The Queen's Lady (41 page)

On the sterncastle deck Thornleigh stood under the gold wash of the sky calling commands, preparing his ship to sail. Honor took a deep breath and came up beside him.

Thornleigh was shouting angrily to Jinner. “Who’s bowsprit lookout?”

“Rawlings,” Jinner shouted back.

“He’s half asleep there! Tell him to sit up smart or I’ll have him lashed.”

“Aye, sir!” Jinner said, on the run.

Thornleigh looked overhead, mentally checking lanyards that tendrilled the masts as he said to Honor, “Thought you’d be ashore by now.”

“I’m just going.”

He glanced at her face. “Don’t fret. I’ll get them all safe over.”

“No, it’s not that. I have a favor to ask.”

“Well?” He turned away to watch a crewman securing a sheet.

“You see, there’s a rather desperate case. A chandler named Rivers.”

“Master Wade!” Thornleigh called. “Send up the carpenter to see about these parrels. Two are cracked.”

“Aye, sir!”

Thornleigh looked back at her. “Yes?”

“And, well, I’ll need to run another mission before you get back.”

Thornleigh was watching the quartermaster roll a barrel past them. “Stonor,” Thornleigh growled, “I hope for your sake this grog’s better than the swill we had last crossing.” He moved to a ledge to pick up a chart.

Honor followed him. “So,” she said, as boldly as she could, “can you spare the
Vixen?”

He turned to her and let out a snort of incredulity. “You want
all
my ships?”

“Not quite. I’ve no need for the poor old
Dorothy Beale.”

“Not yet,” he scoffed. He looked at her hard. “On credit again, I suppose? Crew’s wages and all?”

She returned his look steadily, and nodded.

“And,” he added softly, “with collateral security I apparently cannot seize.”

The reined-in regret in his voice forced her to look away. She was afraid that if she gazed too long into his eyes, she would be lost. She said coldly, “This must remain a business arrangement.”

“I see. Well, in a business arrangement it’s customary for both parties to get something they want.”

His sharpness stung her. And irritated her. A man’s life was at stake and all Thornleigh could think of was his own hurt pride. “Look,” she said, “you won’t have to deal with me for much longer. Cromwell assures me the King will soon get the divorce, and when Mistress Boleyn is Queen this persecution of the reformers will stop. But until then, I need access to two ships.”

“And to my capital.”

“Richard, if our work founders, men will die. You know that. Already there are too many we can’t reach.”

“Some of them don’t want to be reached. Some are lunatics.”

“And some,” she shot back, “have been reduced to such pitiful husks by the Chancellor they can no longer react like men!”

“It always comes down to the Chancellor for you, doesn’t it? The man doesn’t act alone, you know. He’s not the Devil incarnate.”

“Close enough.”

“Honor, you can’t save the whole world.”

“I can save enough to make a difference.”

He watched her, frowning, but said nothing more.

“I know,” she began, eyes down, “I know I owe you . . . a great deal of money for what you’ve done already. And I’ll keep my promise to pay it all . . . one day. But for now, think of what must be done. Think of Paycocke and Alwyn. Can we leave people like that to the clutches of the Chancellor?”

Around them, the bustle of embarkation continued.

“Jinner!” Thornleigh called, his eyes still locked on Honor’s. “Lower the skiff. Mistress Larke is going ashore.”

He took her elbow and hustled her down to the main deck and across to the railing as if he were escorting a mischief-maker off his ship. The skiff splashed into the water and the rope ladder was tossed over the side for her. Her hands were on the ropes and she had taken the first step down when Thornleigh said, “Tate.”

Honor looked up with a question in her eyes.

“I’ve a good pilot named Tate,” Thornleigh said. “I’ll leave orders for him. Meet him at St. Nicholas’s here two weeks from Sunday at noon. Tate’s yours, and the
Vixen.”

She beamed. “Thank you.” She started down.

He leaned over the railing and called after her, “And God help you if you’re late again!”

21

S
everal months later, at ten o’clock on a gusty May morning, Honor and Jinner stood on Pinnacle Tower in Yarmouth’s town wall and nervously looked out at the masts of carracks and coasters beyond the beach. The
Dorothy Beale
, Thornleigh’s oldest ship of his three, still lay at anchor. Piloted in Thornleigh’s absence by Master Tate, the ship was supposed to have sailed hours ago.

Honor hugged herself as she thought of the jittery fugitive she had sent aboard the night before. Edward Sydenham. He’d found courage enough to escape the Bishop’s prison a week ago, but he had none of his father’s gentle forbearance nor his mother’s fierce stoicism. This delay, she knew, would be gnawing at his belly.

It was her fault. She knew it. Thornleigh had warned her that the
Dorothy Beale
was sorely in need of refitting. They had not yet sent her out with the
Speedwell
and the
Vixen
in the missions. But when Edward, on the run, had come to Honor begging for help, she had decided to press the old hulk into service. She had not realized the extent of the problem, however, until seven that morning, the hour that the ship should have been underway. As she was rising from her bed at Thornleigh’s Yarmouth townhouse, Jinner had banged on the door.

“Rat-eaten rigging and piss-bloated bilges,” he’d reported, scrubbing in the matted hair under his red cap. “She’s a tub, m’lady. It’ll take some hours more.”

Then, she and Jinner had just sat down to a silent, tense breakfast when a messenger arrived from the Bishop of Norwich’s Chancellor. Dr. Pelle, she was told, wanted her to present the ship’s bills of lading for examination at the Tolhouse within the hour. She and Jinner had immediately rushed to Pinnacle Tower for a look out at the
Dorothy Beale
, and breathed a little easier to see that no officials’ boats were alongside her.

At least
, she thought now,
not yet
. Exchanging anxious glances, she and Jinner climbed down to the street and made their way to the Tolhouse.

Pelle sat in his high-backed chair framed against an arched window in the Tolhouse hall. His impeccable black velvet robe emphasized his white hair and parchment-white skin as he leafed carefully through Honor’s papers. Finally, he looked up at her. “A profitable cargo of wool cloth, Mistress Larke. Your partner flourishes.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She gave him a vapid smile. The story she and Thornleigh had circulated was that she had invested substantially in his wool trading business. It was uncommon for a woman to be so personally involved in trade, but not unheard of. It explained her frequent trips to Yarmouth, and her presence around Thornleigh’s ships. As for Queen Catherine, she was gone on a pilgrimage to humble herself before the Holy Blood of Hales, and Honor would not be needed again for at least a week. But even when the Queen was home, her joyless days were spent in a trance of prayer; she hardly seemed to notice Honor’s absences.

Pelle checked the destination on the papers. “Amsterdam. And who sees to Thornleigh’s shipment there?”

“Oh, dear, it’s”—she made a show of struggling for the name—“I believe it’s . . .”

“Deurvorst?”

Honor felt a rush of panic. Klaus Deurvorst was the young Anabaptist who settled the refugees she and Thornleigh sent to Amsterdam. “No, it starts with an ‘S’,” she said, still pretending to search her memory. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s so hard to keep straight all these foreigners Master Thornleigh deals with.” Suddenly, she brightened. “Spreckles! That’s it. His factor in Amsterdam is Mineheer Spreckles. Queer name, isn’t it?”

“Where is he now?”

“Spreckles?”

“Thornleigh,” Pelle said evenly.

“Homeward bound on the
Speedwell
, sir. From the Antwerp spring fair. And I do hope he’s remembered the Bruges lace I ordered. Why, last time—”

“And your other ship?” he interrupted.

“The
Vixen?
Oh, her mizzenmast snapped in a gale off Calais, sir. She’s in for repairs. Such expense! You’d scarcely believe the price of—”

“Indeed. Well, I’m sure you are anxious to get the
Dorothy Beale
underway as soon as she is ready.” Pleasantly, he added, “I hope the delay has not upset your passengers?”

Honor’s heart missed a beat. “Passengers! Bless me, Dr. Pelle, we’d have to
pay
a person to take passage on the
Dorothy Beale
, she’s that bad! But, you’re right,” she smiled. “I would like to get her underway.”

Pelle was studying her face. “Forgive the inconvenience,” he said with a thin smile, “but hard times call for hard measures.”

“Oh, the times are evil, just as Your Good Worship says,” Honor burbled. “But the honest people of Norfolk are safe assured of your very best efforts in keeping our harbors safe.” If I’m boring enough, she was thinking, he may excuse me without more questions. “We should all be doing more to assist you is how I see it, and I know I would if I could but, bless me, it’s all I can do to keep an eye on Master Thornleigh’s shipments. Why, I recall one time when a lame-brained apprentice mixed up several bales of good worsted . . .”

As she prattled on with a silly story of arithmetical errors Pelle’s face twitched with irritation. His harbor-agents—a dozen men lounging in the room—idly listened in.

“Lord!” Honor finished. “How these loutish ’prentices do try us! It’s a burden, I can tell you, for a poor, helpless woman.” She sighed, then bestowed on Pelle a luscious, almost carnal smile. He jerked back his head as if physically threatened by it. Honor knew that Pelle, unlike many of his fellow churchmen, was revolted by the ways of women. She had discovered she could cut short these interrogations by provoking his aversion.

“Master Thornleigh rails at me something awful. I must be vigilant with the ’prentices, he says, else we’ll lose a pretty penny. Oh, he does get wild. But,” she shrugged, letting her green cloak fall open to expose the naked top of her bosom, “I soon calm him.” She winked at a weathered soldier at Pelle’s elbow. “After all, he’s a man like any other and can be led, can’t he, Captain? Once a woman’s been shown a man’s leash, she soon learns how to tug it.”

There were sniggers from the officers. Honor was almost ashamed of her performance, and of the lie it inferred, yet she knew by the film of distaste clouding Pelle’s eyes that the stratagem had been effective; he wanted only to see her gone.

He leaned forward and handed her back the papers, and dusted off his fingers as if they had dirtied him.

She masked her relief. “If that is all, Doctor Pelle . . ?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, yes,” he said, waving her away.

She bobbed a curtsy.

“But please,” he added, rising, “convey my respects to Sir Thomas More. A worthy gentleman, well-beloved of the Church.”

Honor felt her simpering smile congeal. She was afraid Pelle had noted it, and she cursed herself for her transparent face. If he knew her connection to Sir Thomas, how much else did he know?

“Good day, mistress,” he said darkly.

She curtsied again, then turned. Jinner trotted after her through the room. Pelle’s men watched her pass with looks of lazy appreciation of her beauty.

Outside on the steps Honor gratefully gulped down a breath of the cool morning air. “One for us, Sam. Now, let’s check on the ship. Maybe Tate can make the second tide.”

They said nothing more as a trio of Pelle’s officers sauntered past them up the steps. Honor glanced at the leaden sky, then hurried down to South Quay, Jinner marching at her side with his bandy-legged gait.

They were climbing into their skiff when a greasy little fishing boat, coming in too fast, crunched against theirs.

“Steady on, Claypole,” Jinner cried to the rower, a wiry, long-haired old man whose clothes, as greasy as his boat, were shaggy with peeling patches that jerked in the breeze.

Claypole shot Jinner a scornful glance and muttered something under his breath. He scrambled forward to the bow, then hopped out and hastily tethered his boat. Eyes down, he hustled off along the quay with patches twitching.