by Barbara Kyle
“Death? What new lie is this?”
“No lie. I have never lied to you. I am marrying this woman to buy her silence!”
She gaped at him. “About what?”
He had gone too far to go back. So he told her everything. All about his stepmother’s heresy trial so many years ago. The rescue. Frances’s knowledge of it. And her threat to use it.
“Dear Lord,” Elizabeth whispered in horror. “What a terrible thing to hold over you.”
Now that she knew, Adam felt an overwhelming relief. Just to know that she understood. But at what a price. In place of his anger there was a bleak hollowness. He had told her, and it changed nothing.
“She is a devil,” Elizabeth said with a shiver. And then, in a tone of awe, “But a devil who must love you very much.”
“If that is love, then let me live in hate.” He heard the rustling of the vast canopy of willow leaves above them and drooping all around them, the arched boughs bending lower than their shoulders, and for a moment it felt like a refuge, a place to hide from the world, as children would. They stood in the canopy’s shadow, but the sun winked through the leaves, sprinkling them with warmth. Everything in him longed to be away from here, with her, and her alone.
“Adam,” she said suddenly, hopefully, “in law, coercion to marry is grounds for annulment.”
“But I cannot protest. Not as long as this queen reigns.” He shook his head. “No, there is no way out.”
They stood still together, lost in the misery of it. The church bell tolled. To Adam it sounded like a death knell.
He heard a quiet cough, and noticed two burly men standing at the corner of the inn, their backs to him and Elizabeth, their eyes on the road. They wore her livery, though their swords and vigilant stances were proof enough that they were guarding her. “Where is the rest of your guard?”
“Waiting at the edge of town. I had to see you. Alone.”
They guarded a royal princess, he thought, the stark reality so clear. “I used to have a fantasy that I could marry you,” he said. “The day we traveled through the snow together, as friends, and that night found each other, as lovers. I was so drunk on loving you I made myself believe I could have you and keep you. But it was a lovesick fool’s dream. Never possible.”
“Then I am a fool as well, for I had the same dream.”
It fired him with such desire it was pain. “You love me,” he said, gripping her arms.
Tears glistened in her eyes. Her chin trembled. “Love you, yes. For the arrow you stopped with your body. For the worlds you showed me—the one we traveled through, and the one inside of me.”
This was harder to bear than her fury. “I cannot have you. You are a princess of the blood. And one day you will take the place of your sister.”
“I may not,” she said, sounding desperately hopeful. “Anything can happen.”
“She has no heir of her body and is past bearing one, even if her husband ever returned. Her throne must pass to you.”
“Others may claim it. My cousin Mary of Scotland, backed by France. Or Philip himself, backed by the might of Spain.”
He said nothing. Princess or queen, she had always been too far above him, and they both knew it.
“I wish I were queen,” she wailed. “I would have the power to stop your wedding. I would forbid it. I would make you free.”
It was tearing him apart. To have her love, but know he could never have her.
“But I am not queen,” she said with a hollow voice that matched the hollowness in his heart. “And the one who is would send Mistress Thornleigh to the stake.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “And so, you must marry. And I must wait for a crown.”
It was hard to stay silent. He could not tell her that the crown might soon be hers, that half of England stood ready to fight for her. That he would fight to the death.
He bent and picked up the whistle from the grass. He lowered the necklace over her head and let it settle on her breast. He slid his fingers into her hair at her temples. “Like flame, I always think. And you, bright as the sun.” He smiled, the saddest smile he had ever felt. “I flew too close to the sun. I had to fall.”
She turned her head and kissed his palm. “Burned?”
“No, made alive by your fire.”
Her tears spilled.
He kissed her tears. Kissed her mouth. She returned the kiss with a passion that Adam knew he would remember until his dying day. He pulled her to him and held her. “Remember me,” he whispered.
“Always.”
And then, he let her go.
A more pleasant Midsummer Day Richard could not recall. A sultry, drowsy morning with just a lilt of breeze. Quiet, too, since half his household was at church to observe the feast day. Half the country, for that matter, which was why he was taking the day at home, away from the organizing work with Adam. The riding, and the danger, had been constant for so many months, it was a blessed relief to take a break. He was only sorry Honor wasn’t here to spend it with him. Besides, over at Blackheath, where she was visiting Joan, she was missing her roses looking their best. Big and blowsy, the way she liked them. He was cutting some for her with his dagger. A bunch of roses beside the bed—she would like that when she got back home tonight.
“No, not that way,” Geoffrey said, lolling back in his garden chair, hands clasped behind his head. “God’s teeth, man, you’re lopping off half the branch.”
Richard nicked his thumb on a thorn. “Christ, I don’t know how she does this without cutting herself bloody. I’m a pincushion. Look.” He sucked the drop of blood.
“She uses gloves.”
“Armor would be better.”
“And she uses scissors. You’re not butchering a steer.”
Richard cut higher, closer to the flower.
“Lord, that’s worse. You’re decapitating the poor thing.”
“There, that’s thirty,” he said, flopping the last flower onto the heap of them on the grass. “Think that’s enough?”
“Enough to sink the fleet.”
“Maybe stick in some of those others?” He pointed to the morning glories climbing the brick wall.
“They’d just fall over. No backbone.”
“Those?” Irises growing around the sundial.
“That would make it a mess of different colors. You need to stick with one.”
“Why?”
“Well, they would, I don’t know…clash.”
They looked at each other. Richard laughed. “Clash?”
Geoffrey chuckled. “Joan would claim some such nonsense. Women’s thinking. It’s beyond me.”
Past the garden Richard saw Captain Boone sauntering over to the house gates. “Like clockwork,” he said, admiring the tough veteran. “No matter how much sack he’s drunk the night before.”
“And for breakfast.”
They watched Boone take up his position outside the open gate. “He’s a good man,” Richard said. “Though Honor hates that brute of a knife of his.” The fellow was never without the long knife, sheathed in its dirty scabbard strapped to his back.
“Fat Mary in the kitchen doesn’t seem to mind his blade, especially out of its sheath.”
Richard smiled. “You’ve got to know our little household too well. Time we sent you back to Joan.”
“The Lord knows I’m willing. All this traipsing around the country is for younger men.” Geoffrey turned serious. “Think we’ll strike soon?”
“Powys hasn’t got word yet from Lord Bedford.”
“What does Adam say?”
“Haven’t heard from him in two days.”
“God’s teeth, I would these high and mighty men could form a plan.”
“Well, my plan today is to finish off that plum pie from—”
A sharp sound made him stop. It came from beyond the gate. Like a scream.
Geoffrey stood up. “What was that?”
Richard’s eyes were on the open gate. He could see nothing but the dus
ty road and trees. But then there was another scream. And a low thunder that he felt judder the ground. Horses. Many horses.
A glance at Geoffrey, then they were both running into the house for weapons, Richard shouting over his shoulder, “Close the gate!” In the great hall he tore open the arms cupboard, yelling “Fletcher!” He snatched his sword.
“Who’s out there with Boone?” Geoffrey asked, grabbing a longbow.
“Not enough.” Damn the feast day. Damn his own lack of vigilance. Fletcher, his steward, rushed in, asking, “What is it?”
“Sound the alarm. We’re under attack.” Turning to go, he ordered, “Geoffrey, stay here. Take Fletcher and Hoby. Guard the house.”
Geoffrey nodded, and Richard dashed out of the hall. Running out the front door of the house he almost collided with James Alford, his clerk, running in.
“Horsemen!” the clerk said, breathless. “Almost at the gate!”
“James, you’re with me.” The alarm bell was clanging behind him as Richard and James ran across the courtyard, Richard yelling again, “Close the gate!” A scatter of servants had come out of various doorways, looking shocked, uncertain. “Arm yourselves,” Richard shouted to them. The men amongst them dashed toward the great hall. The women scurried back inside.
“Close the—” But it was too late. He wasn’t even halfway across the courtyard when the attackers burst through the half-closed gate, horses at the gallop, men yelling war cries, swords slashing. Andrew the brewer was fumbling to buckle on a sword when a blade from horseback chopped his shoulder, slicing off the arm. He screamed and toppled, blood spurting.
Richard faced a charge of pounding horses and swirling dust and bloodthirsty yells. Cut off from James, he was surrounded by horsemen before he could even swing his sword. In the middle of the pack rode Grenville.
“I want him alive!” Grenville shouted.
Men swooped off their horses around Richard. Two grabbed his arms, a third kicked the sword from his hand, another grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched back his head so that he could not move it. Leather ties bit into his wrists as another man bound his arms behind his back.
A thump. A horseman of Grenville’s cried out and toppled from his saddle, an arrow in his gut. Another thump, and a horse with an arrow in its belly staggered and fell, hooves flailing, crushing the rider’s leg beneath it. Another horseman shouted, “Up there!”
At the second-story windows Geoffrey and Fletcher stood with longbows, quickly fitting fresh arrows.
“Stop!” Grenville shouted up to them. “Keep loosing arrows, and this man will get his throat cut. Lay down your weapons and come out peaceably, and he will go free, unharmed.”
“Don’t!” Richard yelled. “He’s lying—”
A fist smashed his jaw. The blow knocked him to his knees.
Geoffrey and Fletcher came out the front door, hands high. Grenville nodded to his archers at one side of the pack. Two archers took aim and their arrows flew, slamming Geoffrey and Fletcher in the chest with such force they fell back as if jerked by wires.
“No!” Richard yelled, but his cracked jaw distorted the sound in a gurgle of blood. Grenville moved his horse up to him where he kneeled in the dirt, and lifted one foot from the stirrup. His boot was the last thing Richard saw as Grenville kicked him in the head.
Adam found the small church empty except for Frances, who stood waiting just inside the door. He took her by the hand without breaking his stride and led her toward the altar. Let’s get it over with.
She stopped before they reached the altar. “I saw a body of men ride through the village in the livery of the Lady Elizabeth.” Her eyes narrowed. “She came to see you, didn’t she?”
“Yes.” He looked around. “Where’s the wretched priest?”
“It is not right, Adam. She has no right to—”
“Let me make the terms of our arrangement very clear. I will proceed with this ceremony and make you my wife, and in return you will agree to keep to yourself, forever, the information you have about my family. This is the boundary of our relationship. I will brook no interference in my business affairs.”
“I only wish—”
“What you wish is not my concern. How we conduct our married life together is. I will manage my affairs as I see fit, and that includes associating with whomever I see fit. Is that understood, madam?”
She seemed about to object, but shut her mouth. She nodded.
“Then,” he said, “we have a bargain.”
“Adam, I know you are angry now. But you will not regret this. I promise. I will make you a good wife.”
“Doubtless, madam. Get the priest.”
The ceremony began. They exchanged vows. They exchanged rings. The ceremony ended. Adam partook of the small feast Frances had ordered at the inn, and he drank a great deal of wine to wash it down. So much wine, that when they retired to their chamber and he bedded her, and brought her to her climax, and his, he rose afterward and left her sleeping and rode away with a head still fogged with the liquor, and with little recollection of having enjoyed his bride.
29
Midsummer Death
June 1558
“Who’s that fellow, I wonder, coming at such a hell-bentpace?” said Honor’s groom, Ned.
Riding beside him, Honor at first saw only dust. The rider and his horse in the distance were a mere speck enveloped in the brown cloud. Gradually they took shape, and she thought he looked like a cavalryman on a charge. “Wherever he’s bound,” she said, “he had better slow down soon.” The road around her and Ned was busy with traffic on horse and on foot, and farmers carting produce into Colchester.
“I wager it’s to do with Princess Elizabeth,” said a nearby man on horseback, having overheard them. He looked smugly pleased with his information. “She’s not six miles down this very road.”
“How did you hear that, sir?” Honor asked, astonished. The last she had heard, Elizabeth was still at Hatfield.
“I saw her,” he replied proudly. “I just came from visiting my nephew in Leaside village, and I saw the Princess and her guard ride straight down the main street. A fine horsewoman, and the fellows with her all in her red livery. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.”
Could Elizabeth be coming to visit Speedwell House? Honor wondered. “Was she riding east or west, sir?”
“West, mistress. Mayhap on her way to London town.”
Away from Speedwell House, then. It was puzzling. What would have brought Elizabeth into this vicinity? Visiting Lord Powys? Had someone finally told her about the risky preparations being made in her name?
It made Honor all the more eager to get home. She had left Joan’s house at Blackheath as soon as she’d got Richard’s message that he was home for a brief visit. The stockpiling of weapons had kept him away so long, and was sure to take him away again soon to rejoin Adam, and she didn’t want to lose even an hour of this time with him. She wanted to hear everything. Who were the latest recruits of note? How close were they to a coordinated uprising? The cause had drawn so much clandestine support that she dared to hope success was now possible—bring down Queen Mary, raise up Elizabeth, and thus eclipse the power of John Grenville. As she idly watched the rider gallop nearer, she imagined how sweet it would be to sit with Richard in the garden on this lovely Midsummer Day, among her roses, and hear his stirring news.
That was the last thought she had before the rider thundered to a stop in front of her, and the last moment of peace she was to know. His news brought the end of her world.
“My lady, you are undone! We are all undone!” He was no soldier hardened to rough riding, he was the young apprentice of her brewer, and he juddered to a stop, gasping for breath, and almost toppled sideways from the saddle in nervous exhaustion. “They attacked us! It is all ruin! It was terrible! Terrible!” He lowered his head to gulp down air.
“Attacked? Who?”
“Villains!”
“Thieves?” Ned, her groom, asked
in shock.
“Murderers!” The young man looked up, his face ashen. “Lord Grenville…and an army. Blessed Jesu, my master is dead!”
Honor froze. “Master Thornleigh?”
“My master!” he wailed. The brewer, she realized. “It was slaughter! So sudden…our men could not fight.”
Slaughter. “My husband, is he—” She could not say the word.
Ned burst in. “Did they kill Master Thornleigh?”
“Yes! They must have.”
“Did you see it?” she cried.
“What? No, it was terrible…they were all around him with swords and knives and—”
“Then is he dead or no?” Ned demanded.
“I…I know not. They…I think they took him.”
Took him. She looked homeward. Four miles. Adam was somewhere north, safe, thank God. With her good arm she whipped her startled horse into a trot, then kicked until it galloped. She pounded down the road toward home, hanging on, kicking the horse until its skin wept blood.
Speedwell House was in flames.
Honor stopped at the smashed-open gate. Orange flames writhed over the black skeleton of her house, the fire so loud it roared in her ears and blasted her with scorching gusts. All around it the outbuildings were on fire. People were running, shouting. Some were crying. A metallic smell of blood smoked the air.
Honor’s terrified horse stumbled and reared. She clung to the saddle, and when the hooves thudded down again she saw three bodies sprawled in dirt and blood. Richard had posted these men at the gate. One lay on his stomach with an arrow between his shoulder blades. Beside it, a long knife was sheathed in the scabbard on his back. Captain Boone. She thought, This veteran soldier had not had the chance even to draw his knife. What chance could Richard have had against such a lightning attack?
The fire, the smell of blood, the shouting—it all made her horse so frantic it was staggering in circles. She no longer had any control of the animal. She abandoned the reins and tried to slide out of the saddle, but it was impossible with only one good arm and the horse’s wild motion, and she hit the ground in a painful sprawl. The horse bolted.