Not ever,
she vowed as she left the Moorgate arch behind her. The fields outside the city walls were busy. In Moorfields, to the right, laundresses spread shirts and smocks and household linens on the grass, waiting for the autumn sun to burn off the last of the fog. Past them, closer to Bishopsgate, were tenting grounds where apprentices stretched wool cloth, tapping hammers at the tenterhooks. Ahead, past grazing cattle, rose the windmills of Finsbury Fields, where the shouts of men drifted from the archery butts. Through the trees and the last shreds of fog Frances could see them, a troop of twenty or so. Their shouting was exuberant and good-natured, young men taking pleasure in their prowess.
Just the kind of man Frances was looking for. These belonged to her brother’s troop, the famed Grenville Archers. John had commanded them at the battle of Ludgate, and for playing this crucial role in saving London from Wyatt, the grateful Queen had made him a baron.
Frances halted her horse and looked among the archers for their young captain, Giles Sturridge. She spotted him letting an arrow fly. It pierced the straw target with a satisfying
whomp,
dead center. A tall, lusty fellow of twenty or so, he grinned as he accepted the praise and backslaps of his mates. He knew he was the best of the best. Frances had heard John say as much, but had wanted to see for herself. Even better, she had heard from Dyer that Sturridge had once been arrested for molesting a girl and had spent time in jail for it.
Exactly the man she wanted.
She turned to Dyer. “Tell him eight o’clock.”
Church bells were tolling the nightly curfew all over London when Frances left her supper plate of roasted partridge with olives and followed the maid to the parlor. Except for the servants, Frances was alone at the Grenvilles’ London house on Lombard Street, and it was quiet except for one of her brother’s hounds snoring in the hallway. John and Arabella were visiting the Duchess of Norfolk at her house on the Strand. Their children, with the governesses, were asleep upstairs.
Giles Sturridge, waiting in the parlor, stood twisting his cap in his hands. He bowed when Frances came in, a little uneasy at being summoned, she saw. No doubt he felt out of his depth in the elegant surroundings. But there was also a look of interest in his clear eyes. He knew he would not be called here for a trifle. She admired that, his sharp mind.
“I understand you have no wife, Master Sturridge.”
He blinked. “No, my lady. I mean yes—no wife.”
“With no family, you could embrace the adventure of starting a new life in some other land.”
He frowned, not understanding. “My lady?”
“I am going to pay you a great deal of money.” She slipped a ruby ring, a very costly jewel, off her finger and held it out to him. “This is a mere token of what is to come. Please take it.”
He stared at the ring in astonishment, then at her, obviously lost.
“If you carry out the commission I have for you,” she said, “I will give you enough money to live comfortably in France for the rest of your life without ever working another day.”
Wonderment filled his eyes. And a flicker of excitement.
Good,
she thought. “If you refuse the commission, however,” she said calmly, “I will tell my brother that you molested me, and he will have you hanged.”
11
The Princess’s Defender
October 1555
“Y
ou underestimate your fellow sea captains,” Elizabeth said to Adam. “Some have traveled far. Look at Hawkins of Plymouth—he sailed to Brazil. The Countess of Sussex has a popinjay he brought back. He’s sailed to the Guinea coast of Africa, too, and brought back ivory. And there’s Thomas Wyndham—what about his Barbary trade?”
“It’s all just coastal roving—limited,” Adam said. He tugged the reins to pull his horse back a little, keeping side by side with the Princess on her mare. They were riding in through the gates of Hatfield after a day of hawking—a hot, sultry day, though late in autumn. The whole company of Elizabeth’s guests, almost twenty tired gentlemen and ladies, trotted in behind them, crossing a drift of spongy, fallen leaves that muffled the horses’ hooves. “Spain and Portugal have monopolized the luxury trade for too long and taken the lion’s share,” he said, warming to his subject. “We have to become lions, too.”
“How? Where?”
“Persia, for starters. I believe we can get there overland through the northeast route via Russia. Cut out the middlemen, the Venetians and the Arabs, and establish our own trade thoroughfares to Persia.”
“If that’s for starters, then what, pray tell, is left?”
“The New World.”
Her eyes widened in delight. “But, it’s off-limits.”
“Only on paper.” The artificial demarcation had always seemed absurd to Adam. Decades ago Spain and Portugal had signed a treaty, sanctioned by the pope, that carved up trading and colonizing rights between them, excluding all other nations. The fiat was both tyrannical and ludicrous. Who knew what lands lay out there?
“That’s what I feel,” Elizabeth said in a conspiratorial whisper. “What care we for a mere pope’s injunction?”
It thrilled him. How bold she was. “My lady, can you imagine an English fleet plying the Atlantic? It would take some foresight from our government, and a little encouragement to merchant adventurers in the form of prize money. But with that, I believe our little nation could send trading expeditions to all corners of the world. We could become master of the seas. I’ve been dreaming of a new type of galleon, faster and leaner and more—”
“Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly sharp. “Your ship. Its construction. I know.” Then, less sharply but with a new coldness, “We will talk later, sir.” They had reached the stables and she turned her horse’s head and briskly moved away. Three grooms ran to meet her.
Adam watched her go, not sure what had happened between them—the sudden chill that cut short their friendly discussion—but sensing it was his fault. The rest of the company trotted in around them, making the stable courtyard ring with the clack of hooves and the jangle of harnesses and the shouts of grooms. A groom dashed up to Elizabeth with a stool for her to step down from the saddle. Adam watched her hand over the reins, and noticed how everyone’s eyes always darted to her. Gentlemen, ladies, servants, no matter what anyone in this crowd was doing—dismounting, unsaddling, strolling away, chattering—all attention continually returned to the Princess to check what
she
was doing.
They all want something from her, he thought. Positions, posts, preferment, either for themselves or their kin. People were constantly wangling, all very charmingly, for posts as stewards of her estates or chamberlains in her houses, or for other jobs on her administrative staff. Some wanted her influence to sway a judge in a court case. Others wanted introductions. Others, cold cash. He had known it, of course—had heard all these requests and more in his eight days here—but he’d never felt it so clearly as at this moment. Because he realized that the sudden chill in her
was
his fault. He had asked her earlier, on the ride out, if she would like to invest in his ship, his request as blatant as the appeals of all these other questing fellows.
But for him it had just been a way to talk to her, be close to her. He would find the cash to pay the debts on his ship somehow, even without a farthing from her. Her interest in what he was doing—that’s what he wanted. Her warm, intense awareness. He hated to think she considered him the same as these hungry hangers-on.
He had to let her know the truth.
He swung out of the saddle, tossed the reins to a servant boy, and pushed through the people, heading straight for Elizabeth. Dismounting, too, she set her foot on the step the groom had set in place, then hopped to the ground. A dew of perspiration dampened the coppery hair at her temples, and with one gloved hand she absently pushed at the edge of her chemise collar, open to her breastbone, to cool her neck.
Adam was a few strides away from her when he caught a motion from the corner of his eye. Something so swift…
“My lady!” he yelled.
She turned.
Adam didn’t think. He lunged for her, face-to-face, gripped her shoulders and pushed her back against her horse, shielding her with his body. He felt her startled breath warm on his throat.
The wallop to his back was like a cudgel. It slammed him hard against Elizabeth. He heard a dull crack of bone, felt it splinter inside him. Fire erupted in his chest. She gasped, looking up into his eyes.
Men were shouting, running. Adam staggered back a step. He looked down at the hand’s breadth of space between him and Elizabeth. Three beads of blood glistened on the white skin at her breastbone—a scrape the size of a fingernail paring. An arrow tip jutted from the top of Adam’s rib cage, the metal barb glistening red.
He held his breath, because to breathe was agony. His vision went as dark as the sky in a squall at sea. His legs gave way.
He felt her tremble as she struggled to hold him up. He wanted to stay with her but his leg muscles felt severed. He felt a moment of fury at the thing invading his body and taking him from her, and then he slid down, sinking into darkness.
The choir of St. Botolph’s intoned its plaintive chant. The faithful of Colchester stood listening with bowed heads. Father Percy shuffled up the steps to the pulpit to begin his sermon. The congregation raised their heads.
Roses, that’s what Honor was thinking about. She had dead-headed the drooping blooms of autumn as soon as she had arrived home, and now she was pondering a further expansion of the rose arbor next spring. Maybe transplant the foxgloves and irises to nearer the pond, and that way she could extend the rose trellis all the way to the house. Roses climbing right under her library window, that would be lovely. Imagine the scent on a sultry summer evening when the daylight to read stretched almost into night.
The choir finished and Father Percy began to drone. A prayer for the Queen’s health, then St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians. Honor stifled a groan. How Christians loved to promote Paul as the Jew who converted to Christ.
She glanced at Richard beside her, his head bowed over his prayer book. She smiled when she saw why. He had slipped a paper in between the pages, a letter from his Antwerp agent, and was reading it. They both found Sundays a trial. Necessary, though. They attended regularly, as was the law, always partaking of mass. Honor had even contributed a costly pair of silver candlesticks for the altar. She trusted it was enough.
They were near the rear of the congregation, and she glanced diagonally across the heads toward the front rank where Baron John Grenville and his wife, Lady Arabella, listened intently to Father Percy’s words. Frances, beside them, looked quite engrossed, too. Despite Frances’s partnership with Adam—a situation that Honor still found odd—the baron hadn’t deigned to speak to Honor since she’d been home, beyond a barely civil “Good day” at church, which was fine with her. There were friendlier faces in the community. Like Lord and Lady Powys, situated closer to the pulpit, both listening with inscrutable expressions honed to hide their Protestant inclinations. What a fine country of hypocrites we’ve become, Honor thought. The Queen’s brutal religious policy demanded the deception. Forced to choose between death at the stake and the pretense of piety, what rational person would not choose hypocrisy?
She cleared her head of such galling thoughts and let her mind drift back to her garden, and planning for spring. Time to prune back the purple mulberry bushes bordering the swath of daffodils down to the water meadows. She had already had Baird, her gardener, plant ten dozen more daffodil bulbs. She loved April’s riot of yellow. One could never have too many daffodils.
The church door banged open. Honor turned her head to look. Ned, her young footman, hurried in. A few other people in the congregation glanced around, but latecomers were a regular interruption almost every Sunday and in a moment all eyes turned back to Father Percy.
Except Honor’s. Ned was heading straight for her and Richard. His normally cheerful face looked so disturbed, she knew at once this could not be good news.
He reached her side. His whisper was a rasp. “There’s been a…it’s Master Adam…he’s…”
“He’s what, Ned? Has something happened?”
“Something terrible…Master Adam…he’s—”
Dead.
As he said the word the priest’s voice thundered in his sermon, and all Honor could think was
I heard it wrong.
This stone vault we’re in twists the sound.
Richard leaned in, looking curious. “What?” He hadn’t heard the word. “What’s happened?” Heads turned all around them, he had spoken so loudly.
Honor gripped his arm.
Don’t. If Ned doesn’t say the word, it didn’t happen.
But he said it again.
Dead.
The motions of Honor’s mind halted, as still as a frozen stream. She could not recall why she was standing in this stone vault. She looked at Richard. Saw the fearsome word drill into him.
No. No. This is not happening.
“Where? How?” Richard said, his voice a croak.
Hatfield, Ned told them. An assassin on the dovecote roof. Crossbow. Tried to kill the Princess. Master Adam jumped in the way. The arrow went right through him. And he fell.
Dead.
It punched the breath from Honor.
My fault! I told him to stay there!