The Queen's Captive (28 page)

“Did she get the plans?” he asked Parry. He had sent her his shipwright’s designs of the finished
Elizabeth,
feeling sure she would enjoy looking them over. She liked feeling part of his enterprise, and that fired him with a warmth like fine brandy. Arriving here, he had told Parry that he wanted to report to the Princess on her investment in the ship, and indeed he would happily rattle off numbers if she wanted, but in his heart it was a lie. He had come just to see her.

“She did, sir,” Parry answered. “Though I cannot vouchsafe that she has yet looked at them.”

That disappointed Adam. Deeply. And so did the small crowd chattering around her. She hadn’t even noticed him yet. She sat lounging in a chair at the far end of the long table, laughing with three men who stood with tankards of ale. Halfway down the table two ladies played backgammon. Two more sat trading secrets on the blue velvet banquette that lined the wall, while a knot of gallants chatted under a gleaming wall display of swords and crested shields. There were the ever present musicians plucking and bowing a lively tune on their lutes and viols, and some children giggled over a basket of kittens near the massive hearth. He told himself he should be used to it. It had been the same at Hatfield, all these friends of hers, no one much over thirty, everyone taking their ease in her company in games and gossip, dicing and dancing, hunting and hawking. He recognized a few. Among the gentlemen were the captain of her private guard, Sir William St. Loe, and scholars John Dee and Roger Ascham. Among the ladies, her close friends Kat Ashley, Mary St. Loe, Lady Cavendish, Blanche Parry. Adam had enjoyed the company of these people. He just wished they weren’t here now.

As if she had heard his thoughts, Elizabeth looked right at him. A spark shot through his chest at the way her eyes met his, so direct, so forthright. He was struck again by the wonder of her—that hair like beaten copper, the blazing red silk dress, the ruby necklace dipping to her breasts, that skin as white as cream. But in an instant her features tightened as though in suspicion or anger, or both. She flicked her gaze away in a gesture so heartless he almost lurched in place.

He hadn’t imagined it. Parry said, as though to soften the slight, “She’s tired, sir. We’ve been mightily busy, moving the whole household in for Christmas.”

Adam appreciated the man’s subtle kindness. He had come to like Parry when he’d stayed at Hatfield. “I’m sure you’ve got the place running as smoothly as a Spanish admiral’s muster.”

“Thank you, sir, but if we’re in ship shape I hope it’s purely English fashion.”

Adam smiled. And as he watched Elizabeth resume chattering with her friends, it was hard to dwell on that odd moment of rebuff. All this light and music and laughter—he couldn’t imagine her any other way. How had she been able to bear those two terrible months last year, imprisoned in the Tower? The darkness. The loneliness. The fear. It gave him a shudder to think of her in any kind of pain.

He offered Parry his best wishes for a happy Christmas, and then strode across the hall to Elizabeth. Bowing to her, he rattled off the expected public pleasantries—glad to see her looking so well, and all that. He was no courtier, and was eager to get her alone, so he got to the point. “The
Elizabeth
is ready to launch, my lady. If you can spare some time away from your friends, I’ll bring you up-to-date.”

She looked at him as though he were a common seaman who had stumbled in from the street. “Friends, sir, before business. Always,” she said with icy precision.

He was taken aback by her coldness. What had changed her from the ardently grateful girl who had nursed him with such tenderness?

“You are welcome to wait,” she said, flicking her fingers as though to flick him out of her sight. He got the feeling that she meant to leave him cooling his heels indefinitely.

“Pardon, my lady, but I have little time. My ship awaits.”

“Then you had better return to her.”

Outright dismissal. Adam thought how his stepmother wanted this girl to be queen, and for sheer imperiousness she was halfway there. The men around her were watching them with idle interest. He didn’t much care what they thought, but he was not going to leave Elizabeth this way.

“Give me five minutes,” he said to her. “Alone.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound like such a command. God knew he had no business ordering her. The looks of surprise on her friends’ faces signaled his clear transgression. Something wild leapt into Elizabeth’s eyes. Fury at his audacity? An itching to do battle?

“Five minutes, sir,” she said, almost spitting the words. “Come.” She rose like an empress and swept past her friends. He followed her out of the hall. Almost immediately she turned into an alcove, a stuffy, windowless nook for servants to hang guests’ cloaks and shelve parcels. The moment they were alone she turned on him in anger.

“You take a liberty, sir!”

“I’m sailing the
Elizabeth
to Calais with a cargo. I wanted you to know your investment is going to pay off.”

She fixed severe eyes on him. “How will you bear to be parted from your wife?”

He was stunned. “Wife?”

“I hear I am to wish you joy on your forthcoming nuptials.”

“Good God, who told you that?”

“Lady Cavendish heard it from Margery Neville.
She
heard it from the lips of your betrothed.”

He almost laughed. “And who is my betrothed?”

“The sister of Baron Grenville.”

“Frances?” The thought was so absurd he’d blurted her Christian name without thinking, and now he realized the intimacy it suggested. “It is not so, believe me.” His need to assure Elizabeth of the error was as strong as his surprise—his delight—that she felt so passionately about it. “Your friend is dead wrong.”

“She heard the lady wax most eloquent about you,” she shot back witheringly, “and your many charms.”

It sounded so foolish to Adam, he had to laugh. “And from that your friend pushed me into the marriage bed?”

She stared him down, her eyebrows tugged tight in anger. But Adam sensed it was now for show. She couldn’t hide the tiniest smile creeping over her lips. “Well,” she sniffed, conceding with a toss of her head, “she may have misheard.”

“I warrant. And you should know how to value court gossip. If the lord treasurer tells his wife there’s a cut in the price of bread, his footman reports to the barmaid that the baker will lose his head.”

She stifled a laugh. “True. I have sometimes heard tales about
myself
that have astonished me.” She looked into his eyes, a sly smile curving her mouth. “So the baron’s sister is no more to you than…a sister?”

He shrugged. “She’s building a priory. She’s asked my advice a few times.” The thought of Frances talking about him at all, let alone about his “charms” and hinting at marriage, made him squirm a little. He could think of nothing he had done to give her such ideas. He should have a talk with her, he supposed, straighten it out. But at the moment she was the last thing he wanted to think about. Not with Elizabeth so near, and so…interested. It thrilled him. And made him reckless. “There’s only one lady I hate to part from. I gave my ship her name so I would feel her always near me.”

Her sly smile vanished, and she looked at him with such clear-eyed fascination it made him go still just to hold that look and drink it in.

Her voice became hushed, urgent. “Show me.”

If any other woman had said it he would have had her in his arms before she took the next breath. But a princess? He felt frozen, even as her eyes kindled fire in him.

Her gaze dropped to his chest. “Show me,” she whispered again. “Our bond.”

Now he understood. And what a sweet command. He unfastened the top buttons of his doublet and tugged loose the lacing at the collar of his shirt. He opened the shirt to just below his breastbone. Elizabeth’s eyes fixed on the puckered scar. She touched it with her fingertips.

It shot an arrow of arousal through him. He swallowed, finding it hard to keep his hands away from her. The ruby necklace caressed the cream-white skin of her breasts above her bodice. Her breath was warm and smelled of sweet cloves.

She looked up into his eyes and gently laid her palm flat over his wound. The heat of her hand, and that smile in her eyes, that skin—it unfroze him, firing him with desire. He covered her hand with his, and pressed her palm against him, hard.

Her lips parted. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. She pulled back, blinking as though startled. Then, instantly, she raised her face to his for more. Adam took her in his arms and pulled her tightly against him, and she gave a slight gasp as she felt his hardness. He covered her mouth with his in a kiss that set him on fire.

A noise. Someone was coming.

They pulled apart. Adam was breathing hard and unwilling to let her go, even as he saw Parry from the corner of his eye. Elizabeth, too, was catching her breath, and staring back at him in a way that tempted him to make a lunatic lunge and kiss her again, damn Parry and anyone else.

“My lady, Mistress Thornleigh is come, asking to see you.”

Adam’s gaze snapped to him. His stepmother? It seemed almost laughable, like some stage comedy, his parent marching in to box his ears. He almost
could
have laughed, Elizabeth left him so light-headed.

But Parry’s serious tone was anything but light. “An urgent matter, she says. She has come for Master Adam.”

They found her waiting in the foyer. Adam took one look at her pale face and knew that something had happened.

“Pardon this intrusion, my lady,” she said to Elizabeth. “There has been—” She stopped, clearly needing a moment to steady herself.

Elizabeth said, “Mistress Thornleigh, what’s amiss?”

“I have just left Sir William Cecil. The bill…in Parliament. The Exiles Bill…it was defeated.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth said, clapping her hands in delight. “Good news, indeed.”

Adam felt a surge of pride. His father had played an important part in this victory. But why was his stepmother not smiling? “That’s not all, is it?” he said.

She shook her head, and he suddenly saw the vast effort she was making, as though to fend off panic. The look of a sea captain who sees disaster looming but forces a calm face for the crew.

“Your father. He and their friends went to Sir William’s house on Canon Row to celebrate, and—”

“And what?” said Adam.

“When the Queen heard the vote result she dissolved Parliament. Lord Grenville marched to Sir William’s door with soldiers. He arrested Richard. Adam, he has taken your father to the Tower.”

17

The Plot

March 1556

“B
less me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been six weeks since my last confession.”

A busy six weeks, John Grenville thought as he said it. He leaned close to the bronze grill that separated him from Father Paxton in the confessional and tallied his gains. In those six weeks he had bought a lucrative manor in Cornwall with three very productive tin mines. Had concluded negotiations for a young niece’s marriage to a duke’s son, a brilliant step up for his family. And, most satisfying of all, had delivered Richard Thornleigh to the Tower.
The day that murderer becomes gallows fruit,
he thought,
Father can rest in peace.

His confession was brief. His sins were few.

In five minutes he and the priest met outside the confessional. They were alone in the chapel, part of John’s family suite at Whitehall Palace, and John said pleasantly, “Father, I have been busy on your behalf. Bishop of Wealham. Does that appeal to you?”

The priest, who owed his living to the Grenvilles, beamed. “My lord, your generosity humbles me.”

“Nonsense, Father.” John made a graceful, courtier’s bow. “Your service to God humbles
me.
” He did not mention all the favors he had called in. He always followed his father’s rule of liberally funding friends in the church, and the churchmen now had come through with this appointment for his candidate. Paxton as bishop would be a fine ally amongst the other bishops in the House of Lords, and a strong voice for God in John’s community. Every ally was needed against the pernicious Protestant vermin.

“Will you sup with me in the city, my lord? A few of us have a table at Rimbaud’s tonight. Their roast venison is superb.”

“And Rimbaud’s stock of the best burgundy is vast,” John said with a knowing smile. “I thank you, Father, but I have an appointment in less than half an hour that I cannot shirk. In the meantime, I will pray.”

They parted, exchanging wishes of “Godspeed.”

John waited until the priest was gone. The chapel was quiet. It was a nasty night with icy rain, and most of the palace’s inhabitants were snugly sitting at supper before fires in their chambers. John stepped inside the priest’s side of the confessional and closed the curtain.

He didn’t have to wait long. Roper was always punctual. He slipped into the other side of the confessional and settled himself, catching his breath as though he had hurried. He leaned into the bronze grill, and John could smell wood smoke on the man’s clothes and brandy on his breath. His pockmarked face looked reddened from his walk. Or maybe from the brandy.