Queen's Lady, The

by Kyle, Barbara

  She did not share his mirth. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.” He walked around the table, picking up an apple on the way. As he settled back in his chair he tossed the apple from hand to hand. “I could use more of this sort of writing. Powerful, clear broadsides to bring the message home to the literate among our countrymen. What do you say? Can you do more of this kind of thing?”

  Honor heard some inner voice whisper caution. “I could,” she said.

  “Printed in quantity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here, or abroad?”

  “Abroad is safer.”

  “But possible here? Hopkin’s press, perhaps?”

  “Too small. But I know others. It’s possible.”

  “Delivered at my instructions to a safe depot?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled.” He picked up a silver knife and began to peel the apple.

  She watched him, searching for clues to his thoughts, but his face, enigmatic as always, was devoid of any emotion. Though their words of heresy and treason hung in the air his eyes were calmly fixed in concentration on peeling the apple skin in one long, unbroken strip.

  “No, sir,” she said firmly. “It is not settled.”

  He glanced up, surprised.

  “I wrote that pamphlet in anger,” she said. “I am not at all convinced it is a course I should pursue.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I have no time for such indulgences. The missions take up every available hour, and . . . well, to be blunt . . .” She hesitated.

  “Oh, do be blunt, Mistress Larke.”

  “It’s just that your other schemes make no sense to me. I see no sign of progress.”

  “Nonsense. All is proceeding exactly as we want.”

  “We?” she flared. “Master Cromwell, four men have just been burned! Thomas Bilney, Richard Bayfield, John Tewkesbury, Thomas Benet—all dead at the hands of the Chancellor before I could get to them. And poor James Bainham likely to be the next. It is not what they wanted, sir. And I assure you it is not what I want!”

  She saw by his frown that her outburst had finally disturbed him. Good.

  “It is all a question of stages, mistress,” he said calmly.

  “And what stage are we in now, pray? A retrogressive stage? All part of the plan, is it, Master Cromwell?”

  “Perhaps I was wrong not to have explained my strategy to you. May I do so now?”

  She shrugged, weary with wrangling. “Is there a purpose? I really should be going.”

  “There is a purpose, yes. I’d like those pamphlets done, you see. So far, the printed word has not been used to influence the popular will. An oversight, I believe. In the coming battle, I intend to use humble ordnance like your broadsheet to great advantage. May I explain?”

  She sighed, but she came and sat again, ready to listen.

  “After the Blackfriars fiasco,” he began, “the King said something that put everything squarely into place for me. He said, in his anger, that he was sovereign in his own empire. Now, if the King is an emperor, I reasoned, he cannot be subservient to Rome. He can act independently from Rome. He could, for example, stop the flow of Englishmen’s gold to Rome. It seemed to me that just such a—I won’t say threat—but such a sober piece of persuasion might be used to prod the Pope into signing the divorce.”

  “But it hasn’t.”

  “I also knew,” he said, overriding her objection, “that caution must be taken. A stand bold enough to frighten Rome could also frighten our pious countrymen. To most of them the Pope’s place at the head of the Universal Church seems as constant as the rising sun. Fear can cause unrest, and unrest undermines a king’s security. We have the unfortunate example of Henry II and Archbishop Becket to instruct us, to say nothing of the papal interdict under King John when all Church administration was halted and English commerce stymied. No. It would not do to have the people mumbling against this king. He must not appear a tyrant. The cry against Rome’s domination must come from the people themselves.”

  Honor was becoming impatient with the lecture. “But you just said the people are pious and fear change.”

  “I speak, in the second instance, of the people as a political entity. Parliament. If Parliament passed a bill to withhold Church monies, I reasoned, the threat to Rome would be just as flagrant, but the King could not be called a tyrant, for Parliament is, by definition, the people.”

  “Yes, it’s been a clever plan,” Honor agreed irritably. Over her plate she was idly crumbling a crust of bread into fragments. “The King, I’m sure, is delighted. You’ve engineered Parliament to do the dirty deed, and the King and his burgesses are pocketing much of the Pope’s gold. But this threat, this sober persuasion, as you call it, of drastically reducing Rome’s English income has accomplished exactly nothing. All the legislation you’ve pushed through your precious Parliament—the reform of mortuaries and plural benefices, checks on the Church’s commercial operations—all of these are excellent, but what is the result? No scream of pain has yet been heard from the Pope. The Bishops’ courts remain intact. And Sir Thomas continues to send men to the stake.”

  “That is why the time has come to move into the second stage.”

  “Second stage?”

  He smiled. “Politicians, like battle commanders, are only as good as their tactics.” He munched a slice of apple. “True, our course so far has made little discernible progress with the Pope. But look at what we have gained at home. A field newly drawn up, and all to our advantage. The King behind me. The men of Parliament savoring their first real taste of power—and seeing what gold rolls back to them for exercising it. And the Church here trembling, on the defensive. Now is the time to attack.”

  “Attack?”

  “To really threaten Rome.”

  “With what?”

  “The Imperial autonomy of England. Immune to papal judgments. And once again it is essential that the impetus is seen to come from Parliament. The challenge now is to get their support.”

  “Support for what? What in heaven’s name would you have Parliament do?”

  “Declare the King to be the supreme head of the Church in England.”

  She stared, dumbfounded. The King? Supreme head of the Church? The idea was shocking in its brazen originality. Stunning in its simplicity. If the King was supreme he could write his own divorce, sweep clean his own Church. It was masterful.

  Her thoughts suddenly snagged. “But doesn’t this current impasse in Parliament defeat you? I know you’ve maneuvered your latest batch of anti-clerical bills through the Commons, but the bills are mired in the Lords, aren’t they? If the old guard there of Bishops and Abbots is balking at reform legislation, how can you possibly expect them to go even further?”

  “Exactly so. The Lords’ bombastic reaction is ideal. Better, in fact, than I had hoped.” He picked a piece of apple pulp from between his teeth.

  Honor was baffled. “You hoped for the Lords’ opposition?”

  He nodded. “All perfectly predictable. Just as is the Commons’ wrath against the Lords for impeding progress.”

  Honor whispered, “Good heavens.” Understanding crept over her, bringing with it a huge smile. “Master Cromwell, I owe you an apology. I have underestimated you.” She laughed at the brilliance of the scheme. “Let me see if I have it. The more obstinately the clergy cling to their old ways, with no attempt at reform, the more spiteful is the people’s wrath. Pious they are, to be sure, but God is one thing, and greedy priests quite another. Now, you will use the fury of the Commons as a battering ram to beat down the walls of the Lords. And all without you lifting a finger in the attack. It’s wonderful! But can it really work? Are the people angry enough?”

  “They will be,” he said. “If Sir Thomas More’s policies of ferocious protection of Church privilege continue to enrage them.”

  “But of course,” she cried, understanding it
all now. “Oh, that this plan might snare the monster!”

  “And,” Cromwell added pointedly, “if there are hundreds of your pamphlets out there to inflame them.”

  She smiled. “I see.”

  “I thought you might. Then you agree to write them?”

  “Willingly.”

  “Excellent.” He stood. “We can discuss the details later.”

  Dismissal. “Of course,” she said, rising to leave.

  “By the way,” Cromwell said, “I’ve heard something rather distressing. I’m afraid Sir Thomas may have gotten wind of Master Hopkin’s little press.”

  Honor stiffened. “How?”

  “I don’t know. But it might be best to warn him.”

  “I shall. Thank you.”

  Cromwell was leading her to the door. “If you’d like, I could send the message to Hopkin myself. You’re so busy just now.”

  “Would you?”

  “Certainly. Still at his old lodging, is he?”

  “No. He’s moved to Milk Street. Beside Montgomery’s. Oh, Master Cromwell,” she said, touching his arm, “do urge him to contact me. Tell him I’m ready to help if he needs me.”

  He patted her hand. “Indeed.”

  They were at the door. Honor drew aside the brown velvet curtain that hung over it.

  “Mistress Larke,” Cromwell said, “there is one thing more. Your worries about having to rush back to the Dowager Princess are finally at an end. The King has decided to terminate your employment with her.”

  Honor whirled around, mouth open. “What? But why?”

  “His Grace is highly displeased with the Dowager Princess’s insistence on styling herself as Queen. He has declared her staff must be cut back even further. He singled you out especially.”

  “Me?” She was shocked. Why had Cromwell waited to tell her this? “But Her Grace relies on me.”

  “Exactly so. I’m afraid the King can be vindictive when crossed.”

  “Good Lord,” Honor muttered. “What shall I do?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased. A fortuitous development, I’d say. Now, without raising suspicions by quitting her, you are free to do as you like.”

  “Free to see my work founder,” she cried.

  “Nonsense. You can accomplish everything from Chelsea. Sir Thomas is always at Westminster.”

  “I will never go back to his house.”

  “Well, go to another man’s house, then. Marry.”

  “Marry?” she parroted.

  “Thousands do, you know,” he said dryly. “And you can’t live alone.” Honor knew he was right. Municipal ordinances forbade single women living alone, clear evidence, city fathers feared, of a bawdy house. If Honor flouted the regulation she would only draw suspicion.

  “Why not accept one of the suitors Sir Thomas is urging,” Cromwell suggested. “Or perhaps that old Baron from Yorkshire. Duncombe. Been panting after you for months. Even asked me about you.”

  “And lose control of my property to him? Jeopardize all my work?”

  “Oh come, come. The Baron’s in his dotage. You could carry on right under his dripping nose. He’d never notice.”

  Knuckles rapped the other side of the door. A gangly young clerk opened it.

  Cromwell fixed Honor with sober eyes. “Marry, mistress. Marry a quiet man, away from all of this. One day, you may be glad of a safe haven.” He nodded at the clerk. “Come in, Andrew. Mistress Larke is just leaving.”

  *

  Alone with his clerk Cromwell dictated a note: a name, an accusation.

  “Is that all, sir?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes. No, wait. There may be another Hopkin in Foster’s Lane. Better add a notation that it’s the one on Milk Street. Next to Montgomery’s.”

  “Yes, sir,” Andrew said, writing. “To the Lord Chancellor again, sir?”

  Cromwell nodded. “And anonymous again.”

  The clerk pocketed the note and hurried out.

  Alone, Cromwell moved to the window and looked down at the young people tossing the ball under the leafy branches. Would Mistress Larke call one in five a fair ratio? he wondered. One of her unfortunates dropped in Sir Thomas’s path now and then? After all, the more the dragon devoured, the sooner the people would rush out to slay him.

  24

  Shearing Time

  In Yarmouth harbor Honor heard the news. She was delivering the latest refugees, a Protestant couple, to the Vixen for transport, and was surprised to find Pilot Tate, not Thornleigh, in charge of the ship. Thornleigh, Tate said, was too busy to leave home.

  “With wool business?” she asked, recalling it was shearing season.

  “Aye. And with settling his wife’s affairs.”

  “His wife?”

  “Did you not know, mistress? She’s dead.”

  Honor was abashed at how happy—how instantly happy—the news made her feel. She tried to enforce onto her mind a proper respect for the dead. But it was no use. She had never even known the woman. She was glad. Shamelessly, girlishly glad.

  She knew that Thornleigh’s manor of Great Ashwold was only fifteen miles away. If she set out now, she would see him by nightfall.

  It was late afternoon when she dismounted in the courtyard of Great Ashwold. She gave her mare to the groom with instructions to brush and feed her carefully; there was no hurry.

  With a pleasurable flutter of uncertainty in her stomach, she knocked on the big front door. A bearded, shuffling servant opened it. Honor asked immediately for the master. The man showed her to the great hall, then shuffled away. Not even an offer of refreshment, Honor thought, with some amusement at the laconic fellow. Well, no matter. Richard’s face would refresh her enough. She stepped into the hall.

  Thornleigh was alone there. He sat on a stool before the hearth. His back was to her, but she saw that he held a poker, and with it he was absently prodding a piece of charcoal in the dying fire.

  “Richard,” she said, coming to him.

  He looked up at her. His chin was stubbled, his eyes bloodshot. His face was expressionless. “Ah,” he said quietly.

  Her heart twisted. He looked exhausted. She dropped to her knees beside him. “Richard, I’m . . . so sorry.” Moments ago it would have been a lie, but the sight of his haggard face changed everything.

  “Then you’ve heard,” he said flatly, turning back to face the fire.

  “Yes.” She looked around the hall. There was dust on the table, and a smell of decaying fruit drifted from a corner. The floor rushes, crushed and dry, looked as though they had not been changed in weeks. And the house seemed very quiet. “Where’s Adam?” she asked.

  “With my sister. Joan got married last month.” He looked at Honor. “About Ellen . . . did you hear how?”

  “No.”

  “The God-rotting apparitor told her a pack of lies. Frightened her to death.” He smiled bitterly. “No, that’s not quite right. I accomplished that all by myself.”

  “An apparitor? What do you mean? What happened?”

  “They hauled her into Nix’s prison. For heresy. She was awaiting trial when the apparitor came around, sniffing for more business. Told her if she didn’t give the names of her accomplices she would be burned, I would be excommunicated, and Adam would be called a bastard. A beggar woman in the same cell told me about it . . . after.” He shook his head. “All Ellen had to do was abjure, and they’d have had to let her go. But she didn’t know that. She believed the lies. She hanged herself.”

  Honor’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Richard!”

  He did not look at her. “And do you know what evidence those jackals cited to arrest her? One of our good neighbors, it seems, reported hearing her say a Paternoster in English to our son. That was all. A bloody prayer. In bloody English. Oh, yes, very suspicious. Christ, she picked up such things like a parrot—songs, rhymes. It didn’t mean anything to her. I could have told the bastards that.” He glared at the fire and added, “But, of course, I wasn’t there.”<
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  She shivered at the tone of his voice. She didn’t know what to say. “Can I get you anything? Some wine?”

  He ignored her. “No burial in consecrated ground, of course. They pitted her at the crossroads outside the village. But first, because she’d done away with herself . . .” He shook his head and did not finish.

  He did not have to. Honor knew, as everyone knew, the regimen that the Church inflicted on a suicide’s corpse. It was foul with unabsolved sin, the Church taught, and its ghost would never rest unless a stake was driven through its heart. That was the law.

  Honor bowed her head. If she had lacked feelings before for Ellen Thornleigh, she made up for it now with a swell of pity. But, she told herself, what was done was done. Her real sympathy was with the living.

  She leaned close to Thornleigh and lay her arm across his shoulders. “Richard,” she murmured.

  He looked at her hand on his shoulder. He rested his cheek against it and closed his eyes. His eyelids trembled. Honor sensed a battle going on inside him. A battle not to weep? It tugged forth her pity again, but with tenfold the tenderness she felt for the sad, dead woman. She stroked his hair, his cheek. She said his name quietly, over and over.

  He kissed her hand. He turned his face to hers. His pain moved her more than she could say. She nudged closer and brushed her lips over his, softly. She had meant only to give comfort, but the touch of him immediately kindled her. She craved more. She pressed her lips on his.

  His response was instant. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her to him. He kissed her again, harder, longer. She felt his need.

  She pulled free only long enough to stand and move in front of him, between his legs. He looked up at her, his breathing becoming ragged. She bent and kissed the warm skin at his throat. Her fingers pulled at the lacings of his shirt, opening it so that her mouth could move down to his chest. He groaned. His arms went around her waist and he pulled her to him, making her arch her back. He pressed his face against her breasts.

  She wanted more. She slid down against him and knelt between his legs. She kissed his forehead, his cheek—her mouth burned by the rough stubble—his mouth. He held her shoulders tightly, and his kisses covered her throat, then the exposed skin of her breasts.