by Barbara Kyle
At dawn she paced her room. Below, the men awakened on the tavern floor, coughing, farting, moaning, and bickering. Finally, they shuffled out. Honor watched them from the edge of her window. By the stable, they stuffed their saddlebags with bottles, loaves, and sausages stolen from the wizened landlady who looked on in mute despair. Then, in a flurry of sudden military discipline they mounted and clattered out of the courtyard.
Honor waited until noon. But was clear that Cromwell’s agent had utterly miscarried. Her plan to “lose” the brief had failed. It was impossible to remain in this ruin of an inn. The other guests had already fled. The larder had been stripped, and the landlady was slumped on a stool by the hearth, alternately moaning prayers and wheezing curses between pulls on the last jug of wine.
Honor and Owen rode their horses out at a walk. There was no hurry now. The port of La Coruna was only fifteen miles away, and the ship bound for England would not sail until the next morning. They ambled over flat, scrub land where farmers tilled the stony soil. The road descended to a valley where a village squatted in blank-eyed poverty. As they came up out of it, the country became hilly and the wind rose. Honor lowered her head against the dust. She gathered in the flapping, loose neck of her pilgrim’s tunic that hid the leather case, and agonized over what to do next.
Carry the brief back to England? Wolsey would almost certainly have her searched as soon as she stepped ashore. The ruse of lying ill at the Marchioness’s house had only bought her time, but by now he’d know she was gone and would most likely suspect her of dealing for the Queen. Dangerous. But she could somehow let him know that her intention was always to relinquish the brief; Cromwell would intercede for her. And certainly, if Wolsey’s agents confiscated the brief, Wolsey would just hand it over to the King, so the outcome she hoped for would be the same. Curse it, though, the thought of relinquishing it to Wolsey rankled. If that was to be the result of all this trouble, she might just as well drop the brief into the ocean. It was Cromwell she wanted in her debt. In her debt, and in the King’s good graces, and working, with Anne Boleyn, toward a new order.
Well, that grand scheme was obviously not to be. Should she drop the brief into the ocean after all, then, and declare that it had been stolen? That way, at least, the King would get his divorce.
Or would he? Might destroying the brief do more harm than good? The Queen was clinging to the hope it offered; she’d surely urge her lawyers to get her unattested copy allowed as evidence. It could drag on for months. No, only if the King had the original in his hands could he suppress it confidently—deny its existence or declare it a forgery. Otherwise, delay was inevitable. And every day the Church remained ascendant was another day for Sir Thomas to break the brave souls who opposed it. So. What to do?
She and Owen plodded down a hill in silence. Ahead about a quarter-mile she could see that the road narrowed into a bridge over a river. A shepherd was funneling his flock onto the bridge. Honor was despondently watching the sheep when she heard an odd sound in the distance behind her, like the flapping wings of a large bird.
She glanced over her shoulder. On the crest of the hill a man sat on horseback, motionless. His short blue cloak, whipped by the wind, rippled behind him with the sound of powerful, beating wings.
The mercenaries! Honor and Owen exchanged frightened looks. Quickly, she gauged her position. To the left, the road skirted a steep, rocky hill. Ahead lay the bridge—blocked by sheep. To the right, a thick woods sloped down to the river.
She looked back. The man on the hill was moving, descending at a trot. He spurred his horse and began to gallop toward them. Honor did not wait for the rest of the band to appear over the crest. She kicked her horse’s flanks and lit out for the trees. The head start she and Owen had was slight, but she judged that their best hope was to lose themselves in the woods. Bent over her horse’s neck she twisted her head to call to Owen. But Owen, apparently thinking only of following the road and assuming she would as well, was tearing for the bridge. Sheep were scattering before him in a frenzy of dust and bleating.
Honor galloped on alone toward the woods. A shower of stones spewed out behind her horse’s feet. She heard the thunder of hooves pursuing her. She gripped a fistful of mane, and her legs squeezed the horse’s sides. She broke into the first line of trees. Low branches scratched her face and hooked her skirt. She was forced to slow, though every nerve and muscle screamed for flight. Struggling to stifle her own sawing breath, she calmed the horse to a walk, then to a halt.
She listened. The thundering had stopped. And behind, through the tree trunks, she saw no movement. But the unmistakable rustle of underbrush told her that one man, at least, had followed her in. His horse snorted, and she knew that he was very close.
The urge to break out of the press of trees became overwhelming. She kicked her horse toward the blue sky glimmering through branches ahead. Soon she had broken free, and she was filled with relief to find that the woods opened onto a meadow. But fear squeezed again as she looked wildly around at the steep hills. They enclosed the meadow on three sides.
There was a crashing behind her. Without even looking back she plunged headlong into the middle of the meadow. At the foot of one of these hills, she told herself, there must be a path leading out. A cart track at least. She twisted to the left, but as the hill loomed and still she saw no route out of the meadow bowl she yanked the reins and veered to the right. Out of the corner of her eye she saw, with a flash of panic, how close her assailant was, his blue cloak snapping behind him.
A track! There, by a stand of poplars! But it lay even farther to the right, and she had to sharply wheel her horse around. She pulled too hard. She heard her horse’s shocked wheeze as it stumbled beneath her. But she hung on, and righted the staggering animal, and was ready to gallop on to the poplars when she heard the other horse close behind her. A leather gauntlet scraped the back of her neck. It grappled her collar and wrenched her backwards and sideways, tearing her from the saddle. Her palms burned as the reins ripped through her grasp. She thudded painfully onto the grass on her side, the breath beaten from her.
She struggled to stand, but was too dizzy to get farther than to her knees. But she was aware that the horseman was wheeling in a circle back to her. Before she could turn she heard him, behind her, leap down from his mount. His gauntleted hands gripped the back of her pilgrim’s habit and hauled her to her feet. With a violent tug he pulled her to him. The back of her head thumped against his chest. His leg snared hers at the knee, and the hilt of his sword bit into her hip. His arm shot around her waist and seized her opposite elbow, pinning both her arms to her sides. She heard him tear the gauntlet from his free hand with his teeth and spit it out. Slowly, he began a search of her body.
She squirmed. Deliberately, languidly even, his hand smoothed over her thighs, her hips, her belly. She gritted her teeth in silent rage knowing that a scream in this godforsaken spot would be useless, might even draw more of the villains. But if he attempted rape she was prepared to gouge with nails and teeth. If he would release her only an inch!
He grabbed the small purse hanging at her waist and jangled the coins. Abruptly, he abandoned it and continued to search up her rib cage. His hand moved between her breasts. It stopped when it reached the bulge of the hidden case. Quickly, he slipped his hand down inside the neck of her tunic. His fingertips brushed the skin of her breast. He clutched the case, lifted it out, and snapped it from its thong. Honor winced at the sting to her neck.
His leg uncoiled from hers. His arm withdrew. He swooped down to pick up his gauntlet, and then he stepped aside. For a moment Honor staggered at the sudden freedom. Then she whirled on him, nails raised to strike. But he was already striding away from her. She watched, dumbfounded. His back radiated satisfaction as he tossed the stolen prize in the air, caught it, and pocketed it inside the breast of his tunic. He whistled to his horse grazing across the meadow. As it trotted towards him he slung one edge of his cloak over his shoulde
r, and walked out to meet the horse. His easy, disdainful stride infuriated Honor.
And then she saw it. Recognized it in that sauntering walk: the unmistakable pigeon-toed inclination of the right foot. Richard Thornleigh. Her mind flashed associations: Anne Boleyn had prevented Thornleigh’s maiming. And Anne Boleyn was wooing Cromwell to her side. Thornleigh must be Cromwell’s agent!
“You!” she shouted. The word scythed across the drowsing meadow.
He turned. The edge of the cloak partially muffled his face. Furious, Honor ran at him and sprang up to tear it away. But he was quicker. His hands grappled her wrists, hard. She gasped. It was the first time he had inflicted pain, and she was suddenly aware of how useless her nails and teeth would be against his strength. As quickly as he had caught her, he let her go. His face was still half hidden, but as if to confirm her identification he settled his eyes, cobalt blue, on hers.
“Thornleigh,” she spat, as if the name was an accusation. She scoffed at his brigand’s cloak. “Not only late, but hiding like a coward.”
His eyes narrowed at the insult. He slowly lowered the flap of material, revealing his face. And then he laughed.
She glared. “What amuses you, sir?”
“You. Accusing me. Intrigue and double-dealing are hardly the deeds of a proper little pilgrim.”
“You were supposed to meet me at that vile inn yesterday at noon. That was the plan.”
“So it was,” he said casually.
“Well, what befell you?”
“Nothing worse than strong drink, so please don’t fret for my health. The bout was not incapacitating.” His smile was wry.
“Do you mean to tell me you missed the rendezvous…because you were drinking?”
“No. Because it was a stupid plan.” He slapped the gauntlet against his thigh to remove bits of grass. “Was it yours?”
She fumed in silence.
He laughed again. “I see that it was.”
“And so,” she said witheringly, “afraid of the plan’s slight uncertainties, you simply abandoned it.”
He shrugged as if the topic bored him, then started again toward his horse.
She called to his back, taunting, “I had expected Master Cromwell to send a man who would not quake at a little risk.”
He walked on.
“All right,” she shouted, angry curiosity finally overcoming pride. “Why was it stupid?”
He stopped and turned. “Did you know the other people there?” he asked simply.
“What people?”
“At the inn.”
“I have no idea. Travelers. Merchants. Who knows?”
“I know. One’s a vintner from Madrid, name of Gomez. Sometimes trades at Greenwich Palace. Another’s a Winchester clothier. And his wife traveling with him is the sister of Wolsey’s chamberlain. All of you are bound for the same ship. Your meeting with me at the inn would have fueled their gossip for the whole journey home. You may be foolhardy enough to want Wolsey knowing enough against you to breathe down your neck from this day on, but I certainly don’t. Dangerous. And stupid, because you should have known that that fleabag is the only hostel between Santiago and the coast. English travelers always stop there. As for the disguise, the landlady knows me. And I kept it up to pursue you because I saw no good reason to risk your manservant as a witness. As for maintaining it out here, that was for your own good. And mine. The less we know of one another the safer we both remain.” He thrust his hand into the gauntlet and grunted in weary disgust. “Or would have, if you’d been able to suppress your heroics.” He spread his hands as if to say that the litany of reasons should be sufficient. “Satisfied?”
Honor bit her lip, chastised. “Still,” she said, “before you crow about your cleverness, sir, you’d best hope these same travelers you know so well do not recognize you, when you come aboard, as one of the brigands who terrorized them last night.”
“I’ll be returning on my own ship.” His lips curled in a half smile. “No, my lady, thievery is not my usual occupation, though by your face I see you believe the calling suits me. But when I am not wrestling papal scrawls from foolish girls, I have a wool trading business to run. At a loss, at this point. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a cargo and crew to get safe home.” He made a perfunctory bow and added, “pleasant though this chat has been.”
He turned and covered the last few steps to his horse. As he caught up the dangling reins he glanced over at the trees. “Your old fellow will be thrashing through the woods by now, searching for you. Naturally, he’ll assume you’ve been robbed.” He threw her a frown of mistrust. “The mercenaries provided the perfect cover, so at least have the good sense to play along with the appearance of a robbery.”
“Very neat, sir,” she acknowledged tightly.
Ignoring her, he kicked his foot into the stirrup and swung himself easily up into the saddle. “Since I did rob you, you will be telling no less than the truth.” He looked down at her. “Your fellow will probably assume that I have molested your body as well. That part of the story I leave to your discretion. Some ladies find such an experience lends piquancy to their past.” He smiled. “Forgive me if I have not time today to oblige. Though,” he added quietly as his eyes traveled over her body with obvious appreciation, “the temptation is sweet. I recall a kiss that augured well enough.”
Honor could not subdue an indignant blush.
“But sadly,” Thornleigh said in a tone of mock regret, “duty calls me away.” He placed his hand on the prize within the breast of his tunic and lifted his chin with a long-suffering expression, like a knight leaving his lady for the battlefield. Then he snorted a laugh and lifted the reins.
Honor bristled. “Duty?” she said, glowering up at him. “As Cromwell’s agent, or as the Lady Anne’s lackey?”
His smile faded. He tugged at the reins and his horse danced back a few steps.
“Wait,” she said. She walked up to the horse and took hold of the bridle, and asked, scowling with suspicion, “What will you do now with the brief?”
“Carry it to Cromwell, of course, and collect my gold. What else?”
“That’s all this mission means to you? Gold?”
“It has its uses, mistress,” he said dryly. “I own two ships that gobble gold.”
She scoffed, “It’s well, sir, that others have larger dreams than you. Dreams of the new order of justice this divorce may foster.”
His face darkened. “Fantasies of justice are as easily shattered as conjured.” Honor was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “As for the Lady Anne,” he added, his features resuming their lazy indifference, “I wish her well. She has bitten off a large mouthful. I only hope her cantankerous King proves digestible.”
“But I’m sure you’ll be on hand to comfort her should she require consolation. And will you pocket your cash for that task, too?”
His blue eyes flashed with quicksilver anger. Honor was glad. It eased some of her humiliation.
“You spout lofty words about justice, mistress,” he said. “Pardon me if I question their worth when you come here to betray a noble mistress who trusts you with her life’s blood.”
Honor’s heart was stung. She let go of the bridle.
Thornleigh snapped back the reins. The horse tossed its mane and Thornleigh wheeled away.
“Wait!” she cried. Halfway across the meadow he stopped, clearly annoyed.
“My horse has bolted,” she called. “You can’t leave me here alone.”
“The victim and the bandit returning together? Even you can see the idiocy there. Your man will find you. Just be prepared for a bumpy ride behind him to the port.”
His boots thwacked the horse’s ribs, and as he bounded away he called back with a laugh, “Perfect penance for such a serious-faced pilgrim.”
16
Blackfriars
“Henry, King of England, come into the court!”
Honor was so awed by the moment that her knees were trembl
ing. She stood beside the Queen in the corridor outside the great hall of the Dominican monastery of Blackfriars. Inside, the court crier was calling in the King.
Nothing like it had ever been seen in England before—according to the French ambassador, Monsieur du Bellay, perhaps never in all Christendom: a reigning King and his Queen were obeying a summons to appear in a private court set up in their own land, to plead like common citizens. It seemed that King Henry, driven to distraction by Rome’s interminable delays, did not care what admission he was making of the Pope’s right to set up this legatine court in his kingdom. He cared only that the verdict was the one that for two years he had driven Wolsey and his frenzied agents at Rome to wring from the Pope. Divorce.
The crier called out, “Catherine, Queen of England, come into the court!”
Catherine stepped through the massive, arched doorway into the hall. “Here, my lords,” came her clear reply.
Honor walked behind her. Once inside, they paused. The stone walls had been decked with costly tapestries, and sunlight from the high, lancet windows glinted off a million silver threads. On a dais at the far end of the hall the King sat on a throne under a gold canopy, shining in all his diamond and white satin magnificence. His dais had been placed to the right. Slightly lower sat the two judge-legates, Wolsey and Campeggio, splendid in their scarlet robes and tasseled, red Cardinal’s hats. A little lower still, and to the left, was the Queen’s chair. At its foot was ranged the whole bench of Bishops and, at the bar on either side, a rookery of lawyers.