The Queen's Captive Read online

  “Books! Bring me books! That toad Bedingfield allows me nothing but religion. The Queen is bent on making me more Catholic than the pope. I’m choking on those dusty tomes. Bring me books, I beg you. Else I shall die of boredom before my sister gets around to killing me.”

  Honor was taken aback at the defeatist tone of her last words. “Are you so sure she means to?”

  “What else? She hates me. Body and soul.”

  “Yet keeps you alive.”

  “Because she has no evidence! She can find no guilt!”

  She said it so triumphantly that Honor immediately doubted the girl’s former, fatalistic tone. It seemed this Princess enjoyed dramatics. Honor itched to ask her outright if she had indeed conspired with Wyatt in the failed rebellion, but it was not her place to push so hard. Not yet.

  “I will try to bring you a book or two on my next visit, my lady. What would interest you most?”

  She said eagerly, “Philosophy. Science. Poetry. Ask Sir William. Or have him send you to some learned person—they’ll show you what to bring.”

  “Sonnets by William Dunbar, perhaps? On science, Linacre’s De naturalibus facultatibus, translating Galen? For philosophy, perhaps Oration on the Dignity of Man by Pico della Mirandola. And Thomas Elyot’s Defense of Good Women.”

  Elizabeth looked dumbfounded at the litany. “Elyot…one of my favorites.”

  Of course, Honor thought. Elyot had championed the education of women. “I knew him quite well,” she said. “He was a friend of my guardian, Sir Thomas More, and visited us often.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You grew up in Thomas More’s house?”

  “I did.” She knew this was a double-edged sword. It would cement her credibility for learning, but her guardian had famously gone to his death on the scaffold rather than accept King Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn.

  “You are well read, Mistress Thornleigh,” was Elizabeth’s cautious reply.

  “And you are perhaps the best educated princess in Europe. I heard so from my friend and your tutor, Master Roger Ascham, when he was in Germany.”

  Elizabeth’s cool reserve melted into sudden warmth. “Dear Master Ascham. His name is passport enough. You are very welcome, mistress. Now, these books, will you really bring them? When can you come again?”

  “As often as your underclothes need washing. In your daily walk can you manage, perhaps, to fall into a mud puddle?”

  Elizabeth laughed. A lovely sound that touched Honor’s heart, for it reminded her of her own daughter’s laugh.

  “The laundress comes every other day, I think,” Elizabeth said. “Can you do the same?”

  “With pleasure. If the guards remain as compliant as today.”

  “Aspirat primo fortuna labori.” Fortune smiles upon our first effort.

  Honor matched Virgil with Virgil. “Audaces fortuna iuvat.” Fortune favors the bold.

  They smiled together.

  They heard voices, the ladies returning. Honor grabbed the bundle of dirty laundry, ready to leave. “One more book,” she said. “May I recommend Il Principe by Niccolò Machiavelli?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Never heard of him.”

  “A Florentine. Brilliant. Not a favorite of the pope.”

  “Bring it.”

  “I shall,” Honor said. And with it, she thought, I’ll teach you how to rule.

  It was two days before she could get back in to see Elizabeth. When she arrived, still pretending to be the laundress, the ladies were not present but Bedingfield was. A weary-looking, jowled man dressed in heavy brown velvet robes, he was on his knees before an angry Elizabeth. Honor hung back, unwilling to have him notice her, but she observed him carefully. The skin below his eyes looked bruised, shadowed with sleeplessness from the stress of dealing with his imperious prisoner, and his chin, though shaven, was shadowed with a black bristle of whiskers.

  “I tell you, I must present a petition to the royal council,” Elizabeth snapped. “They will not countenance the abuse I endure here, suffering in this miserable, stinking wet and cold. I will ask them to move me to a house nearer London.”

  “But, my lady, you have been forbidden any pen or paper.”

  “Good God, man, how you dwell on details.”

  “No detail, madam. The Queen’s order.”

  Elizabeth almost exploded. “Even a common felon in Newgate jail is allowed to sue for his rights! Am I to be denied even this?”

  “I can but follow orders, my lady.” He started, laboriously, to get up.

  “Kneel, sir, before your betters!”

  He sank back down on his knees with a grimace of displeasure. Honor could see how deeply he resented this treatment.

  Elizabeth’s tight expression showed that she, too, could barely contain her disgust with him. “Since I am not allowed to write,” she explained slowly, as if to a dull-witted child, “you must write for me. A summary of my petition. You will come here tomorrow and I will dictate. You must bring pen and paper and ink. Can you manage that?”

  He managed to say that he could, though he looked like he felt it the worst kind of imposition, fraught with danger for himself.

  “Gratia,” she said with chilly hauteur, “causarum justia et misericordia.” Thank you, for the cause of justice and mercy.

  When Bedingfield looked perplexed at the Latin, Elizabeth shot a wry glance at Honor, and said, “Margaritas ante porcos.” Pearls before swine.

  He looked around to see who she was talking to. Honor ducked her head. Bedingfield, she hoped, saw only a laundress.

  When he was gone it was Honor’s turn to let loose her anger. “You are too familiar with me, my lady. You risk us both.”

  “What, with that toad? He’s as oblivious as a baby. Have you brought books?”

  Honor unpacked them, two small volumes, including the Cicero that Elizabeth had requested. “As your keeper he holds the keys to your comfort or pain. And mine. You would do well to show him respect.”

  “I will not kowtow to an idiot. I am the daughter of a king.”

  “And as such you have some power. But you use it like a child.”

  Elizabeth looked shocked. Had no one ever spoken to her like this?

  “It is you who are too familiar,” Elizabeth said coldly. “Leave the books. Then go. I need no washerwoman’s advice.”

  Honor spent an uncomfortable night at the Bull Inn, unable to sleep, unsure how to proceed. It was going to take time to teach this willful young woman the dangers of the game she was playing.

  4

  Neighbors

  December 1554

  “Richard Thornleigh? Here?”

  It was so shocking, Frances Grenville thought she must have misheard her brother. He had reached her in the outdoor barnyard court where she was overseeing the slaughter of a dozen Christmas geese, and the squawking was hectic as servants restrained the frantic birds and old Mossop’s knife hissed at the whetstone.

  “Not yet,” John said as bitterly as though he’d tasted wormwood. The expression on his bony face was one of grim hostility. It made the scar above his upper lip—a hard, diagonal ridge from the nostril to the lip’s edge—go whiter than usual. “Fanshaw galloped across the pasture to say he saw him riding the road toward us.”

  Frances felt a shudder of terror. The murderer, on his way!

  “I want you to stay here,” John said. “I’ve sent Arabella upstairs with the children. God knows what’s going to happen.” He strode away.

  She hurried after him across the court, disobeying his instruction. “Is he coming alone?”

  He gave her an irritated glance but walked on. “No, six men ride with him.”

  “John, you must call out the archers.”

  “I have.” He added with a snort, “A precaution only. He cannot possibly be considering an attack. He’s a killer, not a suicide.”

  That calmed Frances somewhat. Grenville Hall, with its battlements and moat, had stood for almost three centuries again
st all attacks—not even a madman like Thornleigh would attempt an assault. Especially against the Grenville Archers, so heroic in their defense of London during last year’s rebellion against Frances’s dear friend, Queen Mary. Keeping pace with John, she asked, “Then what in the name of heaven is he coming for?”

  “I have no idea. But he must think he’s invincible with his bought pardon.”

  It made no sense. She knew, of course, that Thornleigh and his wife had come home. Their estate bordered the forest backing that of Grenville Hall, and one heard the servants talking. And she was only too aware that Winchester, the lord treasurer, had wangled a pardon for her father’s killer. Bribes had been involved, she did not doubt. Typical, given the corruption rampant in the royal council, a fractious body that poor Mary had inherited upon taking the throne. The blatant duplicity and politicking of so many of the councilors disgusted Frances. But that was London, and the court. Here at home in Colchester, common sense said that the Thornleighs would stay clear of John.

  She gripped her brother’s arm to stop him. “It’s some kind of trick. Don’t let him in.”

  He frowned, exasperated. “How can I know what to do until he gets here?”

  “John, the man’s a devil. He cannot be trusted.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” he shot back. “I hate Thornleigh every bit as much as you do. But I will be the judge of how to handle him. Now stay here, Frances, and let me deal with this.”

  She watched him go, passing the outbuildings and the stables, heading into the house. She turned and looked across the low stone wall at the snowy, deserted fields that led to the Thornleighs’ lands at the Abbey. It would always be that to her—the Abbey. She could never use the name that upstart family had given the house they had thrown up on the Abbey’s sacred ground. Their encampment was a desecration. And the new name itself, Speedwell House, was grotesque for sounding so homey and harmless. She felt again all the horror of her father’s death a year ago in that very house, beside their very hearth. His mashed face. His bloodied body. And then, the misery of her mother’s melancholic decline, her quick slide into death. Her parents lay in their graves while the one-eyed devil who had put them there was galloping to her door.

  She closed her eyes in fury and frustration. Men’s work. Must let John handle it. She prayed he had the spine.

  But she would not cower in the barnyard, waiting for word. He had interrupted her in the midst of her morning rounds, and she set off now, anxious to keep busy. The bishop was to be their guest tomorrow, and he and his entourage must be entertained in style. John’s wife, pregnant again, idled in her bedchamber most days with her female cousins, eating sweetmeats and marzipan and teaching tricks to her spaniels, leaving most of the work to Frances. But she did not mind. Arabella understood little about managing a great house. Frances was very good at it.

  Crossing the yard, she had to tread carefully on the slick cobbles filmed with the night’s hoarfrost. She looked in at the stone shed where the men were butchering an ox carcass. They were taking their time, some chatting as they stood around the bloodied butcher blocks, others lounging against the walls. She was about to lift the whistle that always hung from her belt, its screech a summons to her steward, Dyer, but the men noticed her and jumped to their business. She would have a word with Dyer about their lazy behavior. Right now, though, she could not keep her mind off the house. Here among the outbuildings she couldn’t see anything at the main gate. Had Thornleigh already arrived? She looked toward the kitchen doors, itching to know what was happening in the great hall. When could she go in? What wickedness was the man up to?

  Cart wheels squeaked behind her. She glanced around. A cart delivering the sheep carcasses. Good—mutton was the bishop’s favorite. She made a mental note to check on the supply of mustard and prunes. Grenville Hall had a reputation for the best festive fare in the county and she was determined to do justice to her late mother’s memory. This year’s twelve days of feasting would not disappoint.

  Moving on to the bake house, she passed through a cloud of clove-scented steam billowing into the cold air. Inside, teams of women, their aprons streaked with cinnamon and golden saffron, were busy turning Frances’s orders into Christmas puddings, custard pies, and mince tarts. She looked across at the brew house, where the yeasty aroma from the vats reassured her there would be plenty of ale for the many thirsty guests to come.

  She looked up at the house again. John had been firm—stay here—yet her curiosity burned. It was no good. She must go in.

  She tugged off the buckram apron protecting her gown, balled it, stuffed it under her arm, and set out toward the house. She was passing the stable when the clatter of the sheep cart became suddenly very loud and someone shouted “Look out!” Frances whirled around to see the wheels sliding on the cobbles and the cart careering toward her, the drayman frantically hauling back on his horse’s reins. The cart rattled past her, but its rear board struck her wrist with a sharp blow that knocked her back on her heels. The bundled apron under her arm fell and she stumbled, groping the air for balance. Servants rushed to her, calling out, asking if she was hurt.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, mortified at the indignity of almost losing her footing. The drayman had stopped his cart and leaped down. He stood wringing his cap in his hands, fear in his eyes. Careless idiot, Frances thought. “Go on about your business, all of you,” she said. They slowly dispersed. The drayman took his seat again and tapped his horse, and the cart squeaked on toward the butchers’ shed. Frances stooped to pick up her apron.

  That’s when she saw blood trickling from her wrist. An exposed nail on the back of the cart? The cut didn’t hurt, but the sight of her own blood always made Frances queasy. A wave of dizziness rocked her. Her vision went cloudy. Her legs buckled and her knees hit the cobbles with a sharp pain. She lowered her head, afraid she might be sick.

  “That’s right, keep your head down,” a man’s voice called from a distance. “Take slow, deep breaths.”

  The quiet authority in his tone made her do as he said. She breathed in deeply, grateful for the cold air. It cleared her head enough to look up.

  The man was coming toward her, his back to the rising sun as it crested above the outbuildings, leaving his face in shadow and the sun gilding the edges of him. Through her slowly clearing vision Frances saw a tall, sturdy body, broad shoulders, narrow waist. A short, dark beard neatly trimmed, and dark hair whose lazy waves were pushed straight back as though to inconvenience him the least. He wore a black cloak and a tunic of fine blue wool, the blue as dark as the ocean at dusk.

  “You’re shivering,” he said as he reached her, unfastening his cloak. He whirled it off and gently draped it over her shoulders, then crouched down in front of her. “Let’s see,” he said, taking hold of her hurt wrist. Frances glanced at the dribble of blood. Then looked quickly away.

  The man reached up higher, right into her sleeve. She shivered at the shock of his fingers. Then saw the tip of her handkerchief peeking out from the sleeve. That’s what he was after—the handkerchief. He tugged it out and pressed it gently against her wound. “You should wash this cut. And can your kitchen maid fetch a good salve?”

  “I have a tincture…sage boiled in wine.”

  “Drink the wine, forget the herbs,” he said with a smile that crinkled the skin at his eyes. The eyes were dark as molasses. “But, of course, the very best remedy is powdered horn of unicorn, if you have some handy.”

  A spurt of laughter escaped her.

  “Ah, that’s good,” he said. “A laugh’s the best remedy of all.”

  The sun warmed an auburn cast in his dark hair. Its tumbled waves reached the nape of his neck and glistened with the morning’s moisture, making her think of chestnuts pulled from a stream.

  Footsteps. Voices. Her servants were back, men and women, surrounding her with questions and concern. The dark-haired gentleman disappeared.

  By the time Frances came through
the kitchen with her cut bandaged, and reached the great hall, she had composed herself, if not the flutter in her breast. She needed composure, for there stood Richard Thornleigh. Her father’s murderer, standing at her blazing hearth.

  John stood across the hall, glaring at him. Ranged behind John were five of his liveried men, all with their fighting hands poised on their sword hilts. Behind them stood seven of the Grenville Archers. Their skilled young captain, Giles Sturridge, looked on, calmly alert. Only flickers of their eyes told Frances they were aware of her. In the tense silence, the fire’s oak logs sparked, but not a single man flinched.

  Thornleigh slowly raised his hands as though he were facing highwaymen. “My lord,” he said to John, “I come in peace.”

  But not alone, Frances saw. A wiry, ginger-bearded man about Thornleigh’s age stood beside him, almost certainly a kinsman. And Thornleigh motioned to four other men behind him, who stepped forward, each holding a wooden box almost larger than he could carry. These four were unarmed, mere household servants, harmless. But Frances saw that Thornleigh himself wore a brightly polished and very lethal sword.

  “Please, accept my peace offering,” he said, motioning his men. They set down their boxes and lifted the lids, revealing trays laden with Christmas delicacies. A whole, cooked suckling piglet, its mouth crammed with a bright red crabapple, its crackled skin studded with cloves. A small bay tree hung all over with dozens of red-ribboned oranges. A baked pheasant, re-plumed in all its glory. A pyramid loaf of pure white sugar a foot high, studded with candied violets.

  The sickly sweet smell of the pig’s flesh turned Frances’s stomach. Did the man think that John’s grief and fury, and hers, could be eased with scraps of food? She wanted Captain Sturridge to fire his whole quiver of arrows into Thornleigh, wanted to see arrows pierce him like the stuck pig he had brought into her home.