The Queen's Gamble (31 page)

“Suit yourself.” A noise—a window banging open. “Oh, God.” Fenella shrank back beside Carlos, terrified of being seen with him.

“I’ll go first,” he said. “Remember. Sundown.”

He was walking back to his billet alone when a lieutenant caught up to him. “Sir, Commander D’Oysel would like to see you.”

Carlos felt a jolt of fear. Had the turnkey overheard his talk with Adam and told D’Oysel? If so, he could join his brother-in-law in swinging from a gibbet. “Now? I’m on my way to send an important dispatch.”

“He asked to see you immediately, sir.”

No way out. He crossed the noisy courtyard crowded with soldiers drilling, and climbed the steps to D’Oysel’s quarters. When he walked through the door, his fear dug in. The commander was on his feet in conference with a half dozen captains, and with them was the Queen Regent.

“Ah, Valverde,” D’Oysel said smoothly.

The Queen turned to Carlos, a fevered look in her eyes. He knew she had some kind of chronic sickness, but at the moment she looked more keyed up than ill. All the officers’ eyes were on him, and they, too, looked strangely excited. Something had happened. He bowed to the Queen. “Madam.”

“Señor Valverde, we have received joyous news.”

Joyous? He looked to D’Oysel for an explanation. D’Oysel met his gaze but said nothing. He was leaving this up to the Queen.

“God has answered our prayers,” she said. “Your mighty king has been moved by our plight. A wise and pious monarch, he sees the terrible threat to Holy Mother Church here in my daughter’s homeland realm. As a remedy, he is massing ten thousand troops to come to our aid in our fight against Satan.”

Amazing. Exactly what D’Oysel wanted. “Do I understand you, madam?
Spanish
troops?”

“The very best. Veterans of King Philip’s holy wars. They are sailing to us even as we speak.” She smiled that fevered smile. “You look amazed, señor. As are we all. Amazed, and utterly grateful to your noble king. I wanted you to know immediately, for you have so honorably and faithfully represented His Majesty here with us.”

He bowed again to be polite, thinking how extraordinary the news was. Spain throwing its weight into this war would change everything. The Queen of England, young, untested, and drowning in debt, could never match the might of Spain. He thought of Isabel, and her fear of England being conquered. She had thought France was the enemy, but England had far more to fear from Spain. If Spanish troops claimed victory in this island, they would never leave it, they’d be here to stay. Spain with its boot on England’s throat—it rocked him. Isabel was more right than she knew.

“Lady Frances, is this the one you want for tomorrow?”

Frances looked up from folding the baby’s smocks on the bed. Her maid, Nan, held up a garnet brocade gown. “Yes. And my new cloak—” This was hard, acting as though all were normal, as though Christopher were not plotting treason in this very house. “The one with the sable trim.” She set the folded smocks onto the pile to be added to the trunks that Nan was packing. She felt terrible about leaving Isabel in these dreadful circumstances, but Isabel’s letter would soon reach the Queen, and then government officers would step in, take over. Meanwhile, Isabel was right—Frances had to think of Katherine. And of Adam. There must be no taint of suspicion on him because of his wife. Now that the decision was made, she wanted only to see morning, when she could be on her way to London. Home. Katherine would be safe there. “Have you packed your own things, Nan?”

“Soon as I’m done here, my lady.”

The baby made a fussing sound from her cradle by the hearth, and Frances went to check on her. Katherine’s tiny hands flailed in excitement at seeing her mother’s face. It made Frances smile. “Are you eager to get home, sweet pea?” she cooed. She picked up the teething coral nestled in the blanket and offered it to the baby. It gave her a sad pang. The coral was Isabel’s gift. Dear Isabel—how courageous she was. But what risks she was taking!

A knock on the door startled her. Her nerves were so on edge. And it was late. “Yes?” she called.

Her brother walked in. Frances fumbled the coral. “Christopher.”

“I may not see you in the morning,” he said. “I’m off at first light to Wooler. Thought it best to say good-bye now.”

“Ah. That is thoughtful.”

He looked at the trunks. “All ready, then?”

“Almost.”

He looked at Nan. “Leave us, please.”

Nan bobbed a curtsy and bustled out. Frances wished she could have held her back. She did not want to be alone with her brother.

He went to the cradle and gazed down at the baby, but with a blank look, his thoughts elsewhere. Fixed on treason, Frances thought. If she were a man she would strike him to the ground.

“That Indian boy of Isabel’s, have you noticed anything odd about him?”

“Pedro? Well, he’s foreign, so I suppose everything about him is odd.” She went back to folding the baby’s clothes on the bed. Anything to keep busy.

Christopher picked up the teething coral from the cradle and turned it absently in his hands. “He said something to Father York after mass.”

“Pedro attended the mass?” Frances herself had organized the service at the mill for some of the servants, the most pious, but she had not known that Isabel’s Indian lad had gone.

Christopher nodded, toying with the coral. “It was something he said in confession that’s got me wondering.”

Frances was shocked. “Father York broke confession?”

He gave her a look of scorn. “Don’t be naïve, Frances. These are perilous times. Father York knows that better than anyone, and he came to me with this information. He said Isabel’s Indian talked of his time in Scotland, and he confessed to lusting after a wench in Stirling.”

Frances almost laughed. A mighty sin, indeed! “Poor little fellow,” she said.

“Did you hear me? In
Stirling
. That’s where the heretic rebels are. Or were—they’re on the march eastward now to meet up with the English army.” He crossed his arms, still holding the coral, and gave her a probing look. “Did Isabel tell you where she had been in Scotland?”

Frances’s mouth had gone dry as canvas. “Leith,” she managed. “To see her husband. You know that.”

“Yes, but did she mention anywhere else?”

Could she throw him off the scent? She forced a tone of indignation. “Really, Christopher, you surprise me. Isabel is faithful to her husband and his cause. How dare you imply that she might be wanton.”

“I am implying no such thing. Heaven forbid. I only wonder what her servant has been up to behind her back.” Irritated, he tossed the coral back into the cradle as though tossing aside the topic. “Well, don’t let’s squabble. I came to wish you Godspeed.” He came to her and made a small dart to kiss her cheek. She froze, allowing the kiss, and said, “Thank you.”

“Write to me when you reach London.” He started for the door. Frances went back to folding the little smocks, waiting to hear the door close after him so she could breathe again.

He stopped. “Why would you say his cause?”

“Pardon?”

“You said, her husband and his
cause
.” He turned. “Who said anything about causes?”

She gaped at him.

His eyes flashed with interest. “You know something.”

“I?”

“Is it something about Isabel?”

She said as steadily as she could, “Isabel? I know that her heart is pure and—”

“Enough of that. You know something. Tell me.”

Frances clasped her hands at her waist. Now that it was up to her, she was surprised that she felt no more fear of him. Nothing on earth could make her betray Isabel.

He gave a grunt of sudden understanding. “So that’s it.” His voice rang with wounded disgust. “She is a Thornleigh after all.”

“That is nonsense, Christopher. You know her to be a good Catholic. If you are worried that she might speak to her family about Father York, I assure you she will not. Her first allegiance is to God.”

“This is not about York. And you are lying.”

“How dare you!”

“Tell me what you know of her.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, and I want you to leave.”

“No?” He went to the cradle and lifted the baby out. “You will tell me what you know about the woman. Do it now, before I stop this child’s breath.”

She did not understand. He held her daughter so gently in the crook of his arm, like a loving uncle. Yet his cupped hand, as big as the baby’s face, hovered an inch above her mouth.

“Frances?”

She watched, terror crawling over her.

“
Now,
Frances.” His hand came down, clamping over the baby’s mouth and nose. Katherine did not move. Not a whimper. But her eyes sprang wide open.

“No!” Frances lunged to wrench his hand away. He stepped back, out of her reach. She lurched for him again. Again, he stepped back.

Katherine’s face was turning blue.

“Stop!”
Frances screamed.

25

The Postern Gate

C
arlos struck the flint. The spark jumped to the thin cord he held, then burst into a flame the size of his thumb. It cast a flickering light over this corner of the dark, stone cellar beneath the garrison’s great hall. The vaulted space, as long as a jousting yard, was stocked with victuals laid in for the expected siege. The quartermaster’s orderly rows of sacks, barrels, casks, and crates smelled of musty hemp sacking and brine-soaked barrels of salt pork. Fenella had done her part, delivering the storeroom key to Carlos at his billet. Now the rest was up to him.

He shifted the burning cord to his other hand and glanced at Jorge Rodriguez, his comrade-in-arms from Continental campaigns a decade ago. He’d been happily surprised to find the Portuguese artilleryman here in Leith when he’d arrived at Christmas, but there was nothing happy about tonight’s mission, and any surprises now could get them killed. Rodriguez knew it, too, and had been reluctant at first when Carlos had taken him aside in the alehouse yesterday and asked for his help. But he’d admitted that after a year and a half in the Leith garrison he was itching to get home to Lisbon and his wife and six children. “If I stay longer,” he’d said, “when I get back, there may be a seventh.” The purse of gold crowns that Carlos had dropped into his palm had clinched the deal. Rodriguez would get home with more money than the French would pay him in a year.

Now, in the cellar, they had shoved heavy sacks of grain into a heap, hefting them up as high as their shoulders, then had cleared a space around the sacks so the mound stood like a castle keep surrounded by a dry moat. Sweat glistened on Rodriguez’s forehead from their burst of labor. Or maybe from the thought of their chances of getting away with this, Carlos thought grimly. The odds were not good. The plan depended on so many things going right, and when did that ever happen? He wasn’t even sure Adam would cooperate.

He pushed his worries to the back of his mind. “Ready?” he said.

Rodriguez gave him a nod, looking dour but determined. “Ready.”

Carlos stepped close to the flour sacks and dropped the burning cord. The sacking instantly caught fire. He turned to Rodriguez. “Let’s go.”

They took the back stairs and reached the ground floor of the great hall, keeping to the screened passage that led to the kitchens. The way was dimly lit by the spill of light from torches in the hall where soldiers were taking their ease before curfew. A wolfhound padded past Carlos. He and Rodriguez turned into the hall and walked through the crowd of men. Some sat in small groups, cleaning weapons. Others stood in knots, trading tales. Carlos nodded a greeting to a couple of men he had played dice with last night and stopped to talk to them. The casual face he showed them was a mask; he was very nervous. He had hoped to do this after midnight, when most of the garrison would be asleep, but the fisherman whose reeking little boat he had bought had said that after ten o’clock the tide would turn, challenging any vessel that set out into the estuary. Carlos had to get Adam Thornleigh out and on the water before ten.

They walked on, and Rodriguez nudged Carlos’s elbow and jerked his chin toward a staircase leading down to the cellar. Carlos saw wisps of smoke rising from the stairs. No one else appeared to notice.

They stepped outside into the broad inner ward. Curfew was near, but some of the garrison’s workers were still hard at it under torchlight. The quadrangle echoed with the clang of hammers, the jangle of harnesses, and gruff, tired voices.

“We’ll give it a little time,” Carlos said.

Rodriguez cast an anxious look at the armory that stood adjacent to the hall, butted up against its west wall. In preparation for siege, the armory was storing extra gunpowder. “If you’re wrong about this, Valverde,” he said in a low voice, “we’ll all get blown to kingdom come.”

Carlos wasn’t worried about the fire spreading. The cellar was stone, and they had created the dry moat as a firebreak, and if this worked, the fire would be located soon enough and put out. A mixed blessing, that. What worried him more was the brightness of the rising moon. He looked up at it sailing out from behind scudding clouds. Though on the wane, it gave enough light that he could make out the faces of sentries patrolling the high walkway along the fortress’s outer wall. He tried to convince himself that the moonlight was a good thing—there would be no need for a torch to light the fugitives’ way down to the cove. But in fact it made him more nervous. If the French went after Adam, in this light he would be easy prey.

He took a deep breath to clear his head of such thoughts. He could not control the moon.

“That’s time enough,” he told Rodriguez. He motioned him to follow, and led the way next door to the armory. They opened the heavy doors and stepped inside. It was quieter there, the day’s inventory done. Moonlight shone through the windows and glinted off racks of pikes and staves, muskets and pistols, breastplates and helmets. The massed longbows and stacked sheaves of arrows gave off a smell like fresh lumber, and there was a sharp tang of gunpowder in the air. What Carlos hoped to smell was smoke. The storeroom under the great hall ran under the armory, too. He had set the fire directly beneath it. He sniffed, and was glad when he caught an acrid whiff.

The watchman, round-faced and no more than twenty, got up from his bench where he was munching an apple. “Help you, sir?” he asked, jamming the apple in his pocket.

“Can’t you smell that, soldier?”

“Sir?”

“We could smell it outside, for God’s sake. Smoke. There’s a fire. And it’s somewhere near.”

The watchman’s mouth fell open in horror. They were standing inside a powder keg.

“Raise the alarm,” Carlos ordered.

“Aye, sir!” The fellow grabbed a big brass hand bell from the bench and clanged it.

“Fire!” Rodriguez shouted out the open door.

Soon over a dozen men were pounding into the armory, and drifting smoke was visible from a loose floorboard beside the musket racks. The armory became a chaos of shouts and tramping boots, of questions and confusion, with more men arriving and jogging through in search of the smoke’s source, while others outside shouted, “Fire!” In the din, Carlos and Rodriguez slipped downstairs to the basement lockup.

The stone staircase wound down to the corridor that held the cells. Carlos stopped halfway down and gestured to Rodriguez to halt. Fenella stood at the foot of the stairs, her back pressed against the wall so that the turnkey along the corridor could not see her. She had been watching for Carlos and she looked ready, but very frightened. She cast Carlos a questioning look, her eyes flicking to the armory above them where the thuds and shouts, though muffled, carried the sound of panic. Carlos nodded to her. She seemed to steel herself, then nodded back. She left the wall and ran down the corridor, shouting, “Fire!”

The turnkey stationed on his stool outside the Hole jumped up in alarm. He had heard the commotion above, not knowing what it was about. “Where is it?” he cried.
“Where ?”

She gasped and pointed to the Hole. “Look!”

He twisted around in fear. “Flames?”

Carlos and Rodriguez took the cue. They sprinted down the corridor, and Carlos grabbed the turnkey from behind and pinned his arms behind his back. The man cried out, unable to see who had attacked him. Rodriguez whipped a cloth around his mouth, gagging him, and Carlos dropped a burlap sack over his head. The turnkey struggled, but Carlos held him firmly while Rodriguez tied his wrists with a leather strip. Carlos snapped the iron ring of keys off the man’s belt. He turned to Fenella. She looked terrified by the violent scuffle and had pulled out a stiletto. She crouched, on her guard against the trussed-up turnkey and against Rodriguez, too. The fear in her eyes was so frantic, and her grip on the knife so tight, Carlos was afraid she might lash out with it. “It’s all right,” he said to calm her. “You did fine. Put that away.”

“Who’s he?” she demanded.

“Rodriguez. He’s with me.”

She let out a wobbly breath, getting control of herself. She slid the knife into a sheath at her belt.
Everyone’s too nervous,
Carlos thought. He looked through the gloom toward the Hole. Adam was on his feet, clenching the cell bars, watching them. Carlos tightened his grip on the squirming turnkey, and Rodriguez said, “What do we do with him?”

Fenella pointed to the empty cells. “Bring him here. Come!”

Following her, Carlos and Rodriguez dragged the hooded turnkey to an alcove between the cells. She opened a door to what looked to Carlos like a dark cupboard until the stink told him it was the turnkey’s privy. They pushed him inside and Carlos closed the door. So far, so good, he thought with relief. The turnkey had not seen his face.

“Sweet Jesus, listen to that,” Fenella said in fear, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. Soldiers pounded over the floor above them. “Sounds like half the garrison.”

“The more the better,” Carlos said quietly. “Did you bring the cloak?”

She picked up a bundled cloak of gray homespun wool, the kind an infantryman might have. It would cover the gash in the back of Adam’s jerkin where he’d been wounded. Carlos took it and strode down the corridor to the Hole. Adam still gripped the bars, watching him come. He looked pale and gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed. He was eyeing Rodriguez and Fenella with a wild look of confusion and suspicion. “What’s happening?” he said. His condition made Carlos very nervous. The wound, and this foul place, had sapped a lot of his strength. Was he too weak to make a run for it? Could he even walk?

“We’re getting you out,” he said, unlocking the door. He thrust the cloak at him. “Put this on.”

Adam ignored it. He backed up, as wary as a cornered dog.

“I told you,” Carlos said, “there will be no ransom. If you stay here they will hang you.”

“Why should I trust you? You’re with the French.”

“Not tonight. Believe me, I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

Adam looked to be in an agony of doubt.

“Adam, there’s a fishing boat waiting for you. All yours. You’ll be down to the shore before they know you’re gone. Fenella knows the way. Rodriguez will be your mate. They’re sailing with you.”

Adam licked his cracked lips, trying to decide. Then flashed a skeptical look at Rodriguez. “You know a sheet from a halyard?”

“No. But I can take orders.”

Adam grunted, unimpressed. He took one last, hard look at Carlos and seemed to realize that this was his only hope. “All right.” He moved to his crewman, who lay curled up on the floor. Carlos saw that the man’s mutilated hand had gone black all the way to the elbow. Gangrene. And his face was as white as a maggot. He was so near death he hadn’t moved despite the scuffle around him. He was unconscious. “We’ll have to carry him,” Adam said.

Christ. “Too dangerous. I told you—just you.”

“And I told
you,
I don’t go without Braddock.”

“That man?” Rodriguez said in disbelief. “He’ll be dead by morning.”

“Shut up.” Adam’s bloodshot eyes looked fevered. “And get the hell out of here, all of you.”

“Adam—”

“Get away from me, Carlos. All of you, get away!”

Carlos shoved the cloak back into Fenella’s hands and said to Rodriguez, “Help me take him.”

They came for him. He swung a fist at Carlos, but Carlos ducked. Adam jabbed Rodriguez in the jaw. Rodriguez staggered from the blow, but quickly found his footing. Adam crept backward, hulking like a wrestler, waiting to take them on. But a man weak from a wound is no match against two who are fresh. They rushed him, each taking one of his arms. Grappling him between them, they yanked him toward the cell door. In a frantic burst of energy Adam swung both legs up and braced his feet against the bars with a thud that shook Carlos and Rodriguez and almost made them lose their balance. “Not without Braddock!” he cried. His bloodshot eyes were desperate as they fixed on Carlos. “If you
are
a friend you know I can’t leave him!”

Carlos glared at him. Damn it, there was no time for this! Adam had a surprising reserve of strength, and if he kept resisting they’d never get him to the boat. Carlos yanked him backward so Adam’s legs fell from the bars and dropped back down to the ground. “If we bring this man you’ll come quietly?”

Adam was out of breath from his effort. “Yes.”

Carlos went to the sick man and bent and lifted him in his arms. He felt like a sack of bones and stank of death. Carlos slung him over his shoulder and stood. “Now, come,” he ordered Adam.

“What?” Rodriguez looked appalled. “How do you explain
him
if they stop us?”

“Say we’re taking him to the infirmary. Say it’s plague, then they’ll keep clear.”

“Are you brainsick, Valverde? Our chances are bad enough already. Leave him. I won’t be hanged because of a dead man.”

“Good Christ, leave the man!” Fenella said in horror. “If we don’t go now, they’ll find us and hang us
all!
And before they do, D’Oysel will have us screaming for mercy with his torture toys.” She was hugging herself, shaking with fear. “Leave that man and let’s
go!
”

Adam staggered a step, suddenly too weak to stand, and stumbled against Fenella. She grabbed him with both arms and steadied him. He got his balance and made an effort to stand tall.

“If you do this,” Rodriguez told Carlos, “I’m out. You can have a dead man or me. Not both.”

Carlos had never felt so torn. Rodriguez
had
to go with Adam. Adam was too weak to sail to France on his own. “You hear that?” Carlos told him. “You are going to need Rodriguez. You won’t make it alone.” He went down on one knee and laid the crewman back on the floor. “This man stays.” He got to his feet. “And you are coming.” He jerked his chin in a signal to Rodriguez and again they came at Adam.

Adam whipped a knife from his sleeve. Carlos and Rodriguez froze. Where had he got that blade?

Fenella cried in surprise, “My knife!” The stiletto, Carlos realized. Adam’s stumble against Fenella had been a feint.