The Traitor's Daughter (14 page)

But now, waiting, the fact that he had used Kate caused him pain.

He shook off that gloomy thought. The cause was worth it. The celestial Mary was worth it—worth all the pain, and more.

“Once I'm settled in this lord's house, Townsend, I'll have extraordinary access. To his correspondence, and to overhearing his talk with fellow lords. From this safe place—a hiding place in plain view—I'll contact Northumberland at Petworth. It's time to consolidate all the elements of our mission. That's why I needed to see you. You must call the other five to a meeting. Is the warehouse still safe?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get them to come next Tuesday?”

“I think so. Same time?”

“Yes. Nine in the morning.” He grinned. By next Tuesday evening he could be sitting in his father's parlor, chatting with his father's wife.

A horse snorted and stamped in its stall. There was a thud on the roof. Robert tensed, his eyes on the ceiling's rough beams. Townsend looked up, too. Someone up there?

“A branch hit the roof, I imagine,” said Townsend. “The wind.”

Robert relaxed.

“I have news, too,” said Townsend. “Word is that Ambassador Castelnau may have found a new courier.”

“Who?”

He shrugged. “We don't know. But I heard it from Feron.”

The ambassador's clerk. Feron was rarely wrong. “He doesn't know who it is?”

“No. Just said his master is preparing a packet of letters from Paris and Rome just as he used to do for Griffith.”

Letters to Mary in Sheffield. From her most stalwart agents and supporters abroad.

“Well, if it's true we'll know soon enough.” Robert's contact in Sheffield would alert him. “Go now,” he told Townsend. “Tell our five friends.” Smiling, he slapped the anxious fellow's shoulder. “And be ready to hear on Tuesday of my great step up in the world.”

 

Three days later, in Lewes, Robert was in his bedchamber at Master Levett's house after breakfast, packing his bag to revisit his patient on Friar's Walk. He was sorting through his vials of salves, the glasses clinking like chimes, when he heard a sound outside that made him wonder if the thunder and rain were returning. Fanciful thinking. Bright sun shone outside his window. The sound was riders, he realized: horses' hooves. Minutes later there was a loud knock on the front door. Levett and his wife and daughter had gone to Hastings for a niece's wedding. The maid would inform the caller they were out.

Robert settled the last vial into the bag, then closed its clasp, ready to go. He was opening his door when the maid came hurrying up the stairs, wide-eyed with wonder. “Master Parry,” she said. “A gentleman to see you.”

The girl's astonishment . . . the horsemen. Could the caller be Father? Excitement leapt in him.
Stay calm,
he reminded himself.
Act contrite.
He set down his bag and went downstairs.

At the door stood a well-dressed, beefy man of about forty. One of Father's retainers?

“Master Robert Parry?”

“Yes?”

“I am Sir Thomas Heneage. You are to appear before a commission of the privy council of Her Majesty Elizabeth, by the Grace of God Queen of England and Ireland, defender of the faith. Come with me.”

Beyond Heneage a body of men-at-arms in steel breastplates and helmets had their eyes on Robert. He counted eight, plus Heneage. And a horse with no rider, brought for him. Blood pumped loudly inside his ears. He had expected to be questioned, but had imagined it happening quietly, privately, orchestrated by his father in the security of his father's house. Not this. Had he been mistaken about Kate? Had she found out about him? Betrayed him?

He was alone. Impossible to run. Impossible to get word to Levett, or to Townsend.

He went outside peaceably. He mounted the horse, his skin clammy as the men-at-arms surrounded him. Heneage took the lead. They turned away from the merchant's house, and with their horses at a brisk walk were soon on the road to London. No one spoke.

Robert felt as if he were going to his execution.

9

Interrogation

T
he London home of Adam, Lord Thornleigh, was a three-story residence on Bishopsgate Street. An orchard grew within its expansive walled gardens. Across from its front lay the busy Merchant Taylors Hall. Its west windows were within hailing distance of the Royal Exchange, the hub of the city's commercial life. Its owner should have been a happy man.

But Adam Thornleigh had never felt more disturbed as he climbed the stairs to the bedchambers, his two greyhounds padding at his heels. Kate's news three days ago had astounded him: Robert back in England. At first, joy had coursed through him.
My son!
But his daughter's next words had crushed his joy.
He is living under another name,
she'd said
. He does not want to be found.
Why? What was Robert hiding? Instantly, Adam had feared the answer. His son had grown up among traitors, raised by his traitorous mother. Was he a traitor, too?

There was no keeping this secret. To do so might endanger the realm. Though profoundly conflicted, he had sent word to Lord Burghley. The next day Robert was arrested in Lewes. Today, at Whitehall, members of the privy council would interrogate him. Adam, a councillor himself, had told them he would be there.

Questions tormented him as he went up the stairs.
What darkness will they uncover? What treacherous whirlpool has the boy's mother set swirling?
One thought was torture:
Will I see my son hang?

He turned at the landing to carry on up to see his wife. He had left her sleeping. The dogs, sensing his destination, romped ahead. Adam went slowly, feeling all of his fifty-three years. Morning sunshine flooded the window at his back, but he felt none of its warmth, felt instead like a helmsman in a midnight gale steering between rock reefs. No, worse—this sense of danger beyond his control was utterly foreign to him. On his ships he had faced many perils, from the fury of nature to the fury of Spanish fighters, but even when battling a storm or slashing the foe on his blood-slick deck he had harbored hope, however faint, of eventual mastery. On land he
was
master, the lord of five great manors in Kent, Essex, and Somerset where hundreds in village and field were his to command, and the owner of two magnificent houses in city and country. But now, preparing to leave for Robert's interrogation, he felt only a sickening impotence. Of his children he no longer had mastery. His son and daughter had spun out of his control.

He opened the bedchamber door and the dogs romped in. Fear cut through him when he saw Fenella standing at the desk, bent over. “What is it?” he said, coming to her. “Pain again?”

She turned in surprise, straightening, a paper in her hand. “I thought you'd gone.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

His heart settled. “Then get back into bed.” He took her arm and guided her. “You shouldn't be on your feet.”

“I just wanted this letter. Sir Humphrey needs an answer.”

“Do that from bed. Call for the maid when you need something.”

“Get help to cross the room? Adam, I'm not a hundred years old.”

“No, you are a youthful sprite who could skip about singing, but please humor me and rest. Just a few more days, the doctor said. Then you'll be back in fighting trim.”

He plumped her pillows. She got into bed, but did not lie down. The two dogs joined him, looking up at Fenella as if wanting to help her, too. She sat back against the headboard and Adam snugged the blanket up to her waist. At forty-one Fenella was no sprite. He wanted none. Her beauty was as timeless as a mermaid's song and never failed to lure him. Her auburn hair, glinting red in the sunlight. Her green eyes, ever smiling. Her Scottish spirit, part fire, and her body, of the earth. Her constancy like the sea. He loved her, body and soul.

“Adam,” she said gently, “you must go. They'll be starting soon.”

“I know. I just came to tell you I'm on my way.” But he sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand on her knee. The two dogs sat by his feet, one on each side.

She covered his hand with hers. “I know it's going to be hard.”

“To learn that my son is plotting treason?” he said grimly. He could imagine nothing harder. He looked into her eyes.
Except losing you.

Loss,
he thought with a pain at his heart. Fenella had lost the baby six days ago. Her third miscarriage. Adam knew the dark well of emptiness she felt. His own was deep enough. It felt like the loss was somehow his fault. He seemed unable to keep his children. Kate had renounced his protection by holding to her misguided marriage. That had hurt. Robert had been lost to him ten years ago in Brussels. When Adam had arrived back in England with Kate, Elizabeth had ordered him to disinherit his son. It had almost killed him to do it, but she had made it a command, simultaneously annulling his marriage to Frances. She had wanted no traitoress's son to inherit a barony in her realm. All he had left was Fenella. Everything in him wanted to stay here with her, not go to Whitehall and hear the awful truth. It would be like losing Robert all over again.

“He's likely not doing any such thing,” she replied to his mention of treason. “You're imagining the worst. Why shouldn't we believe what he told Kate?
She
obviously does.”

“Those two were always close. Two peas in a pod. Kate would defend Robert even if she found him plunging a knife in Elizabeth's heart.”

He winced at his own words. He had meant only a barb of black humor, but he saw nothing mirthful in Kate's choice of allegiance: her Catholic husband over her father and her queen. And the image he had conjured of Robert standing over a dead Elizabeth made him almost queasy.

To banish the image he poked at the letter Fenella had set amid a scatter of papers on his side of the bed: letters, receipts, a ledger book. On the night table beside her lay an ink pot and pen. “Don't work too long at this,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“Sir Humphrey is not resting.” She nodded at the letter. “He wants another thirty pounds for sailcloth and twelve more for cordage.”

Fenella knew ships. She had owned a profitable enterprise salvaging vessels on the island of Sark when Adam had limped into her bay in a shot-up carrack eleven years ago. A decade before that, during England's fight against the French in Scotland, she had helped him escape hanging in Edinburgh. Adam owed her his life. Now, she was managing his investment in Sir Humphrey Gilbert's planned voyage to colonize Newfoundland. Gilbert was in a hurry. Four years ago the Queen had granted him a six-year exploration license and now time was running out to exercise it. The prospective colonists were well-to-do Catholic investors squeezed by England's recusancy fines and lured by the nine million acres Gilbert intended to parcel out. He would lead the expedition of five vessels. Sir Walter Ralegh, one of the Queen's new favorites, would captain his own ship,
Bark Ralegh.
Gilbert's plan appealed to both Adam and Fenella. Adam was all for shipping offshore these troublesome people who would not give their full allegiance to Elizabeth. Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen's Puritan spymaster, approved the plan, too. As for Fenella, she liked the investment opportunity. She was clever with money.

“I'm writing Sir Humphrey to ask for a meeting,” she said. “I have questions about where he's getting his provisions. And he's paying far too much for cordage.”

Adam's mind had slid back to Robert. Absently, he stroked his dog Fleet's silky ear.

“Go,” Fenella said softly. “Get it over with.”

He did not move. “I dread it. Dread what I might hear.”

“Don't. Trust Kate's account.”

“But can I trust
Kate?
”

Fenella frowned. “You don't mean that.” They had argued before about his daughter. Or rather, about Adam's antipathy to her marriage. Fenella always defended Kate.

“You're right, it's her husband I don't trust. He may have dragged her into his Catholic circle. Fenella, you cannot close your eyes to how he has corrupted her.”

“Corrupted? Listen to yourself, you talk like a Puritan preacher. She is your daughter and you love her. You miss her, I
know
you do.”

He looked down. The dogs looked up at him. “Yes,” he confessed.

“So do I.” There was blame in her voice.

They sat in silence. Kate's banishment from his house was a wound too raw to probe. Outside on Bishopsgate Street the morning clatter of carts and horses carried on. From the steps of the Merchant Taylors Hall across the street came the faint voices of traders and clerks coming and going.

“And for ten years,” Fenella said quietly, “you've missed your son, too. Don't kill this chance to have him back. He's become a doctor, Kate says. He wants only to be home. That's all there is to it. Don't conjure demons where there are none.”

“The demon is Frances. She's had him all this time. God knows what poison the boy has imbibed from her.”

“Nonsense. Robert is a man now, with a mind of his own. Whatever hold his mother had on him, he has broken it. Why do you keep letting thoughts of her torment you?”

Because she's a Grenville and they never stop.
“Her brother almost managed to kill Elizabeth,” he said. “He did kill my father.”

“But the brother is long dead. And the sister has not made a squeak in all these years. And in any case Her Majesty is supremely well guarded.” The slightest smile played on her lips. “Adam, you do not have to protect the Queen and England all by yourself.”

“We'll see,” he answered grimly. No point in repeating his fears about Robert. Nor could he put off his departure any longer. “I must go.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Rest. I'll see you at supper.”

He got to his feet. The dogs stood up with him.

Fenella caught up his hand with sudden urgency. Her voice was low, serious now. “Do not cut your children adrift. Your son should be your heir. You may not have another.”

Pity and love washed through him. And a surging admiration for her generous heart. He knew how much this statement cost her. He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “We'll try again. When you're well.”

 

The Queen's palace of Whitehall teemed with the activity of a town. Straddling the Strand, its precincts were a crowded jumble of houses, shops, barracks, stables, gardens, a brewery, a banqueting pavilion, a tennis court, a bowling alley, a pit for cockfights, and a tiltyard for jousting. The palace itself, a grand hodgepodge that was the result of almost a hundred years of additions and constant rebuilding, had over a thousand rooms.

Adam made his way along a corridor noisy with courtiers, foreign dignitaries, lawyers, place-seekers, clerks, and dogs. He reached a chamber at the rear of the clock tower courtyard and opened the door. The six men murmuring at the long table looked up as he came in. Two sitting at the far end were clerks. The other four were Adam's fellow members of Elizabeth's privy council, men he had known for years. Concern at his arrival creased the brows of the aged Sir Ralph Sadler and the spry-looking Sir Christopher Hatton. Veteran diplomat Sir Walter Mildmay busied himself with a document. A knot twisted in Adam's stomach. They had known he was coming, so why these troubling looks? Had they already found some damning evidence against Robert?

The fourth, Lord Burghley, got to his feet and came to him with a welcoming handshake. That dispelled the worst of Adam's anxiety. Burghley would not smile if they had already found Robert guilty. Sixty-two years old, Elizabeth's principal adviser, he was presiding.

“You do not have to be present, you know,” Burghley said kindly. He nodded to the far wall. “Use Walsingham's peephole. He's at home in Barn Elms today.”

Adam hated subterfuge. Whatever was coming he would face head-on. “I'll stay.”

“As you wish. Have you seen your son yet?”

“No.” He had not visited Robert where they were holding him. That would only muddy the waters, already so murky.

“Come, then. Join us.” Starting back to his seat, Burghley indicated the empty chair to the right of his.

Adam sat down. Beside him Hatton murmured, “My lord,” and offered an uncomfortable smile. Sadler shook his head and looked away, clearly concerned at having Adam present. Mildmay continued to pretend to read. Their disapproval made Adam grateful for Burghley's sympathy. They were old friends. Burghley had been a tireless campaigner for Elizabeth ever since her dark days in the Tower at the age of twenty, held captive by her half sister Queen Mary, dead these twenty-eight years. Plain Sir William Cecil back then, Burghley had asked Adam's family to help Princess Elizabeth when her sister had released her into house arrest. That had been Adam's first sight of Elizabeth and his introduction to Burghley, and the start of his lifelong friendship with both. He trusted Burghley's judgment in all things relating to Elizabeth and the realm.

“We had his room searched at the Lewes house,” Burghley told him, all business now. “The entire house, in fact. Nothing incriminating was found. We also asked him to list every person he has had personal contact with in Brussels, both English and foreign.” He handed Adam a paper. “Here is what he gave us.”

Adam forced a dispassionate perusal of the names. There were dozens. He recognized only a few. A surprising sensation ambushed him as he recognized something else: the loops in the handwriting. He saw there the ghost of the child.

“Any of those names have significance for you?” Burghley asked.

“Beyond the Duchess of Feria, no.” Adam had known for years, as did the others, that when Frances had fled England with their children she had found a haven with her old friend, Jane Dormer, the duchess. English herself, she was a supporter of the English community of exiles in Brussels.