The Queen's Lady by Barbara Kyle

insisted he let me go. We were back in Westminster by then. ‘I’m sorry, your Grace, the letters to the French King needs must wait and I must ride to Chelsea, for Honor Larke is seventeen years old today.’ The King is a fond father himself. He might have given me Godspeed and one of his finest stallions to carry me.”
    “Or he might have had your head,” she cried. “No, I’d rather see you past the date, and whole.” They laughed together.
    “We didn’t get much work done that night in any case,” More said, rummaging again inside his robe, “what with the music and the bonfires.”
    Honor could well imagine it. Her birthday was the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer Eve, a holiday when bonfires were lighted in the streets and doors festooned with garlands, and people danced and sang through the city with drums and horns and pipes. “When I was little, in my father’s house,” she said with a soft smile, “my manservant, Ralph, told me that people danced around their fires at midsummer just to celebrate my birthday. And truly, sir, he assured me with such long-faced foolery that for many childish years I believed him.”
    “Charming,” More chuckled. “Ah!” He had found the object of his search. From a deep pocket he withdrew it and held it out to her. It was a necklace, a delicately wrought string of coral and pearls, simple and exquisite.
    “Oh, sir!” she stammered, delighted.
    More looked baffled. “I fear you misunderstand. That is not my gift. No, no, that is only an ornament, a bauble, a toy for a child.” Solemnly, he took her hand in his. “Put it away,” he said quietly. She obeyed.
    “My gift to you is something much more precious. More lasting. A reward for the great progress you have made. It’s incredible, really, when you came here you couldn’t even read, and now your Latin is as good as mine. Well,” he winked, “almost. And you have excelled in mathematics, music, philosophy, even astronomy. In fact, your tutor tells me you are so far advanced in that science that you can point out not only the polar star and the dog star, but are also able—and this requires the skill of an absolute master—to distinguish the sun from the moon.”
    She laughed.
    “Yes,” he said, “your mind now rests on a rock solid foundation. And your heart,” he smiled, “remains as soft as God could wish. Truly, child, you could not please me more.”
    Honor gazed at him, feeling too much happiness to hold inside. She threw her arms around his neck, her cheek against his. His hands went to her back and he pressed her to him. Then, suddenly, he pulled away. His face was flushed. Abruptly, he stepped toward the pond. For a moment he kept his back to her. She waited, fearing her impetuous show of affection had angered him.
    He turned around to her briskly, and she was relieved to see that he was smiling again. “And now, Honor Larke,” he declared, “my gift to you. It is . . . a name. A name in Greek, as befits a scholar of this little academy. ‘ Kale kai sophe .’It means, ‘Fair and wise.’ What think you of it?”
    Tears of happiness brimmed in her eyes. “A wonderful gift.”
    “And yours alone.” Solemnity darkened his smile. “Remember, child, a thousand girls have necklaces.”
    A shout startled them. “Sir Thomas! Come quick!”
    Across the grass Matthew stood where the lawn sloped down to the river. He was waving his arms. “Murder!” he cried.
    More and Honor shared a horrified glance. They raced towards the breathless Matthew who pointed down at the reeds by the river’s edge. On the bank, a man was bending over a girl, a maid in More’s household. She was kneeling and looking up at the man. He held a knife at her throat.
    “Stop!” More cried. “Villain!”
    The man spun around in surprise. His knife glinted in the sun.
    More scrambled down the slope, his robe flapping, his feet awkwardly thumping and slipping on the lush grass. He was running too fast and he lost