The Queen's Lady. Barbara Kyle

the world acknowledges that Your Grace is an accomplished theologian.”

      Henry hurried on. “Secondly, he speaks to me through my heart, for it has cracked with every babe that Catherine and I have buried.”

      Impulsively, More clasped Henry’s forearm in a silent communion of sympathy; More was a man who loved his children.

      “And now, Thomas, He is speaking to me through my blood.” His hand clamped down over More’s. “There is a yearning, a hunger in my blood for Anne that inflames me in a way I’ve never known.”

      More winced. Spare me this, he thought. As you are a merciful king, spare me this.

      “I have sinned in adultery before, Thomas.”

      “Please, Your Grace, I am no priest. These are matters for your Father Confessor, not for me. I beg you—”

      “But you are my friend. A priest cannot understand this. He does not live as a man, like you and I do. No, all my previous sins of the flesh were mere acts of lust, Thomas. The lust that every man feels for a comely woman.”

      Every man. The words echoed in More’s head like an indictment. In a flash, he saw Jane, his young first wife, lying naked before him. He cringed as if it had happened yesterday, remembering the lust that had consumed him on his wedding night. Another flash, and he saw Honor Larke running down to the water stairs to greet his barge, all smiles, her dark hair tumbled over the half-moons of her breasts swelling above her bodice. He clenched his fists in shame. Every man, indeed.

      Henry grabbed More’s collar. “No, Thomas, this is more than simple appetite. God has fired my blood for a holy purpose. He is telling me…commanding me…to beget a son.”

      More groaned inside. Such self-deception in a king!

      The door of the other tower slammed open. Lantern light pooled over its roof as a man stepped out. Henry looked across at his friend, Francis Bryant.

      “What is it, Francis?”

      “It’s…Sir William Parr,” Bryant called, his voice dry. “He’s dead…of the Sweat.”

      Henry’s face went white. More understood instantly. Parr was the last of the King’s boyhood mates.

      Henry rose unsteadily and moved to the edge of the bridge. As he stepped out onto it his eyes lifted to the Tudor flag above Bryant’s head. He blinked at it as if disoriented. His gait became an old man’s shuffle, and he clung to the hip-high rope barriers of the bridge as if to a lifeline.

      Alarmed, More hurried after him onto the bridge. They were moving across it together, More catching up, when a slat under More’s foot snapped. A shard pitched to the crumbling wall walk below, bounced off the sharp rubble, and plunged down into the moat. More fought for balance, but his ankle was caught in the shredded slat and he stumbled onto the other knee. He flailed, trying to grab hold of the rope lines.

      Henry whipped around. More was struggling to pull out his leg, but his weight splintered another rotting slat, enlarging the hole so that it swallowed his leg up to the knee. His outstretched arms wrapped around the rope behind him.

      Henry came close. As he neared the hole the weakened neighbor slats squealed under the pressure and split. With a jolt More fell farther and his leg disappeared up to the thigh. Henry lurched back. Then he crouched. He opened his legs wide to spread his weight. He grasped both rope lines and inched his feet closer to More, his body hulking like a wrestler as he covered the last few feet. He leaned over and reached for More’s chest and grabbed two fistfuls of his robe. But More clung desperately to the rope, his eyes fixed in terror on the jagged wall below.

      “Let go, man!” Henry commanded, his voice fierce with strain.

      More’s knuckles whitened. His arms quivered with the effort of holding himself up, but his panicked grip did not slacken.

      Henry’s voice softened to the coaxing of a parent. “Thomas, you’ve got to let me take you. Look at me. And let go.”

      Their eyes met. Henry smiled. More let go.

      Instantly, Henry’s hands flipped under More’s armpits. With a sudden, ferocious strength he grappled More to his chest. More’s foot was sucked free. Henry shuffled backwards toward the flag tower like a bear dragging home its prey.

      Safe on the roof, they leaned against the wall to catch their breath. Bryant, too, could breathe again, for the King was unharmed.

      “Ha!” Henry laughed, and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of beaten danger as he bent to slap dirt off More’s robe. More’s hose were torn and his shin scraped, but he was not injured. Despite his protestations, however, Henry insisted on sending Bryant for the doctor. When they were alone again Henry chuckled, his pleasure vast. “You’ll live, Thomas, but I’d advise a change of hose before you join the ladies.”

      More’s heart still pounded. “Words, Your Grace, are insufficient to—”

      Henry waved away the thanks. He looked down at his fingers and thoughtfully picked off flecks of hemp. “Thomas, before we go down, tell me, once and for all. In this great matter of my marriage, can you not see your way clear to come with me?”

      More’s face creased in a private torment.

      Henry sighed. “No, I see that you cannot. Well, I would not put a man in ruffle with his conscience. And you said you have no wish to thwart me.”

      “Nor never will!” More blurted ardently.

      “Then pledge me as much. Pledge your silence.”

      “I do, Your Grace, right willingly.”

      “Good. I’d not lose your council on other matters. Nor your friendship.” He looked up at the stars, his voice heavy with sadness. “In these dark days, Thomas, a king must watch over every friend he has.”

      7

      News

      A pair of swifts skimmed over the placid surface of the pond at More’s Chelsea estate. Honor sat on the bank under the oaks with her foot in the water and watched tiny ripples radiate away from her ankle. Cecily, More’s daughter, sat on a bench behind her and rummaged inside a satchel. She lifted out scissors, balled linen strips, and a jar—all of which she laid beside her on the bench. Cecily’s year-old baby was sprawled on the grass at his mother’s feet, his mouth open in blissful sleep as bronzed leaves spiraled gently down around him from the oaks. Past the lawns that sloped to the Thames, the laughter of maidservants cutting rushes at the river bank drifted up on the late-afternoon air.

      A trout sprang out of the pond for a fly. Its body twisted, flinging droplets like a shower of diamond chips. Cecily’s hand jumped to her bulging belly. “Goodness!” she gasped. “One more hungry fish like that, Honor, and you may have to act the midwife!”

      Honor glanced up and almost smiled. Absently, she pushed a loose lock of hair under her pearled headband, then turned back to her reverie.

      Cecily’s brow creased. “Now, enough daydreaming,” she scolded. She patted the bench to coax Honor over. “Come. Let me dress those blisters.” She pulled the stopper out of the jar and held the potion up, waiting with a stern expression as if Honor were a stubborn child refusing to come for its medicine.

      Barefooted, Honor came and sat beside her.

      Cecily took up one of Honor’s listless hands and began smoothing a salve onto the palm. “They’ve healed very well, dear,” she said. “And after just two weeks.” When she had finished applying the ointment to both hands she cut fresh bandages from the linen strips. “Really, these are hardly necessary now,” she declared.

      She swathed Honor’s hand, and sighed. “Ah, such pretty, tapering fingers. You know, if I were capable of envying anything in such a dear friend it would be the trimness of your body. ‘Delicate’ is the word that springs to mind. But no, that’s not quite right. ‘Delicate’ suggests something