The Queen's Lady (18 page)

Honor’s mouth fell open at this litany of heresies, especially the last one. The miracle of transubstantiation—the bread of the Mass transformed into the living body of Christ—was the cornerstone of Catholic faith. Yet this preacher’s words were full-blooded with conviction. His passion, so fearless, so generous, stunned her. It was as if, while she slept, someone had dashed her face with ice water.

Frish’s voice rose again and his face was bright. “I come before you this night to bring you good news, my friends. We can cast off the chains of bondage to Rome. I have done it. I have been freed. How?” He reached over to a barrel beside him and lifted a black book that lay on top. He held it high. “With this. The word of Our Lord, Our Savior. His blessed word, illuminated by the sublime translation of Master William Tyndale into our own tongue.” He waved the book slowly, like a banner over his head.

Honor shuddered as a voice from Smithfield echoed: “. . .
selling illegal Bibles in the English tongue . . .”

This was the book for which Ralph had been burned.

“Not the word of Christ’s desecrated Church,” Frish cried, “where the priests would have us grovel dumbly at their mystical Latin prayers, then shuffle home more ignorant than when we came. No! I have read Christ’s message for myself.” He clasped the book against his chest like a lover. His eyes gleamed with tears, and his voice was gentle as a song. “And scripture did so exhilarate my heart, being before almost in despair, that immediately I felt a marvelous comfort and quietness, and my weary bones leaped for joy. This is salvation, my friends. The shining, unadulterated word of God. Come! See!” He gestured to a large crate on the warehouse floor. “I have brought enough for all of you.” He stood and climbed down the ladder from the loft, and people moved in around him with excited questions and comments.

Honor could restrain herself no longer. She wanted only to finish what she had come to do and then get out of this dangerous place. She glanced down at the knife at her rib. She sensed that the young man was more nervous than dangerous. “You’re not going to use the knife,” she said steadily. “Let me go.”

He appeared startled by her sudden steeliness, and Honor seized his moment of indecision to wrench free of his grip. “I tell you,” she said, “everyone here is in danger. Now, one last time, take me to Sydenham, or I’ll leave you all to your miserable fate!”

He looked anxious but he said nothing. She took a few steps forward. He followed on her heels and grabbed her elbow. She was shaking him off when she saw a figure hurrying toward them: a portly, apple-cheeked man dressed in the rich, flowing clothing of a merchant. Behind him, the people carried on with their meeting. “What is it, Edward?” the man said in a menacing whisper. Under tufted gray eyebrows he was squinting at Honor in the way of the shortsighted. When he reached her his menacing look widened into surprise. “Who’s this?”

“Wants to see you. I left her above, but she’s come snooping.”

Honor almost pounced, so great was her relief. “Master Sydenham?”

“Let her go, son,” the merchant said. “Aye, I’m Sydenham. What be your business with me?” His voice was wary, but so gentle that it betrayed him; clearly he felt more curiosity than wrath at her presence.

“Sir, I bring a warning—” She stopped, surprised by the approach of a woman.

“Humphrey, what’s the matter?” the woman asked. As she came to Sydenham’s side her hand groped for his, and their fingers wove together in an unconscious gesture of comfort that told Honor the two were man and wife.

Mrs. Sydenham was a formidable-looking person, several inches taller than her husband and a startling contrast to him, for she was as gaunt as he was stout, and as pale as he was florid. Only their common gray hair unified them, but while his lay in short, springy curls, hers was stretched tightly back from a center part under a starched white cap. Her face was almost as sallow and bony as a cadaver, but the eye sockets blazed with life at their hazel cores. She was staring at Honor with a frown. Suddenly, she gasped and grabbed her husband’s sleeve.

“What is it, Bridget?” he asked gently.

“I know this girl.”

Honor was amazed at her effect on the woman. “Indeed, madam, I am surprised to hear it, for I know you not.”

“You are Sir Thomas More’s daughter.”

“You are mistaken,” Honor said.

“You lie! I’ve seen you with him at Paul’s Cross. Sir Thomas More and all his family.”

Honor bit back the anger rising within her. “If I had not known since childhood that lying is a sin, madam, my guardian would surely have instructed me, for Sir Thomas is known to all the world as the most upright, Christian teacher.”

“Your guardian?” Sydenham blurted. “You are Sir Thomas More’s ward?”

“Ward or daughter,” his wife spat, “where’s the difference?”

“The difference, madam, is that I do not lie!”

The eyes of the two women locked in animosity.

Sydenham held up his hands. “Now, now, Bridget. Let’s hear what the girl has to say.”

“Husband, do not trust her. She has come to harm us.”

Sydenham removed his wife’s hand from his elbow and held it affectionately. He scrutinized Honor. “What is this warning you bring, girl?”

“Sir,” Honor blurted, “the Bishop’s men are on their way to raid this place. You must save yourselves.”

Sydenham’s mouth opened in dismay.

His wife intervened to ask coldly, “And how do you know this?”

“I overheard . . . some talk.”

“Whose talk?” Mrs. Sydenham snapped in scorn. “The Bishop’s? I suppose you are a frequent visitor at his palace?”

“No.”

“Then whom did you overhear?”

“A boatman.”

“A servant of the Bishop?”

“No. A Westminster boatman.”

Mrs. Sydenham sneered. “Gossip?”

“What difference how or where I heard it? The danger is the same.”

“The difference, mistress, is that I do not trust you.”

Honor trembled with anger. An attack on her integrity was the last thing she had expected from this coven of criminals—criminals she was risking herself to save!

“But Bridget,” Sydenham said gently, “why should she come to warn us if not as a friend?”

“Perhaps to spy us out. Make a list of names and faces. Perhaps only to confound and terrify us. Or perhaps both, and with this tale about a raid she could cause chaos enough and slip away in our confusion.”

“But, my dear—”

“I know nothing of
why
!” Mrs. Sydenham’s voice rasped, sharp with exasperation. “But I know that midnight raids are not Bishop Tunstall’s method, and—”

“Not the Bishop,” Honor broke in. “An evil man on his staff.”

Unmoved, Mrs. Sydenham’s eyes fell on her, burning with suspicion. “And I
know
this girl is attached to More.”

Sydenham cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the meeting, and Honor, appalled at the delay, saw that his wife’s counsel had cut deeply into his own trusting instincts. When he turned back and reached out both his hands for hers she was not sure if it was in friendship or to take her captive.

“Thank you,” he murmured simply. His grip was surprisingly firm. He let her hands go. “My dear,” he said, smiling sadly at his wife, “friends of the Brethren are not so thick that we may cast one away when fate draws her to our door. Now, we have little time to move Brother Frish and all these good people out. Mistress,” he said to Honor, “my son Edward here will escort you—”

“Wait.” Mrs. Sydenham’s arm swept toward the warehouse in an exaggerated gesture of invitation, and she asked Honor in a voice unctuous with disdain, “Mistress, will you fly to safety with us?
Are you one of us
?”

“No!” Honor’s answer shot out too fast, an arrow loosed from her heart, and she took a step back, as fearful of contamination as if this were a gathering of lepers.

Mrs. Sydenham’s smile was wry. “In this, at least, I believe you speak the truth.” Her face hardened. “And if you are not with us, you must be against us.”

Sydenham’s eyes darted from one woman to the other. Sweat beaded his brow. He wrung his hands, trying to decide.

Honor’s face flushed with rage. “This is madness! Madam, I came in good faith to save your husband from the flames of Smithfield. I see, however, that you are eager to embrace widowhood. Very well. I’ll not stand between you and your heart’s desire.” She turned on her heel. Edward, suddenly bold, barred the door with crossed arms. She punched him on the shoulder. The blow was nothing, but he blinked in surprise and unfolded his arms. She stepped around him.

“Stay!” It was Mrs. Sydenham’s voice again. Honor turned. The woman’s face was stark with worry; her former hardness had vanished. “Please, tell my husband what you know,” she said. “I will alert our friends.”

Amazed though she was at this about-face, Honor sighed with relief.

Sydenham had already taken a step toward the meeting. “No, Humphrey,” Mrs. Sydenham said brusquely, “if you speak you’ll cause panic. I’ll do it.”

She hurried toward the gathering. The excited people, still unaware of any disturbance, were chattering and laughing around the preacher. Mrs. Sydenham pushed through to reach him. She bent to whisper in Frish’s ear while the people babbled on. Frish shot a look back at Honor. Under his scrutiny she was uncomfortably conscious of the richness of her clothing in contrast to the drab group he stood with, and she turned her head away. As she did, she noticed, above the huge rear door, an odd movement in the air, as if dust were sifting from the roof, dislodged from the rafters to drift and sparkle down through the torchlight. The people sensed it too and hushed. Mrs. Sydenham looked up. Everyone turned breathlessly toward the wide, closed door.

There was a creaking, like giant wagon wheels beginning to move. For one frozen moment Honor saw the wooden door bulge. Then it burst. Huge splinters flew. Men-at-arms swarmed in. Cries of men and women pierced the rafters and ricocheted off the vats. The ragged ring of torches burst apart and their flames flared in the wind of rushing bodies. Honor turned to flee the way she had come, but an officer stood in the open door beckoning behind him to armed men running along the passage. She whirled around. Beyond the crush of people the splintered rear door lay open. If she could make it there she could escape. She dashed into the melee.

It was madness. Women snatched up children and were in turn snatched by officers. Men dropped under cudgel blows. Honor saw Sydenham running to reach his wife. Mrs. Sydenham stretched out her hand to him. As their fingers touched, a young officer lunged for Sydenham and hauled him sideways. He pinned Sydenham’s belly against a vat, and scraped his cheek bloody along the surface. Mrs. Sydenham was engulfed by screeching people herding for the rear door. Honor glimpsed Edward among them, his orange hair flying. She could see that the first people outside were instantly trapped by officers in the alley, but a few who went after broke through and bolted into the night. It was the only way out. She groped her way around a vat, eyes on the door.

From behind, an arm locked around her head, covering her eyes. She was jerked backwards, lost her balance, and fell against her attacker. As he hauled her by the head, she had to clutch his sleeve to keep her neck from being wrenched. His other hand pushed brutally down on the top of her head, forcing her to the ground. She was dragged along the floor on her back, then bumped over a ridge that banged her backbone, then hauled into a narrow passage. Her captor crammed himself behind her and stopped. They lay together on their sides, her back against his chest. She felt his leg kick at something, then heard a sound like a metal door snapping shut.

His arm dropped from her forehead to her waist, pinning her arm. His other hand clamped her mouth. His palm was slippery with sweat. She sucked breaths through her nose. The smell of the place was foul, but she could see nothing in the pitch blackness around them. They lay with knees bent, as tightly packed as spoons, breathing together and sweating together in a grotesque parody of spent lovers. Honor could hear screams and scuffles outside their fetid cage.

The man’s hand on her mouth lifted, but hovered as if ready to muzzle her again. “They’ll leave soon,” he breathed. “Hold on!” Even in a whisper the sterling voice was unmistakable. Frish, the preacher.

“Where . . .”—she coughed—“. . . where are we?”

“Under the vat. Sydenham built a false bottom. For the Bibles.”

Of course! The hides, the smell . . . it was animal fat, rendered for soap-making. This was the same stench that had drifted over Smithfield from the butchers’ yards the day Ralph was burned. The rancid reek of death. Nausea swelled in her and she almost retched.

“Hold on,” he urged. “Just hold on!”

Outside, the cool rain tasted delicious. Honor and Frish crouched in a muddy alley against a wall of the emptied warehouse. A lantern in the neighbor’s stable yard cast the faintest of beams over them. The downpour had lightened, and Honor lifted her face with closed eyes to let it drizzle her skin and wash her clean.

“‘As cold waters to a thirsty soul,’ ” Frish murmured, watching her.

“Proverbs,” Honor said, and found herself smiling, for despite the cramps in her muscles and the residue of nausea and fear, she was aware of a light-headed clarity, an exhilaration that came with the joy of escape. She ran her tongue over salty lips. It was good to be alive!

She looked at Frish. Instantly, he lowered his eyes. It was the first time she had seen him close-up. His frame was very slight, his features small, his face fragile-looking. And every inch of it was cratered with pockmarks. Under her gaze he hunched into himself, and she realized that he was used to people shrinking from his ravaged face. Down from his makeshift pulpit, alone with her, all his sparkle and fire was snuffed out.

“Lady,” he stammered, “I thank you. For the warning you brought. Mrs. Sydenham told me only that much. May I . . .”—he plucked at his frayed sleeve—“may I know your name?”

Honor hesitated. “Brother, it is I who must thank you,” was all she could muster. But her gratitude was heartfelt, for she could imagine the consequences if she had been caught: at the very least, expulsion in disgrace from the Queen’s employ and shame brought on Sir Thomas, and at the worst . . . she shuddered, thinking of the worst. “What happened to Master Sydenham?” she asked. “And his wife and son?”