Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (26 page)

Joanna listened intently, bobbed her head in silent agreement, and departed without a backwards glance. Bridget
, however, was left behind in a state of indecision. Was it right to send only Joanna? Should Bridget herself follow her and risk attracting the eye of the king? Should she seek out Will and endeavour to find out what, if anything, he knew? No, she dismissed that idea before it even fully formed. If Cromwell were enmeshed in this, Will would never reveal to her that information. She had been down that road with him before. His loyalty to his first, and ultimate master, was absolute.

Her immediate options were limited. All she could do was write to the abbess and warn her
in case she had held anything back from her. Bridget did not think so, but she could not be completely certain. The abbess had, after all, kept the correspondence with Aske a secret. Bridget screwed up the scrap of fabric in her small hand. Mother of God, if the abbess had lied, if she or Sister Margaret were deceiving her, if the house was searched and incriminating evidence was found, then the Tower beckoned once more, only
they
would be the prisoners this time.

With that prospect looming before her, Bridget made up her mind to write to the abbess forthwith and notify her of events
. She would hire a servant,
not
her husband’s man John Walters, to take the missive and then bring her back the reply. If she moved quickly, he could leave within the hour, on the next tide, and then she might have the latest news from Thorns by evening. With the decision reached, she hurried away from the green, across the park and straight into the path of Thomas Cromwell. She clutched the scrap of banner in her palm as tightly as she could and secreted it quickly up her sleeve.

“Heavens
, I just saw one member of the de Brett family, young Mistress Joanna, come hastening along here a few minutes ago and now I run into the viscountess herself in a similar hurry. Tell me, is something amiss? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Bridget regarded him as closely as she had the nerve
to in an attempt to divine from his expression whether he was the one behind the mystery of the banner, but his countenance was clear and untroubled. It betrayed nothing.

“I thank you for your offer
, my lord, but there is naught that is amiss. I merely have some letters to write. I am afraid I have fallen behind on my correspondence. I am sure you understand. I would like to get these letters completed so that they can be delivered on the next tide; that is the only reason for my haste. I apologise if I alarmed you, sir. Now, if you will excuse me . . .” She made to sweep past him and she nearly managed it, but at the last moment he caught her sleeve and held her back, his strong fingers closing over the place where the piece of banner lay. Bridget did not blink.

“Are you normally so eager to write a letter to your old abbess? I
can’t imagine why. The daily doings of an elderly former nun can hardly be of much interest or importance to you, nor would she be interested in your life at court. But then, perhaps I am mistaken.” He ran his hand over the outline of the banner remnant, letting his fingers linger. Bridget tried to pull her arm away, but it was impossible; Cromwell had the grip of ten men. He exercised it to its fullest extent now—he pulled her close and, pushing aside a stray tendril of her blonde hair, whispered, “The time for writing letters has passed, my lady. I shall be blunt - you have a stark choice before you. Either you conform yourself to the wishes of the king, as a true subject should, or your beloved Abbess Joan will pay the price. And that will not be the end of it. The de Bretts have a terrible penchant for picking the wrong side, from Bosworth Field to the present day. It is time for you to change that pattern; it is time for you to choose the right side. In fact, little sparrow, it is your last chance to do so.”

Cromwell dug his nails into her
arm, and Bridget bit her tongue to silence an exclamation of pain. She could have screamed with frustration that she had been so stupid and so short sighted, that she had not utterly destroyed the banner when she had the chance. Because of her carelessness, her lack of foresight, she had delivered not just herself but her family into the hands of Thomas Cromwell. Her mind jagged back two years to the river journey that she and Queen Anne had made to the Tower. Cromwell had sat behind her on the barge, whispering in her ear like the serpent had to Eve, tempting her to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. His object on that occasion had been to recruit her to spy on Anne. She had had the luxury of refusing him then, for she had not much to lose at that time and he had possessed nothing of value to hold over her. But that was long ago and circumstances had changed.

An odd sort of calmness settled over Bridget as she fina
lly accepted the choice she had to make. She gently placed her hand over Cromwell’s and loosened his grip, finger by finger, from her arm. He blinked at her touch, and a faint blush began to spread itself like a mantle over his dark countenance. Bridget locked her eyes with his and saw a competing range of emotions reflected in their shadowy depths: determination, fierceness, guilt, regret and, underneath it all, the flickering flame of the strange attraction that had always existed between them. Cromwell stood mesmerised for some moments, and then, as if realising he had revealed too much of himself, he took a step backward, and put some much-needed distance between himself and Bridget, both physically and mentally.

“It seems I am at your command
, my lord. What would you have me do?” The guilt she had seen in his eyes rose up and, just briefly, Bridget thought that he might take pity on her, that he might allow her to disentangle herself from his net and go on her way. But no. Nobody escaped Thomas Cromwell twice and Bridget would be no exception to that rule. His moment of weakness passed, and his expression turned as hard as a winter frost. Then he told her exactly what she must do.

Chapter Seventeen

Bridget picked up the grey silk gown and allowed
its cool, opalescent folds to arrange themselves languidly against her body. It was a new gown, and tonight would be its first and possibly only outing. She could not imagine wearing it ever again, not after what she proposed to do in it. For tonight was the night that she would give herself to the king.

That was the price, Cromwell had informed her,
that she must pay to secure the survival of the de Brett family. The king desired her—he was lonely without a woman, and the search for a new wife was proving both prolonged and troublesome. Christina, Duchess of Milan, the king’s preferred choice, was showing herself less than enthusiastic at the prospect of wedding Henry Tudor.
And who could blame her?
Bridget thought grimly. With a marital record such as his, it would be a minor miracle if any woman consented to place her head in the yoke. Or upon the block, as the case may be.

“Until a new marriage can be arranged, and I hope for an alliance with Cleves as you know, His Majesty requires female companionship and female
. . . comfort. You are the one, he has determined, who shall provide that comfort. In return, you and your family shall occupy a place of honour at court. Your husband may even climb further up the ranks of the peerage. All things are possible; after all, there may be some vacant titles, lands and riches up for grabs soon.”

Bridget had not needed to ask to whom he referred
—the White Rose faction was replete in wealth and manors so much so that, should they fall vacant, many a courtier would sacrifice their own mothers to lay their hands on them. But none of that concerned Bridget. “Those are matters that preoccupy the minds of avaricious men, my lord. They do not preoccupy me. All I want to know is that my kin, the abbess, Joanna and even my husband will be safe. I want to know, I want your word, your absolute word that they are out of all danger. That they are untouchable.”

Cromwell had smiled at her, a soft smile, and
then patted her hand. “Do not fret my lady. You are under my protection now” he had said comfortingly. “We have formed an alliance, you and I, and I always honour my alliances. I assure you that none of your kinfolk will be touched. You have my word on it.”

Bridget rubbed away the goose
pimples that had sprung up along her arm at the memory of the conversation. Despite her best efforts, she had entwined her path with that of the brewer’s son, just as the gypsy had warned her against, and now she was trapped. Ensnared. She knew that, whatever he had told her, Cromwell would not hesitate to move against her family if it served his purpose. The flimsy nature of the evidence would not deter him. The king had no difficulty signing anyone’s death warrant and sending them off to the most horrific of ends. John Lambert, the man whom the king had examined himself before virtually the whole court at Whitehall, had recently met his fate in a manner that had made even the most hardened blanch. He had been taken to Smithfield and burnt at the stake screaming out to Christ as the flames consumed him. It had taken him quite some time to die.

With that example before her
, there could be no doubt left in Bridget’s mind that the king was prepared to consign anybody to the worst sort of death, even an old woman who had once run an abbey and could trace her line back to the Conquest. That history would avail her nothing. In Bridget’s estimation, it was entirely her fault that the abbess stood in any peril. She should have torn Thorns apart and destroyed anything and everything that had appeared even slightly incriminating. She should never have allowed matters to reach this stage, but she had. She had failed and now she must pay for that failure.

“Bridget, is it nearly time? Is there anything that I can do for you?” Joanna
asked, stepping into the bedchamber.

Bridget glanced at her friend, companion and relative and managed a watery smile. She could feel the tears burning at the back of her eyes
, and she had to forcefully blink them away. As much as she longed to break down and cry like a child, she could not; it was time, long past time, for her to grow up and put away childish things. Greater women than herself had found themselves in a similar, unenviable position and they had not given in to their emotions. They had not buckled. They had not weakened. Neither would she.

“Thank you
, Joanna, but I require nothing. Yes, I expect it is nearly time. The page should be here at any moment.”

“Oh
, Bridget, I am so sorry, is there no other way? Perhaps if you talked to the king again?”

“
No, that is not possible. Not anymore. There is no other path that is open to me now, not if I wish to keep everyone’s heads upon their shoulders, as I most certainly do. The time for talking is over.”

Bridget had taken Joanna into her confidence after she
had spoken to Cromwell. She had had no choice but to do so, as Joanna had been the one who found the scrap of the Five Wounds banner in the first place. Joanna then, as now, had tried to put forth a counter argument, had tried to find a mode of escape for her, some way out, but even she had soon seen that it was futile.

Bridget
took off her robe and began to don the grey gown; Joanna came forward to help her, fitting the sleeves and tying the straight laces that ran up the back with her habitual nimbleness. Once she was finished, Bridget asked her to bring forth the velvet pouch. Joanna obeyed, drawing the small bag from the depths of the jewellery box. She handed it to Bridget with an expression of pure reluctance.

“Is it really necessary
for you to wear that?” she queried as Bridget lifted the “B” pendant out of its pouch and fastened it about her slender neck. It rested sharply against her collarbone, like a knife pressed against her throat.

“Oh
, it is more than necessary; it is what the king wants. It is his innermost desire. Why else did he give it to me in the first place and then insist that I keep it when I tried to give it back to him? Oh yes, he wants me to wear it. I understand his intentions now and what lies beneath them; he sees Anne in me. He may have banned all mention of her name, he may have eradicated all trace of her existence from every inch of his palaces, but yet she is still there. He cannot get rid of her, she is inside his mind, dogging his thoughts, haunting his dreams. I will therefore give her to him. I will wear my grey gown, don my French hood and display the letter ‘B’ around my neck, and I will go to him as one risen from the grave. Hopefully it will be enough to keep us from ours.”

Bridget had no sooner finished speak
ing than there was a loud knock at the door. She stayed Joanna’s advance with a look and opened it herself. Attired as she was, she half-expected to find the mournful figure of Sir William Kingston standing on the other side ready to escort her to the scaffold and the Calais swordsman.

But no. There was no Kingston, just a solitary page, a young man whose name she did not know,
who’d come to lead her to a different tower and a different fate. He stood there awkwardly, his face aflame with the embarrassment of his task. “My lady, His Majesty the King requires your presence forthwith. He awaits you at Mireflore, otherwise known as Duke Humphrey’s Tower. If you would care to accompany me, madam, I will escort you there at once.”

“Of course
, sir,” Bridget responded, her voice unnaturally calm. “I am, as you see, entirely prepared. Lead on, I do not wish to keep the king waiting.”