Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (27 page)

She bid farewell to Joanna, who hugged her as if they would never see
one another again, and then she followed the page out the door and along the quiet passageway. They left the palace by the same exit as she and Will had on her previous foray to Mireflore and they also took the same path across the park and up the hill, the flare of the page’s torch providing the only light in the gathering darkness.

A contingent of the guard w
as stationed outside the tower, and many of them regarded Bridget with amused disdain, as if she were a common strumpet from the stews of Southwark, one of the infamous “Winchester geese,” as they were called, and not the sober, honourable wife of a favoured courtier.
I
suppose I will have to get used to that look,
Bridget mused,
for my days of being sober and honourable are soon to come to an end.

The page escorted her hurriedly up the wi
nding stone staircase and down the familiar short corridor to the room at the very end. He rapped once at the door and a voice within bid him to enter. “Your Majesty,” he intoned, stepping into the room, “the Lady de Brett is here.” He announced her name as though she were a French princess or a foreign ambassador, not a woman he had brought forth in the dead of night to sleep with the king.

“Excellent
, Thomas. Thank you, you may retire for the evening.”

Another
Thomas,
Bridget reflected morosely. This Thomas bowed and took his leave. He shut the door quietly behind him and Bridget was left alone with King Henry. Her immediate reaction, as always, was to curtsey, but as she was about to descend into the action, the king shook his head. “No,” he said. He went across to a side table, poured some hot, spiced wine into a golden cup, and handed it across to her.

She took it and had to hold herself back from drinking it down in one gulp. The warm
th of the liquid and the sweetness of the spice soon had the desired effect and she could feel the tight knot of dread in her stomach loosening. The king watched her as she drank, and his face took on a look of wolfish longing, as if he yearned to sink his teeth into her flesh. The pendant caught his attention, and he traced the outline of it, allowing his fingers to stray to the bare skin on either side.

“B for Bridget
,” he said lowly, “or, more accurately, it is B for Beautiful. For that is what you are. You are so very beautiful. Like an angel. I am glad that you wore this for me; you must always do so whenever I am near. I never want to see it off your neck.”

He bent forward and kissed the long column of her
aforementioned neck, trailing an unhurried path downwards and then up to the underside of her jaw. His lips were hot and wet from the wine and they seemed to suck at her skin, like a leech. He kissed her and kissed her, making his way with excruciating slowness from her neck to her chin, and then along the side of her face and eventually all the way to her mouth. There he stopped, the edge of his lips just scraping hers before he drew back. His visage changed, a look of fury replacing that of desire, and he cupped her head in his big hands. He began to exert pressure on her skull, gently at first, and then harder and harder until Bridget felt as if she was caught in a vice. Fear danced along her spine and the pain grew to such an extent that she thought she might faint, but she did not move a muscle in response to it. She did not dare.

“Tell me
, dear heart, do you find me handsome? Hmm? Have you come here tonight of your own free will? If not, then tell me now, for I am a man of honour and I would force no one, especially no woman, to act against her conscience. Give me your answer, my lady, before I proceed any further.”

Bridget was amazed
that she could still respond to such a question with perfect equanimity, but she was beginning to accept that she was capable of a great many things that she had previously thought impossible. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied. “I am here entirely of my own free will. My conscience is clear; it troubles me not. I want to give myself to you, sire. I want that more than anything. And yes, I do find you handsome. You are the king—no man in the world compares with you.”

The lies had hardly had time to trip off her tongue before th
e king captured it with his mouth. His own tongue was rough and insistent and tasted of spice and something else, something sour, like milk that had been left out in the sun too long. He expertly unlaced her gown and slid it down off her body until her breasts were exposed to his gaze. He squeezed them forcefully, and this time Bridget could not suppress a little cry of pain. “Oh, you like that, madam?” he said, mistaking her pain for pleasure. “I thought that you would.”

The bed stood in the corner of the chamber and the king
manoeuvred her quickly over to it. Bridget’s last hope had been that Henry’s health, the famous whispers surrounding his impotence, might save her from this ordeal, but that hope soon melted away like snow in summer. The king was strong, frighteningly strong, and the hardness she could feel pressing against her dashed all her dreams of impotence. He was capable, perfectly so, and he was about to show her how much.

The back of
Bridget’s legs hit the side of the bed, and the king easily pushed her onto it, coming down on top of her. The sheer weight of him was crushing, and Bridget felt most of the air leave her lungs. She struggled to breathe but once again the king misinterpreted this as eagerness and he hastily raised her skirts and got between her legs. He positioned himself and Bridget gritted her teeth as the king thrust inside her for the first time. She turned her head to the side, in an effort to distance herself from the act and to hide the shimmer of her tears, but Henry would not allow her to do that; he demanded that she look at him.

“Yes
, my love,” he hissed, “you are mine now and you will obey me. You will open yourself to me.” He pushed deeper. “I am your king. I will teach you what that means.”

His eyes bored into
hers, and he grabbed the pendant around her neck and pulled it as tight as it would go. Bridget felt her air being constricted and she grasped at the pendant, but fortunately the sensation of strangulation did not last as the king stilled above her, let out a strangled cry and collapsed onto the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Bridget’s insides were bruised, her lungs burned, but it was over. Less than a minute and, thank Jesu, it was over.

The king brought his breathing
under control, got to his feet and laced his codpiece, the embroidered letters “HR” standing out in gold thread, his plump fingers working quickly and nimbly. Bridget followed his lead: she stood and speedily readjusted herself, simultaneously pushing her breasts back into her bodice and pulling down her skirts. Her hair had come loose and she set about tidying it, but the king stayed her hand. “Leave it. It is a shame to cover such lovely hair; it is like a cascade of golden silk. The next time you come to me,” he brushed some stray tendrils from her clammy brow, “make sure that you wear it loose, like a maiden. Like Guinevere giving herself to Lancelot. Will you do that for me, Bridget?”

It was the first time that the king had used her Christian name and, though it sounded ill in her ears, she smiled and let her hair tumble about her shoulders. “As you
wish, Your Majesty,” she said, hating the note of acquiescence in her voice. The king nodded, clearly pleased with her, and gave her a final kiss, this time placing it on her hand, as though he were indeed a knight of legend and she his lady fair.

He turned, made for the
door, and was about to knock to summon an attendant when he suddenly spun back to face her. “I almost forgot, madam, but there is one more thing I must tell you. I have granted your husband leave to absent himself from court, as he desires to inspect his new properties. He told me he intends to take his sister, Mistress Joan, with him; apparently, she has tired of London and longs for the country air. I am sure he will write to you and tell you all about it in due course. In the meantime, you will accompany me to Richmond. We shall travel there together in my barge. Would you like that?”

“Oh
, yes, Your Majesty,” Bridget said, her voice small. “I should like that very much.”

Chapter Eighteen

One month later, as promised, they sailed upriver on the royal barge bound for Richmond Palace. Richmond was a residence built in the time of the king’s father and situated on the site of the old Manor of Sheen, on the Surrey shore of the Thames. Bridget had never been there before and was looking forward to seeing it. As the barge sailed serenely atop the calm waters, she imagined what Richmond might look like. She needed something positive to look forward to, something to distract her mind from her current situation. She had been positioned in the boat, to her chagrin, to the right of the king, as close as he could place her whilst still observing some degree of propriety. She was garbed in a new gown of rich red brocade, the bright sunlight catching the numerous golden threads that ran through it. It was one of the many presents that the king had showered her with since she had consented to become his mistress. If “consented” was indeed the right word.

Bridget looked down at her folded, pale hands and pretended to admire Henry’
s latest gift of jewellery, a pretty, delicately wrought ring studded with a single, luminous white pearl. She spent much of her time with her head lowered these days in order to avoid the gazes of the courtiers that followed her everywhere. Even now, they could not keep their eyes off her and neither could the crowds of ordinary people who had lined the riverbanks to see the king’s barge pass by. She heard their speculative whispers float across the water as they gaped and gossiped amongst themselves about the unknown young lady in red.

The attention of the courtiers that she
was now forced to endure was not all hostile. Since it had become common knowledge that the king had taken her to his bed, she had been wooed by both sides at court—the Seymours on the one hand, led by the now-friendly Lady Hertford, and the conservatives on the other. Gertrude, the Marchioness of Exeter, had always been pleasant to her, but in the wake of Bridget’s “elevation,” she had stepped up her efforts to become her friend; she could barely move a pace or two before Lady Exeter would appear before her, a warm smile permanently etched on her face. Bridget wanted to chart a middle way at court as much as she could; after all, her goal was to avoid danger not to run straight into its arms. The king disliked women who tried to meddle in politics in any case; he could not stand to be contradicted by anyone, let alone a female. Bridget was not about to make the attempt.

The barge turned off the main body of the river and Bridget looked up in surprise, startled out of her thoughts by the sudden cha
nge in the oarsmen’s rhythm. She gazed out across the flat, still waters and saw the familiar sloping grounds of the Manor of Thorns drawing ever closer. Horror struck, she threw a panicked glance at Joanna, who had been permitted to accompany her, and a murmur of confusion spread throughout the boat.

“Ha
, ha, ha!” the king laughed, slapping his thigh. “I have taken you all off guard! For once I know something that you do not. Lady de Brett,” he directed a loving look toward Bridget, “we are to pay a visit to your home, the Manor of Thorns. I have heard much of it and wish to see it for myself before we travel on to Richmond. Does that please you?”

The king waited eagerly for her answering smile, which she duly painted onto her countenance as rapidly as she could, an ability
that she had mastered. She silently prayed that no one but a small staff would be at home, that Sir Richard, the abbess and Sister Margaret had all removed to Lincolnshire as the king had told her they were planning to. She hoped that the house would be cold, still and shut-up, no place for the king and his court to visit for any period of time. Her prayers, however, were destined to go unanswered as they tied up at the newly mended jetty and Bridget spied the abbess’s familiar figure, her face white with anxiety, emerge from the garden door, trailed by her clearly reluctant brother and Sister Margaret. The only small mercy that Bridget could see was that the abbess was not attired in her old nun’s habit, as she often was, but in a brown, serviceable travelling gown. No such luck with Sister Margaret; she was dressed as if the abbey had never been suppressed. Sir Richard was also in his travelling clothes. It looked as though they had all been on the point of leaving Thorns when the king’s barge had suddenly arrived at the bottom of their lawn.

Henry was in high good humour
and almost leapt off the boat in his eagerness to disembark. He gallantly assisted Bridget ashore and laughingly bid Sir Richard to rise from the predictably fawning bow he had fallen into. “Now, now, Lord de Brett,” the king boomed, “stand up straight, man. It is not good for a fellow of your years to bend down so far. We are pleased to find you still at home. I had a sudden fancy to see the famous Manor of Thorns, and I must say you did not lie when you boasted of your pleasant position along the river.” He gazed about him with a tinge of envy. “I do not think, in fact, that the location could be bettered! No wonder you are never at court nowadays. If I enjoyed such an agreeable situation, I am sure I would never leave it. Now then,” he indicated toward the curtseying abbess and Sister Margaret, “who are these ladies?”

“These ladies? Oh
, yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Richard answered, hurriedly finding his voice. “May I firstly present to you my sister, Mistress Joan De Brett, she who was formerly the abbess at Rivers Abbey in Norfolk. And this is Mistress Margaret Welles, a former nun at Rivers whom we extend charity to. She is no relation of ours.”