My lady, I would like you and your husband to come and dine with me at Austin Friars next week,” Cromwell said. “I keep a good table, the best in London, aside from His Majesty. You must surely have heard talk of it?”

Before Brid
get could provide an answer, the king motioned her across to him. “I require your presence, madam. My Lord Cromwell is as ever monopolising you. He is not that interesting a conversationalist, I can promise you that! Never has a man talked so much. Come, come!” he signalled impatiently, and Bridget left Cromwell’s side and joined him. “Let me show you my plans for the gardens at Nonsuch.” He pointed toward a very detailed design for a knot garden. “Here shall be the flowerbeds, and along here the paths, and heraldic beasts, in every corner, shall watch over it all! It will outshine anything King Francis has to offer at Chambord. What do you think? Do these drawings please you, my lady?”

The king raised her hand and allowed his lips to graze her skin. Bridget had to stop herself recoiling from his touch. She glanced at her husband, but he had assumed a mask of indifference and would not meet her eyes. The others all looked on with utter impassivity.

Bridget made herself respond with what she hoped was the required amount of feminine humbleness. “The designs are very impressive, sire, but I am a woman and therefore know nothing of these things.” She lowered her head and the king chuckled approvingly.

“Naturally you are right
, Lady de Brett, women know nothing of such matters, but it is as well to ask them their opinion in any case, even if it is useless. It saves some trouble later on, does it not, gentlemen?” The gentlemen did not miss their cue; they laughed as one.

Amidst the chorus of approval came new guests bearing gifts,
namely the Marquess and Marchioness of Exeter. They presented themselves at the door, and Bryan Tuke, the king’s secretary, immediately informed his master of their coming. The amusement in Henry’s eyes faded, but he bid them approach all the same. Bridget fell back to let them pass. The rest of the courtiers also withdrew, mindful of the fact that the marquess outranked them all in status if not in favouritism with the king. Cromwell joined the retreating tide and as he drifted past Bridget, he whispered, “Well played, my lady. Very well played.”

The following week, the de Bretts went to Austin Friars. Bridget had heard, along with everyone else, how superb the house was that Cromwell had constructed there, but all the talk had not done it justice. Bridget drew in a breath at her first glimpse of the place. Hunkered behind grand gates lay a splendid brick mansion, the principal part of the house a full two stories tall with rows and rows of oriel windows. There was even a smaller, third story that faced directly onto the street. Outside the main entrance, a crowd of beggars had gathered. As the de Bretts drew up, they saw them rewarded with alms liberally distributed by one of Cromwell’s servants.

“God bless you
, Lord Cromwell!” one woman shouted as she gleefully brandished a fistful of coins. “We would starve without you!”

God above, how many incarnations of this man are there
? Bridget wondered as she beheld the joy of the mendicants with their much needed coin. She ticked them off in her mind:  Cromwell the Destroyer, Cromwell the Deceiver, Cromwell the Benefactor of Widows, Cromwell the Devoted Servant and now Cromwell the Saviour of the Poor. Would she ever be able to reconcile all these disparate identities into one coherent figure? She doubted it. Cromwell liked to maintain an air of inscrutability, of cryptic secrecy, hence all the mystery about his origins, his years abroad and his many contradictions of character. He liked to keep people off balance, to keep them wondering, guessing and talking. All the better to control them.

Sir Richard and Bridget knocked and were instantly met at the door and ushered inside, where the master of the house greeted them jovially. “Welcome, welcome,” he cried. “Welcome to my home. Were you delayed on the road?”

Sir Richard reddened slightly and apologised p
rofusely for their unpunctuality. “Damn horse threw a shoe, my lord, just as we left,” he said contritely, but Cromwell shushed him.

“
Ah, say no more, sir, say no more. Horses are the most vexing, wearisome creatures alive—give me a dog or a cat any day. Far easier to rule, though not so easy to ride, it must be acknowledged. Now then, come through, we have already sat down.”

They went through into the dining hall, the entire length of which was hung with new tapestries, the colours so bright that they almost made one’s eyes water. Cromwell announced them and the assembly stood en masse. Will’s face was the first one she saw and Bridget cursed the fact that her heart still skipped a beat at the sight of him. She smiled blandly at him and offered the same for each of the other guests who were all, to a man, long time partisans of Cromwell’s—Sir Ralph Sadler, Sir Richard Rich, Sir William Kingston, Thomas Wriothesley and the artist Hans Holbein. Of them all, Bridget was the most interested to meet Holbein, as she had only ever seen him in passing at court, and the king prized his skill as a painter above all others.

Her interest in him seemed to be thoroughly reciprocated. He barely took his eyes off her all the way through the first course. Eventually, a smile spread across his pleasant features, the sort of smile that accompanies the solving of a puzzle. He clicked his fingers and laughed. “
You
are the young lady the king has spoken of so often,” he cried, “the lady with the black, velvet eyes. Tell me sir,” he turned and addressed Sir Richard, “have you ever thought of having your wife’s portrait painted?”

“Well, I
—”Sir Richard began, but Cromwell interrupted him.

“What a splendid idea
, Holbein. You know, I rather thought that Lady de Brett would capture your artist’s eye. Sir Richard, I encourage you to engage Master Holbein here to paint your good lady. I can vouch for him on two fronts: as his patron and as a satisfied recipient of his skill with the brush. If he can render me passable, imagine what he may do with a lady as comely as your wife! Though, I must say, he did manage to portray me as somewhat stout.”

The company, including Cromwell, chortled, and Holbein bowed his head in mock apology. “Ah, but all men of consequence are stout, my lord. It is a sign of success, of standing. Of supremacy. That is what my portrait of you displays the best, if I may say so. It does not show your stoutness. It shows your power.” Cromwell accepted the compliment with gladness.

“As court p
ainter Master Holbein,” Will interjected, “I wonder, would you have time to paint Lady de Brett? The king must keep you very busy with more important assignments. Also, in light of your status and renown, would Sir Richard be able to afford your fee? After all, he is just starting out in His Majesty’s service, in spite of the grey hairs he sports.”

Sir Richard went a deep shade of russet and coughed, almost choking on his dish of lampreys. Cromwell shot Will a warning look, and Will shot it right back to him. Sir Richard continued to cough and was rendered speechless - it was Bridget who answered. “I thank you for your compliment, Master Holbein, but there is no need for my portrait to be painted. That is an honour reserved for the king and the leading nobles, not for one as unimportant, as Master Redcliff alluded to, as I. Unlike some people, I do not get above my station. I remember exactly who I am.” She directed her last comment at Will, who faced her head on across the table, his demeanour entirely unabashed.

Hans Holbein glanced in irritation at Will but would not be so easily put-off. “Your modesty does you credit, my lady,” he began, his voice as smooth as butter. “However if I may say so, it is misplaced. ‘Tis true, princes and nobles must be painted, that is the proper way of things. Their images must be known not only throughout their domains but they must also be preserved for the sake of history. Thus the requirements of politics and posterity are met but I am an artist, I deal in beauty, and beauty is as important, if not more so, than the needs of princes. Princes may be found anywhere, but beauty, true beauty, is the most elusive commodity on earth. Trust me on that. Once it is found it must be captured for all time the only way it can be—through the eternal medium of art. Let me paint you, my lady. If you bestow on me that great honour I shall repay you in the only way I can. I shall make you immortal.”

Now it was Bridget’s turn to blush. Sir Richard, who had recovered from his bout of coughing, looked at each of the rapt faces ranged around the table and made a sudden decision. “Yes, of course you shall paint my wife, sir. I had actually thought of engaging your services before now, but it is so hard to find the time for these things. Master Holbein, I thank you for your kind words and furthermore I would be delighted to accept your offer to paint Lady de Brett, providing that it is amenable to His Majesty, of course. I know he keeps you very much occupied. What, if I may inquire, is your usual fee?”