The Queen's Captive Page 11

  Frances, returning, came through the door, but Mary impatiently gestured to her with an abrupt wave of dismissal. “Not now, my dear. Leave us.”

  Frances looked surprised. She shot Honor a sharp glance that glittered with jealousy. Then lifted her head high, turned on her heel, and walked out.

  Mary pressed Honor again, “You say you hate my sister? Why?”

  “Her father crushed the people I loved. I revered my noble guardian as a father, and King Henry executed him because he would not call the King’s mistress queen. Why do I hate Elizabeth? Because she is the King’s bastard.”

  Mary looked astonished. And thrilled. “You say true.”

  Honor went on, “I loved your lady mother, too, the most generous and righteous Queen, and King Henry cast her out and drove her to her death. The King crushed them both in his lust for Anne Boleyn. Why do I hate Elizabeth? Because she is the daughter of that goggle-eyed whore.”

  Mary was nodding, her eyes glowing with bitter passion. “True. So true!”

  “Your Grace, for Sir Thomas More’s sake, and for your dear mother’s sake, let me serve Elizabeth.”

  Mary gaped at her. “What? Serve her?”

  “Let me serve you, by serving her. I will watch her doings, her private words, and make reports to you. And, if I can find a way”—she lowered her voice to convey her dark meaning—“I will serve her in the fashion she deserves.”

  The light flickered in Mary’s eyes, a vicious flame fueled by all the misery of her girlhood, all her youthful love for her mother that her father had despoiled, and it told Honor that the Queen had understood her meaning. Serve. Dispatch. Kill.

  Honor pressed the point. “I have good cause, as you can see, and if you will give me—”

  “The means?”

  “Yes. I promise Your Majesty, I will serve her well.”

  Mary smiled, as though content for the first time in a long day. “My sister’s present ladies have spent long enough in her wearying service. Can you begin at once?”

  Frances summoned her steward to her small, private chamber near the Queen’s suite.

  “I want you to find a discreet man,” she told him, “and send the fellow to find out whatever he can about Honor Thornleigh. Especially her life in Antwerp.”

  “Send him there?”

  “Yes. He shall have whatever funds are necessary.”

  There was something about the Thornleigh woman’s claims that Frances found odd. Why would a ward of Sir Thomas More, a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine, have spent years living in the Protestant German lands? Her husband’s business kept her there, no doubt. Yet something nagged. Something about Honor Thornleigh’s sudden and so earnest wish to become a friend of Queen Mary. That was Frances’s place. She would not be supplanted by an upstart…or worse.

  “When did you want this information, my lady? Such an investigation could take some time.”

  “Then take it. Be thorough. I want to know everything.”

  8

  The Queen’s Summons

  April 1555

  Riding homeward to Colchester, munching an apple from the inn’s breakfast table, Adam was thinking about ships. A leaner, faster galleon—a new design—that’s what he would build and test if he had the means. Say, two hundred tons, with a length-to-beam ratio of three to one. That would create a hull form below the waterline more like the old, small galleasses, but with a deeper draft. He would keep the superstructure low, sweeping upward from waist to stern, and make a more rakish stem to improve handling in rough seas. He’d place the mainmast a little farther forward, too, and rake it forward slightly—that also would make for easier handling. Imagine the efficiency of such a lean, swift ship. Imagine a small fleet of them.

  Reality blasted his fantasy. Imagine the cost to build them.

  Ships and money. The first was impossible without the second. He had already spent more than he’d planned of the loan he had squeezed from the Antwerp money market thanks to his father’s good reputation, all just to maintain top quality on the one hull now taking shape in Colchester’s shipyard. He needed investment cash to finish this ship, and soon. Frances Grenville would prove her worth there, he hoped. She had promised to introduce him to some wealthy men at court. He glanced down at his brown breeches and sand-colored doublet of serviceable wool, six or seven years old at least. Christ, he’d have to get some clothes. Couldn’t go looking like a bumpkin among the courtiers in their velvets and satins and starched ruffs. A London tailor—that would be more precious cash out the window.

  Strange to think of his stepmother moving in that courtier crowd. For two months she had traveled this road back and forth between the royal court and Woodstock, ostensibly as Queen Mary’s eyes spying on Princess Elizabeth, though her face-to-face reports to the Queen, she said, were invented, toothless nothings. Adam had escorted her on her return to Woodstock this time, then stayed overnight at the Bull Inn and was on his way home now. He had never seen the Princess and didn’t know quite what to make of his stepmother’s new position with her. All very clever, of course, but to what end? What did she hope to accomplish? Her double-dealing with the Queen seemed awfully risky. On the road from London yesterday, he had seen how her old wound troubled her, jostling on horseback, so he had kept their pace slow, but it reminded him of the dangers she was facing and prompted him to ask, “How long can you go on like this? I fear the Queen will see through your ruse.”

  She had shifted in the saddle to ease her discomfort. “You’re the one who said we should befriend those who wield power.”

  “And you said we don’t befriend tyranny.”

  They exchanged wry smiles, acknowledging the odd switch in their positions.

  “Trust me, Adam,” she had said, and would speak of it no further.

  It wasn’t a matter of trust. He had been her enthusiastic admirer from the day she had married his father. Adam had been nine, and she had accepted his wedding gift of a model sailboat he had carved for her, thanking him with all the seriousness of a queen accepting a naval commander’s tribute. In the years since then, he had watched her resourcefully weather trials that would have left other women weeping on their knees. Now, though, it seemed to him that she had sailed into treacherous waters. But he knew little about royal courts and princesses and politics. She did. He must accept that she knew what she was doing.

  Traveling home alone now, he could ride faster and that felt good. He meant to make it back to Colchester in two days, by Thursday. He had arranged to meet Frances on Friday, some saint’s day that she felt was auspicious, to discuss her silly priory. Saint Anselm? Whatever, he hoped that at their meeting he could set a date with her for a few important introductions at court. Get some investment cash flowing to his team of carpenters. If it didn’t flow soon, he wouldn’t be able to launch the ship this summer as he hoped.

  He had left Woodstock when the sky had first blushed with dawn, and now, five miles out, the sun was beaming and the morning was warm with a soft breeze as he trotted his horse down the sloping road toward a hamlet of six or seven poor houses. Robins and warblers choired from the hedgerows. Tree buds were unfurling into leaves of a green so fresh you could almost taste it. Spring had burst in all its full-throated glory. Munching his apple, he watched a hawk spiral on a current of warm wind. A kestrel? It banked and dipped as though in jubilation at its freedom, almost as if it were dancing in the air.

  He craned his neck, enjoying the hawk’s flight, thinking how its soaring had a lot in common with a ship making good way with wind and waves. He longed to launch by August, with luck by July. Kestrel—that might be a good name for her. She’d have to swiftly fly the Narrow Seas to the Antwerp cloth markets to start repaying his debts.

  The road sloped down to a narrow wooden bridge across a stream that bubbled past banks frilled with watercress. As he neared it Adam took the last bite of apple, thinking he’d toss the core mid-bridge and hear a satisfying splash, when horsemen, at least a dozen, came
galloping straight through the hamlet, hell-bent to cross the bridge before him. He felt a tweak of annoyance since he’d reached it first, but he hauled back on the reins to edge his horse to one side and let them have the bridge. There were a lot more of them.

  He counted fourteen as they thundered past him. Soldiers of the Queen, one gripping an upright staff with the Queen’s banner fluttering from it. They were led by a brawny, blond-bearded captain. Adam turned in the saddle to watch them gallop off. They were heading for Woodstock. A shiver touched his scalp. Did their mission have something to do with his stepmother? Had her double-dealing caught up with her?

  He tossed the apple core. It tumbled down the riverbank and was snared by weeds as he kicked his horse’s flanks and galloped back the way he’d come.

  The entrance to Woodstock Palace swarmed with men on horseback. Thirty or forty altogether, Adam judged as he cautiously trotted up to the gatehouse. Some wore a livery of blue and tawny, likely retainers of Sir Henry Bedingfield, the Queen’s man here, custodian of the Princess. Some were soldiers of the guard, in breastplates and helmets. All were armed with swords and rapiers. Horses’ hooves clattered and harnesses jangled, and above it all an officer shouted orders to his men. Some people from the village had come out to watch and stood gawking, keeping their distance.

  Adam looked up at the gatehouse. That was where his stepmother said she stayed with the Princess. For a moment he took heart, thinking they surely would not make all this commotion about her, a mere merchant’s wife. But then he realized that if she had fallen afoul of the Queen, her treason would implicate the Princess in treason, too, a matter of enormous consequences. Treason. The very word churned his gut. He had to get inside, find out what was happening. As he approached the gate a soldier halted him. “Name?”

  “Adam Thornleigh.”

  “Your business here?”

  “I’ve come to see my stepmother. She’s the Princess Elizabeth’s lady.”

  The guard scowled at him. “Today of all days?”

  Dread rose in Adam’s throat. Why not today? What’s happened?

  “Dismount.”

  Adam kicked his feet from the stirrups and jumped to the ground. The guard searched him for weapons, Adam standing with arms outstretched. The guard relieved him of his dagger, searched his horse’s saddlebags, then let him pass. “Say good-bye to her, then be on your way.”

  Good-bye?

  Adam led his horse into the courtyard where dozens more men were milling. There were liveried retainers, and more soldiers, and servants running to and fro hefting baggage and leading horses and packing trunks in carts. The blond-bearded captain of the Queen’s guard, on horseback, was talking to a stout gentleman on foot who gestured with an air of impatient authority. Bedingfield, Adam guessed.

  He spotted a stairway that led up inside the gatehouse. He tethered his horse to a rail, and no one stopped him as he took the stairs two at a time up to the second story. He dodged a couple more servants hustling down the stairs with bundles. At the top he entered a large room with a painted ceiling. He was alone. The room looked barren, as though recently stripped of furniture. The door to an adjoining room was closed. Through it he could hear his stepmother’s voice.

  “Listen to me, I beg you!” she cried.

  Good Lord, was she begging for her life? He lunged for the door and yanked it open. His stepmother turned. She looked pale, anxious. And clearly surprised at seeing him. “Adam!”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Shhh! Come in. Quickly. Close the door!”

  “I’ve no time to listen,” a woman’s voice called from the next room where the door stood open. A bedchamber, Adam saw. “They’ve only given us twenty minutes,” the voice went on breathlessly. “Where’s my silver comb? Where’s my Cicero?” He glimpsed a figure dash past the bed, then disappear. It had to be Princess Elizabeth.

  “Close the door!” his stepmother said again, rushing toward him to close it herself.

  “What’s going on?” he asked “The Queen’s soldiers—”

  “The Queen has summoned her. To London.”

  “To court! At last!” the Princess sang out from the bedchamber. She sounded happy. Adam saw her flit past the doorway again. It looked almost like she was dancing.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “For the Queen’s lying-in,” his stepmother said. “That’s the official story.” Her anxious look told him how little she believed it. “My lady, think,” she called as she hurried to the bedchamber. She disappeared inside, but Adam could still hear her saying, “Why should she ask for you?”

  “The baby,” the Princess said. “It has mellowed her. They say that does happen when women come near their time.” Adam couldn’t see either of them now, but he heard drawers being pulled open, cupboards slammed shut. “It’s the coming baby, that’s all.”

  “Or a trap. To lure you there.”

  The Princess laughed lightly. “No, no, no, you don’t understand. It’s tradition. An ancient custom. All the noble ladies of the realm are summoned to court to attend a queen’s delivery. They’ll all be there, you’ll see. The duchesses and countesses…and me! Oh Lord, to be at court after this mausoleum. I can hardly wait. Music. Dancing. People!” She rushed out through the doorway, then stopped abruptly, seeing Adam. She looked about to laugh as she said, “Here’s one now.”

  The window was behind her and the sun was so bright it seemed to make her glow. But it wasn’t just the sun. She was dressed in a dazzle of gold and green. But it wasn’t just her clothes, either. He’d never seen anything like her hair, a coppery cascade that shimmered like the sea under a ruddy gold sunset. And her smile had a dazzle all its own. It felt like she was giving off light.

  “Stop this,” his stepmother said harshly, coming out and stepping between them. “Think what she’s doing by getting you back to London.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “My stepson. Adam.”

  He went down on one knee. He was glad that etiquette in the presence of royalty demanded it. His legs didn’t feel quite solid.

  “Master Thornleigh,” the Princess said in an impassioned, conspiratorial voice that sent a shiver of thrill through him, “have you ever felt frightened, but also so excited that you simply had to carry on, no matter what?”

  Yes, he wanted to say. Every time a ship under him trembled at the crest of a mountainous wave, about to plunge into its trough. Or right now, as he imagined leaping up and pulling this woman into his arms.

  “My lady, please,” his stepmother went on urgently. “This summons could just be her ploy.”

  “To what end?” the Princess said, her eyes still on Adam. He knew he should properly bow his head, but he couldn’t make his eyes leave hers. “To dare me to show my face amongst the duchesses? I’ll take that dare.”

  “No. To lure you into the Tower.”

  Her gaze snapped to his stepmother, and Adam saw a shudder run through the Princess. The mention of the Tower seemed to terrify her, like a dog once viciously beaten who sees its master’s stick.

  Yet something in her look told him she was facing the fear head-on and carefully calculating the odds. She suddenly shook her head, confident again. “You’re wrong. Quite wrong. Master Thornleigh, your mother is my good friend. You know that, don’t you? I mean, you know my situation, being persecuted by my sister?”

  His head felt like he’d had too much wine. It took him a moment to swallow. “I do, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Then let me explain, and you be the judge. My sister has persecuted me for one reason only, because until now I was the legal heir to the throne, the last surviving person with our father’s royal blood, and she hates that I stood to inherit. But her coming baby changes everything. Don’t you agree?”

  He blinked. He had no idea what to say.

  “Do get up,” she said.

  He stood. The Princess turned to his stepmother. “Don’t you see? The baby will now be her heir, so she can stop pla
guing me.”

  “The baby puts you in even more danger,” his stepmother said. “Until now she did not dare to openly kill the last child of King Henry, for fear of rousing the many lords who support your rights as heir. The baby does indeed change everything, but you have not thought it through. The moment the Queen has an heir of her body, you become expendable.”

  The Princess went completely still. Adam was horrified by his stepmother’s words. For months he had heard her talk of the danger the Princess stood in, but those had been words about a stranger, a distant royal personage. Not this golden, glittering girl. To imagine her death seemed like dying a little himself.

  “Forgive my speaking so harshly, my lady, but we have not a moment to lose.” She hurried to the window and looked out at the massing soldiers. “Tell them you are ill. Feign some sickness. Stay here, in your bed, and say you are too seriously unwell to be moved. That can give us a few days. Enough time for me to contact Sir William Cecil. He is friends with the lords on the royal council who support you. Once he alerts them, the Queen cannot then act against you without rousing them up. It may be just enough to stop her from—”

  “Let me do it,” Adam said.

  They both looked at him.

  “I’ll go to Sir William. I can be in London by nightfall.”

  His stepmother offered a quick, grateful smile. Adam waited. A smile from the Princess, that’s what he was waiting for.

  All her gaiety had drained away, but also, it seemed, all her fear. Her gaze drifted to the window. The look on her face was open, no art in it, a look of pure yearning. As though her mind had traveled past the window, skipped across the courtyard, and sailed over its walls—as though she were seeing the whole wide world that lay beyond. Trees and rivers and fields. People. London. Life. Adam didn’t think he had ever seen anyone so hungry for life. He knew then that she had made up her mind and heart. She had been a captive here for a year, and now the Queen’s summons had opened her prison door a crack and she ached to bolt through it. She was getting out, and nothing his stepmother could say would stop her. He felt a pang of loss, almost as if something had been stolen from him. She didn’t want his help. She wanted freedom.