Dangerous Sanctuary (3 page)

Nobles and their ladies were beginning to arrive, let in by the guards who had joined Halliwell at the door, and Susanna was glad she had secured her place as close to the choir stalls as she could.

She moved her gaze over the monks in their stall. Pole had managed to hang back enough to escape Rightwise’s notice, and was now attached to the end of the first row. A few feet from where the King would sit.

Rightwise suddenly raised a hand, and the choir began to sing, the sound so clear, so reverberant, Susanna almost jerked a line across her sketch.

Pole pretended to sing along. Since she’d first seen him, angry and pacing, he’d lost some of his sureness—his mouth was slacker, his eyes less fixed. Sense and the imposing magnificence of the cathedral, decked out in all its finery for the King, was perhaps finally tempering some of his fury and bravado.

Shouting and calls sounded from the main entrance, the sound audible over the music of the choir, and with sinking certainty, Susanna
knew the King had arrived. Her time had run out.

She stood with everyone else. She did not know how long Henry would remain in the yard before he entered the cathedral, but she had only minutes to stop Pole from forfeiting his own and his family’s lives, as well as endangering the King.

The time had come.

She rolled her sketch and put it carefully in her satchel, then pressed shaking hands against her dress and walked straight to Pole. His eyes widen as he recognized her from earlier when she’d passed him and Halliwell arguing.

“Come with me.”

Whatever he’d expected of her, this was not it. He looked from her to the entrance, undecided.

“Come.” She took hold of his arm and pulled him behind the choir stall to a small alcove with a fine stained glass window. Her teeth unclenched a little, the tremors in her stomach lessening at the success of pulling him aside without his protest.

A strong smell of sweat and the musty odor of damp wool wafted from his stolen monk’s robes, and she released him and stepped away.

“What do you plan against the King, Geoffrey Pole?”

He did not know what to say for a moment. The horror of his name being known and his plan being exposed seemed to leave him speechless.

“I . . .” He shook his head and stared at her. “How do you know me?”

“You were pointed out to me when you were in the cathedral earlier.”

He gasped, horror in every line of his face.

How had he thought he could go unnoticed, stalking up and down the nave in full view of everyone?

“What do you plan against the King?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice strong but low, though fear and nerves seemed intent on making her mute.

There was a chance Pole would try to harm her, to silence her, and make clear his way to the King again. She made sure she was out of grabbing distance, and shook her right arm a little, felt the comforting weight of the knife Parker insisted she carry up her sleeve.

“I don’t know. Something.”

“No.” She spoke sharply, like a nurse to a child. “You are going to take off that monk’s robe and find a seat somewhere in the cathedral. And keep any thoughts of injustice and anger to yourself.” She was suddenly furious with him. He had no plan, no idea what he was doing, and he would endanger his family and himself for such stupidity?

He stepped back, his mouth open. Then her anger seemed to affect him, leap to him like wildfire, catching the dry tinder of his grudges, and he drew himself up, his face twisted and ugly with rage. “It is not just this celebration that makes me sick. The King is unable to let Richard’s death be the end of it. He demands compensation payments from my mother and brother. My oldest brother is almost penniless, my brother Reginald forced to ask the King to pay for his studies in Italy, to beg for his charity. And because King Francis recognized Richard de la Pole as the true king of England, rather than Henry, our King must make a celebration of the French king’s capture on top of it. Must dance on my dead cousin’s grave.” He was breathing hard by the end of his whispered rant.

They both heard the tramp of feet at the entrance to the cathedral, and Susanna’s heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Pole made a movement, as if to lift the left side of his monk’s robe, and she guessed he had a weapon, a sword or a knife, hanging beneath it. His fingers scrabbled against the rough wool and then he stopped, let the material drop.

As the trumpets sounded, she forced herself into calm. “So the King has diminished you, impoverished you, and now makes a celebration of your cousin’s death.” She spoke the words hard and cold, like smooth stones thrown at his feet. “What will you accomplish by causing any trouble here today? Other than bringing your whole family to ruin?”

He felt for his weapon beneath his robe again, his eyes desperate. “Who are you, mistress?”

“I am the King’s painter, Susanna Horenbout. I am also betrothed to John Parker.”

She watched her words settle over him, and he lifted a hand to his head. “Halliwell talked. Parker knows I am here? Knows my intentions?”

She nodded, her assent only half a lie. “He is outside with the King.” Again, not wholly false.

Pole groaned, and he bent a little, crossing his arms over his chest as if in pain.

“I can promise you, unless Parker hears from me that you are still a danger, he will not say any of this to the Guard or the King. Neither of us has any wish to see you in the Tower.”

He lifted his head. “Why do you care? Why not simply call out and have me dragged away?”

He seemed to be judging the distance between them, as if to
forcibly prevent her from doing just that.

She took another step away from him and sighed. “Because I believe it is the right thing. If I call out, if I report you, you are dead and your family doomed. While I think there is a chance for you to extricate yourself from this, to forget it, and leave it be, I will not inform on you. I relish no one’s blood on my hands, and certainly not needlessly spilled.”

She shuffled back a little more and gave him a moment to decide what he would do.

The King was making his way down the nave, the air heavy with incense as the priests swung their copper bowls as they preceded him to the altar.

Directly behind her, the choir broke into the
Te Deum,
the sound lifting the hairs on her arms, making her skin tingle as it soared to the roof and then poured like thick honey over her.

If Pole did not make the right decision, she wondered how fast she would have to be, how much of a spectacle she would have to make of herself, to warn the Guard.

He was still vacillating, and she could not save him without his own cooperation. He would need to choose, and choose now.

“I will walk back to my seat,” she said. “And if by the time I get there you are not beside me, with that robe off, I will inform the Guard of your presence and your intentions. If you join me, you will sit beside me and watch the ceremony, then walk away, without another word being spoken.”

He looked so torn, so undecided, she realized he had truly committed himself to this course, and could not easily abandon it. She wondered if she stood far enough from him for her safety, but he made no move toward her.

“Tell me this,” she asked before she turned to go. “If the Queen, your mother’s friend, were here today, instead of just the King, would you still go ahead with an attack? Would you even consider it?”

Susanna held his gaze for one long beat, then spun and walked away. She fisted her hands to stop them shaking. The incense cloyed the air, and she coughed a little as she drew in a deep breath.

She rounded the choir stall and saw with relief her seat was still open, her satchel keeping her place.

She walked as slowly as she could, dragging out the time it took her to get to her seat, but at last she reached it. She lifted her satchel and remained standing, along with the rest of the congregation, waiting for the King to complete his journey down the nave. She faced the possibility that Geoffrey would not come, that she would be forced to sign his death warrant.

The King passed the far end of her row, glorious in his gold and white, to take his place before the altar. As he reached the front, the choir’s song increased in intensity and strength, filling the whole cathedral, pressing down on her with the sheer volume of their voices. She shivered and fought the tears that pricked behind her eyelids from the pure beauty of the sound.

The King sat and the congregation followed his lead. Susanna slid onto the hard wood seat and thought through her options.

Geoffrey Pole had still not come. She would have to make good on her threat.

She looked about for the closest Guard. Four stood at attention next to the King, but she didn’t want to cross in front of the main altar to reach them.

She looked behind her, desperate to catch sight of Parker, but he was not there. Some of the Guard stood halfway down the nave. She
twisted around to see if she recognized any of them, and saw Halliwell was among them.

She hadn’t wanted to involve him, but she would need to sound the warning quickly. Of everyone, he would understand the urgency. She stood and beckoned him, and at last he noticed her.

He moved foward, his expression worried, and then he faltered, his gaze going over her shoulder.

Susanna whipped around and came face-to-face with Pole.

He said nothing, shuffling in next to her. His monk’s robe was gone and only the slightest hint of musty wool clung to his fine velvet doublet. His eyes were unreadable.

She sat, her legs shaking, and he sat with her. He did not look at her, focusing his attention on Wolsey, who stood above the congregation in a column of scarlet.

Halliwell crouched at the end of the pew beside her. His eyes were on Pole, but the courtier studiously ignored him.

“All is well.” She let that sink in. He rocked back on his heels in relief. “Have you seen Parker?”

He shook his head and rose up to walk back to his post. Susanna hesitated, then, with no idea what else to do, pulled her sketch from her satchel and began to draw the King.

Pole was trembling, she noticed. The trembling of a man who has just avoided death, and knows it. The soaring sound of the choir, the Guard, the King in costly dress, with his Crown jewels and his cardinal presiding, and the beautiful colors of the massive stained glass window dappling it all in almost godly light, was a display of glory and of absolute power.

Pole could have tried to disrupt it, but he would’ve been crushed for it.

He never stood a chance.

Parker reached the cathedral entrance as the Mass came to an end. His sleeve was ripped, and he’d taken an elbow to the cheek when he’d been shoved into two men having a fight.

He was known to most of the Guard, and they let him through with grins at his dishevelment.

Henry was already in procession, leaving the cathedral, and Parker moved aside to let him pass.

The King caught his eye, and like the Guard, gave a small smile at the state of him. Parker bowed, and when he straightened, the King was already at the door. Parker waited for the nobles to follow and then stepped into the nave, walked down it toward the main altar.

He saw Pole coming toward him and forced himself not to falter.

They stopped as they reached each other.

“You have an interesting betrothed, Parker.” Pole looked back, and Parker saw Susanna still seated on the bench, bent over her work in a way that told him she was barely aware of her surroundings, deep in concentration as she crafted her sketch for the King’s painting.

“Where have you been, Pole? I’ve been tossed about by the crowds, looking for you.”

“I was here.” He said nothing more, but Parker could not believe it was as simple as that.

“And you wisely decided to abandon any attempt on the King.”

Pole froze at the statement, and all it implied, then gave a brief nod. “I had a little help in making my decision.” He turned to look at Susanna one last time. “Give thanks for what God has sent you, Parker. I cannot imagine a more intriguing woman.”

Parker nodded. “I don’t want to see you at court for some time, Pole. And if your temper is ever raised again, I would most strongly suggest you come nowhere near the King.”

Pole’s eyes flared, but Parker stared him down, and after a moment, his shoulders slumped. Chastened. “I will take your advice.”

Parker stepped aside, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Pole lifted a hand in salute and walked away.

Parker took his time reaching Susanna. He allowed himself to see the beauty of the church in a way he usually had no time for, the shadows and the pools of colored light where the weak sun filtered through stained glass. And at the center, working to capture it all, his lover.

Parker looked toward the massive circular window, into the rainbow of colors, and gave thanks.