Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England Read Online Free Page B

as to be non-existent? I fear the Abbess may have overstated matters somewhat in that regard.”

    “Oh, nonsense,” the queen replied smartly. “Blood is blood, and we share some. It may be some way back, but it is there nonetheless. You will learn that even the most fragile connection has value at this court. Do not be so quick to dismiss the importance of it. Now that I have dispensed with that,” she said firmly, picking up her midnight-blue skirts and turning away, “we must find the errant Mistress Seymour so I can dispense with her too.”

    Anne and Bridget made their way through the palace at a fast clip, rushing past what seemed to be a bewildering array of chambers, antechambers, alcoves, and galleries without number. Bridget had never been in this part of the palace before, and she was soon feeling disorientated. It seemed they were going around in a circle until they passed one room where the door was slightly ajar, and Bridget caught a just flash of something on the edge of her vision. She stopped, quickly glanced in, and glimpsed a couple, the female dressed in moss green, sitting on a male’s lap. The lady was small with very white skin.

    The queen was looking impatiently behind her, having noticed that Bridget had stopped dead. She almost told her to hurry up when she caught the look in her maid’s eye. Anne halted for a moment, as if anticipating a blow, then she walked purposefully toward the door Bridget was standing just outside of. Bridget stepped back quickly and let her pass.

    Queen Anne pushed open the heavy door with a crash. There followed the sounds of mad scrambling and a man swearing. Bridget came up behind her mistress, making sure she remained hidden in the shadows, but she could not suppress emitting a small gasp at the scene that lay before her.

    Jane Seymour, her chalky complexion turned flaming red, was hurriedly pushing her petite breasts back into her gown, which was partially unlaced. Her fingers visibly trembled as she completed the task, whether from fear or interrupted pleasure, Bridget could not tell. The man, whom Bridget realised was King Henry, had his face angled away and was obviously angry. Though she had never seen him before, she had no doubt that this was Henry Tudor in front of her. There was no mistaking his famously strong build and his regal head, with its thinning, fiery-red hair, not to mention his gorgeous attire and fistful of jewels. He fairly sparkled and gleamed, like a gemstone in a shaft of sunlight.

    Anne had gone very still, as though she had been turned into a pillar of stone. Bridget watched the silent tableau with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, as one watched the approach of a storm. It was just a question of time until it broke over your head and you were caught in the resulting deluge.

    The queen broke out of her frozen state with a roar that sounded like an animal in pain. “What is this?” she cried, pointing a long accusing finger at the surprised pair. “While I am doing my duty, while my belly is doing its business, you are wenching with this . . . this strumpet! This little scrap of nothing, with her plain face and her pinched mouth! This is what you prefer, Harry? This is what you like, is it, my lord?”

    While Anne was venting her spleen, Jane Seymour was quietly trying to escape through a side door. She did not succeed. The queen saw her sidling away and moved quickly to prevent her. She lunged at her rival, grabbing her arm, and managing to scratch it before the king intervened. “Stop this, sweetheart” he soothed. “Peace be, my love, and all will be well. Think of our son safe in your womb and all will be well. Shhh, Anne . . .”

    Tears streamed down the queen’s face, and her body shook as Henry took her in his arms and rocked her gently, all the while relaxing her with soft words. Bridget saw a flash of green as Jane Seymour ran past her, like one pursued by the devil. She was so intent on flight that she