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

a whipped child.”
    Bridget looked up and found Thomas Cromwell standing in front of her, an incongruous figure in black on such a hot day, a genial smile lighting up his swarthy face. Bri dget made an effort to return it and, taking her reaction as an invitation, he sat down next to her.
    T he king had decided to stage an archery competition and a fairly large group of courtiers had turned up to participate. Most of the gentlemen had so far taken a turn, including Sir Richard, who had acquitted himself passably well but not nearly as well as Will Redcliff, who had shone. Thus far, though, the king was winning. It was always a good idea to allow the king to win.
     
    “Was I scowling, my lord? I did not realise.” Bridget curled her lips into a smile. “Is that more pleasing to you?”
    “Very much so,” Cromwell answered with a level of intensity she had not expected. His small, dark eyes lingered on her mouth and, not for the first time, she felt the air between them thicken. Why such a thing should happen she did not, and never had been, able to comprehend. She knew who, and what, this man was. He was a brute, an ogre. An inveterate schemer. A destroyer of innocents. A man of unparalleled ambition, intellect and power. Intrigue swirled around him, like mist on an autumn morn. And yet that was not the full picture, a hesitant voice inside her said. That was not all he was. He had many good qualities—he was known as an affable and generous friend and a magnanimous patron to many. He had gathered a tight group of adherents about him whose allegiance to him was unbreakable.
     
    He had raised up Will, among others, from nothing and given him the inestimable advantages of a good home and an even better education. He had charm, wit and an odd kind of elegance, and his loyalty to the king was beyond question. He oozed power from every pore—the power of his mind, the power of his position and the power of his own personality. It was his dark gift, and it spoke to some little, secret part of herself that Bridget did not like to admit to much less to contemplate. He placed his hand just next to hers so that they were almost touching. She could feel the heat that emanated from his skin. She inched herself further along the bench.
     
    “What do you think of my son?” Cromwell asked.
    The question was so unanticipated that it momentarily flat-footed Bridget. His son? She quickly scanned the ranks of the assembled gentlemen until her eyes found the figure of young Gregory Cromwell, the pride of his father’s life. He looked to be about eighteen and was a more opulently, and certainly more colourfully, dressed gentleman than his father, but apart from his rich attire there was nothing in particular that marked him out, nothing that caught one’s eye. He resembled the master secretary in a washed-out sort of way, as though the vital ingredients that made up the father had somehow been diluted in the son. He was good looking, Bridget decided, but funnily enough, that state did not suit him. His handsome looks served only to underline his basic ordinariness. He was not a man to be reckoned with, at least not at this young stage in his life. His turn came with the bow; he stepped forward and took up the instrument with a swagger, but his shot was, predictably, off target. He grimaced and glanced shamefacedly at his father. Cromwell, though, was unperturbed and enthusiastically applauded as if his son had scored a bull’s-eye.
     
    “He is a fine-looking gentleman, my lord, the very spit of you,” Bridget replied, and Cromwell grinned like a boy on Christmas morning.
    “ Thank you, my lady. I have great hopes for him. He is to be married very soon, to Elizabeth, the widow of Sir Anthony Ughtred. She is, as you may know, the queen’s sister.”
     

Bridget tried to hide her surprise at this revelation but could not quite manage it. Cromwell had secured the hand of the queen’s sister for his son? That meant that if all