The Queen's Exiles (25 page)

Her ears pricked up at the sound of a child’s voice. Curiosity leapt in her. She went to the railing and looked down. The hall was vacant except for the pock-faced captain strolling in with two children, a boy in a russet velvet doublet and a tall, slim girl in a violet-colored satin gown, her chestnut hair hanging loose. Both were looking around as though surprised to be there but curious and eager, as though playing a game of hide-and-seek. Fenella watched them, transfixed. Were they Adam’s son and daughter? The captain was speaking to the boy, who said something in return. Their voices echoed up from the marble floor, the man’s deep, the boy’s light, their words indistinct.

“I daresay you have never met them,” Alba said, glancing at Fenella. “Just as I have not met the father. Are they like him, would you say? I’ve heard that Thornleigh has dark hair and eyes, like his boy there.”

She could not take her eyes off the children. They were so like Adam! Their names came to her. Katherine—so pretty!—and Robert. The sight of his tousled dark hair and inquisitive eyes squeezed Fenella’s heart. Two more soldiers walked in and flanked the girl, who looked up from one to the other, a question in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips, like someone who’d been promised a treat.

“So young and innocent,” Alba said.

Fenella looked at him and dread seeped into her like ice water.
Why has he brought Adam’s children before me?

“Too young to die, I’m sure you agree.”

She froze. “You would not.”

“And
will
not, if you tell me where their father is hiding.”

Her gaze flicked to the children in horror.

“The girl first, I think. It will require a story for their mother, but so be it.” He shrugged. “Lady Thornleigh thinks she is important to me. She is not. I entertain many English exiles, and most have titles far grander than hers.” His eyes bored into Fenella’s. “Speak now. Or see the girl die.”

A hoarse sound came from Fenella’s throat, a dry laugh of total disbelief. No, he could not mean it. It was impossible, even for him!

“Obstinate woman,” he growled. He jerked a nod to the pocked captain. The captain grabbed the girl from behind, his arm like a bolt across her narrow chest, and unsheathed his sword with a screech of metal. He drew the blade across the girl’s throat, slow and smooth. Blood spurted. The girl twitched. Then slumped to the floor.

Fenella’s heart stopped.
No . . . No! . . .

The boy was screaming. The soldiers held him between them.

“Tell me now,” Alba said, “or the boy is next.”

She could not breathe. The sight gutted her . . . the rag doll girl . . . the pool of blood....

Suddenly Fenella was climbing. She planted a foot on the top of the railing. Grappled it to swing herself up.
Up and over
.
Jump. Die. End this. He’ll let the boy go....

“What?” Alba cried. “What are you doing?”

She made it to the top, stood with both feet on the railing, her stance wide, swaying for balance.
Jump. Die. End this!
She spread her arms, closed her eyes, ready to pitch forward.

He snatched the back of her dress and yanked. She tumbled backward, flailing at air. The side of her head and her hip struck the floor. Her vision swam bloodred. Sprawled at Alba’s feet, she clutched his ankle. He clamped the back of her neck and twisted her head, forcing her to look down between the posts. “Look.”

She blinked at the horror. The dead girl . . . the captain, sword raised as he held the squirming, screaming boy, waiting for Alba’s command.

Vomit shot up Fenella’s throat. “Stop! . . . I’ll tell you. . . . Don’t!” She gagged on her vomit. Forced it down. Swallowed it. Sucked in air that cut her throat like a knife. “Cove . . .” she moaned, “village of Kloster . . . hiding . . . cove . . .”

I
nto the lion’s den,
Isabel Valverde thought with a shiver as she entered the hall in the Duke of Alba’s palace. Alba’s torturers mauled people as viciously as any lion. Gentlemen strolled past her, greeting one another, exchanging pleasantries. She felt almost ill at being here.

The footman she was following guided her up to the second floor and down a corridor to a small suite of rooms. Isabel steeled herself. She had come to see her brother’s wife and must show Frances a brave face. The baby inside Isabel kicked, and her hand went to her belly. In five or six weeks she would have this new babe to protect as well as Andrew and Nell. Thinking of her children gave her strength for what she was about to do. Today was her last day in Brussels. Never again would she have to stomach Alba’s hideous regime. She was going home to England. Without Carlos.

Frances came out of the adjoining room, fastening her cloak. Leaving already? Yet Isabel had been prompt in arriving for the appointment. The note she’d sent Frances early this morning at the Duchess of Feria’s home asking to visit had brought her sister-in-law’s terse reply, an instruction to wait on her at the palace at ten o’clock. It was not yet ten.

Seeing her, Frances stopped and regarded her coolly. “Isabel. Your message took me very much by surprise.”

“I daresay, Frances. But after all, family is family.”

Kate and Robert came out of the adjoining room, and relief rushed through Isabel at seeing her niece and nephew safe. Last night, when Carlos had told her of Alba’s horrifying action of having a child killed in front of the Scottish woman, it had almost made Isabel sick to her stomach. Alba had had two child beggars brought from the street, Carlos had learned, and dressed them in fine clothes to convince the woman they were Adam’s son and daughter, a hideous ploy to induce her to reveal Adam’s whereabouts. The girl’s throat had been slit. Reeling at this atrocity, Isabel had then been amazed to learn from Carlos that the woman was believed to be an accomplice in Adam’s work with the Sea Beggars. It was dizzying. . . . Isabel knew no details, only what Carlos had brusquely outlined. But she’d been galvanized by the horror of the girl’s death to take action to get herself and her own children out of this cursed country. Alba had ordered another mass hanging for this afternoon in the Grote Markt. So much death . . . it rocked her. She
had
to get out before the killings began.

Kate’s eyes went wide with surprise when she saw her aunt. “Madam!” She rushed to Isabel and bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, it has been so long!”

What a young beauty Adam’s daughter had become! Isabel had to smile despite her anxiety. “Too long, my dear.” She embraced the girl as closely as her pregnant state would allow.

Kate’s hand flew to her mouth in concern. “Have you brought word of my father? Is he in England? Is he ill?”

“Enough!” Frances snapped. “You know I will not hear him spoken of.”

Kate held her tongue, but with a look of furious resentment. Her mother glared back at her. The girl’s spirit moved Isabel, and her heart ached for Adam’s sake. She wished it were in her power to take his children home with her. What would become of them here, fatherless? Robert was staring at her, and she saw confusion in his eyes. He had been only five when he’d last seen her four years ago, and she guessed that he was struggling to remember who she was. He made a childish bow to her, then continued to stare, his head jerking oddly. A tic, she realized, feeling pity. The boy was without a father and had a traitor for a mother.

A traitor that I must now charm
.

A young priest appeared at the door. “Lady Frances, we are behind our time.”

“Quite right, Father.” Frances clapped her hands at the children. “To your lessons now with Father André. Katherine, at my next visit you will recite the Order’s rules on the patience and perseverance of prayer, or your meals will be bread and water until you can. The Sisters will not take a dunce for a novice.” She turned to Robert with a motherly smile and patted his cheek. “Go.”

The children bowed to her and to Isabel, then trudged out the door after the priest.

“I am glad to see my niece and nephew so hale,” Isabel said. “I can only imagine the depth of your own relief.”

“Pardon?” Frances gave her a quizzical, impatient look that made Isabel wonder:
Has she not heard of Alba’s abominable act?
It seemed impossible; gossip was rife. More likely she did know and was unmoved—a chilling thought. Frances’s consideration for the young did not extend to beggars.

“They are hale indeed, and I was just leaving,” she said, adjusting her cloak. “Why did you ask to see me? What do you want?”

Isabel forced a smile. “Peace, Frances. I hope we can mend the rift that has kept us apart. There was a time when we were friends.”

“Long past.”

“Yet I remember those days fondly. Don’t you?” She had helped Frances through her difficult first labor, had delivered Kate, placing the babe into Frances’s exhausted and grateful arms. “I’ll never forget your face at that first sight of your daughter.”

“Ah . . . yes.” There was a softening in her voice, a note of regret. “You were kind.”

“You were brave.” Isabel smiled.

Frances, however, looked newly wary. “Come, Isabel, what has brought you? You must want something.”

“I have heard that your friend the Duchess of Feria is ill. I hope it is not serious?”

“An ague. It will pass.”

“She keeps to her bed, though, I’m told.”

Frances’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What concern is that of yours?”

“I have not met the duchess, but I’m sure she is aware that my husband is a trusted commander in the governor’s service.”

“Yes, Alba holds Valverde in high regard, I believe. What on earth are you getting at?”

“I need your help, Frances. I am leaving Brussels. With my children.”

“What?” She was all astonishment.

“I will not pretend to you. Carlos and I feel very differently about the Spanish occupation, and have for some time. He sees honor and duty in keeping his commitment to Alba. I see suffering and unrest, an uprising in the making. Danger. I do not want my child to be born here. So I am going home, and taking Andrew and Nell. We’ll sail from Antwerp.” Her hand went to her belly. “But I am almost eight months gone, Frances, and you know how punishing thirty hard miles on horseback would be in this condition. It’s not my comfort that concerns me; it’s the safety of the babe. So I have come to ask a favor. Your friend the duchess has a coach. Given her illness, she has no need for it at the moment. Would you intercede on my behalf, and ask her for a day’s use of the coach to take us to Antwerp? I warrant the coachmen will have it back overnight.”

Frances regarded her sister-in-law thoughtfully, as though considering her dilemma with some sympathy but weighing what benefit the favor would bring to herself.

Isabel said with feeling, “We may have different beliefs, Frances, but we share one thing in common. We have both fallen out with our husbands for their actions on opposite sides of the Spanish cause. Broken marriage . . . it’s a cross we both bear.” She reached out for her hand. “Please, be my sister in this? Be a friend to my unborn child, as I once was to yours.”

Frances blinked at her. Whether she was moved or dismayed Isabel could not tell. “When would you want the coach?”

“Today. Right now.”

“But your children—”

“They’re packed, ready. I shall collect them on the way. If you’ll just help us with the duchess . . .”

A wistful look came over Frances. “I knew her when she was simple Jane Dormer, you know, long before she caught the eye of the late duke. We are old friends.”

“Then you’ll ask her?”

“No need. I take the coach whenever I wish. Come back with me to her house. You shall have the coach. If you will do me a favor in return.”

Isabel hesitated. “If I can.”

“Oh, it is not difficult. I would merely have you deliver a letter. To a friend in London.”

Caution pricked Isabel. She had heard enough to suspect that Frances was scheming against Queen Elizabeth with her fellow Catholic exiles here. It was no secret that they wanted to see their favorite, Mary Stuart, Queen of the Scots, on England’s throne, and rumor said that they hoped to entice Philip of Spain into backing them with troops. Frances had likely forged her friendship with Alba to further this plan. And no doubt the exiles kept their English friends abreast of developments. If Isabel delivered her sister-in-law’s letter, would she herself be an accomplice to treason?

That’s unknowable,
she decided.
While my present mission is clear
. She could waste no more time. “Certainly, Frances. It will be my pleasure.”

They took the litter Isabel had come in and reached the duchess’s mansion with its granite columns facing Balienplein Place. The business of ordering the coach was quickly done. It clattered up to the front entrance, an impressive sight: two white horses drawing a vehicle gorgeously painted in primrose and forest green, two coachmen in livery of the same color scheme, the coach doors emblazoned with the gold crest of the Duchess of Feria. Frances gave Isabel the sealed letter, then told the coachmen they would be picking up the lady’s passengers. “Follow her instructions.”

The two women shared an awkward, tense moment, both of them aware that this might be the last time they would see each other, both silent about the man in their thoughts, Isabel’s brother, Frances’s husband. A brisk “Good-bye” from Frances, a gentle “God be with you” from Isabel, who then climbed into the primrose velvet cushions of the coach.

She had never been inside such a conveyance—popular with the Continent’s rich, coaches were still not common in England—and she was thrilled by how swiftly it flew down the street, for she had told the coachmen to make all haste. People on foot and on horseback quickly moved aside to let the noblewoman’s coach pass. Isabel took a grateful, nervous breath. She would be in Antwerp by evening.

Church bells all over the city were ringing the mid-afternoon hour as the coach jounced toward the Laeken Gate, the most northern exit in the city wall. Isabel knew the tolling bells summoned citizens to attend the executions at the Grote Markt, and her heart was beating fast as she watched people leaving their houses and shops. She was not clear of the city yet, but on one score she took comfort. She had lied to Frances when she’d said she would collect Andrew and Nell. They were already gone. Early this morning Isabel had sent them to the canal wharf in the care of Hughes, a loyal manservant, to take the Antwerp-bound barge. At the port they would embark for England, and there Hughes would deliver them to Isabel’s mother in London. No matter what happened now, Isabel could trust that her children were safe.

But was Carlos? Was she in time? The questions drummed inside her head as the church bells clanged. Were the executions in progress? Carlos had faced past dangers on battlefields and Isabel had often feared for his life, but never as acutely as she did at this moment. If he failed, Alba’s wrath would be terrible. She feared . . . and she hoped. And never had she loved her husband more.

The crowd’s too thin,
Carlos thought, feeling on edge.
I need a bigger turnout
. On horseback he was leading his small execution party toward the Grote Markt, dead ahead at the end of the house-lined street. Behind him his four mounted soldiers escorted the horse-drawn wagon that held the two prize prisoners, the rebel leader Claes Doorn and his wife.

A boy darted across Carlos’s path and he reined in Fausto. The stallion snorted, as edgy as Carlos himself. He touched his spurs to Fausto’s flanks and trotted on. The street widened into the broad square of the Grote Markt and Carlos saw with relief that he’d been wrong about the crowd—it was as large as usual.
Good.
The air hummed with the people’s excitement. Two corpses already hung from the gibbets. Over a dozen more prisoners were corralled in a pen, awaiting their turn. On one side of the scaffold an executioner stood beside a butcher’s block where Doorn’s special agony would take place: castration, then his abdomen would be slit and his entrails drawn out before his dying eyes.

Guards cut down the two dead rebels. A roar went up from the crowd. Church bells rang.

Carlos looked to the side of the square. Stands had been erected for the Spanish dons and the city’s magistrates and leading burghers. On the top tier, under a canopy, sat Alba with his cane. As usual he was flanked by his Spanish advisers. He looked relaxed, chatting with one of them.

Carlos glanced behind him. The wagon was open, its wooden sides cut down to waist height so that people had a good view of the prisoners. The condemned couple stood on either side, their hands bound behind them and tied to the wagon side. Doorn, the earless side of his head crusted with dry blood, looked delirious from his ordeal, barely able to stay on his feet on the jostling platform. Fenella was white-faced, her haggard eyes on her husband. Men and women jeered them as they passed. The soldier driving the wagon grinned vacantly. He was a slow-witted veteran who’d suffered a head wound that left him good only for menial tasks. Carlos had picked him specially for this job.

They had reached the rear edge of the mob. Most of the crowd were looking forward, eyes on the scaffold where the next two prisoners were being led from the pen to the gibbets. Few had noticed Carlos’s party yet. Carlos’s instructions were to escort the condemned in a wide circle around the crowd toward the scaffold, moving slowly so that everyone could view the prize couple in the wagon. He would bring them past the dignitaries’ stand for Alba’s viewing. When they reached the scaffold, trumpeters would announce their arrival.

Carlos turned in the saddle and held up his hand to his men. “Halt.”

The dull-eyed veteran on the seat tugged the reins, stopping the draft horse. The wagon creaked to a halt. The four mounted men stopped, too, and looked at Carlos, awaiting his order.