Court of Traitors (Bridget Manning #2) by V.E. Lynne

and with him it was always possible that he knew far more than he had let on, but Bridget had no definite proof of that. Aske was dead and could tell no tales. Bridget therefore wanted to keep the amount of people who knew about the missives to an absolute minimum and, to that end, she decided to keep Sir Richard out of it. Besides, an inner voice asked, could she be certain what her husband would do with such information? Would he seek to save himself by casting others to the wolves? Even with his sister involved? Was he capable of that?
     
                  She instantly felt ashamed of herself for even contemplating that her husband would do anything to send his sister to the scaffold, but at the same time, what might a person do in order to save their own skin? Sir Richard was not directly involved in any wrongdoing and had made sure that he stayed safely on the side lines during the rebellion, but these letters were in his house, and the abbess lived under his roof. He could easily be portrayed as an aider and abettor, a secret sympathiser. A traitor. The king did not hesitate to sign anybody’s death warrant and misprision of treason, the crime of concealing knowledge of treason from the notice of the Crown was just as much of a hanging offence as the act of treason itself. No, the permutations got worse the more she thought about it. It was best to keep Sir Richard well away from this.
     
                  That meant that without the aid of her husband Bridget was on her own and must therefore handle the problem herself. Once her initial tide of dread had ebbed away, she made a decision. She slid the false bottom of the box back into place and carefully packed away all of the casket’s innocent contents. She then took the small bundle of Aske letters and walked over to the fireplace. One by one she dropped the pages into the flames, and one by one she watched them curl up and burn. She was so engrossed in her task that she did not hear that someone else had entered the bedchamber.
    “B ridget, what is the meaning of this? What are you doing?” Sister Margaret demanded.
     
                  Bridget looked up and met the former nun’s penetrating gaze. She stepped back from the fire, screwed the Wounds of Christ banner up into as tight a ball as possible, hid it in the folds of her gown, and faced her. Once more, she had a decision to make. Cromwell entertained suspicions regarding Sister Margaret’s loyalty to the king. He had told her as much. Should she question her, here and now, and try and find out the truth? Should she tell her that the king’s chief minister had her in his sights? Or was it better to keep quiet, to keep her in the dark as far as that was possible. As with her husband, Bridget chose the latter option.
    “Sister Margaret ,” she smiled artlessly at her, “I did not hear you approach. I am afraid you have caught me out. I was just burning some old letters of mine, letters I confess I should have disposed of long ago. Unfortunately, when I was last at court, a young man developed an infatuation for me. He sent me some missives that were rather . . . over-fond. I am a married woman now, and it is entirely inappropriate that I should hold on to them any longer. So, I have decided to consign them to the flames. The fire is so hot in here that I thought it presented a good opportunity to do so,” she finished somewhat lamely. It was not the most convincing story Bridget had ever dreamt up, and Sister Margaret’s incredulous expression showed she felt the same way.
    Bridget was frantically trying to think of a better explanation when Joanna suddenly sat up in bed and looked around, confused. Both Bridget and Sister Margaret rushed to her side; Bridget was the first to touch the young woman’s forehead. It was cool. It was mercifully, wonderfully cool. A wave of relief crashed over her and tears sprang into her eyes.
    Joanna looked up and frowned. “What is it?