The Queen's Lady (33 page)

Edward froze. “They’re coming here?”

“Coming down Poultry Street. Maybe heading for here. Or maybe for Price’s house. That’s worse.”

Her resolution to flee energized Edward. He lunged for the cart to join her.

But Bridget held up her hand to stop him. “No. You’ve got to clear this evidence away. For Price’s sake. For all our sakes!” She snatched up the reins.

Edward’s mouth fell open. “You’re leaving me?”

“I must reach Brother Frish before they do. Don’t you see? We can’t risk losing him!”

“But, Mother . . .”

“Finish here, Edward,” she commanded. “Then run to the crossroads past the bridge. We’ll pick you up there in the cart. Wait for us under the bridge.”

She snapped the reins. The horse jolted into motion. The cart joggled up the lane, turned the corner, and was gone.

Edward swallowed. The metallic taste of fear was as bitter as his humiliation. Damn the preacher! Frantically, he began to scoop up the slimy books. But he was shaking so much that as quickly as he clutched them to his chest they slipped away like thrashing fish.

He heard a shout. He turned to face the lane entrance. A lantern swung into view and halted. It lighted the fog into a murky halo around the fist that held it. A second lantern joined the first one. Then another. And another.

Edward flung the last few books into the muck. He turned and ran. He didn’t know where the lane led. He couldn’t see. The fog was too thick. He heard his attackers’ feet pounding behind him. He ran on, skidding in the mud. The lane narrowed. A wall of boards emerged dead ahead. Buildings rose on either side. There was no way out. Oh, God, to be trapped . . . !

He glanced behind him. Voices were shouting. The crowd of lanterns was bobbing closer, closer . . .

Edward turned to the boards. “Mother!” he cried. With arms raised and fingers clawing the air, he flung himself at the wall.

Snow was falling in London. Bridget Sydenham, sitting on the edge of her grandchildren’s bed, glanced at the flakes drifting down outside the window. She looked back at little Jane and smoothed the dark curls away from the child’s forehead. The boy beside Jane was already dreaming, eyes closed. These were the children of Bridget’s older son.

“Grandmama,” the girl asked sleepily, “must we always add Uncle Edward to our prayers? How long will the evil men keep him in jail?”

Bridget tried not to flinch as she looked into the girl’s eyes. Edward had failed. Master Price was in prison and several others of the Cambridge Brethren too. All because of Edward. But she told herself daily that it must be God’s plan. After all, God had allowed Brother Frish to reach the cart and return with her safely to London. And why? Because Brother Frish was essential to the cause. Could God also have a great task in store for her younger son, even if she could not see it? A glorious task? Every day, she prayed that it was so. And prayed that Edward would be able to meet it with courage. Just as dear Humphrey had.

“Yes, child, keep praying,” Bridget answered. “God wants you to be very proud of your Uncle Edward.” She looked out at the cold white flakes descending, straight and silent. “He is suffering in the name of the Lord.”

17

H
ail clattered against the window like a handful of stones flung by a furious god. Honor put down her sewing and walked past the cradle where Cecily was tucking in her latest child, a daughter. At the window Honor hugged herself against the cold draft that whined in around the panes. She looked down at the gravel path that led from the house to More’s wharf. Beyond, the swollen Thames heaved. No one was out in this weather. The path and the lawns lay deserted, bearing their backs to March’s punishment.

“Sir Thomas cannot be traveling on the river this morning,” Honor murmured. Both she and Cecily had been speaking in low voices, for the baby had just fallen asleep, but this remark came more softly still, and Honor knew she was trying to convince herself. She made her rare visits to Cecily only when she was certain Sir Thomas was far from home. Today, he was at Hampton Court.

“Gracious, no,” Cecily whispered, tucking a shawl around the baby’s feet. “He’d catch his death out in that bluster. You were lucky to make it here before it began.” She beckoned Honor out of the room, a finger at her lips. Honor closed the door gently behind them. As she followed Cecily down the stairs she coughed. Cecily looked over her shoulder in alarm.

“You’ve had that cough since Candlemas, Honor.” She shook her head. “It’s those drafty old chambers at Richmond, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re not given enough wood for fires. Come into the kitchen and I’ll give you some Angel’s Cup. My own recipe. Marigold and sowthistle in warmed ale with a pinch of white ginger. It did wonders for Lady Alice’s hoarse throat.”

They stepped into the hall and Cecily linked her arm in Honor’s. “And I’m sure you’ve lost weight, dear, since I saw you last. Doesn’t the Queen feed you? Though,” she added quickly, “it suits you, to be sure.” She laughed at herself. “I swear it’s God’s nudge at me to forestall vanity that I, who have everything a woman could want, look more like a pudding after each babe, while you shed flesh in that chill, lonely place, yet look more lovely every day.” She glanced longingly at Honor’s waist and sighed. “It’s lucky I set little store by such things.”

They were passing through the hall. At the far end, near the screened passage, Matthew was sweeping the flagstones with a rush broom. At the hearth two of More’s grandsons were playing with chestnuts in front of a low fire. The boys’ spaniel scrabbled across the floor to greet Honor. She crouched to pet it and closed her eyes as it licked her cheek.

“Matthew,” Cecily called, “the fire here is dying and we’re out of logs. Fetch some, would you?”

“Aye,” Matthew murmured, and started toward the kitchen door.

“No, not from the kitchen,” Cecily said. “That fellow’s brought us green wood again. Get some from the malthouse store. It’s seasoned.” Matthew nodded and ambled out into the passage that led to the front door.

“Oh, while I think of it,” Cecily continued to Honor, “I know I’ve given you the package of comfits and marchpane cakes for Her Grace, but don’t let me forget to wrap some of last night’s leg of venison, too, for yourself and her.”

Honor laughed as she fondled the spaniel. “Her Grace may be out of the King’s favor, Cecily, but he doesn’t
starve
her. And I’m sorry to dispel your fantasy of me wasting away in her service, but we sup on beef and beer every evening, and sit before a fire hot enough to satisfy even you of my comfort.”

The front door slammed and she jumped up.
Be calm
, she told herself,
it’s only Matthew going out
. She bent again to the dog.

“Still,” Cecily said, “the court is an unhealthy place these days.” She picked up a boy’s muddy shoe. “Dangerous, too. Look at poor Cardinal Wolsey. A warrant for treason out against him by order of the King. All his wealth forfeited. Then”—she snapped her fingers—“dead before they could bring him to the Tower.”

“But I am no longer at court,” Honor reminded her.

“No, and thank goodness for that,” Cecily said with a vehemence that almost balanced the erratic logic. “But beef suppers or no, I hear it’s not merry in the Queen’s service, either, what with the King ordering even more of her ladies away. Not many of you left, are there?”

Honor shook her head sadly as she scratched the dog’s ears. “Only a handful. Most of those who weren’t sent packing by the King have deserted. Even Margery Napier finally gave in to the pleas of her family and left. Married Lord Sandys’s son.”

“That simpleton?” Cecily grimaced. “Ah, well,” she sighed, “we all do what we must. But you, Honor, you’re like a rock. Running and fetching for Her Grace. Straining your eyes to read to her day and night. Never stirring from her side.”

Honor was about to dispute this hyperbolic picture of devotion.

“Yes,” Cecily insisted, “I think your loyalty’s quite wonderful. And I hope Her Grace appreciates it. Your sacrifice, I mean. You could have married two or three Earls’ sons by now.”

“I believe the Church still frowns on bigamy,” Honor said with a smile.

Cecily laughed. “Oh, you know what I mean. It’s been well over a year since the Blackfriars trial and you’ve stuck by the Queen through thick and thin—mostly thin—when you could have been well settled long before this. So, all I’m saying is, I hope she’s grateful.”

Honor asked herself, not for the first time, why
did
she work so hard to make the Queen comfortable? A penance for her betrayal?

Cecily came close and stroked Honor’s cheek. “Don’t think me a busybody, dear, but I worry about you. I believe this last twelve-month has been more of an ordeal for you than you let on. There’s a sadness in your face I never used to see. And I cannot help thinking that marriage and motherhood are what’s missing from your life. Goodness, most women of twenty have a husband snoring beside them and children scampering underfoot. But you spend your days in solitude with a grieving queen. It’s not natural. It’s not healthy.”

Honor stood. She clasped her friend’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Dear Cecily,” she smiled. “Don’t fret for my sake. I’m alright.”

“Well, you must marry eventually,” Cecily said matter-of-factly. “Woman’s destiny, you know. You can’t wait on the Queen forever.” She started toward the kitchen door. “I’ll just get that Angel’s Cup for your cough.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Honor sighed. The dog rolled on its back, shamelessly begging more attention. Honor crouched again and stroked its warm belly. Its tongue lolled in voluptuous bliss. Was Cecily right? Honor wondered. Was marriage all she was good for? Was she useless, except as a channel through which her father’s property could pass to a husband? Goodness knew she’d been useless enough up to now. The only thing her adventure in Spain had accomplished was to bring Cromwell what he wanted, the King’s confidence. Cromwell said to have patience, but—curse his patronizing—she didn’t understand what he was up to, and there was still no change in sight. She’d betrayed the Queen, and look at the results: Cromwell had advanced, Sir Thomas had risen to the chancellorship, and her grand scheme for a new order had crumbled to dust. What a botch she’d made. As the boys at the hearth burst into private laughter over their game, she looked over at them and could not help envying them their uncomplicated lives.

The door slammed again. Honor straightened and the spaniel bounded to its feet to keep near her, yapping and jumping up to paw her skirt. The boys called out to restrain it. Over the noise Honor hopped backwards, laughing, to get clear of the dog, and bumped into the arms of Sir Thomas.

“Steady, child,” he said with a smile. “I’m mud from head to foot.” From behind, he gently grasped her shoulders to hold her away from him.

She broke his grip and whirled around.

Three men walked in after More. All were soaked and their boots were caked with mud. Cuthbert Tunstall, Bishop of London, was wrapped in a drenched cloak. He headed straight for the fire, shaking water from his wide-brimmed hat. More’s bailiff, Holt, came next with a chain in his hand. The third man was attached to the chain. He shuffled in, his wrists and ankles manacled. He and Holt stopped beside More.

Honor stared at the prisoner. She did not know him. He was a tall, reedy man, almost bald. His lips were purple from the cold. He wore no hat, no cloak, only thin wool breeches, a shirt plastered to his shivering skin, and a dripping leather jerkin. The sight of the jerkin unleashed a memory of Ralph that cut her heart.

“It’s good to see you, child,” More said peeling off his hat, “but where is everyone?” He nodded at the Bishop. “Our guest needs warm wine and dry clothing. Where’s Lady Alice?”

Honor felt her throat tighten. She could not speak. In the silence, the Bishop glanced around at her from the fire. The spaniel sniffed the prisoner’s legs.

Cecily burst out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. “Father! My lord Bishop!” She bobbed a surprised curtsy. “Why, you’re soaked to the skin! Oh, I’m so sorry no one was here to greet you. Lady Alice is stocking wine in the cellar with the vintner, and John and Anne are visiting Meg, and Elizabeth . . . oh dear, we simply didn’t expect you.”