The Queen's Lady (53 page)

She felt a tug of pity for two other women, two unhappy Queens. Anne Boleyn had been delivered of her first child, a girl, not the son the King craved. The princess had been christened Elizabeth, but Honor had heard that the King, foul-tempered with disappointment, had stayed away from the ceremony. And Honor thought of Queen Catherine. The fearful, dithering Pope had finally declared his verdict in the divorce, seven long years after the King had first requested it. And when it came, it seemed like some cruel jest on all concerned: the Pope had pronounced in favor of Catherine. Much good it did the lady now, Honor thought, locked away with her rosary, her prie-dieu, and her confessor in her bleak house on the fens.

She shrugged off these gloomy thoughts and turned back to Frish’s news. He rambled on in high spirits about his absorbing work in Antwerp with William Tyndale. They were embarked, he wrote, on learning Hebrew in order to tackle a translation of the Old Testament, one that he hoped would match Erasmus’s ground-breaking translation fourteen years before of the New Testament from the original Greek. The task would take years, Frish said, but he had never been happier. He closed, sending her his love and benediction. She folded the paper. Brother Frish, it was quite clear, was hale and hearty.

She picked up Erasmus’s letter and tore open the seal, eager to hear his witty version of the news from Freiburg where he now lived. But his familiar, gently mocking voice was now strained with discouragement. Religious battles, he wrote, had sunk the German territories into ghastly bloodshed. She had known, of course, that the Lutheran Evangelicals had taken many German cities and Swiss cantons from the Catholic authorities with the force of arms; she knew, too, that in the fighting, both sides had brandished Erasmus’s writings as moral ammunition. He wrote her now that, had he known an age like theirs was coming, he would never have written many of the things he had.

This saddened her. Erasmus had been one of the first and certainly the most eminent to accuse the old Church of decadence and decay. Years ago he had even congratulated Luther for “seizing the Pope by his tiara and the priests by their paunches,” and had hoped that much good would come of the German monk’s radical ideas.

But, [he wrote to Honor now] just look at the Evangelical people. Have they become any better? Show me a man among them whom their Gospel has changed from a drunkard to a temperate man, from a brute to a gentle creature, from a miser to a liberal person. There are few. Many have actually degenerated. I have never been in their churches, but I have seen them return from hearing the sermon, as if inspired by an evil spirit, the faces of all showing a curious wrath and ferocity.

Honor hurriedly scanned the rest of the dispiriting letter, barely taking it in. She had no desire to think of bloodshed and religious hatred, not on this bright morning. Besides, there was no time to loll about any longer; a full day lay ahead. Adam would soon be in the hall waiting for his Latin lesson with her, and there were arrangements to be made for the upcoming visit of Thornleigh’s sister and her husband. And, if enough time could be snatched for herself, Honor thought, she might make some headway today on a treatise she was writing, calling for reform of England’s still unchanged heresy laws. She went up on her knees to quickly finish washing, and then she remembered the third letter. She reached for it. It was plain, white, with no distinguishing marks.

Madam,

After my right hearty commendations, and trusting this intrusion on your quietness which you bade me not disturb will be forgiven when you know the cause, I am enforced to write my mind plainly unto you.

A grave matter has arisen touching the King’s Grace. It requires your immediate presence here. Forgive the silence of this letter, but more cannot be said until it be said unto your face, that I may therein know your mind.

Therefore come, madam, and come posthaste. I urge this of you, both in the discharge of my duty to the King’s Grace and in the manifestation of my hearty good will which I bear unto you.

From London, this 10th day of March,

Thos. Cromwell

Honor heard boots thud in the passage—a man’s heavy tread, approaching. Cromwell’s letter fluttered to the floor as Honor instinctively folded her arms across her breasts. Only then did she think of the letters. Quickly, she leaned over the tub, grabbed the two pages on the stool and shoved them, with Cromwell’s letter, underneath the stool. She dropped the lavender pouch on top to cover them.

The door swung open. Thornleigh was several strides into the room, absently sorting a handful of papers, when he noticed her. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, stopping. “Left a receipt in here.”

Honor relaxed. Still kneeling, she sat back on her heels, and her hands splashed softly into the hip-high water to pick up the soap. A smile crept over her lips; she loved the way his presence overpowered any room he entered. She watched him now as he scratched his cheek. The beard had long gone. A rush of warmth swept her as she remembered waking up in bed in Yarmouth the morning after Midsummer Eve to see him standing at the window, shaving.

Thornleigh hadn’t moved. His fistful of papers was forgotten as he watched her lather her neck, and all his thoughts of business, apparently, blurred.

She loved that, too—the way he always beheld her body with such straightforward, uncomplicated pleasure.

And he did behold her. Sunlight glinted on her hair, tied up loosely with a blue ribbon whose tips, water-dipped and dripping, clung to the nape of her neck. Her wet breasts glistened, the nipples tightening under his gaze.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll just get the book I wanted. The receipt, I mean.”

He went to a table, quickly found the paper he was looking for, and crammed it into his tunic. He turned back to her, his task completed, and slapped the belt at his hips. “Must go,” he said, rooted to the spot.

She smiled. “Safe journey.”

“Thanks.” He watched a milky patch of foam slide down from her neck and slip over her breast, curving around the red nipple. She raised the cake of soap and bent her arm to reach her back.

“Let me,” he said, striding forward. He tugged off his loose cloak and tossed it on the floor. He knelt at the side of the tub and took the soap from her, dipped it, and lathered it in his hands.

A sigh escaped her as he massaged her shoulder blades in small, then widening, circles. Her head slowly bent forward, her neck like a wax taper melting. With eyes closed she felt with both hands for the rim of the tub to steady herself as his pressure increased. His palms smoothed down her back and over the flare of her hips, molding her shape down to the water, then back up to her shoulders.

But instead of starting down her back again one hand moved around to the hollow of her throat. It went downward with the sliding foam and smoothed over her taut breast. She sensed that her nipple was hard against his palm, like a pebble. Behind her his other hand gripped the far rim, and she leaned back against the tensed muscles of his arm.

From the courtyard a young groom’s breaking voice cried out, “Mistress Agnes, where’s the master? Am I to keep holding Tess here, saddled up for him?”

But the boy’s question, and the answer if one came, neither Honor nor Thornleigh heard. As she parted her lips for his mouth his hand smoothed soap froth over her belly at the water line. Kissing her, he lifted her forward with his arm at her back, and she stood on her knees, water dripping from the triangle thicket of curling hair.

Slowly, gently, his fingers slid into the warm cleft that was slippery with foam and desire. She cast her arms around his neck with a moan, and pressed her cheek against his chest, her lips brushing the rough wool tunic. She shuddered against him, then pulled his head down by his hair to kiss his mouth again.

He scooped water and poured it over her shoulders and then gathered her in his arms. He lifted her from the tub and laid her down on the spread silk robe before the hearth and sat back on his heels to unbuckle his belt.

Honor opened her arms to the joy of him, the losing of herself, the finding of herself, the joy of him.

As they uncoiled, the young groom’s whine again breached the bedchamber. “Shall I take Tess in, then? Where’s the master gone to?”

This, Honor and Thornleigh heard. “To heaven,” he murmured into the softness of her neck. He rose and went to the window, stumbling on his scattered clothes, and called down to the boy. “I’ll be right there!”

He dressed quickly, and Honor propped herself up on an elbow and laughed out loud as he hopped in place with one boot on and a foot halfway into the other. He grinned, picked up his cloak and moved toward the door.

“Richard,” she said suddenly. “I need to go to London tomorrow.”

Halfway across the room he turned, still smiling, for her tone had been light.

“I want to buy some silver candlesticks for Joan,” Honor said, not really lying, since this gift for her sister-in-law was one she had given some thought to. “She’s been so kind. I’d like to make the purchase in person.”

“I’ll take you,” Thornleigh said simply, and started again to leave.

“No. I mean, well . . . you’ll be in Norwich till tomorrow afternoon, and I’d like to leave first thing in the morning.”

“No trouble. I’ll ride back from Fowler’s after supper this evening. In the morning, I’ll take you.”

“Ride back in the dark?” she protested. “No, it’s not necessary. Sam will come with me. I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll
take
you,” he said, emphatically closing the discussion.

Despite her consternation, she had to smile at the sheer grit of his will. “I think, my love,” she said with gentle wryness, “you just did.”

He laughed. He started again for the door, then turned back to kiss the air in Honor’s direction, still moving backwards. He bumped against the stool by the tub, knocking it over and inadvertently kicking the pouch of lavender. With a sheepish smile he bent to right the stool, and his boot scuffed over the letters. He stooped to pick one up. Honor groaned inwardly, for she saw that the letter was Cromwell’s. Thornleigh’s eyes darted first to the signature, then to Honor.

“Read it,” she said quietly.

Thornleigh did so. For a moment he said nothing. He dropped the letter onto the stool. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to sneak out the silversmith’s back door?”

“Of course not,” Honor said. Kneeling, she was pulling on the silk robe.

“But you are going to see Cromwell?”

“I must. Richard, we owe him. He was always a friend. Anyway,” she added lamely, “it’s probably nothing.”

Thornleigh snorted. “He’ll have you up to your neck in illicit folly. He uses you, Honor. You’re not stupid. Why can’t you see that he uses you?”

She was stung. “He does make use of me, yes,” she said defensively. “He uses what I gladly offer. And I will offer to help him now, if it’s in my power.”

“Christ,” he growled. He looked away from her, shaking his head. Sharply, he turned back. “And if I refuse to let you go?”

She was taken aback. But she forced wryness into her voice. “What will you do, my love? Lock me up?”

“This is no jest, Honor.” He looked deadly earnest. “I’ll refuse you if I must. For your own good.”

She shivered. Why was he hacking open this chasm between them? She said steadily, “I would hope you won’t do such a foolish thing.”

He said nothing, but the look of angry resolution still darkened his face.

How she hated this quarrel! She stood and came to him. “Richard, please listen to me. I’ve got to do what I think is right. Let me use my judgment.”

“That’s just it. You
don’t
use judgment. You barge into things. I know you.” He was pacing now. “And one of these days it’s going to get you killed. Well, I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you
make
it happen. Not anymore.” Abruptly, he stopped and stood rock still. “I forbid you to go.”

She felt indignation fire her cheeks. She faced him. “You think you know me? You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I think. Or what I feel is important. Or what I need to do.”

“Important? To run around playing at intrigue? To let Cromwell jerk your strings like a puppet?”

“To be part of something bigger than myself,” she cried. “My God, can’t you understand that?”

“Oh, I understand. I understand that you value this nonsense above everything else. You love intrigue for the bloody thrill of it!”

She threw up her hands. “You see?” Her breathing was hard and shallow with anger. “You
deny
me your understanding. You deny me your trust. Is that your whim with wives? To refuse them what they need most? You refused her your body. You refuse me everything
but
!”

His face tightened as if she had struck him.

They stared at one another for a long moment.

Finally, Thornleigh said, with great control. “I can’t live like this. If you go to London, don’t bother to come back.”

He strode to the door, and was gone.

“But, it’s incredible!” Honor said.

Cromwell, looking pleased, leaned back in the chair behind his littered desk at Whitehall. He laced his fingers together over his stomach. “Incredible,” he said, “but true.”

“The King really wants to welcome Frish home?” Honor asked. She was standing in front of the desk, her eyes bright with hope. She wanted, needed, this mission to be of huge significance. Significant enough to justify her awful quarrel with Thornleigh, and the hateful thing she had said. Significant enough to make him accept that, about this work at least, she had been right. He would have to take her back, then . . . would he not? After all, there was the coming baby. “Has the new Queen wrought such a miraculous change?”

Cromwell held up his hands to check her enthusiasm. “The Queen I cannot answer for,” he said. “This is the King’s desire. At my suggestion, I might add. And ‘welcome’ may be too strong a word.”

Honor’s face clouded. “But Frish would be quite safe, wouldn’t he? I could not possibly agree without absolute assurances of his safety.”

Cromwell lifted his hands higher, this time to fire up in her the enthusiasm he had just dampened. “Safe, aye, have no fear. The King wishes personally to meet with him. If you can persuade Frish to return, he’ll travel with a written safe-conduct guaranteed and signed by me.”