by Barbara Kyle
“No,” she said morosely. “But if my marriage is your desire, sir, my pleasure is naturally to obey you.”
He frowned. “This is no answer, child. I will not sell you like a chattel to the highest bidder. But here,” he said, poking at the letter on the desk beside the Queen’s message, “here is Sir John Bremelcum writing to open a dialogue with me about you and young Geoffrey. You got along well with the lad when he was here at Christmas, despite his coughs and chills. Good family. And he’s doing brilliantly at Cambridge. He’ll make a first-rate lawyer one day.”
He watched her for a promising sign, but she offered none.
Indeed, her obstinate expression suggested the opposite. More sighed heavily. He rose from his chair, turned his back to her, and gazed out the window. “I would like to have seen you safely and honorably married. The world is becoming a dangerous place.” He added quietly, “Sometimes, I fear we may be standing on the brink of the very end.” He could hear his own uneasiness hover in the stillness of the book-lined sanctuary.
He turned abruptly, suddenly all business. “Her Grace has need of new ladies-in-waiting. Two places have fallen vacant. She has asked that you fill one of them.”
Honor’s eyes grew large.
More frowned and added hastily, “I scruple to send a tender mind to court. Much vice breeds there. The Queen herself is the most virtuous of women—else nothing could make me even consider it—still, there is much vice. Had I given my word on you already to Sir John Bremelcum I would not hesitate to send my regrets to the Queen, for she well knows my promise is a thing I would not break, not for a world of court gold. Yet it is not so. There has been no such agreement with Sir John…”
His voice trailed. He had held off asking her inclination outright, hoping that, given a moment to consider, she might yet decline of her own free will. But he could put it off no longer. “What say you, child, to the Queen’s request?”
She was staring at him, hope glowing on her face. “Are you giving me leave to choose for myself, sir?”
He hesitated, then answered, “Of course.”
Suddenly, all her reticence was swept away by a huge, bright smile. More felt a pang of loss. How instantly the siren song of the court had severed her heartstrings from Chelsea—from him! And yet, her eyes were shining so clearly, so openly devoid of guile, that for a moment he could actually believe that she was making the right choice.
His eyes trailed down to the low-cut bodice of her gown. He noticed, for the first time, the coral and pearls of his gift glistening against the skin above her full, lifted breasts. And she had changed her dress since the morning, had she not? Yes, she had put on a silk one of a gleaming coral color. She must have picked it out especially, for he saw that it perfectly matched the necklace. Saw, too, that it gave fire to her lustrous dark hair and eyes.
He forced his eyes away. Blindly, he grabbed a sheaf of papers as if he meant to begin work. But it was no good. He turned back to her. “Oh, tread carefully, child,” he said. “At court, many pretty necklaces are dangled before the eyes of the unwary.”
4
At Court
“They’re going to cut off his hand?” Honor asked, horrified.
She turned to Margery Napier. The two girls were the same age, and for six months had shared duties among the Queen’s two dozen ladies-in-waiting. They had stopped halfway across a colonnaded outdoor gallery at Greenwich Palace with bundles of the Queen’s furs in their arms. “But why?” Honor asked. “What’s he done?”
The gallery looked down on a cramped quadrangle where a crowd was forming. The quadrangle was hemmed in by the red brick walls of the scullery and spicery, and the gray stone walls of the granary, chandlery, and brewhouse. This jumble of buildings huddled under the perimeter skyline of palace roofs serrated with gables and chimneys where the occasional flash of a gilded turret reflected the watery winter sun.
“It’s the new penalty for brawling on the King’s tennis courts,” Margery answered blithely. Her eye was following a young lordling with a shapely leg as he and his wolfhound sauntered out of an alley. Man and dog left behind them a pattern of black hollows in the powdery snow as they joined the twenty or so people milling in front of a low scaffolding at the wall opposite the gallery.
Honor rested her bundle on the gallery railing. “But men quarrel round the palace all the time, then pay their fines and walk away. None has lost a hand for it.”
“This one will,” Margery said with quiet relish. “The King is in a fume. He says he is ill served by the pack of jackals at his court, and he’s told the lord steward and the palace marshal that he’ll have order.”
It was the first Honor had heard of it. She studied the bright, bird eyes of her friend with a quizzical smile. “You don’t miss a single flurry of the nonsense that goes on around here, do you?”
Margery tossed her head complacently. “I know that the gentleman who’s to forfeit his hand wagered five pounds on a tennis match with Reginald Quince and that Quince lost the match, but would not pay. And I know that Quince got his ugly nose broken for his impudence. Which he heartily deserved, in my book. I’m sure he owes my brother five pounds and more for a night of cards last week.”
“And who’s the unfortunate young brawler?” Honor asked, scanning the crowd, though there was no sign yet of a prisoner.
Margery pouted her ignorance on this point. “One can’t keep up with every wild fellow that roars into court,” she said. “Although,” she winked, “I have heard that he married into money, and while he sports and sparks here to his heart’s content, his wife obligingly waits at home at Norfolk.”
The hubbub below grew more raucous as courtier friends hailed one another and ladies swirled out of the palace in tittering knots. On men and women alike, brocades and silks and velvets in riotous shades of marigold, ladyblush, and popinjay blue set up a hum of color, as if a flock of exotic birds had fluttered down in place of the drab pigeons that regularly pecked here at the granary refuse. The scullery doors stood partway open, and the barefoot boys who scoured the cauldrons peeked out through clouds of steam and dared one another, giggling, to dart out into the throng.
Honor shook her head with a wondering smile. Even after six months with the Queen she was still astounded and appalled by the chaos of the King’s court. As both a private household and a public organization it was a seething snarl of humanity surrounding the royal person. Bishops and peers; priests and prostitutes; astrologers, minstrels and falconers; vendors, wonder workers and sages—all were drawn to forage for the acorns of patronage under the royal oak. The place teemed with intrigue and violence, for every gentleman, nobleman, and churchman was attended by a throng of hangers-on, and this army of servants in various employs lounged and diced and quarreled through the crowded corridors, staircases, and courtyards. Up to a thousand people were fed each day at the King’s table, where grooms armed with whips and bells patrolled the great hall to fend off scrounging dogs and rascals who tried to pass as servants. All men went armed, and daggers were drawn over every slight, real or imagined.
This tennis quarrel was no surprise to Honor; gambling was almost a religion here. Courtiers bet on everything from wrestling matches, to a lady’s virtue, to the amount of wine a banqueting ambassador would consume, and both gentlemen and ladies were expected to play coolly, and for high stakes. The King himself often lost many pounds a day at dice. Tennis, the game most threatening to a man’s purse, was not for the faint at heart.
There was the rumble of a single drum. Honor and Margery craned over the railing at a small procession snaking out under their gallery. Seven men emerged and started to walk across to the scaffold. Honor recognized their white-bearded leader as the royal surgeon. He supervised the maiming of state prisoners. She winced, thinking of the poor, quaking victim who had yet to appear. The grim band of officials filed up the five central platform steps. Margery displayed her skill by identifying them all: “The royal surgeon. Then, the sergeant
surgeon—he’ll be doing the deed. Next, the yeoman of the wood yard, with his man bringing up the block. Then the King’s master cook with his cleaver. Then the farrier with his searing iron…”
She and Honor exchanged queasy glances at the thought of this instrument being used to cauterize a man’s bloody wrist stump.
“I won’t watch this,” Honor declared. “No silly fool should have to suffer so.” She hoisted her bundle off the railing. “And all for a tennis ball. It’s barbaric.” She started to go.
“Wait! They’re bringing him in!”
Margery had caught Honor’s elbow and was pulling her back, and Honor, submitting to a jolt of curiosity, leaned over the railing as the prisoner came out directly beneath them.
They looked down on the man’s head, whose close-cropped, lazy auburn curls absorbed the pale sun and shot back gleams of amber. The head turned from side to side with a languid ease, as if the man were passing through a crowd of well-wishers, and, indeed, the people parted for him with a hush of fascination. His stride was long and loose and self-assured, despite a distinct pigeon-toed inclination of his right foot—or perhaps because of it, as if vanity were not at stake. It was the legacy of a broken bone mended awry, Honor supposed. But though it gave his walk an unmistakable peculiarity he seemed oblivious to the defect, as if it were a trifle that had no bearing on a man’s power, just as a seasoned soldier ignores a battle scar.
He reached the base of the scaffold and stood for a moment with his back to the crowd. He wore a long-sleeved tunic of fine wool, of a green so dark it was nearer black, trimmed at the collar with marten but otherwise plain. Its skirt skimmed his knees where it met the tops of lived-in riding boots. A scratched leather belt as wide as a girl’s wrist drew in the tunic just above his lean hips. A second belt sloped diagonally to an empty scabbard—he had been disarmed for his ordeal—and his left hand rested on the scabbard with a controlled tension as if to give warning that, though impotent of sword, this hand could yet do battle.
He started up the steps where the officials faced him in a line. When he reached the top, his broad shoulders eclipsed the shallow-chested old surgeon. He came to a halt, a head taller than every other man on the platform.
He turned slowly, deliberately, like a noble about to receive tribute. He scanned the faces before him, beginning with those at his feet, so that the bone ridge of his eyebrows obscured his eyes from the gallery. Between the red-brown hair and dark clothing, his clean-shaven face was bronzed as if by years of sun and wind, and the effect, in contrast to the gaiety of colour all around, was of a gilded antique carving in weathered wood. But when he tilted up his face, cobalt blue eyes snapped the carving into instant, vivid life.
He looked up to the gallery where Honor and Margery stood alone. His gaze traveled slowly over both of them, pausing for a moment on Honor. She felt warm blood stain her face and prick the roots of her hair. Then he looked away.
Margery, smitten, let out a puff of breath. “If I had a man like that about I’d want both his hands left on him,” she purred. “Two hands, ready and able.”
Honor studied the man warily. There was a mockery in those defiant blue eyes that shook loose from her heart all the pity she had wrought, in her fancy, for a contrite young hothead. This man was not contrite. And, apparently about thirty, he was not so young either.
The drum rumbled again. The officials shuffled to the sides of the scaffold. The sergeant put a hand on the prisoner’s shoulder. “Richard Thornleigh,” he intoned, “do you stand prepared?”
Thornleigh hesitated for a moment. He blinked at the sergeant like someone who had not fully heard, or had not understood, the question. Then, in reply, he slowly raised his arm above his head and brought it down in a flourish of a bow that was absurdly wide, absurdly dashing. The exaggerated gesture unbalanced him, and he stumbled forward. The sergeant had to snatch him by his collar to keep him from careening into the onlookers.
“He’s drunk,” Honor said, dismayed.
“So he is,” Margery giggled.
The crowd shared Margery’s outlook and laughter erupted.
Thornleigh righted himself and brushed the sergeant’s hands away. He raised his arms to ask for quiet, and looked out over the faces until the laughter subsided.
“Gentlemen, ladies, forgive me.” He spoke with grave deliberation, but in a tone that was a clear mockery of a famous, and pompous, preacher of the city. His hand flattened over his heart. “In contemplation of this moment, I have today drunk deep of sorrow. I only pray God that before the day is out He will not let my sorrow drown me. But,” he added, listing dangerously to the left, and shuffling to a much wider stance to correct the imbalance, “I have also drunk deep of a bottle of sack.” He smiled crookedly. “And a very good bottle it was, too. Perhaps God sent it me for a raft.”
Another wave of laughter rocked the courtyard.
“Oh, Honor,” Margery chuckled, poking her rib, “don’t look so shocked. You can’t begrudge the fellow a tumbler or two to ease his pain.”
“I don’t begrudge him anything,” Honor answered sharply. “I know nothing of the man—except that he blasphemes at a singularly inopportune moment.”
“And that he’s a handsome dog,” Margery murmured, “and brave enough to spit at the Devil.”
Thornleigh was looking out across the people’s heads with sudden soberness. “I have only one request,” he said quietly. The people hushed.
“The penalty does not stipulate which limb is to be forfeit. I ask that my right be spared,”—he raised his right hand high—“that it may go on to do good service to my King.” His hand swept down across his body and grappled the top of the empty scabbard as if to wield his absent sword.
A roar of approval went up from the crowd. Several women sighed. The royal surgeon nodded quick agreement. “Agreed, sir. Are you now prepared?”
Thornleigh drew himself upright. Although the chatter continued around him, his face slowly hardened, and Honor noticed, beneath the defiance that rode the surface of those bold, blue eyes, a deep-drowning flicker of despair. She saw that he feared this moment after all. Well, she asked herself as pity crept back, what rational man would not?
“Now,” Thornleigh barked to the surgeon, “let’s have done with it!”
The surgeon nodded to the farrier. The farrier plucked the red-hot sealing iron from its coals. The royal chef waddled forward and handed his cleaver to the sergeant.
Thornleigh strode up to the block. He scowled at it as if to steel himself for the ordeal. Then, quickly, he straddled the spot, stretched out his left arm, loosed the leather lacing at his cuff, and peeled back the sleeve. He thumped his fist onto the center of the block. Despite the cold, beads of sweat glistened on his brow. With teeth clenched and lips pressed thin together he sucked in a sharp breath that flattened his nostrils and filled his chest. His lip curled, and for an instant Honor thought she read in his face something disturbing—some fierce, aberrant desire that actually welcomed this punishment.
The sergeant raised the cleaver. It glinted in the sun. Honor turned away.
“Stop!” a woman’s voice cried.
All heads in the courtyard turned to a door under the gallery. Honor and Margery looked down. A woman swathed in black sable strode out. Her yellow silk hem blazed below the fur, and rubies glittered on the yellow velvet hood that almost covered her dark hair. It was Anne Boleyn.
The sergeant lowered his cleaver. The crowd parted, whispering. Anne approached the scaffold. Thornleigh gaped at her in confusion. Anne handed up a paper to the Royal Surgeon. He scanned it quickly and raised his head to declare, “The King has issued a stay. The prisoner is released.”
The crowd gasped. Thornleigh, half in a trance, walked stiffly to the edge of the platform. In front of Anne he dropped to one knee. She offered her hand. He stared at it a moment as if overcome with amazement, then he caught it up. She waited long enough to receive his prolonged kiss of gratitude on her fingers, then
silently turned again and walked briskly back toward the palace. Snow swirled in the wake of her furred train.
An uproar broke out. Men swarmed the platform to congratulate the reprieved man. Dogs barked and ran in circles. A lady fainted. Thornleigh staggered under the crush of well-wishers.
Honor caught Anne’s small smile of triumph just before she disappeared under the gallery. My God, Honor thought, she must have been watching and holding the King’s pardon in her hand all along. Yet she had waited, letting the scene reach its horrifying climax before making her entrance as Lady Merciful.
“Well, there’s proof of the hussy’s power,” Margery cried above the clamor. “As if we needed it. As if we weren’t already sick to death of seeing fellows swarm around her, hoping to coast up to the King on the hem of her yellow skirts. This Thornleigh, I suppose, is her newest toy. Hmph!” she sneered. “She helps herself to men the way my lord Wolsey helps himself to pastries.”
Honor was observing Thornleigh. Recovered, he was grinning now. His back absorbed the men’s hearty slaps, but his eyes were narrowed in carnal appreciation as he allowed a buxom, cooing lady to lace up his sleeve while his precious, spared hand hovered over her white bosom.
“And the result of both gluttonies is the same,” Honor muttered, watching him. “A swollen belly.”
Margery tittered. Honor bit her lip, instantly regretting her lewd remark. The man had courage, she had to acknowledge that, even if it was strong drink that had fortified him. But there was an uneasiness tossing in her: she chafed with shame for her royal mistress’s sake. Honor had learned a great deal in her few months in the Queen’s service; she had not been at court one week before she knew all about the royal scandal involving Anne. And here was brazen proof indeed, as Margery said, of the strings that tugged this shabby King!