Free The Queen's Captive by Barbara Kyle

way to live as neighbors. “Well, that’s a bonus for us, sir,” he said. “He seems willing to let hostilities lapse, at least. That’s something.”
    His father halted his horse abruptly. Adam had to tug the reins of his own horse to stop, too, and turned back to face him.
    “It’s nothing,” his father said, his tone so urgent he sounded angry. “Nothing, you hear? Their hatred feeds on deeper grievances. They hate that we bought the abbey. Hate that we’re not acolytes of their religion. Hate that we stood in rebellion against the Queen. They hoard their hatred and let it fester, like rot. Never forget that. Never trust them.” He looked over his shoulder, back toward Grenville Hall. “He’d called out his famous archers, did you see? That was his warning shot across our bow.” He turned back and added grimly, “Be careful, Adam. Watch your back.”

    When the frenzy of Christmas and Twelfth Night was over, business on the Hythe, the wharf of Colchester Harbor on the River Colne, resumed its normal bustle. The river traffic was a shifting maze of ships, barges, wherries, and lighters, and on the quay the cranes squeaked and clanged as they hoisted sacks of cargo to and from the waiting wagons and carts. This winter traffic, though, was nowhere near as thick as it was at the end of summer for oyster season. The town of Colchester owned all the local oyster beds by virtue of a grant by King Richard I, and for over three hundred years, each autumn, a small fleet of fishing boats dredged the beds. In October the town staged a great oyster feast in the Moot Hall and hundreds of people from near and far came to eat Colchester oysters.
    But on this gray January day, activity on the Hythe was much more calm. Frances Grenville, on her big-boned bay gelding, followed by her steward, Dyer, on his mare, clopped past a knot of draymen gambling over dice during their dinner break. The men tugged off their caps and bowed to the baron’s sister, but she barely noticed their obeisance. She was looking for Adam Thornleigh. He was here, the harbor master had told Dyer. He was working with his shipwright.
    Palpitations of the heart beset Frances whenever she thought of Adam. It was a new sensation, one that slightly alarmed her, but greatly excited her, too. She had been near marriage once, last year. It had been a long time coming. As a girl she had made a vow to remain single as long as her dear friend, Princess Mary, was single. But last year Mary had become queen and had wed Prince Philip of Spain, and so Frances had agreed to marry a man her father approved, Edward Sydenham. But God had not approved. Sydenham had betrayed Mary in the dreadful Wyatt rebellion, and was hanged.
    Adam Thornleigh was very much alive, and the flutter Frances felt in her breast seemed to set the town’s church bells ringing. The fanciful thought pleased her, though of course the bells were only tolling the hour. She was so glad of the return to the old Catholic ways since Mary had brought the country back to the one true Church. Frances knew the sound of all the bells in all the town’s churches, most of them very old, built in Norman times. St. Peter’s, St. James the Great, St. Runwald’s, St. Martin’s, All Saints. St. Nicholas, with its spire rising above all the others. Holy Trinity, the oldest, dating back to Saxon times. And the venerable St. Mary at the Walls, so called because it was built against the ancient Roman walls, for Colchester was proudly the oldest town in England. The town’s coat of arms depicted its patron saint, St. Helena, the Roman emperor’s mother, who had found the true cross of Christ. Frances recalled how her father used to jumble bits of the town’s history, telling guests that Helena had been the mother of Old King Cole of nursery rhyme fame. In fact, Frances knew, the rhyme derived from King Cunobelin, Colchester’s heathen ruler when the Romans arrived. She felt content with all these ancient ties, for