The Queen's Captive

by Barbara Kyle

  The round face of Thomas Germinus appeared above the candle he held. Honor sighed her relief. No words were necessary as he opened the door to let her in. She had been buying books from the Fleming for years.

  “All right then?” Adam asked her quietly the moment she was across the threshold.

  She nodded. “Yes, go.” Having escorted her here he would now make his way across the city to the Charterhouse to pick up an essential member of the group—the man with the money.

  “Godspeed, Master Adam,” Germinus whispered. Adam touched his dripping hat in a quick salute and then was gone down the narrow street, cloaked by the rain and the shadows of Blackfriars’ walls.

  Germinus closed the door. “A foul night,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “A blessing for us,” Honor said. “Safer.”

  She followed him through the shop, where his candle’s flame flickered over trays of moveable type, casks of ink, and the two shadowy presses. They had to duck their heads under sheets of printed paper pegged to dry on strings that crisscrossed the room, a spider’s web whose dangling catches would create books on everything from mathematics and medicine to philosophy and music. Not hanging were the contraband Protestant broadsheets Germinus occasionally printed in the dead of night with the shutters closed.

  He led her up a narrow staircase and opened the door at the top to a slope-ceilinged room. Firelight glimmered from a peat fire smoldering in the grate. Fifteen men stood around a table. Fifteen faces turned to Honor.

  She hated to interrupt, but felt some response was necessary, and in truth her heart brimmed with gratitude for the risks these men were taking. “My lords. Gentlemen,” she said, “you are well met.”

  Sir Henry Dudley, their leader, bowed to her. “Madam, thanks to you.”

  His deference moved her, knowing it was his mark of respect for her part in bringing them all together. Each of them had been driven here by intensely personal reasons—religious conviction, outrage at the Queen’s tyranny, a hunger for potential spoils, perhaps a mix of all three—but she sensed that each one respected what was driving her: Her husband could hang if the Queen decreed it. “Please, go on,” she said.

  They turned back to the table where maps were spread, and resumed their discussion, which Honor gathered was about the Queen’s defenses on the Welsh border. As Germinus went back down the stairs, closing the door, she moved to the fire to warm her chilled hands. Its heat was meager, but no matter—this assembly warmed her as nothing else could. Some of them had ridden far and the cramped room smelled of wet wool. She thought it also smelled uniquely of men: leather, sweat, and horses.

  “Henry,” someone asked, “what French troops are promised us?”

  “Ambassador de Noailles guarantees a thousand, trained and armed. And once they land we’ll raise twenty thousand English.”

  There were murmurs of approval at Dudley’s forthright pronouncement, and it thrilled Honor. A thousand mercenaries financed by the French king would soon file onto ships and sail for England, and with those veteran troops as the backbone of their army, the men here would topple the Queen. She was impressed by Dudley, a commanding figure, black haired, black bearded, and dressed all in black. Except for the jewels gleaming on his sword hilt, he could have passed through the dark streets as invisibly as a black cat. It was Cecil who had recommended him as commander. “A lifelong soldier. Used to be captain of the guard at Boulogne,” Cecil had told her. Dudley had tried three years ago to prevent Queen Mary from ascending the throne by joining with the forces of the Duke of Northumberland to make Lady Jane Grey queen instead. When that venture ended in failure and tragedy, Dudley had removed himself to France. “He has many friends among the French,” Cecil had said, “and that will pay off now.”

  She scanned the rest of the company, feeling full of hope for the venture. How could it fail in the hands of such men? Sir Anthony Kingston, beefy but fighting fit. Tall, white-haired Sir John St. Loe, a former sheriff of Somerset and former marshal of forces in Ireland. Nicholas Throckmorton, who had ridden as a captain with Wyatt’s doomed rebel army. Sir John Perrot, sheriff of Pembrokeshire. Richard Uvedale, captain of the fortress at Yarmouth. They were all experienced soldiers, battle-hardened in England’s past wars with France and Scotland.

  At the far end of the table were Sir William Courtenay and Sir Henry Peckham, who, with Perrot and Kingston, had stood with Richard as MPs in the turbulent House of Commons that the Queen had summarily dissolved. Honor also recognized John Daniel, a friend of Princess Elizabeth. And Lord John Bray, Elizabeth’s neighbor at Hatfield. Pity pinched her heart when she saw Roger Mitford. Hardened by grief after his father had been burned at the stake, Roger had been one of the first Honor had contacted. His brother Timothy had fled to Antwerp, where the organizers of the Sustainers of the Refugees were now recruiting for Dudley among the exile community. And there were several others, men she had never seen before.

  She did not doubt the commitment of any. Almost three hundred innocents had been burned at the stake, and the men here had seen friends and neighbors perish in the flames. Most also had family and friends who had been forced to flee to the German lands because they were not safe in their own homes. All were incensed about the proposed royal bill to declare Princess Elizabeth a bastard and bar her from the succession. Murder and tyranny marked Queen Mary’s rule. Now, they were going to end it.

  Dudley was saying, “With the trained companies Sir Anthony will raise in the Welsh borderlands, we’ll have the west covered. That is, if Anthony can keep his horse-thieving neighbors from stealing his mount this time.”

  There was quiet laughter.

  “I’ll press the blackguards into service,” Kingston shot back with a grin, “and assign them to you, Henry.”

  More laughter and some backslapping. Honor smiled. Their camaraderie warmed her after the desolate weeks since Richard’s arrest. Six hectic weeks of conferring with Cecil, enlisting Ambassador de Noailles, meeting Dudley and coordinating his messages to the rest of these men, and their messages back to him. She had beaten back the nightmare images of Richard in prison, because it was the only way she could carry on with what had to be done, but there were moments, especially late at night, when she could not fend off the torture of her imagination. She had not been allowed in to visit him. The Tower guards had turned her away, even when she had offered bribes. But she knew what it was like in those dungeons. Years ago she had visited Sir Thomas More in his cell. She would never forget the stench and the cold, and the small, terrifying sounds from far-off cells. In her mind she saw Richard sprawled in filthy, bug-infested straw, his skin red from insect bites, his wrist scraped raw from the iron manacle, his throat parched with thirst, his mind racked with fear—for himself, for her, for Adam. The Queen might keep him there indefinitely, for years even, before he could expect a trial, and even then, though he had broken no law, a judge and jury could be terrified into condemning him to hang. Honor was so desperate to free him she would have fought the Queen with her bare hands.

  “Then it’s settled. We aim for mid-May, six weeks from today,” Dudley said. “Any questions? Tomorrow, Norton and I will sail for Le Havre. I’ll hire the troops while Norton arranges for the ships to carry them. Roger Mitford and George Lowry will sail to Antwerp and raise our exiled friends. Four hundred are pledged to us, many with some fighting experience, and if need be they’ll hire German soldiers to bring that complement to three companies. At home, Sir Anthony Kingston will raise men and arms along the Welsh frontier.”

  He tapped his finger on the map, at the south of England. “Captain Uvedale commands the key fortress of Yarmouth here on the Isle of Wight. He will open Portsmouth to my troop ships. Once I land the invasion force we’ll march on London, Sir Anthony coming from the west, me from the south. The rest of you will raise the trained bands among your own retainers and tenants, and reconnoiter your local armories, and stand by for my orders.”

  There were nods of approva
l all round. It was clear that Dudley had the undisputed confidence of these men who were trusting him with their lives.

  “That leaves just the reason for it all,” he said, looking at Honor. “Mistress Thornleigh, will Princess Elizabeth honor us with her support?”

  They all turned to her, and she felt the hope in their eyes. They all wanted Elizabeth on the throne. She was considered a Protestant sympathizer; as queen, she would not burn their neighbors and friends at the stake. “I cannot answer for her, my lords, but I will inform her of your plan,” Honor said. She would not send anything in writing to Elizabeth, and they all understood that. The Queen still suspected her sister of seditious involvement with Wyatt’s failed rebellion, and any complicity with Dudley set down in black-and-white would be grounds for executing her as an outright traitor. But to encourage them she added, “My lady cannot fail to be moved by your bravery.”

  Dudley nodded. It was the best they could hope for, for now.

  Germinus slipped into the room with bottles of wine tucked under his arms and goblets on a tray, a welcome diversion that broke the group up into small knots, who set to pouring wine and discussing tactics. Dudley offered Germinus some money, but the printer held up his hands in refusal. “No, sir. When you have rid us of this wicked queen, come back and buy my books.”

  “A date I shall keep with pleasure, sir,” Dudley said. Honor saw him beckon the printer closer. He handed him a gold coin, an angel, worth ten shillings, and asked him to split it in two on his vise. Germinus looked mildly surprised but went downstairs to comply. Lord John Bray led a couple of toasts—to the mission, to Elizabeth. When the printer returned Dudley announced, “My lords, gentlemen,” and everyone quieted at his tone, like a call to arms. His face beamed a confidence that was infectious. Honor felt it, and saw it light every other face.

  Dudley held up the two halves of the coin, displaying their snapped edges. “One half of this angel is for Sir Anthony Kingston.” He tossed it across the table to Kingston.

  “Don’t spend it all at once, Anthony,” Lord Bray joked, making everyone laugh.

  Dudley went on, grinning, “When I land at Portsmouth with the troops, I shall send a fast rider to Sir Anthony with this matching half. It will be my signal for him to raise our pennants—and march!”

  The men cheered, abandoning caution for one excited moment. They immediately settled down for prudence’s sake, but quiet laughter continued with more backslapping of Kingston and Dudley, and a deep current of comradeship that Honor found very moving.

  There was a sound at the door. Swords scraped an inch or two out of several knights’ scabbards.

  The door opened and Adam walked in. He pulled off his hat, flinging cold raindrops. His red-rimmed eyes showed how little sleep he had allowed himself recently, and his mud-spattered clothes spoke of the long miles he had covered as a go-between for Dudley. Living in his boots and spurs for days on end, he was unshaven and dirty—and Honor had never been more proud. She marveled at the change in him, remembering how they had once argued, Adam insisting that the wise thing was to go along with the Queen’s policies. How he had scoffed at Richard’s warnings about the Grenvilles. But the day John Grenville arrested Richard at the Queen’s command, Adam had become the Queen’s enemy, and Honor’s right hand as they had allied themselves with Dudley. He had ridden tirelessly through the countryside from shire to shire, village to town, mansion to manor, alerting supportive men to their cause. He had become a bulldog for bringing down the Queen.

  Dudley welcomed him now, and told the gathering, “For those of you who don’t know him, this is the man who took an arrow meant for Princess Elizabeth. Almost died.” He raised his goblet. “To Master Thornleigh.”

  They all toasted him. “To Master Thornleigh.” They downed their wine.

  Adam took a goblet offered him and knocked back some wine, but Honor thought he looked strangely uncomfortable. And the ambassador had not come into the room with him. Caution prickled her scalp. “Adam, where is Monsieur de Noailles?”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hesitating, as though preparing to deliver bad news. “Not budging from his house.” He looked at Dudley. “He sends his deep regrets, sir. It seems that King Henri of France has just signed a truce with Philip of Spain.”

  “What does that signify?” one of the younger men asked, looking around at his comrades. “France and Spain have been warring off and on forever. Their quarrels do not concern us.”

  But Honor saw that the truce did. And that it spelled disaster.

  Dudley saw it, too. His face darkened. “It means that, for the moment at least, King Henri does not wish to destabilize Philip’s position in England. He no longer wishes to involve himself with bringing down Philip’s wife. It means, my friends, there will be no money from France.”

  There were groans of dismay. Then silence as the full, deadening impact sank in.

  Throckmorton said flatly, “No money, no troops.”

  Honor fought a clutch of panic. No hired troops meant no uprising. Queen Mary would stay in power. Richard would stay in prison. Or walk out to be hanged. She looked from face to face, hoping desperately to see in them a will to go on regardless.

  “So,” said Dudley with grim acceptance, “if there is to be no money from France, we must find it in England.”

  She could have hugged him. He was not giving up. “Sir Henry,” she said, “how much do you need?”

  If her interruption startled him, he did not show it. “Twenty thousand pounds, at least.”

  An enormous sum! The impossibility of it swamped her. No man here could raise a tenth of that, not without selling every acre he owned.

  As if speaking her thoughts, Courtenay said, shaking his head, “I’ve already sunk as much as I dare into this. I cannot beggar my family.”

  “No one expects that, William,” Dudley said.

  “We need another prince to finance us,” said St. Loe, though there was little conviction in his voice. If there had been such a benefactor, Dudley would have recruited him by now.

  Peckham said wryly, “Perhaps a loan from Her Majesty?”

  No one could even muster a smile. The situation was too bleak.

  Honor was frantically trying to think. There had to be a way. “I know a room that holds a hundred thousand pounds, and more,” she found herself saying.

  They all looked at her as though her words made no sense.

  Kingston said with some irritation, “Unfortunately, madam, the pope’s treasury does not lie within our reach.”

  But, she thought, the Queen’s does. The royal treasury was no more than the personal funds of the monarch. Much of it was kept under guard at the Tower, but not all. She knew this from her days as lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine.

  She looked at Nicholas Throckmorton. Four years ago, during the reign of the young King Edward, he had been a member of the privy chamber and under-treasurer of the mint.

  “Sir,” she said, “you know the room I mean. You used to pass by it every day. In Westminster.”

  18

  Blood and Treasure

  April 1556

  Westminster Palace was eerily quiet as Adam led four of his crew, men he’d handpicked from the Elizabeth, down the corridor toward the office of the Exchequer. He had chosen Palm Sunday. Most of London would be in church.

  Holy Week had begun with a freakishly hot spell and they were all sweating under the heavy, loaded leather packs slung over their shoulders. Above the sound of their boots Adam could hear the clanging of church bells all across the city, calling the faithful to come in procession to the churches with their palms and crosses—sticks of willow or boxwood that the priests would bless to ward off evil. Was Elizabeth kneeling at mass among the worshippers in some royal chapel, dissembling for her sister who kept her in such a purgatory of fear? And Father—listening to the church bells, was he sunk in despair that he would never see the sky again? Adam hoped to help free them both with this day�
�s work.

  His heart beat faster as he approached the two armed guards standing at the Exchequer door. He tightened his fingers around the shoulder strap of his load to keep himself from gripping the hilt of the dagger in his belt. Too nervous. The plan, so exhilarating when he had volunteered it and himself to Dudley, suddenly seemed impossible.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Sir.”

  Adam handed over his papers, hoping he wouldn’t have to use the dagger if the man decided to inspect their loads and dig beneath the top layer of coins. “I warrant we’d both rather be fanning ourselves with palms than sweating here, eh, Captain?”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Christopher Martin, assistant to Lord Paulet,” he said as the guard looked over the paper with its official stamp. It was Treasurer Paulet’s directive to deposit fifteen thousand pounds in silver transferred from the Tower treasury. An obsolete directive. Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, one of Dudley’s confederates, had scrounged it from his own papers kept from his former tenure as under-treasurer. Adam had smudged the date with a drop of wine.

  “My lord treasurer usually brings Her Majesty’s bullion himself,” the captain said, glancing at the four burly crewmen, then down the corridor to where Adam’s escort of a half dozen soldiers from the Tower guard stood waiting. Except they weren’t soldiers but Roger Mitford and his friends, dressed in breastplates and helmets. Adam hoped the palace guardsmen and those of the Tower didn’t know each other well.

  “My lord’s a pious man, Captain. Especially when Her Majesty commands her whole council to accompany her to mass.”