The Queen's Lady. Barbara Kyle

of thirty musicians in the minstrels’ gallery. The pungency of spiced wine and roasted meats on side tables mingled in the air with sweet herbs crushed underfoot, and with perfumed sweat. The King had disappeared soon after the dancing had begun. So had the Lady. But the revelers carried on.

      Honor skirted the perimeter of dancers and moved toward the doors. She tried to keep her walk unhurried, tried not to show her excitement. She passed several groups, and could hardly believe that no one noticed her heightened color. Matrons gossiped and munched beside the food-laden tables. Gentlemen gambled noisily over dice in an alcove. Girls cooed around one of their number who had partnered a duke’s son. In the distance, gray-haired statesmen conferring under the gallery surrounded the corpulent figure of Wolsey swathed in his red cardinal’s robes. Honor’s hands felt clammy as she thought of Wolsey, but she walked on. No one stopped her as she left the hall.

      She was responding to the signal Ambassador Mendoza had given her. Upon her arrival an hour ago she had gone to him, and they had arranged the signal in a swift, whispered exchange. When he gave it, he told her, she was to wait a quarter hour, then meet him outside in the garden. So she had waited—had watched the dancers complete a galliard; had rejected two offers to dance; had been jostled by an angry gambler loudly searching for a man who owed him money. The wait had seemed endless.

      The hardest trial had been keeping her secret from Sir Thomas. Seeing her, he had detached himself from the circle of statesmen around Wolsey, and, smiling, had come to speak to her. She knew that, councilor and friend to the King though he was, Sir Thomas sympathized with the Queen, and she could barely contain herself as he commented on the gathering and quipped about the young coxcombs. Her mission for the Queen had almost bubbled out of her.

      Now, past all of these distractions, she made her way outside to the knot garden that overlooked the river.

      Under moonlight, a dusting of undisturbed snow glinted over the frozen garden. The chill air bit Honor’s throat as she hurried with quick breaths along a gravel walk. She hugged herself against the cold—she had left her cloak inside, for donning it might have aroused suspicion. She made for a latticed structure at the end of the walk. It was a kind of bower, three-sided, and covered over with cut holly boughs. A month before, Wolsey had ordered it erected for his comfort during a day of Christmas festivities when a choir of children sang for him and his household.

      Honor saw a movement beside the bower—the swirl of a long robe—and recognized the shadowed silhouette of the Imperial ambassador. She reached the spot, and saw that he was shivering: he, too, had foreseen the imprudence of wearing his cloak. Don Inigo de Mendoza was a wiry, middle-aged Spaniard of high family and haughty disposition, and Honor could not suppress a smile at the sight of the proud gentleman clutching his robe’s collar to his chin, shoulders hunched, teeth chattering.

      “Ah! Mistress Larke,” he whispered, taking her elbow, plainly anxious to get on with their business. Together, they stepped into the bower. Honor passed him the Queen’s letter. She said, “Her Grace needs this in the Emperor’s hands immediately.” Mendoza nodded, then quickly left the bower. His footsteps crunched on the icy path, then faded to nothing. The mission had been accomplished in a moment.

      Honor felt cheated: what an anticlimactic end to her hours of trepidation! She smiled at her own disappointment. What, after all, had she expected? That Cardinal Wolsey himself would spring up out of a garden urn? Shake snow off his great bulk and command her arrest? No. All was quiet. From windows in the hall, music reached her in faint pulses. She looked down at the River Thames. Lanterns bobbed among the clutter of ferries and barges tethered to the pier where bundled-up boatmen waited to carry guests back to the city. From the pier, blazing torches lined the way up to the palace terrace. No band of guards was marching toward her to take her off to prison. She shrugged with a smile.

      She was freezing. She took a step to leave the bower. A man’s voice startled her.

      “A dangerous business, mistress.”

      Honor halted. The voice had come from inside the bower. She turned. A man was sitting on a bench tucked into the corner. He sat sideways, his feet on the bench, his knees drawn up under a heavy cloak. His face was completely in shadow under the holly boughs.

      Honor took a wary step back. She and Mendoza had said little in their meeting, but it was enough.

      “Yes,” the man said quietly. “I heard.” Three words only, but their sum was an unmistakable threat.

      Honor swallowed. In the confined space she smelled brandy from his breath. She noticed a leather bottle lying on the bench beside him. Perhaps, she thought, he was nothing more than a drunkard, come out here to drink alone. Could she turn his intimidation around, use it against him? “What are you doing in the Cardinal’s garden?” she asked sternly.

      He gave a sharp nod toward the palace and snorted. “Avoiding a jackass inside. Claims I owe him dice money. And he’s been known to rely on his sword to settle accounts.” He chuckled. “No gentleman, I fear.”

      He had not moved. Lounging against the bower wall, he seemed to Honor harmless enough. “Good night, sir,” she said firmly. She moved to go.

      His sword scraped from its scabbard. The blade shot across the bower opening, blocking Honor’s escape. She gasped.

      “Oh, don’t go yet, Mistress Larke,” he said calmly.

      “How do you know my name?” she asked, unnerved.

      “Your tryst partner greeted you by it. As I said, I do have ears.” In a sudden, clean movement, he swung his legs to the ground without lowering the sword. He looked up at her, his face now lit by a shaft of moonlight. Honor recognized him. This was the man who had almost lost his hand to the butcher’s cleaver. The one Anne Boleyn had rescued. Thornleigh. And if he was Anne’s confederate, Honor realized, his interest lay in discrediting the Queen. To Wolsey.

      “You should also know,” she said, pretending bravado, “that I am the ward of Sir Thomas More. He’s just inside, sir, and he will not appreciate me being harassed in this fashion.”

      Thornleigh let out a short, mocking whistle. “You frighten me, mistress. Two adversaries inside. I may have to stay out here all night. So do take pity. Your company would be such a comfort while I’m marooned here. We could keep one another warm. You’re shivering.”

      She saw that he was toying with her. Well, if that was all he intended, perhaps a little more bravado could get her out of this. She hugged herself and answered with disdain. “Thank you, no. Now, let me pass.”

      “Oh, come, come,” he said pleasantly. “I’m agreeing to take on the heavy responsibility of your secret. Don’t you think you owe me something for that service?” He lowered his sword, leaving her way clear to go. “You don’t look stupid,” he added meaningfully, laying the sword on the bench. “And my price is very reasonable.”

      So, she thought, he was threatening to inform on her after all. She accepted defeat. “How much do you want?”

      Thornleigh scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see. Moncton in there claims twenty pounds…”

      “Twenty pounds!” she blurted. How could she ask Sir Thomas for even half that amount without arousing his suspicions? It was insufferable. She recalled Margery’s earlier comment, and snapped, “I understood that your wife pays your gambling debts.”

      His face hardened. But he went on as if she had not spoken. “…but Moncton’s a cheat, and I have no intention of satisfying him. So, all I’ll ask of you, dear lady, is one kiss.”

      She was astonished. It was an idiotic request. He held her position at court—her very life, perhaps—in his hands. He could ask for anything. “You’re brain-sick,” she said scornfully.

      “Only when I see a pretty face.”

      His amusement at her discomfort infuriated her. “And if I refuse?”

      He chuckled. “You are not in a strong bargaining position here, mistress.”

      It