The Queen's Lady

by Barbara Kyle

  Jane was pointing eagerly at a pie stall near the busy market cross. Bridget decided it would be a ha’penny well spent. As they neared the stall, a crier arrived at the cross. He took up his position on a box, and people began to drift in around to hear his announcements. Bridget listened with only half an ear, until the final announcement, which caught all her attention. The crier proclaimed of a burning to take place in three days’ time at Smithfield. A wicked heretic was to be punished, he declared, both for the edification of the populace and for the hopeful recantation of the heretic herself. The name the crier called out was Honor’s.

  Bridget Sydenham was surprised. Not that Honor had been captured; it was only too like her to have returned to England for some reason of her own. Bridget was surprised, rather, because she knew that Honor had never been a wholehearted believer in their cause. Yet there it was; Honor was going to burn rather than recant. The Lord’s love must have finally reached her after all.

  Bridget closed her eyes. She thought of Humphrey, and imagined him, as she always did, sitting at the feet of God. She said a silent prayer that Honor’s soul would soon find such sweet repose as well.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “accept another martyr for Thy dear name.”

  38

  Smithfield

  Honor’s ankle chains clanged over the worn flagstones of St. Paul’s. She had just emerged with her escort from the Lollard’s Tower in the corner of the cathedral. Led by Bastwick and followed by three officers, she walked barefoot down the nave toward the main doors. She wore a rough homespun tunic and her head was bare, for the clothes she had arrived in she had sold to her jailer for food; the homespun dress was one of his wife’s cast-offs.

  The cathedral doors opened. Sunlight streamed in, dissolving the gloom. Honor stepped outside and squinted in the strong light. She paused for a moment on the step and felt the sun-heated stone warming her feet. She inhaled deeply, then coughed, for the freshness of the air was startling. For two weeks she had been breathing the stuffiness of her cell. The morning air tasted inexpressibly sweet.

  An officer bent to unlock her ankle fetters, then nudged her down the stairs. A workhorse stood ready with a hurdle harnessed behind it. Honor lay on her back on the hurdle and the officers strapped her down. The leather restraining thongs cut into her wrists. Bastwick and his men swung onto their mounts, two ahead of her and two behind. One tugged the workhorse’s lead. It shook its harness and the small procession started out of the churchyard. Every thud of the hurdle over the cobbles jolted Honor’s bones.

  People cleared a path as the execution party passed under Newgate. Boys cavorted in its wake. Honor knew there must be a din of voices around her, but she heard nothing but her own heartbeats and her own breaths, slow and deep. Under the baked, blue sky the city outlines drifted past the borders of her vision: peaked roofs, church belfries, tavern signs, and lazy banners, their colors achingly bright.

  Nearing Smithfield the hurdle passed slowly under a house-sized chestnut tree, and Honor gazed up entranced at the myriad shades of green in its leafy depths. The scent of its heavy flowers shook a bouquet of memories down on her—the sweetness of the summer hay in Bridget Sydenham’s attic where she and Thornleigh had last made love; the fragrance of her baby’s hair; the blossoms of speedwells in spring. She pulled the perfume into her lungs and felt it turn liquid inside her, like rising sap. As she moved under the tree, sunlight shot out through the leaves, then hid, then darted out again, its warmth sprinkling her face like a lover’s kisses. The beauty of the world swirled around her, beloved and immense. She closed her eyes to resist its seduction, its pull that was draining her resolve. She was ready to die, she was not afraid to die, but this barrage of beauty reminding her of all she must leave behind suddenly seemed too cruel.

  More cruel even than Bastwick.

  “Do you recant your erroneous beliefs?” he had asked.

  He had sat at the head of a committee of three churchmen during her interrogation in St. Paul’s. She had answered willingly “Yes,” for she longed to live.

  And answered truthfully, too, for until that point all their questions had concerned opinions she no longer held, if indeed she ever had. She had almost smiled, in fact, for the two other priests had flailed at her from their rut of anti-Lutheranism, accusing her of only the standard heresies. Unaware of how much beyond the limits of common unorthodoxy her thinking had flown, they probed no deeper. Atheism was beyond their comprehension.

  But though they were satisfied, Jerome Bastwick was not, and to his outright demand for her beliefs she had finally lied. The words tasted as bitter as wormwood in her mouth, but lies were all a tyrant deserved; she would not hand him her life.

  Bastwick had no choice then but to release her. She stepped outside, a free woman. She walked through the churchyard, stunned, and was pushing through Little Gate into the crowded street when Bastwick’s clerk snatched her elbow. He brought her back before the committee as a relapsed heretic. If they found her guilty again, a second recantation would not be permitted.

  Bastwick’s colleagues expressed some concern that two interrogations of the same suspect within one day was highly unusual. But in the face of his aggressive zeal, the two—a timid vicar and an ambitious young archdeacon—demurred. Bastwick then brought forth a couple of Cromwell’s former servants to testify. In the end, it was Honor’s own writings held high in Bastwick’s hands—the pamphlets commissioned by Cromwell and sworn to by the witnesses as Honor’s work—that had condemned her.

  The workhorse and hurdle lurched to a stop before the pit at Smithfield. A young groom no more than ten years old ran forward. Bastwick and his men dismounted and handed their horses to the boy. Bastwick strode to the dignitaries’ stands. He still limped slightly from the wound Honor had inflicted on London Bridge. He climbed up the stands and took his place.

  Dust swirled up to Honor’s mouth as people shuffled closer to the rope barrier. The news of her trial and sentence had spread quickly, exciting the city, for the burning of a woman was a rare event. The officers stationed around the pit jabbed a shoulder here and uttered a curse there to keep individuals in line, but the crowd was more fascinated than unruly.

  One of the officers cut Honor’s leather straps, freeing her from the hurdle. She stood. She was facing away from the pit. Her legs wobbled for a moment, her muscles weak, her brain fogged, for all her energies of body and mind were concentrated in an effort of will to remain strong enough to bear the ordeal to come.

  “Turn ’round, mistress!” someone shouted. “The show’s this way!”

  There was laughter. An officer’s hands clamped her shoulders and twisted her around. She looked at the pit straight ahead. A single stake thrust out of the sand. Sticks lay scattered at its base, like bones. Several yards from it, just inside the rope barricade, stood a wagon heaped with straw for extra fuel. Honor looked behind the stake, across the pit. The sun was creeping up the back of the lantern tower of St. Bartholomew’s Church. Suddenly, its rays blazed full in her face. She began to lift her hand as a shield, but her muscles would not respond quickly. The motion seemed to take forever. She stood blinking—even her eyelids moved slowly—as the sun bleached her field of vision.

  She heard a small voice whisper, “Mistress Larke!”

  She turned her head to the right. There were only gaping strangers.

  “Over here!” the voice whispered again.

  Honor looked to the left. A young woman was leaning forward over the rope, holding out a small wooden cross, offering it. Honor stared at the face. It seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Take it, mistress,” the young woman entreated with bright eyes, thrusting out the cross. “And take heart! Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved!”

  The dull words clanged through the stupor in Honor’s brain. The platitude seemed grotesque. Must I bear this, too? she thought. Are these whimpers about God to dog me to the last moment of my life? Are mindless pieties to be
the last words I’ll ever hear? It seemed the final humiliation.

  The crowd hushed. At the edge of the circle the executioner was striding forward with his flaring torch. Its smoke snaked up into the still air. Two officers flanked Honor and grabbed her elbows. She took a step, but her legs seemed dead as logs already.

  A bunch of violets fell at her feet. She looked to the right. Samuel Jinner’s leathered face stared across the rope. Tears glistened in his eyes. Honor gasped as if wounded, for the sight of him brought Thornleigh’s face blazing into her mind, and then Isabel’s, the rosebud mouth sucking at her breast. The images unstopped a violent surge of regret, a torment that drained more of the precious energy she was clinging to for strength. It was not dying she feared. She had died once before, in the hold of the Dorothy Beale, and she knew that death was no more than a stopping of her body’s motions. But this torture of regret, of loss, of beloved faces she would never see again was overwhelming. Her body slumped. The officers had to drag her the last few feet to the stake.

  A priest came to her side and began a sermon. “Though our pious King strives to burn heresy from his realm…”

  “Step up!” An officer was prodding her. She realized he wanted her to go up onto a narrow, wooden shelf tacked to the base of the stake. It would hold her higher so that all the onlookers would have a clear view.

  She stepped up. The shelf was cut from rough lumber. A splinter gouged the skin between her toes.

  “Yet still,” the preacher went on, “the heretics run under the fouled skirts of Luther, or to the bosom of the painted whore of Rome…”

  A young guard strode toward Honor carrying a heavy chain. It was black with soot. Soot streaked his sleeve. He took his place behind her at the stake and waited while the officer tied her hands behind her back with twine.

  Honor’s eyes blurred over the heads of the crowd, then focused on one. The face was staring straight into her own eyes, as still as a rock—a woman, tall and stern, with iron gray hair under a starched cap and a face of fretted bone. Bridget Sydenham.

  Again, regret stabbed Honor’s heart. This woman’s sweet-natured husband she could not save, and her friend, Brother Frish, she had lured home to his death. In so much, she had failed. Yet on Mrs. Sydenham’s solemn, unmoving face she read no blame. In fact, at the corners of her mouth there was the slightest motion—was there not?—yes, the merest smile was forming on those thin lips. It was a smile that spoke of understanding, of respect, even of love. Honor’s tears spilled, grateful for this final, generous gift.

  “…in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost…”

  The priest was fidgeting the sign of the cross over her. When he had finished he walked away. The officers who had brought Honor to the stake left, too. From behind her, the young guard’s sooted hands thrust out the chain. His hands met in front of her waist to pass the chain around her body and the stake.

  There was an explosion. Honor knew it must be in her head—her own mind screaming, or letting go. But then she heard a woman cry out. And she saw the chain slump into the soldier’s right hand, unfastened.

  There was a second blast. Another scream. The sound of fear eddied through the crowd like wind riding through a forest.

  “It’s St. Bartholomew’s!” someone cried. “Look! Up there!”

  All heads turned to the church, Honor’s as well. People were pointing up to the lantern tower. A cloud of black smoke was boiling along its flat top. From its billowing center a form sprang out.

  “A devil!” a woman screamed.

  And so it was. A black-furred monster like an ape. Its grotesque face was as bleached as a skeleton except for coal-red eyes. Its skull sprouted massive antlers, and under them long, black witch’s hair streamed. The creature danced and leapt on the tower, its scarlet cloak flashing like flame. Its claws, like long knives, lashed at the smoky air. When it flung wide its arms, fire erupted at its feet, fire as white as the sun that blazed at its back.

  “Satan himself!” a man bleated. “He’s come for the heretic! Come to claim his own!” He thrashed his way out of the crowd. Several women fell to their knees. People crossed themselves or buried their faces in their hands.

  The Devil shrilled a long, blood-freezing wail. When its beastly arms jerked out again, a ball of fire hurtled down from the tower. It exploded at the feet of some people, sparking skirts, igniting fear. The creature cast out more missiles—some were tarry globs of flame, some were sulfurous blasts. They flared inside the pit. One hit the fuel wagon. The straw roared into flames.

  Panic swept the crowd. The wagon was close to the rope around the pit, and people standing in the front ranks whirled and tried to push their way out, but the ones behind stood dumbly gaping up at the monster, blocking the way. The frenzied front ranks turned back and crashed through the rope and stampeded across the pit. Monks were now streaming from the church doors, craning up at the fire-throwing demon on their tower. The mayor and aldermen were on their feet in the stands, shouting. Some were clambering down the tiers. Under the Devil’s hail of fireballs the square soon seethed with fleeing men and women, monks and children, all zig-zagging around the growing pools of flame.

  A cold hand snatched Honor’s arm. She gasped at the creature before her—a man’s body with a fox’s face. He drew a dagger. She froze as it whipped by her throat. But he bent and slit the twine binding her wrists. As people rushed past, screaming, two more demihumans appeared at Honor’s side. These were women’s forms, one with the face of a horned goat, the other a hawk, tall and fierce. They sprang at the guard behind the stake and knocked him to the ground. The chain clattered from his hands.

  The fox-man yanked Honor from her death-perch.

  “Flee!” the hawk-woman commanded. And in the wildness of the moment Honor thought it was the voice of Bridget Sydenham.

  Two officers were running toward Honor. Suddenly, white-faced devils appeared and danced like savage monkeys in front of the officers, barring their way.

  The fox-man seized Honor’s hand. Disoriented, she stumbled after him. No one stopped them; even in the mindless swirl of panic, people were staying clear of his swiping dagger. He and Honor reached the trampled rope. A horse and rider appeared. The fox-man threw his cloak around Honor, then hoisted her up behind the rider—another apparition, this one a man with the head of a lion. With Honor barely aboard he whipped the frightened horse into the sea of scattering men and women. He was heading east toward the dignitaries’ stands.

  Honor saw Bastwick hurrying down the last steps. He was pointing at her, his face red with fury. “Stop her!” he screamed.

  His officers were already at their horses, shouting at the young grooms, but there was confusion there—a jumble of children around the horses—and Honor saw that none of the men were mounting.

  The Devil atop the church kept up its hail of fire, but Bastwick ignored it. He was striding straight for Honor, lurching with his limp but closing the gap, for the horse was making little headway in the crowd. With eyes fixed on her he moved through the panicked people like a rolling prow splitting waves. The lion-headed horseman could not break free of the melee.

  Bastwick burst through and reached the horse. He snatched the bridle. The horse danced on the spot. A fireball spewed down from the tower onto Bastwick’s back. He gasped and let go the bridle and clawed over his shoulder. But the flaming tar stuck to him. Fire swept across his back and jumped to his hair. Screaming, he dove to the ground and rolled. People staggered back, opening a space. The horse, sensing escape, whinnied and strained. The horseman gave it its head, and they bolted forward.

  Honor glanced back. A wave of running people had reached Bastwick. In their terror to escape, they were trampling him.

  As the horse capered past the stands, the horseman jerked his lion’s mask up onto his forehead. Its gold mane tumbled down his shoulders over his own long, silvery-black hair.

  “You don’t recall me, mistress!” he shouted exuberantly
back at her. “Legge’s the name. You offered to do me a kindness once. Remember?”

  “Bastwick’s man!” she cried. She let go of his coat and prepared to jump.

  But Legge was a hardened soldier, and it was a strong hand that whipped backwards around her waist and held her tight, even as the horse galloped on. “Was his man, but no longer,” Legge said, and Honor suddenly recalled how in those moments of crisis on London Bridge Legge had given her his fast horse. He released her and grappled the reins again with both hands. They were at the edge of the square.

  Clutching Legge’s coat, Honor turned for a last look at the monster atop the lantern tower. Shouting monks were hurling stones at it, but even as it held up its arms to deflect the blows it lurched to the edge as if to watch her go, and she saw, as it came forward, that one of its feet turned inward. Her breath stopped. Her heart recognized that awkwardly lovable gait before her mind could grasp the truth.

  “It’s Richard!”

  “None other,” Legge cried. “For a year and more I’ve served him. No, don’t faint away, my lady, for I promise you it’s God’s truth!”

  Richard’s alive! “But how—?”

  “Later! I’m sworn to him to get you safe away. Hold on!” He bent over the horse’s neck and dug his heels into its flanks.

  They cannoned into an alley, sending pigs squealing, then galloped down narrow streets, zig-zagging into one after another until Honor was as lost as in a labyrinth. Legge’s riding was sure and swift, as if he had had much practice in evading the law.

  They gained Cheapside and quickly merged with the bustle of the thoroughfare. Honor could hold back no longer. “But on London Bridge I saw Bastwick’s archers kill him. I saw him plunge into the river. How—?”

  “Oh, the arrows hit him alright,” Legge said. “And he plunged alright. From the downstream shore I watched him bob over the rapids like a speared perch. But when the priest’s men rode into Southwark after you, I scrambled down the bank and fished him out. For many a week he lay in my house, and my wife swore that with all those wounds he’d sink again, and that would be into his final sleep. But Master Thornleigh’s a tough bugger. Ha! I knew as much that night at Mrs. Sydenham’s when he told you to watch out for me!”