The Queen's Exiles (21 page)

“He can’t hear you, my sweet,” Isabel said. “His ear canals aren’t open yet.”

“When will they open?”

Carlos said, “Another week.”

“Oh, before I forget,” Isabel said, “Piers asked to speak to you about Fausto’s leg.”

“I just saw Piers. He showed me.”

“And? I know how much that stallion means to you.”

“The wound’s not healing as fast as I’d like. We’re trying a different poultice.” It wasn’t horses he wanted to speak about. “Isabel, there’s news.”

“From Adam?” she asked eagerly. She threw a glance at Nell to ensure that the child could not hear. “Did he get away safely with Katherine and Robert?”

“No, it’s not about him. I haven’t heard from him.” He saw her disappointment. “But that doesn’t mean anything; he’s not likely to contact me.” Because of Alba. “You, maybe.”

“Either way, I thought he’d let us know.”

“Be patient. He’s traveling with two children. He hasn’t had time.”

She nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. He’ll send word once they’re home.” She kissed him. Love shone in her eyes. “Thank you for helping him. I know what a risk it was for you.”

The risk had been worth it, just to see that look in her eyes. They hadn’t quarreled about Alba since the night Carlos had ridden into the convent with her brother. He kissed her. Now, his news. “Isabel, I’m getting the pension.”

Her eyes went wide. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Questions poured out of her. How had he heard? When would the pension start? How had it all come about? When could they go home?

He laughed, holding up his hands to forestall her. “It’s not definite yet. But Alba was very pleased about the recent pack of rebels I brought in. He’s sent a special commendation about me to the King. His secretary just brought me a copy. So it’s just a matter of time until the pension comes through.”

The smile faded from her eyes. “Rebels? The ones who call themselves the Brethren?”

He nodded. “They’ve been a big problem. This will slow them down.”

“You mean, that mass hanging in the market square? Lady Quintanilla spoke of it yesterday. Fourteen men hanged. She said the crowd was the biggest ever. And the Brethren’s leader will be next, she said. A show execution.” She shuddered. “And
you
captured them?”

He suddenly wished he hadn’t told her.

A knock on the door. “Come in,” Carlos called, glad of the interruption.

It was Piers, the groom. “Sir, could you please come to the stable?”

Fenella watched him come into the stable with the groom, Valverde asking, “She didn’t give her name?” In her nervousness she hugged herself, pulling her shabby yellow taffeta shawl tighter over her chest.

The groom pointed her out to Valverde.

“Sir,” she said, “I just want a word with you.”

He looked at her intensely, then said, still in obvious puzzlement, “I know you, don’t I?”

He recognizes me. Good
. She was about to speak when he said abruptly to the groom, “That’s all. Leave us.” The man nodded, a rudimentary bow, threw a last intrigued glance at Fenella, and walked out.

Valverde came to her, his rough face alive with curiosity. “Edinburgh,” he said. “The garrison at Leith. Right?”

“So you remember.”

He said with some warmth, “Hard to forget.” A frown tugged his brow. “What the devil are you doing in Brussels?”

Her nerve plunged. Was she brainsick to think he would help her? It had been eleven years. And their brief coupling had meant little enough to both of them. He’d been married and resisted her advances, but Fenella had been desperate for his help to escape, so she’d practically thrown herself at him. Now, his wife was likely in the house just a shout away and his quick pace to get home spoke of a happy marriage.

But she had come this far. Claes’s life was at stake. She looked Valverde in the eye and forced a cheeky smile. “You don’t remember my name, do you.” She scoffed, “How like a man.”

He looked flustered. She was right. He didn’t remember.

“It’s Fenella,” she said.

He nodded. “Right.” His discomfort almost made her smile in earnest.

“Fenella Craig, when you met me. I got married later.”

“Ah, good. I wondered how you’d made out. I’m glad to see you’re all right.” He indicated the scar on her cheek. “That healed well.”

She flinched at the reminder. “Plenty of men have thought otherwise.”

“Then they’re fools.”

The way he looked at her with open admiration sent her emotions into a bewildering tumble. She wanted this man’s goodwill,
needed
it, but she reminded herself that days ago he had chased down Claes and taken him captive. Steeling herself, she focused on that.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” she said, making her tone friendly. “A commander of the Duke of Alba. Quite high-and-mighty now, aren’t you?”

He gave a terse nod as though it was the last thing he wanted to talk about, then asked again, “But what the devil brings
you
here?”

She took a deep breath. The Brethren could not rescue Claes, so it was up to her. The words of one of the Brethren still echoed:
To destroy a monster . . . cut off its head . . . rouse the people to action.
Her plan for saving her husband was to create chaos. By killing Alba.

“I need a favor,” she said.

Valverde looked startled but answered forthrightly, “All right. If I can.”

“Like I said, I got married. To a Dutchman, a shipwright. He died. He left debts. It’s put me in a bad way. I’m alone, no family, no money. It’s hard to make ends meet. There’s nights I go to bed hungry. So I’ve decided to . . . do what I must.” She added wryly, “I’ve found that men soon get over this scar when there’s something else they want.”

She unwrapped the coarse shawl to uncover her bosom, showing him the bodice cut just below her nipples, with only see-through gauze covering her breasts. She had rouged her nipples the way French courtesans did, a visible red lure beneath the gauze. Valverde’s eyes dipped to take it in. Everything she had told him was a lie, but she saw that he believed the tale. Why wouldn’t he? When he’d met her she’d been a kept woman. And his for the taking.

He raised his eyes to hers. “I can help you with a little money.”

Was this a proposition? She quickly rewrapped the shawl, covering herself again. “In exchange for what?”

He shook his head and said gently, “You misunderstand. Just to help. I’m not rich, but I can give you something.”

She was moved despite herself. She hadn’t expected kindness.

A door slammed inside the house. He looked sharply in that direction. It snapped the tender moment and cleared Fenella’s mind. She thought again of him galloping after Claes. She lifted her head with a show of pride. “Keep your charity,” she said. “I mean to make my own way. I have a plan. Do you know the house on the canal under the sign of the Golden Angel?”

She saw his surprise. He knew it, of course, the elegant underground brothel frequented by the city’s rich men. Its courtesans were especially popular with Spanish dons. Including, so Fenella had learned, the Duke of Alba. The Brethren knew a great deal about their adversary, and when Jacques had told her that Alba often visited the Golden Angel she knew that’s where she could see him face-to-face. Close enough to shoot him.

“I want to work there,” she said. “But it’s so exclusive, they only take women who’ve been recommended. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

He held up his hands, a clear refusal. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

His curtness unnerved her. “Maybe you don’t understand. All I want is an introduction. Nothing more.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Anger flared in her. She had debased herself to convince him, and this flat
No
was all her answer? She was asking so little!
Well,
she thought,
I can
make
you
. “I don’t suppose you ever told your wife about us.”

Their eyes locked. The steeliness in his made her shiver. This was a man who had hacked off enemies’ heads with his sword. “You’d be wise to take what I’m offering,” he said steadily. “I’ve told you, I’ll help you with some money. That’s all.”

“Just an introduction! It’s so little to you, and so much to me!”

“I have a position. It’s not whoremaster.”

Position?
It was all she could do to hold her tongue.
I owned a business, damn you! Employed twenty-two men! I made enough gold to keep me in comfort as long as I live.
But she could not bewail the life she had lost. She had to think of Claes. He would be dragged to the market square bound to a hurdle, a steel pin shot through his mouth to silence him. They would haul him up to the scaffold before the crowd. Hang him, cut him down still breathing, castrate him, slice his abdomen and draw out his entrails in his dying agony, cut out his heart. The thought rocked her so horribly she reached out for Valverde’s arm. “Please—”

“Carlos?” a voice called from the door. “Is Fausto all right?”

They both turned. A woman walked in. Fenella drew back her hand from Valverde’s arm. The woman, though heavily pregnant, moved with grace and purpose. Shaken, Fenella thought,
Is this his wife?

“Oh,” she said in surprise, seeing Fenella. She reached them and looked at her husband. “I thought it was about the horse.”

Fenella saw that Valverde was rattled, but he quickly recovered. He turned to Fenella, the look in his eyes a warning to her as he indicated the lady. “My wife.” Then to his wife, “Isabel, this is Mistress Craig. From Edinburgh.”

Fenella was unnerved as she looked into a face that felt startlingly familiar. This was Adam’s sister. The same lively, curious eyes. Fenella gathered her wits and bobbed a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

“Edinburgh?” the lady asked, intrigued.

“Long ago,” Valverde said.

“Oh, not so very long,” Fenella said smoothly, surprising even herself. The thought had sprung itself on her that there might be a way to turn Valverde’s tension to her advantage. “It was in the garrison at Leith.”

“Leith?” The lady looked at her husband. “When you went to advise the Queen Regent?”

He gave a stiff nod.

Fenella went on boldly, “Your husband did me a great service, madam.”

Valverde’s eyes flicked to her, anxious.

“Oh?” his wife asked.

“I was living with the garrison commander. His doxy. I hope that doesn’t shock you, madam.” It did not, she saw from the lady’s obvious, earnest interest.
Good,
she thought. “He was a brutal bastard, pardon my language. I wanted out, but I was young and poor. You see this scar?” she said, touching her cheek. “He cut me with a bottle. Your husband came to my defense. Beat the bastard senseless.”

His wife blinked at him. “Goodness.”

“It was the night we got Adam free,” he said quickly, clearly wanting to move on. “Mistress Craig’s help was crucial.”

The lady’s eyes went wide as she looked back at Fenella. “Really? What did you do? My brother told me little about his escape from the garrison jail, and my husband even less. I suppose to them it was all part of soldiering, but I’ve always wanted to know more. What happened?”

Valverde said, looking Fenella in the eye, “She got hold of the commander’s jail keys.”

“That I did,” she agreed, “and your husband set fire to a storeroom to distract the guards, and together, madam, your brother and I scrambled down to the beach and jumped on the boat your husband had wangled for us and the two of us sailed here to the Low Countries.” Emotion welled up in her, remembering their harrowing escape, Adam so weak from his captivity yet so kind to her. She had fallen in love with him then and there. She swallowed hard. This was not about Adam. It was about Claes. She added pointedly, “I’ve been here ever since. Married a Dutchman.”

The lady seemed moved. “I see that my brother owes you his life.” She reached out and squeezed Fenella’s hand. “We
all
owe you.”

“Thank you, madam.” The bond was real. Fenella felt it, too. It gave her courage to forge on. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your evening, but the truth is I’m in need of a favor from your husband.”

“Yes, of course. How can we help you?”

“I was just telling him my husband died and left no money, only debts. So I’m in difficulty. But that’s not the whole story. He got mixed up with the rebels. Brainless of him—the Spaniards own the world, don’t they?—but there it is. He was caught in a raid.” She looked at Valverde. “A raid that you led, sir. He was hanged.”

Valverde stared at her. “What was his name?”

“I’d rather not say, sir. You might feel it’s your duty to investigate further and that could get some folks into trouble whose only crime is stupidity, like my husband. He paid for his folly with his life. Let that be an end of it.” She turned to Valverde’s wife. “Trouble is, his passing is just the start of
my
difficulty. I need money, that’s the hard truth. Your husband has kindly offered me some, but I don’t want that. I’m ready to do what I must to support myself in the age-old way. I can see you’re a wise woman, madam, so you know my meaning. I’ve supported myself in the past, and I’m ready to do it again. But, like I said, I need one small favor.”

“Carlos, you
must
help,” the lady said. “Won’t you?”

He looked caught, lost for words.

“Of course he will. Depend on it, Mistress Craig. Now, tell us, what do you need?”

“An introduction.” Fenella looked Valverde in the eye, triumphant. “That’s all.”

T
he moon was full but the night fog so thick Adam could scarcely see the men ahead running with him for the beach. He could make out seven. The others were hurrying to catch up. He’d led the landing party of twelve into the coastal village of Koksijde, the raid had been swift, and now they were making their escape. But a church bell pealed the alarm, and Adam knew the townsmen coming for them could not be far behind. A huge sand dune loomed out of the fog. He was glad to see it. It meant they were almost at the boat.

They scrambled around the dune, the sand slowing them, sucking at their boots. Adam heard his men grunting from the weight of the sacks of plunder they carried. He carried only his sword. Had he got everyone out? So hard to see. The last he’d seen of Morrison, the skinny boatswain had been dragging a strongbox past a draper’s smashed door. Then the church bell had begun to clang and Adam had rounded up the others, calling out names in the fog and cursing La Marck for insisting on making the strike in such conditions.

“Fog worked for us when we raided Lauwersmeer,” the Dutchman had said, handing out axes from the
Eenhoorn
’s arms chest to his men. “It’ll work again tonight.”

It’ll have us running around like blind mice,
Adam had thought. The business disgusted him. He wanted to be attacking Spanish troopships and pay ships, not plundering Dutchmen’s shops. And churches—La Marck never passed up a chance to lighten a church of its Catholic treasures. Adam swore that he’d hold him to his bargain, that after this raid La Marck would give him cannon to arm the
Gotland
.

Dogs barked. Townsmen shouted, their voices muffled by the dune. Adam and his men splashed into the shallows, hurrying for their boat that bobbed in the surf, tugging at its anchor like a nervous colt. Out in deep water stood the
Gotland,
the faintest shape in the fog, a specter alone on the sea. La Marck on the
Eenhoorn
was raiding a town a few miles south.

Adam counted five men climbing into the boat, each one heaving his sack in first, and five more coming fast. Heywood’s nose looked broken, dripping blood from a skirmish with a watchman. Adam had forbidden the use of arms on the townsmen except in defense and was relieved there were no casualties. Curry stood in the bow, preparing to haul up the anchor. Adam, in the knee-high water, sheathed his sword and gripped the gunwale, about to hop aboard. “Where’s Morrison?” he called above the noise of the surf and clatter of the men.

“Right behind us!” Toth called back, scrambling into the stern.

Adam saw no one coming. Was Morrison on his way, out there in the fog? Or had he collapsed on the beach, wounded? Or been captured?

A townsman’s shout crested the dune.

“They’re coming!” Toth said, flopping aboard.

“Get in, my lord,” Curry told Adam. “I’ll weigh anchor.”

“No. Hold on. I’m going for Morrison.”

He splashed back through the shallows and loped along the beach, peering into the misty gloom, half-expecting to trip over the wounded man. “Morrison!” he called. Every step took him closer to the strident jabber of the townsmen surging this way and the barking of their dogs. The sand dune loomed out of the fog. At the top of it, a man’s shape, looking huge, his arms thrown wide. A weapon in his hand? “Stop!” he shouted to Adam, and came barreling down the dune.

Adam drew his sword, but the assailant came at him so fast Adam stumbled backward, almost losing his balance in the sand. The huge man lunged and Adam felt the impact on his chest like a tree trunk hurled by a hurricane. He hit the ground on his back, the breath knocked out of him, the man sprawling on top of him. The man staggered to get up, grunting, clumsy with his bulk. Adam got to his feet, struggling to catch his breath. He had not let go of his sword, and though still half-stunned he raised it.

“Adams, no!” the man cried. “It’s me!”

He halted.
Adams?
“Who are you?”

“Verhulst! I’m Berck Verhulst. Brussels, remember? My barge!”

Adam blinked at the black-bearded face in the gloom.
Good God, Fenella’s friend!
“What the devil are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Verhulst bent to grab what he’d dropped. Not a weapon, a sack. He looked over his shoulder in alarm. The townsmen’s voices were loud, shrill. “They’re coming.” He turned back to Adam. “I hope you’ve got a boat, Englishman!”

Adam could make no sense of the bargeman being on this beach. But there was no time for questions. He heard labored breaths behind him and twisted around, sword raised, to see a shape emerge from the fog. Morrison! He was staggering from the weight of the strongbox he held with both hands, puffing like a bellows. He staggered up to Adam. “Present and accounted for, my lord!”

Adam almost laughed, shaken but relieved. “Come, both of you. Verhulst, take that strongbox; you’re bigger. Morrison, take his sack. Both of you, fast as you can!”

They made it to the boat and clambered aboard. Curry weighed anchor. Toth and five others hauled on the three pairs of oars. The boat, crowded with men and treasure, bucked out through the surf. Everyone looked back at the beach where a straggle of townsmen converged, shouting curses and shaking their fists. A pistol shot cracked the air. The bullet splashed behind the boat. Past the surf now, the boat skimmed toward the ship and Adam’s men let out nervous laughs at the thrill of their escape.

“Ha! Look at those poor bastards,” Heywood said with satisfaction, dabbing his bleeding nose with his sleeve.

“Poor, my ass,” Morrison growled. “Poxy collaborators in bed with the dagos.” Morrison had been Adam’s boatswain on the
Elizabeth
with Hawkins’s expedition to the New World, and Adam shared his bitterness. They both bore scars of the Spaniards’ vicious attack on them in the Mexican harbor of San Juan de Ulúa.

“Who’s this, my lord?” Curry asked, eyeing Verhulst. They all looked at the big stranger who was still breathing hard from his exertion.

“A refugee,” Adam said, though far from sure. His chest still hurt from the bargeman tackling him. His thoughts lurched to Fenella. Did Verhulst know where she’d gone?

“Lord . . . ?” Verhulst asked, bewildered by Curry’s address.

“Your story first,” Adam said. “Why’ve you washed up on this beach?”

“I’ve been looking to join the Sea Beggars.”

“Huzzah,” Curry said sardonically. “You found ’em.”

“Truly?” Verhulst looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck. “I’ve been asking up and down the coast. An alehouse brewer said Admiral La Marck’s ship was sighted off this town, so here I tramped. Didn’t make it until after dark, though, and found you lot looting.” He looked at Adam. “Saw
you
. The bastards deserved it, so I slipped into an alley to watch.” He added with a nod at Morrison, “He’s right; that town’s a rat’s nest of collaborators. The whole country’s rotten with ’em.”

“You’ve changed your tune,” Adam said, skeptical. “You draw Spanish pay. You warp boats on the Brussels canal, don’t you?”

“Not anymore,” Verhulst said defiantly. “I’ve had my eyes opened.” Even in the murky light Adam saw the fervent look on the man’s face. The zeal of the convert.

“Ahoy!” came a shout as the
Gotland
loomed. A lantern hanging from the yardarm blazed a nimbus in the mist.

“Ahoy!” Curry called back. The oarsmen sculled, bringing the boat alongside the ship, and the men readied their sacks of plunder, talking and chuckling. Crew on the
Gotland
threw the rope ladder over the side and the men in the boat stood, ready to board. Adam stayed seated. They knew he always boarded last.

As they began climbing up in turns Verhulst said to Adam, “Fenella, she’s the one who made me see. Told me to stop brooding and do something with my life.” His eyes shone, and there was a new tone in his voice, one of tenderness and pride. “Fenella cares about old Berck after all.”

Hearing her name shot a spark through Adam. “Where is she, do you know? Is she all right?”

“Haven’t seen her since you left my barge. But don’t worry, Fenella always lands on her feet.” Verhulst looked up eagerly at the ship, slinging his sack over his shoulder, readying to climb the ladder after Curry, who was next. “That’s a fine caravel, Adams. And you’re her captain?”

“The name’s Thornleigh.”

“Not Master Adams?”

“Not Master anything,” Curry sternly told him, his foot on the ladder. “He’s Lord Thornleigh.”

Verhulst looked amazed. “Not . . . the English baron? I’ve heard the stories about you! I surely hope you won’t hold it against me, knocking you down . . . your lordship.”

Adam almost smiled. “No harm done.”

“Would you consider taking me on as crew, my lord? You’ll be doing a shipwrecked man a favor.”

Adam didn’t need to consider. An experienced hand was always welcome. “Curry, find him a berth.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The bargeman grinned. “Much obliged . . . your lordship.” He gamely followed Curry up the ladder, the rope creaking under his bulk.

Adam stood, the last man in the boat. Time for the
Gotland
to weigh anchor and rendezvous with La Marck. But he did not move to climb the ladder. He had no will to. Regret surged through him, a tidal wave of frustration and grief at all he had lost. Fenella, gone from his life as suddenly as he’d fallen in love with her. His children, left in the controlling hands of Frances. His ship, destroyed, dead. Up on deck his crew welcomed Verhulst with friendly curses and the bargeman guffawed at their rough banter. Adam envied him.
Do something with your life,
Fenella had told her friend, and he was. Brimming with zeal at joining the Sea Beggars, Verhulst was bent on action.

Action. Adam craved it. Against the Spanish. They had butchered his men in San Juan de Ulúa and now they ground their boot on the neck of the innocent Dutch. And they were a menace to England, holding over Elizabeth the constant threat of invasion. What England needed was a mighty navy, powerful enough not just to form a protective wall but also to attack and smash rapacious Spain.

A vision gripped him. A vision of action. Elizabeth could give him ships. Merchant ships. She felt that she could not openly antagonize Spain, that she did not dare, but Adam could, privately. With her clandestine help he could overhaul a fleet of merchantmen as men-of-war armed to the teeth and lead them forth, unleashing them as England’s covert weapon. He could hit Spain so hard up and down the Channel it would cripple their trade and their military supply lines. He could be the terror of the Narrow Sea.

The boat wallowed under his feet, challenging his balance. The fog suddenly felt clammy on his neck. His fantasy sank. He could take none of the actions he wanted. Elizabeth would never invest in such a radical plan; it would unleash diplomatic chaos, maybe outright war. And even if he could afford the massive investment personally, which he could not, she would forbid him using a private fleet aggressively. His dream was impossible, an illusion. This caravel he was roaming in could do little damage, even with the few cannon that La Marck promised him. Adam didn’t even own her. She belonged to Fenella.

And the Sea Beggars? He despaired of La Marck ever unleashing their untapped power. The Dutchman was happy to raid collaborating Dutch villages and then run to safe English ports, thanks to Elizabeth’s goodwill, and live there off his plunder. He’d been doing it for three years, he and his men making Dover and the creeks and bays along the south coast their home. Why would he change?

Everything that had happened in the last few weeks suddenly felt as disorienting, as sick making, as an anchor dragging him to the depths by the neck in a nightmare. His hope of happiness with Fenella, dashed. His plan to rescue his children, stillborn. The knowledge that Frances, his own wife, was intent on seeing him dead.

The only action open to him was retreat. He told himself grimly that he had to accept it, though everything in him chafed. He must return to England, make his report to Elizabeth, and sink into the tame life of a courtier. Attend her council meetings about patronage appointments and trade treaties and the ongoing machinery of government. Advise her. Keep a watchful eye for her on the jockeying factions at court. Manage his own estates. Be content. He would try to persuade her to pull diplomatic strings to get Robert and Kate sent home and with luck he might succeed. That was the best he could hope for, he told himself.

He climbed the ladder, his feet as heavy as his heart.

“Two ships starboard ahead! Hull down!” the lookout called from the
Eenhorn
’s crow’s nest.

The morning sun had burned off the last of the fog, and Adam, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, crossed the
Eenhoorn
’s quarterdeck. He had come aboard La Marck’s ship to confer about transferring the guns once they reached Dover.
For what it’s worth,
he thought gloomily. The
Gotland,
under Curry, kept pace with them, almost abeam.

Adam went to the starboard rail to look at the two sails the lookout had announced. At this distance they were mere moth wings on the horizon. La Marck followed him. The fresh breeze snapped the sails above them with a sound like a muster master’s clap, but on deck La Marck’s men slouched and shuffled, groggy from late-night carousing in celebration over their spoils. A few less fortunate lay below, suffering wounds. Unlike Adam, La Marck had not forbidden his men violent action in the town they had raided. He’d handed out axes.

The
Eenhoorn
carved steadily through the low waves that rode out from the English coast not yet visible. Adam could smell the land. He thought of all the times he’d felt cheered at sighting the chalk cliffs of Dover. Home. Not this morning. England seemed almost like a prison waiting to hold him.

Five,
he thought, as three more sails popped up on the horizon close behind the first two. The lookout shouted, “Five sails now, starboard ahead!”