by Barbara Kyle
She hurried inside and heard laughter. Waves of laughter from many throats. She reached the great hall and found the whole household assembled and watching a play. Gentlemen and ladies of Whitcombe’s house, as well as a score of Elizabeth’s retainers, sat enjoying the antics of the players on a makeshift stage, while pages and servants threaded among them serving wine and strawberries. Honor’s eyes flashed over the faces, searching. There were many she knew, but she could not see Elizabeth.
“Mistress Thornleigh, whatever brings you here?”
She turned to see the round face of Thomas Parry. “Where is she, Thomas? I must see her.”
“Perhaps refresh yourself first?” he suggested diplomatically. “And then let me introduce you to our host—”
“No time! Please, tell me where I can find her.”
He hesitated. “She asked to be alone. She is somewhat indisposed.”
“Not sick abed?” Honor asked in dismay. She needed Elizabeth strong.
“No, I would call it…” He searched for the word. “Melancholy.” His eyes drifted to the window. Honor caught a glimpse of tall apple trees. A garden? She left Parry without another word and made her way through the hall, skirting the play-watching crowd, ignoring the wondering looks of the ladies and gentlemen she brushed past. She reached a passageway where the smell of roasted meat told her it was the route to the kitchens. A maid was coming in a side door with a basket of pears. Honor went out and found herself in the garden. It was huge—an orchard, raised flower beds in row after row, a trellised pavilion, a tiered fountain. But it looked deserted except for a maid on a ladder picking pears.
She looked to the west where the sun was setting over a man-made lake dug in the shape of a crescent. A small boat with one sail drifted, an old man in servant’s attire slouched comfortably at the tiller. A curving walkway of sand led out to the lake and there, on the grassy shore, stood Elizabeth. She was watching the sailboat and hugging herself, not tightly as though from cold, for the evening was balmy, but as though she were deep in thought.
“My lady!”
Elizabeth turned, astonished at the sight of Honor hurrying toward her. “Mistress Thornleigh!”
Honor poured out the terrible account. The telling brought back all the horror of the deaths and Richard’s abduction and the fire, and when she had finished she felt emptied of every ounce of strength. Her voice trailed in misery as she said, “Grenville will kill my husband.”
“And your son?” Elizabeth asked, her face pale.
“Away when it happened. But he came back, saw the ruin…and heard about Richard. He is so enraged he means to attack Grenville Hall.”
“Has he set out?”
“Not when I left. He is gathering men.”
“Then he may cool down,” Elizabeth said as though trying to convince herself as well as Honor. “He is sensible. He will not charge off on a rash attack.” She looked toward the garden, and Honor distractedly followed her gaze. Parry had come out and stood watching them, concern on his face. Elizabeth motioned for him to go back in, a gesture that also told him she was all right. He turned and went inside.
Honor saw it, but was lost in her own nightmare. “Grenville’s place is a fortress…He has a small army. Adam will die…Richard will die.” Dizziness swamped her. Her vision dimmed. She felt her legs buckle. She dropped to her knees and sank back on her heels.
“Mistress!” Elizabeth crouched bedside her. “You are ill. I will call for help—”
“No! Call no one. It is you I want. You alone can help us.”
“Of course. Whatever I can do for you, I gladly will.” Honor’s teeth were chattering, and Elizabeth murmured, “Oh, dear lady, you are so ill.” She called to the maid on the ladder at the pear tree and told her to fetch a cloak and some water, then said to Honor, “Baron Grenville must be brought to heel. We will take this to the judges of the Star Chamber.”
Honor shook her head. “No time.”
“That court exists to dispense swift justice.”
“Swift? Weeks! Richard will be dead.”
The maid came with a cloak and Elizabeth wrapped it around Honor, saying, “Come, can you stand?” She helped her to her feet and led her to a bench and guided her down on it. She offered the cup of water the maid had brought as well, and Honor took it with trembling hands and gulped it down. Elizabeth handed the empty cup back to the maid and told her to leave them alone but to stay near. She sat beside Honor, saying, “I owe you my life, Mistress Thornleigh, and I will do everything in my power to help you, I promise. You shall have all the people of mine that you need to set your ruined house and property in order, and all the money you require to rebuild. And do not fear for your son; he is too wise to launch a suicide attack. But as to your good husband, I know not what can be done. We can pray that Baron Grenville will not stoop to cold-blooded murder. In any case, I fear I have no way to help him.”
Honor swallowed, the burned taste of ash still in her mouth. Elizabeth was wrong about Adam. He would die fighting to get Richard out. Wrong about Grenville, too. He would torture Richard unto death. “Yes,” she said. “There is a way.”
“How? Tell me, and it shall be done.”
Honor tugged the cloak tighter around her. Laughter lilted from the house. She looked Elizabeth in the eye. “You must become queen. Now.”
Elizabeth looked taken aback, then gave a sad smile as though acknowledging that her friend’s terrible ordeal had understandably left her somewhat deranged. “If only that were true,” she said kindly, but with a wry note. “I would decree peace for all mankind.”
“It can be true. You can make it so. Overnight. Men throughout the length and breadth of the country have been preparing to bring down the Queen and raise you to the throne. Lords and knights. Gentlemen and yeomen. Soldiers and sailors. They stand ready, many hundreds of them, thousands. And they have the arms and the plans to do it.”
Elizabeth stared at her. It was clear she’d had no idea of the preparations. And even clearer that she doubted what she was hearing.
“It’s true,” Honor insisted. “I know, because my husband has been involved. He has organized the stockpiling of weapons in this county. Adam, too, and many of our friends. And this is going on in every county, managed by men in high places. Men like Sir John Thynne of Longleat in Wiltshire. And they will have willing troops behind them—not just their own people and tenants, but battle-hardened soldiers. In the north, the officers of the garrison of Berwick-upon-Tweed stand ready to march their men under your standard. In the south, Captain Uvedale commanding the fortress of Yarmouth will also support you. And there are hundreds of exiles waiting for the word to sail home and fight. And money aplenty—the Queen’s silver that Adam stole from Westminster—coming from Sir Henry Dudley in France. And many men who escaped the Queen’s wrath after that failed revolt stand ready to march again. Nicholas Throckmorton. Sir John Perrot. Lord John Bray. Sir William Courtenay. Believe me, my lady, your supporters are everywhere. And they are all only waiting for a signal from you to rise up.”
Elizabeth listened in rapt wonder. “But, how can this be, and I not know a glimmer of it?”
“They have not wanted to implicate you until all is ready. Especially those of your own household.”
“What? Who?”
“Ask Master Parry. He has been sending letters to coordinate the plans. Ask Sir William St. Loe. He is pledged to protect you all the way to the throne.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in skepticism.
“Ask them!”
Elizabeth got up from the bench and called the maid and sent her to fetch the two men. Parry came out first, having stayed nearby. Elizabeth related what Honor had told her and asked him outright if it was true. He shot an angry look at Honor. “That was ill advised, Mistress Thornleigh.”
“But is it true?” Elizabeth demanded.
He hesitated. To say yes was to admit to high treason. He said quietly, “Every word.”
Eli
zabeth let out a sharp breath of astonishment. And something more. A fierce delight. Honor could see it in those sparkling black eyes. She knew Elizabeth. This news was thrilling to her. And that gave Honor such a jolt of hope she rose from the bench so quickly the cloak fell from her shoulders. “It is true. And it is time.”
“My lady, you called for me?” Sir William St. Loe was striding toward them.
Again, Elizabeth asked outright if he played any part in the conspiracy. St. Loe glanced at Parry with a frown, but his answer was quick—a soldier unencumbered by subtleties. “Me, my father, and my brother,” he confirmed. “All at your service, my lady. We are sure to—” He didn’t finish, because another man was hurrying through the garden, a gentleman finely dressed, with an air of authority. Reaching them, he bowed to Elizabeth and asked, “Have those fool actors driven you here, my lady?”
“Not at all, Sir Harry, I love a play,” she assured her host. “But weightier matters require my attention.”
Sir Harry Whitcombe eyed the group, including Honor and her dishevelled state. She knew him only by reputation, but knew where his sympathies lay. The other two men stood in edgy silence. None could mask their tension.
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked between the three men. “All friends, good sirs?”
Parry and St. Loe looked grim. Honor entreated Whitcombe with her eyes. He must have caught something he needed from that, for he looked back at Elizabeth and said quietly, “All friends in a righteous cause, my lady. These gentlemen are loath to name me, but I am proud to name myself.” He bowed again. “Your champion.”
Elizabeth’s smile showed her excitement. But a careful smile. A controlled excitement.
Suddenly, everyone was talking. Not with anxiety anymore, but with determined calmness, keeping their voices low, though not a soul was near. Elizabeth led the exchange, asking about the plans, the extent of the preparations, the leading organizers. The three men answered succinctly and confidently, and with their own careful excitement now that she was one of them.
Honor waited, ignored by the others as they discussed the details of treason. She waited, feeling jumpy for action. Action, not more words! She thought of Adam charging, felled by a sword to his throat. Thought of Richard. His tongue cut out. His skin peeled off in strips.
“It’s time, my lady!” she blurted. “The country wants you. They are only waiting. Give the signal and lead your people.” She gripped Elizabeth’s arm. “Be queen, Elizabeth! Stop Grenville. Save Adam. Save Richard!”
The men stared at her, startled by her outburst. Elizabeth told them, “Please excuse Mistress Thornleigh. Her family has suffered a tragedy. Sir Harry, will you escort her inside and see that she is looked after?”
“No,” Honor protested, “I’m fine.”
“Take the lady in, sir,” Elizabeth insisted with a compassionate, sad glance at her, “and treat her as gently as you would treat me. She is my well-beloved friend.”
Whitcombe’s servants settled Honor in an elegant bedchamber. They brought her a silver basin of warm water, and perfumed soap and embroidered towels. They brought clean clothes, a gown of dove gray satin frothed with white lace. They brought roasted quail and wine and candied fruits. Honor carelessly splashed water on her dirty face, and crammed some food in her mouth, too keyed up to taste it, hungry only for Elizabeth to give the order to march.
She lay down on the cool, clean sheets, her muscles trembling with fatigue but bowstring tight with hope and anticipation. Everything she had done to keep Elizabeth alive and unharmed by Queen Mary, everything she had endured for Elizabeth’s sake would be worth it the moment the Princess wrested power from her sister. The new queen would send her army to thunder down on Grenville Hall and release Richard before Grenville knew what had happened. Queen Elizabeth! Honor lay on her back, eyes wide, longing for morning, and action.
Darkness crept over the house, but sleep was impossible. She got up from the bed, drawn to the moonlit window. Forests surrounded Bramley Hall, and she cast her eyes to the dark, green-black horizon, looking for traces of smoke rising from her burning home, praying she would see none.
Someone was moving on the terrace below. It was Elizabeth. Pacing. All alone. Arms folded, head lowered in thought, she went slowly back and forth between huge urns that spilled over with blood red gillyflowers. The moonlight, stark and cold, made her features indistinct and her slim body look ghostly as the night breeze tugged at her long, loose sleeves. In the distance beyond her the boat on the crescent lake was tethered to the jetty. Unmanned, its single sail furled, it tugged at its rope in the breeze as though eager, like Honor, for morning.
She felt a pain at her heart. It would take time to march soldiers to London, more than a day. Two, at the least. Three, perhaps. Could Richard hold out until then? Would Adam hold off from attacking?
She climbed back into bed, too tired to stand or even to think. It was out of her hands now—and in Elizabeth’s. She closed her eyes, still stinging from the fire, the ride, the fear. Her last thought before sleep dragged her under was, It all begins with morning.
31
The Making of a Queen
June 1558
The Queen was retching. A black-robed doctor held the porcelain pot while two other doctors hovered, anxiously inspecting the color and consistency of the vomit.
Mary spat out the last of it, exhausted from days of illness, and then pushed the doctor’s hand away with surprising strength. “She is here?” she demanded of her lady, Jane Dormer.
“Here, Your Majesty,” Jane said, still curtsying from delivering her message. “In the antechamber. The lord chamberlain thought you must have summoned her.”
“Never!” Mary fell back upon her pillow, her haggard eyes wide with disbelief. “How does she dare?”
“Shall I return the message that Your Majesty is unwell?”
“No! I would not give her the satisfaction. Come, help me dress,” she said, thrashing at the sheet to throw it off. Her skin was clammy and her emptied stomach ached, but she was on her feet within moments.
“Your Majesty,” Jane ventured nervously, “she has come with many friends.”
Honor had ridden into London in a state of almost dizzy anticipation. She rode near the middle of Elizabeth’s retinue of forty retainers, grateful for the company’s quick pace. Their departure had been so sudden and swift she’d had only a moment with Elizabeth, who had come to her room at dawn to say, “Mistress Thornleigh, I want you with us. It is important that you witness this.” They had left Sir Harry Whitcombe’s house as the sun’s first rays were pinking the sky. Elizabeth rode out at the head of the company, flanked by Whitcombe and Parry, with St. Loe and his lieutenant as their vanguard.
Honor could hardly believe Elizabeth’s audacious gambit. Straight to London! It was brilliant. After all, why had Wyatt’s rebellion failed soon after Queen Mary took the throne? Because he and his small army had marched from Kent, and by the time they reached London the Queen had rallied her forces and the city gates were closed and Wyatt’s men were slaughtered. Why had Dudley’s rebels, likewise, never had a chance, even before they were betrayed from within? Because they had planned to march from the Welsh borders and join Dudley’s French troops arriving in the south—all too far from London, the center of royal power. The capital was the prize, the linchpin, the key to success. Start in London, take the city, and remove the Queen before she had a chance to call out her troops. Brilliant.
But Honor’s exhilaration at the strategy did not last long. As the company rode past Charing Cross outside London’s wall, she realized they were not going into the city, and though the people in the street cheered the Princess as she passed, it was clear that Elizabeth was not going to join up with the organizing leaders Richard had told Honor about. No one joined them. As the entourage turned into the sprawling precincts of Whitehall Palace, Honor realized in dismay that Elizabeth had not come to London to raise a rebellion. She had come to see the Queen.
Qu
een Mary swept into the antechamber attended by five ladies and as many gentlemen ushers, plus several lords of her council, hastily convened. Honor dropped to her knees. Lowly in rank, she was far behind the Princess, and she watched, still stunned, afraid that Elizabeth had lost her mind. Ahead of her St. Loe, Whitcombe, and Parry were making their bows, their sheathed swords glinting. Ahead of them, Elizabeth.
The Queen stood stone-faced as Elizabeth rose from her curtsy. Someone inside the royal bedchamber quickly closed the door, but not before Honor glimpsed the rumpled bed and the three doctors in tense discussion, and caught the smell of vomit. She looked back at the Queen, at her face as white as raw pastry, at the ruff slightly askew at the throat of her orange taffeta gown as though she had dressed too quickly. She was in bed, ill, Honor thought. Even in her consternation at being here, she noted with surprise how gaunt and aged the Queen looked. She’s deathly sick.
Despite the large number of people, there was utter silence. Protocol forbade even a princess speaking until addressed by the Queen, and the rustle of Elizabeth’s silk skirt as she smoothed it from her curtsy was the only sound. Honor could sense her fear. Elizabeth had always been in terror of her sister’s power to have her executed, and whatever bizarre gamble had given her the courage to come here today, the fear lingered. But this was a new Elizabeth Honor was seeing. Serious. Carefully confident. Her nerves controlled. Honor felt on tenterhooks, waiting to see where it would lead.
“Well?” Mary demanded.
“I thank Your Majesty for granting me an audience at such short notice,” Elizabeth said, “and I beg your forbearance for so crudely disturbing your peace. Believe me, nothing less than a matter of grave urgency would make me do so.”
“And what is this grave matter?” Mary asked with cool derision. “Have you lost a dancing master?” She glanced at her councilors to catch their amused response. None smiled.
