The Queen's Lady. Barbara Kyle

of the man—except that he blasphemes at a singularly inopportune moment.”

      “And that he’s a handsome dog,” Margery murmured, “and brave enough to spit at the Devil.”

      Thornleigh was looking out across the people’s heads with sudden soberness. “I have only one request,” he said quietly. The people hushed.

      “The penalty does not stipulate which limb is to be forfeit. I ask that my right be spared,”—he raised his right hand high—“that it may go on to do good service to my King.” His hand swept down across his body and grappled the top of the empty scabbard as if to wield his absent sword.

      A roar of approval went up from the crowd. Several women sighed. The royal surgeon nodded quick agreement. “Agreed, sir. Are you now prepared?”

      Thornleigh drew himself upright. Although the chatter continued around him, his face slowly hardened, and Honor noticed, beneath the defiance that rode the surface of those bold, blue eyes, a deep-drowning flicker of despair. She saw that he feared this moment after all. Well, she asked herself as pity crept back, what rational man would not?

      “Now,” Thornleigh barked to the surgeon, “let’s have done with it!”

      The surgeon nodded to the farrier. The farrier plucked the red-hot sealing iron from its coals. The royal chef waddled forward and handed his cleaver to the sergeant.

      Thornleigh strode up to the block. He scowled at it as if to steel himself for the ordeal. Then, quickly, he straddled the spot, stretched out his left arm, loosed the leather lacing at his cuff, and peeled back the sleeve. He thumped his fist onto the center of the block. Despite the cold, beads of sweat glistened on his brow. With teeth clenched and lips pressed thin together he sucked in a sharp breath that flattened his nostrils and filled his chest. His lip curled, and for an instant Honor thought she read in his face something disturbing—some fierce, aberrant desire that actually welcomed this punishment.

      The sergeant raised the cleaver. It glinted in the sun. Honor turned away.

      “Stop!” a woman’s voice cried.

      All heads in the courtyard turned to a door under the gallery. Honor and Margery looked down. A woman swathed in black sable strode out. Her yellow silk hem blazed below the fur, and rubies glittered on the yellow velvet hood that almost covered her dark hair. It was Anne Boleyn.

      The sergeant lowered his cleaver. The crowd parted, whispering. Anne approached the scaffold. Thornleigh gaped at her in confusion. Anne handed up a paper to the Royal Surgeon. He scanned it quickly and raised his head to declare, “The King has issued a stay. The prisoner is released.”

      The crowd gasped. Thornleigh, half in a trance, walked stiffly to the edge of the platform. In front of Anne he dropped to one knee. She offered her hand. He stared at it a moment as if overcome with amazement, then he caught it up. She waited long enough to receive his prolonged kiss of gratitude on her fingers, then silently turned again and walked briskly back toward the palace. Snow swirled in the wake of her furred train.

      An uproar broke out. Men swarmed the platform to congratulate the reprieved man. Dogs barked and ran in circles. A lady fainted. Thornleigh staggered under the crush of well-wishers.

      Honor caught Anne’s small smile of triumph just before she disappeared under the gallery. My God, Honor thought, she must have been watching and holding the King’s pardon in her hand all along. Yet she had waited, letting the scene reach its horrifying climax before making her entrance as Lady Merciful.

      “Well, there’s proof of the hussy’s power,” Margery cried above the clamor. “As if we needed it. As if we weren’t already sick to death of seeing fellows swarm around her, hoping to coast up to the King on the hem of her yellow skirts. This Thornleigh, I suppose, is her newest toy. Hmph!” she sneered. “She helps herself to men the way my lord Wolsey helps himself to pastries.”

      Honor was observing Thornleigh. Recovered, he was grinning now. His back absorbed the men’s hearty slaps, but his eyes were narrowed in carnal appreciation as he allowed a buxom, cooing lady to lace up his sleeve while his precious, spared hand hovered over her white bosom.

      “And the result of both gluttonies is the same,” Honor muttered, watching him. “A swollen belly.”

      Margery tittered. Honor bit her lip, instantly regretting her lewd remark. The man had courage, she had to acknowledge that, even if it was strong drink that had fortified him. But there was an uneasiness tossing in her: she chafed with shame for her royal mistress’s sake. Honor had learned a great deal in her few months in the Queen’s service; she had not been at court one week before she knew all about the royal scandal involving Anne. And here was brazen proof indeed, as Margery said, of the strings that tugged this shabby King!

      Her teeth were chattering in the cold. “I’ve seen enough,” she said. She turned and left Margery ogling the carnival below.

      When she entered the Queen’s suite, free of her bundles and looking forward to settling before the warmth of the brazier, she found a half dozen girls gathered there, her fellow ladies-in-waiting. They were whispering in agitation. Several looked quite frightened. One quickly told Honor of the crisis. The Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey himself, had just left in a great show of anger, she said. He had barged in and arrested the Queen’s young secretary, Walter. “For spying on the King!” the girl breathed in horror. Wolsey’s men, she said, had just taken Walter away. “Her Grace,” another girl added with a nervous nod at the Queen’s private chamber, “is quite beside herself.”

      A third girl was at the sideboard pouring wine to take to the Queen. Her hands were trembling. Honor came to a swift decision. Quickly she went to the sideboard. “Let me, Beth,” she said. Beth relinquished the goblet, clearly relieved at the opportunity to steer clear of the storm.

      Honor knocked gently on the Queen’s door and opened it. The Queen’s private chamber was empty. Honor stepped in and looked toward the far set of doors that stood open to the bedchamber.

      There, Queen Catherine was on her knees in prayer before her prie-dieu. Its magnificent ivory carving glowed from the light of a rim of votive candles arching over the supplicant.

      Honor went back and closed the door. Silently, she moved to a paper-strewn table near the bedchamber door and set the goblet down. But she did not leave.

      Catherine’s head turned slightly, sharply, as though in annoyance at Honor’s continued presence, although her lips kept moving in her murmured prayer. Still, Honor did not go.

      Catherine completed her orisons, crossed herself, and stood. Honor’s resolve surged at the sight of the Queen’s face. Strain had etched tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and the votive candles’ light glinted over the threads of gray in her light brown hair. Her squat figure appeared dowdy-looking despite her sumptuous purple brocade gown and costly amethysts. But there was a dignity and strength of will in her carriage, and in her calm eyes, that made Honor feel proud.

      Catherine walked out of the bedchamber and glanced at the wine goblet. “Thank you,” she said wearily, her thoughts elsewhere. “You may go.” She closed her prayer missal and moved toward the fire that crackled in the hearth.

      “Pray, give me leave to stay, my lady,” Honor said. “I wish to help you.”

      From the corner of the hearth Catherine glanced over her shoulder at Honor. The smallest smile of indulgence came to her lips, colorless despite the fire’s orange glow. “Help me?” she said softly, almost to herself. She looked back at the flames. “It’s poor Walter who needs help now. And that I have just left in the merciful hands of God.” A slight Spanish accent still clung to her speech, even after twenty-seven years in England; when she was fatigued it became pronounced.

      “But that’s just it,” Honor blurted. “I know about Walter. That he carried your letters out.”

      Catherine’s head turned slightly, again with that small, sharp movement of annoyance. “You mean, you know that the Cardinal claims it.”