The King's Daughter

by Barbara Kyle

  Oh, yes, she had given him a quick assurance at their brief meeting in London, but she now regretted the flippancy with which she had bestowed it. She had been almost cruel.

  She had every reason to hate him for the past. He had said so himself. But she did not hate him. Life was too short, she thought, to squander on hating. And she was now ashamed of her moment of malice as he was leaving the Crane, when she had succumbed to the pleasure of ruffling him, if only a little, about Lord Grenville. She had been petty. And blind, caught up in her fancy that Edward was bringing news of rebellion. Not that she wasn’t still hoping for an uprising that would effect real change in England. But her absorption with that was no reason to deny Edward the peace of mind he craved. What right had she to deny that when she craved it, too?

  Ah, well, she would make up for those faults of pettiness now. She would forgive herself. And, more importantly, forgive Edward. Odd, she thought, that forgiveness was considered a Christian duty. She had seen few Christians forgive one another. Neither did she feel this was a duty. It was something she wanted to do. It closed an unhealed wound from the past. Edward had come to her with an open heart and she had been too preoccupied to see his need. But now she could make things right.

  She dipped her quill. Dear Edward …

  And the words of charity flowed.

  Down the corridor, Isabel Thornleigh paced in her room. Leaving London a week ago she had hardly been able to think straight, so great was her shock at her parents’ announcement that they were sending her to Antwerp. But days of wracking her brain here at home had failed to produce a plan to subvert their decree.

  If Adam had been here she’d have sought his support. Though he was so much older, she and her half brother had always been close. When she was little he’d been her staunch defender against any of her classmates who made the mistake of bullying her. But he wasn’t here, and even if he was, would he take her side in this? He was their father’s business partner, after all, and the family’s trade affairs in Antwerp were Adam’s specialty. Besides, pretty Margriet Korteweg was there. The engagement wasn’t official yet, but Isabel knew her brother was in love with the Antwerp burgher’s daughter. He would likely want to stay there, at least until stability returned here at home.

  She had considered simply riding back to London on her own. But she could not stay with any friends of the family there, for they would surely return her to her parents. And the paltry amount of cash she had—her small allowance—would not be nearly enough to pay the expenses of food, lodging and stabling.

  She had thought of riding to the neighboring village to beg help from her best friend, Lucy, the daughter of the Thornleighs’ foreman at the abbey clothworks. Lucy was a level-headed girl and Isabel was sure she could be trusted. But their house would be the first place Isabel’s parents would look for her. And even if Lucy did have some money to help her get to London, what reason could Isabel give for asking? How could she expect Lucy’s friendship to stretch to aiding and abetting an insurrection?

  No plan. And no time. The Curlew, with her on board, was going to sail in three days!

  Back and forth by her window Isabel paced, in and out of the violet shaft of twilight.

  Dusk had deepened by the time Honor finished writing. She took the letter downstairs and came into the parlor looking for Thornleigh. She found him standing by the hearth looking very serious.

  “I have a favor to ask, my love,” she said.

  He continued to stare into the fire. She wondered if he’d heard her. “It’s a letter to Edward Sydenham,” she said. “Would you deliver it to Grenville Hall?” She held it out to him with a playful smile, adding, “I’d take it myself, but the world frowns on married ladies passing secret letters to gentlemen.”

  He finally turned and looked at her gravely as though her words had not registered. He said, “It’s happened.”

  She saw that something had shaken him deeply. “What has?”

  “Rebellion. Calthrop rode nonstop from London to tell me. The report is that Sir Thomas Wyatt and two thousand men have risen up at Maidstone.”

  He looked down at Honor’s letter which she, arrested by the news, still held out. He took it and absently turned it in his hands, his mind on the crisis. “It’s come about,” he said bleakly, “just as you predicted.”

  Honor hardly knew what to feel. Gratification that a revolt had really begun. Disappointment that he clearly felt so differently. Curiosity about the leaders, their objectives. Then, suddenly, one thought overwhelmed the others. “I want Isabel away from the danger at once. Richard, is there a way?”

  “The Curlew can sail from Harwich day after tomorrow.”

  “No. I want her gone now.” She wanted her daughter safe in Antwerp with Adam. She would not have her children pay for her past.

  “I can have Calthrop take her to Maldon Harbor tonight,” he said. “It’s only five miles. Grover has a small carrack loading there for Bruges. He’ll take Isabel on to Antwerp if I send him the money.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And you?” Thornleigh hesitated. “Honor, I know I agreed—”

  “Yes, you did. Agreed that we’d stay if a rebellion broke out within three weeks. And it’s happened in less than that.”

  “I know. But, damn it, who are these people? Who’s this Wyatt? We don’t know anything about him. He might be some madman for all we know. Have you any idea what his demands are? Or if he has the slightest hope of success?”

  Honor felt her elation at the news evaporate. Who were these rebels, indeed? She knew nothing of Sir Thomas Wyatt. And nothing of who else was involved.

  “Wyatt’s band might be crushed in a day,” Thornleigh went on, “and then the Queen will be vicious in exacting vengeance on her enemies, real or perceived. She’ll be hunting traitors in every corner of the realm and to her, heretics are the same thing. Someone will remember you from the past, and talk. And then, how long before the Queen’s men come for you?”

  Suddenly Honor realized it was all too possible. “But, Richard, should I really be thinking only of myself?”

  “For once, yes!”

  “But it’s wrong. We shouldn’t let other men fight our battles.”

  “They’ve chosen to fight.”

  “They’re standing up to the Queen. That takes courage. That’s why we should support them.”

  “All right!” he cried in exasperation. “I’ll support them with money. I’ll do whatever you want. But, please, Honor, go with Isabel to Maldon tonight. I’ll join you all in Antwerp as soon as I can get things cleared away here. Please do this. Please.”

  The anxiety in his face tore at her. “Let’s settle Isabel first,” she said. “Get her packed, and then—”

  “No. No more procrastinating. Go tonight. If you’ll do that for me, I promise I’ll stay long enough to arrange some aid for Wyatt.”

  She nodded. “All right.” It was settled.

  Thornleigh’s smile was full of relief. He stuffed Honor’s letter inside his tunic as he strode to the door and called to a servant boy, “Jamie, ask Mistress Isabel to come down.”

  Darkness had fallen over Grenville Hall. The courtyard echoed with the clack of horses’ hooves on icy cobbles, and their nervous whinnying at the violent upheaval of the stable’s evening routine. Around the knot of horsemen, just mounting, grooms were making final tugs at stirrups and saddles. Servants hoisting torches stood shivering, having been dragged from the drowsy warmth of their hearths.

  Lord Anthony Grenville kicked his spurred boots into his stirrups and impatiently yanked the reins, pulling away from his groom. “There’s no time to waste!” he told his companions. He had personally checked his armory and set the men there to organizing the estate’s longbows, lances and armor, but there was still much work to be done farther afield. “John,” he commanded, as his son settled in his saddle, “call out the archers and get them to London on the double.” Lord Grenville jerked his head in a silent order to two serv
ants who instantly ran forward to throw open the main gates. “And, John, send word to Her Majesty that you and the Grenville Archers are at her disposal.”

  John Grenville nodded. He wheeled his mount away from the other riders just as the servants pushed open the gates. He bolted out into the night.

  Lord Grenville turned to his younger son and his steward. “Christopher,” he said, “and Master Harris, off with you to the sheriff for his instructions. Then rouse up the tenantry.” The steward and Christopher rode off.

  “Edward,” Lord Grenville called as his horse tossed its mane, snorting steam. “Ride to Sir Arthur Mildmay’s and to Master Crowell’s to spread the word. A meeting here, tell them, as soon as they can saddle up.”

  “But, my lord, about the Thornleighs—”

  “No more blasted talk! Go now, and do your duty!”

  As Edward rode slowly away, Grenville turned to his own body servant. “Matthew, you’re with me.” Grenville looked up at his sister’s window, faintly aglow with candlelight. Not an hour ago, in that room with her, he had heard the shuddering hoofbeats of the messenger’s mount, and his cry of “Alarm!” and the mad commotion of frightened servants. His sister had turned her lace-pale face to his. “Soldiers?” she’d asked, terror in her voice.

  It had pierced him like an arrow.

  And showed him the way. Old King Henry’s heretic soldiers had defiled his maiden sister. Now, heretics and traitors were massing to destroy the realm. It was no coincidence that Edward had made his extraordinary disclosure about Honor Thornleigh on the very night that the calamity of rebellion had broken upon England. God left nothing to chance. This was His sign, Grenville was sure. God was relying on him and all the good men of England to wrench the Devil’s grip from their poor country’s neck. A night for justice, indeed. He gave his excited mount its head and rode off through the gates.

  “I can’t go now! You can’t ask me to!”

  “I’m not asking.” Thornleigh glared at his daughter. “I’m ordering. Pack your things. Calthrop’s saddling your horse. Then, you’re off.”

  Isabel froze. This could not be happening. In one breath her father had declared the thrilling news that Sir Thomas Wyatt had raised his standard in Kent. In the next breath he’d said she was being sent away. This very moment.

  “No!” she cried. “I won’t go!”

  Her mother’s reasonable voice broke in. “Bel, this is a crisis. There may be great danger. Your father and I are doing what’s best for—”

  “You’re doing what’s cowardly. We should be helping these people, not running away.”

  Thornleigh threw up his hands. “Two of you! Was ever a man so plagued by obstinate women.”

  Isabel turned on him. “How can you desert your country? Anyone with any gumption would be galloping down to Kent to join Wyatt. If I were a man, I would.”

  “Isabel,” her mother said sternly, “you don’t know what you’re saying. If it’s leaving Martin you’re worried about—”

  “Of course it’s Martin! My place is with him.” This was close to a deception, and Isabel hated stooping to it. She longed to tell them about her own commitment to Wyatt’s cause. Could she? Would they understand? She was on the brink of speaking, but she checked herself. They would never understand.

  “We’ve been through this, Isabel,” Thornleigh said. “Until you’re Martin’s wife your place is with us. You will leave, and now.”

  Isabel heard the finality in her father’s voice, like an enemy’s door closing in her face. She saw that he would not shrink from binding her and hauling her away. But her mother? Surely, her mother would not suffer her to be dragged off against her will! “Mother, listen to me, please. I’ve heard some things about … the men following Sir Thomas Wyatt. Their goals are worthy. They want to rescue the Queen from her own folly. Rescue the country from it. We should be giving them all our support.”

  “That’s enough!” Isabel was shocked by the anger in her mother’s voice. “You’re a child, Isabel. You’re babbling about things you cannot understand. You have no comprehension of the dangers.”

  The insult stung like a slap. “I know this cause is right, Mother!”

  “You will not say such things. You will not think such things.”

  Never had she heard her mother so unreasonable. She looked to her father, but he turned his back on her and walked to the window. Never had she seen him so cruel!

  They were closed doors, both of them. She felt hemmed in by their intransigence, trapped. She had to get out. “It’s you who don’t understand,” she shouted. “You know nothing!'”

  She turned and ran to the door. But as she reached for the handle the door opened, swinging in, forcing her back on her heels. A man stood there like a wall. An old man, white-maned, but solid, bulky in his furred winter capes. Isabel had seen him pointed out to her in town. Lord Anthony Gren-ville. A sword sheathed in a finely tooled scabbard hung at his side.

  Lord Grenville barely glanced at Isabel. And he seemed not to notice her father across the room. His gaze locked on Honor at the hearth, and the look in his eyes was that of a hunter, fixed, obsessed. He walked straight toward her. Not until he’d passed Isabel did Isabel see the glint of a metal tube jutting down below his cape near his knee. He flung the cape off his shoulder as he moved forward.

  “Lord Grenville,” Honor exclaimed in surprise as he stopped in front of her. Thornleigh turned from the window. Honor went on, “What an unexpected—”

  “I come to execute God’s sentence,” Grenville declared. Isabel, behind him, saw him raise his arm and stretch it out straight. She saw the metal tube at the end of his hand gleam in the firelight. Saw her mother’s face, her mouth an O of wonder.

  “No!” Thornleigh shouted. He bounded forward and lunged in front of Honor, his arms flung wide, a human shield. In surprise, Grenville took a startled step back, marring his aim.

  A rapid clicking of metallic teeth. A blast from the tube. Sparks and black powder spewed back around Grenville’s head. Isabel saw her mother jerk backwards like a yanked puppet. Thornleigh spun around, reaching out to catch her in his arms, but she fell. She lay on her back, blood oozing from her side, turning the pale blue silk of her dress a glistening wet crimson.

  “No!” Thornleigh threw himself on the hearth by her side.

  Isabel stared, unable to take it in. Her mother’s eyes were open, her eyelids trembling in shock, her face white as stone.

  Grenville was hunched over his pistol. He was reloading. Only Isabel saw it. “Father!” she cried.

  Grenville raised his pistol, aimed at her mother’s head, about to shoot again.

  Thornleigh grabbed the iron poker on the hearth and lunged at Grenville and smashed it against the side of his head. Blood spurted and Grenville lurched like a beast gored by dogs at the bear garden. But he held the pistol tight, gripping it with both hands, set to fire again.

  Thornleigh swung the poker in a crazed arc and smashed Grenville’s face. Grenville thudded to his knees, dropping the pistol. Thornleigh stood over him and swung again and again, the poker flinging blood, cracking bone. Grenville’s torso swayed, his arms hanging useless, his face a mass of red meat. He crashed backward to the floor and lay still.

  Isabel saw her mother’s eyes close. Her legs gave way and she fell to her knees and crawled toward her. “Mother!”

  Thornleigh dropped the poker. “Honor!”

  Isabel’s hand slid in the blood beneath her mother’s side. She heard a scream. It sounded strangely like her own voice, but it was a child’s … a screaming child … lost.

  8

  Colchester Jai

  The county jail had been located in Colchester Castle since the thirteenth century and was in sorry disrepair. As Isabel’s mare plodded under the archway into the precincts, it had to pick its way around a scatter of rubble that had crumbled from the dilapidated walls.

  In the jailer’s musty smelling front room two men looked up at Isabel from their b
reakfast of bread and beer. One of them quickly abandoned his meal, his eyes taking in her furred hood as he rose to meet her.

  “William Mosse, keeper, at your service, mistress,” he said, smoothing back his greasy gray hair. His spindly frame supported the paunch of the heavy ale drinker. “And how may I serve you this morning?” His smile showed half-chewed bread around his yellow teeth.

  She gave her father’s name and held out a silver crown. The second man rose eagerly from the table at the sight of the money. Mosse snatched the coin. “I’ll take you down my own self, mistress,” he said with a solicitous bow. “And we’ll leave my turnkey to break his fast, shall we?”

  She had come with plenty of money. She knew that jail keepers throughout England bought their posts from the sheriff at public auction and received no salary. To recoup the cost of a successful bid, they charged fees from the prisoners for every item of their sustenance.

  Mosse led her down a stone stairway to a short corridor. It was cold and smelled of damp masonry and urine. Directly ahead, the staircase continued down—to the dungeon, Isabel imagined with a shudder. The corridor ended in both directions at a closed door, each with a grilled square in the top. From the left grill Isabel could faintly hear low voices, shuffling, and coughing. Judging from the stench that rolled through it she guessed it led to a crowded ward, probably the commons’ ward. Mosse started that way, lifting his heavy ring of keys.

  “No,” she said. “My father will be in the gentlemen’s ward.”

  “Commons’ and gentlemen’s, it’s all one now, mistress. The rains at All Hallows’ Eve washed clear through the gentlemen’s, ruining all. Standing up to their knees in it, the gentlemen was. Five of ‘em perished. That was money down the drain for me, mistress, and never a truer word. How’s a man to live, I ask you, when half the paying customers is floating belly-up in muck?” He started to unlock the grilled door to the commons’ ward. “Now, if it’d been this side you’d not hear Will Mosse moaning of it. Nary a farthing do I get from these curs, above what’s owing for their victuals, and even then not what a man can count on. Yet my lord Sheriff wants the chambers in the gentlemen’s ward yonder made good again by Lent—and all to be wrought from me turning out my own pockets. I ask you, mistress, is this any kind of a fair world? No, it ain’t, indeed. In a fair world the good Lord would’ve sent the rains to wash out this tuppenny ward and not left me to bury five paying gentlemen.”