The Queen's Gamble (35 page)

Morton had wrestled Carlos close to the gap and now wrenched him around to its edge. Carlos’s heel slipped over. He lurched away and got his balance, backing up to the turning iron shaft. Morton plowed a fist at him, but Carlos vaulted over the shaft. Morton staggered, lost his footing. He plunged through the gap and down into the water.

Grenville was running at Carlos’s back, his sword held high.

“Carlos!” Isabel screamed.

He spun around, drawing his sword. The two blades clanged.

Frances was struggling to pull the stone-weighted sack off Isabel’s neck. The moment Isabel was free of it she cried, “Cut my hands loose!” Frances tugged at the leather, but Isabel’s wrists were slick with blood, making Frances fumble. Grenville and Carlos swung their swords, scuffling, Grenville grunting with the effort. The blades clanged and scraped.

The priest came charging up the stairs, a long dagger in his hand, and rushed at Carlos. Carlos saw him and jerked clear of the attack even as he kept fending off Grenville. Isabel watched in agony. Carlos’s sword against one man could chop off an arm, but against two men ferociously attacking in close quarters he could not get the room. As soon as he backed Grenville against the stairs, the priest came at him from behind. Carlos twisted from one to the other, fending off one, attacking the other.

“Hurry, Frances!” Isabel cried. Carlos was keeping both men at bay, but they fought fiercely. He could not keep them back forever. The moment he tired, one would reach him.

“There!” Frances cried, and Isabel felt the leather cord snap. She was free! Carlos had turned to fight Grenville, and she saw the priest about to plunge his dagger into Carlos’s shoulder. She snatched an empty sack from a hook and ran at the priest and flung it over his head. He clawed at it, his dagger flailing. The tip swiped Isabel’s neck. A prick of pain. Carlos looked in horror at her blood, and in that moment Grenville swung at him. Carlos parried, but Grenville’s blade slashed his forearm. Blood gushed through Carlos’s sleeve. He flinched but then attacked, fending Grenville off.

Frances cried, “Stop!”

The priest flung away the sack that had blinded him. He turned on Isabel and plowed his fist into her stomach. Frances again cried, “Stop!” Isabel crumpled, hugging herself at the pain. York raised his dagger over her, poised to stab. Carlos twisted to go to her. Grenville slashed at him. Carlos ducked but lost his footing and staggered.

“Stop!” Frances screamed at the priest. She grabbed the lantern off the hook and hurled it at him. It glanced off his shoulder, then went hurtling and hit the stacked sacks of grain. The flame leapt onto the burlap. Flames shot across the mound of sacks, engulfing the sacks of treasure.

Grenville looked in horror at the fire. He ran to the treasure where the gold cross lay. Frances was in his way and he struck her face with the back of his hand, knocking her down. He stood over her and kicked her. “Fool!” Twisting around to rescue the gold cross, he bent to grab it from the flames, but cried out, his hands scalded.

Carlos was helping Isabel up. He looked horrified at her bloodied neck, but she said, “A scratch—look out!” The priest stabbed Carlos’s sword hand. The sword fell from his grip.

The priest kicked it away and he and Grenville both came at Carlos and wrestled him to the floor. Flames leapt from the stacked grain to the wooden posts, torching the empty sacks that hung there, flaring up to the ceiling beams. Isabel ran to help Frances, who groaned on the floor, so dazed from her brother’s blows that Isabel could not get her to her feet. She watched in horror as the three men wrestled, Carlos beating the other two back, the two ganging up to bring him down again, Carlos hurling them off, only for them to come at him again. All the while the fire spread, roaring over the grain, rippling along the floor, crackling across the beams.

“Get out, Isabel!” Carlos yelled.

Grenville coughed at the smoke. “The treasures!” he cried. He bolted down the stairs.

Isabel’s eyes burned. The heat . . . the smoke. She could not rouse Frances, who moaned, too stunned to move.

The priest staggered back from Carlos, appalled at being left to fight him alone. He ran for the stairs that led up and outside. Flames shot across the floor in front of him and he lurched to a stop. He turned and ran back toward the tunnel that led to the house. A flaming beam thudded down in his path, blocking the door. He froze in panic.

Isabel was dragging Frances by the wrists, but she could barely see in the billowing smoke. It had engulfed the priest. Carlos was suddenly at her side, pulling her away from Frances. “Go!” he told her. “Get out!” He lifted Frances in his arms.

“Yes, this way! Follow me!” Isabel said, and ran for the staircase that led up and out. But near the steps she balked at the knee-high flames eating the floor in front of her. She heard a crash, and turned. The staircase leading down to the treasure room had collapsed in a thunder of flames and sparks. Grenville would be trapped down there.

“Go!” she heard Carlos yell again. She saw him lumbering through the smoke with Frances in his arms. Isabel bolted through the flames and up the stairs, frantically batting sparks from her skirt.

She staggered out the door, coughing, and onto the riverside path. The cold night air was bliss to breathe. But where was Carlos? She was so shaky it was hard to stand, and the heat was fierce on her face. She saw Carlos barrel out the door, and tears of relief stung her eyes. He reached the path and dropped to his knees and set Frances down on the grass. She looked half-dead. Isabel fell to her knees beside Carlos. “Is she—?”

“She’ll be all right,” he said, catching his breath. “Are you?”

She looked up at him. She could not stop trembling. “Yes. And you? Your arm—”

“I’ll be fine. Isabel, I . . .” His voice choked.

“Oh, my love!” She threw her arms around his neck. He held her so tightly against him she could hardly breathe.

The building was a roaring billow of orange flame and black smoke, the heat blistering. Three horses nearby whinnied in fear at the fire. Tethered to a railing, they strained and stamped to get loose.

Frances sat up, coughing.

“Can you stand?” Carlos asked her. “We can’t stay here.”

She nodded. They both helped her to her feet. She looked back at the mill. “Christopher—”

“We ride,” Carlos said, making for the horses. “Before his men stop us.” He untied the horses.

As they rode away Isabel looked over her shoulder at the mill blazing in the darkness. She saw with a shock—was it her fevered imagination?—a man stagger out the door. It looked like Father York. He was limping, dragging something. The flames lit it up . . . the golden cross.

The inn was old, of oak and mossy stone, snugged into a quiet, wooded valley. The wind had spent itself, and all was still. A soft rain whispered on the roof. An owl hooted from the woods.

The chair by the fire’s embers held Isabel and Carlos, both naked, he sitting, she straddling him. He was inside her, and she did not move as they caught their breath. The lovemaking had been slow, gentle, exquisite, for their bodies were both so bruised, but they had wanted each other too much to stop. Now, with her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her hips, they looked into each other’s eyes, savoring the time together after the hard ride to this valley.

They had picked up Frances’s baby with her maid and then set out for London, for Isabel had told Carlos about the plot and they were on their way to warn the Queen, with no time to lose. She had told him, too, about Pedro, and saw that it hit him as hard as it had her. She felt that Grenville perishing, trapped in that inferno, was simple justice. As they had covered the miles on horseback, past fields, across bridges, up hills, down valleys, she had felt nightmare images of the mill galloping after her. The churning water that would have drowned her . . . the searing heat of the blaze . . . the white-faced priest limping out of the flames and into the night.

But here at the inn, when Carlos had closed the door and they were alone, she had put it all behind her. They had found each other. They were man and wife again—they were one. Nothing else mattered.

She let her heartbeat settle and heard his breathing calm, both still looking into each other’s eyes. His gleamed with happiness, but she also saw a shadow of remorse. “Isabel,” he said, his voice so low she could still hear the whispering rain. “Can you ever forgive my—”

“Shhh,” she said, laying her fingertips on his mouth. She felt so full of contentment, she wanted to give him more. “Carlos, I am with child.”

She watched emotions chase each other across his face. She knew him so well she could name them. A thrill of joy. Shame at how he had treated her. Anxiety because of her previous miscarriage.

“I promise you,” she said, her own voice as soft as the rain, “we will not lose this child.”

A smile wobbled on his lips. He lowered his forehead onto her shoulder and she felt him struggle to hold back a sob. She wrapped her arms around him, and murmured,
“Mi amor.”

PART FOUR

The Threatened Queen

29

Return to Whitehall

L
ondon’s church spires rose into the morning mist like beacons to the three arrivals, and beyond the city walls a church bell was pealing as though to greet them. Isabel let out a sigh of relief. They had made it. The days of hard traveling had left every muscle in her body sore, but she and Carlos and Frances had reached the capital in time to warn the Queen about the Northerners’ plot. She had no doubt that Grenville’s co-conspirators planned to go ahead without him, but they would not succeed. As soon as the Queen knew of it, the traitors would be rounded up. Despite Isabel’s aches, a fresh energy coursed through her at being so near the end of her journey. She smiled at Carlos riding beside her. “We’ll soon see Nico,” she said.

He nodded, doing his best to return the smile, but Isabel saw the worry gnawing at him. He had told her there could be serious consequences for what he had done in Leith. She and Frances had listened in amazement as he had told them how Adam had been a captive of the French and how Carlos had secretly freed him, but in doing so had done violence to the French commander. It was a grave offense, yet all Isabel felt was overwhelming gratitude to Carlos. To think of Adam suffering in that Leith jail and facing the gallows! Carlos had risked his life to save her brother. How she loved him for that.

“Yes, you shall see your son,” said Frances, “and, God willing, I shall soon see Adam, home from France. And he shall meet his daughter.”

Poor Frances, Isabel thought. She looked exhausted. In making such haste to get to London, they had left the maid Nan with baby Katherine two days’ ride behind them. Frances was determined to accompany Isabel to the palace, keen to assure Queen Elizabeth in person that she had nothing to do with her brother’s treason, for any such taint could hurt Adam. What a whirlwind we’ve been through, Isabel thought, looking at her sister-in-law. When Frances had confessed that she had betrayed her to Grenville, Isabel’s fury had been sharp, but also brief, for Frances had looked so utterly desolate in telling her. Besides, Isabel knew she would have done the same if anyone had threatened to smother Nicolas. She and Frances were friends again.

They were nearing Bishopsgate, the traffic thicker on the road now. Draymen driving wagons, farmers walking cattle in for slaughter, merchants on horseback, bustling foot traffic of housewives, water carriers, apprentices, laundresses—they tramped and trotted and rattled their carts in and out of the city. Geese bound for market squawked from crates. Cattle bellowed under the farmer’s whip. A listless breeze carried smells of fish and sawdust. Isabel and Carlos and Frances passed through the gates and on down Bishopsgate Street. As they approached her parents’ house she saw a maid shaking a Turkish rug from a third-story window, and she thought how wonderful it was going to be to bring Nicolas back to the house, wash off the dirt of the road, and finally rest. But not yet. Not until they had warned the Queen.

They carried on westward through the teeming square mile of activity that was London. Past the Mercers’ Hall, past the church of St. Mary-le-Bow, down Paternoster Row and past St. Paul’s they went, and then out Ludgate, past the Belle Sauvage Inn and across the Fleet Ditch with its stink of entrails slopped from the slaughter-houses and tanneries. They were approaching Charing Cross on the Strand, where the luxurious town-house gardens of rich nobles spread down to the river, when Carlos slowed his horse. “I’ll say good-bye here,” he said. Isabel and Frances stopped with him, Isabel casting an anxious look at the grand edifice of Durham House, the Spanish embassy. She and Carlos had agreed to this on the journey. “I should see Bishop Quadra right away,” he had told her. “My best chance is to tell him myself, before D’Oysel’s report reaches him.”

Isabel understood how serious the situation was. The ambassador could punish Carlos for assaulting D’Oysel, could even recommend that the King revoke their
encomienda
. “It may not be as bad as you think,” she had said, trying to be optimistic. “It sounds like no one knows you were behind Adam’s escape, at least.”

“No one but D’Oysel,” he had said grimly, “whom I almost killed.”

Now, at Charing Cross, he reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll do my best. Go, do your duty with the Queen, and then bring Nicolas home. I’ll see you back at your father’s house.”

She pressed his hand to her cheek. No matter what lay ahead, she felt no despair about their future, only happiness. They had found each other. They would soon be reunited with their son. She felt aglow from the life growing inside her, and her faith in Carlos was stronger than ever, with or without the
encomienda
. Nothing could shake that happiness. Carlos brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, then turned his horse, heading for Durham House.

Isabel looked at Frances.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Frances said.

Isabel smiled, glad to have her company.

A mile farther they rode into the rambling precincts of Whitehall Palace. Isabel remembered how struck she had been at its sprawling diversity when she’d been summoned by the Queen before Christmas. The palace was a village unto itself with its houses and shops, stables and barracks, tiltyard and tennis courts, towers and turrets. Leaving their horses at the stables, they made their way through the north courtyard bustling with merchants, vendors, lawyers, and clerks. Ballad-mongers and pamphlet printers called to customers, waving their tracts. A dirty little girl sang out her song of mincemeat pies for sale.

Yet, for all the normal bustle, Isabel sensed a new tension in the air. Through an archway under the clock tower she glimpsed soldiers of the Palace Guard massing in ranks, and heard an officer barking orders. The clerks scurrying everywhere looked tired and anxious. She shared a look with Frances, who clearly felt the tense mood as well. “Something has happened,” Frances said.

Inside, making their way to the royal apartments, they found the staircases and corridors and galleries crowded, as usual, with courtiers and servants, but there were no merry faces. And no music. The Queen was known for her love of music—Isabel’s mother had said that lutes and virginals and viols could be heard all day long and into the night—but not today. Only tense, hushed voices and bursts of anxious arguments.

They reached the antechamber of the Queen’s suite. A woman was coming out of the inner chamber with a bundle of papers. Isabel remembered her—Katherine Ashley, the Queen’s former governess and longtime friend. She looked as fretful as everyone else, almost haggard.

“Mistress Valverde?” she said in surprise. “Bless my soul, it
is
you. Your mother was speaking of you just yesterday. But I thought you were in—”

“Is my mother here? Good Mistress Ashley, please let her know that I am come. It is urgent.”

“I’m sorry, but she left last night to see the Earl of Shrewsbury on Her Majesty’s behalf. Every peer and gentleman who can muster a company of soldiers is needed. Her Majesty’s council has vowed to raise five thousand troops by Sunday.”

“Why? What has happened?”

“Have you not heard? The courier brought the news from Scotland this morning.”

Isabel’s heart tripped. “Scotland?”

“Weeping, he was.” Mistress Ashley looked on the verge of weeping herself. “Oh, the shame of it, for England! The Queen’s forces under Lord Grey have been cut down.”

“Cut down?”

“At the French fortress of Leith.”

“But they were to lay siege. How—?”

“No. No siege. Instead, Her Majesty ordered Lord Grey to mount an all-out attack. He did so . . . to disastrous results. Our brave soldiers scaled Leith’s walls only to find their ladders too short. The French hurled our stranded men from the ramparts in glee, with the help of even their
women
. Thousands of our soldiers were broken on those walls to bleed and die.”

Isabel was so appalled she could not speak.

“There’s worse,” the distraught lady went on. “A fleet of Spanish ships has embarked for Scotland with thousands of troops. They will help the French attack the remains of our poor army.”

Frances exclaimed, “God save us!”

Mistress Ashley’s eyes flicked to her, a stranger. Isabel quickly introduced the two. Her mind was in turmoil. What a horrendous defeat! And a Spanish army on the way! The Queen was weakened and foundering, just as the northern traitors were poised to strike at her in her own realm.
Thank God I can prevent at least that,
she thought. “I must see Her Majesty,” she said. “I had hoped my mother would bring me to her. Mistress Ashley, you must do this office for me.”

“Her Majesty? Impossible. She is closed up in earnest conference with her council.”

“Then you must take her a message. Tell her I
must
speak to her.”

“Madam, you do forget yourself. These grave matters of state—”

“There is only one matter of state, and that is the safety of the realm. Her Majesty faces a new peril”—she held up her hand to forestall an interruption—“No, not just in Scotland. A peril from
within
.”

Mistress Ashley tensed. No person near the Queen could dismiss a charge of treason. “You have . . . information?”

“I do.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

Isabel trusted the lady, but there were many other people between this room and the Queen, and she feared the damage that loose tongues could do. “Forgive me, but this report is for Her Majesty’s ears alone.”

The lady hesitated. Frances said, “I beg you, madam, urge Her Majesty to give audience to my sister-in-law with the news she brings.” She added, with a quaver in her voice that showed how much this cost her, “To the eternal shame of my brother and his house.”

Mistress Ashley looked so shocked at this confession, it was clear she was convinced. “All right,” she said to Isabel. “I shall deliver your request. But it may take some time. I cannot barge in on Her Majesty. Please, wait here.”

She left the room. Isabel squeezed Frances’s hand in solidarity and whispered, “Thank you.”

She noticed they were not alone. Two young maids of honor sat together on a window seat, one embroidering a cap, the other stringing a length of catgut on a lute. They were far enough away that they could not have overheard the talk about treason, but their nervous glances at Isabel and Frances showed that they had picked up on the tension of the exchange. Isabel recognized one of the girls, a pretty blond. She had played with Nicolas that day Isabel had brought him here, had tossed a ball back and forth with him, laughing. There was no laughter now. The news from Scotland had rocked everyone.

“Mistress Arnold, is it not?” Isabel said, going to her.

“It is, madam.”

“We met at Christmas. You were kind to my son, Nicolas.”

The girl smiled. “Sweet boy.”

Isabel felt a clutch at her heart. “Do you see him often? Is he all right?”

“Have you not seen him since then?”

“No. I have been away.” She could not hold back from asking, “Who takes care of him? Where does he stay?”

“Oh, he’s in the rooms above the orangery. Old Mistress Dugan has the keeping of him.”

“The orangery?”

“Beside the tennis courts.” The girl nodded to the window. “Just around the corner.” She put down her embroidery. “I’ll take you, if you like. I need to see the Lord Chamberlain’s maid, and your boy’s room is on the way.” She got to her feet. “Come.”

Isabel hesitated. What if the Queen sent a quick reply?

Frances said, “I shall stay, Isabel. I’ll send for you instantly if word comes. Go, see your son.”

She needed no persuading. Off she went with Mistress Arnold, downstairs, outside, past the vacant tennis courts, and into the bright, glassed gallery of the orangery. Upstairs, along a darker corridor, they reached a closed door. “There you go,” Mistress Arnold said, and added with a smile, “sweet boy,” as she went back down the stairs.

Isabel knocked on the door. There was no answer. She opened it to a bright room bathed in spring sunshine from a tall window. A desk was littered with books, quills, and inkpots. Toys lay scattered on the floor. A plump matron sat in a chair by the window, reading aloud in French. She looked up at Isabel in surprise. “Oh!”

“Pardon me,” Isabel said, coming in. “I knocked but—”

“I am somewhat hard of hearing, madam.” The woman raised herself from the chair with some effort because of her bulk, while saying, “May I ask who—”

“I am Lord Thornleigh’s daughter. Is my son—”

“Mama!”

Isabel whirled around. Nicolas sat on the floor, a red tin top spinning between his outstretched legs. He gazed up at her as if she were an apparition.

“Nicolas!”

He scrambled to his feet and hurled himself at her, throwing his arms around her waist. “Mama!” He buried his face in her skirts.

She hugged him to her. “Nico! Oh, my dear boy!”

“Madam,” said the lady, smiling, “you have found us in the midst of the adventures of Monsieur le Lapin. Your son is anxious to know if our furry hero shall escape through the lettuce garden.” She made an arthritic curtsy. “I am Agnes Dugan. The boy’s tutor is ill today.”

“Mistress Dugan, I am very glad to meet you.” Tears of relief pricked her eyes at finding this kindly matron instead of the bully taskmaster with a stick that her imagination had conjured. She pried Nicolas away from her leg to ask, “How are you, my love?”

“Look!” he cried, and pulled her over to the scatter of toys on the floor. He grabbed a wooden horse the size of his hand, painted a shiny black and frozen in proud mid-prance. “It’s Noche. Papa’s horse!”

“So it is,” she said with a laugh. She kneeled down and took his face in her hands. He looked utterly happy and healthy. How could I ever have thought the Queen would do otherwise? she realized. Her Majesty was no tyrant. Keeping Nicolas had been mere prudence, a judicious ruler being careful about the threats she faced. Now those threats had multiplied, and Isabel pitied the Queen. From Nicolas’s sunny face she took hope that Her Majesty would overcome the crisis in Scotland, and prevail. “Now tell me, what have you been doing while I’ve been gone? Who is this tutor the lady speaks of?”