The Queen's Lady

by Barbara Kyle

  Thornleigh gently rolled her onto her back in the fleece. His hand moved languidly over her breasts, her belly where her skirt was bunched up, her naked thigh, then back up again to her throat. His callused palm, his gaze on her body, made her shiver anew.

  He smiled. “Honor,” he whispered. His expression turned serious. He looked into her eyes. “Stay,” he said. “Marry me, and stay forever.”

  25

  Resignation

  Thomas More sat on a stone bench in the royal garden at Whitehall, waiting for the King. The alcove in which he sat was quiet, insulated by tall clipped hedges on three sides. Beyond, he could hear faint, raucous laughter from men and women bowling on the green; but here, inside the alcove, bees hummed peacefully among the roses, red and white. The flowers, he noticed, were now past their best. A few brown-tinged petals fluttered to the ground even as he watched. He glanced uneasily at the white leather pouch that lay on the bench beside him. It contained the Great Seal of the Realm, the emblem of the authority of the Lord Chancellor. Today, he would relinquish it to the King.

  More was glad of the peace of this spot. He needed it to compose himself. The strain of his position had become almost unbearable. For months he had longed to resign. He had even begged his old friend the Duke of Norfolk to intervene with the King for permission to retire. But the King had kept him dangling like a worm on a hook. Expected him, like everyone else, to bow and scrape before his strumpet, the Boleyn woman. Asked him to read out in Parliament the opinions of foreign universities, all favorable to this abominable divorce, and all purchased at great expense by Secretary Cromwell. And then the dreadful climax to Cromwell’s maneuvering: the total submission of the English clergy to the King’s demands. The bishops, almost to a man—except, God be praised, old John Fisher—had finally, meekly, signed away their sacred, age-old rights of autonomy. From now on the King would tell the bishops when to convene, what laws to pass, and who could sit on a commission to regulate them. Regulate! Vile word. A Cromwellian word. Would he regulate, like the commerce of cobblers or fishmongers, the earthly representatives of God?

  It had been horrible. A complete rout. And More could only accept defeat. His entire policy since this wretched affair had begun had been to protect the Church in Her hour of need until the King’s lust abated and his piety returned. But More knew now that he had failed. The strumpet ruled, and the Church lay wounded, gasping.

  How could the King allow a woman to wreak such infernal harm?

  A woman. He watched a bee lift from a blossom, its body dusted with golden pollen, and he thought of Honor Larke. Married. Her note informing him of the event had been terse to the point of incivility. Married to a Norwich clothier. A man whom More had never heard of. The news had made him suffer. Why had she done this in private? Oh, certainly it was her right; he could not prevent her. Not unless the match were grossly below her rank, which this was not. But why had she not come to him, consulted him? Her hurt feelings over that dead servant could not possibly have festered all this time. Why had she avoided him for so long?

  The offense of it all cramped his heart. The news, her method, her grudge—and something more. She had chosen for herself. She had refused to accept any of the suitors he had approved, refused to settle into a quiet, Christian marriage. Instead, she had taken a man for herself. A union of love. A coupling of passion.

  His palms were moist. He thought of the man, the one to whom she had given herself. Who was he? Who had made a wanton of the girl? He rubbed his sweaty palms on his gown. He must investigate this. He would send Holt. Yes, Holt would find out. All of it.

  “Ah, Thomas!”

  More looked up. King Henry stood at the entrance to the garden alcove, feet planted wide apart in his characteristic stance of power. More immediately rose.

  “Glad you could make it,” Henry said pleasantly. He made an apologetic gesture that took in More and the bench and then, wiping the sheen of sweat from his florid face, he grinned. “The ladies would not let me leave the bowls, you see.” His jolly attitude almost calmed More’s nerves, though they both knew why More was here: the King had summoned him—with the Great Seal. He could cast More into prison, or strike off his head. And yet, More thought, he sounded like a satisfied merchant welcoming an associate to dinner. What charm this king could wield, when he wanted to.

  Henry strode to the bench and sat. He let out a quick puff of breath, settling his bulk after the exertion at sport. He glanced at the white pouch, then ignored it. “You should exercise more, Thomas. You look wan. Join the young people in their games, as I do. Does wonders for the constitution. Although,” he chuckled, “Anne always beats me. What an arm the woman has!”

  More could not even muster a smile.

  “And she’s full of vim today, I can tell you. I’m taking her with me to Boulogne for this meeting with King Francis, and she’s gay as a child let out of school, what with ordering her clothes and jewels. Gay as a child!”

  More had heard all about it. Henry had sent a messenger to Queen Catherine with an order that she must relinquish the royal jewels to the Boleyn woman. The Queen had refused to do so without a written command from her husband. Henry had furiously scrawled the order, and in the end, Catherine had been stripped of every piece of jewelry, except, at her insistence, her wedding ring.

  “Ah, yes,” Henry finished happily, “my Anne must sparkle. She’ll look a treat beside that faded old woman of Francis’s.”

  More looked away. This was torture.

  “What’s the matter, Thomas? Don’t care for my speaking of Anne?” The bite in the King’s voice startled More, unnerved him. And when he looked back, the King was watching him, his eyes narrowed in naked suspicion.

  Henry suddenly pushed himself to his feet. “Well, you won’t have to listen to much of anything I have to say from now on,” he said, almost growling. “You’re finished here, man. Finished! I won’t have ingrates around me, bruiting it about that I’m a lusting tyrant.”

  The words, though said in anger, had been controlled. But now, Henry moved to the Great Seal and with a sudden motion of fury swatted it from the bench as though he were annihilating all opposition to his wishes. The seal tumbled into the grass between them.

  “Your Grace,” More said, bowing in fear, hardly knowing where his voice was coming from, “never have I said such evil things. Never would I. You are my lord and sovereign.”

  “But not your friend, eh, Thomas?”

  More looked up. The King’s eyes brimmed with hurt, the accusing hurt of an abandoned boy. More could not help but feel pity. “Your Grace did me great honor in accepting my humble friendship,” he said with feeling. “It has ever been a sacred trust with me. And one that I have held most dear. If I have been lacking, it has not been for want of love.”

  Henry stretched out his arm and laid his hand gently on More’s shoulder. There were tears in his eyes. “No,” he said sadly, “that I do believe.” He removed his hand and drew himself to his full height. “But you’ve failed me, Thomas. And that I cannot let go.”

  More felt a coldness in his legs, a dread of what was coming. He wished he could sit down.

  “As your sovereign,” Henry said with formal detachment, “I dismiss you from your office.” He nodded toward the pouch in the grass. “Give me that.”

  More ducked for the pouch and picked it up with trembling fingers. He offered it to the King.

  Henry took it. “Go home to Chelsea, man. Live quietly with your family. And never come my way again.”

  More’s legs almost gave way in relief.

  Henry turned his back on him and walked away.

  Thornleigh stood on London’s Billingsgate wharf, a busy unloading site between the Bridge and the Tower, and shook hands with his London agent, saying good-bye. Thornleigh was on his way across the Channel with the Speedwell to sell cloth at the big November fair in Bergen-op-Zoom. But he’d come into London the night before to off-load a portion of the shipment for his agent
to sell at Blackwell Hall, the national woolcloth market. These last minute arrangements had just been completed. Carters, with the London cloth, were rolling away under the agent’s supervision. Thornleigh was ready to row back out to the Speedwell anchored in midstream. But Honor still had not come to see him off as she had promised. Late again, he thought.

  He wished that she were going with him. He knew she’d love the international fair. And he wanted her beside him. The timing was perfect, with Adam off visiting Joan and Giles for a few weeks. But she’d said she couldn’t leave; too much to see to at the printer’s. This damned pamphlet work she was doing for Cromwell, he thought, annoyed—it kept her in London for weeks on end. He hadn’t seen her since Michaelmas. Well, not until last night. He smiled a little, remembering. At least they’d had last night.

  And, he reminded himself, at least the wild escapes were finished, now that Sir Thomas More had resigned. They could say farewell publicly now, like a reasonable man and wife, not skulk around hiding stowaways. He was glad that was over. Although the recollection of her response to More’s resignation still chilled him. “What?” she had said angrily on hearing the news. “You mean the King is just going to let him go home? No humiliation for opposing his policies? No disgrace?” The King, it seemed, was more merciful than Honor would have been.

  But the rescues were over, thank God. Now, if only she would finish this nonsense with the printing. It, too, was dangerous work; the heresy laws had not changed. He wanted her home, and safe.

  It struck him that maybe she was late because of discussions with Cromwell at Whitehall. If so, maybe he could catch her there. Say good-bye, at least. There was plenty of time before high tide, when he must set sail.

  He walked down the wharf to hail a ferry, dodging the lightermen who were unloading cargoes ferried in from the ships at anchor. Apprentices passed him, rolling barrels of fish and wine, hefting sacks of grain and salt, packing mules with glass from Venice, rope from Sweden, armor from Germany, pepper and ginger from the Levant.

  A ferry banged alongside the watersteps and Thornleigh climbed aboard. The river was calm, at the turn of the tide. It was the best time to shoot the bridge. The water there was compressed by the twenty piers into twenty-one small rapids, and there could sometimes be a difference of five feet in the levels on the two sides.

  The ferry approached the bridge and Thornleigh looked up at a small commotion on it, a knot of people leaning out a gap between two of the shops, shouting and pointing down at the river. Thornleigh shook his head. Animals were forever falling into the water and drowning. Sometimes, people too. The animals became the property of the constable of the tower, a perquisite. This time, it appeared to be a cow. But only last month a serving girl had tumbled in and was rescued by an apprentice. Thornleigh wondered, with a smile, if the constable got the girls, too.

  He looked westward at the bend in the river where Whitehall lay. He wished he could have a week with Honor.

  “Misplaced your wife, have you, Thornleigh?” Cromwell, behind his desk, looked mildly amused.

  Thornleigh bristled, but he let the remark pass. “Any idea where she might be?”

  “Prodding Hopkin at his press, I’d imagine,” Cromwell said, dipping his pen to resume his work. “The pamphlets are long overdue. The man’s a snail.”

  Thornleigh quickly looked around, irritated that Cromwell would speak so unguardedly. They were alone, but when the clerk had ushered Thornleigh into the office, they’d left behind a corridor noisy with milling men, all waiting to bring Secretary Cromwell requests, complaints, gifts. Even a spy or two, Thornleigh did not doubt, waiting to make a report. Anyone might be listening.

  “Don’t worry, man,” Cromwell said tartly, writing. “I do know what I’m about.”

  Yes, but to whose advantage, Thornleigh wondered. If the walls had ears, talk of presses and pamphlets could easily place Honor under suspicion.

  Cromwell paused in his writing and looked up. “More to the point,” he said, “your wife knows what she’s about too. You should have more faith in her. She’s very capable. Leave her be.”

  “I believe I appreciate sufficiently my wife’s good qualities, sir,” Thornleigh said, not bothering to mask his anger. Curse the man’s condescension! “And I won’t waste any more of your valuable time. Good day.”

  “Thornleigh,” Cromwell called to stop him. At the door Thornleigh turned stiffly. Cromwell put down his pen and gestured apologetically with both hands at the messy piles of papers on his desk. “The day has been chaotic. It has shortened my temper. Forgive me.”

  Thornleigh gave a curt, barely polite nod. He waited.

  “I really am pleased about your marriage, you know,” Cromwell said in a friendly way. “A very fine thing for Mistress Larke.” He smiled. “Sorry, I should say Mistress Thornleigh.” He settled back in his chair. “I actually feel I can take some credit for it, too,” he said expansively. “I’m the one who urged her to marry. Did she tell you?”

  “No. But I’m glad you did,” Thornleigh conceded.

  “So am I. And I wish you both joy.”

  Thornleigh only nodded, uncomfortable. Things were clearer, he felt, when he could mistrust the man. Still, there was no good reason to make an enemy of him. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I’ll be off.”

  “To Hopkin’s?”

  “No. Too far out of my way. I must sail with the tide.” He hesitated. “Thank you, sir,” he said sincerely. “For your good wishes.”

  “Oh, no,” Cromwell said with a mild wave of his hand. “Thank you. For giving Mistress Larke a roof over her head when she needed one. She is important to me. And when she was dismissed, I do confess I suffered a moment of alarm about her future.”

  “Dismissed?”

  “Yes. From the Dowager Princess’s suite.”

  “Oh?” Thornleigh felt a pinprick of anxiety. Honor had never mentioned that she had been dismissed. “And when was that?” he asked.

  “Hmm?” Cromwell was already back at work, writing. “Oh, in July, wasn’t it?” he said, half distractedly. “Yes, I recall the day—St. Mary Magdalene’s day—and the King so vexed with the Dowager Princess for still styling herself Queen. Demanded a further reduction in the number of her ladies. I immediately informed Mistress Larke. She was quite upset about the fate of her work.” He looked up and smiled, terminating the interview. “Yes, a fine arrangement for her, Thornleigh. Fine indeed.” He brusquely wished his visitor Godspeed and called for his clerk to bring in the next petitioner.

  The Feast of St. Mary Magdalene, Thornleigh thought as he closed the office door and pushed out through the crowded corridor. That was the twenty-second of July. And Honor had come to him at Great Ashwold not a week later. She’d found him a widower. And her first words, almost, had been, “Marry me.”

  Was that all their marriage was about? A cover for her work? How had Cromwell put it—an ‘arrangement’?

  Nonsense. He shook off the thought. It was an insult even to imagine it of Honor. She was so warm. So happy when they were together. And in their lovemaking she gave him every proof of her satisfaction a man could hope for.

  When they were together. Yet she was so often away, on this wretched work. Suspicion followed him down the corridor like one of Cromwell’s sneaking spies.

  He stepped outside into the bright sunshine and walked quickly away from the palace. That was the problem, he told himself—the murmuring, claustrophobic court. He was glad to be leaving it behind. He took in a deep breath and lengthened his stride toward the river, and the dark imaginings Cromwell’s words had invoked began to slink from his mind and evaporate.

  He climbed into the ferry, hoping Honor might already be waiting for him back on Billingsgate wharf. Yes, he would put the nonsense completely out of his mind. He’d kiss her good-bye, and he would not even mention it.

  It was hot in the printer’s room behind the kitchen, and Honor’s dress was damp with sweat. The air was stale, too, for the shut
ters had been closed against curious neighbors; Honor and Hopkin, the printer, had been working in candlelight for most of the day. As Honor used both hands to roll inking pads over the metal letters wedged into the press bed, a bead of sweat tickled her upper lip. She lifted her shoulder to wipe it away, transferring yet another smudge of ink from her face to her sleeve.

  Her legs and arms ached. Around noon the wooden frame of the frisket had cracked, completely shutting down the work, and for hours she and Hopkin had been wrestling to reassemble the screw mechanism. Now, however, they had got the press operating again, and were turning out a printed page every few minutes.

  “I’m not satisfied with these new letters the foundryman has sent,” Hopkin was grousing as he carefully laid a sheet of virgin paper on the tympan. “He’s not filed the edges properly. Look at that. Just like sand. I’m going to return half of them tomorrow.”

  Honor groaned inwardly at Hopkin’s perfectionism, a constant trial. But she stifled the urge to argue; she would deal with his concerns tomorrow, after they had the pamphlets done.

  The door opened and Hopkin’s wife poked her head inside the room. “Come for supper now, Jonathan. And Mistress Thornleigh, you’re most welcome to stay, of course.”

  “Supper!” Honor gasped. She had no idea it was so late. She ran to the shuttered window and opened it a crack. Outside, it was dark. Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh of disappointment. Richard would already have sailed. She had missed saying good-bye.

  26

  Midsummer Eve

  It was June twenty-fourth—Midsummer Eve, the Festival of St. John the Baptist, and Honor’s birthday. She jostled her way through the crowd in Yarmouth’s market square as bonfires blazed and men and women danced around the flames to the music of pipes. Up and down the street people were milling past garlanded tables of cakes and ale that the town’s wealthy citizens had set out. Girls wearing crowns of wildflowers flirted with young men in fantastic costumes and masks. It was a balmy, starry night, and the whole town was celebrating.