The Queen's Lady. Barbara Kyle

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The QUEEN’S LADY

      Books by Barbara Kyle:

      The King’s Daughter

      The Queen’s Lady

      The QUEEN’S LADY

      BARBARA KYLE

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      Part One:May Day

      1 May Day

      2 Tyrell Court

      Part Two:Faith

      3 Chelsea in Summer

      4 At Court

      5 Smithfield

      6 The Conscience of the King

      7 News

      8 The Conscience of the Queen

      9 The Brethren

      10 Chelsea in Autumn

      11 Out with the Old, In with the New

      12 The Brief

      13 The Menagerie

      14 The Rendezvous

      Part Three:Hope

      15 Spain

      16 Blackfriars

      17 The Devil’s Hive

      18 The First Rescue

      19 Master Cromwell

      20 Speedwell

      21 The Hold

      22 The Bible

      23 Dismissal and Despair

      24 Shearing Time

      25 Resignation

      26 Midsummer Eve

      27 Cromwell’s Summons

      28 “Heresy!”

      29 The Petitioner

      30 London Bridge

      Part Four:Charity

      31 The New Jerusalem

      32 The Elect

      33 Immortality

      34 The Garden at Freiburg

      35 The Cardinal’s Hat

      36 The Bell Tower

      37 The King’s Good Servant

      38 Smithfield

      AUTHOR’S NOTES

The QUEEN’S LADY

      Part One

      May Day

      May 1517-June 1522

      1

      May Day

      She would remember this forever after as the night she watched two men die, one at peace and one in terror. But now, seven years old and lost, Honor Larke knew only that she was out alone on a May Day night gone mad. She wedged herself into the shadows of a tavern doorway and prayed that the looters had not seen her. They were ransacking a house across the street, their torches flaring, and it seemed to Honor as though devils in a play had swarmed from the stage and hell blazed right before her.

      She was trapped.

      She could not go back to Cheapside. The London apprentices were rioting there. Their annual day of carousing had boiled into violence against the rich foreigners, especially the Italians, called Lombards, and Honor’s chest still burned from tearing through a Cheapside mob pitching rocks at a goldsmith’s shop while the women inside screamed in a strange tongue. But she could not go forward either, for thieves exploiting the night’s chaos had joined some apprentices to lay waste this side street.

      They were heaving booty out to their accomplices from windows in the three-storied merchant’s house across from her. Bolts of silk billowed down in ribbons of crimson and jade. Wooden chests smashed onto the cobblestones, spilling papers and coins. A dozen thieves were scooping the spoils into sacks. One of them, a toothless old man squatting in the middle of the street, hummed as he picked through a scatter of Venetian silver spoons. A thief with a torch hustled by Honor’s hiding place, and she gagged on the acrid smoke of the blazing tarred rags. She clamped her hand on her mouth to cover the sound.

      “Will, catch this,” a man called from a window. He tossed out a garnet-studded casket. “Careful. It’ll fetch enough to buy a bishop’s whore.”

      Above him, a voice crowed from the top floor. “I found me one!”

      The knots of foraging men looked up. Under a gable, a hefty young apprentice stood at a smashed-out loading door. “Found me a Lombard!” he sang out. “Scribbling at his desk, he was!” He tugged a quill pen from his hair and waved it like a trophy. He darted inside, and for a moment the opening was empty, lit by the garish torchlight from within. Then a man was pushed into view. White-haired, he was dressed in a long, black gown. He stood still and quiet, his hands behind him. The boy took a fistful of the man’s hair and jerked his head back, and the man twisted slightly, revealing a scarlet cord trussing his wrists.

      Gaping up, Honor crammed herself against the tavern door until its latch gouged her shoulder.

      “Can’t see him,” a man in the street groused.

      The boy under the gable shoved the man, forcing him to step up onto the sill where he swayed unsteadily.

      “No finery on him,” the man below scoffed. “Where’s his Lombard silks and jewels?”

      “Hold on.” The boy began draping necklaces over the head of his hostage and layering brightly coloured scarves around his neck. “There. Now he’s a Turk.”

      This brought laughter from below. The boy giggled and piled on more trinkets. His sleeve snagged on one of the chains around the man’s neck. Annoyed, the boy yanked free his sleeve, and the man scuffled forward to balance himself. His foot stubbed against an iron latch, and he fell. He plunged down, his gown rippling through the air. His body thudded onto the cobbles. He lay motionless. Silence, like a shroud cast out after him, settled over the watchers.

      The toothless old man whined, “That’s done it.” He began raking in his bright spoons. “That boy’ll hang, and the mayor’s men’ll be after us all.”

      “Shut your face,” the boy snapped. “He’s just a God-rotting Lombard.” But within moments he and the others inside had sifted out into the street, joining the men who stood around the body. “Stupid old fart,” the boy said. “If he’d just stood still…” He gave the body a savage kick.

      Honor gasped. The boy caught the sound and wheeled. He squinted across at the murky tavern entrance. Honor wormed down the door, the back of her dress snagging on the rough wood. She squatted in the corner, heart pounding.

      The boy motioned to a man with a torch. Together, they stalked to the tavern doorway. “Well, lookit here,” the boy brayed over his shoulder. “A little spy.” His grip burned Honor’s wrist as he yanked her out. “Where’d you spring from, goblin?”

      Though trembling, she dug in her heels. The boy grabbed her under the armpits, lifted her in the air and shook her roughly. “Speak up!” he said. She flinched at the blast of breath that stank of sour ale. He shook her again. “Be you English or a God-cursed foreigner?”

      She didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t sure what a foreigner was. Under the vise of his hands, her ribs felt on fire.

      “Please, sir, I’ve only come to fetch home Ralph.”

      “And