The Queen's Gamble (33 page)

Only, he was so far away from her. She was in London. He had sent her there in his fury, thrown her out—and burned the bridge between them. It made him shudder to remember her riding away in tears. He was a bastard as brutal as D’Oysel. Could Isabel ever forget that? Could she ever forgive him?

He could no longer see Adam’s boat in the darkness. The wind was cold. He suddenly felt very alone on the beach.

Time to move. A search party could come this way at any moment. He turned and walked away from the water. He needed a horse.

27

The Players

T
he wind rattled the windows of Yeavering Hall as Isabel left her bedchamber to check on Frances. A ferocious wind it was this evening, a lion roaring in with March, making Isabel’s headache worse, a pounding pain. For days she had scarcely slept. Nor could she eat much, though she feared the lack of nourishment might hurt the babe in her belly. She was so tense from her weeks of watching Grenville, so worn by worry, so alone with her fears, she felt as hollow as a husk that the wind might spin away.

One of her worries was Frances, who had not left for London as planned. She was ill with a fever—so the chamberlain had told Isabel yesterday morning, stopping her as she had knocked on Frances’s bedchamber door. Frances had not answered. The door had been locked. Isabel had not seen her since. She felt terrible that sickness had struck Frances, and even worse that it was forcing her sister-in-law to stay in this dangerous house.

She reached the door now to find a man standing guard, a dulleyed Grenville retainer armed with dagger and sword. A chill touched Isabel’s scalp. Was the man on some kind of death watch? “How fares Lady Frances?” she asked.

“No better.”

“I would like to see her. Please, it would do her good.”

He shook his head. “No one goes in. Master says the fever would spread.”

Isabel heard Frances’s baby cry behind the locked door. That made no sense. If Frances was wracked with fever she would never keep the child nearby, for fear of infecting her. The cry was followed by a woman’s muffled murmuring, tense and low. Surely it was Frances. The baby’s cries stopped. What was happening? The stony face of Grenville’s man told Isabel nothing—except that she would not get past him. She turned away and went downstairs, more anxious than ever. If the woman behind the door was Frances, she was not fevered. And if not fevered, why was she being kept in seclusion?

So many troubles—Isabel felt overwhelmed by them. She had failed to discover anything more about the planned uprising, yet had an awful sense that the time was near. Grenville, though always gracious to her, had been careful to keep the organizational details secret. She knew that he and his co-conspirators planned to ride in force to Durham to raise the revolt, but she did not know when. She knew there were perhaps a dozen more powerful men of Northumberland, Yorkshire, and Cumbria who were ready to join them in Durham with their forces, and then all would march on London, but she did not know who they were. She knew that the Queen Regent of Scotland was involved, preparing the way for her daughter to seize the English throne, but Isabel did not know how. All she had learned was that Grenville and his plotters had scheduled their next meeting for Sir Ralph Donaldson’s home near Wooler eleven miles away. The location was more convenient for the other men, Grenville had quietly told her at breakfast, since the heavy spring rains had left the roads around Yeavering like muddy bogs. Isabel was not invited.

She was in misery. Had her attempts to help Queen Elizabeth been worth the heartrending choices she had made? Because of her, Nicolas remained a hostage. Because of her, Tom Yates was dead. Because of her, Carlos had turned against her, their marriage shattered. The loss of his love still reamed her heart as though he had dug his dagger into it. And here at Yeavering Hall she faced terrifying consequences if Grenville should come to suspect her double-dealing. She could not wait to leave this suffocating place! If she stayed one more day she felt she would break from the strain. And why
should
she stay? If Pedro was making good speed to London, the Queen would soon have her letter and know about the plot. Why should Isabel risk her life to get proof? The crisis was out of her hands. She could leave. She
would
leave, tomorrow. Making the decision brought a blessed relief.

She would see her son! A bubble of joy broke through her swamp of worries. She imagined pulling his sturdy little body into her arms and finally taking him home.

Home?
Her stomach lurched as she remembered Carlos’s contempt. Would he bar her from their home in Trujillo as he had threatened? Would he take Nicolas back with him and forbid her to see him? Was her parents’ house to be her home now, like a childless widow with nowhere else to go? It brought a surge of anger. Carlos had not even
listened
to her reasons.

“You’re just in time for the fun, Mistress Valverde,” a young maid said gaily, coming up the stairs with a tray of food as Isabel reached the bottom step.

Isabel blinked at her, then realized—the actors. They had been Grenville’s guests for as long as she had been here, and tonight they were to give their final performance before they traveled south. She nodded at the covered dishes the girl was taking up. “Is that for Lady Frances?”

“Yes. Too bad she’ll miss the play.”

Isabel asked if she had seen Frances, but the maid said no, her orders were to leave the food at the door. “A fierce fever, I warrant, poor lady.” She hurried on up the stairs, leaving Isabel even more confused and worried about Frances.

She found the great hall humming with excitement. Maidservants scurried with goblets of wine and pots of foaming ale. Footmen had dragged the communal dinner tables against the walls and now were shoving benches into position in front of the makeshift stage. The chamberlain’s men, perched on ladders, were stringing curtains on either side of the stage to mask the actors as they prepared, and behind the curtains the sounds of tuning lutes and viols lilted above the chatter of the household folk who were streaming in from the kitchens, stables, dairy house, bakehouse, and brewhouse, eager to take their seats.

It was the last place Isabel wanted to be. She had intended to stay in her bedchamber all evening, but Grenville’s footman had delivered a note to her door late that afternoon, a friendly invitation to join him for the festivities. She had been at great pains to show him an amiable face, to keep him believing she was in harmony with his plot, and could not risk marring that impression now. She saw him standing near the stage, arms folded, watching the preparations. She took a breath and moved through the hall past the bustling servants, and joined him.

“Ah, Isabel,” he said. “Eager for the entertainment?”

She felt the warmth of his smile on her and found it bizarrely comforting. Bizarre that he, unlike Carlos, harbored her no ill will.

She forced a smile in return. “Well, sir, your people surely are.” The hall rang with the high spirits of the household folk at this welcome break from their dawn-to-dusk chores. Grenville had ensured a good supply of ale, and as fast as the tapster and his helpers filled mugs from a row of barrels, the throng of men-at-arms, maidservants, grooms, footmen, clerks, officers of the household and their wives quaffed it down. Their children darted about like fish in shallows, and dogs trotted from one handout of food scraps to the next. A maid curtsied to Grenville and held out goblets of wine to him and Isabel. Grenville took one. Isabel declined.

“How is Frances?” she asked. “They will not let me in to see her.”

“No, I would not have you fall ill, too. But she is greatly improved today, rest assured.”

She was relieved. It explained why Frances had the baby with her. Yet there was something in Grenville’s eyes, a darkness, that made her uncomfortable. “Yet you still fear for her health?”

“No, it is not that. I have had news, Isabel. Momentous events in Scotland. My clerk galloped back from the market in Kirknewton, where he heard it. Queen Elizabeth’s army has reached Leith and is preparing to lay siege.”

Isabel felt it like a cold hand at her throat. Carlos was inside Leith. Her anger at him vanished, and fear for him swelled in its place. He was an experienced fighter, but even veteran soldiers dreaded a siege with its threat of death from starvation or disease.

“But take heart,” Grenville went on. “The Queen Regent’s soldiers will staunchly defend the fortress. And there is wonderful news from Antwerp. Thirteen ships with eight thousand Spanish troops, veterans of King Philip’s wars in the Low Countries, are set to embark for Scotland to support God’s cause there. We must pray that they arrive soon.”

Isabel nodded, pretending to agree, but this news stunned her. Spain and France combined, against England! It was horrible. She had never felt so torn. English defeat could bring down Elizabeth, her parents, Adam. Yet English victory could mean Carlos’s death.

Grenville lowered his voice to an intimate, urgent murmur. “I see that you feel the deep significance of this moment, its bearing on our grand goal. This is not a night for stage foolery, not for you and me. I have asked Father York to meet me at the mill to say a private mass. You will join me, will you not? We will pray God to give strength to the righteous defenders of His creed.”

He asked so fervently, Isabel did not see how she could refuse. And why
not
go? It was impossible to sit here pretending an interest in silly theatrics. In the desert of merriment around her, she felt the little chapel in the mill beckoning like an oasis. A place to unburden her heart to God. Grenville would pray for an English defeat. She would pray for the opposite—and for Carlos’s life.

Grenville drank down his wine and handed the goblet to a passing maid. He offered his arm to Isabel. “Shall we?”

She hooked her elbow around his.
One last night,
she told herself.
With the morning sun I’ll be riding to London.

They crossed the length of the hall, making for the family quarters at the north end where Grenville’s library was. From it, the tunnel led to the mill. Grenville opened the library door for her. She took a last glance over her shoulder—and what she saw made her halt.

A man had come in at the far end of the hall. A tall man, standing with his back to her. The moving throng blocked a clear view of him, but she glimpsed muddy riding boots, a dark blue cloak, a sword at his hip. He turned to scan the crowd, and when she saw his face her heart leapt. Carlos! She could hardly believe her eyes! It seemed impossible . . . yet there he was, looking around, stopping a passing clerk to speak to him. Questions swarmed her. Had he deserted? Why was he here? Had he come for
her?

“What is it?” Grenville asked. His gaze followed hers. “You know that man?”

She turned to him, smiling in wonder and bewilderment. “My husband!”

His face clouded. “Good heavens.”

She turned back, eager to spot Carlos again through the mass of people. Every muscle in her yearned to run to him. She could not stop herself from calling out, “Carlos!”

Grenville’s hand clamped over her mouth, gagging her. She staggered at the shock of it. His other hand roughly gripped her upper arm. He yanked her into the library. Her eyes above his hand flicked in panic to Carlos. He was talking to the groom. He had not heard her. Grenville shut the door.

His bailiff was waiting. Morton, a bear of a man with a shaggy beard.

“Hold her here,” Grenville said. “Let no one in.”

Carlos saw that he had walked in on a household feast.

“Not as such, sir,” the clerk explained when Carlos asked. “The players are set to enact the struggle of Saint George against Beelzebub.” He pointed to the stage. “It’s a favorite ’round here.”

Carlos was about to ask where he might find the lord of the manor when he noticed a finely dressed man striding toward him. Chances were it was Grenville. As if to confirm it, the clerk made a quick, fawning bow to the man, then hustled away. “Sir Christopher Grenville?” Carlos asked as he reached him.

“I am, sir,” Grenville replied with a friendly smile. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I do not know your name.”

Carlos introduced himself, then said, “I’ve come for my wife.” He had been riding hard from the Scottish border, hoping he could cover the miles to London in a few fast days. Isabel would be there, at her father’s house. But in Alnwick he had stopped at an inn for a meal and learned that she was with her relations at Yeavering Hall. The talkative landlady had beamed with delight at being in the know. “Every soul hereabouts has heard of the Spanish-English lady what staggered into the Hall, sir, half dead from the storm. Black and white she was with the frostbite, so I heard.”

Carlos had knocked back his ale in pained silence. He hated to think of Isabel suffering so. Hated himself. He had cast her out into that storm.

“Ah, don’t you fret, sir. My husband’s cousin delivered a wagon of coal to the Hall and he saw the lady. You’ll find her hale and hearty now.”

Grenville said cheerfully, “Señor Valverde, it is a pleasure to meet a kinsman. For that is what you are, sir. Since you married a daughter of the house of Thornleigh, and my sister married Sir Adam, we are one family, under God.”

Carlos mustered a smile. “True.” He appreciated the man’s goodwill but had no stomach for chat. He only wanted to see Isabel.

“Pardon me,” Grenville went on, “but I am somewhat confused. I understood you were in Edinburgh, serving his Majesty King Philip at the fortress of Leith.”

“My services were no longer needed.”

“May I ask when you left?”

“Yesterday.” He was looking around for Isabel.

“And can you tell me how things stand there? We heard that the Queen’s army will shortly lay siege. Do her forces seem strong enough to vanquish the French?”

“Strong, by all reports, but not strong enough if Spanish troop ships arrive to take them on.”

“So that report is true?” Grenville sounded almost eager. But the note of satisfaction changed to soberness as he added, “Then we must double our prayers that the Queen’s commanders prevail.”

Carlos got the sense that Grenville had mixed feelings about it. He didn’t know why, and didn’t really care. “My wife,” he said. “I heard she was staying with you. Is she here?”

“She was.”

Carlos looked up to the ceiling. “Gone up to bed?”
Madre de Dios,
what he would give to open the bedchamber door and see her. Tell her what a fool he had been. Ask her to forgive him.