The Queen's Captive (50 page)

“Stop him! Please, stop him,” Frances begged. She was on her knees, clinging to Honor’s skirt. “If he rides to my house my brother will kill him!”

“Your house? It seems
this
is your house now.” She swept her arm at the flames all around them and said with fierce bitterness, “Welcome to your new home.”

She wrenched her skirt free. Frances fell back on her heels, weeping so uncontrollably her breaths were shudders and her body shook. Her misery was so profound Honor almost pitied her. She saw that the Grenville manservant felled by Adam’s blow was now on his feet, looking around him in dazed fear. Someone had tethered the two jittery horses they had ridden in on. Honor stopped a groom as he ran past with a bucket and told him to leave what he was doing and escort Frances to stay with Lord and Lady Powys. “Use her horses.”

Then she walked away from Frances. She did not know where she was going. She did not know how her legs were still holding her up. Despair hovered over her without mercy. Geoffrey and good men of her household lay murdered. Her home was ablaze. Richard would be tortured to death. Adam would die fighting Grenville—his brother-in-law. She stopped in the middle of the courtyard, unable to take another step, feeling the fire’s gusts of heat as if she were truly in hell.

“Your shoe, mistress?”

She turned. A little boy, grimed with soot, was holding up an embroidered leather shoe.

“I told them it was yours. So fancy.”

She reached out for it. It was wet with mud. The child’s small hand was muddy, too. But he was smiling, proud to have done this service.

“Thank you,” she said, shamed by his composure. She slipped on the shoe. This was no time for despair. Her murdered people she could do nothing for, and her house was lost. But Richard and Adam were alive. For how long, she did not dare think. But as long as they
were
alive she might
keep
them alive. Adam, at least, could not attack Grenville until he had gathered more men from outside, and found horses. That could take a day, maybe longer. But how was she to help Richard? There was no time to seek justice through the law, and even if there was, Grenville had the favor of the Queen. For that very reason no one else would interfere to help the Thornleighs. Grenville might eventually pay some official price for his barbarous acts, but by then Richard would be dead. Adam, too. Honor gazed at the insatiable flames, feeling utterly alone. She was powerless.

And then she realized that she knew someone who
did
have power.

She ran to the groom who was helping Frances toward the two horses. “She’ll ride pillion with you,” she told him. “Help me onto the other horse.”

30

A Plea to the Princess

June 1558

E
lizabeth’s entourage was miles ahead, and Honor knew neither their route nor their destination. She had to ask a cobbler on a donkey, and later two travellers on foot, for signs of where they had seen the party turn. She finally learned that Elizabeth was breaking her journey for the night at Bramley Hall as a guest of Sir Harry Whitcombe.

The road was hot, even as the midsummer sun sank nearing dusk, and Honor was parched with thirst and saddle sore by the time she cantered up to the gatehouse. Through the iron bars she could see men in Elizabeth’s livery strolling in the courtyard.

“Halt,” the guard ordered.

“I must see the Princess,” she said through dry lips. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

He gave a wary smirk and looked about to send her away as a tramp. She knew how she must appear—dirty, dishevelled, riding frantically, all alone. Soot streaked her face and pinprick holes pocked her clothes burned by cinders. She gritted her teeth. There was no time for this!

“Sir William!” she cried. William St. Loe, the captain of Elizabeth’s guard, was walking with another soldier just inside the gates. He looked startled at hearing a woman call his name, and even more so when he saw her.

“Mistress Thornleigh? Good Lord.”

“Tell your men to let me pass. I must see Elizabeth!”

“Have you been assaulted?” he asked anxiously, signaling his men to let her in. “Highwaymen?”

Honor did not stop to answer him as the gates opened. She slid out of the saddle, her useless arm making it impossible to dismount with any control, and hit the ground with a painful shock to her legs. Shakily, she hurried across the courtyard toward the front doors, leaving St. Loe ordering a groom to see to her horse. She heard him calling her name, but she kept on. The servant at the door, like the guards, looked instinctively about to shut her out as a vagabond, but St. Loe shouted across the courtyard for her to be let in.

She hurried inside and heard laughter. Waves of laughter from many throats. She reached the great hall and found the whole household assembled and watching a play. Gentlemen and ladies of Whitcombe’s house, as well as a score of Elizabeth’s retainers, sat enjoying the antics of the players on a makeshift stage, while pages and servants threaded among them serving wine and strawberries. Honor’s eyes flashed over the faces, searching. There were many she knew, but she could not see Elizabeth.

“Mistress Thornleigh, whatever brings you here?”

She turned to see the round face of Thomas Parry. “Where is she, Thomas? I must see her.”

“Perhaps refresh yourself first?” he suggested diplomatically. “And then let me introduce you to our host—”

“No time! Please, tell me where I can find her.”

He hesitated. “She asked to be alone. She is somewhat indisposed.”

“Not sick abed?” Honor asked in dismay. She needed Elizabeth strong.

“No, I would call it…” He searched for the word. “Melancholy.” His eyes drifted to the window. Honor caught a glimpse of tall apple trees. A garden? She left Parry without another word and made her way through the hall, skirting the play-watching crowd, ignoring the wondering looks of the ladies and gentlemen she brushed past. She reached a passageway where the smell of roasted meat told her it was the route to the kitchens. A maid was coming in a side door with a basket of pears. Honor went out and found herself in the garden. It was huge—an orchard, raised flower beds in row after row, a trellised pavilion, a tiered fountain. But it looked deserted except for a maid on a ladder picking pears.

She looked to the west where the sun was setting over a man-made lake dug in the shape of a crescent. A small boat with one sail drifted, an old man in servant’s attire slouched comfortably at the tiller. A curving walkway of sand led out to the lake and there, on the grassy shore, stood Elizabeth. She was watching the sailboat and hugging herself, not tightly as though from cold, for the evening was balmy, but as though she were deep in thought.

“My lady!”

Elizabeth turned, astonished at the sight of Honor hurrying toward her. “Mistress Thornleigh!”

Honor poured out the terrible account. The telling brought back all the horror of the deaths and Richard’s abduction and the fire, and when she had finished she felt emptied of every ounce of strength. Her voice trailed in misery as she said, “Grenville will kill my husband.”

“And your son?” Elizabeth asked, her face pale.

“Away when it happened. But he came back, saw the ruin…and heard about Richard. He is so enraged he means to attack Grenville Hall.”

“Has he set out?”

“Not when I left. He is gathering men.”

“Then he may cool down,” Elizabeth said as though trying to convince herself as well as Honor. “He is sensible. He will not charge off on a rash attack.” She looked toward the garden, and Honor distractedly followed her gaze. Parry had come out and stood watching them, concern on his face. Elizabeth motioned for him to go back in, a gesture that also told him she was all right. He turned and went inside.

Honor saw it, but was lost in her own nightmare. “Grenville’s place is a fortress…He has a small army. Adam will die…Richard will die.” Dizziness swamped her. Her vision dimmed. She felt her legs buckle. She dropped to her knees and sank back on her heels.

“Mistress!” Elizabeth crouched bedside her. “You are ill. I will call for help—”

“No! Call no one. It is you I want. You alone can help us.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do for you, I gladly will.” Honor’s teeth were chattering, and Elizabeth murmured, “Oh, dear lady, you are so ill.” She called to the maid on the ladder at the pear tree and told her to fetch a cloak and some water, then said to Honor, “Baron Grenville must be brought to heel. We will take this to the judges of the Star Chamber.”

Honor shook her head. “No time.”

“That court exists to dispense swift justice.”

“Swift? Weeks! Richard will be dead.”

The maid came with a cloak and Elizabeth wrapped it around Honor, saying, “Come, can you stand?” She helped her to her feet and led her to a bench and guided her down on it. She offered the cup of water the maid had brought as well, and Honor took it with trembling hands and gulped it down. Elizabeth handed the empty cup back to the maid and told her to leave them alone but to stay near. She sat beside Honor, saying, “I owe you my life, Mistress Thornleigh, and I will do everything in my power to help you, I promise. You shall have all the people of mine that you need to set your ruined house and property in order, and all the money you require to rebuild. And do not fear for your son; he is too wise to launch a suicide attack. But as to your good husband, I know not what can be done. We can pray that Baron Grenville will not stoop to cold-blooded murder. In any case, I fear I have no way to help him.”

Honor swallowed, the burned taste of ash still in her mouth. Elizabeth was wrong about Adam. He would die fighting to get Richard out. Wrong about Grenville, too. He would torture Richard unto death. “Yes,” she said. “There is a way.”

“How? Tell me, and it shall be done.”

Honor tugged the cloak tighter around her. Laughter lilted from the house. She looked Elizabeth in the eye. “You must become queen. Now.”

Elizabeth looked taken aback, then gave a sad smile as though acknowledging that her friend’s terrible ordeal had understandably left her somewhat deranged. “If only that were true,” she said kindly, but with a wry note. “I would decree peace for all mankind.”

“It
can
be true. You can make it so. Overnight. Men throughout the length and breadth of the country have been preparing to bring down the Queen and raise you to the throne. Lords and knights. Gentlemen and yeomen. Soldiers and sailors. They stand ready, many hundreds of them, thousands. And they have the arms and the plans to do it.”

Elizabeth stared at her. It was clear she’d had no idea of the preparations. And even clearer that she doubted what she was hearing.

“It’s true,” Honor insisted. “I know, because my husband has been involved. He has organized the stockpiling of weapons in this county. Adam, too, and many of our friends. And this is going on in
every
county, managed by men in high places. Men like Sir John Thynne of Longleat in Wiltshire. And they will have willing troops behind them—not just their own people and tenants, but battle-hardened soldiers. In the north, the officers of the garrison of Berwick-upon-Tweed stand ready to march their men under your standard. In the south, Captain Uvedale commanding the fortress of Yarmouth will also support you. And there are hundreds of exiles waiting for the word to sail home and fight. And money aplenty—the Queen’s silver that Adam stole from Westminster—coming from Sir Henry Dudley in France. And many men who escaped the Queen’s wrath after that failed revolt stand ready to march again. Nicholas Throckmorton. Sir John Perrot. Lord John Bray. Sir William Courtenay. Believe me, my lady, your supporters are everywhere. And they are all only waiting for a signal from you to rise up.”

Elizabeth listened in rapt wonder. “But, how can this be, and I not know a glimmer of it?”

“They have not wanted to implicate you until all is ready. Especially those of your own household.”

“What?
Who?
”

“Ask Master Parry. He has been sending letters to coordinate the plans. Ask Sir William St. Loe. He is pledged to protect you all the way to the throne.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in skepticism.

“Ask them!”

Elizabeth got up from the bench and called the maid and sent her to fetch the two men. Parry came out first, having stayed nearby. Elizabeth related what Honor had told her and asked him outright if it was true. He shot an angry look at Honor. “That was ill advised, Mistress Thornleigh.”

“But is it
true?
” Elizabeth demanded.

He hesitated. To say yes was to admit to high treason. He said quietly, “Every word.”

Elizabeth let out a sharp breath of astonishment. And something more. A fierce delight. Honor could see it in those sparkling black eyes. She knew Elizabeth. This news was thrilling to her. And that gave Honor such a jolt of hope she rose from the bench so quickly the cloak fell from her shoulders. “It is true. And it is
time.
”

“My lady, you called for me?” Sir William St. Loe was striding toward them.

Again, Elizabeth asked outright if he played any part in the conspiracy. St. Loe glanced at Parry with a frown, but his answer was quick—a soldier unencumbered by subtleties. “Me, my father, and my brother,” he confirmed. “All at your service, my lady. We are sure to—” He didn’t finish, because another man was hurrying through the garden, a gentleman finely dressed, with an air of authority. Reaching them, he bowed to Elizabeth and asked, “Have those fool actors driven you here, my lady?”