The Queen's Lady. Barbara Kyle

Still, Ralph had not come in. Honor was wondering if he had gone to the dairy to visit the tousle-haired milkmaid whose smiles of invitation, whenever Ralph passed by, were unmistakable. Honor was feeling a pang of jealousy, when Lady Philippa rose, uncharacteristically, to speak.

      Lady Philippa’s voice was as thin and pinched as her face, and the diners did not immediately hush to listen. Above their noise, Honor, at the far end of the table, could not catch the lady’s first faint words. But when grinning faces all along the tables turned Honor’s way, and then snorts and guffaws arose, she realized with horror that Lady Philippa was speaking about her and Hugh.

      “…our son to consummate his wedding vows. It was the express direction of my lord before he left for Exeter. ‘Make the girl a bride this night,’ he commanded. And so, friends, join me now…”

      Lady Philippa was raising her goblet in a toast. So was Bastwick. So were all the others. A toast to Hugh and his wife. That done, lewd words and laughter rolled from the company. Honor glanced over at Hugh. He was grinning like an idiot, trying to focus his glassy eyes on her. White spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. Honor’s stomach lurched.

      “No,” she cried. “I won’t.”

      The ribald din subsided. Lady Philippa stared at Honor stupidly. “What did you say?”

      “I said no. I won’t do it.”

      The company seemed so shocked that only one man’s feeble jeer and another’s obscene gesture greeted Honor’s statement. But these infuriated her even more than the first boisterous outburst had done.

      She jumped up. “I’d rather slit my own throat than lie with Hugh Tyrell.”

      Her shout echoed through the great hall.

      Lady Philippa’s face turned scarlet. She slammed her fist on the table. “We’ve fed and clothed you for five years, hussy. Now, by God, you’ll do your part.”

      “Never!”

      The company’s silence gave way to a low rumble of delight at the anticipated battle. But Lady Philippa only stood rigid in anger, as if unable to speak or move.

      Bastwick took control. Honor watched him stand and confer in whispers with Lady Philippa. Lady Philippa nodded curtly, obviously in agreement. Then, quickly and decisively, Bastwick ordered the company to disperse—all except Honor, Hugh, and one burly servant. The priest’s words were an unequivocal command, and the men and women immediately, if reluctantly, pushed away from the tables. Bastwick beckoned the burly servant over and spoke with him. Honor could not hear Bastwick’s words above the derisive laughter that burst from a pocket of people moving out into the passage, but something made her grab Mary’s elbow and whisper, “Find Ralph.”

      Finally, the great hall was clear.

      Honor remained where she stood, waiting for she knew not what. But her hands instinctively balled into defensive fists. In the silence Bastwick again said something into Lady Philippa’s ear. Then, with one cold glance of scorn at Honor, Bastwick too walked out of the hall.

      The burly henchman strode towards Honor. Lady Philippa did as well. Honor felt her pulse thudding in her throat. In one angry motion Lady Philippa swept away the debris of food from the table—knives and trenchers clattering to the floor—to clear a space behind Honor.

      The man splayed his palm on Honor’s chest. With a savage push he shoved her onto the table on her back. Her head thudded against a pewter bowl, hitting so hard that she saw purple and green fire swirl between her and the roof. The man held her down by her throat. She was choking, gasping for air. He hiked up her skirts, leaving her naked below the waist. He pried apart her legs. Then, still clamping her throat and one knee, he stood to one side of her.

      From the corner of her eye she saw Hugh swaying forward between her legs, his mother behind him, pushing him. Hugh was tugging loose the strings of his codpiece. Fumbling, he pawed the codpiece aside, exposing his flaccid penis.

      “Take a sniff of the girl,” his mother hissed, “and be a man.”

      Honor kicked. Her foot hit Hugh’s knee. He stumbled back, cursing. In the confusion, the burly servant lifted his hand from Honor’s throat. She fought her way up. But the henchman was quicker. One of his fists cracked against her jaw, and the other slammed into her abdomen, throwing her back again, her bowels on fire.

      She caught the lurid grin on Hugh’s face. Her pain had excited him. He pulled the henchman aside, forced his way between Honor’s legs, and thrust himself into her. Honor felt the violation like a jagged knife, stabbing, wounding, drawing blood.

      And then, suddenly, Ralph was there. He sprang at Hugh and hauled him off. He grappled Hugh’s head between both hands. Honor heard Hugh’s neck snap. He crumpled to the floor on his belly, his face hideously twisted around to his back.

      Lady Philippa screeched for help. Four men pounded in. The henchman pinned Honor down again while the others wrestled Ralph to the floor. Then, in anxious confusion, they looked to Lady Philippa for instructions. But she was shrieking, hysterical, pointing at the body of her son. One of the men hesitantly rolled Hugh over onto his back. He lay lifeless, his erection mocking death.

      There was panic. The men shouted. Lady Philippa wailed. The henchman let go of Honor to throw his jerkin over Hugh’s genitals. Someone cried, “To the well!” and two men lifted Hugh up and ran with him out towards the kitchen courtyard. Lady Philippa followed, staggering, clawing at Hugh’s body while one of the men tried to restrain her. The other men shoved Ralph to his feet and pushed him out too. Honor stumbled after them into the drizzle.

      In the courtyard they lowered Hugh onto the rain-slick cobbles by the well. The other men pushed Ralph down to his knees beside the body. Servants poured from the house, some carrying torches that hissed in the misty rain. The women stood huddled in fear, the men shouted, the children gaped. Frantically, the men sloshed buckets of water over Hugh. But he was dead. When the fact could no longer be denied, and Lady Philippa continued her uncontrolled shrieking, the frightened men began to kick Ralph. He curled into a ball and covered his head with his arms as boots thudded against his ribs, his shoulders, his back.

      Bastwick came from the house, pushing his way past the servants. The men kicking Ralph stopped and looked at the priest. Bastwick held up his hands, demanding order. He called for a couple of men to carry Hugh’s body up to his bedchamber. He commanded several of the women to tend to Lady Philippa. The rest of the servants he ordered back inside, all except the two men guarding Ralph. Bastwick glared down at Ralph with a look so full of fury that Honor wondered if Bastwick himself would deliver a fatal kick. But he remained calm. “Clap the murderer in the pillory,” he said.

      The men dragged Ralph away. Everyone dispersed from the courtyard, Lady Philippa flailing her arms from inside the retreating knot of women and moaning, “Father, Father!” Bastwick strode after her to comfort her.

      Honor was left alone. Everyone had forgotten her.

      Hours later, she sat stiffly on the edge of her bed. For some time she had listened to the household uproar around her—men and women rushing up and down stairs with potions to calm Lady Philippa, with reports on carrying out Bastwick’s instructions at the pillory, with cuffs and curses for the children who came to peep at the dead young lord. Then the clamor had dwindled, as if from exhaustion, and finally the house had quieted to silence.

      Honor tried to ignore the pain of her bruised body, tried to ignore the humiliating blood on the inside of her thigh, still sticky with semen. She needed all her concentration to think about Ralph. Come morning, she knew, they would hang him. The King’s law of arrest and trial did not penetrate this remote west country. She had often seen Tyrell hanging his own peasants whenever he saw fit. She knew she had to get Ralph away from here.

      And get away herself. With Hugh dead her usefulness here was spent. Most likely Tyrell would cast her out alone and friendless into the world.

      When she was certain the house slept she threw on a cape. She tiptoed to Hugh’s chamber and went in. Hugh lay on the bed