Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (24 page)

“Your Majesty
,” Bridget began, her voice small, “I cannot accept this gift that you so generously bestowed on me, just as I have not been able to accept your previous gifts. I appreciate greatly the honour you do me, and acknowledge that I am entirely unworthy of it, but I am married. I cannot betray the vows I made not only to my husband but to God. Even though I esteem,” she paused, “and revere Your Majesty more than I can express, I must say nay to you, sire. I cannot give myself to you. A woman’s honour is the greatest and most precious possession she has, perhaps her only true possession, and I cannot compromise it. I will not.”

She stopped speaking as she found she had run out of breath. The seams of her gown seemed to squeeze her
body tighter and tighter, and the walls of the chamber pressed in on every side. The king said nothing; he merely stood and looked at her, his gaze locked onto the velvet pouch she still held out to him in her right hand. At last, he took a step forward and reached out to touch Bridget. Exerting gentle yet insistent pressure, he pushed the pouch back to her, as if he was presenting it all over again, but more demandingly this time.

“The necklace is yours
, my lady. I neither want nor require it back. You may keep it with my good wishes and by all means I encourage you to wear it. It will suit you. I admire your loyalty to your husband and how much you value your honour; both are qualities greatly to be esteemed in a woman. I would, of course, never force or coerce you into anything that may compromise that sense of honour. I am the king; I have never had to force any woman. They come to me entirely of their own free will and that is how I would have you. Utterly and whole-heartedly and without regret. Perhaps that will still happen one day, but clearly it shall not happen tonight. Therefore, I shall detain you no longer. I bid you a very good evening, madam.” He performed a little bow, disarming Bridget with both his courtliness and his complete lack of rancour.

“I shall send one of my men up to escort you back to your
quarters,” the king told her as he took his leave. “It can be dangerous to cross the park at night. I would not have you getting lost in the darkness.”

“Thank you
, Your Majesty,” Bridget answered, but the king had already exited the room. Bridget made herself wait until the sound of his footsteps had died away before she gave in to the sense of relief that was surging through her. It was so strong that it was all she could do to contain herself. Breathlessly, she swept over to the window and threw it open, glorying in the sensation of the fresh night breeze hitting her clammy, overheated visage. She took in several breaths of air and slowly but surely felt her pulse return to normal. She had done it. She had actually said “no” to the king and, what was more, he had let her. He had swallowed her refusal to bed with him with barely a word of protest and then had bid her good night as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Of all the outcomes she had imagined, it was the best one possible, and she could hardly believe that it had actually taken place. Laughter rolled up her gullet, and she only just had enough presence of mind to shut the window before she surrendered herself to it. It poured over her in a mad rush of delight and for once, she allowed herself to get carried away by it. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

Her laughter was misplaced.
The king reached the bottom of the stairs and hesitated before opening the door. He knew his men were waiting on the other side of the oak, and would not be expecting to see him again so soon. His emergence, after so little time with Lady de Brett, would no doubt cause all those stories, those calumnies, to get raked up all over again. They would whisper once more of his impotence, his bad leg, his frailty. “Henry Tudor is old,” they would say “he is weak, and he is no longer able to lie with a woman let alone beget another son to secure his line.” All those filthy lies, the ones
that
woman, he would not think her name, and that debauched brother of hers had spread with such relentless malice until not an ear at court was left untouched by them. Much good it had done them. By God, they had paid the price for their poisoned tongues. He had made sure of that.

Oh Jesu, she has her eyes,
a little voice whispered in his brain, and Henry felt his groin tighten with a rush of hot blood. The sensation was so strong he nearly turned and climbed the stairs again and to hell with all her talk of marriage vows and honour. He was the king, wasn’t he, and she an utter nobody? Merely his subject. His servant. But no. He did not force women, and he would not force Bridget de Brett. She
would
part her thighs for him, but she would do so willingly, joyfully. Gratefully.

At that
prospect, he smiled before he finally opened the door and walked outside. The men, who had been lounging against the stones, startled to attention.

“I am feeling a
touch indisposed—my leg pains me,” he winced a little in pretended discomfort. “I wish to return to my rooms. One of you can escort Lady de Brett back to her lodgings.” He nodded to one of the gentlemen, who immediately jumped to it and raced inside the tower. The rest of them hurriedly formed a vanguard and set off down the hill and across the park. The king hung back and picked out the person of Will Redcliff, one of his favourites, and beckoned to him. He wasted no time in responding, a look of inquiry on his face.

“When we get back to the palace
,” the king said, “go and fetch Lord Cromwell to me. I care not for the lateness of the hour; if he is abed, wake him. I have a task for him. One that cannot wait.”

Chapter Sixteen

Bridget was duly escorted back to her rooms, as the king had ordered, where she informed an amazed Joanna of the events, or rather the non-events, of the evening.

“You refused the king and he just accepted it?” she exclaimed, her voice full of wonderment. “He was not angry with you? He was not offended? He did not try to persuade you or cajole you in any way?”

“No. He was not angry, or offended, and he made no attempt to change my mind. In fact, quite the contrary. Instead of being indignant or affronted, he praised me! He praised my fidelity and my loyalty to my husband
,” Bridget wrinkled her nose, “and he declared he would force me into no action that was not pleasing to me. Overall, he did not seem much discountenanced at all. The only thing he insisted was that I keep this.” She brandished the accursed velvet pouch in front of a frowning Joanna. “I tried to give it back to him, but he would have none of it. He even encouraged me to wear it but I do not think I can. I shall put it in the bottom of my jewellery box,” she opened the lid and transferred the ill-starred object inside. “I hope to forget all about it. Hopefully the king will too.”

“Bridget,” Joanna began gingerly
, “I understand that you are glad. No, it is more than that—you are
relieved
, but does this not all seem a little . . . too easy to you? The king has had every woman he has ever set his crown at, and some of them stood a good deal higher on the ladder of the court than you do. Some of those women were already wives, as you are, so we know the presence of a husband does not deter His Majesty. He has made his interest in you plain; the story of your night-time visit with the king in the tower will be all over the court by morning. So will the story of the king’s speedy exit from that tower. All will know you turned him down. Will the king really be able to swallow that rejection so readily?”

Joanna’s words beat
at her, disturbing her gladness like a stone sinking heavily through the calm waters of a pond. Bridget had been so pleased with herself, so transported with her own success, that she had not taken a step back and honestly assessed the situation. Joanna was absolutely correct; the whole court would know what had, or rather what had not happened in the park this night. There would be people whispering, and no doubt laughing, behind their hands at the king’s failure to bed the beauteous Lady de Brett. Perhaps the old tales of the king’s impotence would be resurrected yet again. For a sovereign who still thought of, and wished others to think of him, as a young, virile ruler eager to secure the hand of a fourth wife, such tales were anathema. They could not be allowed to gain any purchase whatsoever.

Bridget felt the grip of fear begin to take hold of
her again and her eyes brimmed with tears. She wiped them away before they had a chance to fall but not fast enough to escape Joanna’s notice. “Oh, Bridge,” she said, pulling her into a hug. “I am so sorry. I did not mean to upset you. Ignore me, I am probably wrong anyway. Come now, do not cry. Let us talk of something else. Something happier.”

“No, do not apologise. What you said was right and I needed to hear it. I was feeling so full of myself that I actually said no, successfully, to the king that it clouded my vision. His Majesty is not accustomed to rejection and moreover cannot afford it, not now when he wishes, or Cromwell
wishes him, to marry again. The world must regard him as a handsome, lusty young buck, not as an ageing king with a bad leg. It all depends on portraying an image, the
right
image, and nothing must be allowed to undermine that. Certainly the truth never can. The truth is not for kings.”

Bridget fell silent
, and she and Joanna regarded one another, their worries and anxieties etched clearly on their faces. “So,” Joanna said, drawing out the sound of the solitary syllable in the cool, chamber air, “what will you do now? Beg permission to leave court? Feign illness? Try the old ploy of sticking close to my uncle?”

At the mention of her husband’s name, Bridget involuntarily touched the spot on her cheek where he had struck her. A sensation of both dread and disgust rose up in her at the thought of being in his company, let alone being forced to play the part of the doting wife. In one way she had rather bed with the king than with her husband
; at least she was reasonably sure that he would not stoop to assaulting her.
No, he will not beat you,
an insistent, little voice said to her,
but he might summon a man with a sword to cut off your head when he is finished with you.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, as though they could already feel the blade. She rubbed the unsettling response away.

“
I fear that the last option is the only one available to me,” Bridget replied tiredly. “Feigning illness is a temporary solution and one the king would probably see through in an instant. If I have misread things and truly offended him, I do not want to add to the offense. As for obtaining permission to leave court, I doubt it would be granted. Sir Richard would not allow it. He would do nothing that could potentially displease the king, regardless of his private feelings on the matter. No, it seems my husband’s company offers me my sole chance, once again, of salvation.”

As it turned out, there was no immediate opportunity for Bridget to throw herself on the dubious mercy of
Sir Richard. He chose to resolutely absent himself from her—she did not see him during the day and he kept from their quarters at night. She spied him here and there about the court, in the entourage of gentlemen who clustered constantly around the king, but his manner toward her could not have been more aloof or cold. His sulking was akin to that of a child deprived of its toys even though he must know that the cause of it was entirely unfounded. She had not become the king’s mistress.

As for herself, Bridget did not hide away
, but she did do her best to blend into the background of court life. She dressed in the dullest, most unbecoming gowns she owned, donned the gable hood, which made her look at least ten years older and became very familiar with the beautiful, inlaid floors of Greenwich Palace as she rarely took her eyes off them.

Occasionally she noticed
Joanna and Will watching her quizzically, and sometimes they approached together to ask her if she was quite well. Joanna was especially solicitous of her health and Bridget was forced to keep promising her that there was nothing to concern herself about. Bridget did observe that the two of them seemed to be spending a lot of time in one another’s company, enjoying animated conversations, but mostly she kept to herself.

Soon, she beca
me so self-centred and introspective that Joanna’s lengthening absences from her side went largely unseen and unremarked. Such was the case on a blazingly sunny day when much of the court had gathered to watch a game of bowls betwixt the king and Sir Edward Neville. Neville was winning and was stupidly sending many smug glances to his supporters in the crowd, namely a nervous-looking Marquess of Exeter and a seemingly disinterested Sir Nicholas Carew. The crowd thrummed with all the competing tensions. Neville, the Exeters, Carew and company still came often to court and attended on the king as they always had, but he favoured them less and less, and they aired their discontent more and more. Bridget often spied Cromwell watching them as a cat watched a bird. He was just waiting, teeth bared and claws out, until they got close enough for him to pounce on.

“I win
, Neville!” the king crowed, his stentorian voice booming out across the grounds. “I am the closest to the jack! You see?” The king strode up to the target, the small wooden ball known as the “jack,” and measured the distance between it and his bowling ball and then between it and Neville’s. “Yes, there is no doubt. I am the victor!”