The Queen's Gamble (29 page)

Where would they strike first? And when? After helping Wyatt five years ago, and John Knox now, Isabel knew how rebel leaders strategized. As soon as their men and munitions were ready they set a date to attack, because every day that they waited put them and their cause in peril. Grenville and his fellows would be waiting only for a signal. Who would give it? The earl?

Sorrow flooded her, for she realized what she had to do. She could not go home for Nicolas. Not yet. She had to stay with Grenville. Had to uncover the essential facts of his plot, and then warn Queen Elizabeth. She lowered her head, afraid she might weep.

The service was over. The people bowed to Grenville and then silently filed down the stairs. Isabel was glad to see Frances leave with them, for she was so dismayed by her sister-in-law’s disloyalty, so appalled for Adam’s sake, she would not know what to say to her. Father York gave Grenville a questioning look, and a glance at Isabel. Grenville returned a brief, reassuring nod. The priest said nothing, and went down the stairs. Isabel was alone with Grenville. The way he was looking at her made her so uncomfortable she almost wanted Frances back. She did not yet know how to get the information from him. She needed time to think.

“Thank you for this,” she said. “It was cheer indeed.” She started for the stairs.

He stepped in to stop her. Her heart thumped. Why was he frowning?

“You did not join the prayer,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“For Queen Mary. Why did you keep silent?”

“Did I?” Sweat prickled her back. It sprang from fear, but something else too. Anger. People were always setting tests for her! “I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere. On something more important.”

“What could be more important than a prayer for our Queen?”

She wished she could spit at him. “Something closer to home, I should say.” She lowered her voice like a co-conspirator. “Christopher, I want to do more. To help.”

He looked at her, unblinking.
That’s right,
she thought, her pulse quickening.
This time I shall set the test. And I shall snare you in it.

“Please, let me help you. To redeem—” She broke off, lowering her head. “To redeem my soul. For the sins of my family.”

She heard him take a breath of surprise. “You really feel that?”

“I do,” she said, lifting her face to him. “You asked me not to judge you by your brother’s actions. I now ask the same of you. My path is not the path of my parents. I will not lie to you—I love and honor my mother and father. But they have been lured to a false religion. That, I cannot abide. Let me help you fight for God’s cause here in England.”

He was studying her as if hoping to see what he wanted. “Help me . . . how?”

“My mother is Queen Elizabeth’s friend. She introduced me to her. Through my mother I have pathways to knowledge about the Queen, knowledge useful to you. The doings of the court. The movements of her commanders in the field. Even Her Majesty’s private comings and goings. Please, I ask only to continue to be a part of your great undertaking. Believe me, I can help you.”

He had not taken his eyes off her, and in them she saw a piercing interest warring with caution. In the next moment, she felt certain, he would leap one way or the other—and decide her fate.

In the solar, Frances could not get warm. The night was so cold the servants had built up the fire with the stoutest oak logs the hearth could hold. The flames leapt and crackled as Frances sewed the lace cap in her lap and rocked Katherine’s cradle with her foot. Christopher sat beside her staring at the fire, his arms crossed, his legs stretched out in front of him. He coughed, then rubbed his nose.

The chill that Frances felt came from more than the drafts from the casements. She felt shaken from seeing Isabel at the mill. She was glad they shared a devotion to their religion—that bond would not change—but why was she spending time with Christopher? Frances knew he was plotting something, and she feared he had enmeshed Isabel in his conspiracy. She had been unable to discover any details of what he was up to, but her suspicions about his secretive meetings, and the earl’s visit, had been confirmed when Isabel told her she had seen Christopher stockpiling arms. Frances had lied to her—it’s to fight the raiders, she had said—because she feared Isabel was on the side of the French. How could she not be, when her husband was with them in Leith? Isabel had to support Carlos’s cause, just as Frances did Adam’s. For a wife who loved her husband, there was no choice.

Christopher coughed again. He pulled a handkerchief from his breeches and blew his nose. “Must be touched with a cold.”

Frances said nothing, knowing she was at fault for the discomfort of his congestion. The cat and kittens. She had not yet taken them to the marshal’s wife. Her mind turned back to his plot, and she decided that tonight she would demand to know. She was his sister, she would say, his closest family—he could trust her. She was nervous, but her mind was made up. She started by asking if he expected the earl to visit again, when Christopher held up a hand to quiet her.

“Shhh. What’s that?” he said, cocking an ear.

A mewing sounded across the room. Frances stiffened. She had moved the basket of kittens there, shoving it behind a screen, hoping he would not notice. He so rarely spent time with her in the solar. Before she could explain, he was on his feet, moving across the room. Straight to the basket. He shoved the screen aside. Then shot a look at Frances. “I told you to drown them.”

“There’s no need for that, Christopher. Margery Cowell says she’ll take them. Good for keeping down the mice, she says. I promise you, I’ll take them to her tomorrow.”

Christopher picked up the basket. The cat and kittens tumbled among themselves at the violence of the motion. “Not tomorrow, Frances. Now.” He carried the basket toward the hearth.

She shot to her feet, horror flooding her. Surely he was not going to . . .

“No!” she cried, and lunged to stay his arm.

But he was quicker and yanked the basket clear. Missing him, Frances staggered off balance. Then froze in shock as he tossed the creatures into the fire.

23

Letters

C
arlos sat waiting to see D’Oysel. To steady his nerves he worked with his knife, using the tip to dig grit from under his thumbnail. The clerk at the desk across the room had told him that the English prisoners had been taken to the lockup beneath the armory and put in the Hole, the dungeon with the tightest security. Carlos had asked for this meeting with the commander, but he was well aware that he had no authority to intervene. Prisoners were a matter completely under D’Oysel’s control. All Carlos had was the goodwill he’d built with the man. D’Oysel owed him for leading Renault’s company of horse in the January strike against the rebels. He could only hope it was enough to buy him what he had come for. Adam’s life.

The door to the commander’s private rooms opened and the Queen Regent came out. Carlos got up, but she swept on out without noticing him. She looked tired but triumphant, which gave him the awful certainty that his task would be that much harder. In Sir Adam Thornleigh, she had a prize prisoner.

“Ah, Valverde,” D’Oysel said when the clerk ushered Carlos in. D’Oysel stood at his desk pouring a goblet of wine. He had shaved too quickly, leaving one jowl streaked with stubble above his bull neck. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Wine?”

Carlos held up his hand. “Thanks, but no.” He had already had too much brandy. He needed a clear head.

“We face a sea of troubles, Valverde. The English army already across the Tweed. A quarter of my men sick with the flux. No reinforcements coming from France. Still, we take comfort where we can.” He raised his goblet in a cheerless toast. “To LaFollette.” He took a swallow. “He says the English captain led him on a chase across the beach to let his crew escape. They disappeared into the woods, but we got him and a couple of his gunners. Got his ship, too.” He allowed himself a satisfied smile. “She’s worth a vineyard in the Loire, eh?”

“Congratulations.” By the laws of war, the captured ship was D’Oysel’s to keep and sell. “The English captain,” he said. “Will you ransom him? He’ll fetch a fat purse.”

“Thornleigh?” D’Oysel shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

“He’s no use to you rotting in the Hole. Better to be rid of him and make a profit.”

“Maybe I’ll send him to enjoy the brief life of a galley slave. Fair punishment for the aid he’s brought the enemy.”

“Wasted opportunity, though.”

“Maybe I’ll keep him here in chains.”

To suffer and die—that’s what he’d left unsaid. “He’s a friend of the English Queen, did you know? One of her favorites. Is it wise to antagonize her?”

“He’s a
pirate,
” D’Oysel said sourly. “And since the army that his Queen has thrown at us will arrive any day, it’s a little late to kiss her ass.”

“Let him go, D’Oysel. Send him back for ransom. You’ll get your price, I promise you.”

D’Oysel regarded him with a skeptical frown. “Is that why you’re here? Why do
you
care about the fellow?”

The only argument left was the truth. “He’s a relation. My wife’s brother.”

D’Oysel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Great heavens. Of course. I
knew
I’d heard the name Thornleigh somewhere.” He eyed Carlos as if realizing this offered an interesting new opportunity. “Your wife’s English family—makes things rather difficult for you, doesn’t it?”

“Let him go. Please. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

“Yes, I see,” D’Oysel said, intrigued. He sat down on the corner of the desk, goblet in hand, his eyes on Carlos, gauging the situation. He went on, lowering his voice as though to be considerate about this private matter, “To tell you the truth, that is something I wanted to talk to you about. Your wife. I hear she’s been a problem.”

A warning rippled through Carlos. Had D’Oysel heard about Isabel’s tie with the rebels? No, he thought—if he’d gotten wind of that he would have called me in earlier, furious. “Problem?” he said cautiously.

“Ah, Valverde, what fools these women make of us, eh?” His tone was sympathetic, man to man. He turned to the bedchamber door and called, “Fenella!” Carlos stiffened, his eyes on the door, as D’Oysel went on, “Take it from me, there is only one way to deal with an unruly female.”

The door opened with a creak and Fenella shuffled into the doorway. Carlos sucked in a breath. She had been beaten so badly that one eye was a swollen slit and her lower lip was crusted with a scab. She wore only a sleeveless shift, showing bruises that mottled her shoulder and arm. Her hair hung down, disheveled. Seeing Carlos, she was suddenly alert. And frightened.

“Come here, my dove,” D’Oysel said with mock tenderness. She shuffled to his side. He put his arm around her waist and asked her, while keeping his eyes on Carlos, “You were telling me about Valverde’s wife, remember? What was it?”

So this
was
about Isabel and the rebels, Carlos was sure of it now. He wished he could grind D’Oysel’s neck under his boot. Who could blame Fenella? To save herself she had told the bastard everything she knew. Isabel would be safe in London by now, thank God, but Carlos knew this would blast his reputation to hell. Far worse, how could he possibly hope to get Adam spared?

“Well?” D’Oysel urged Fenella.

“They had a row,” she answered steadily. “Him and her. A great, bloody row. Couldn’t hear what it was about, but everybody in shouting distance heard the ruckus.”

Carlos shot her a look. That was all? Nothing about Isabel helping the rebels?

She added with emphasis, “Even the bloody boys in the bloody
stables
must have heard.”

He suddenly knew what she was telling him. The stable boy who had seen them. He imagined the trail—the boy telling a groom, the groom telling a lieutenant, the news reaching the commander’s quarters. Fenella was warning him that D’Oysel knew.

“Marital squabbles in public—not wise, Valverde,” D’Oysel said as if giving friendly advice. “Best we deal with our women in private.” He jerked his chin at Fenella. “This one was whoring with another man.” His cold glare at Carlos made it plain that he meant him. Still, he kept his tone affable, a man of the world. “Now she’s learned the consequences. You see? All quietly settled in private.”

Carlos wanted to ram his knuckles into the man’s face. There wasn’t a thing he could say.

“Go,” D’Oysel told Fenella.

Carlos gave her a look of earnest thanks. If she had not told about Isabel under the brute’s fists, she never would.

When she was gone D’Oysel refilled his goblet, then took it around the desk to the chair. He sat, leaning back, regarding Carlos. “About your wife’s brother. Such a worry for you.” He took a slow swallow of wine, savoring it. “I have my own worries. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Carlos didn’t know what the man was getting at, but he jumped at the chance. “How?”

“Are you sending a dispatch to Ambassador de Quadra any time soon?”

“Today,” he said. Where was this going?

“Good. I need troops, Valverde. If France cannot spare them, perhaps Spain can. Everyone knows your king hates the rebels for their heresies, and with good cause. If they wrest control of Scotland with the help of the English Queen, this whole poxy island will be a breeding ground for heretics, and then they’ll set out to infect
our
God-fearing lands. France and Spain should make common cause, stop them here and now. Bishop de Quadra listens to you, and he has King Philip’s ear. What I want is for you to write to him, make the danger clear so he’ll urge the King to send us troops, and fast.”

It was a major request. Carlos was here as an emissary, a neutral observer. Meddling in affairs of state could have dangerous repercussions. Lesser interferences had led to wars. But he saw how much D’Oysel wanted his partisan report. “If I do, you’ll let Thornleigh go?”

“I would send him home safe this very moment, for your sake, if it were up to me. Unfortunately, though, the Queen Regent has taken an interest. So it might take a little time. But I assure you, we’ll work something out.”

Can I trust him? Carlos thought. He had seen the hatred in the man’s eyes when he’d made it clear he knew about him and Fenella. No, to punish me, he’ll never free Adam. “I’ll have the letter on its way by sunrise,” he said.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

“Let me talk to Thornleigh?”

D’Oysel smiled, magnanimous. “Of course.”

Grenville’s library felt as cold as death to Isabel. Seven men stood between her and the fire that burned in the hearth, and not a touch of its heat reached the dread, like ice, at her core. This was the hardest thing she had ever done—listening to their talk of treason, showing them a quiet delight in their strategy, pretending her admiration for Grenville’s brilliant organizing. He had brought her into the meeting an hour ago, and with his encouragement she had made her case to the group. It had excited them, and she had answered their barrage of questions, and now she felt nearly faint with the effort, dizzy with dissembling. Surely at any moment they would see through her lies and turn on her.

“Where in Norfolk?” one of them asked her. Was it Donaldson? Or Ives? She found it hard to remember each man’s name. Except Father York. His participation in the cabal had shocked her. A man of God, plotting sedition. He sat on a stool across the room, listening intently, never speaking, his long white face as still as a death mask. But each of them glanced at him from time to time as if to a touchstone to strengthen their commitment.

“Now that, sir, I do not know,” she replied. “Before I left for Scotland my mother told me only that Her Majesty intends a visit to Norfolk later this month.”

“Norwich, most likely,” said another man. “To reward her heretic clergy at the cathedral. They have been diligent in suppressing the faithful.”

“Aye,” said another with a flash of anger. “My wife’s cousin lies in the cathedral jail, seven months now, for attending a mass.”

“And they fined my brother’s business agent just for—”

“We all have friends who have suffered,” Grenville interrupted, “but that is not the point. Let us stick to what
is
—getting close enough to the Queen to do what must be done. Mistress Valverde has given us this extraordinary opportunity. We must seize it.”

That quieted them. Grenville was clearly their leader, Isabel had observed. It was not a matter of rank. All these men, gentry who hailed from counties throughout the north, had landholdings as rich as his, yet all seemed to understand and accept that he would give the eventual signal for their uprising. He never raised his voice, but they seemed almost to fear him. Isabel’s own fear was hard to control—a constant worry that she would not be able to keep up her lies without slipping. She had had enough time with these men to digest their plot, but it brought her so near to nausea it was hard to think straight. Under the banner of the earl, having gathered all their forces, they planned to assault Durham, unite there with more forces raised throughout the north, then march south en masse and seize London. And assassinate Queen Elizabeth.

She forced a calm face. “The place and time are easily discovered, gentlemen. I shall simply ask my mother where the Queen intends to go, and when.”

“Are you sure she will tell you?” a man near the fire asked. “They keep the Queen’s plans private for as long as possible.”

“Not from my mother.” She looked to Grenville to support her. “Sir Christopher knows what a dear friend my mother is to Her Majesty.” He gave her a smile of solidarity that made her feel grateful, which shook her—she was in so deep, she hardly knew her own heart anymore. “So, here is what I propose,” she went on. “I shall write to my mother that I am returning to London and wish to be allowed, on my way, to come to Her Majesty in Norfolk to present her with a gift. That will please my mother greatly, and she will arrange it. She will tell me the Queen’s destination, gentlemen, I warrant.”

They all regarded her soberly. Isabel was sure they saw her mask slip, saw her falseness.

One man said to her, as though struck by a thought, “Since you are allowed this special access—”

“Just what I was thinking,” said another with growing excitement. “We planned to enlist one of the faithful at court—a gentleman server, or an ambassador’s clerk. But now . . .” He fixed his eyes on Isabel. “Mistress Valverde, could
you
do the deed?”

They all watched her, waiting. Rational thought fled her mind. Assassinate Elizabeth? She was so horrified, she could find no voice, no breath.

Grenville saved her. “No, no, gentlemen, it is too much. This good lady is doing all she can. The rest must be our work.”

Mercifully, they released her. They thanked her for her courage. Father York even blessed her.

In her bedchamber she sat down at the desk to write. It was a struggle to force her hand to stop trembling.

Dear Mother,

My servant brings you this letter, for he knows your house and you. I would that I could impart to your face the dire information contained herein, for there must be no blunder or fault in the telling, lest you misbelieve the dreadful threat. Only the need to remain at Yeavering Hall to gather further details of the conspiracy prevents me from standing before you. Therefore, let my telling herewith be perfect.

She looked in frustration at what she had written. Get to the point, she thought. She continued:

You will gape at my words—threat, conspiracy. My pen rushes ahead of my thoughts. Thoughts that every day fly to London, to my son. I long to see him.

She stilled her hand. Closed her eyes. Why was she babbling about her son? She tried to subdue the frightened beating of her heart and calm her jangled mind. She dipped the pen in ink again and scratched out the last lines. Then wrote:

The threat I speak of is to Her Majesty the Queen and to her realm. Divers gentlemen here in Northumberland, adherents of the Catholic faith, are secretly prepared to rise up with a host of followers almost three thousand strong, mightily armed, and strike against Her Majesty’s authority. Their intent is to rally in force and capture Her Majesty’s city of Durham, there to gain further strength in numbers, treasure, and arms, and then strike with full force at Her Majesty’s capital city of London. With the realm thus in disorder, unstable and confused, they mean to murder Her Majesty, and then to welcome her successor, her royal cousin, the Queen of France and Scotland, to ascend the throne of England. The conspirators have assurance from friends at the court of the Queen Regent of Scotland and from the King of France that the King encourages their plot.