by Barbara Kyle
Dusk was falling. In the purple shadows Adam prowled the wharf with Jack, looking for any craft left unattended. The wharf wasn’t busy, just a lord in blue satin instructing his servant, and a small knot of gentlemen who stood arguing about where to go for supper. But every watercraft was manned by at least one oarsman. Waiting for trade, the oarsmen sat lounging, one whittling a stick, one taking pulls from a bottle of wine. Adam passed them, feeling more desperate. He would steal anything, even a sculling boat. He had left his other three crew keeping watch over Roger, who lay delirious in the dirty courtyard behind the alehouse.
“Sir,” Jack said under his breath, nodding to a boat.
Adam saw it, a wherryman lying stretched out in the stern, snoring. The river rocked him like a baby in a cradle.
Adam and Jack exchanged a look, and Adam nodded. Going down the water stairs without a word, they climbed into the wherry quietly so as not to wake the man. Jack took the oars. The wherryman snuffled in his sleep. Adam went to the short single mast, not much taller than himself, and hoisted the sail, so small it took just two pulls on the halyard. He left the sheets slack as Jack, rowing, nosed the boat out past the other craft.
A snort from the wherryman, awaking. “Hoy!” He sat up. “What—”
Adam clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and pulled his dagger. “Quiet. Or you’ll swallow some river bottom.” The man tensed, no more struggle.
Adam kept his dagger at the man’s throat as Jack rowed them over to the alehouse, past the two drunken stragglers on the bench. Adam tied up the boat and whistled softly. His three crewmen came out from the back of the alehouse, helping Roger stagger over to the water’s edge. They settled Roger aboard. He moaned, his face as white as the washed-out sail, and Adam wondered if his friend could survive even the river journey, let alone the crossing to France. But he would not leave him. They hustled the wherryman to the back of the alehouse and gagged him and tied his wrists and ankles with ropes.
It took all five able-bodied men to haul up the fishing nets with their cargo of dripping hogsheads. No one at the other end of the wharf heard the silvery clinking inside the hogsheads as the men loaded them into the wherry.
With all his crew aboard, Adam hardened the sheets and took the tiller, and the evening breeze carried the small boat, with its six men packed knee to knee, out into the middle of the river.
It was almost midnight when London Bridge loomed dead ahead. Lanterns and torches blazed from its three-and four-storied houses and shops, lighting the water below like quicksilver. The river roared, compressed by the twenty huge stone arches, sounding like a waterfall. The arches were thirty feet apart. Adam picked the seventh from the south shore and tacked, preparing to shoot the bridge. It would be rough—the small boat was not made for such white water.
The crew braced themselves, two of them holding Roger between them to cushion the impact. The little boat jerked and pitched as it hit the rapids. The bridge lights above them were eclipsed as Adam steered through the roiling water of the sixty-foot-high stone cavern. Then, the angry water shot them out the other side. Adam hardened the sheets and within moments they were sailing smoothly again.
He steered for Billingsgate on the north shore, navigating between the scatter of lofty galleons and caravels moored near the wharf. Flags fluttered from their masts with the colors of France, Spain, Hungary, Poland.
When he spotted the Elizabeth it lifted his heart like a summer breeze lifting a becalmed sail. As welcome as Elizabeth’s kiss.
He steered over to her, and she rose above the little boat, as proud and shimmering as her namesake. Lanterns winked in her stern cabin window as she rocked gently in the river swells, and reflections of the painted designs on her hull—chevrons of bright green, gold, and red—danced on the lamp-lit water.
“Ahoy!” Adam called up to the stern rail.
Faces of Adam’s crew appeared over the rail. Then the face of Sir Henry Dudley himself.
“Thornleigh?” he called down. “Good Lord, man, you made it!”
Adam had his men board first, carrying Roger, and he ordered his friend’s wound seen to. Then he took over his ship. He set three of his crew to load the hogsheads of silver while he oversaw preparing the Elizabeth to sail. Dudley, marveling at the treasure, gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Well done, Thornleigh. It’s enough for a king’s ransom.”
My father’s ransom, Adam thought as he watched the sails unfurl. As he took the wheel he looked back at the Tower rising up just past the bridge, its turrets and battlements etched against the moonlit clouds. His father was there, his only company for four long months the rats of his stinking cell. For him, and for me, Adam thought, this rebellion cannot come soon enough.
They were underway with the tide. They cleared Gravesend and soon broke free of the estuary with a fresh, following wind at their back. Once out in deep water Adam felt buoyed by the clean night wind rushing past him at the wheel. It felt like Elizabeth’s hand gently pushing him on, and her voice whispering in his ear, Do this for me…do this for me…
19
The Queen’s Net
May 1556
“Five hundred pounds?” Elizabeth said in amazement. Honorhad stopped her on the broad staircase of Somerset House. “You must be mad.”
“You refused to send Sir Henry Dudley even a word of support,” Honor said sharply. “The least you can do is send—” She paused to let two maids carrying armloads of bed linen trudge past them, going down the stairs. When the maids were out of sight, Honor took Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her up the last steps and into an alcove where no one could hear them.
Elizabeth snatched her hand free. “Are you deaf? I told you days ago that I would not suffer your company more. I marvel that Master Parry let you in.”
“Parry has your best interests at heart.”
“I would that he would act so.”
Insufferable girl. Honor had never felt such bitter disappointment in anyone. But she had to press on, had to try everything possible to help the rebellion succeed. To do less was to condemn Richard to prison indefinitely. “The least you can do,” she insisted, “is send this token amount to feed Sir Anthony Kingston’s troops. They are massing on the Welsh border. They must eat.”
“Token? It is enough to beggar me. God’s wounds, you may as well ask for my blood.”
“I ask no more than any prince would gladly offer to brave men, ready to shed their blood. And all for your cause.”
“Your hearing must be defective, indeed, for I have told you again and again this is not my cause. Treason is not my cause! And,” she cried with a catch in her voice, “if blood spills, it will be on your hands!”
“My hands? What possible connection—” She stopped, astonished to see tears glistening in Elizabeth’s eyes. It seemed that the girl did care, and deeply. How unaccountable! Or was it? She remembered the warm look that had passed between her and Adam when they parted at Hatfield. It’s him she cares about. And now she thinks I’ve roped him into doing battle. Perhaps she could build on those soft feelings.
“My lady,” she said, changing tack, “have you heard any news of my stepson’s ship on her maiden voyage?”
“The Elizabeth? What has a cargo of wool cloth to do with—”
“At least, you will surely have heard of the recent robbery of the Queen’s treasury.” The reports three weeks ago had shocked London. A gang of ruffians, it was said, had gotten into the Westminster treasury in the full daylight of blessed Palm Sunday when almost everyone was in church. Such sacrilege!
Elizabeth’s tone was tinged with impatience. “I do not follow the doings of common criminals.”
“Oh, not so very common,” Honor said with a swell of pride for Adam. She glanced around to be very sure that no one was near, then whispered, “Adam masterminded the treasury mission.”
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. “Good God. Why?”
“To raise troops in France. For your cause.”
&n
bsp; “Really?” Fascination flitted across her face. “But how did he manage it?”
“He and his men marched in, pretending to deliver treasure from the Tower. Instead, they stuffed their clothes with silver coins and marched right back out.”
Elizabeth looked ready to laugh in delight. Then she sobered, instantly concerned. “But is he safe away?”
Honor nodded. “He sailed the Elizabeth to France with the silver, and with Dudley. The French are our friends in this. Ambassador de Noailles has assured me that his king will smile on our victory.” Naturally, since the overthrow of Queen Mary would hurt France’s enemy, the Queen’s cousin, Emperor Charles. “We are so close to success,” she went on eagerly. “Dudley is hiring a thousand soldiers. Adam and his friends are raising more among the exiles in Antwerp. I imagine it’s already done and they’re on their way here with the troops, even as we speak. Our friend Captain Uvedale of the fortress on the Isle of Wight will open Portsmouth to Dudley’s troop ships, and in the west Sir Anthony Kingston and his English musters stand ready, and together they’ll march on London. But, my lady, Sir Anthony desperately needs cash for his men.” She took hold of Elizabeth’s hands and said with all the urgency she felt, “It is all so nearly within your grasp. The crown. An end to tyranny. Honest stewardship of the realm. Justice for your people. I beg you, embrace the courage of these men ready to fight for you. It will so gladden their hearts, they will fight ten times harder and you will be victorious. Do it, Elizabeth. Or lose the chance forever.”
Elizabeth stiffened at the shocking use of her Christian name. That one word shattered the spell that Honor had cast. Elizabeth jerked her hands free. “Have a care, madam. God made me the daughter of a king.”
Honor stifled a groan of frustration. “Then he may have wasted His chance.”
“You are insolent!”
“And you are a selfish child.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew up to slap her. Honor caught her wrist before she struck. She dropped the girl’s arm in disgust. “You are not worth fighting. Or worth fighting for.”
“Leave! This moment! Or must I call the yeomen of my guard to seize you and throw you into the street?”
“Do not bestir yourself to such exertion. Pray, continue hiding amongst your ladies and musicians and dancing masters. I will trouble you no more with the doings of brave men. I am done with you!”
Honor was trembling with anger as she went down the staircase. She would not waste another moment on the ungrateful girl, not another thought. She wrenched her thoughts back to Dudley. She would go immediately to consult Ambassador de Noailles. Though his monarch would not fund the rebellion outright, Noailles had assured her that he would do anything else in his power to help. He might lead her to some other source of cash to feed Kingston’s men.
She was almost at the door when she heard Thomas Parry’s raised voice.
“Where is she?” Parry was running in from the courtyard, leaving startled servants and a yapping lapdog in his wake. He spotted Honor and rushed up the bottom stairs to meet her. He looked frightened. “Oh, we are undone. Where is my Lady Elizabeth?”
Honor pointed up the staircase. “What’s happened?”
“Soldiers. They turned me back from the gate.” He dashed up the steps. She followed.
They found Elizabeth in her bedchamber, settling down with three friends at a card table for a game of primero. As they burst in, Elizabeth and the ladies held their cards motionless, suddenly aware of the commotion in the courtyard. “My lady,” Parry called to her, pointing at the window. “Look.”
They hurried to the windows that faced north toward the Strand, Honor and Elizabeth and Parry crowding in at one window, the three ladies at the other. Down in the courtyard, soldiers wearing breastplates and helmets were marching in from the street, armed with swords and pikes. They were taking up positions every twenty feet or so along the walls. Servants scurried in fear across the courtyard. One stopped to help up an old woman knocked down in the panic. A little boy stood bawling in a doorway. An officer on horseback gestured to two sergeants as more soldiers marched around to the far sides of the house.
“The Queen’s guard,” Elizabeth said, a quaver of fear in her voice.
“But…why?” Dorothy Stafford asked, her face suddenly pale.
The troops made way for two lords riding in. “Sir Henry Jerningham and John Norris,” said Parry, identifying the Queen’s agents. The soldiers closed the gate.
Elizabeth shrank back from the window, hugging herself in fear. “Dear God, it’s happening. She has come for me.”
A breathless footman ran in. “They’re out back, too, Your Grace,” he reported. “They’ve tramped straight through the garden. Taken up positions along the garden walls right to the riverside gate.”
Elizabeth turned to Honor. She thrust her hands out to her, begging reassurance—a gesture of pure need, like a frightened child turning to her mother. Concern for the girl flooded Honor. She grasped Elizabeth’s hands and held tight, feeling she would do anything to defend her. “Take heart, my lady. If Dudley is on the march you can be victorious yet.”
“If?”
Honor hesitated. Could Dudley have struck so soon?
Raised voices sounded down the stairs. The clomp of boots.
They rushed down to the great hall, and there Elizabeth received Jerningham. Parry and Honor stood at her side. Ranged behind her were her gentlemen ushers and her nervous ladies. Jerningham bowed to the Princess. She stood ramrod straight, hands clasped at her waist, but her knuckles were white and Honor could see the effort she was making to keep from trembling in Jerningham’s presence. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” she demanded.
Like a queen, Honor thought. Brave girl.
“Pardon the intrusion, my lady. Her Majesty the Queen is investigating reports of a planned insurrection.”
So, Honor thought, the fighting has not yet begun.
Elizabeth managed to maintain her stern voice. “What has that to do with me?”
“Until Her Majesty can put down the traitors, she wishes to ensure your safety.”
“My safety?” she scoffed. She gestured at Parry. “Then why have you kept my steward from going about his business in the city?”
“Madam, my orders are to strictly guard your house. That is all I can tell you.” With that he bowed, apologized for any inconvenience, and left.
“Like Woodstock,” Elizabeth said in a thin voice of desperation. “She has made me a prisoner. Again.”
Honor was trying to think. “Dismiss these people,” she said quietly to Parry. “We need to talk.” He did so, asking the ladies to retire to their rooms and telling the gentlemen ushers to go and await further instruction. They left in a flurry of whispering.
Elizabeth stood still with fear. “Woodstock was a paradise compared to the Tower.” She turned to Honor, her lower lip trembling. “And if the Tower again, mayhap this time she will dispatch me to the scaffold.”
“My lady, do not despair,” Honor said. “What we need is information.” She was thinking aloud. “If we could somehow contact Ambassador de Noailles, find out what’s happening. If Dudley and Kingston are on the march, there is everything to hope for.”
“Think you so? But, they need aid, you said. Money. Support.” She seemed to be wrestling with her own demons. “If I commit to their fight, how can I be sure of their success?”
“You cannot,” Honor admitted. “There is no way to predict the outcome.”
“If I do nothing, Dudley and his men may still win. If I help them, they may still lose.”
Honor could not dispute it. She would not lie to this princess she had sworn to advise.
Elizabeth lifted her head high. “I will not sit meekly and wait to see if my sister will triumph over my supporters…and kill me. Come with me, both of you.” She turned on her heel. “Master Parry, bring your keys,” she called over her shoulder as she strode out of the hall. “And a candle.”
; Honor and Parry shared a startled glance, then quickly followed.
Downstairs they went, Parry lighting their way along a stone-walled basement passage to a locked storeroom. Elizabeth took the candle while Parry fitted his key into the lock and opened the door. Inside was a counting table and on it, as well as on the floor, were a variety of steel-banded caskets, perhaps fifteen in all, ranging in size from that of a small jewelry box to a coffer that would take two strong men to lift. Elizabeth had Parry unlock a midsized one, and as he lifted the lid Honor saw that it was tightly packed with gold coins.
Elizabeth cocked her head at Honor. “Five hundred pounds, did you say?”
Honor blinked at her in awe. What a startling girl. Humors of quicksilver—but a gallant heart withal! “Thank you,” she said, hardly able to find her voice. “To your friends, this will make all the difference. Just knowing you are with them.”
“Friends?” Parry asked. Elizabeth explained, and he immediately looked all eagerness. “But how shall we get this money to Sir Anthony Kingston?”
“I’ll take it to Ambassador de Noailles,” Honor said. “He has a network of spies, good at evading the Queen’s agents. And couriers on fast horses to race the gold to Kingston.”
“The question is,” Elizabeth said, “how do we get you there?”
Honor hesitated. The house was tightly surrounded. The soldiers would be watching every move. She questioned Elizabeth and Parry about the building, all its ins and outs. Was there some secret passage? Some forgotten side door in a stable wall? Some gardeners’ tunnel in the orchard? But they knew of no such exit.
