The Queen's Lady Read Online Free PDF

extra bread onto it and squeezed closer to the amply fleshed body of Mary, a friendly brew-house servant, to force a space for Ralph. He hadn’t come into the hall yet. Probably still in the kitchen, Honor thought, telling jokes to the scullery maids.
    Honor knew why Bastwick flattered and coddled Lady Philippa. The lady’s cousin was an archdeacon in Exeter. Already, Bastwick had secured two more rich benefices through Lady Philippa’s pressing of this cousin. Honor knew all about Bastwick’s ambition. It glinted in his eyes, just like the jewel in her father’s ring. Bastwick wore the ring always. Wore it like a trophy, Honor thought, the way a savage wears a necklace of his slain enemy’s teeth. She hated him.
    She turned her eyes from Bastwick and caught sight of another face she loathed. At the far table, across the central hearth, sat the heir of this bickering, noisome place. Hugh Tyrell. Her husband.
    Father Bastwick himself had conducted the hasty wedding ceremony a week after he and Tyrell had abducted Honor. They had married her, at the age of seven, to eleven-year-old Hugh. That, she had soon come to understand, was her sole purpose here: Hugh would legally own all her property on the day their marriage was consummated. She understood the meaning of that word, too. The Tyrell Court servants, male and female, slept sprawled on the floor of the great hall, and no one living here could ignore the rutting that went on, day and night, in its grimy corners.
    Honor’s stomach tightened as she looked across at Hugh. He was now a pimpled sixteen-year-old who screamed at servants, lacerated his horses with whips in the hunt, and drank himself most nights into partial paralysis. Tonight, he was already close to stupefaction as he upended a leather wine bottle to his sucking mouth and drained its dregs.
    The meal was almost over. Still, Ralph had not come in. Honor was wondering if he had gone to the dairy to visit the tousle-haired milkmaid whose smiles of invitation, whenever Ralph passed by, were unmistakable. Honor was feeling a pang of jealousy, when Lady Philippa rose, uncharacteristically, to speak.
    Lady Philippa’s voice was as thin and pinched as her face, and the diners did not immediately hush to listen. Above their noise, Honor, at the far end of the table, could not catch the lady’s first faint words. But when grinning faces all along the tables turned Honor’s way, and then snorts and guffaws arose, she realized with horror that Lady Philippa was speaking about her and Hugh.
    “. . . our son to consummate his wedding vows. It was the express direction of my lord before he left for Exeter. ‘Make the girl a bride this night,’ he commanded. And so, friends, join me now . . .”
    Lady Philippa was raising her goblet in a toast. So was Bastwick. So were all the others. A toast to Hugh and his wife. That done, lewd words and laughter rolled from the company. Honor glanced over at Hugh. He was grinning like an idiot, trying to focus his glassy eyes on her. White spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. Honor’s stomach lurched.
    “No,” she cried. “I won’t.”
    The ribald din subsided. Lady Philippa stared at Honor stupidly. “What did you say?”
    “I said no. I won’t do it.”
    The company seemed so shocked that only one man’s feeble jeer and another’s obscene gesture greeted Honor’s statement. But these infuriated her even more than the first boisterous outburst had done.
    She jumped up. “I’d rather slit my own throat than lie with Hugh Tyrell.”
    Her shout echoed through the great hall.
    Lady Philippa’s face turned scarlet. She slammed her fist on the table. “We’ve fed and clothed you for five years, hussy. Now, by God, you’ll do your part.”
    “Never!”
    The company’s silence gave way to a low rumble of delight at the anticipated battle. But Lady Philippa only stood rigid in anger, as if unable to speak or move.
    Bastwick took control. Honor watched him stand and