The King's Daughter

by Barbara Kyle

  “I understand, my lord,” Edward agreed deferentially. “This won’t take but a moment.” He glanced one last time at the soul-enriching view outside: the forest, the abbey tower. He was taking a gamble, but it must be done.

  He turned to the couple. “The thorn I was referring to is the family of Thornleigh, your neighbors.”

  “Blackguards,” Lord Grenville growled. “You’ll be doing a good deed if you can clear them off.” His wife, too, sniffed her disgust.

  “Precisely what I have in mind, my lord,” Edward said.

  “Oh?” Grenville was interested now.

  “I believe, my lord, you are unaware of their past crimes.”

  “I’m aware of their present crimes, damn their eyes. Setting up their weavers with their infernal looms in the very heart of the abbey. The very choir! Where my sister once devoted her life to God. May He strike them down for their blasphemy!”

  “Indeed, my lord,” Edward murmured. The Thornleighs’ commercial use of the abbey, Edward knew, was perfectly legal. Grenville knew it, too. Throughout England, seventeen years ago, the monasteries had been sold by King Henry to the land-hungry gentry. They, in turn, had resold the buildings or knocked them down or converted them into homes and workshops. It was a common practice, but Lord Grenville would always see it as a crime. “However,” Edward went on, “I was referring to the Thornleighs’ crimes of twenty years ago. Believe me, they have done far more wicked things than those you are witnessing at the abbey. Particularly Honor Thornleigh.”

  Lord Grenville waited, his brow furrowed in anticipation. Lady Grenville had laid down her embroidery, her curiosity now frankly displayed. Edward knew he had them both. Yet he suffered a pang of misgiving. He could not relish this task. If only Honor had settled anywhere but here! Her openness at their meeting in London the week before had touched him. She had so trustingly told him exactly what he needed to know: that none of the old faces were left in England. None but the Thornleighs.

  They lived too nearby. Neighbors. The risk was too great. He had to remove them.

  He began. “In the time of the late King Henry …”

  He told the story. Birds darted across the meadows to the safety of the forest. The sun’s slanting violet rays deepened into a red wash that engulfed the fields and gleamed in a blood red square of window at Edward’s back as he related the facts, thoroughly and dispassionately. The only fact he was careful to omit was his own involvement in the work of those dangerous days. That, the Grenvilles must never find out.

  “Rebellion, Your Majesty! Worse than ever we feared!” Bishop Gardiner’s voice was bleak in the withdrawing room above the noisy banqueting hall. The dimly lit room was empty but for the Bishop and the Queen and Frances Grenville. Gardiner was a toughened, seventy-year-old veteran of three chaotic reigns, but Frances distinctly heard the quaver of fear in his voice as he repeated, “Rebellion! Fullblown and foul!”

  “Treason, my lord,” the Queen said as if correcting him, “punishable by death.” She sounded calm, but her face had gone white. “Tell me all. Who is their leader?”

  “Sir Thomas Wyatt, but there are—”

  “Wyatt? The son of the late poet?”

  “The same. His seat is Alington, in Kent, but the alarm comes from Maidstone market where—”

  “How many are with him?”

  “God knows, madam!” Gardiner burst out, close to fury at her interruptions. A wave of laughter crested from the banqueters below in the hall, as if in mockery of Gardiner’s dreadful lapse from courtesy. He tried to compose himself. Sweat sheened his forehead. “However, it appears that Wyatt has most of the gentlemen of Kent behind him. My messenger reported Sir Henry Isley and William Knevett and Lord Cobham’s two sons, all standing with him. And there are more, Your Majesty, many more. I said it would be so.”

  “And what of their host?”

  “At least two thousand men!” Gardiner’s voice rose despite his effort to remain calm. “And that is just from Maidstone market.”

  “The market?” The Queen blinked as if confused. Frances, too, was unnerved. She wished the Bishop would stop shouting.

  “Great heavens, madam, did you not hear what I said? Wyatt raised his standard today in the marketplace at Maidstone!”

  “I heard, my lord. You said—”

  “He made a proclamation that Englishmen should rally with him to keep the Spaniards out, and two thousand men joined him on the spot!” Again the Bishop paused to collect himself. But when he spoke, desperation blazed from his eyes. “Your Majesty, this is most dire. You must reconsider.”

  “Reconsider, my lord? Reconsider what?”

  “Why, the marriage, of course. It is offense to the marriage that has sparked this revolt. I warned you it would be so, madam! And now, look what—”

  The door swung open. Three men of the royal council hurried in: Lord Paulet, the Earl of Pembroke, and the old Duke of Norfolk. A single candle on the side table, the only light in the room, cast a stark light over their strained faces. They’d heard the news, Frances realized. The Bishop’s muddy messenger at the door would have told them. She stepped back to a sideboard in the shadows to search for more candles.

  “Is it true?” Pembroke shouted to Gardiner. Pembroke was a big, bony man, a seasoned soldier. Frances caught the Queen’s slight flinch at his addressing the Bishop, not her. Pembroke had been a leader in the previous Protestant regime, and the Queen barely trusted him. But he was powerful in the west, so she could not afford to alienate him.

  “It is,” the Bishop acknowledged grimly.

  “And the marriage is their grievance?” Pembroke asked. The Bishop nodded.

  “Her Majesty,” Pembroke said severely, “should have taken notice of the Commons’ petition.”

  “I have just been telling Her Majesty that.”

  The Queen said nothing. Under the men’s angry gazes she lowered her eyes like a scolded child.

  “The Commons made it plain,” Pembroke went on. “Even before Christmas they—”

  “Blast the Commons!” the Duke of Norfolk said. “And blast your eyes, Herbert, for speaking to Her Majesty in this craven way.” Frances inwardly blessed the loyal old man.

  “Your Grace,” the Bishop said, his deference to the Duke strained, “the question is not what we should have done at Christmas but what we can do now.”

  “Trounce ‘em!” the Duke said. “Crush ‘em!” He lifted an age-spotted hand, snapped it into a fist, and twisted as if he were God wrenching off Wyatt’s head. “I tell you—”

  But no one heard what he wished to tell them as four more men of the council barged in, all feverishly asking questions. Frances had by this time found several more candles and was placing them around the room, and from the mantelpiece she looked over her shoulder at the newcomers. The Earl of Arundel. Lord Clinton. Sir Richard Riche. Lord William Howard, who was the Duke of Norfolk’s brother. They all clustered around Lord Paulet who hurriedly explained the crisis to them.

  “Wyatt is a filthy traitor,” the old Duke said, “and all his scurvy friends. Only one way to deal with traitors. Smash ‘em!”

  “But how, Your Grace?” Lord Clinton asked with scorn.

  “Why, with arms, man! Soldiers in the field!”

  “And can you raise such troops immediately, Your Grace, from your tenants and retainers? Overnight?” Clinton’s contempt almost made his lip curl as he reminded the old warrior, “Unlike the French, we have no standing army.”

  “Well, I can raise a good showing, yes,” the Duke said stoutly.

  “How many men?”

  “Five hundred, perhaps six.”

  “You can be sure of their loyalty? In this fight?”

  The Duke’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps four hundred,” he conceded.

  “Perhaps three hundred, Your Grace,” Clinton said. “And, for each of us, far less.”

  No one spoke up to dispute Clinton’s statement.

  Frances was shocked. Would not even o
ne of these lords boldly declare himself the Queen’s champion? She wished the Queen would rage at them. But the Queen was silent, standing slightly apart from the men, her hands clasped together so tightly they were as white as her face. Still looking like a terrified child, she seemed unable to speak.

  “And how in God’s name can we pay such soldiers?” Sir Richard Riche asked pointedly of Paulet, the Lord Treasurer.

  “The Crown’s credit in Antwerp is excellent,” Paulet snapped back. “The Emperor’s sponsorship of Her Majesty ensures that.”

  “Credit, aye,” Riche scoffed. “At fourteen percent. If that’s what you call the Emperor’s favor—”

  “Please,” Bishop Gardiner cried, “the Emperor is not our concern here! Nor the money markets of Antwerp.” Paulet and Riche scowled but said no more.

  “My lords,” the Bishop said, summoning his most authoritative voice. “I have advised Her Majesty that I believe the worst danger may be averted if the marriage is called off immediately. Her Majesty would be free then to make new marriage plans.”

  “Surely you’re not proposing Courtenay again,” Lord Howard said incredulously. “We hashed through all that months ago.”

  The Bishop pounded his fist on the mantel. “I tell you, Lord Courtenay is the right choice! He has royal blood, and the country wants him. And it is not too late for Her Majesty to change her mind. If she does not, and Princess Elizabeth …” He stopped himself, but the words hung ominously in the air.

  “If she what?” the Duke of Norfolk asked, clearly confused by the allusion. “Speak up, man!”

  Lord Paulet calmly ventured to explain the Bishop’s insinuation."If Princess Elizabeth marries Courtenay herself, and if the French back the Princess—”

  “Body of God, Gardiner,” Pembroke interrupted, shaking his head in disgust at the Bishop, “you’ve been itching to shut the Princess in the Tower for months. Once you get hold of a thing, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “My lords,” Lord Paulet said anxiously, “we must never send the Princess to the Tower. Think! If the Queen were to die without children, the Princess is next in the line of succession. She must remain so if the country is to be spared the claims that Spain would undoubtedly make on behalf of Prince Philip.”

  Frances shot a glance at the Queen. This talk of the Queen dying, dying childless, her half sister Elizabeth taking the throne—Frances could hardly bear it! She marveled that the Queen could.

  “Forget the Princess!” the Bishop shouted. “Forget everything except the marriage!”

  There was a commotion at the door. Four or five more councilors were pushing in. Before any of the newest arrivals could speak, Gardiner turned suddenly to the Queen. “Your Majesty, I entreat you. Before all these lords—before God—consider the safety of your realm.” He wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve. “Abandon the marriage.”

  The room fell silent. It was the first time since the councilors had arrived after Gardiner that anyone had spoken directly to the Queen.

  “Before God, my lord Bishop?” the Queen asked quietly, as if struck by his words.

  A memory gripped Frances. And she was certain, from the Queen’s rapt expression, that they were both recalling the same memory: the vow the Queen had sworn that cold night in St. George’s Chapel almost a month ago while the gravedigger’s pick raked out faithless King Henry’s bones.

  The Queen addressed the waiting men, the look of childish fear gone from her face. “My lords,” she said, “I am sworn before God and country to uphold this marriage. I will wed the Prince.”

  There was a low groan throughout the room.

  “And if my councilors will not stand by me,” the Queen concluded bitterly, “God will.”

  7

  God’s Sentenc

  Edward Sydenham finished his story. Lord Grenville and his wife looked at him in astonishment.

  “But, Edward,” Lady Grenville cried, her face suddenly bright with revelation, “this is just what Anthony needs. With this information he can clear out the Thornleighs.”

  Edward had expected that she would be the first to see it. Now, she would lead her husband. “Why, the Queen herself would lend a hand to be rid of such vile people if Frances tells her about them,” Lady Grenville went on eagerly. “That’s it, Edward. You can do your wonders in court to discredit them, and then, once Frances secures the Queen’s help, Anthony shall have the abbey lands.”

  Edward clamped down a flutter of panic. Here was the danger: the case brought to public court. In a court of law, anything might come to light. But he had anticipated Lady Grenville’s suggestion and had planned for it.

  “Actually, my lady,” he said, pleased with the steadiness of his voice, “it might be wiser in this instance not to resort to litigation. It would be tedious and time consuming, what with the conflicting jurisdiction of the church courts in these matters.”

  “Oh? I should have thought the church court would deal with such a case rather quickly. After all, hasn’t the Queen brought back the heresy laws?”

  “Not yet, my lady. Parliament is in something of a quagmire over it. The legislation could drag on for several sessions. Years, perhaps. Therefore, it might be best to keep this … well, not strictly a legal matter. Keep it between the Thornleighs and ourselves. What I advise is this. A letter from Lord Grenville to the Thornleighs stating that he is now in possession of the damaging facts about their past. Put that in a letter, and I warrant your neighbors will be sailing on the next tide, gone for good.”

  “Blackmail,” Lady Grenville said smoothly. Edward understood her smile. She was not gloating, merely aware of the sweetness of power, and its efficiency.

  “Most likely they would move back to Antwerp,” he said. “I understand they keep a house there.”

  “Then let them return to it,” Lady Grenville crowed as if already victorious. She turned to her husband. “Anthony, you must write the letter immediately.”

  Edward silently thanked her. It must, indeed, be done immediately. He was haunted by Honor’s parting comment in London that she might barge into Grenville Hall. Though it had been more jest than threat, he dared not risk her acting on it.

  “Anthony?” Lady Grenville asked pointedly.

  Grenville had not said a word since hearing the story. His face was inert. Strangely so, Edward thought, for a man who usually could not sit still.

  “Well, Anthony?” his wife prodded. “Isn’t Edward’s idea clever?”

  Lord Grenville said, very quietly, “God requires more.”

  “More, my lord?” Edward asked.

  “Justice. Don’t you see? This now goes far beyond my personal hatred of these people. If they slip away they will infect other parts of Christendom. That would be an offense to God himself. No, punishment in a situation this grave must be left to God’s direction.”

  Edward felt a chill. Had he miscalculated? Was Lord Grenville so befuddled by religion that he was relying on some absurd hope of divine intervention? Was he not going to act? That would be worse than before! The thing half done exposed Edward to uncertainty. And uncertainty could lead to disaster. “But my lord—”

  The door flew open and John, the Grenvilles’ eldest son, rushed in. His bony face was distraught, his sparse blond hair disarrayed like windblown straw. “It’s happened, Father! Just as we feared. An uprising!”

  Lord Grenville jumped up. “Where?”

  “In Kent.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Thomas Wyatt. And a slew of others. In one day they’ve raised over two thousand men from Maidstone alone!”

  “Does the Queen know? Should we send word?”

  John shook his head grimly. “She will know by now.”

  A memory flashed in Edward’s mind of Honor’s words at their meeting. There’s talk of an uprising, she had said. Later, he had wondered about her insistence on that topic. Not her words, as such. More like hints, clues that she wanted to speak about rebellion.

  Lord Grenv
ille went to the table and snatched one of the pistols from the ebony box. He strode to the door. “Come, John. You too, Edward. We have work to do.”

  Edward froze. His mind groped for some way to hold Lord Grenville to the course. Grenville must force the Thornleighs to leave. “My lord!” he called.

  Grenville stopped at the door, clearly annoyed at the delay.

  “There’s more,” Edward blurted. “I believe that Honor and Richard Thornleigh have conspired in this rebellion. Our neighbors, my lord, are traitors.”

  Honor Thornleigh sat at her desk and stared at the tip of her quill. It was sharp enough; she had just shaved it with the penknife for the second time. And the paper lay neatly lined up, ready to take the ink. But the right words continued to elude her. Dear Edward … But then what?

  She sat back with a sigh and gazed out the mullioned window that looked over her herb garden. When she and Richard had built the house, finding the abbey impossible to renovate for comfortable family life, Richard had suggested including this small second-story chamber overlooking her garden, so she could read here and write. Honor loved the garden. Even now, in winter, when the barren stalks of rosemary and marjoram poked out bravely, if forlornly, through the smothering snow. Even now, because the violet winter light at this twilight hour held mysteries of clarity she never observed in the hazy gold of summer, so companionably thick with pollen and chaff dust and tiny living things. The winter light had a candid, forthright character that showed the world without flattery, showed it with clarity; which, paradoxically, unlocked mysteries. Objects that seemed blithely familiar in the daze of summer were made remarkable and mysterious under this exposing light. That was the gift of clarity.

  That’s it, she told herself, straightening. Clarity. What, clearly and candidly, did she want to say to Edward? It was … that she understood.