“Surely you can tell me those things which are a matter of public record. If the poor cove’s to burn at Smithfield, then he’s gained some fame.”
“He preaches the Reformed faith,” Lark said. “He’s a young man, but very learned, a powerful orator. He has been known to persuade whole towns to renounce the pernicious evils of the Church of Rome.”
Never breaking the rhythm of his oar strokes, Oliver fixed her with a probing stare. She wondered if he could see her in the moonlight, or if her hooded cloak kept her in shadow.
“Are the pernicious evils of the Catholic Church anymore odious than those of Reformed nobles who stole church treasures during the Dissolution?”
She clutched the sides of the wherry as it whispered through a burble of rapids. “Richard Speed gained no personal wealth by espousing his beliefs. He preaches that faith—and faith alone—saves. Not paying church indulgences. Not chanting spells or counting beads. Faith. A simple enough concept, don’t you think, my lord?”
“So if I believe in God, I go to heaven? Even a sinner like me?” he asked, reaching forward, drawing back, somehow teasing her with the motion.
“I find it beautifully complex,” Lark aid. “Mysterious. To the queen’s advisers, it must be horrifying.”
His grin flashed like quicksilver. “True. The idea that a soul can be saved without paying the church for the privilege must be unthinkable to Bishop Bonner.”
She was pleased and surprised by his insights. “Precisely.”
“Why did you wait until now to rescue this paragon?”
“We didn’t know he’d been taken. When we discovered he had, we could not determine where he was being held. That’s usual, you know. The most dangerous prisoners are held in secret places so the populace won’t rise to free them.”
He continued to question her about Speed. Long after ordinary oarsmen would complain of burning shoulders and blistered hands, Oliver continued to row, covering the distance with a velocity even Piers could not have matched.
The slightest hint of the new day tinged the horizon. The creak of fishing gear joined the sound of lapping oars, and the watery smells of the river grew dank with the hint of sewage, for they were nearing the City. The spires of London rose, ghostly shadows in the distance: St. Paul’slike a hatless gent, its dome destroyed by lightning two years before. The rambling turrets and lance-sharp weather vanes of the famous Strand residences, including St. James’s Palace, the queen’s favorite London lodging.
From deep within a pink fog of smoke and morning mist thrust the four turrets of the White Tower in the middle of the Tower of London.
“I had a brother named Richard,” Oliver said abruptly.
Lark felt a pang of curiosity. In truth she knew little of his background save that Spencer admired and trusted the de Lacey family.
“He was called Dickon,” Oliver went on.
There it was again, Lark realized. That low, vibrant quality of his voice. The tone that made her want to sit forward, enraptured, and listen to him for hours.
“Dickon,” Oliver repeated. His voice grew soft and heartbreakingly wistful. “I never knew him. He died before I was born.”
“My lord, I am so sorry,” Lark whispered, and without planning to, she reached out and touched his knee. She wondered what it was like to have brothers and sisters—a true family, for that matter. She would never know, for she had grown up isolated and shut away from other children. “I’m certain the two of you would have been very close.”
“Aye.” A mysterious, pained expression crossed his face. “I wish to God I had known him.”
For a moment his sorrow was so devastating and real that she yearned to take him in her arms, to press his head against her breast and weep for him.
Then, on a sudden, the sun broke through the clouds behind him. It had an almost eerily propitious timing, like the midsummer sunrise over the giant stones of
“He preaches the Reformed faith,” Lark said. “He’s a young man, but very learned, a powerful orator. He has been known to persuade whole towns to renounce the pernicious evils of the Church of Rome.”
Never breaking the rhythm of his oar strokes, Oliver fixed her with a probing stare. She wondered if he could see her in the moonlight, or if her hooded cloak kept her in shadow.
“Are the pernicious evils of the Catholic Church anymore odious than those of Reformed nobles who stole church treasures during the Dissolution?”
She clutched the sides of the wherry as it whispered through a burble of rapids. “Richard Speed gained no personal wealth by espousing his beliefs. He preaches that faith—and faith alone—saves. Not paying church indulgences. Not chanting spells or counting beads. Faith. A simple enough concept, don’t you think, my lord?”
“So if I believe in God, I go to heaven? Even a sinner like me?” he asked, reaching forward, drawing back, somehow teasing her with the motion.
“I find it beautifully complex,” Lark aid. “Mysterious. To the queen’s advisers, it must be horrifying.”
His grin flashed like quicksilver. “True. The idea that a soul can be saved without paying the church for the privilege must be unthinkable to Bishop Bonner.”
She was pleased and surprised by his insights. “Precisely.”
“Why did you wait until now to rescue this paragon?”
“We didn’t know he’d been taken. When we discovered he had, we could not determine where he was being held. That’s usual, you know. The most dangerous prisoners are held in secret places so the populace won’t rise to free them.”
He continued to question her about Speed. Long after ordinary oarsmen would complain of burning shoulders and blistered hands, Oliver continued to row, covering the distance with a velocity even Piers could not have matched.
The slightest hint of the new day tinged the horizon. The creak of fishing gear joined the sound of lapping oars, and the watery smells of the river grew dank with the hint of sewage, for they were nearing the City. The spires of London rose, ghostly shadows in the distance: St. Paul’slike a hatless gent, its dome destroyed by lightning two years before. The rambling turrets and lance-sharp weather vanes of the famous Strand residences, including St. James’s Palace, the queen’s favorite London lodging.
From deep within a pink fog of smoke and morning mist thrust the four turrets of the White Tower in the middle of the Tower of London.
“I had a brother named Richard,” Oliver said abruptly.
Lark felt a pang of curiosity. In truth she knew little of his background save that Spencer admired and trusted the de Lacey family.
“He was called Dickon,” Oliver went on.
There it was again, Lark realized. That low, vibrant quality of his voice. The tone that made her want to sit forward, enraptured, and listen to him for hours.
“Dickon,” Oliver repeated. His voice grew soft and heartbreakingly wistful. “I never knew him. He died before I was born.”
“My lord, I am so sorry,” Lark whispered, and without planning to, she reached out and touched his knee. She wondered what it was like to have brothers and sisters—a true family, for that matter. She would never know, for she had grown up isolated and shut away from other children. “I’m certain the two of you would have been very close.”
“Aye.” A mysterious, pained expression crossed his face. “I wish to God I had known him.”
For a moment his sorrow was so devastating and real that she yearned to take him in her arms, to press his head against her breast and weep for him.
Then, on a sudden, the sun broke through the clouds behind him. It had an almost eerily propitious timing, like the midsummer sunrise over the giant stones of
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