Free Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England by V. E. Lynne

Tower, destined for the flames like all witches and heretics?” Anne’s voice had risen and taken on a note of hysteria.
    “No, madam, I do not think or believe in such things,” Bridget soothed, stroking the queen’s hand like one would a frightened child’s. “It is just a story, designed to scare you, and nothing more. You should not give it another thought.”

    The queen seemed a little mollified by these words, and she nodded tiredly in response to them. Her eyes clouded with fatigue and finally she yawned. “Thank you, Bridget,” she said. “You are a sensible girl; I can see it was wise of me to bring you here. Now, I think I will sleep.” She yawned again and lay down under the covers. “You may retire. Good night.”

    “Good night, Your Majesty,” Bridget replied, and she gratefully left the bedchamber. Her head was spinning from everything that the queen had said, or rather confided, to her. Did people truly believe that Anne was a witch who was forecast to die at the stake? It was so fantastic a notion that she could barely credit it. Anne was queen, and no Queen of England had ever been burned, or beheaded, or executed in any other way. Such a thing was unheard of. The worst that Bridget had ever heard happening to a queen was what had befallen Anne’s predecessor, Catherine of Aragon. She had been cast off, then locked up in a series of unhealthy houses, far from her daughter and her supporters. Not even King Henry, who was not unfamiliar with summoning the headsman, had contemplated sending Catherine to the scaffold. Yet Anne really did believe that these prophecies could come true. Bridget had heard it in her voice.

    Bridget wandered back to the maids’ antechamber, her mind still racing. She doubted she would get any sleep that night. “Bridget,” a small voice whispered, “could you come here please?” It was Catherine Carey, Anne’s niece and her youngest attendant. She sounded and looked a little fearful in the gloomy room. “How does the queen?” she asked. “Does she sleep?”
    “Yes, at long last,” Bridget answered, “though it has been a struggle. The events of yesterday are weighing very heavily upon her.” Bridget thought it prudent to omit the details of the queen’s conversation and concentrate on the main source of her distress. Catherine nodded and looked relieved. Bridget made her way to her bed, then noticed Joanna was missing. “Catherine, have you seen Mistress De Brett?” she asked, a sensation of dread stealing over her.

    “No . . . at least, not for a while,” Catherine replied haltingly. “She slipped away, I know not where. Sorry,” she finished lamely. Bridget clenched her jaw and quickly threw a dark cloak around her shoulders. She then walked as quietly as possible out of the antechamber, through the queen’s apartments, and into the palace proper.

    On silent feet, she crept through the vast building, with no real idea in her mind as to where she was going, but with a sinking feeling in her stomach as to what she might find when she got there. God only knew what she would say if she were discovered. But the place seemed deserted, and besides, Bridget had always been good at moving without being noticed.

    Her eyes having adjusted to the dark, Bridget walked with more confidence, pulling her cloak tightly around her to ward off the cold. She passed by a window, then backtracked, having seen two figures in the distance. Hugging her body close to the wall, she peered out and breathed a small sigh of relief that neither of the individuals were Joanna. In fact, they were older men, relatively short, and well built.

    They had their heads angled close together and one of them was talking very fast. Then they parted quickly, like an adulterous couple who feared discovery. It was not until they sprang apart that Bridget recognised them. One was the Imperial Ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, whom she had memorably run into once before. He had called the queen