The Queen's Captive (43 page)

Slowly, they all nodded. Tears of relief glistened in Elizabeth’s eyes. She insisted that they all sit down again and finish their supper. Slowly, they took their stools, moving them back a little way from her, and sat.

In the silence, a horse outside whinnied.

Then little Margaret whispered to her mother, “If she’s a princess where’s her crown?”

That brought a tense laugh from some. Then a wave of giggles. Then peals of knee-slapping laughter. Adam grinned at Elizabeth. She beamed back at him. She was safe.

But Mistress Bent insisted on one essential alteration. The princess must be given her own, private room.

Late that night Adam bedded down in the byre. At first he’d been crammed into the common room with the old man and four small children, all of them displaced by the royal personage given an entire room in grand isolation. The dog, too, had joined the crowd, curling up at Adam’s side. After an hour of the old fellow’s snoring, and the grunts and sighs of the children, who squirmed endlessly in their sleep, and the dog’s breath in his face, he’d decided to stake out a quieter spot, and headed outside to the byre. He had created a makeshift bed in the straw of Bent’s wagon, beside the horses and cows.

It was damn cold. And stank of cow dung. And there was a jagged hole in the roof as big as a saddle, where the frigid air swept in, making him wish he had more of a blanket than his cloak. But there was plenty of room to stretch out, and as he lay back in the straw, arms folded under his head, and stared at the stars that winked at him through the hole, he felt that this had been the happiest day of his life. He and Elizabeth had made such good progress he reckoned they would reach his ship in Colchester by midday tomorrow and then, with any luck, catch the late afternoon tide. With her on his mind, it took a long time to fall asleep.

The horses’ nickering woke him. A shape slid by in the dark. Adam shook his head to clear it of sleep. Moonlight silvered the rough wooden walls. A scuffling sound. Someone was in the byre. “Who’s there?”

“I’m sorry. I woke you.” It was Elizabeth.

He hopped off the end of the wagon. “Are you all right?”

She stood beside one of the horses. She bit her lip as though unsure. “My whole life I’ve had people around me. Servants. My ladies, sleeping in my chamber. I’ve never been…all alone.”

The catch in her voice tugged at his heart. He came close to her. “You’re not alone. You have me.”

“Yes. But for how long?”

“As long as you need me.”

She looked up at him and her pale face seemed to glow in the moonlight. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, the ends kissing the drawstring of the chemise that peeked above her breasts. He tried not to imagine untying the drawstring. She shivered. She had come out without her cloak.

“You’re cold,” he said. He grabbed his cloak from the wagon and whirled it around her shoulders, then reached for the saddlebag on a peg beside her and pulled out a flask and opened it. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Go ahead. To warm you.”

She took it, her fingers brushing his, and took a swallow. She smiled. “Brandy.”

Her fingers felt so cold he took her hand in both of his and rubbed it.

“You’re no better,” she said. “Cold as ice. Here,” she said, offering the brandy.

He knocked back a swallow, though he didn’t need it. He was burning up, wanting her.

“I’ll tell you how we can both get warm,” he said, tucking the flask back in the saddlebag, eager to have both hands free to rub hers again. “Forget France—it’s just as freezing there. I’ll sail you to the Indies. To the Spanish Main, where the sun shines every day and the flower petals stay forever warm. The sand of the beaches is hot and soft, like new-baked bread, and the water’s as warm as melted butter.”

She laughed. “You sound hungry.”

He noticed something glint at her throat. A thin gold chain around her neck. “What’s this?” he asked in a mock scolding. “You managed to sneak out some jewelry?” He had insisted she leave it all behind, for if anyone searched them the jewels would betray her identity.

She seemed to blush, though he couldn’t be sure in the dark. She tugged up the chain from its hiding place between her breasts and Adam was surprised at what hung at the end of it. His captain’s whistle of carved horn. The one she’d asked him to give her on the day she’d agreed to invest in his ship.

“When I was little,” she said, fondling the whistle, “my father had a whistle such as this made for him, but of pure gold. He loved to stride up and down the decks of his flagship, the
Great Harry,
playing admiral.” She looked up at him. “He kept it for sport. I keep this to remember you. I wear it always.”

He felt too much to speak.

He kissed her. She didn’t stop him. He kissed her again, harder. Her lips tasted sweet, of brandy. She still held the whistle, her bent arm a barrier between them, and he took the whistle, warm from her body, and let it fall on its chain inside her chemise.

He nudged the loose cloak off her shoulders and it fell to the floor. He unfastened a tie at the front of her dress. She let him. He untied two more. She helped. He tugged loose the chemise drawstring and kissed her skin beneath it, then pulled the chemise down over her shoulders, exposing her, and she took a sharp breath of surprise as his hands smoothed over her bare breasts. Her skin felt burning hot against his cold hands, her nipples as hard as holly berries. His need burned so hard he pressed her back against the horse’s side, forcing her to splay her arms wide, leaving her breathless as he kissed her mouth, her throat, her shoulder, the inside of her elbow, thrilling to the feel of her, the taste of her.

Catching her breath, she fumbled to unfasten the ties of his doublet. He wrenched off the doublet, tossing it to the ground, and her hands slipped up under his shirt, her cool fingers on his chest firing his hot skin.

He pulled off his shirt, then lifted her up by the waist and set her down on the back of the wagon. He jumped up beside her and they sat shivering together, breathless together, burning together. He took her face between his hands and kissed her, and she thrust her fingers into his hair, kissing him back. He lowered her onto the wagon’s bed of straw and slipped his hand up under her skirt, and heard her gasp as he ran his palm up her outer thigh, her skin so thrillingly smooth and warm. He bent his head and kissed her knee and shoved the skirt higher and glimpsed the triangle thatch between her thighs, a flash of flame in the moonlight. He undid the ties of his codpiece fast, gazing at the glory of her, and she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. He ran his tongue over her navel and squeezed her thigh, his senses aflame with the melding of opposites—cold air and hot skin, his hardness and her yielding softness. His breaths were ragged, his need overpowering. But her legs were tight together. Was this her limit?

She pulled back her head to look at him. “I’ve never—”

“I know.” The yearning in her eyes was shadowed, hesitant, unsure. But above all, yearning—and he took that as his answer. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, his other hand still on her thigh, and whispered, “Open your mouth.”

She did. And when his tongue found hers he felt her thighs loosen. She moaned and pulled him down again and held him, the whistle between her breasts caught between their bodies. Gently, he spread her legs with his knee. Slowly, he entered her, holding back, which took all of his might, until she was ready to take all of him. She gripped his back, and pulled him to her, and he thrust into her with a need more fierce than he had ever known. She arched. She cried out at her climax. He held her so tightly as he spilled his seed, the whistle dug into the wound on his chest.

They lay there, catching their breath, she still holding him tight.

Adam felt snowflakes kiss his bare back. He rolled over. Clouds had drifted in, masking the stars. In the waning moonlight he could see the shadow of blood on the inside of Elizabeth’s thigh. And a small smear of blood on his chest from his abraded wound. And the look of wonder on her face.

He kissed her. A lingering, loving kiss. It was the happiest day of his life.

Clouds as gray as armor marched across the gunmetal sky, and the sea heaved up steel-colored swells as if to meet it in a counterattack. But the wind, strong and steady from the northwest, was all Adam could ask for. It swept over the
Elizabeth
’s quarter, filling her sails and snapping her flags as if to salute her namesake, on board for the voyage to France. Standing at the wheel, Adam looked over his shoulder at her.

She stood with her back to him, gazing over the stern rail at England’s coast. With this wind, he thought, they’d soon be out of sight of land. He was glad. He didn’t want her to dwell on everything she was leaving.

He was glad of much more than that. He felt brimful of gladness. To have her here with him, on his ship. To be carrying her to safety. To know that she was his, and might still be his in whatever quiet life of exile awaited her in France. Her royal state might well dwindle once she was in exile. Dwindle and even expire. Why could he not hope, then, that one day she might be his forever? The thought rippled happiness through him, like the flags cheerfully snapping overhead. If he were any happier he’d have to dance a jig.

Still, his eyes kept sweeping the sea lanes, for they were not out of danger yet. Spies were not a threat on the water, but there were plenty of rovers and corsairs who were. Pirates all. Whether Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, or Swedes, their crews would lick their lips to capture a prize like Elizabeth and demand a princely ransom. Adam had ordered two men aloft to keep a constant lookout.

“Hoist the topgallant, Master Curry,” he called.

“Aye, sir,” his mate called back across the deck, and in a moment the boys were clambering up the mainmast and shimmying along the spars etched against the gray sky.

Elizabeth left the rail and came beside him at the wheel, her cloak billowing around her, her cheeks pink in the cold air. If she had been gazing at England in sadness she had rallied now, for her eyes sparkled. Whether it was from tears that she had banished, or from a quiver of excitement at the future, Adam loved her for her courage.

“Not queasy?” he asked. It delighted him to see her get her sea legs so easily. He had watched passengers go green with sickness, but she seemed in her element.

She shook her head. “I always loved it when my father took me on his ships. He was proud of his navy.”

“So you’ll sail with me to Cathay, and adventures beyond? Battle the natives, win some treasure?”

She grinned. “My sword will leave them quaking in their boots.”

“A swordswoman! By heaven, madam, you are a changeling.”

She looked deep into his eyes. “Since last night, I am changed indeed.”

He would have kissed her if Curry hadn’t been so near. He’d told the crew she was a kinswoman joining her family in France. Hard to explain the captain in a passionate embrace with his cousin.

“Boat off starboard quarter!” a voice yelled from aloft.

Adam looked behind him to his right. A skiff was bearing down on the
Elizabeth.
He could make out five men aboard, all of them as rigid as soldiers as they kept his ship in their sights. His heart lurched. The Queen’s men, coming after Elizabeth? He was about to order Curry to lay on more sail to make the
Elizabeth
fly, when he realized that he knew the skiff. That battered prow and maroon foresail—he would recognize it even in a fog. Hugh Poulton’s fishing smack, out of Colchester Harbor. A woman was aboard, he noticed, standing foremost, skirts flapping in the wind. Poulton was a long way out, he thought—was he in need of some aid? Calculating a maneuver to slow the
Elizabeth
and hail the skiff, Adam turned his eyes back to the sea ahead.

“Why, that’s Mistress Thornleigh!” Elizabeth cried.

Adam shot a glance over his shoulder. Good God, it
was
her. It was so strange to see her on that skiff, his first thought was a pang for his father. Had Grenville struck? She shouted something, but her voice was too faint at this distance, drowned by the wind.

“Master Curry, shorten sail,” Adam ordered. “Prepare to heave to.”

The
Elizabeth
slowed, and the skiff came alongside, and Adam ordered a boarding ladder thrown over the rail. His stepmother climbed aboard with difficulty, still unable to use her right arm, and weak on her legs from the mad dash here, her face drained of color. Adam and Elizabeth hurried to her, but before he could ask her what had happened, she collapsed.

26

In the Presence of the King

January–February 1557

“Y
ou must go back…”

Honor found it hard to squeeze the words out with the dizziness in her head, the ringing in her ears, the blur of faces, the barrage of voices. Adam’s. Elizabeth’s. A crewman who was questioning her like a doctor. She tried again—“Listen to me—” but they kept on with their questions.

“Can you sit up?”

“Why have you come?”

“Here, sip this”

“Stop!” she cried.

They all went silent. Honor tried to get her bearings. She was lying on the berth in the captain’s cabin. She must have fainted. Adam was standing over her, and Elizabeth sat beside her, holding her hand. The crewman was bent over her, trying to get her to drink from a cup. She pushed his hand away and sat up, pain thumping in her head. “Leave us, please,” she told him.

The man looked to Adam for orders.

“I’m fine, Adam,” Honor assured him. “I must talk to you and…this lady.”

Adam nodded to the man, who set down the cup, picked up his satchel, and left. The moment he closed the door Honor said to them, “You must turn back.”

“Is it Father? Grenville?”

“No, your father’s fine.”

“Then what—?”

“The Princess must return home.”