Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) (29 page)

Fortunately for Bridget
, the king had been incapable on that occasion of taking out his frustrations on her carnally and had therefore confined himself to attacking the household chattels before sinking into a sulk. The next day, as usual, the storm of his temper had passed and he was all attentiveness and sweet words once more. It was then that he had summoned Holbein and commanded him to paint Bridget’s portrait.

“
So that I may gaze upon you during those times when I cannot be with you,” he had said, his voice low in what he imagined was a seductive tone. “I like the idea that my eyes will never leave yours.”

It was an idea that held no charms for Bridget
, but she had, of course, laughed and thanked His Majesty for the honour of his favour. He had responded in the way he always did when she complimented him: a grin of pure, boyish delight had split his increasingly fleshy features as if he were a child who had just successfully performed a clever trick for an admiring adult. It was at those moments that Bridget could discern the handsome, golden prince that Henry had once been underneath the carapace of the ageing, portly monarch he now was: a man thoroughly soaked in blood and regarded, almost universally, with fear. It was at those moments that she felt sorry for him, that she could almost come to care for him. Almost.

“Madam? Lady d
e Brett?” Holbein raised his voice and shook his brush at her to capture her attention.

“Oh
, forgive me, Master Holbein,” Bridget said, coming back to herself. “I was miles away. Do you need me to tilt my face again? The sun is coming in that window. Perhaps the other side would be better?”

“No, no
,” Holbein sighed, laying down his brush. “That side of your face is fine. I merely wished to tell you that I have finished for the afternoon. I have made good progress on your likeness, but I fear that it shall remain unfinished until I return from the Continent. The king has bid me go and paint the sisters of the Duke of Cleves. Their beauty is famed throughout Europe I am told.”

Bridget had heard the same thing about the
duke’s sisters, mainly from Cromwell who spoke of them as if he intended to marry them himself. One was called Amelia and who was the other one? Ah, yes . . . Anne. Another Anne. If Holbein was being sent to paint them that meant that the king was seriously prepared to entertain the prospect of wedding one of them. Cromwell was therefore close to getting his way, once more: an alliance with one of the Protestant states of the Low Countries was one of his most cherished dreams. No, not dreams, schemes. Thomas Cromwell was not a man comprised of dreams.

“Another wonderful assignment for you
, sir, I congratulate you. We have all heard of the beauty of the sisters of Cleves. I have no doubt that you are the man to capture it. Speaking of capturing things, may I see what you have captured of me? If I do not see something of the portrait soon, I will die of curiosity.” She started to her feet, but Holbein wasted no time in snatching up the canvas and holding it as far from her as he dared.

“I am sorry
, madam, but I cannot allow that. As you know, I am under strict instructions from His Majesty. His eyes must be the first to see the portrait. I do not care to disobey him on this point as you must surely . . . understand.”

Bridget did understand
and so she did not press him further. Holbein, his benevolent eyes clearly showing his gratitude, bowed to her and began to take his leave though not before Lady Exeter made her entrance into the room, Joanna hot on her heels. “I told the marchioness that you were closeted with Master Holbein and were not to be disturbed, but she would not listen to me. She insisted that she must speak with you at once.”

Gertrude Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter,
indeed looked like a person for whom time was short. She was flushed in the face and so wound up both her hands were shaking. Throwing aside the fact that she far outranked Bridget, she sank into a curtsey and then seemed unable to rise from it of her own accord. Embarrassed at this display, and worried at what it might betoken, Bridget hurriedly ushered an astonished Holbein out of the room and then helped Lady Exeter to her feet. “My lady of Exeter,” she said gently, “what a very pleasant surprise. Joanna, could you fetch us some wine please and perhaps some sweetmeats as well? Thank you. Now then, madam, would you care to sit down here?”

Bridget directed her to the best chair in the chamber, a beautifully carved piece of furniture with velvet cushions, and waited until Lady Exeter had gratefully seated herself
upon them before she followed suit. She arranged her countenance into one of benign interest but behind that façade her mind whirled. She had an inkling, more than an inkling really, of what had brought Gertrude Courtenay, one of the great ladies of the court, to her door, and that inkling caused her palms to sweat.

“Lady d
e Brett,” the marchioness began, “I have been trying to secure an audience with you for some time, but it has proved very challenging to arrange. You are so often in the king’s company it seems you hardly have a moment to yourself.” Bridget acknowledged this with a wry smile. Joanna brought in the wine; Lady Exeter took the cup she offered with alacrity. Bridget observed that the noblewoman’s hands trembled so much she had a difficult job keeping the goblet steady.

After some moments, Lady Exeter drank the wine and sighed. Bridget watched her
calmly, allowing the silence to stretch out as much as she could. She knew why Lady Exeter was here—there was only one reason such an exalted lady would seek her out. She needed to speak to the king but did not dare to approach him directly or, more likely, was being prevented from doing so. There were many doors that separated the king from his subjects, and he could choose to close all of them if he wished. She suspected that that was precisely what he had done to Lady Exeter; the door to his presence was cut off to her and therefore, in her desperation, she had been forced to present herself at Bridget’s threshold.

Lady Exeter took the final draught of her wine and then stared down into the empty cup, as though the answers she sought lay there among
st the dregs, just waiting to be discovered. Eventually she put the goblet to one side and lifted her gaze to meet Bridget’s. Her dark eyes stared intently out of her ashen face—they were full of fear.

“Lady d
e Brett, you must know what has brought me here today. I do not like to ask favour of anyone, but sometimes it is necessary to do so. It is necessary for me to do so now and, to that end, I will be brief. My lady, your . . . influence with the king and also with Lord Cromwell has become well known throughout the court.”

Bridget had intended to let Lady Exeter talk without any intrusion on her part
, but the reference to Cromwell brought her up short. “Pardon my interruption, my lady, but I fear you have been misinformed,” she said. “My ‘influence,’ as you call it, with the king is very slight, and as for Lord Cromwell I have no ability to influence that gentleman at all. I have yet to meet anyone who can, save for His Majesty, of course.”

Lady Exeter regarded her solemnly for a moment before she burst into peals of what cou
ld only be described as desperate laughter. “Goodness, I realised when I first met you with the Lady Mary, and then especially so on the night of the masque that you were a born innocent. Anyone could see then that the king wanted you; he would have taken you right there on the floor of the Great Hall if he had dared, but I never imagined that you were this naïve! I will therefore speak plainly to you, my dear, for I have time for nothing else and I see that only plain speech will suffice. You are the king’s mistress. We all know it, how could we not? He makes enough of a show of you. He has showered you with jewels,” Lady Exeter’s eyes raked over the diamonds at Bridget’s throat, “he takes his pleasure with you in the tower in the park at Greenwich. His eyes barely leave yours. It has happened before and no doubt it will happen for other ladies after you. But, for now, you are the lady who holds his attention. Let us not pretend otherwise.”

Bridget shifted in her chair
and willed the tide of heat that had crept up her neck to recede, not that Lady Exeter seemed to notice her embarrassment. She was too caught up in herself, particularly now that she had moved on from the king and was speaking about a man for whom she had only contempt; a man who caused her black eyes to burn with hate. Thomas Cromwell.

“You sa
y you have no influence with
him,
” she pronounced, “and yet I cannot believe that. He is the man who brought you back to court after you had soaked yourself, quite literally I am told, in the blood of that sorceress who so beguiled the king that he lost his head and married her. Until, that is, he woke up and had hers chopped off. You should have been finished after that, anyone else would have been, but you weren’t. Oh no, Lord Cromwell brought you back, complete with a husband, and now you occupy the king’s bed. Yes, you have some sway with the Lord Privy Seal, though perhaps you do not realise how much.”

“Lady Exeter
,” Bridget enunciated Gertrude’s title carefully through her increasingly gritted teeth, “you said you came here to ask my favour. If that is so, madam, then I suggest you state your business quickly. Thus far the tenor of this conversation is hardly conducive to my doing anything for your benefit.”

The
marchioness inhaled deeply. The anger that had flared in her as she had talked of Cromwell drained away, and Bridget realised that sitting here before her was a woman who was utterly desperate. Desperate and terrified.

“I apol
ogise,” she said humbly, “if my words have offended you. It was not, I can assure you, my intention to do so. I said I thought you an innocent from the first, but I never said that I also liked you from the first. You clearly have a good nature, a kind nature, and that is rare in my experience. I need you to exercise, if you can, that kindness with the king because . . .” Tears sprang into the marchioness’s eyes. “I am so afraid, Bridget. May I call you that?” Bridget nodded.

“
I fear what is to become of my family. My husband, myself, even my son Edward, though he is only a boy, we are all in danger. Lord Cromwell works against us ceaselessly and now that he has taken our kinsman Sir Geoffrey Pole into custody, I am in constant dread of what may happen next. Of what he may do to us all.”

So, Cromwell had apprehended Cardinal Pole’s brother
had he? There had been murmurs of such a thing and, according to Joanna, Will had been particularly tight-lipped lately, which was always a sure sign that the master secretary was up to something. Bridget thought back to her and Sir Richard’s visit to Austin Friars and the way that Cromwell had spoken about Reginald Pole, Lord Exeter and Sir Edward Neville, indeed the whole “White Rose” faction. He had laughed and made light of their scornful behaviour towards him, but despite his bonhomie, Bridget had been able to see past the cloak of his feigned good humour. Lady Exeter must have been able to do so, too; she must have discerned the sharp edge of the headsman’s axe pressing perilously close to the back of her husband’s neck, if not her own.

“I am truly sorry
,” Bridget began slowly, “for the situation you and your family find yourselves in, but I am unsure how you think I can be of any assistance to you. Lord Cromwell is the king’s chief minister, he is Lord Privy Seal, and he is the Vicar General. He is second only to His Majesty. He does not, I promise you, take advice from me.”

Lady Exeter leant forward and took Bridget’s hand in hers, squeezing
the delicate bones until they hurt. “Lord Cromwell may not take advice from you, or from anyone, but despite all his offices and his pretensions he
acts
only at the behest of the king and the king is the one person who may listen to you. I can understand your reluctance; it is a lot to ask and we are not your kin, but please . . . I beg of you. Think of my son—he is a mere child, and they may take him and lock him in the Tower or worse. You have been in that place; you know what it is like. Do not condemn him to it. If you need a further incentive, there would be a reward in this for you and your husband. We would not ask you to act without offering something in return.”

A conspiratorial
smile lit up Lady Exeter’s otherwise sallow complexion and she squeezed Bridget’s hand ever tighter. “My husband is in possession of your former home, Rivers Abbey, and would be more than willing to sign it over into the keeping of Lord de Brett. ’Twould be no hardship; we regard ourselves purely as custodians, and not true owners, of the Church’s old lands. Think of how pleasant it would be to have your old home back; think of how your wealth and status could be increased. Think of your old abbess and Sister Margaret. Oh yes, I have met them” Lady Exeter said to Bridget’s raised eyebrows. “They are great ladies, they loved the old queen, Katherine, as I did and they love her daughter. I grieved with them when Rivers was suppressed – you could return it to them.
The king’s attention is fleeting, my dear,” she said sympathetically “and thus you must make hay whilst the sun still shines upon you. In addition to receiving the abbey, I could put in a good word for you with the Lady Mary, with whom I am occasionally in contact. She is the only true princess of the blood in the kingdom, and her favour would be a great asset for you to obtain—”

“My lady
,” Bridget cut her off, feeling that the conversation had now taken an even more dangerous turn. “I thank you for the offer of Rivers. It is a place of which I am very fond, but it is yours, not mine. I do not require anybody’s lands nor do I wish to make contact with the Lady Mary. My husband and I have been treated most kindly by His Majesty, and that is sufficient for us. I also do not wish to interfere in any of Lord Cromwell’s doings, however, I am prepared to speak to the king and assure him of your family’s loyalty. I make absolutely no promises to you that my words will do them any good. I emphasise yet again that my influence is quite minimal. But I will speak to him. I will do you this favour.”