The Queen's Lady

by Barbara Kyle

  He led her down a corridor and past a fine-looking great hall to a snug room bright with a fire and candles, though deserted. “Wait here,” he said. He turned to go.

  “But it’s late and I—”

  “Wait here!” He walked out and closed the door on her. His footfalls sounded down the corridor.

  Honor threw off her hood and looked around. The room was paneled in fashionable linenfold-carved oak. Expensive silver plate gleamed in cupboards. The chairs were soft with velvet cushions. This was not at all what she had expected. She had steeled herself for a bleak, ascetic compound with a ring of zealots chanting in religious fervor. This room exuded nothing but domestic comfort.

  She paced. Where was Sydenham? It was almost midnight. The Queen had kept her so long, there was no time left. If she waited any longer she would be in danger herself. She snatched up a candle and hurried to the door.

  The corridor was empty. She started in the direction she had heard the man’s footsteps take. She passed along a room-length of paneled hallway and came to a closed door. The latch lifted easily. Beyond the door, almost immediately, was an unlit flight of descending stone stairs. The hem of her sodden cloak slapped over the steps as she went down. The walls, too, were stone. The air was dank. A cloying smell—unpleasantly familiar, though she could not identify it—curled in her nostrils.

  At the bottom the floor was beaten earth. A low, barrel-vaulted stone passageway hulked around her candle. She walked on. The passage led to another flight of steps, these ones going up. She heard voices, very faint, and she halted. The voices quieted. She climbed the stairs. At the top stood an arched, wooden door. She swept her candle over it and noticed a small opening at a man’s eye level. It was a chink of less than a square inch, gouged out of the solid wood, a squint-hole for monitoring the identity of the person seeking entry.

  She snuffed her candle and set it down. In the darkness she went up on her toes and pressed her eye to the hole. Her breath caught in her throat. She was looking into a huge warehouse, and near the rear wall thirty-five, perhaps forty people stood inside a ring of hand-held torches. Their faces were lifted towards a man who stood on the lip of a loft, his head raised and eyes closed as if in silent prayer. Honor felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise. This was a huge coven of heretics.

  She was shocked to see so many women. Children, too. A couple of boys were rolling chestnuts on the dirt floor under a torch hitched to one of the loft-bearing posts. Stacks of animal hides were ranged along the windowless walls, and in the middle of the warehouse were three huge, round wooden vats, the kind she had seen used in ale brewing. Beside the loft on the far wall was a closed door as wide as a cart. She realized the warehouse must sprawl all the way back to the next street.

  The man in the loft snapped from his trance and began to prowl along the edge. He was in his early twenties, Honor guessed, slight, and very fair. His white-blond hair, shaved in a monk’s tonsure, stood out in short spikes over his ears, looking indeed like the thorns of Christ’s crown that the tonsure was made to symbolize. Yet he wore no priest’s cassock or friar’s robe, only a laborer’s faded tunic over sagging hose. He stopped and stared at the faces below him. The fervor in his eyes blazed all the way to the squint-hole at the back of the warehouse.

  He slapped his hand on his chest. “Love of God!” he cried. “That is what should fill our hearts.” He thrust out his other hand, palm up like a beggar. “Lust for gold! That is what drives our priests.” Honor was struck by the vibrancy of his voice. It was a voice made for rallying men.

  “The Church hoards one third of the landed wealth of this sovereign realm, my friends. Our rich Bishops send carts of gold to Rome, English gold from the sweat of English brows. They leech it from us in rents and tithes to finance the bawdy banquets and lascivious pleasures of the princes of the Church, and their wicked wars.” He shook his head, then smiled grimly. “Glad I am of the spirituality’s oath of celibacy, for if the Abbot of Glastonbury were to wed the Abbess of Shrewsbury, their heir would inherit more land than the demesne of the King.”

  There was soft laughter from the listeners. “If the priests have no heirs, Brother Frish,” a man called up, “it’s not for lack of fornicating.”

  Brother Frish laughed along with his audience. Then, suddenly, his arms shot up. “I say the priests are worse than Judas. He sold almighty God for thirty shillings but the priests will sell God for half a penny. They barter off their sacred wares like pork hocks at a fair-stall. They sell the seven sacraments, they sell dispensations,”—he held out his palm again like a collection plate and slammed his fist onto it with every transaction—“the chanting of masses, prayers. And all this on top of their endless tithes and fines, fees and mortuaries…”

  Honor shivered at this last word. For a moment she was a child again watching Bastwick wrench the sapphire from her father’s dead hand, the curse of excommunication still ringing. All for a mortuary.

  She shook her head to clear it of such visions of the past—and of her unease at going among these criminals. I must finish this, she told herself. Get inside, find Sydenham, and then get out again before it’s too late. I’ve come this far. I’ll see it through.

  She lifted the latch and opened the door. A draught of stale air rolled over her. She trembled, for the warehouse stank of an odor that somehow dredged up the horror of Smithfield. A cold hand grabbed her wrist. It was the orange-haired young man. He hauled her into the warehouse and hustled her along the wall among the stacked hides.

  “I told you to wait,” he whispered fiercely. He glanced nervously at the gathering, but the preacher talked on and the crowd listened, apparently unaware of the intrusion.

  “I tell you, I’ve got to see Master Sydenham,” Honor whispered, equally insistent.

  “Quiet!” He tightened his grip on her wrist until it was painful.

  “But this cannot wait!”

  He jerked a knife from his belt and held it at her rib. “You’ll wait until the sermon’s done, and you’ll be quiet.”

  Heart pounding, she stood still, a hostage witness to the heretical sermon.

  “And let us not forget indulgences,” Frish cried cynically. “The priests will sell indulgence letters for fornication, for the breaking of vows, for shunning confession, for ignoring fasts, and, of course, for rescuing souls from purgatory. Purgatory,” he repeated with a sneer. “This dread place exists, the Church teaches, for the cleansing of sinful man’s soul after death, but the Church will gladly give you remission of years of your soul’s agony there—for a price. Now, tell me this. If the Pope has the power to deliver a soul out of purgatory, why then can he not deliver it without money? And if he can deliver one soul, then why does he not deliver a thousand? Why not all? Let loose all the poor, tortured souls, and thus destroy purgatory.” His fist punched the air. “I say the Pope is a tyrant if he keeps souls within purgatory’s prison until men give him money!”

  He wiped his brow with his sleeve, and then eased himself down onto the edge of the loft so that his legs dangled. His voice became gentle and warm. “Good friends,” he said with a smile, “I am here to tell you that the Pope has no power to loose souls from purgatory because there is no purgatory. I am here to tell you that there are no priests, only God. That the painted images of saints the poor ignorant folk pray to for intercession in their worldly woes are only sticks and stones—and man must pray to God alone. That all the spells a priest may mumble over a piece of bread to conjure it into the body of our Lord cannot make it anything other than bread, for I have read in scripture that God made man, but nowhere have I read that man can make God.”

  Honor’s mouth fell open at this litany of heresies, especially the last one. The miracle of transubstantiation—the bread of the Mass transformed into the living body of Christ—was the cornerstone of Catholic faith. Yet this preacher’s words were full-blooded with conviction. His passion, so fearless, so generous, stunned her. It was as if, while she slept, someone h
ad dashed her face with ice water.

  Frish’s voice rose again and his face was bright. “I come before you this night to bring you good news, my friends. We can cast off the chains of bondage to Rome. I have done it. I have been freed. How?” He reached over to a barrel beside him and lifted a black book that lay on top. He held it high. “With this. The word of Our Lord, Our Savior. His blessed word, illuminated by the sublime translation of Master William Tyndale into our own tongue.” He waved the book slowly, like a banner over his head.

  Honor shuddered as a voice from Smithfield echoed: “…selling illegal Bibles in the English tongue…”

  This was the book for which Ralph had been burned.

  “Not the word of Christ’s desecrated Church,” Frish cried, “where the priests would have us grovel dumbly at their mystical Latin prayers, then shuffle home more ignorant than when we came. No! I have read Christ’s message for myself.” He clasped the book against his chest like a lover. His eyes gleamed with tears, and his voice was gentle as a song. “And scripture did so exhilarate my heart, being before almost in despair, that immediately I felt a marvelous comfort and quietness, and my weary bones leaped for joy. This is salvation, my friends. The shining, unadulterated word of God. Come! See!” He gestured to a large crate on the warehouse floor. “I have brought enough for all of you.” He stood and climbed down the ladder from the loft, and people moved in around him with excited questions and comments.

  Honor could restrain herself no longer. She wanted only to finish what she had come to do and then get out of this dangerous place. She glanced down at the knife at her rib. She sensed that the young man was more nervous than dangerous. “You’re not going to use the knife,” she said steadily. “Let me go.”

  He appeared startled by her sudden steeliness, and Honor seized his moment of indecision to wrench free of his grip. “I tell you,” she said, “everyone here is in danger. Now, one last time, take me to Sydenham, or I’ll leave you all to your miserable fate!”

  He looked anxious but he said nothing. She took a few steps forward. He followed on her heels and grabbed her elbow. She was shaking him off when she saw a figure hurrying toward them: a portly, apple-cheeked man dressed in the rich, flowing clothing of a merchant. Behind him, the people carried on with their meeting. “What is it, Edward?” the man said in a menacing whisper. Under tufted gray eyebrows he was squinting at Honor in the way of the shortsighted. When he reached her his menacing look widened into surprise. “Who’s this?”

  “Wants to see you. I left her above, but she’s come snooping.”

  Honor almost pounced, so great was her relief. “Master Sydenham?”

  “Let her go, son,” the merchant said. “Aye, I’m Sydenham. What be your business with me?” His voice was wary, but so gentle that it betrayed him; clearly he felt more curiosity than wrath at her presence.

  “Sir, I bring a warning—” She stopped, surprised by the approach of a woman.

  “Humphrey, what’s the matter?” the woman asked. As she came to Sydenham’s side her hand groped for his, and their fingers wove together in an unconscious gesture of comfort that told Honor the two were man and wife.

  Mrs. Sydenham was a formidable-looking person, several inches taller than her husband and a startling contrast to him, for she was as gaunt as he was stout, and as pale as he was florid. Only their common gray hair unified them, but while his lay in short, springy curls, hers was stretched tightly back from a center part under a starched white cap. Her face was almost as sallow and bony as a cadaver, but the eye sockets blazed with life at their hazel cores. She was staring at Honor with a frown. Suddenly, she gasped and grabbed her husband’s sleeve.

  “What is it, Bridget?” he asked gently.

  “I know this girl.”

  Honor was amazed at her effect on the woman. “Indeed, madam, I am surprised to hear it, for I know you not.”

  “You are Sir Thomas More’s daughter.”

  “You are mistaken,” Honor said.

  “You lie! I’ve seen you with him at Paul’s Cross. Sir Thomas More and all his family.”

  Honor bit back the anger rising within her. “If I had not known since childhood that lying is a sin, madam, my guardian would surely have instructed me, for Sir Thomas is known to all the world as the most upright, Christian teacher.”

  “Your guardian?” Sydenham blurted. “You are Sir Thomas More’s ward?”

  “Ward or daughter,” his wife spat, “where’s the difference?”

  “The difference, madam, is that I do not lie!”

  The eyes of the two women locked in animosity.

  Sydenham held up his hands. “Now, now, Bridget. Let’s hear what the girl has to say.”

  “Husband, do not trust her. She has come to harm us.”

  Sydenham removed his wife’s hand from his elbow and held it affectionately. He scrutinized Honor. “What is this warning you bring, girl?”

  “Sir,” Honor blurted, “the Bishop’s men are on their way to raid this place. You must save yourselves.”

  Sydenham’s mouth opened in dismay.

  His wife intervened to ask coldly, “And how do you know this?”

  “I overheard…some talk.”

  “Whose talk?” Mrs. Sydenham snapped in scorn. “The Bishop’s? I suppose you are a frequent visitor at his palace?”

  “No.”

  “Then whom did you overhear?”

  “A boatman.”

  “A servant of the Bishop?”

  “No. A Westminster boatman.”

  Mrs. Sydenham sneered. “Gossip?”

  “What difference how or where I heard it? The danger is the same.”

  “The difference, mistress, is that I do not trust you.”

  Honor trembled with anger. An attack on her integrity was the last thing she had expected from this coven of criminals—criminals she was risking herself to save!

  “But Bridget,” Sydenham said gently, “why should she come to warn us if not as a friend?”

  “Perhaps to spy us out. Make a list of names and faces. Perhaps only to confound and terrify us. Or perhaps both, and with this tale about a raid she could cause chaos enough and slip away in our confusion.”

  “But, my dear—”

  “I know nothing of why!” Mrs. Sydenham’s voice rasped, sharp with exasperation. “But I know that midnight raids are not Bishop Tunstall’s method, and—”

  “Not the Bishop,” Honor broke in. “An evil man on his staff.”

  Unmoved, Mrs. Sydenham’s eyes fell on her, burning with suspicion. “And I know this girl is attached to More.”

  Sydenham cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the meeting, and Honor, appalled at the delay, saw that his wife’s counsel had cut deeply into his own trusting instincts. When he turned back and reached out both his hands for hers she was not sure if it was in friendship or to take her captive.

  “Thank you,” he murmured simply. His grip was surprisingly firm. He let her hands go. “My dear,” he said, smiling sadly at his wife, “friends of the Brethren are not so thick that we may cast one away when fate draws her to our door. Now, we have little time to move Brother Frish and all these good people out. Mistress,” he said to Honor, “my son Edward here will escort you—”

  “Wait.” Mrs. Sydenham’s arm swept toward the warehouse in an exaggerated gesture of invitation, and she asked Honor in a voice unctuous with disdain, “Mistress, will you fly to safety with us? Are you one of us?”

  “No!” Honor’s answer shot out too fast, an arrow loosed from her heart, and she took a step back, as fearful of contamination as if this were a gathering of lepers.

  Mrs. Sydenham’s smile was wry. “In this, at least, I believe you speak the truth.” Her face hardened. “And if you are not with us, you must be against us.”

  Sydenham’s eyes darted from one woman to the other. Sweat beaded his brow. He wrung his hands, trying to decide.

  Honor’s face flushed with rage. “This is m
adness! Madam, I came in good faith to save your husband from the flames of Smithfield. I see, however, that you are eager to embrace widowhood. Very well. I’ll not stand between you and your heart’s desire.” She turned on her heel. Edward, suddenly bold, barred the door with crossed arms. She punched him on the shoulder. The blow was nothing, but he blinked in surprise and unfolded his arms. She stepped around him.

  “Stay!” It was Mrs. Sydenham’s voice again. Honor turned. The woman’s face was stark with worry; her former hardness had vanished. “Please, tell my husband what you know,” she said. “I will alert our friends.”

  Amazed though she was at this about-face, Honor sighed with relief.

  Sydenham had already taken a step toward the meeting. “No, Humphrey,” Mrs. Sydenham said brusquely, “if you speak you’ll cause panic. I’ll do it.”

  She hurried toward the gathering. The excited people, still unaware of any disturbance, were chattering and laughing around the preacher. Mrs. Sydenham pushed through to reach him. She bent to whisper in Frish’s ear while the people babbled on. Frish shot a look back at Honor. Under his scrutiny she was uncomfortably conscious of the richness of her clothing in contrast to the drab group he stood with, and she turned her head away. As she did, she noticed, above the huge rear door, an odd movement in the air, as if dust were sifting from the roof, dislodged from the rafters to drift and sparkle down through the torchlight. The people sensed it too and hushed. Mrs. Sydenham looked up. Everyone turned breathlessly toward the wide, closed door.

  There was a creaking, like giant wagon wheels beginning to move. For one frozen moment Honor saw the wooden door bulge. Then it burst. Huge splinters flew. Men-at-arms swarmed in. Cries of men and women pierced the rafters and ricocheted off the vats. The ragged ring of torches burst apart and their flames flared in the wind of rushing bodies. Honor turned to flee the way she had come, but an officer stood in the open door beckoning behind him to armed men running along the passage. She whirled around. Beyond the crush of people the splintered rear door lay open. If she could make it there she could escape. She dashed into the melee.