The Queen's Lady (22 page)

“These things lie in God’s hands,” she said. “My soul’s safety lies in mine.” Straining for calm, she added tonelessly, in the manner of a catechism, “It is not necessary to be careful of many things, but only of the one thing needful.”

“And what of the safety of the King himself?” Wolsey cried. “Foul designs are afoot. Plots on the King’s very life. And be assured, madam, that if certain traitorous persons were to wreak their wicked plots, the blaming fingers would not fail to point your way.”

Catherine gasped, truly shocked. “My lord’s life is dearer to me than my own. I know nothing of such plots.”

“Do you not?” he said with menace in his eyes.

“If it’s murderers you seek,” she cried, “then look no further than Bishop Fisher’s door. That good man lies wracked on his bed, poisoned with soup from his own kitchen. Two of his household died of it—though, thank the Lord, the Bishop himself is out of danger now. Ask yourself, who would poison the one man of the Church who speaks up for my rights? Oh, I know his cook was blamed and boiled alive at Smithfield in his own kettle. But who forced the poor sinner’s hand to do the deed? For a murderer, look to those who would profit by destroying my only champion. Look to those who serve the house of Boleyn.”

“My lady! My lord!” Campeggio cried, his hands raised in despair at the pointless quarrel. Glowering, Wolsey held his tongue. Campeggio stood and smiled wanly at the Queen. “Your Grace, I see that your position is a lonely one. Would it not soothe your heart to see your loving daughter? It is easily arranged. Tell us only that your retirement to a convent is a possibility and she shall be brought to your side as fast as horse can carry her. To retire now is no more than dutiful obedience to the Church. Speak but the word, and let the Princess Mary come.”

Catherine had to turn her face away, and Honor saw that her heart was breaking.

Wolsey appeared to sense the change: a crumbling, a chink in the Queen’s defenses. “Accept this bargain,” he rumbled as if to ram home his advantage, “or be banished from henceforth.”

Honor’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Campeggio groaned. But Catherine did not flinch.

“And take this thought for council,” Wolsey plowed on. “Once banished from the court you will have no need of the large train you now enjoy, nor of your sumptuous household. These can, and will, be removed. But agree now, and you shall maintain all your state and dignity.”

Catherine was looking deep into Honor’s eyes, as if searching past their pitying warmth for an answer. She seemed to find it, for a small smile played on her lips. “My lord Cardinal, your threats of poverty hold no terror for me. I have been poor before, and friendless. I can live poor again.” She gazed through the open doors of her bedchamber to the candle-gilded prie-dieu by her bed. Her eyes lingered on its carved ivory image of exquisite suffering nailed to a silver cross. “Leave me this one maid,” she said with a nod to Honor, “and Dr. de Athequa, my confessor, and I can live out my days happy in my duty to God.”

She turned to Campeggio. “My lord, I do wish to show myself an obedient daughter of the Church. I will live wherever my husband commands me. But in this one claim I shall not be shaken: I am the King’s legal wife. If I were to be torn limb from limb for saying so, and then rise again from the dead, I would die a second time in defense of this truth.”

“So be it!” Wolsey cried. “I have done!” He lumbered to the door and flung it open so that every wondering maid and cleric in the antechamber could hear him. He turned and pointed a bloated finger at the Queen.

“You have perverted many hearts,” he said, “and who knows what deeds men will stoop to perform for your desperate cause? The King’s Grace is not safe abiding near you. I am commanded by His Grace to tell you that he wishes no longer to be affronted by your presence.”

For a moment he seemed to feed on the shock in her face. His final words were cruel with softness. “You are henceforth banished from the King’s bed and board. And you are ordered to be gone this very night.”

Two days later, Honor again crossed the antechamber of the Queen’s suite and came to the open doorway of the private chamber. The room buzzed with activity. Anne Boleyn’s friends strolled, or lounged near the blazing morning fire. Servants bustled in and out, forcing Honor to step to one side. Some were carrying away the last bundles of the Queen’s books and tapestries; some were struggling in under armloads of Anne’s things: gowns, bird cages, sheet music, jewel boxes, a spaniel puppy. Anne herself sat on a chair in the center of the room looking bored. Hans Holbein was sketching her at his easel.

A snowball splatted against the window casement. Anne sprang up and ran to the window and flung the shutter wide. A second snowball struck. Shrieking with laughter, she skipped backwards to dodge the flying fragments, then instantly dashed back. She leaned over the snow-drifted ledge to shout down at the knot of horsemen below.

“You missed, Your Grace!” She scooped a wet clump of snow from the ledge, whacked it between her palms and, with a strong, practiced arm, pitched it down through the crystal air. She leaned out to watch its flight. “Winged him!” she cried, and hopped in place, clapping her hands like a child.

The King’s laughter boomed up from below, buttressed by a cheerful round of his hawking comrades’ comments. Then there was a thudding of horses’ hooves over earth, gradually diminishing to a soft shudder, and finally to silence.

Anne’s shoulders heaved in a happy sigh. She wiped her dripping hands on her skirt and turned back to the smiles of her friends. She winked at her brother, George, who was tuning the strings of his lute near a bright-cheeked young lady. Walking towards him, Anne made a small, funny pirouette in midstride that made George laugh out loud.

Holbein’s voice barked from his easel across the room. “Lady! Sit! Be still!”

The command was so brazen, so barefaced rude, that one of the gentlemen almost choked on his wine, and several ladies giggled. Anne turned to the room with an acid smile. “Master Holbein’s highly individual use of the English language has a charm all its own,” she declared.

“Ah, but his paintings speak eloquently,” said George.

“If he ever
gets
to the painting,” Anne grumbled. “All this sitting—and just for a sketch.” She flounced back onto the chair and presented the artist with her grumpily knitted brows. “Satisfied, Master Holbein?” she said, peering around a maidservant who was staggering by with a large mirror. Anne raised her voice and spoke with exaggerated clarity as if communicating with someone almost deaf. “Holbein see? Lady sits!”

This brought laughter from the guests, but Holbein only frowned in oblivious concentration as his hand whispered across the pink paper with his black chalk.

George Boleyn began to play a ballad, and Anne finally noticed Honor standing in the doorway. Her smile evaporated. “Yes, Mistress Larke?” she asked. “Surely the extra day has given you ample time for the removal of your mistress’s articles. What is it? Some trinket she’s forgotten?” Her hands flew up beside her face, mimicking a protestation of innocence. “Whatever it is, I swear it is unmolested! These ladies and gentlemen can vouch for me. I have not purloined any treasure of
hers
.”

Honor kept her face civil but her heart raged against Anne’s insolence. And all these preening camp followers too, she thought. Scavengers who’ve descended to share in the spoils. “Not something forgotten, my lady,” she said politely. “Rather, something offered. Her Grace bids me ask if there is anything of hers you would like kept behind for your pleasure.” Her eyes were fixed on Anne, but she sensed the dropping jaws and staring faces of the guests. George Boleyn’s fingers stilled on the lute strings.

“She bids me say you are welcome to anything,” Honor went on sweetly, “but she suggests, perhaps, the prie-dieu in the bedchamber? For your pious meditations? It is an exquisite work in silver and ivory crafted by a Spanish master. Though, of course, its commercial qualities will not be as important to you as its inestimable value as a channel to God.”

In the hushed room Honor gloried at the successful double thrust of the Queen’s parry; the offer not only displayed generosity, it sparkled with panache.

Anne recognized the ambush. Her eyes narrowed. “Tell your mistress,” she said, “that I have no need of her prie-dieu. I do my praying in church and chapel as most good Christians do. More praying seems excessive. It leaves one sallow-faced and peevish.” She picked irritably at gold filaments on her green brocade sleeve. “Well, don’t just stand there, Mistress Larke,” she almost spat, “come in. And take away the prie-dieu. I tell you, I have no need of it.”

Honor smiled. She signaled to two heavily booted menservants behind her with satchels of tools, and pointed them to the adjoining bedchamber. George Boleyn then broke the silence with a ballad. Soon, his clear baritone was cresting above the music of his lute. Chatter began to percolate among the guests. Wine flowed again, along with the laughter of flirtation. Anne accepted a goblet and listened to George’s song.

Everyone frostily ignored Honor, yet she knew she was caught in this hostile territory until her workmen had dismantled the prie-dieu. She looked at Holbein. He and his easel formed an island of stillness in the stream of bustle. She made her way toward the friendly ground. She had followed the moon-faced painter’s success with great pleasure ever since he had arrived on the Chelsea riverbank a year and half ago. Sir Thomas had immediately commissioned him to paint portraits of the family, then had shown them to the King, who was enthralled by the artist’s work. “Is there really such a marvel in England,” the King had cried, “and can he be had for money?” Now, Holbein could hardly keep up with the demand for portraits from the lords and ladies of the court.

Honor touched his elbow, gently so as not to disturb his hand. He frowned up at the interruption, then instantly brightened at the sight of her face.

“How goes the work, Hans?” she asked. She leaned to whisper in his ear. “Can silk be made of a sow’s ear after all?” His eyes twinkled and his shoulders lifted to contain a chuckle.

“Master Holbein seems able to make silk from thin air,” a male voice murmured.

Honor looked up in surprise. On the other side of the easel a man was stooped, leafing through a standing portfolio of Holbein’s drawings. The easel had obscured him from her view. She flushed crimson realizing he had overheard her remark.

As he lifted out two drawings and straightened to resume his examination of them, Honor’s anxiety dissipated, for she sensed that he was somehow aloof from this gathering. For one thing, the slightly sagging cheeks and emerging double chin proclaimed that he was older than the others, perhaps in his early forties. Also, he was dressed in an ankle-length robe of black velvet with only a wide collar of sable to indicate his status, and this alone distinguished him from the bright plumage of Anne’s friends. But there was something else that separated him and made him their superior—a look of sharp intelligence in his small, brown eyes, and a quickness there that devoured the details of Holbein’s drawings, yet remained coolly detached. There was precision and resolution in his straight wide mouth.

“Remarkable,” he murmured. He turned to study Holbein as if hoping to discover a link that connected the mastery of the artwork with the face of the master. He looked again at the drawings, then shook his head in admiration. “I do love to see reality in art, not fantasy. And here is reality—made more real. One almost expects these faces to open their mouths and complain about the weather.” He replaced the sheets in the portfolio.

Holbein shrugged with an awkward smile, obviously pleased. Honor could not help laughing. “Hans, I’ve never seen you respond so warmly to praise.”

He nodded and resumed his sketch of Anne, this time taking a pencil to scrawl a doodle in the corner of the large sheet. All four corners of the paper were figured with these doodles. Honor knew it was his way of noting details of the sitter’s clothing: fabric texture, embroidery designs, jewelry. Later, he would refer to them when he came to paint the portrait. But she noticed that today the doodles were not all of clothing details. Among them, tiny animal faces and plants betrayed the artist’s wandering mind. She realized, with some amusement, that he found drawing Anne as tedious as Anne found sitting for him.

“Master Cromwell has seen Rome and Florence,” Holbein said as he worked. “Seen Leonardo da Vinci. Michelangelo’s ‘David’. Raphael. Master Cromwell knows genius. His praise is good.”

Cromwell. The name struck a note in Honor’s memory. But where had she heard it? She was sure they had never met.

Feeling her scrutiny, he introduced himself. “Thomas Cromwell. Your servant, mistress.” He made a slight, stiff bow.

She smiled. “A traveler in Italy, yet surely a native of England, sir?”

“Of Putney, mistress,” was the crisp reply, delivered with an ungarnished directness that would have made the young courtiers, in love with rhetoric, wince. “And my sojourns in Italy are long past. Though I trust some wisdom of the Florentines remains crammed in this skull of mine to do service yet to my lord Cardinal.”

“And I am—”

“Mistress Larke,” he filled in. “Sir Thomas More’s ward.”

Proudly, she acknowledged this with a small curtsy. Then: “You mentioned the Cardinal . . .”

“He is legal counsel to Cardinal Wolsey,” Holbein volunteered as his chalk tapered Anne’s nose, and he added, with the archness of the foreigner testing an unfamiliar idiom, “Wolsey’s ‘right hand.’ ”

Memory flashed. Honor saw again the officers boiling through Sydenham’s warehouse, the foul vat, the scabbed face of Brother Frish. This Cromwell was the very man Frish had wanted her to sound out for the Brethren! She recalled Humphrey Sydenham’s kind, worried face as he argued with his ramrod wife. What had become of Sydenham? She hoped he was safe at home after his misadventure, resolved to meddle no more in criminal activities. And what of Brother Frish? Had Bastwick caught up with him, or was he still at large? Had Frish, perhaps, even made contact with Cromwell on his own? Her heart suddenly twisted. Since Frish had held such hopes of Cromwell’s interest in these underground affairs, could Cromwell possibly know something about Ralph? She had heard nothing more from Percy DeVille, for shortly after their meeting he had gone off to collect a manuscript from a monastery in Wales and would be away for weeks yet. She watched Cromwell’s keen face as he murmured with Holbein over the sketch of Anne, Cromwell pointing his stubby finger at the expertly cross-hatched shading of the cheek. Should I hazard a question? she wondered. She was on the brink of forcing the conversation somehow in that direction, when Anne’s voice lashed across at them.