The Queen's Lady. Barbara Kyle

      Honor had rejoiced that day in court, seeing Bastwick humbled. And yet, the image of his face at the trial still had the power to make her shiver. She did not think she would ever forget Bastwick’s look of cold fury when More delivered his damning oration against him.

      “Pity the Church,” More had said under the court’s star-spangled ceiling as he pointed to Bastwick. “Longing only to cure men’s souls, she sometimes suffers disease herself in corrupt priests such as this.”

      Honor had caught the glint of pure hatred in Bastwick’s black, hooded eyes—hatred for Sir Thomas and, especially, hatred for her.

      The verdict was handed down, and Sir Thomas went victoriously to the bar to settle the custody. But as the clerks and officials rose and began to mill about, Honor saw Bastwick moving towards her. She could barely swallow, so parched was her throat, but she held her ground. Bastwick stopped in front of her. His body was completely still, his emotion controlled, but the muscles around his eyes twitched, betraying him. “You will live to regret this day,” he said. The threat was no more than a whisper, but its malice seared her ears.

      But Bastwick was wrong. She regretted nothing. Certainly not the news a year later that Tyrell had died in prison. Nor the fact that Bastwick had vanished from her life. Ever since the day of judgment she had been happy.

      No, she thought, that was not quite true. One regret did nag—she had lost track of Ralph. He had thought it best, since the death of Hugh Tyrell at his hands, to stay clear of the law. So he had not come to the trial, had waited at an inn instead, and rejoiced with her when she ran to him to report the wonderful news. And then, as soon as she was securely settled with Sir Thomas, Ralph had left London. Honor had no doubt that he would merrily thrive in any place he found himself, but she often wondered where he was living and what he was doing, and who was laughing now at his jests and silly stories. She missed him. Dear Ralph, she thought, I owe him so much. How he suffered, that night at the pillory, for my sake…

      There was laughter outside the New Building. Honor looked out the window. Sir Thomas was striding across the lawn toward her, laughing. She hurried to the door and stepped outside to meet him.

      “Oh, child, I would you had stayed,” he said. Reaching her, he placed a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. “Or, rather, it’s well you did not, for I could not have kept a serious face if anyone had been there to hear.”

      “Why? What is it, sir?” she asked, smiling in anticipation.

      “Oh, I would not have missed this Vicar’s visit for the world! He wanted…” He broke off, shaken by another wave of laughter. Recovering, he set his face into a mask of zeal that parodied his earnest guest. “The Vicar came to ascertain from me the exact location of Utopia. He dreams of making a voyage there.”

      “What?” she cried. Utopia was More’s popular book. Written in Latin, it was a lively account of his meeting with a traveler named Raphael who had made contact with an extraordinary island commonwealth in the New World. The book described the Utopians as a stable, highly organized and, though heathen, morally upright people who lived lives of monastic rigor. But it was a work of pure imagination; its title meant “no place” in Greek. “And does he really believe such an island exists?” she asked.

      “Absolutely. His dream is to make a missionary expedition there! To bring to the ignorant Utopians the blessed civilization of the Church.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Ah, a most delicious fool.”

      “Well, sir, what he has taken from you in the ill-timing of his visit he has repaid in entertainment.”

      “True, true. Oh, child, I would not belittle a man for ignorance, for we are all born ignorant. But this was a self-blinkered, pompous fool. A dangerous one, too, for he has the teaching of boys under him.”

      He hooked his arm in hers and together they strolled toward a copse of oak trees that shaded the fish pond. By the time they reached the pond he was patting his pockets, searching for something. “By the way,” he said, “I forgot, earlier. I have a gift for you.” His hands stopped against his chest in midsearch, and he added gently, “I’m sorry I missed your birthday last week, child.”

      She blushed, pleased that he remembered. “No matter, sir. Though,” she teased, “I call your excuse of the King’s summoning you to Greenwich a feeble one.”

      “Ha! Perhaps I should have insisted he let me go. We were back in Westminster by then. ‘I’m sorry, your Grace, the letters to the French King needs must wait and I must ride to Chelsea, for Honor Larke is seventeen years old today.’ The King is a fond father himself. He might have given me Godspeed and one of his finest stallions to carry me.”

      “Or he might have had your head,” she cried. “No, I’d rather see you past the date, and whole.” They laughed together.

      “We didn’t get much work done that night in any case,” More said, rummaging again inside his robe, “what with the music and the bonfires.”

      Honor could well imagine it. Her birthday was the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer Eve, a holiday when bonfires were lighted in the streets and doors festooned with garlands, and people danced and sang through the city with drums and horns and pipes. “When I was little, in my father’s house,” she said with a soft smile, “my manservant, Ralph, told me that people danced around their fires at midsummer just to celebrate my birthday. And truly, sir, he assured me with such long-faced foolery that for many childish years I believed him.”

      “Charming,” More chuckled. “Ah!” He had found the object of his search. From a deep pocket he withdrew it and held it out to her. It was a necklace, a delicately wrought string of coral and pearls, simple and exquisite.

      “Oh, sir!” she stammered, delighted.

      More looked baffled. “I fear you misunderstand. That is not my gift. No, no, that is only an ornament, a bauble, a toy for a child.” Solemnly, he took her hand in his. “Put it away,” he said quietly. She obeyed.

      “My gift to you is something much more precious. More lasting. A reward for the great progress you have made. It’s incredible, really, when you came here you couldn’t even read, and now your Latin is as good as mine. Well,” he winked, “almost. And you have excelled in mathematics, music, philosophy, even astronomy. In fact, your tutor tells me you are so far advanced in that science that you can point out not only the polar star and the dog star, but are also able—and this requires the skill of an absolute master—to distinguish the sun from the moon.”

      She laughed.

      “Yes,” he said, “your mind now rests on a rock solid foundation. And your heart,” he smiled, “remains as soft as God could wish. Truly, child, you could not please me more.”

      Honor gazed at him, feeling too much happiness to hold inside. She threw her arms around his neck, her cheek against his. His hands went to her back and he pressed her to him. Then, suddenly, he pulled away. His face was flushed. Abruptly, he stepped toward the pond. For a moment he kept his back to her. She waited, fearing her impetuous show of affection had angered him.

      He turned around to her briskly, and she was relieved to see that he was smiling again. “And now, Honor Larke,” he declared, “my gift to you. It is…a name. A name in Greek, as befits a scholar of this little academy. ‘Kale kai sophe.’ It means, ‘Fair and wise.’ What think you of it?”

      Tears of happiness brimmed in her eyes. “A wonderful gift.”

      “And yours alone.” Solemnity darkened his smile. “Remember, child, a thousand girls have necklaces.”

      A shout startled them. “Sir Thomas! Come quick!”

      Across the grass Matthew stood where the lawn sloped down to the river. He was waving his arms. “Murder!” he cried.

      More and Honor shared a horrified glance. They raced towards the breathless Matthew who pointed down at the reeds by the river’s edge. On the bank, a man was bending over a girl, a maid in More’s