The Queen's Captive (39 page)

“Thank her husband,” Honor said. They had all heard the rumor that Philip had ordered the Queen to drop her investigation of Elizabeth, and last week Honor had received confirmation of it in a letter from Sir William Cecil. “Or perhaps I should be thankful that the Queen, for all her ferocity against heretics, is such a timid wife. She jumps like a spaniel to do her husband’s bidding.”

“Strange, isn’t it? A queen, yet so cowed. Geoffrey has never found
me
to be a spaniel.”

Thinking of the lovesick Queen, Honor almost felt pity. Love, she thought. The power that commands us all. “Joan, where is he?”

“Who?”

“Richard. And don’t tell me at work.”

Joan gravely plied her needle and thread. “All I can tell you is he’s busy.”

“So you do know.”

Silence.

Honor pushed herself out of the soft armchair.

“What are you doing? Sit down.”

“I’m going to find him.” The jolt of standing so abruptly made a hammer start pounding in her head. She felt rocky, and groped the chair for balance.

Joan jumped up and took her elbow to steady her. “Honor, stop. If you plague yourself about this you’ll make yourself sick again.”

“About what? Good Lord, Joan, what’s happened? Tell me, or I will be sick indeed!”

Joan’s face showed how torn she was. “He didn’t want you upset. He’s seeing…some men. He’s at the tithe barn.”

It was a huge building, half stone, half wood, one story high but long enough that a horse, if sent from one end to the other, could trot for minutes. It had been the abbey’s collection depot and winnowing barn for the grain of its tenant farmers, who gave a portion of it as a tax to their church overlord. The farmers still used it as a barn, though a couple of added storerooms now held Richard’s raw wool. It stood in hulking isolation in a fallow field on a slight rise above the river, the highway that carried both the grain and wool to London’s markets.

Honor hurried as fast as she could along the path that ran parallel to the river. Her legs were still shaky, but stronger than a week ago. As she approached the tithe barn she saw several horses tethered to the rails. The huge double oak doors were closed. It took all her store of strength to pull one of them open.

It was as though she had walked in on a battle. Dozens of men, hacking at each other with swords, firing arrows, running, shouting war cries. Yet none seemed to be drawing blood. Before she could make sense of the mayhem, a beefy soldier in a breastplate stepped in front of her, clanking with weapons, barring her way. His face was made fierce by glowering, bloodshot eyes.

“Turn around and walk out,” he said quietly. An order.

Honor gaped at the knife he held, a brutish weapon as long as his forearm, and pitted from use. He had not raised it to threaten her but held it idly, familiarly, as though it was a part of him, which somehow made it more menacing. Beyond him she spotted Richard. He sat on a stool with his back to her, hunched over a table laden with weapons where men were milling. A man at the far side of the table saw her, and his look of consternation made Richard turn.

The soldier with the knife scowled at her for not leaving and grabbed her arm to shove her out, but she dug in her heels, an almost panicked reflex at being manhandled as she had been by Grenville’s guards in the Tower. She sensed it was stupid and dangerous to stand up to this rough fighter, but what kept her rooted to the spot was that she recognized some of the men. They were completely unlike this soldier. They were farmers. Tenants.

“Stand down, Captain,” Richard said, coming over to them. “This is my wife.”

The soldier let go her arm. “Sorry, sir.”

“Richard, what is all this?” Her eyes were on the man’s ugly knife as he sauntered away, lifting his arm over his shoulder to sheath the knife in a scabbard strapped to his back between his shoulder blades. He sheathed it with a single, practiced motion even as he called out to another soldier, “Lieutenant, show that man how to wield his pike or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

“Go back to the house, Honor,” Richard said. “This is no place for you.”

“But who is that soldier? Captain of what?”

“Go home,” he said to her, scowling at a knot of men who had stopped their fighting and turned to look at her.

“Not until you tell me what—”

“Not here,” he said tightly under his breath. He took her elbow and hustled her into a storeroom. He shut the door behind them and dropped the wooden bar into its iron bracket to lock it, then turned to her. “What are you doing out of bed? I told Joan to—”

“To keep me in the dark? Why? What’s James Althorpe doing out there with a crossbow? And Arthur Heneage, thrusting a sword at his brother? What in heaven’s name is going on?”

“Sit down. You’re too weak to be traipsing the fields.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d told me where—”

He held up his hands to forestall her, then beckoned her. “Come.” The room was crammed with canvas sacks stuffed with raw wool, plump oblongs as long as a man and wide as a bench, stacked up in rows that almost reached the ceiling. He guided her to an unfinished stack that reached just to his shoulders and pulled the top woolsack down to the floor. It landed in a thud of dust. “Sit,” he ordered. “You shouldn’t be up. It’s—” He didn’t finish. His face went suddenly pale, his eye glassy. Honor saw that the effort of pulling down the heavy woolsack had made him dizzy.

“Here, sit down,” she said quickly, taking his arm and guiding him. He sank onto the sack. He leaned over, elbows on his spread knees, head down. Honor sat beside him and gently rubbed the back of his neck. She had to use her left arm, awkwardly reaching across her body. “What a pair we are, my love,” she said with a sad smile. “Damaged goods.”

He glanced up, and seemed to wince at the way she was reduced to using one arm because of Grenville. He did not smile. His voice was a growl. “Damn his eyes.”

“Richard, you’re not well. Come home. Let me take care of you.”

He shook his head. “Can’t.”

“You can and you must.” She longed to keep him indoors, by her side, away from their enemy.

He straightened up and looked at her. “Don’t you see? I’ve got to fight him.”

Terror gripped her. “Fight? You can barely stand.”

“Not alone. I’m forming a home guard among the tenants. That’s what you saw out there. I hired Captain Boone to train them. He’s battle hard, a veteran of Scotland and France.”

“A home guard? You can’t be serious. Farmers with battle-axes? The most dangerous weapon most of them have ever touched is a scythe.”

“They’ll do. Boone handpicked them. The strong and the quick. A few are experienced fighters. And they’re loyal.”

“As long as they’re paid.”

“A necessary expense. I’ve extended our loan.”

“I don’t care about the money. I care about you.”

“Honor, I’m doing what has to be done. For our family.”

“No. What you should be doing is nothing. You should be resting. Getting better. Not calling Grenville’s attention to us. Not giving him any reason to come against you.”

“Just keep our heads down?”

“Yes!”

“Hide under the bed until the dragon goes back into his cave?”

She glared at him. “Don’t mock me, Richard. He would have killed you if the Queen hadn’t signed your release. He
will
kill you if he can.”

“I know.” He looked at her hard, as though gauging whether to go on. “I’m going to kill him first.”

Silence cut between them like a sword. Beyond the door, men shouted their mock war cries.

“No,” she said. Her mouth had gone dry. Her heart beat painfully. “Richard, you’ll hang.”

He looked away. Gave a grim shrug. “I’m already a dead man. Have been since I killed his father.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t talk like that!”

He looked at her. “Honor, we deluded ourselves from the start. The pardon Cecil wangled for me, it means nothing to Grenville. No, that’s wrong—it means everything. An injustice he can’t abide. It’s his license to take the law into his own hands.”

“But there
are
laws.”

“For law-abiding people.”

“But, this is insane, this…fatalism. There’s got to be another way.”

“Peace?” He shook his head. “Not possible. He’ll never stop. Not until I’m dead. Maybe not even then. He’ll go after you. And Adam. I will not let that happen.”

“You cannot know what he’ll do. But you can be sure that if you kill him you will hang.”

“We’re beyond
choosing.
You said it yourself—he meant to finish me. And since he was forced to release me, he’ll expect that I’m now out to finish
him.
Even if I weren’t, he’ll think I am. He’s already expanded his own guard, added fourteen more crack fighters to the Grenville Archers. Beefed up his retinue of armed retainers, too—thirty men now ride with him wherever he goes.” He took her hand in his, his voice becoming urgent. “Honor, don’t you see? He expects me to attack him, so he’ll know that his best strategy is to attack me first. It’s come down to this. Kill or be killed.”

It made her feel sick. “This is what I see. If Grenville comes for you he’ll kill you. If you try to attack him, his men will kill you. If you somehow manage to kill him, they’ll hang you. Every way, you die.”

“Maybe not. There’s a chance I can kill him and get away with it, and that’s the chance I’m going to take. Because otherwise I’m dead for sure. Honor, someone has to do this. If I don’t, Adam will. I won’t risk him getting hanged. That’s why I’ve sent him to Amsterdam on business. It’s up to me.”

She snatched her hand away from him. “You’ve been lying to me. Every morning. Chattering about the maid’s wedding and what’s for dinner. All the while planning and plotting this.”

“Hardest thing I’ve ever done. Pretending I won’t make him pay for what he did to you.”

“You’re still lying. You
want
to kill him.”

He glared at her. “You think this makes me
happy?
”

“I think you’re mad. Mad with rage. Mad to get even. And it’s going to get you killed! Well, I will not stand quietly by while you commit suicide!” She stalked to the door and threw up the wooden bar and grabbed the door handle.

And froze.

She took a sharp breath. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Honor?”

She whirled around.

“What’s wrong?” he said anxiously. “Pain?”

Tears scalded her eyes. “This. You and me. So wrong…”

“You’ve got to try to understand. It’s the only way—”

“No, I don’t mean that.” She was trembling. “I mean fighting. You and me. Like at the Crane.” It was the last time they had been together before Grenville arrested him and dragged him to the Tower. They had fought over him organizing the opposition in Parliament. She’d been terrified since her interview with the Queen, with Grenville itching to interrogate her, and had threatened Richard that if he continued organizing in Parliament she would flee to Antwerp alone. He insisted he
would
continue and her last furious words had been,
If you go out that door, consider it locked.
He had stomped out, and she had not seen him again for five months. By then, Grenville had broken her on the rack and starved Richard almost to death.

“I don’t know what’s in Grenville’s mind,” she said now, “and I don’t think you can know, either. I pray that he has had revenge enough, that by hurting us he has slaked his bloodlust. But if you’re right, if he won’t stop until you are dead—” She had to swallow before she could go on. She came to him, face-to-face. “Richard, if we’re going to die, I don’t want the last words we say to each other to be in anger. Fight him if you feel you must. From this day forward, let there never be anger between us again.”

He gazed at her in wonder. He took her face between his hands, tenderly, lovingly. “Let’s live, and I’ll hold you to that.”

It moved her so, she threw her good arm around his neck. Her right arm hung useless at her side, an ugly weight.
I’m a cripple,
she thought, and the tears she had held back brimmed and spilled. She could not stop them.

“What is it?” he asked, his face tight with concern.

“I can’t even hold you.”

His smile almost broke her heart. “But I can hold you,” he said, and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her.

She nestled her face against his neck and closed her eyes and said, “I’ve missed you.” She pulled back a little and looked at him, the craggy face she loved. She brushed her lips over his. “Missed you lying beside me.”

He kissed her. A hungry kiss. But he quickly broke it off. “I…didn’t want to hurt you.”

His gaze on her was filled with longing, but he made no move. She sat down on the woolsack and pulled him down to sit beside her. She took his hand and slipped it under her skirt and shivered at his warm, rough palm on her thigh. She said, “There’s nothing you can do that I won’t like.”

He grinned. It was a longstanding love jest between them. Years ago, at their first lovemaking, she so inexperienced in the ways of men, she had touched his erection and misinterpreted the look on his face as one of pain, and asked, “You don’t like it?” He had laughed and said, in a voice husky with need, “I like it, believe me. I like it.” Then, more ardently, “There’s nothing you can do that I won’t like.”