The Queen's Lady (49 page)

Why had she acted like such a fool? Barging in on his sorrow. Demanding a return of the love that had overpowered her. She blushed to recall her impetuous behavior. Three days here had cooled her brain, at least, if not her heart. Her feelings for him had not changed. But she saw that her declaration had been wretchedly ill-timed. He had been shocked. And who could blame him? What a selfish creature she had been. What a brazen performance. What a fool.

She sighed and rested her forehead on the horse’s warm, smooth neck. And she wondered again, as she had for the past three days, where she would go. To London, of course. But which of her limited options there was preferable? Which would allow the most scope to carry on her work? For nothing, nothing in the world, would keep her from fighting Sir Thomas. The Marchioness of Exeter would be glad to see her, and have her stay. But Honor’s heart sank at the thought of the marchioness and her idle, gabbling, heartless friends. What a barren life. Besides, might not the work be jeopardized there? Could she safely operate from such a household, so open to public scrutiny? But if not to the Marchioness’s, where? Go to the wizened old Yorkshire baron at his townhouse? Accept his proposal of marriage? The horse’s neck shuddered to shift a fly, and Honor had to smile—a shudder was exactly her own response to any thought of the doddering old baron.

Beyond the barrier of horseflesh she heard a cart horse clatter through the gate. For the last two days carts had been arriving from Aylsham, Thornleigh’s other manor, bringing sacks of the overflow of the fleece here for storage. Honor sighed. Aylsham, where Thornleigh was. London, where she must go. She straightened, resolved to wish away no more of this fine afternoon. The marchioness it would be. And now, she and her mare could dawdle no longer.

She reached down to the mare’s cheek to tug the bridle. Munching grass, the horse stubbornly refused to budge. “Come on, old thing,” Honor coaxed. “Time for us to go.”

The clack of hooves on cobbles came nearer. Honor looked around. It was Thornleigh on horseback. He alone had come through the gate.

Their eyes met. He seemed surprised. “You’re still here,” he said.

Honor looked down, her cheeks on fire. He could
tell
she had stayed for him . . . it was so clear on his face. He thought her wanton. She should have left hours ago, days ago—fool!

Thornleigh dismounted. Honor looked up. He was holding the reins distractedly, looking at her, and his horse made the most of the loose tether, dropping its head to join Honor’s mare at nibbling the grass.

Honor swallowed. “I was just leaving.”

“I see.”

“I stayed . . . to see Adam,” she said idiotically. “He seems very happy at your sister’s.”

“You met Joan, then.”

“Yes.”

He nodded, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, though he was watching her intently. “Good.”

She dragged her eyes from the sun-coppered skin at his throat where he had loosened his doublet and shirt in the heat. “Well . . . I’d best be going.” She bent to reach for the bridle.

“Honor, I know I have no right, but . . .” He did not finish the thought.

She looked up. His face was clouded with uncertainty. “No right?” she asked quietly. At her heart, hope was clamoring to be let in.

He took a deep breath. “To ask you to stay. The other day, when you came . . .” Again, he stopped himself. He frowned and looked down. “God, I was a blockhead to leave you.”

Honor felt happiness flood her. “But you’ve . . . come back.”

He looked up quickly. Seeing her smile, he let out an astonished breath. He caught her hand. “Honor—” Suddenly, he was aware of the groom and the maid watching them from the house doorway. “Can’t talk out here,” he muttered. He glanced at the fleece shed beside the horses. Its door stood open. “Come,” he said, pulling her.

The shed was packed with huge, stuffed sacks of fleece—some stacked almost to the roof, some piled on either side of the door to form soft pillars, some mounded up around the small window like a pillowy casement. Honor moved to the center of the small available space. Thornleigh closed the door. They were alone.

She turned. He came to her. Looking into her eyes, he still seemed hesitant, as though not sure he had interpreted her smile outside aright. But Honor
was
sure. She could barely keep herself from flinging her arms around his neck. She touched his lips with her fingertips. She could not stop her fingers from caressing his cheek, and then again his mouth. Abruptly, he took hold of her shoulders. There was amazement on his face. “My God, you really are mine, aren’t you?”

She smiled. “I’ve been yours since the first time you held me—in the Cardinal’s garden, in the snow.”

Outside, a farmer on a donkey clomped by the window and the man peered in as he passed. Instinctively, both Honor and Thornleigh ducked and went down on their knees. They were facing each other, their bodies just inches apart. He had kept hold of her shoulders as though to pull her down from the farmer’s curious eyes, and now his grip on her tightened. All his former hesitancy had vanished. The look in his eyes was pure desire.

He reached for the band that held back her loose hair, lifted it and dropped it on the floor. He took her face between his hands and kissed her. He brought his body closer to hers. Trembling, she held onto his arms, reveling in his tautness, his unmistakable strength. Still kissing her he unfastened the front lacing of her bodice and spread it to reveal the loose fabric of her chemise. His mouth traveled down to her throat. She felt her tumbled hair catch at his lips. His breathing had become rough. Kissing her neck again and again he undid the chemise tie between her breasts and started to tug the fabric down. Honor froze. She pulled back. Suddenly, she was the one who was hesitant, unsure. She had never lain with a man. The dark memory of Hugh Tyrell’s violent penetration brought a pang of confusion. “I’ve . . . I’ve never . . .” she stammered.

He stopped. He looked into her eyes, his breathing still ragged. But a small smile of understanding crept to his lips, and with both hands he gently smoothed back her hair from her forehead in a gesture of pure tenderness. It quite disarmed her. She smiled too.

Suddenly he let go of her. He pulled his dagger from its sheath. He leaned sideways toward a bulging, ram-sized sack of fleece and plunged the blade in and wrenched it down, ripping open the sack. Fleece tumbled out, spilling around their legs in a pillowy snowdrift that reached halfway to their hips. Honor laughed in delight. Thornleigh grinned. His arms went around her and he pulled her over with him into the downy bed.

On her back she let herself sink into the fleece’s soft embrace as it frothed over her shoulders. Lying beside her, Thornleigh leaned over and kissed her gently. His hand slipped into the froth and slowly spread open her chemise. His kiss became insistent. His palm smoothed over her naked breasts. Wanting him, her mouth opened under his. She fumbled with his doublet, wanting to feel his skin. He wrestled out of the doublet and wrenched off his shirt, then pressed his body against hers. She felt his warmth, his hardness, his need. His mouth went to her breast, his tongue to her nipple. She could barely catch her breath as he slid her skirt up, beneath the fleece. His hand molded up her thigh, and as his fingers touched the warm, wet cleft she gasped at the startling pulses of heat his touch ignited inside her. He groaned and wrenched aside his codpiece and pushed her legs apart. He hesitated. She sensed he was afraid of hurting her. She pulled him on top of her and held him tightly. “Yes,” she breathed. He entered her, and when she moaned with pleasure he plunged. Again and again. The pulses of heat became waves.
She
was a wave, cresting in ecstasy. He exploded inside her. Her back arched. She was the wave . . . she was the heat . . . she was him . . .

She lay with her head on his chest, loving the way the rise and fall of his chest matched her own recovering breaths. She thought:
From this moment forward, I am changed. The world is changed
.

Thornleigh gently rolled her onto her back in the fleece. His hand moved languidly over her breasts, her belly where her skirt was bunched up, her naked thigh, then back up again to her throat. His callused palm, his gaze on her body, made her shiver anew.

He smiled. “Honor,” he whispered. His expression turned serious. He looked into her eyes. “Stay,” he said. “Marry me, and stay forever.”

25

T
homas More sat on a stone bench in the royal garden at Whitehall, waiting for the King. The alcove in which he sat was quiet, insulated by tall clipped hedges on three sides. Beyond, he could hear faint, raucous laughter from men and women bowling on the green; but here, inside the alcove, bees hummed peacefully among the roses, red and white. The flowers, he noticed, were now past their best. A few brown-tinged petals fluttered to the ground even as he watched. He glanced uneasily at the white leather pouch that lay on the bench beside him. It contained the Great Seal of the Realm, the emblem of the authority of the Lord Chancellor. Today, he would relinquish it to the King.

More was glad of the peace of this spot. He needed it to compose himself. The strain of his position had become almost unbearable. For months he had longed to resign. He had even begged his old friend the Duke of Norfolk to intervene with the King for permission to retire. But the King had kept him dangling like a worm on a hook. Expected him, like everyone else, to bow and scrape before his strumpet, the Boleyn woman. Asked him to read out in Parliament the opinions of foreign universities, all favorable to this abominable divorce, and all purchased at great expense by Secretary Cromwell. And then the dreadful climax to Cromwell’s maneuvering: the total submission of the English clergy to the King’s demands. The bishops, almost to a man—except, God be praised, old John Fisher—had finally, meekly, signed away their sacred, age-old rights of autonomy. From now on the King would tell the bishops when to convene, what laws to pass, and who could sit on a commission to regulate them. Regulate! Vile word. A Cromwellian word. Would he regulate, like the commerce of cobblers or fishmongers, the earthly representatives of God?

It had been horrible. A complete rout. And More could only accept defeat. His entire policy since this wretched affair had begun had been to protect the Church in Her hour of need until the King’s lust abated and his piety returned. But More knew now that he had failed. The strumpet ruled, and the Church lay wounded, gasping.

How could the King allow a woman to wreak such infernal harm?

A woman. He watched a bee lift from a blossom, its body dusted with golden pollen, and he thought of Honor Larke. Married. Her note informing him of the event had been terse to the point of incivility. Married to a Norwich clothier. A man whom More had never heard of. The news had made him suffer. Why had she done this in private? Oh, certainly it was her right; he could not prevent her. Not unless the match were grossly below her rank, which this was not. But why had she not come to him, consulted him? Her hurt feelings over that dead servant could not possibly have festered all this time. Why had she avoided him for so long?

The offense of it all cramped his heart. The news, her method, her grudge—and something more. She had chosen for herself. She had refused to accept any of the suitors he had approved, refused to settle into a quiet, Christian marriage. Instead, she had taken a man for herself. A union of love. A coupling of passion.

His palms were moist. He thought of the man, the one to whom she had given herself. Who was he? Who had made a wanton of the girl? He rubbed his sweaty palms on his gown. He must investigate this. He would send Holt. Yes, Holt would find out. All of it.

“Ah, Thomas!”

More looked up. King Henry stood at the entrance to the garden alcove, feet planted wide apart in his characteristic stance of power. More immediately rose.

“Glad you could make it,” Henry said pleasantly. He made an apologetic gesture that took in More and the bench and then, wiping the sheen of sweat from his florid face, he grinned. “The ladies would not let me leave the bowls, you see.” His jolly attitude almost calmed More’s nerves, though they both knew why More was here: the King had summoned him—with the Great Seal. He could cast More into prison, or strike off his head. And yet, More thought, he sounded like a satisfied merchant welcoming an associate to dinner. What charm this king could wield, when he wanted to.