Read The King's Daughter for Free Online Page B

taught her nothing?
    The boy finished his task and stood, a robust fire crackling behind him. Honor thanked him and asked him to have Master Legge prepare dinner for them and their daughter. Leonard Legge, the landlord, was an old friend of the Thornleighs.
    “Oh, Mistress Isabel’s not in her room, my lady. She said to tell you she was going out.”
    “Where to, did she say?”
    “The apothecary’s, my lady. Said she wanted sweetmeats for her nephews. I told her Sandler’s makes the best.”
    “Well, in that case, dinner for two.” Honor moved toward him with a coin, tossing back her dark hair as she held out her hand to him. The boy flushed. Thornleigh almost smiled, appreciating the boy’s discomfort; at forty-four his wife was still a beautiful woman. The boy took the coin, mumbled his thanks, and hurried out.
    Honor sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Thornleigh with a serious expression as if their earlier conversation had not been interrupted. Good, he thought. At least she’s not going to pretend.
    “Richard, you know how I feel about this. We’ve been through it and—”
    “And you refused to leave. I know.” He yanked a chair over to the bed and sat, leaning forward in the chair so they were almost knee to knee. “But that was before Christmas. Things have changed. For the worse.”
    “Perhaps for the better,” she said cryptically. Her dark eyes seemed to be testing him.
    “No, Honor,” he said harshly, “for the worse. The Queen will bring back the heresy laws. Burning at the stake for all who defy Catholic authority. It’s only a matter of time.”
    “Last month you said she might not.”
    “Last month I still hoped she might keep to a course of restraint. And God knows I’ve tried to convince myself of her goodwill.” He shook his head. “You should have heard me yesterday lecturing Isabel and Martin. Give the Queen a chance, I told them. She’s showing tolerance, I told them. But the fact is she’s doing no such thing. We must leave England, now. With Isabel.”
    Honor was looking at the floor. “Back to Antwerp?”
    “Yes.”
    “Again.” She said it like a declaration of defeat. “And start all over.”
    “Yes.”
    “Again.”
    She raised her eyes to him. The sadness in them stung him like a rebuke. “You don’t think I could?” he challenged. He was eleven years older than she was. An old man, some would say, though he did not feel it.
    She leaned forward and rested her hand on his knee. “You could, my love, and you would,” she said softly. “Of that I have no doubt. But that is not the question here.” Her eyes hardened. “I won’t let them chase us out. Not this time.”
    So obstinate, Thornleigh thought. He looked at her tumbled hair, and thought he caught the scent of lavender from it. He recalled the many different ways he’d seen it. Piled up like a milkmaid’s as she hoed her herb garden. Glossy as ebony that night a few summers past when they swam in the moonlit pond after making love on the grass. Caked with filth that dreadful moment twenty-odd years ago when hehad pulled her body from the hold of his ship. His heart had wailed then at the certainty that she was dead. What courage she had shown in those dangerous days. Courage—and obstinacy. Honor did not change.
    “So,” he said, “we just sit and wait for the burnings to begin, is that it? Wait for them to come for you and strap you onto the hurdle and haul you to the stake?” Damn it, he would bully her into acting rationally if he must.
    “There may be another course,” she said. There was controlled excitement in her voice. She went to the door to make sure it was tightly shut, then came back and stood before him. “Richard, you know we’ve been hearing the rumors for weeks. The city is crackling with them. But now I believe they are true. There is going to be an uprising.”
    Thornleigh straightened. “What have you heard?”
    “At Gresham’s goldsmith shop yesterday two