Free The Queen's Lady by Barbara Kyle Page A

who had not fully heard, or had not understood, the question. Then, in reply, he slowly raised his arm above his head and brought it down in a flourish of a bow that was absurdly wide, absurdly dashing. The exaggerated gesture unbalanced him, and he stumbled forward. The sergeant had to snatch him by his collar to keep him from careening into the onlookers.
    “He’s drunk,” Honor said, dismayed.
    “So he is,” Margery giggled.
    The crowd shared Margery’s outlook and laughter erupted.
    Thornleigh righted himself and brushed the sergeant’s hands away. He raised his arms to ask for quiet, and looked out over the faces until the laughter subsided.
    “Gentlemen, ladies, forgive me.” He spoke with grave deliberation, but in a tone that was a clear mockery of a famous, and pompous, preacher of the city. His hand flattened over his heart. “In contemplation of this moment, I have today drunk deep of sorrow. I only pray God that before the day is out He will not let my sorrow drown me. But,” he added, listing dangerously to the left, and shuffling to a much wider stance to correct the imbalance, “I have also drunk deep of a bottle of sack.” He smiled crookedly. “And a very good bottle it was, too. Perhaps God sent it me for a raft.”
    Another wave of laughter rocked the courtyard.
    “Oh, Honor,” Margery chuckled, poking her rib, “don’t look so shocked. You can’t begrudge the fellow a tumbler or two to ease his pain.”
    “I don’t begrudge him anything,” Honor answered sharply. “I know nothing of the man—except that he blasphemes at a singularly inopportune moment.”
    “And that he’s a handsome dog,” Margery murmured, “and brave enough to spit at the Devil.”
    Thornleigh was looking out across the people’s heads with sudden soberness. “I have only one request,” he said quietly. The people hushed.
    “The penalty does not stipulate which limb is to be forfeit. I ask that my right be spared,”—he raised his right hand high—“that it may go on to do good service to my King.” His hand swept down across his body and grappled the top of the empty scabbard as if to wield his absent sword.
    A roar of approval went up from the crowd. Several women sighed. The royal surgeon nodded quick agreement. “Agreed, sir. Are you now prepared?”
    Thornleigh drew himself upright. Although the chatter continued around him, his face slowly hardened, and Honor noticed, beneath the defiance that rode the surface of those bold, blue eyes, a deep-drowning flicker of despair. She saw that he feared this moment after all. Well, she asked herself as pity crept back, what rational man would not?
    “Now,” Thornleigh barked to the surgeon, “let’s have done with it!”
    The surgeon nodded to the farrier. The farrier plucked the red-hot sealing iron from its coals. The royal chef waddled forward and handed his cleaver to the sergeant.
    Thornleigh strode up to the block. He scowled at it as if to steel himself for the ordeal. Then, quickly, he straddled the spot, stretched out his left arm, loosed the leather lacing at his cuff, and peeled back the sleeve. He thumped his fist onto the center of the block. Despite the cold, beads of sweat glistened on his brow. With teeth clenched and lips pressed thin together he sucked in a sharp breath that flattened his nostrils and filled his chest. His lip curled, and for an instant Honor thought she read in his face something disturbing—some fierce, aberrant desire that actually welcomed this punishment.
    The sergeant raised the cleaver. It glinted in the sun. Honor turned away.
    “Stop!” a woman’s voice cried.
    All heads in the courtyard turned to a door under the gallery. Honor and Margery looked down. A woman swathed in black sable strode out. Her yellow silk hem blazed below the fur, and rubies glittered on the yellow velvet hood that almost covered her dark hair. It was Anne Boleyn.
    The sergeant lowered his cleaver. The crowd parted, whispering.