The Queen's Captive Page 9

  Richard went to the stable to check on a newborn foal, and Honor headed for the great hall. When she walked in she found a man standing at the windows, looking out at the distant rooftops of Colchester. He turned, and Honor was surprised to see the ruddy face of George Mitford.

  “I know,” he said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Dragged or not, you’re always welcome,” she said, going to him and embracing him. She pulled back to look at him. She hadn’t seen him since he’d bought the last of her jewels in Antwerp. “But what on earth are you doing back in England?”

  “First, are you all right?” he asked with a frown of concern. She knew it had to do with the emptiness around them. The hall did look bleak, given Richard’s bachelor-like encampment with Adam since their return to the stripped house while Honor was at Woodstock. There were no sideboards laden with plate. No banquettes plumped with cushions. Not a tapestry or a wall hanging to soften the hall’s harsh sounds. She could hardly wait for May, when her flower garden would yield bouquets to waft the scent of roses.

  “We’re getting back on our feet,” she assured him. “It’s slow but sure. We’ll be fine.”

  He nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “You didn’t come all this way to ask me that, did you?”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “My son’s getting married.”

  “Timothy?”

  “Roger.”

  “Roger! Has his voice even changed?”

  “Good Lord, Honor, he’s twenty-two.”

  “And taking a wife—heavens. When?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday. Alice Lowry, a lovely girl. Margaret would have been proud.”

  Honor gave him a sad smile. He had been devoted to his wife, dead for seven years. “Where will the ceremony take place?” she asked.

  “London.”

  “But is it safe? For you?” George was a declared Protestant, devout and outspoken. All very well in cosmopolitan Antwerp, but England these days was a dangerous place for such opinions. It was the very reason he had moved abroad, though his sons had stayed.

  “An old codger like me, I won’t be bothering anyone. And I’m only staying for the wedding. You and Richard will come, won’t you?”

  “I’d love to, George, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll be…away.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Though I’m sure you’d approve.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Not back to your old tricks, are you?”

  “I’m no magician. Tricks are for the young.”

  But it wasn’t true—she was in the thick of intrigue, advising Elizabeth, and later today she was going to push things even further, with Frances Grenville. Seeing this face from the old days jangled her nerves a bit. George had been on her side and still was, of course, but might there still be someone out there from the other side? Someone who knew everything and could set the bishop’s dogs on her?

  “Oh,” he said suddenly, remembering. “I’d like your opinion on something.” He bent to pick up his leather-covered strongbox with the copper bands. Honor noticed a slight tremor in his right hand. Her old friend was getting on, no mistake. So are we all. The thought helped settle her nerves. So many from the old days were dead, and those who remained were out of power, toothless, no threat. Besides, she was accepted now by her community, by the parish priest, and by all Richard’s business associates as the properly conforming wife of a proper Colchester clothier. Adam’s modus vivendi: Don’t rock the boat and we’ll all get along just fine.

  George set the strongbox on the bare dining table, then pulled a brass key from his pocket and used it to open the lock. With the lid lifted, his precious wares winked from their black velvet wells: diamonds, rubies, sapphires. A green leather pouch the size of a melon was tucked in one corner. He took it out, tugged loose the drawstring, and then, giving Honor a sly smile, upended its contents on the table.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her jewels! The ruby earrings, her rope of pearls, the diamond and sapphire ring, her gold bracelets and necklaces of amethysts, lapis lazuli, garnets, and topaz. And, entwined among them, glittering with green fire, her beloved emerald on its golden chain.

  She looked up at George, dumbfounded. “You never sold them?”

  He smiled, enjoying her confusion, her delight. “I gambled you’d pull through.”

  She was so moved, she couldn’t speak. He could have made a great deal of money. Instead, he had kept her jewels safe for her.

  “My banker,” she finally managed to say, wanting to make a jest before her feelings spilled over in happy tears. “Though not a very good one, I must say. Bankers invest their customers’ deposits. You’ll never get rich this way.”

  “Long ago I invested in you, Honor. Invested my life. That’s the only reason I’m around today to see my son get married.” She nodded, grateful for his gratitude. In the old days, George had been one of the Protestants she had smuggled out of England.

  She picked up the emerald necklace and held it to the window’s light. How she loved its green beauty—liquid summer kissed by the sun, caught and held forever. “I’ll buy them all back,” she said impulsively. “Not now, of course.” Jewelry was the last thing she and Richard could afford at the moment. “But one day soon, I hope. I’ll repay you, George. Every penny.”

  “Good.” He meant it, and it made her laugh. Business was business, after all.

  A door slammed. He looked up. Footsteps sounded.

  “It’s Richard,” Honor said.

  “Oh dear.” George quickly scooped the jewelry on the table back into the pouch.

  “It’s all right. He knows.”

  Richard joined them, and she explained what George had done for her, hoping it wouldn’t embarrass Richard too much. He listened in silence, then said, with a nod toward her hand, “Can’t let that one go?”

  She still held the emerald necklace.

  “George, we’ll take this,” Richard said matter-of-factly, lifting the necklace from Honor’s hand. “You’ll sup with us, I trust?” He undid the clasp. “Wine first, then I’ll settle this account.”

  Face-to-face with Honor, he draped the necklace around her throat and fastened it at the back of her neck. He gave her a long look that warmed her like the strengthening spring sunshine. “Queen of my heart,” he murmured, and kissed her.

  She smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  George cleared his throat.

  “Wine and food,” Honor said brightly. “I’ll tell the cook you’re staying.”

  George beamed. “I won’t say no to that.” He settled the green leather pouch back in his strongbox, preparing to close it. A silver rosary glinted against the black velvet. Honor tapped a finger on it. “Supplying the enemy?” she teased.

  He shrugged. “Business, you know.”

  Richard’s words lingered in her mind…Queen…and an idea beckoned. Her hand went to the emerald at her throat, then shot out to George’s arm to stop him from closing the lid. “George, wait.”

  St. Botolph’s Church stood squarely in the center of Colchester, just outside the town’s ancient Roman wall. It had been part of an Augustinian priory built in the twelfth century by William Rufus, son of William the Conqueror, but the priory had been mostly demolished under Henry VIII’s despoiling of England’s monasteries, and all that remained was the church. Its Saxon tower overlooked the sprawling ruins.

  Honor took a deep breath, composing herself for the meeting as she and Adam followed the parish priest, Father Percy, down the nave. The chancel sparkled with Catholic splendors: a huge silver crucifix on the altar, a brightly painted statue of a doleful Virgin Mary, and gorgeous stained glass windows. The priest led them past the chancel and into his study. It was a cozy, paneled room, warm with a fire laid in the grate against the spring chill. As they entered, Frances Grenville stood waiting, hands clasped at her waist, stiff as a sentry.

  Honor had glimpsed her occasio
nally in the years they had been neighbors, when Frances would pass through the town square on horseback in a procession with her kinfolk, but she had never seen her up close. Her first thought: a hard woman. Frances’s body was all angles, from jawbone to shoulders, elbows to knuckles. Her light brown hair, flecked with gray, was stiffly pulled back under her jeweled hat. But there was something arresting in her haughtiness, and shrewdness in the pale blue eyes. Frances’s glance at Adam kindled a flame in her eyes, which kindled Honor’s second thought: Adam, take care.

  Father Percy, a squat, soft-bellied man with the pallid skin of chronic poor health, made the introductions as the two women stood face-to-face. Adam added some good-natured words about working together for the good of the people of Colchester.

  Honor offered her hand in friendship. Frances stood utterly still for a moment, then took Honor’s hand brusquely as though she was eager to get this over with.

  “Mistress Thornleigh. I am glad we finally meet.” Her face showed how little she meant it.

  Honor forced a smile. “Mistress Grenville. The pleasure is mine.” She suppressed a shiver. This was the daughter of the man who had tried to murder her. She sensed a reciprocal shiver in the woman. Honor was the wife of the man who had killed her father.

  Frances’s hand was cold. Honor slid her own hand free. They stood in strained silence for a moment. Then Frances’s eyes darted again to Adam, and Honor knew for certain that he was the reason Frances had agreed to this meeting. So, she thought, the lady and I both have a private reason to put the past behind us and make common cause. She was determined to build on that mutual desire. “It is so good of you to see me,” she said with some warmth, and more sincerity. “I thank you most kindly.”

  “Neighbors are meant to be…neighborly,” Frances said, her frostiness thawing a little as she stole another look at Adam. “Master Adam and I have made a good start, I believe. Father Percy has blessed our joint undertaking.” She gestured out the window to the ruined monastic buildings that had once formed a square around a cloister, and though they were now just stone rubble enclosing a square of brown grass, Frances’s eyes shone as though she could already see the monks padding in and out of their refectory, kitchens, and infirmary. “Is it not a fine scheme? A brand-new priory?”

  Honor nodded. “Rising in glory from the ashes of the old.”

  “Indeed,” Frances said, looking quite taken with the idea. “Like Christ, reborn.”

  Honor had been referring to the mythological phoenix described by Herodotus, but she didn’t press the point. She doubted that Frances had much acquaintance with ancient Greek historians. She had Christian piety instead.

  “Adam,” Honor said, “this partnership is well done.” It was their prearranged signal. She wanted to talk to Frances alone.

  Adam took the cue. He turned to the priest. “Father, I’d like to make some calculations of the old priory so we can plan the cost of the stonemasons. Could you show me around the foundations?”

  “With pleasure, sir. If you ladies will excuse us?”

  When the men had gone, Frances went straight to the window and looked out at the ruins as though Honor were of no significance to her after all. Was she hoping to see Adam striding the grounds, measuring dimensions in paces?

  “Mistress Grenville,” Honor said to her back, “I asked to see you for a reason.”

  “Oh?” She did not even turn.

  “I know you are a dear friend of Her Majesty the Queen. If you will allow me, I would ask a favor.”

  Frances looked over her shoulder with a suspicious frown. “Of Her Majesty?”

  “Of you. I have something that I believe belongs with her.”

  That seemed to puzzle Frances. She turned. “I don’t understand.”

  Honor was unfastening a blue velvet pouch that hung from the belt at her waist. She didn’t open it, just held it in her hand to keep Frances wondering. “Did you know that I once was a friend of Her Majesty’s mother?”

  Frances’s eyes widened in surprise. “You? Friends with good Queen Catherine?”

  Honor nodded. “I served her.”

  Frances’s mouth fell open.

  “It was in my youth,” Honor said. “I was Sir Thomas More’s ward.”

  “Sir Thomas More.” Frances whispered it in a tone of awe. “Who died for Queen Catherine’s cause. And God’s.”

  Honor saw that she had struck her mark. Catholics revered Sir Thomas almost as a saint. She tugged loose the drawstring of the velvet pouch and shook out the contents into her palm. A rosary. Pearls and turquoise beads strung on a silver chain, with a pendant cross of silver inlaid with more turquoise, the color evocative of Queen Catherine’s Spanish heritage. Though finely crafted, it looked worn, a chip in one bead, patches of tarnish on the chain. “This,” she said, dangling the rosary, “was her gift to me. It is my humble wish to present it to Her Grace, Queen Mary.”

  Frances looked rapt. “It was really hers?”

  “Hers. I have cherished it all these years.” A lie. She’d bought it just hours ago from George. In her kitchen she had hammered the bead to chip it, and soaked the chain in strong vinegar.

  Frances gazed at the rosary, and Honor saw her shrewd eyes calculating its enormous sentimental value to her friend the Queen, and therefore Frances’s own increased standing in the Queen’s eyes. “It will be my pleasure to give this to Her Majesty,” she said, and reached out for it.

  But Honor was already lowering it, out of Frances’s reach. “I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to bestow it in person.”

  She poured the chain back into its velvet pouch. Tugged the drawstring tight. She saw that Frances’s eyes were locked on it almost hungrily, a treasure now hidden.

  7

  In the Presence of the Queen

  March 1555

  Waves slapped the water stairs as the wherry slipped alongside the busy landing stage at Whitehall Palace. The wherryman shipped his oars above the gurgle and chop of the Thames. Honor paid him as her manservant, Ned, hopped out onto the wet stairs, then helped her out.

  She instructed him to wait, adding that it might be a while before she would return. She really had no idea what this visit would entail. He ambled over to join a knot of other servingmen lounging on the landing stage, and Honor moved through the wharf’s bustle of courtiers, merchants, lawyers, and priests who had come to do business at the palace. She had to quickly step aside for a lord and his retinue of at least fifteen young gallants, all armed with swords, hustling to board boats bobbing at the pier. From one of them she caught an incongruous whiff of perfume. Other men beckoned wherries with impatient shouts of “Oars!” and “Eastward, ho!”

  The city of London lived by its water trade, and the river was alive with boats of all kinds, their sails leaning from the March wind as though yearning for speed. There were wherries like cockleshells, graceful caravels, tilt boats with tasseled canopies over the heads of gentlemen and ladies, beat-up scullers, rough barges, smelly fishing smacks, and the heavily laden merchant ships that crowded the city’s customs house quays beyond London Bridge. Many smaller boats nudged the city wharves: Blackfriars Stairs, Paul’s Stairs, Queenhithe, the Three Cranes Wharf, Old Swan Stairs, and Billingsgate. From where Honor stood on the Thames’s north bank, the stately mansions of the nobility spread out eastward along the Strand, each with its own private water stairs forming a series of small quays that stretched all the way to the heart of London.

  At this distance from the city Honor could see only one of its three great landmarks, the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the tallest in Europe. Farther east, beyond her view, lay the second, London Bridge, the city’s only viaduct, crammed with its three-and four-story houses and fine shops. Honor could never think of the bridge without a slight shudder, recalling the desperate flight she and Richard had made all those years ago and her horror at seeing him plunge into the water, bristling with arrows, as her terrified horse had galloped on. It didn’t help to envi
sion the city’s third great landmark rising just past the bridge—the Tower, icon of the Queen’s might with its great cannon, its royal treasury, and its hive of prison cells.

  She turned her attention back to the palace, steeling herself for her business here. From flagpoles on the turrets the Queen’s pennants snapped in the breeze, signaling that she was in residence. The sprawling complex, which included a bowling green, tennis courts, a pit for cockfights, and a tiltyard for jousting, rang with sounds of horses, carts, wagons, and voices. Honor caught the sound of many horses’ hooves clopping on a cobbled courtyard nearby within the honeycomb of buildings, and turned to see a hunting party of courtiers returning from St. James’s Park. Across the yard trooped soldiers of the palace guard, a sober manifestation of Queen Mary’s power. Honor was well aware of what a formidable power it was, despite the Queen’s unpopularity. The might of the Catholic Church was behind her, from the pope with his supreme authority in most of Europe, to her cousin the emperor Charles with his immense armies, to the hundreds of Catholic lords here at home with their entrenched, landed wealth and armed retainers. The Queen could count on all of this support. Wyatt, the rebel leader, had learned that lesson at the cost of his life.

  “Mistress Thornleigh?”

  Honor turned. A young man stood looking at her expectantly. He wore the livery of the Grenvilles, complete with their green and yellow badge of an arrow flying above three turrets. Frances’s servant. “Yes,” she answered.