The Queen's Exiles (10 page)

“We need a name for you,” he said gently. He had a leather satchel with him, its strap slung over his shoulder. “Saint Brendan was the patron saint of sailors. Shall you be Sister Brenda?”

She could only blink at him. His white-blond hair lifting in the dank river draft. Unease spreading through her like icy water.

“Brother Domenic,” a man called from the tunnel entrance, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve loaded all the shot. Which boat for the saker?”

“Number three,” Claes told him. “Don’t use clean tarpaulins as cover. Dirty them with fish guts.”

The man nodded, and the gun and its crew rolled past him and he fell in behind them. Johan came hustling in, coming the other way. “Sun’ll soon burn off the fog,” he declared to the room at large, catching his breath. “Time to get moving.” Three men were hefting boxes past him toward the tunnel and one grunted, “When Brother Domenic gives the word.”

“Provisions almost ready,” Sister Martha reported over the packed boxes of food.

Johan beamed when he saw Fenella and Claes standing together. He joined them. “All set, my boy.” He winked at Fenella. “I’m pilot of boat four.” He chuckled, stifling a cough. “Haven’t been told yet where we’re going, but once I know I’ll get us there. These blacksmiths and farmers and brewers are good men, to be sure, but me, I know these waters’ spidery ways.”

Fenella smiled in spite of her anxious state. She had never seen Johan so happy.

“Father, here are sealed charts,” Claes told him, pulling folded papers from his satchel. “Give them to the other pilots, would you?”

Johan nodded as he took them, his eyes sparkling. “I will, I will.” He gave Fenella a long, contented look. “Sun’ll soon burn off the fog. Time to go.”

She reached for Johan’s hand. Her own was unsteady. “Take care.”

“Aye, we’ll take care of the dagos.” Chuckling at his jest, he hustled back down the tunnel.

Fenella felt Claes’s eyes on her. “You’ll be safe here,” he said. “Sister Agatha will be staying with you. There’s plenty of food up in the house. We won’t be more than a few days.”

“Claes, you said we’d talk this morning. What’s happening? Where are you going?”

His thumb twitched at the satchel strap on his shoulder. He seemed in a struggle over how to answer. “I wish we had more time.” He looked away.

She followed his gaze to Sister Martha, who was watching her, distrust in her eyes. Or was it jealousy? Despite the monkish names that Claes and his people had adopted, Fenella didn’t expect he’d lived like a monk for the last five years. She turned away from the woman. “I think I have a right to know. Especially if they do kill you this time.”

A faint smile tugged his mouth. “You always did speak your mind.” He shot a commanding look at Sister Martha, who stiffly turned, picked up a box in her sturdy arms, and carried it toward the tunnel. They were alone.

“Bergen op Zoom,” Claes told Fenella. “We’re going to ambush a troop coming to reinforce the garrison.”

Her breath caught. “The fortress.”

He nodded. “One of their main armories.”

She knew the city. The old town was surrounded by marshes and diked fields that could easily be flooded, a distinctly Dutch defense action. “They’ll be fearsome,” she said. The famous Spanish
tercios
had been masters of European battlefields for generations. Claes’s little band could not possibly hope to beat such hardened professionals. But he had mentioned there were other rebel groups, too. Maybe they were not going alone? “Do you have the strength in men to win?”

He shrugged. “Not yet. This time we’ll do some damage, then vanish. It’s our way. One day, though, we’ll take that city. With it we’ll be able to get reinforcements and supplies by sea. Use it as a base to take back our country.”

He took a step closer to her with a yearning look. She knew he was going to embrace her. Kiss her. She stiffened. “Claes, I . . . I think it’s good, what you’re doing. Brave. I wish you Godspeed. But I—”

“Fenella, I’d love to have you with me in this fight.”

She looked into his shining eyes. She was his wife. Her duty was to be with him. A pain squeezed her heart at the thought of Adam Thornleigh sailing away, sailing out of her life forever. She forced herself to take a deep breath to stifle the pain. Her heart thrummed in her ears. She made her decision. “If that’s what you want, Claes, I’ll stay.”

He took her by the shoulders. “No, you don’t understand. I told you, God has sent you as a sign that victory is near.
Near
—but not yet. There’s still hard work to be done. Much fighting. Some dying. I’d love to have you with me in this fight, but more than that I want you with me when it’s safe. When we’ve won.” He touched her scarred cheek. “You’ve suffered enough. I don’t want this danger for you. Go. Get your money in Antwerp and go to England. Be safe there. Be happy.”

She felt frozen. Humbled. Grateful. England . . . exactly what she wanted to hear! But his words, so unexpected, so generous, brought no joy.
Some dying,
he’d said. She had lost him once to death. She could not bear to have him die again. Impulsively, she grabbed his hand. “Come with me. You’ve fought for five years. Let others carry on. Come with me to England.”

His smile was rueful. “There are no Spaniards to vanquish in England. No, dear wife, my work is here. A Dutchman I was born, and a Dutchman I shall die.”

She saw that there was no way to persuade him. Nothing more to say. A guilty thrill of relief coursed through her. She could leave! It made her feel ashamed.

“Money,” she blurted. “Let me send you money from Antwerp. I have plenty. Let me give you that, at least. For your cause.”

He shook his head. “We are provided for. Brother Sebastian’s family is wealthy and supports us amply with—” He stopped, a thought cutting off his words. “Do you really have enough to give some away?”

“Yes. Truly. More than enough. And will gladly give you what you need.”

“You must keep enough, though, to live in England. Live well.”

How kind he was. “Don’t worry, Claes, I’ll be fine. Now, how much do you need?”

“Not me. There is a branch of the Brethren that desperately needs help. Could you take them some of your gold before you leave?”

She quickly calculated. Could she get to Antwerp for her money, make this delivery to the Brethren, then get back to the boat in time to meet Thornleigh? Yes, if she set out this very moment she could make it. “I’ll do it. Where is this branch of your people?”

“Brussels.”

N
ever underestimate the enemy. Adam Thornleigh had learned that lesson in fighting Spaniards, but now he realized he had failed to follow it. The enemy here in Brussels was his wife.

He stood in Balienplein Place, a busy square lined with the stone mansions of the wealthy, and studied the one with four gray granite columns. More like a palace. According to Tyrone’s last report, this was where Frances was living. It unnerved Adam. For three years he had held a mental picture of his wife on the run, scuttling from one bleak hiding hole to the next with their two children in tow, her money dwindling, no social connections to turn to, barely getting by. He had cursed her for dragging Kate and Robert into such a desolate life, and his fears for them had stoked his resolve to track her down and rescue the children. He’d imagined it as a simple thing once he found her, Frances weeping and wailing, no doubt, but powerless to stop him.

Now, he saw that he’d made a serious miscalculation. His wife had at least one powerful friend in a very high place: This mansion belonged to the Duchess of Feria. He could not just march in, take Robert and Kate, and march out. The duchess would have dozens of servants and armed retainers, and if Frances screamed for help he would be in a very dangerous position. He was a wanted man, and soldiers were everywhere. Across the city, at the Grote Markt, he had passed harquebusiers standing in formation with their long guns guarding City Hall and the King’s House. Cavalrymen patrolled the streets on horseback. Off-duty infantrymen lounged in groups outside taverns. Adam had left his sword behind so as to pass as a menial commoner, and now he was keenly aware of how ill-armed he was with only a dagger.

He looked around the Balienplein Place square. Executions took place regularly here. So did festivities.
Swords and sausages,
he thought wryly,
the twin sides of the governance coin.
Today there was a market, drawing scores of people. Farmers were selling cabbages and strawberries; bakers were hawking rye seed loaves. Ribbon sellers and knife sharpeners bawled inducements to passing customers. A knot of gentlemen stood talking under a chestnut tree. There was a smell of burning charcoal in the air. Scanning the rooftops of the duchess’s mansion, Adam read the sky, a seaman’s habit. Wispy white clouds—mares’ tails, sailors called them—led to a sea of rippled clouds that sailors nicknamed mackerel scales. Clear signs that rain was coming within twenty-four hours. Likely a storm. A vivid memory tugged at his heart of Kate, age four, sitting on his shoulders as he strolled through the orchard one autumn day in Chelsea, the two of them looking at clouds. He’d taught her the old proverb and she’d repeated it over and over in her child’s singsong voice:
Mares’ tails and mackerel scales tell tall ships to lower sails.

He heard children’s laughter and looked to a fountain in the city conduit where two boys and a little girl were floating toy boats. Their excited chatter sounded so like Robert and Kate. It gave him a pang. What if he could not reach them? What if they were lost to him?

No, he would not let his thoughts run in that hopeless direction. A plan was what he needed. And first, facts. After all, Tyrone’s last report was old. For four months Adam had been away, working alongside the Sea Beggars harassing Spanish shipping, then in the German lands on his mission for Elizabeth to the prince of Orange. In that time Frances and the children might have moved on. That was the first thing he had to find out.

He didn’t have much time. In four days he had to meet Fenella at the cove outside Antwerp and sail to Sark to get his refitted ship. They needed to leave Sark before the Spaniards came looking for them both. Head home to England. Elizabeth was waiting for his report about the prince. But right now home seemed a long way away. He would not leave Brussels without his children.

“Pig’s foot,
meinheer?
”

Adam turned to see a scruffy boy of seven or eight offering him a stick stuck with morsels of charred pork. He realized he was hungry. He paid the boy and munched the gristly meat as he made his way through the crowd toward the duchess’s house, thinking: Could he get inside by posing as a servant? He looked convincing enough in this garb: homespun shirt, scuffed leather jerkin, coarse breeches the color of burrs. He’d stabled his horse, a telltale sign of affluence, back at the inn. He recalled what Fenella had said as they’d parted, that he would also have to hide
the air of the lord about you,
as she’d put it.

“Air?” he’d said, doubtful. His lofty rank was a recent thing. He’d spent much of his life at sea.

“Because you know the world is yours.”

She was clever, Fenella. Warmhearted, too, for all her independence. He had taken an intense pleasure in the days they’d spent coming from Sark—the peace, the fine sailing, the easy camaraderie with her. Thinking of her brought a rush of feeling that surprised him. He remembered a moment one night, a sultry night under a star-spangled sky when she had sat beside him at the helm and he’d told her about his children. She’d listened with a sympathy that had moved him.

Be honest,
he told himself.
You want her
. Everything about her tempted him. Her lush body, close enough to him that night that he’d felt her warmth. The scent of her skin, like rose water tanged with sea salt. Her loose sunset-colored hair fingered by the breeze like a lover. Her smooth forearm, the sleeve pushed back, brushing his hand as she took over the helm. He’d had to force his eyes off her and up at the sails, unnerved by the jolt of desire. It had felt like a betrayal of Elizabeth.

Was it? That bond had been forged so many years ago. Elizabeth had been a frightened princess of twenty and had needed him, but he knew now, in a way that saddened him, that the passing years had slackened the bond. Over a decade ago she had taken possession of the kingdom and had become a skillful monarch, and he had long known that his place could never be by her side. He would always defend her as his queen in any way that she still needed him; it was why he was helping the Sea Beggars, to check Spain’s power, a threat to Elizabeth and to England. She had told him she would not openly endorse his actions because she feared Spain raging against her, so he had taken the role of pirate. That was the stark fact: They both had roles to play. They were monarch and subject, moving in separate spheres. Their brief time together as mere man and woman was long past.

Fenella was different. As they sailed together, he had sometimes felt her watching him and would turn to find her sea-green eyes on him as warm as summer pools. She was beautiful and warmhearted and thrillingly near, and on the day they anchored in that quiet cove and worked together to secure the sail their hands had touched, fingers lingering, and she had not moved away. In that moment he’d imagined what it would be like to have her in his arms and make love to her.

Fool,
he told himself. With a marriage as fouled as his, naturally he hungered for Fenella. The lust of a dissatisfied man. It was pathetic, really, the stuff of gross comedy in a play. She was a brave and spirited soul. She deserved better.

He swallowed the last of the pork and tossed the stick, his eyes on the mansion’s grounds. The property was walled, but the massed treetops told him the grounds extended far back from the square, some of the trees frothed with white cherry blossoms. He turned into a lane that led between the houses, narrow and muddy. A dirty lad was tugging a stubborn pig by a rope. The cart of a rag-and-bone man rattled past. A couple of workmen were pushing barrows through the open wooden gate that led into the duchess’s property. Gardeners? Their barrows were piled with pungent-smelling dung. Manure for the flower beds and fruit trees, no doubt.

The gate was closing behind the gardeners. Adam ran for it and caught it with his boot. “The Duchess of Feria lives here?” he asked. They looked him up and down skeptically. One said, “What’s your business with Her Ladyship?”

No business of yours,
he almost said, but remembered Fenella’s advice.
Act subservient
. “My master has sent a message for her steward,” he said.
Would a magistrate’s name sound convincing?
“From Meinheer Dekker.”

The man grunted, flies buzzing around his cartload of dung. “That way.” He pointed through the trees toward the house. “Round to the west. Steward’s rooms are over the main gatehouse.” The other man closed the garden gate.

Adam walked briskly down the path through the orchard. He passed gardeners at work on their knees, housemaids carrying baskets of laundry out of the rear of the house, a footman lugging in a load of firewood. No one stopped him. No one spoke to him. He walked straight through the bustling kitchen, humid with steam and smelling of onions, then along a flagstone passage. A few of the servants he passed glanced at him, but he marched on as if he knew where he was going, then up a dim, narrow flight of stairs where, blessedly, he seemed to be alone. He passed through a heavy door and knew he’d reached the family’s quarters: The marble corridor was broad and airy, its walls hung with tapestries. He saw a housemaid with an armload of linens coming toward him, a puzzled look on her face as though she wondered who he was. He ducked into a side corridor and kept walking, looking over his shoulder, thinking he was a fool to have come inside this place. What was he going to do, ask a maid where to find his wife? Insane.

Then he saw her. At the far end of the corridor, coming out of a room. Frances. Her back was to him, but he instantly recognized that ramrod posture. She wore a gown of rich black taffeta, Spanish-style, with a stiff white ruff. She patted the lace coif over her hair as she walked away, and he saw that her hand was heavily jeweled with rings. She reached another door and opened it and disappeared inside.

He felt a lash of fury. The plot she had abetted to assassinate Elizabeth had almost succeeded, yet Frances had not only escaped, she’d also found this luxurious haven. If she had fled alone he might merely have cursed her and considered her dead to him, glad to be rid of her. But she had stolen his children, and for three years he’d lived in an agony of worry, wondering if they were even alive. He reached the door and gripped the handle, burning to march in and shake Frances until her teeth chattered.

He quickly came to his senses. A half-dozen people might be in that room with her, ladies come to play cards, or the duchess herself entertaining visitors. Or might Kate and Robert themselves be in there? It was torture to think that only an inch of wooden door might separate him from them. But if Frances saw him she could raise an alarm, and then armed retainers would come pounding in. His powerless state was a bitter thing, hard to stomach. Frances had everything on her side. Control of the children. Protection. Influence. He dare not confront her. Could not let her see him, or even know that he was in the city. If she did, she might hustle the children into a coach and bolt with them. Then he might never find them.

He let go of the door handle, tense with frustration. He told himself that at least he’d confirmed she was staying in this house. That meant Kate and Robert were, too.

Voices. Adam saw a stairway at the end of the corridor. People were coming down it from the floor above. He turned and quickly went back the way he’d come. Servants eyed him as he went through the kitchen, but he made it outside without being questioned, then back out through the garden gate.

At the Balienplein Place market he slipped into the crowd with the galling sense of being beaten in a skirmish, forced to retreat before he’d even seen his enemy face-to-face.

The Black Boar Tavern lay just inside the Anderlecht Gate in the city wall, set in a row of shops and alehouses crammed together like crooked teeth. The tavern was the address Adam had used to correspond with his agent, Leonard Tyrone.

“The Irishman?” the barkeep said in answer to Adam’s question. Stained wooden cups lay in a tub of scummy water behind the bar, dousing any thirst Adam might have had. “He moved out.”

“When?”

“Two days ago. Had his bags sent. You want his room?”

No, nor the lice that came with it. “Where did you send his bags?”

It was a short walk to the new address, a leafy cul-de-sac where four houses nestled in the lee of a quaint old church. The house was a fine stone structure with red gables, making Adam wonder if the barkeep had made a mistake. Three years ago when he’d hired Tyrone to search for Frances around Dublin, the Irishman had been scrounging for work. If he did live here he’d certainly moved up in the world.

Adam knocked. A thickset maidservant with a hooked nose frowned at him as though doubting such a common fellow could have business with her master and grudgingly led him through to a parlor. A trunk and boxes lay open, half their contents unpacked. Tyrone was lounging at a small table, eating alone, a half-consumed leg of capon before him and a flagon of wine. His goblet was halfway to his lips when he saw Adam. Startled, he jumped up.

“Your Lordship . . .” he stammered.

Adam caught the maid’s wide-eyed look before she curtsied and left, closing the door. “Sorry to barge in on you, Tyrone.” They eyed each other. It had been a long time since they’d been face-to-face. “Your last report. About my wife. That’s why I’m here.”

Tyrone blinked at him. Swallowed hard. He looked rattled, almost panicky. “My lord, please let me explain—”

“No need. You did good work, tracking her. I was just there, at the duchess’s house, and I caught a glimpse of my wife. Now I need your help.” He nodded to the wine. “Can you spare a glass? I’m parched.”

Tyrone relaxed a little, though Adam thought he still looked uneasy. “Of course, your lordship . . . of course.” He moved quickly to fetch a goblet from a sideboard. He poured the wine so fast it splashed over the rim.

Adam took a large swallow. An excellent Burgundy. He set down the goblet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing around at the gold brocade curtains, the ornately carved bench by the oriel window. The place must have come furnished if Tyrone had just moved in. “You’re doing well,” he said. “Other enterprises on the go?”