Honor watched them, fascinated. They were testing one another, she realized. Like two children on the bank of a swift-flowing river, each was daring the other to jump in first.

"But I am also aware," Anne went on, clearly relishing the roomful of stares, the danger in the air, "that Luther says the godly prince has a divine commission to reform the Church. For example, to rid it of grasping prelates. Now, this suggestion interests me, for there are some overmighty, odious priests, grown fat on the sweated labor of the people, who do the King no good, and whose demise would be a blessing to this realm. As for the Lutherans' disapproval of the Pope-"

"They call him Anti-Christ!" a shocked young lady murmured.

"Indeed," Anne said with withering scorn. "Touching on that, I, for one, can happily imagine a Church without a pope. For we must ask: is Christendom well served by a man who waffles and whimpers, who promises and then forswears, who cannot bring himself to grant the simplest and most deserved of requests concerning the marriage of one of Christendom's most loyal princes? Perhaps it is the Pope who is the heretic."

The room fell deathly quiet. "I am aware, too," Anne said, "that the reformers are calling for priests to marry, as Luther himself has done. Married a nun, no less." The imp of humor played over her lips. "Imagine. The monk and the nun. Will their children be born wearing habits, I wonder?"

A hollow, staccato laugh left one gentleman's lips and died on the air. Anne looked around her. Most heads were bowed or turned away. Suddenly, she clapped her hands to break the pall. "Enough philosophy! Come, George, let's have a tune. And where's my little spaniel? I'm sure I saw Eleanor bring him in. I long to hold him. Now, Lucy, pour some more of Master Cromwell's excellent claret . . ."

The room sprang to life in a flurry of relief.

Honor looked past Holbein's back at Cromwell. His shrewd eyes had not left Anne, but there was a shadow of a smile in them as he inclined his head to Honor and murmured, "The Lady Anne has an uncanny knowledge of the contents of illegal books she claims not to have read."

Honor wondered which of the two had won their dare. It seemed to her to be a standoff; that both had retreated from the bank unscathed and with renewed respect for the other's abilities. But Cromwell's face betrayed nothing. She longed to draw him out and make him declare himself. "Master Cromwell, have I understood the lady aright?" she asked with as much amazed innocence as she could feign. "Did she really express a desire for a Church without a pope?"

"She did, mistress," he answered. He brought his eyes around to Honor and added flatly and finally, though with a small smile, "And my son desires a school without a teacher. But we must all deal in reality, as our artist friend here does. My son may pine for freedom but he obediently takes his desk every day, for his teacher is still his master. For us, the Pope is still the Pope. And," he added meaningfully, "your mistress is still the Queen of England."

Holbein stepped back from his labor and wagged the black chalk in Cromwell's face to make a point. "Ah, but one day your son will graduate and then he will need a teacher no longer." His eyes twinkled at the surprise on the two faces beside him. "My English improves, I think!" he said coyly.

Cromwell and Honor blinked at one another. Then they laughed.

Boots thudded at the bedchamber doorway and Honor's workmen emerged hoisting boxes of the dismantled prie-dieu. They strode past her, nodding deferentially, then halted at the doorway to the antechamber to wait for her.

But Honor did not join them. Her eyes had been drawn to the upper left corner of Holbein's paper-to a flower among the doodles. Her heartbeat quickened. Sketched roughly but faithfully was the little blossom that had brightened the title page of the dying foreigner's book. Although naked of colour, every stroke-every vein of the four petals, every leaf-point-was the same. There was no mistake; the original flower was imprinted on her memory. Her very fingertips tingled at the remembered feel of paint on vellum that she had traced over as she sat in Ralph's arms under the kitchen lantern. "Speedwell," Ralph had said, identifying the flower. And for years, the book and the flower and Ralph had been entwined in her memory in an aching tangle of regret. Whenever she thought of him, she thought of the speedwell. But she had never guessed, had never known until this moment, that Holbein was its creator.

She lifted her face to him, hungry to find out, at last, about the contents of the book, about its author, about the extraordinary stranger who had given it to her that May Day night eleven years before. She opened her mouth-but which of a hundred questions should she ask first?

"Mistress Larke?" The steely impatience in Anne's voice snapped across the room. "I believe your task here is complete. We will not detain you longer."

All eyes were on Honor: the workmen waiting for her; Anne; the guests once more sniffing rivalry between the women; Cromwell. And Holbein, who had seen the colour leave her face as if drained by some ghost on his easel.

"Good-bye, mistress." Anne's dismissal clanged.

Honor had no choice but to leave.

12.

The Brief "A second papal bull? Great God in heaven, she has gone too far!"

Wolsey's fist crashed down on the table of Campeggio's private dining room where the two cardinals were sitting over the remains of their meal. His furious gesture set the Venetian crystal goblets trembling. He crushed between his hands the letter Campeggio had just passed to him. Minutes before, it had arrived for Campeggio from the Queen.

Across the table, the Italian cardinal shook his head and groaned in agreement. "More delay."

"Worse," said Wolsey. He flung the letter among the divorce documents they had been discussing in preparation for the court session to finally judge the case. "This utterly confounds us."

At Wolsey's first outburst, Jerome Bastwick had looked up from his writing at a desk in the corner. Now, he carefully watched the cardinals. They sat in dismayed silence for several moments. Bastwick cleared his throat softly, then spoke up across the room. "Pardon, my lords. But may I inquire what the problem is?"

"Problem?" Wolsey bellowed to the ceiling. "It's not a problem, it's a bloody rout!" He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed, as if overwhelmed by the disaster. He glanced at Campeggio. "We must speak privately. Dismiss your assistant."

"I'd rather he stayed."

"Bah," Wolsey growled. "His fawning irks me. You brought a phalanx of clerics from Rome, every one of them better trained than this fellow. Why do you keep him on?"

Campeggio stared disconsolately at his swollen foot elevated on a cushioned chair. "My Roman assistants have turned listless on this interminable posting," he said. "They long to return to civilization." He looked pointedly at Wolsey, making it clear he had intended the insult, and added with quiet bitterness, "And so, I must confess, do I."

Wolsey looked away, chastised.

"But though we Romans falter," Campeggio said, "Father Bastwick's energy does not. I've found him to be a tireless worker."

Wolsey waved his hand with an impatient gesture. "Suit yourself."

Campeggio looked over at Bastwick. "What was your question, Father?"

"I simply do not understand the Queen's disclosure, my lord," Bastwick said deferentially. "She says she has uncovered a separate papal bull of dispensation?"

"Not a bull technically," Campeggio explained. "A brief. But whatever it is called, the Queen is claiming that it has as much validity as Pope Julius's official bull of dispensation which allowed the King to marry her, his brother's widow. This brief was written by Pope Julius as well, she says, and was dated the same day as his bull. She says-"

"She says," Wolsey snarled, "that in Spain the Emperor's lawyers, in combing through evidence of the marriage treaty, uncovered this brief among the papers of Dr. de Puebla."

"Who is de Puebla?" Bastwick asked.

"Was," Campeggio answered. "The Spanish ambassador here at the time of the marriage. Dead now. The crux of the situation is that this brief also dispenses for the marriage, as the bull did, but with significant differences of phrasing."

"Fatal differences," Wolsey added blackly. He snatched up the vellum copy of the brief that the Queen had sent with the letter. Scanning it, he tapped a finger at his temple. "I have the official bull up here," he said. His finger stabbed at a word on the scroll. "It is this that sticks us. This phrase appears only in the brief: 'His et aliis causis animum nostrum moventibus'-"moved by these and other reasons."

"Aliis causis, my lord?" Bastwick asked. "What 'other reasons'?"

"Unspecified," Wolsey answered with a grim glance at Campeggio.

"But the phrase changes everything," Campeggio said. "The canon law of dispensations is exact. Sufficient causa-adequate grounds-must always be listed why a waiver should be allowed."

"But," Bastwick pointed out, "the original bull did list them. First, that the marriage would confirm the friendship between England and Spain. Second, that it would prevent war between them."

"Exactly," Wolsey said quickly, trying to shore up the sand giving way beneath him. "And the King is attacking that sentence about the threat of war." Though he spoke now to Bastwick, his eyes betrayed him by darting hopefully to Campeggio. "The King argues that the former Pope was deceived about the situation since there was, at that time, no danger of war between England and Spain. Consequently, the bull was procured by obreption-by misrepresenting the reasons for applying for it-and must now be declared invalid."

"But," Campeggio said sternly, "if the Pope said he had been moved by 'other reasons' as well, although he did not list them, who can say how much the threat of war weighed with him? Perhaps he had private information that led him, and him alone, to fear such a war. There is no better causa known to canon law than the furtherance of good relations between states."

Wolsey's voice rose to an uncharacteristic plea. "But Pope Clement has promised the King-"

"He has promised nothing," Campeggio said firmly. "I am sorry, but this evidence cannot be ignored. It indicates that Pope Julius knew of other reasons, unstated but compelling reasons, to grant the dispensation."

"And took his reasons with him to the grave." Wolsey groaned. He threw up his hands, admitting the stark conclusion both of them had reached. "How can I fight a dead man? What defense can I mount against unknown motivations? By these 'aliis causa,' the King's argument is shattered." He ran a hand over his sweating upper lip.

Campeggio heaved an exhausted sigh.

"Perhaps not, my lords," Bastwick said quietly. The cardinals looked at him.

Bastwick had stood. He was approaching their table. "This is only a copy the Queen has sent you, is it not?" he asked. "A copy of a copy? Well, how can we be sure the alleged brief even exists?"

Wolsey stared up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my lord, that the Queen is desperate."

A smile began to creep over Wolsey's face. "My lord Cardinal," he said, lifting his glass in a toast to Campeggio, "I congratulate you in the discovery of this most astute assistant." He lifted the glass in turn to Bastwick and studied him for a moment. "When all of this is behind us, Father, and Cardinal Campeggio has returned to his beloved Rome, you must come and see me. I can always make use of a good, sharp mind."

Wolsey settled back comfortably in his chair, and drank.

"Read."

Honor heard the distress in the Queen's voice. She looked up from the hearth where she was laying wood for a fire against the March chill.

Catherine was thrusting out a letter to her. "Cardinal Wolsey means to terrorize me," she said. "Yesterday, he announced that the legatine court, with him and Campeggio as my judges, will sit in June. And today, this. Oh, yes, he means to terrorize me. Read."

Honor rose from the cold hearth and took the letter. The small antechamber of the Queen's room at Richmond Palace was chilly, dark-paneled, and bare except for a bench under a single window, and her candle-studded prie-dieu in the corner. Here, Catherine spent hours praying after morning mass and before evening vespers. She and her reduced train were alone at Richmond. King and court did not come here anymore.

"What terrors can he threaten you with, my lady?" Honor asked as she began to read.

Catherine picked up her prayer missal from the bench and pressed it to her bosom as if for warmth. She began to pace. "Subtlety was never the Cardinal's virtue. How miraculous, he declares, that this brief should appear after twenty years when not a soul knew of its existence. Doubly miraculous, he says, that it should so conveniently support my position."

"He implies that you forged it?" Honor asked, incredulous. She had thought that Wolsey's tactics, so consistently brutal, no longer had the power to shock her. Forgery, in a case against the King, could be construed as treason. And treason meant death.

"More than imply it," Catherine said. "He threatens that no court of law will accept a mere copy of the brief, unattested as mine is. Only the original document, he says, can possibly be considered."

"But the original lies in the Emperor's treasury in Spain."

"Precisely. Wolsey is deliberately transparent. He makes no effort to mask his skepticism about the very existence of the brief. He recommends . . . how has he put it? . . . 'For your sake and your daughter's'-a clever touch of terror there, you'll agree . . . that I dismiss any intention of introducing the copy in court." She stopped in the center of the room and stared at the logs in the cold grate.

"If an agent could reach the Emperor for you . . ." Honor began, thinking.

Catherine shook her head. "Wolsey knows I am cut off from Spain. His spies watch my doors like jailers."

"Pardon, my lady," Honor said, "but is this new evidence really necessary to you? I had understood your defense to rest on the fact that you came to the King's bed a virgin, and therefore all quibbling over the legality of the bull of dispensation was irrelevant."

"And so my main thrust will remain," Catherine said. "But I am not such a simpleton as to arm myself with only one argument, and an unprovable one at that. As a supplementary line of defense, this discovered brief answers my prayers. Or so I had thought." Unnerved, she looked heavenward. "I thought God had sent me a weapon, but now . . ." A log on top of the stacked firewood slipped and crashed to the hearth, startling her. She hugged the missal as if it were a mast in a storm. She began to rock, unsteady on her feet, and the missal tumbled to the floor.

Honor dropped the letter and hurried over with arms outstretched to steady the Queen, but before she reached her, Catherine crumpled to her knees. Honor knelt beside her, embracing her. Catherine pulled back, trembling, blinking worry-smudged eyes up at Honor as if unsure of where she was.

"My lady, let me fetch Dr. De la Sa!"

"No! No!" Catherine whispered.

"But you are ill!"

Catherine shook her head in jerks, eyes shut. Slowly, with Honor's arm around her shoulders, she seemed to subdue her panic. Her rigid muscles slackened, her breathing quieted. They remained kneeling together, for Honor was unwilling to let her go, but Catherine raised a cold hand to Honor's face and stroked her cheek.

"Truly, sweetheart, I am not ill." She patted Honor's hand and started to rise, but again she faltered and clutched Honor's elbow, and rasped, "Though God knows how sick at heart!"

Honor winced at the tortured voice. The forty-three-year-old face before her looked fifty. Threads of graying hair had escaped the Queen's jeweled chaperon, and Honor noticed with a pang of alarm that her blue velvet bodice was sprinkled with crumbs of bread. Good God, Honor thought, does she hoard bread in this dark room to break her fasts? Munch it furtively during her solitary hours of prayer? This once-fastidious Queen?

Catherine turned her face to the flickering votive candles. She still held Honor's elbow tightly as if hoping to draw some of the younger woman's strength. "Wolsey means to strangle this evidence," she whispered. "He means to strangle my last hope. And I must do as he says. If I do not, the Privy Council threatens the most extreme consequences for my disobedience." She dropped her forehead onto Honor's shoulder. "Blessed Mother of God, what am I to do!"

"Madam," Honor said steadily, "let me go to the Emperor."

Catherine looked up, astonishment on her face. "What are you saying?"

"Send me to Spain. In Valladolid I can pour out to your nephew your plea to release this document from his treasury. I'll have it back here, safe in your possession, before Ascension Day. And with it you can confound these Cardinals in their legatine court."

Catherine stared at her. "Oh, but my dear!" she whispered. "Dare I hope . . . ? There is so little time. And . . . no, no, it is too dangerous."

"Not for a pilgrim," Honor smiled. "Don't you see? Easter is the perfect time for such a ruse. I'll be a pilgrim traveling to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela-just one among hundreds of English pilgrims."

"But Wolsey's spies . . ."

"I promise you I can evade them. Oh, my lady, let me do this for you!"

For a long moment Catherine searched Honor's face, marveling at the offer. Finally, she allowed herself to smile.

"How could I have doubted God's wisdom?" she said as tears blurred her eyes. "You are the tool He has sent me. With your help, I shall confound these Cardinals!"

Honor stood alone on the pier of Richmond Palace waiting for a barge. Her skirts flapped in the spring breeze as if they were as impatient as she to begin the first leg of her journey. She had brought no baggage to attract suspicion. She had arranged to spend this night at the London house of the Marchioness of Exeter, one of the Queen's oldest and most trusted friends. She recalled that the Marchioness had recently commissioned Holbein for a portrait. Poor Hans, she thought. She had overwhelmed him with her volley of questions when she found him alone after that morning in Anne's suite.

"I know nothing of the book, Mistress Honor," he had protested. "Yes, the drawing of the speedwell is mine. I remember doing it. But I never knew what book it was for. I made hundreds of woodcut drawings in those days." He had explained to her that most artists did not work in wood or metal. They provided the drawings, sometimes on the wood itself, and then the woodcutter did the rest. He had never known what volume the speedwell was destined for, he said, and never saw the final publication. He had even forgotten the name of the printer who had commissioned the drawing, "Because," he said with a shrug of apology, "I did it on a short visit to Lucerne." He had shaken his head. "I'm sorry."

Honor was sorry, too. Another dead end.

A barge was approaching the pier, still several boat lengths away. She raised her hand to hail it. But before she could wave, she felt a tug at her sleeve. She turned. It was the red-haired Edward Sydenham.

Furtively, he glanced back towards the palace, his face very pale. He thrust a paper into Honor's hand. Astonished, she opened her mouth to speak, but Edward held a finger warningly to his lips and shook his head. Then, as quickly as he had come, he hurried away.

The barge bumped alongside the pier. Honor climbed in and directed the boatman to Barnard's Castle wharf. As they glided out into the traffic of the river, she settled herself and unfolded the paper. She glanced down at the signature: "Bridget S."

Mistress, I heartily recommend me unto you, not forgetting the courageous service you performed for me and mine, albeit in the end my untrusting heart did lead us all to ruin. Because I would not heed your warning, precious moments were lost and my lord was captured. He has lain these long months in the Lollard's Tower. But right glad I am his heart is ever cheerful in the love of the Lord, Our Savior.

Honor was shocked. She had not known that Sydenham was being held in the prison of St. Paul's. She had been so sure he would recant and be sent home.

Mistress, these trials are my lord's and mine and I will not trouble you with our woe. The meat of my dispatch is this. I have this day had talk with Brother F. He inquired after you. Speaking of the infamous night that has blighted the happiness of me and mine, he told me you had asked after one Ralph Pepperton. Naturally, Brother F. knew no such name. Indeed, there are perhaps only two persons who can satisfy you in this, each holding one piece of the puzzle. The first of those two is myself, for I know that the man you refer to once called himself Ralph Pepperton.

He came to my husband's notice three years ago in Coventry. He had come there years before as a masterless man fleeing some past crime that I know nothing of. He never spoke of those past days except to tell me once, in confidence, that his name had been Pepperton and that, for safety's sake against his former crime he had put on the name of Roger Pym. (Ever jesting, he told me that though his conscience cleared him, yet the magistrate might not.) He got his bread driving a dray for a skinner, and he wed a Coventry lass of our circle, and fathered two fine lads, and nowhere lived a better Christian soul than this good Roger Pym. His help in our humble efforts to gladden men's hearts with the word of Our Lord was always merrily offered. His ending will have made the angels weep.