The King's Daughter (8 page)

“In the law?”

“Yes. I’ve specialized in finance.”

“How fascinating.”

“It is. The people one meets, you know. I’ve arranged a loan or two for the Emperor through the banking House of Fugger.”

His modest tone belied the importance of the statement. Honor knew from Richard’s business contacts in Antwerp that the Emperor Charles had been taking out vast loans for years to conduct his ruinous, but never-ending, wars; his armies of mercenaries were cripplingly expensive. The transactions had made the family of Fugger the richest banking house in Europe, and any lawyer who arranged business between these two behemoths of power would be well rewarded for his labor. But why was he
here?
Why had he turned up, all of a sudden, at her door?

“And now?” Honor asked.

“Now, I’ve come home. To England.” His face grew earnest. “Honor, I can’t tell you the longing one feels, after years of exile, to return to the soil of home.”

His candor quite disarmed her. “Yes. I know. I spent twelve years in exile myself.”

“Of course. I’d forgotten. Where did you settle?”

“Antwerp. We tried a year in Seville. There’s a large English community there, doing very well with the trade of English cloth to Spanish America. But there was such appalling persecution in Spain.” She added with a small smile, “I think Richard was afraid I might take on the whole Spanish Inquisition if we stayed. So, back we went to Antwerp. It was a good life. Richard—you never did meet my husband, did you?—he was very successful. Our daughter, Isabel, grew up there. And we still keep a house in Antwerp. But, well, I began to long for the old familiar sights. We came home seven years ago when the Protestant regime here seemed secure. But, of course, in the last few months, all that has changed.” She shook her head. “Dear old England—addlebrained, unstable nation that it is.”

“At the moment, it would seem so … yes.”

Honor heard something in the hesitation in his voice. A testing? A probing?

She felt a flicker of excitement. Could it be …? She decided to probe a little herself. “In fact, there are rumors of great unrest,” she said cautiously.

“There are,” he agreed.

He was looking at her oddly. She decided to edge out a little further. “Some are saying it may lead to rebellion.”

He continued to watch her face. “I have heard as much myself.”

Had he, indeed? Was that what this was all about? Was he involved in plotting a violent change in England’s government? This made-over man with the extraordinary connections? Was that the reason for his unaccountable visit—to sound her out? It would make sense, given the sensibilities they had once shared. Should she say something? No, Richard would call that reckless. He would say she should not show her hand. And he’d be right. After all, even to
speak
of rebellion was, technically, treason. Yet she had to know! But how could she find out without giving herself away?

The silence between them lengthened.

Suddenly he said, “Honor, do you know if any of our … former friends are still in England?”

Had she guessed right, then? Had he come to her because she would know the people from the old days who could be safely approached? The ones whose loyalty could be trusted? But she knew there was little hope of help from that quarter. The only one left was Leonard Legge, the Crane’s landlord. But Edward had never met him and she was reluctant to name him. She and Richard had helped set him up in business, lending him money to buy the Crane, and he had been an upstanding citizen for years; she felt instinctively that Legge would want no part in rebellion. She shook her head sadly. “There are none left, Edward. Some were caught. Some have recently died. Of the ones who got away back then, most settled in Europe, like us. Amsterdam, Bruges, Antwerp. I’ve lost contact, but I’m quite sure none ever came home.” She paused, knowing she must be careful here. He had not actually
said
he was looking for supporters. “I’m afraid you’ll find none of the old faces except mine.”

“That may be enough,” he said quietly. He seemed to be struggling with himself about whether to go on. He stood abruptly and took a few steps away from her. His back was to her. “Honor,” he said, “I am going to be married.”

“How wonderful,” she said politely. “Do I know the lady?”

“Yes. I am going to marry Frances Grenville.”

Honor was more shocked than she could say. The Grenvilles were practically her neighbors. Shocked, and something more. She knew that Frances Grenville was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen—the zealously Catholic Queen. A warning whisper shivered through her.

Edward turned to her with a knowing look. “I understand. You’re thinking: Frances’s father, Lord Grenville, is renowned for his rigid Catholic piety, while Edward is … not. But that was the old Edward, Honor. I’ve changed. I’ve discovered what’s important to me.”

Grenville’s titled status?
she wanted to impudently ask. But she did not.

“And I further realize,” Edward went on, “that there’s not much love between Frances’s family and you. Certainly, Lord Grenville can be a trifle overbearing. I hope to smooth over some of his rougher edges. I know, for example, that he has made some distressing public statements about you and your husband having no clear title to Bradford Abbey.”

Honor stifled an annoyed retort. Last summer, after seven years of building a successful wool-trade business near Great Yarmouth, she and Richard had bought the old Bradford Abbey near Colchester to house their burgeoning clothworks, and had built a new home beside it. Lord Grenville had harassed this enterprise from the very beginning. “The purchase was perfectly legal,” she said, “but he is obsessive about it.”

“It’s his sister, you see. The poor old lady was once the abbess there and she suffered terribly at the time of the monasteries’ dissolution. She refused to relinquish the abbey to the King’s men, I’m told. They dragged her up to the abbey tower and … they raped her. She hasn’t uttered a word since.”

“So I’ve heard, and I am truly sorry for the lady,” Honor said sincerely. “But—”

“I know,” he broke in. “Lord Grenville seems to believe that every non-Catholic who crosses his path is personally responsible for his sister’s tragedy.”

She shrugged. “Or perhaps he just covets our property for himself.”

For a moment, Edward did not answer. Then he said, “Honor, I’ve come to ask … a favor. You see, if Lord Grenville ever found out about my past …” He hesitated, flustered. “Oh God, I know—who better?—that you have every reason to hate me. But Honor—” He stepped close and caught up her hand. She found his touch strangely cold. “I want to make a new life, here in England, with Frances. I want to come home. I hope that you, of all people, can understand that.”

She did. Home. It was all she wanted, too.

He was pressing her hand, waiting for an answer, his eyes full of gentle entreaty. Honor was ashamed. He had not come with news of rebellion; only her overwrought fancy had made her believe so. Nor had he come to threaten her with his knowledge about her. It seemed, instead, that they must hold each other’s secrets safe. He had come simply to plead for peace. And, she asked herself, why should he not have it? Who was she to stand in the way of his happiness? “Of course, Edward,” she answered. “We’re all civilized creatures, aren’t we?”

Edward appeared extraordinarily relieved. And happy. Even his eyes were smiling now. Honor felt the pleasure of having bestowed a gift. “We really must share a glass of wine to mark this reunion,” she said. “And Richard will be along in a moment. And I’ll wake my daughter, Isabel. You should meet them both.”

“No, no, I must go,” he said. “I’m to meet Frances for dinner at Whitehall Palace. The Queen gives her ladies so little time to themselves. But Frances and I have this afternoon together.”

“Ah, then you must not keep her waiting.”

Honor saw him to the door. “I wish you every happiness, truly,” she said. Then she added with a smile that was only a trifle malicious, “And if you find me one day barging into Grenville Hall and beating your future father-in-law about the ears, don’t mind me. I’ll just be smoothing Lord Grenville’s rough edges in my own way.”

Edward looked quite shocked. Honor had to stifle a laugh. “Don’t worry, Edward, I shall be very gentle.”

Across the corridor Isabel was pacing in her room. Her parents’ decree of last night clanged inside her head like the bells of St. Paul’s now reverberating across the rooftops. Antwerp! How infuriating it was—how unfair!—that they who lived so quietly, so annoyingly unstirred by the great events going on around them, should suddenly declare that the rumors of rebellion were too alarming, and that she must run to Antwerp to be taken under her brother’s wing. Did they think she was a child? Did they not understand that she would never desert Martin? Had they been
deaf
when they’d witnessed her betrothal vows to him? Their blindness to the central oath of her life had made her irate to the point of speechlessness.

But she had quickly realized that keeping her mouth shut was actually the best course; essential, in fact, if she was to leave home unobtrusively. Because Martin was not the only one to whom she had made a commitment. Sir Thomas Wyatt was now relying on her, too.

Before they had parted, Wyatt’s condescension had vanished but he’d remained skeptical to her proposition.

“A woman go-between would be less likely to attract suspicion,” she had argued.

Wyatt looked at her hard. “The roads are rough, the weather foul. The going could be treacherous.”

It was Martin who had assured him that Isabel was an excellent horsewoman. “I’ve seen her jump a hedge that many a man would have gone ‘round, sir.”

And Wyatt had finally agreed. There had been a quick exchange between him and Ambassador de Noailles, who’d readily confirmed that he could work with Isabel. Then, Wyatt had simply said to her, “All right,” and headed for the door.

Only then had Isabel felt a stab of uncertainty. The men were about to ride down to Kent, full of purpose, but what exactly was expected of her? “What shall I do, Sir Thomas?” she said, following them through Martin’s great hall.

“Nothing. Not until we’ve raised the standard.”

“But how will I know that?”

“Oh, you’ll hear. You and all of England. Go then to Monsieur de Noailles. He’ll tell you what to do. After that, mistress,” he added pointedly, “we shall be counting on you.” He started to go. Brushing past Martin, he said, “Bid her goodbye, my friend,” and left.

Martin and Isabel stood looking at one another, both too full of feeling to speak. He took her face between his hands and kissed her forehead. Impulsively, she lifted her face and kissed his mouth. He gazed at her as if in awe, and whispered, “You’re wonderful!”

And then he, too, had gone.

No, Isabel thought as she paced in her room while the church bells clanged outside, she would not desert. Martin, Wyatt, Wyatt’s army—perhaps the whole bold venture—all might be hanging on her steadfastness. She would not be on her father’s ship to Antwerp.

Lord Anthony Grenville reached the dim top step of a winding stone staircase in his house near Colchester and paused. An unpleasant odor had snaked into his nostrils. He looked at the wand of candlelight glowing beneath the closed door before him and shook his head. He knew that odor too well. The sweet stench of rotting fruit. Again.

He tapped softly at the door. There was no answer. He had not expected one. He opened the door. Inside the window-less chamber the smell was worse: a rank blend of decomposing vegetable matter, ancient dust, and urine.

But wafting above the stench was the faint, fresh scent of new silk thread. Grenville took heart from that, as always. He closed the door behind him, creating a small gust that made the flames on several white wax candles flare in their wall sconces. He smiled at his sister, seated in her chair and swathed in the soft white wool habit of a Carmelite nun. “Ah, that’s a lovely piece you’re doing there, dear heart,” he said.

Eleanor Grenville made no response. She was bent in concentration over her lace-making table, her long, white fingers winding the white silk thread around the maze of silver pins. Eleanor was fifty-seven and her hands did not move quickly, but they did move expertly—winding, tying tiny knots, snipping the silk with a pair of silver scissors. The fabric taking shape among the pins looked like a fantastic dry snowflake, a variation of the hundreds of soft white creations around her. Eleanor’s handiwork filled the room.

Lace drooped from her work table. Lace hung from the four posts of her lace-draped bed. Lace lay scattered on the floor like drifts of snow. Lace hung from hooks in the rafters, and the candlelight shining through its myriad holes made spangled patterns on the walls, themselves covered with folds of lace. Lace had been worked into caps, gloves, collars, and stockings; into shawls, chemises, christening gowns, and petticoats—garments that seemed created for a race of ethereal spirits, for they certainly would not withstand the rigors of wear in human life. The room was a fairy cobweb of lace.

Grenville stooped over his sister and kissed her forehead. Her skin felt as soft as chalk powder on his lips. “There’s news, dear heart,” he said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “That Spanish mercenary upstart is finally out of the way for good. Edward routed him in court yesterday. Quite a victory it was—a stirring show from Edward, I can tell you. I wish you’d been there to see him. I was proud.”

As if he were not in the room, his sister lifted her head and examined the handiwork before her with the expert’s frown of scrutiny. Drifting in thought, she lifted one finger, as tapered and white as an ivory crucifix, and laid it against her pale, pursed lips. Then she set to work again, carefully winding her thread among the pins.

Grenville unbuttoned his doublet and it took off, already uncomfortable in the eye-drying heat produced by three silver braziers in the room. With no windows, the space remained constantly hot. But that was the way Eleanor liked it, Grenville thought with a sigh. When she had first been brought to the house, he had given her one of the finest bedchambers with a large oriel window, hoping its charm would speed her recovery. But the view was of the neighboring Bradford Abbey’s stone tower, and seeing it, Eleanor had mewed out a strangled scream, then shrunk into a catatonic stupor that had lasted for weeks. After that, Grenville had brought her to this closed chamber where she would not be tormented by glimpses of the world.