"And riches," she added.

His eyes were on her, unashamed, waiting. Finally, she caught what fed the hunger there. Like a small key turning in her head, understanding clicked. "There is also," she said, "power."

Cromwell's face darkened. "I am not fond of games, Mistress Larke. Why have you brought me here?"

She stepped up to the table and spread her fingertips on its top. "As the Cardinal's legal council you are no doubt aware of the brief written by the former Pope and recently discovered by the Queen."

"Naturally."

"With it, as you know, the Queen has evidence to shatter the King's case. He claims that defects in the dispensation make his marriage invalid, but the brief rectifies the defects, making the marriage legal."

"Indeed," he said impatiently. "Please, get to the point."

"The Cardinal is questioning the brief's authenticity, for the Queen has only a copy."

"I know that."

"I am on my way to Spain to ask the Emperor to release the brief to me, in the name of the Queen. The original. There can be no question then of its genuineness."

Now, Cromwell's eyes gleamed with interest. "Why do you tell me this?"

"I propose to hand over the document to you."

His mouth fell open. For a moment he only stared. "Hand it over to the Cardinal?"

"No. To you."

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying that I want you, secretly, to present the document to the King."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"I have reasons."

"But if the King has the brief he will, in all probability, suppress it. Holding it, he can pretend it does not exist."

"I am counting on that," she declared.

"I see," he said slowly, clearly perplexed.

"Do you?"

He stepped up to the table and his eyes narrowed as he studied her face above the lantern light. "Frankly, Mistress Larke, you astonish me. Why should you make me such an offer?"

"Let me answer by asking you a question. If the Lady Anne were to become Queen, she would welcome in the new religion, would she not?"

Cromwell's eyes grew wide. "Apparently, you are keen to see the advent of this so-called new religion."

"To see the rot in the old religion gouged out! The Church is a plague, with its power to hunt down and destroy men who seek only after truth. The realm must be cleansed of bloated priests and priest-ridden royal officials who persecute honest folk unto death." She looked away, conscious that she had revealed too much of her heart.

"I see," Cromwell said again, this time with a small smile. "The rhetoric is a trifle strained, but the sincerity most eloquent. Especially to these old ears. Fury is an emotion that only the young can muster, betrayed by the unjustness of an imperfect world. The old resign themselves; the young must rage."

She was disconcerted by the way he was studying her, as if she were a cipher. Sharply, she asked him, "Well, Master Cromwell, do you accept my offer?"

The perplexed look on his face creased into something close to derision. Derision tinged his voice as well. "And how do you propose that this extraordinary transaction be made? When you return, will you dine with me at Stepney while the court spies in my household watch us from a peephole in the gallery?"

"I have a plan."

"And what might that be?"

"I will collect the brief from the Emperor Charles at Valladolid, just as the Queen expects. I will set out to return to England with it. But the King's agents abroad are vigilant, I understand. How if I am attacked by one of them on the road? How if I should lose the document to him? After all, sir, I am a lone, weak woman, traveling with a single servant. Such a disaster could befall me."

When Cromwell spoke again there was no longer any trace of mockery. "Very tidy," he admitted.

"Now, will you accept my offer?"

He wove his fingers together over his ample stomach, contemplating her. "Mistress, farmers with cattle to sell cry down the Church for its plethora of fast days when we must eat fish. Fishmongers cry down the Church for its tithe on eels. And for all I know, eels may cry down the Church for blessing ships that sail upon the water. Now, you may have good cause to cry down the Church as well, but I mind that among the priest-ridden royal officials you just spat against is your own guardian, Sir Thomas More. A good and pious man, and known to all as a defender of the faith."

"A brutal man! Known to all as a defender of the Church's abuses!"

Cromwell seemed lost for words. Finally, he said, "Mistress, for the second time tonight you have surprised me." He ran a hand over his thinning hair, and chuckled, "And that is two times more than most people can surprise me." Again, he clasped his hands in front. "And so," he said thoughtfully, "you look for the day when the Church will be reformed. It is a goal that many good people share."

"Do you?"

He gave her his small, enigmatic smile, but no answer.

"Well, it matters not," she said. "If the Lady Anne becomes Queen, the goal will be realized. Now, will you accept my offer? I confess," she said with some warmth, "I had expected more thanks."

"Did you, indeed?"

"Your future will be made," she cried. "The King leans on men who deliver."

"Why do you not make this offer directly to my lord Cardinal?" he asked. "Or why not simply hand over the document to the King yourself? Why use me?"

"I do not wish to expose myself. But even without this consideration, I would never deal with the Cardinal. He represents all that people loath in the Church. His palaces and splendor, his bastard son elevated to high church office, his multiple benefices and bishoprics. Wolsey personifies the old Church. But you, sir, are a coming man. All the court speaks well of your temperance and your abilities. I have seen for myself your openness to change. And the Lady Anne trusts you. The way lies before you," she said, and added softly but sternly, like a warning, "to make or to mar."

Neither had moved. Across the table, they gauged one another.

"There is still a point that confounds me, mistress. Until this meeting you were a person known to me chiefly for your reputation as the Queen's most loved and loyal woman. And this papal document may be her last chance to salvage her marriage and her estate as Queen. Her last hope."

"There is no hope at all for hundreds of people who daily risk the wrath of the Church," Honor flared. "Under the Queen the wicked Church thrives. Under the Lady Anne I pray it may wither."

"Yet I know you love Her Grace. Are you really prepared to dash her happiness against your higher cause?"

He might as well have slapped her. She knew he had not meant it as a rebuke but she felt it as one. Stiffly, she rubbed the edge of the battered table in an effort to regain control. "Her Grace will be well treated," she said. "Whether she enters a convent, which would suit her temperament, or decides to live alone, she will be well treated. The King cannot abuse her. He would not dare insult the Emperor so. This way she will be reunited with the daughter she loves. And as for the King, she has lost him already. She deceives herself that it is not so, but he will never live with her again. That much is clear to all but her."

She gasped. She had rubbed the wood too hard and a splinter had rammed under her nail. Aware that Cromwell was studying her again, she ignored the pain. "Self-deception is our enemy," she declared. "I know. I once deceived myself about . . . someone." She heard the feebleness in her voice and was angered by it. "No," she said harshly, "the Queen should accept reality. As you once so wisely suggested we all do, sir. She should accept the world as it really is. She should go quietly, as common sense bids."

"Yet you do not," was his cool reply.

"I do not what?"

"Accept the world as it is."

She met his gaze, feeling calm for the first time since she had left Chelsea the day before. She answered simply, "I cannot."

Part Three.

Hope.

April 1529April 1534.

15.

Spain.

At an inn halfway between Santiago de Compostela and the Spanish coast Honor sat cross-legged on her bed with a book. She was bone weary, but repugnance at the mould on the wall inches from her back and the grime on the straw mattress kept her vigilantly upright. Ribald singing boomed up from the tavern downstairs. Her head ached from it. She rubbed her temple as her eyes wandered for the third time over the same passage in the book. She glanced at the rancid candle of tallow beside the bed. It had guttered down to a thin disk. In moments it would go out. She was too angry to concentrate on reading in any case. Cromwell's agent had failed to make the rendezvous. Whoever he was, he was supposed to have met her here by noon.

Her hand traveled up between her breasts. She felt through her chemise for the leather tube suspended from a thong around her neck. The precious paper, the papal brief, was rolled inside. She had hoped to have been free of its weight-and responsibility-long before this hour. She swatted a cockroach off the mattress. Curse this man of Cromwell's. What had gone wrong?

There was a drunken whoop of laughter from below, then a renewed roar of singing. Honor slammed her book shut. Even if she could forget her worries, sleep would be impossible in the din. And yet she longed for sleep. There had been precious little of it in the past few days.

The twenty-four hours she had spent at the Emperor's court in Valladolid-the fountains, the music, the perfumed feather beds-wavered behind her now like a mirage, a fantasy that had never really happened. On the return ride she had driven herself and Owen at a punishing pace. They had galloped into Santiago de Compostela and stopped there only long enough for Owen to offer up a prayer at the famous shrine of Saint James and spend his penny on one of its cockleshell souvenirs for his wife before they raced on to make the rendezvous in time. All for nothing.

The revelry below had been going on for hours. It had begun when a band of mounted mercenaries had thundered into the courtyard after supper, sending the handful of guests scurrying upstairs, Honor among them. She had heard all the hair-raising stories about mercenaries. They traveled in small companies, taking orders only from their own commander who hired the band to any prince or duke, bishop or banking house in Europe who could pay. On the field, they attacked in organized lethal formation with short swords and long pikes, and fought, as the Italians said, "mala guerra"-warfare without mercy. Between military engagements many companies split up into robber hoards to ravage the peasantry. Owen had knocked at Honor's door and whispered a warning to stay put and bolt herself in. "I'm about to do the same myself," he had said. "Anyone in his senses will keep clear of that lot. Just don't let them see you, my lady."

The candle sputtered and died. She sat for some time in the dark, furious, her head splitting. The vile room seemed like a prison. Even if she could not concentrate on reading, she wanted light. She had noticed extra candles in a cupboard along the landing that overlooked the tavern. Could I risk slipping out to fetch one? she wondered. Why not? The brutes were so drunk they probably wouldn't notice an earthquake. Cautiously, she slid the bolt on her door and crept down the dark corridor, then out to the landing. She crouched behind the railing and peered down through the posts.

The men-she counted twelve-looked like a flock of exotic birds that had flown through a fusillade of gunshot: gaudy, ragged, and filthy. They wore brightly colored, baggy tunics and knee breeches slashed ostentatiously to appear cut to shreds in battle. The costume mimicked the infamous German mercenaries feared throughout Europe, the Landsknechts. Huge, tattered plumes swayed in their hats. Greasy but still vivid banners were bound diagonally across their chests, and strips of silk dangled at their knees as garters. Some wore short cloaks in brilliant colors. Most wore their hair shoulder length and wild.

Six of them sat bawling their song and guzzling ale around a table littered with scraps. One lay on his back on a soggy separate table droning his own melody, a profane version of a Lutheran hymn. The rest sat on the floor in corners, snoring, except for one who stood at the fireplace and spouted urine in spurts over the blazing logs.

Honor shook her head in disgust. It was true, she thought, that they were probably too drunk to be dangerous, but to get to the candle-cupboard she would have to move along the landing-it was farther away than she had remembered-and movement might draw their attention. It was not worth the risk. She stood to go back to her room, smarting at the self-imposed confinement decent folk always suffered in the presence of such louts. But as she straightened she noticed that a man sitting on the floor against the far corner was looking up in her direction. Instinctively, her hand went up to cover the hidden tube between her breasts. She took a quick step back into the shadows and stood perfectly still.

The man had slung back his blue cloak across his shoulder, and it covered his mouth so that between the cloak and his drooping hat not much of his face was visible. But Honor thought she read there a scowl of curiosity. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as if to clear a liquor-induced vision, then stared up again through the smoky air at the gloom of the landing. Honor held her breath. A dog came snuffling near the man's boot, and he looked down at it to deliver a half-hearted kick. The dog scuttled away, and when the man glanced up again at the landing it was with waning interest. Finally, he folded his arms and settled back against the wall to sleep. His head slumped onto his chest. Honor relaxed. She hurried back to her room, quietly closed the door, and bolted it. She sat again on the bed. She watched the fire-lit crack under the door until exhaustion claimed her and she slipped into a fitful sleep.

At dawn she paced her room. Below, the men awakened on the tavern floor, coughing, farting, moaning, and bickering. Finally, they shuffled out. Honor watched them from the edge of her window. By the stable, they stuffed their saddlebags with bottles, loaves, and sausages stolen from the wizened landlady who looked on in mute despair. Then, in a flurry of sudden military discipline they mounted and clattered out of the courtyard.

Honor waited until noon. But was clear that Cromwell's agent had utterly miscarried. Her plan to "lose" the brief had failed. It was impossible to remain in this ruin of an inn. The other guests had already fled. The larder had been stripped, and the landlady was slumped on a stool by the hearth, alternately moaning prayers and wheezing curses between pulls on the last jug of wine.

Honor and Owen rode their horses out at a walk. There was no hurry now. The port of La Coruna was only fifteen miles away, and the ship bound for England would not sail until the next morning. They ambled over flat, scrub land where farmers tilled the stony soil. The road descended to a valley where a village squatted in blank-eyed poverty. As they came up out of it, the country became hilly and the wind rose. Honor lowered her head against the dust. She gathered in the flapping, loose neck of her pilgrim's tunic that hid the leather case, and agonized over what to do next.

Carry the brief back to England? Wolsey would almost certainly have her searched as soon as she stepped ashore. The ruse of lying ill at the Marchioness's house had only bought her time, but by now he'd know she was gone and would most likely suspect her of dealing for the Queen. Dangerous. But she could somehow let him know that her intention was always to relinquish the brief; Cromwell would intercede for her. And certainly, if Wolsey's agents confiscated the brief, Wolsey would just hand it over to the King, so the outcome she hoped for would be the same. Curse it, though, the thought of relinquishing it to Wolsey rankled. If that was to be the result of all this trouble, she might just as well drop the brief into the ocean. It was Cromwell she wanted in her debt. In her debt, and in the King's good graces, and working, with Anne Boleyn, toward a new order.

Well, that grand scheme was obviously not to be. Should she drop the brief into the ocean after all, then, and declare that it had been stolen? That way, at least, the King would get his divorce.

Or would he? Might destroying the brief do more harm than good? The Queen was clinging to the hope it offered; she'd surely urge her lawyers to get her unattested copy allowed as evidence. It could drag on for months. No, only if the King had the original in his hands could he suppress it confidently-deny its existence or declare it a forgery. Otherwise, delay was inevitable. And every day the Church remained ascendant was another day for Sir Thomas to break the brave souls who opposed it. So. What to do?

She and Owen plodded down a hill in silence. Ahead about a quarter-mile she could see that the road narrowed into a bridge over a river. A shepherd was funneling his flock onto the bridge. Honor was despondently watching the sheep when she heard an odd sound in the distance behind her, like the flapping wings of a large bird.

She glanced over her shoulder. On the crest of the hill a man sat on horseback, motionless. His short blue cloak, whipped by the wind, rippled behind him with the sound of powerful, beating wings.

The mercenaries! Honor and Owen exchanged frightened looks. Quickly, she gauged her position. To the left, the road skirted a steep, rocky hill. Ahead lay the bridge-blocked by sheep. To the right, a thick woods sloped down to the river.

She looked back. The man on the hill was moving, descending at a trot. He spurred his horse and began to gallop toward them. Honor did not wait for the rest of the band to appear over the crest. She kicked her horse's flanks and lit out for the trees. The head start she and Owen had was slight, but she judged that their best hope was to lose themselves in the woods. Bent over her horse's neck she twisted her head to call to Owen. But Owen, apparently thinking only of following the road and assuming she would as well, was tearing for the bridge. Sheep were scattering before him in a frenzy of dust and bleating.

Honor galloped on alone toward the woods. A shower of stones spewed out behind her horse's feet. She heard the thunder of hooves pursuing her. She gripped a fistful of mane, and her legs squeezed the horse's sides. She broke into the first line of trees. Low branches scratched her face and hooked her skirt. She was forced to slow, though every nerve and muscle screamed for flight. Struggling to stifle her own sawing breath, she calmed the horse to a walk, then to a halt.

She listened. The thundering had stopped. And behind, through the tree trunks, she saw no movement. But the unmistakable rustle of underbrush told her that one man, at least, had followed her in. His horse snorted, and she knew that he was very close.

The urge to break out of the press of trees became overwhelming. She kicked her horse toward the blue sky glimmering through branches ahead. Soon she had broken free, and she was filled with relief to find that the woods opened onto a meadow. But fear squeezed again as she looked wildly around at the steep hills. They enclosed the meadow on three sides.

There was a crashing behind her. Without even looking back she plunged headlong into the middle of the meadow. At the foot of one of these hills, she told herself, there must be a path leading out. A cart track at least. She twisted to the left, but as the hill loomed and still she saw no route out of the meadow bowl she yanked the reins and veered to the right. Out of the corner of her eye she saw, with a flash of panic, how close her assailant was, his blue cloak snapping behind him.

A track! There, by a stand of poplars! But it lay even farther to the right, and she had to sharply wheel her horse around. She pulled too hard. She heard her horse's shocked wheeze as it stumbled beneath her. But she hung on, and righted the staggering animal, and was ready to gallop on to the poplars when she heard the other horse close behind her. A leather gauntlet scraped the back of her neck. It grappled her collar and wrenched her backwards and sideways, tearing her from the saddle. Her palms burned as the reins ripped through her grasp. She thudded painfully onto the grass on her side, the breath beaten from her.

She struggled to stand, but was too dizzy to get farther than to her knees. But she was aware that the horseman was wheeling in a circle back to her. Before she could turn she heard him, behind her, leap down from his mount. His gauntleted hands gripped the back of her pilgrim's habit and hauled her to her feet. With a violent tug he pulled her to him. The back of her head thumped against his chest. His leg snared hers at the knee, and the hilt of his sword bit into her hip. His arm shot around her waist and seized her opposite elbow, pinning both her arms to her sides. She heard him tear the gauntlet from his free hand with his teeth and spit it out. Slowly, he began a search of her body.

She squirmed. Deliberately, languidly even, his hand smoothed over her thighs, her hips, her belly. She gritted her teeth in silent rage knowing that a scream in this godforsaken spot would be useless, might even draw more of the villains. But if he attempted rape she was prepared to gouge with nails and teeth. If he would release her only an inch!

He grabbed the small purse hanging at her waist and jangled the coins. Abruptly, he abandoned it and continued to search up her rib cage. His hand moved between her breasts. It stopped when it reached the bulge of the hidden case. Quickly, he slipped his hand down inside the neck of her tunic. His fingertips brushed the skin of her breast. He clutched the case, lifted it out, and snapped it from its thong. Honor winced at the sting to her neck.

His leg uncoiled from hers. His arm withdrew. He swooped down to pick up his gauntlet, and then he stepped aside. For a moment Honor staggered at the sudden freedom. Then she whirled on him, nails raised to strike. But he was already striding away from her. She watched, dumbfounded. His back radiated satisfaction as he tossed the stolen prize in the air, caught it, and pocketed it inside the breast of his tunic. He whistled to his horse grazing across the meadow. As it trotted towards him he slung one edge of his cloak over his shoulder, and walked out to meet the horse. His easy, disdainful stride infuriated Honor.

And then she saw it. Recognized it in that sauntering walk: the unmistakable pigeon-toed inclination of the right foot. Richard Thornleigh. Her mind flashed associations: Anne Boleyn had prevented Thornleigh's maiming. And Anne Boleyn was wooing Cromwell to her side. Thornleigh must be Cromwell's agent!

"You!" she shouted. The word scythed across the drowsing meadow.

He turned. The edge of the cloak partially muffled his face. Furious, Honor ran at him and sprang up to tear it away. But he was quicker. His hands grappled her wrists, hard. She gasped. It was the first time he had inflicted pain, and she was suddenly aware of how useless her nails and teeth would be against his strength. As quickly as he had caught her, he let her go. His face was still half hidden, but as if to confirm her identification he settled his eyes, cobalt blue, on hers.

"Thornleigh," she spat, as if the name was an accusation. She scoffed at his brigand's cloak. "Not only late, but hiding like a coward."

His eyes narrowed at the insult. He slowly lowered the flap of material, revealing his face. And then he laughed.

She glared. "What amuses you, sir?"

"You. Accusing me. Intrigue and double-dealing are hardly the deeds of a proper little pilgrim."