tables groaning with every kind of food, more food than Bridget had ever seen. Meals at the abbey had been fairly simple affairs, but this was obviously not the case at the court of King Henry VIII. There was more meat on offer than the assembled company could possibly eat—chicken, beef, pork, venison, and swan, as well as a splendid blackbird pie. There were flagons of ale and wine and plenty of manchet bread, which Bridget loved. She broke off a piece and chewed it happily.
Bridget was seated with Joanna and Catherine, who were amusing themselves, giggling about the young men on display, especially the most handsome one amongst them, Sir Francis Weston. Sir Francis, who did look darkly attractive in rich red, was holding forth with Lord Rochford, Sir William Brereton, and a preoccupied-looking Sir Henry Norris. They made a striking quartet, and most female eyes, not to mention a few male ones, were drawn towards them. When they weren’t looking at the king and queen, of course.
So far, the royal couple, seated upon their dais, seemed to be getting along well. Anne was dressed in a gown of sapphire blue, with diamonds glittering at her throat, and her gold coronet gleaming upon her head. She appeared calm and relaxed and the king was showing honest affection to her, now and then touching her arm and whispering in her ear. Bridget had seen the look of appreciation in his eyes when he had first beheld her. He had barely glanced at Jane Seymour all night.
Bridget felt a sense of satisfaction wash over her. She had begun to enjoy her role as maid of honour to the queen. The court was a bustling, exciting, intriguing place to be. At first, it had been an overwhelming experience, and not a little scary. Now, secure in the queen’s favour, and with the rapprochement between Henry and Anne clear for all to see, Bridget was hopeful that everything was back on the right path. Perhaps Lord Rochford would be proved right and there would be a prince in the cradle by Christmastide. The young maid smiled at the prospect.
Joanna nudged her in the ribs, breaking her reverie. “Something has gone wrong,” she whispered. “Look at the queen.”
Bridget turned her eyes towards the dais and could see that Joanna was right. The calm and relaxed Anne was gone and in her place was a woman sitting rigidly in her chair, her face flushed a dull red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Bridget could not tell. In any event, it was clear that the king had lost his former interest in her and was now rather moodily eating his meal.
After a few moments, he got up and walked away into the main body of the hall. There he began conversing with one of his oldest companions from childhood, Sir Nicholas Carew. Carew was a conservative and certainly no supporter of Anne’s. She had spoken of him as being part of the “old guard” who despised everything about her and her family. The king appeared to be enjoying his company, and presently they were joined by Henry’s closest friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. The room soon rang with the sound of hearty male laughter.
The queen’s father, Wiltshire, and her brother Rochford, frowned in concern and both directed beseeching pairs of eyes upon the queen, sending her silent signals to do something. Anne deliberately avoided looking at them and did no more than drink deeply from her cup of wine.
Two people in the hall watched the tableau with great curiosity. Lady Rochford, who had been sullen all evening, had come alive and was taking an eager interest in events. She whispered something to her husband, who was seated unhappily beside her. He said nothing in response, preferring to remain speechless and stare sourly into space.
At the back of the hall, Thomas Cromwell observed the gathering with a practised, feline gaze. His small eyes roved over the company and came to rest for a moment on Bridget. He arched his right eyebrow slightly and smiled, which brightened his dark face. It
Bridget was seated with Joanna and Catherine, who were amusing themselves, giggling about the young men on display, especially the most handsome one amongst them, Sir Francis Weston. Sir Francis, who did look darkly attractive in rich red, was holding forth with Lord Rochford, Sir William Brereton, and a preoccupied-looking Sir Henry Norris. They made a striking quartet, and most female eyes, not to mention a few male ones, were drawn towards them. When they weren’t looking at the king and queen, of course.
So far, the royal couple, seated upon their dais, seemed to be getting along well. Anne was dressed in a gown of sapphire blue, with diamonds glittering at her throat, and her gold coronet gleaming upon her head. She appeared calm and relaxed and the king was showing honest affection to her, now and then touching her arm and whispering in her ear. Bridget had seen the look of appreciation in his eyes when he had first beheld her. He had barely glanced at Jane Seymour all night.
Bridget felt a sense of satisfaction wash over her. She had begun to enjoy her role as maid of honour to the queen. The court was a bustling, exciting, intriguing place to be. At first, it had been an overwhelming experience, and not a little scary. Now, secure in the queen’s favour, and with the rapprochement between Henry and Anne clear for all to see, Bridget was hopeful that everything was back on the right path. Perhaps Lord Rochford would be proved right and there would be a prince in the cradle by Christmastide. The young maid smiled at the prospect.
Joanna nudged her in the ribs, breaking her reverie. “Something has gone wrong,” she whispered. “Look at the queen.”
Bridget turned her eyes towards the dais and could see that Joanna was right. The calm and relaxed Anne was gone and in her place was a woman sitting rigidly in her chair, her face flushed a dull red, whether from anger or embarrassment, Bridget could not tell. In any event, it was clear that the king had lost his former interest in her and was now rather moodily eating his meal.
After a few moments, he got up and walked away into the main body of the hall. There he began conversing with one of his oldest companions from childhood, Sir Nicholas Carew. Carew was a conservative and certainly no supporter of Anne’s. She had spoken of him as being part of the “old guard” who despised everything about her and her family. The king appeared to be enjoying his company, and presently they were joined by Henry’s closest friend, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. The room soon rang with the sound of hearty male laughter.
The queen’s father, Wiltshire, and her brother Rochford, frowned in concern and both directed beseeching pairs of eyes upon the queen, sending her silent signals to do something. Anne deliberately avoided looking at them and did no more than drink deeply from her cup of wine.
Two people in the hall watched the tableau with great curiosity. Lady Rochford, who had been sullen all evening, had come alive and was taking an eager interest in events. She whispered something to her husband, who was seated unhappily beside her. He said nothing in response, preferring to remain speechless and stare sourly into space.
At the back of the hall, Thomas Cromwell observed the gathering with a practised, feline gaze. His small eyes roved over the company and came to rest for a moment on Bridget. He arched his right eyebrow slightly and smiled, which brightened his dark face. It
Similar Books
