The Queen's Captive

by Barbara Kyle

  Would she come? If she did, could he still expect her goodwill after all that had happened? Enough to…his stepmother’s plea echoed: Save him. Frances can do it, he thought. Father was right about her brother, but I’ve been right about Frances. Right to make a friend of her. She is not the Grenville obsessed with hatred. Adam knew she had feelings for him. She had even told others. Elizabeth had heard some court gossip that he meant to marry Frances, and had been angry. So silly, that she would believe it. So thrilling that she cared. Bewitching Elizabeth—the thought of her was an arousing distraction, and he could not afford any distraction, not if he was going to save his father.

  He forced his mind to focus on his course, and it was this: He had a friend in Frances and he would make the most of it. He had deliberately cultivated that friendship for any advantage it might yield—Befriend the people who wield the power, as he had once put it to his father—and now was the time to reap what he had sown. Was it less than honorable to exploit Frances’s feelings for him? No doubt. Would only a cad lead on an infatuated woman he didn’t care for? Yes. But the alternative was an agonizing death for his father. Niceties be damned.

  He didn’t have to wait long. He saw her hurry in, catching her breath, her eyes darting everywhere, trying to spot him. She was moving so quickly she had passed him when Adam quietly said her name. She whirled around. Seeing him, she gasped and her hand flew to her heart. He reached out and took her hand and pulled her into the stall.

  “Oh, sir—”

  “Shhh,” Adam said, laying his other hand gently over her mouth. “Stable boys. Up in the loft.”

  She blinked, silent under his hand, and nodded, but slowly as though unwilling to have his fingers leave her lips. He slid his hand away, but kept hold of her hand. “Thank you,” he said warmly, “for coming.”

  “Of course I’d come,” she whispered. “But what—”

  He took hold of her arms, gently but firmly. “Forgive my boldness, but I had to see you.”

  “I’m so glad. You’ve been away so long. Are you well? Your wound…I heard you suffered an arrow.”

  “I am well now that I have a chance to talk to you.” He drew her a little closer, and felt her small gasp at the closeness of their bodies. “I’ve come on a matter of grave distress, and you alone have the power to bring comfort.”

  “Oh, yes…if I can. But I’m afraid it is not safe for you here. If my brother finds out—” She stopped, her face tight with worry, as if she found the subject impossible to broach.

  “Your brother is why I’m here.” How much did she know? How much did she care? He had to tread carefully. “Acting for the Queen, he—”

  “I know. Your stepmother. He oversaw her interrogation as a lady of Her Majesty’s sister. And I’m so sorry. I tried to persuade him to be less…well, not so harsh with her.”

  “Did you?” He smiled, surprised. “That was kind.”

  It brought a smile from her, too, hopeful and eager. “I believe he has just released her. And I pray God she is well.”

  “She is home. Recovering.” He took her hand. “Thank you for attempting such a merciful intercession.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingers. He felt her shiver of pleasure.

  “I am so glad to see you,” she whispered. “What kept you so—”

  “Frances.” Again she shivered, this time at the intimacy of his using her name. “I need your intercession once more. For mercy’s sake. My father remains a prisoner in the Tower. I fear he cannot survive long. I must have your help.”

  “With my brother?” she asked, anxious. “I can’t—”

  “No, with the Queen. A word from her will set him free. I need you to ask Her Majesty to have mercy and release him.”

  She stiffened. “But…he was rebellious in Parliament.”

  “That is the privilege of the place. And he did no more than scores of others.”

  “Last year he marched with the traitor Wyatt against Her Majesty.”

  “So did hundreds of others, and when it was over they swore allegiance to her and she accepted them as loyal subjects.”

  She bit her lip, unable or unwilling to make further argument.

  “Frances, he has done no crime.”

  “Other than murder my father?”

  It stopped him short. There it was. The blood feud. Her blood. She could not forget it, just as he could not forsake his father. “Where will this stop?” he said. “If my father dies at the hands of your brother, my kinsmen will seek retribution. It will go on and on, death after death. But you and I, Frances, we could stop the mad spiral. Forgive. Start afresh.”

  She gazed at him as though moved by his words. She murmured, “Forgiveness. A Christian duty.”

  “So it is. And it must start with us. I beg you to ask this favor of the Queen. You are her dearest friend. She loves you. She will not deny you.”

  Her face showed her misery at feeling so torn. He pulled her closer to him and slipped his arm around her waist. Her breaths became quick and shallow. “Frances,” he whispered, “do this for me.”

  She seemed to melt. “For you I would do anything…Adam.” She had shocked herself, using his name, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Then dared to say it again, her eyes aglow. “Adam.” She touched his mouth with her fingertips. She caressed his cheek. She leaned into him, her face upturned to his. She kissed him.

  He pressed his advantage, enfolding her in his arms, returning the kiss, willing her to do as he wanted. Then, abruptly, he let her go. “So you’ll go to the Queen? Can you leave today?”

  She stood, almost swaying, catching her breath. “I knew you felt as I do. Oh, Adam, my dear—”

  A clang at the stable entrance. The door banged open. Men strode down the aisle. Grooms, perhaps a dozen of them, going briskly about their business. Adam pulled Frances farther back into the stall with him, deep into its shadows, then stepped in front to shield her. He couldn’t let them see her, or him. But they could both still see the commotion going on almost in front of them. A couple of grooms led a bay mare out of a stall to the left, while others prepared ropes and harnesses. They were acting under the direction of the stable master who pointed his white stick as he gave the orders, “Good, secure her there,” and “All right, bring him in.”

  The grooms dropped an iron bar in front of the mare and tethered her to it. In a moment several other grooms led a big white horse that was snorting, stepping high, excited. Adam recognized it—the fine Arab stallion he and his father had brought Grenville as a peace offering when they had first arrived home. He realized what all the commotion was about. They were going to mate the stallion to the mare. He stifled a groan. He’d been so close to getting Frances to say yes.

  She squeezed close to his side. She gripped his hand and held it tightly in both of hers, as though in fear.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had gotten her into this.

  But a glance at her face told him she wasn’t afraid at all. She was watching the horses with solemn fascination. The grooms were setting up more iron bars on either side of the mare to restrain her in place. The excited stallion, with a huge erection, was snorting and stomping, trying to rear up to get to the mare, and it took four grooms with ropes, scuffling and shouting, to hold him back. Frances looked at Adam. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked almost fevered. Her breaths were quick and shallow as she pressed against him, looking almost in a trance, clearly intending to kiss him again.

  “Stop!” a man bellowed.

  Frances froze. Adam turned to look. John Grenville strode down the aisle. “Pull that horse away, Greaves,” he ordered the master of the stable. “Now!”

  “What’s amiss, my lord?” Confused, the man had to raise his voice above the noise of the frantic stallion as the grooms struggled to hold it. “Was it not your lordship’s order that I take a free hand?”

  “That’s a Thornleigh beast. I’ll allow no taint of Thornleigh pollution here.”

>   Adam felt a hot rush of rage. This was the man who had stretched his stepmother on the rack, and held his father in chains, slowly starving him. He felt an urge to pull his dagger, but he fought it. Kill Grenville and he’d hang. No use to his father then.

  “You men, move the mare away.” Grenville was glaring at the stallion. “Geld it.”

  Adam felt Frances shudder. “No!” she whispered.

  The grooms looked horrified. “My lord,” Greaves entreated, “you cannot mean it. This here is prize horseflesh. He’ll sire the same for you, for years to come.”

  “Cut the beast. Do it now.”

  He grabbed the man’s white stick and thrashed one of the grooms across the back. “Move!” The frightened grooms all lurched into action, pulling down the iron bars with a clatter, yanking the mare back to her stall, hauling down on the stallion’s ropes to keep the struggling animal in place as it whinnied and reared and pawed the air.

  Grenville glowered at his master of the stable. “Do as I say. Cut him.”

  “I beg you, your lordship, let the creature be.”

  Grenville whipped the stick, slashing the man’s cheek. Greaves gasped, hands to his face, and backed away. Grenville strode toward a table of tools, coming nearer the stall where Adam and Frances stood hidden. Adam yanked her back farther, right to the wall. Grenville picked up a gelding knife. “I’ll do it myself.” He ordered the grooms to rope the stallion. “Hold him down. Or else lose a hand yourselves.”

  Adam’s rage burned as he watched it all. Grenville butchering the horse’s genitals. The horse’s screams. Its flailing hooves. A groom, kicked in the head and sent sprawling. Grenville, raising the knife in victory, hands glistening red with the horse’s blood.

  When it was over, Grenville tossed the knife and walked out. The stunned grooms shook themselves into action. They dragged the suffering horse away. Others scrambled after it to see to its wounds. Adam and Frances stood alone, looking out at the empty corridor where the stone floor was slick with blood. Horses in stalls whinnied in fear at the smell of it.

  He looked at her. Her face was white. He was stunned himself by Grenville’s barbarity. And dismayed at what to do. All the precious intimacy he had built with her, shattered.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded stiffly.

  “Frances…my father. I beg you to consider his plight. Won’t you—”

  “Do not ask me. I cannot. I wish I could. For you. But it’s John.”

  “The Queen has the power, not him.”

  “He has the power over my life. He is the head of my house. I cannot go against his will.”

  “You have free will. We all do.”

  “Yes, free to live in penury, as his punishment. Or be forced into a nunnery. That is not the life I want.”

  Adam lowered his head, bowed by his failure. Exhaustion rushed over him. The mad dash from France, beating through the storm and limping into harbor with broken spars, then riding like a demon to reach his uncle. The horror of his stepmother’s suffering. Grenville’s barbarity. His failure with Frances. The weight of it all collapsed the fight in him. His back was against the wall and he slid down it and sat on the stone floor. With elbows on his drawnup knees, he lowered his head onto his arms. “You should go,” he said, not unkindly. “You don’t want your brother to find you gone.”

  He heard the rustle of her skirt as she knelt at his side. He felt her hand on his shoulder, a comforting squeeze. Her hand lingered. “Adam,” she whispered with longing. She stroked his hair, caressing. He didn’t want this, and he hadn’t the heart to continue the charade with her a moment longer. He started to raise his head.

  “No, don’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t look at me. If you do, I won’t be able to say this.”

  He rested his forehead again, barely listening, fighting despair.

  “I love you, Adam. I loved you the moment I saw you. When I said I would do anything for you, I meant it. There is a way for me to ask Her Majesty for what you want.”

  He jerked up his head to look at her.

  Her eyes were shining. “There is one man who would have a greater power than my brother’s. One man whose authority I would have to obey, by law, and under God, even if it meant opposing John.”

  He stared at her. She couldn’t mean it. He had never intended such a thing…never had a single thought of it. His struggle to hide his dismay brought an embarrassed smile to his lips, and she smiled back as though they were intimate accomplices.

  “That’s right,” she said. “My husband.”

  The night was dark as death. Too dark to see the gathering storm clouds, though Adam sensed them as if they pressed down on him as he crossed the Grenville Hall garden, making for the hedge maze. In the darkness he could see the black bulk of the maze only because torches flared beyond it, lighting the way down to the riverside jetty. Ten o’clock she had said. So he had waited by the river, under a willow that trailed its branches in the water. Had watched it flow past Grenville’s lands and then rush on to his family’s. He thought how it gave fish for the Grenvilles’ table, then fueled his father’s fulling mills. Watered Grenville grain, then his stepmother’s roses. He had waited until the very last moment. Ten o’clock.

  He reached the maze and turned to take a last look at the great house. Candelabra and torches glowed behind the windows. There was a faint sound of singing. He turned back and stepped inside the maze.

  The hedge walls reached just over his head, severely clipped box yews with foliage so dense it blacked out even the glow of the riverside torches. Adam chose the left-hand turning and struck off down the narrow alley, the thick grass spongy underfoot. A minute later he reached a dead end. He backtracked and started again, this time on the right-hand alley. It twisted, drawing him nearer the center of the labyrinth. Another dead end. Back again he went a little way, then onto a new path, but soon felt sure it, too, was wrong. He stopped and stood still, listening for any rustle of clothing, any hint of voices. Bats swooped over the foliage walls, a cold swoosh past his ears, and were instantly swallowed by the blackness of the maze.

  Then he saw pinpricks of light. He followed the trail, the pinpricks strengthening into a brassy shimmer that brought him at last to the center. Frances stood under a yew tree where a lantern hung from a branch. A black-robed priest stood murmuring with her. The lantern light glinted off the jewels she had carefully arranged in her hair. Adam had a fleeting thought of Elizabeth. Sunlight on her hair.

  Frances smiled when she saw him.

  “Ah,” the priest said. “Shall we begin?”

  Adam stood at Frances’s side and the ceremony began. Betrothal. A solemn pledge to marry. Both church and state considered it a formal contract. People considered it almost as binding as marriage itself. Country folk often took it to be marriage, sanctioning sexual relations.

  “It will have to be our secret for now,” she had said in the stable. “I’ll need some time to bring John around.” At Adam’s silence—his grappling with this desperate bargain—she had pressed the point. “A secret, Adam, you understand? As will be my urgent request to Her Majesty.”

  “I understand,” he had said. One word from the Queen and his father would live. It was a lifeline. He told himself that a drowning man does not quibble about the kind of rope he’s thrown.

  The priest concluded the ceremony, intoning, “For the servant of God, Adam, and the servant of God, Frances, who are now betrothed to one another, and for their salvation, let us pray to the Lord.” They bowed their heads. Adam’s eyes stayed wide open. “And may an Angel of the Lord go before them all the days of their lives. For you are the One who blesses and sanctifies all things, and to you we give glory, to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and forever.”

  When it was over she kissed him lightly on the mouth. “I’ll leave first. Go home, Adam. And take heart. Things will change, in time. Even John. Then we can marry. I will make you a good wife. I promise.”


  He watched her go, leading the priest out. The lantern light died.

  23

  Homecoming

  July 1556

  A hook ripped flesh from her shoulder…razors sawed her ankle…

  She awoke with a spasm of terror. “Stop!”

  “Honor, my dear! What is it?” A soft voice.

  Not his. She looked around for him, fear clogging her throat. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  Grenville. Wind whipped something against her cheek. Where am I? She tried to swipe at it but could not move her arm. Panic flooded her. “Richard! Where’s Richard?”

  “He’s…it’s all right, dear.” A woman’s face, a soothing voice. “He’s fine.”

  But where? “Where’s Adam?”

  “He sailed to Amsterdam last week, remember? He’s fine. Don’t worry. You’re home. You’re safe. Everyone’s fine.”

  The nightmare splintered. Her sister-in-law was leaning over her, gently squeezing her shoulder. Honor slumped in relief, her mouth too dry to speak. She went to touch Joan’s hand in thanks, but could not lift her right arm. She’d forgotten.

  “You fell asleep, dear. It’s the sun.”

  Honor swallowed the last bitter trace of fear. They were sitting in the garden in the bright July sunshine, she in an armchair soft with cushions brought from the house, Joan on a bench beside her. “Sleep,” she said, rubbing her forehead. The headache never quite went away. “That’s all I do.” Three weeks at home, and she had spent it almost entirely in bed.

  “Just what you need,” Joan said. “Sleep, and plenty of it.” She settled down on the bench, taking up her embroidery hoop again with its needle and yellow thread. “You’re still as weak as a kitten.”

  “But it puts so much on you. You’re overseeing everything. Kitchen, bake house, dairy house. Everything.”

  “I quite like it. Your cook has quicker wits than mine, and your dairymaids are less prone to romancing the grooms. I might just stay.”