The Traitor's Daughter (21 page)

“Yes, I'm afraid I left rather a puddle at Lady Thornleigh's feet. I promised her I'd be dry when we join her in the library.” His smile was sheepish as he eyed the damp front of her bodice and skirt. “Sorry. Now I've got you wet, too.”

“But, oh, so worth it,” she said happily. “Here, let's get this off you.” She unfastened his sodden cloak and pulled it off. It was heavy with its burden of water as she draped it over the chair at her dressing table. “What brings you to London?” He looked weary, as though he had not slept for days. An awful thought gripped her. Was he in need of a refuge? “Are you all right? Has Northumberland dismissed you?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“You're sure? Nothing's wrong?”

He hesitated, but then said again, with a brief, reassuring smile, “I'm fine.”

He sat on the end of the bed and tugged off his boots. Looking at the clothes laid out on the bed alongside half-filled satchels, he asked, “Packing? Where are you going?”

“Sheffield,” she said with a spurt of pride. “I've got the packet for Mary.”

He seemed startled. “From Castelnau?”

“Yes. Five letters.”

He gave a low whistle of admiration, or perhaps alarm. “That was fast.”

“Really? It felt like forever.”

He looked concerned, and she was afraid he'd object again to her going. To forestall that she said brightly, “Dry clothes, that's what you need.” She went to the chest that held some things he had left, and kneeled to dig out a shirt and hose and breeches. When she brought them to him he was on his feet and had unbuttoned his jerkin and was peeling it off. She said, “It's wonderful to see you, but what's brought you from Petworth?”

He slung the jerkin on the chair. “I've been sent on an errand.”

“By Northumberland?”

He didn't look at her as he pulled off his damp shirt and slung it with the jerkin. “I came to report to Matthew. But it seems he's gone to Ireland.”

“Yes, Sir Francis sent for him. Matthew told me when we were at work on the letters.” Owen stood in just his breeches, his chest bare. She wanted his arms around her again. Wanted
him.
She caressed his shoulder. His skin felt so cold. “Oh, my love, you need to get warm. I'll go and fetch Anthony to lay a fire.”

He caught her hand to stop her. “No, wait. I'm fine. And I need to talk to you.”

“I don't want you catching a chill. I'll be right back.”

She hurried downstairs. It took a few minutes to find the footman, and as he headed upstairs she carried on to the kitchen to get Owen a goblet. When she got back to her bedchamber she felt a twinge of disappointment at seeing him fully dressed, pulling on his boots. But they would have tonight. It was only polite to spend the evening with her grandmother, of course, but after that, she thought, they'd be alone. The footman was laying the fire. Kate poured mulled wine from the pitcher on her dressing table and handed the goblet to Owen. He took a long swallow. “This is good,” he said. “I'm parched.”

“Said the drenched man,” she quipped.

They shared a smile, waiting as the footman finished.

“Thank you, Anthony,” she said, closing the door after him.

“The letters you got from Castelnau,” Owen said, wiping his mouth after draining the wine. “Whom are they from?”

“Thomas Morgan. And Archbishop Beaton. And someone we're still not sure about.”

“Anything in them?”

“Enough to lead us to believe the invasion design is real and that Westmorland is involved. We think he may be procuring ships and will sail from the Netherlands. Also, the man financing it may be the Duke of Guise.”

“Guise! By heaven, that fits.”

“Does it?”

He looked as if he'd said too much. Her curiosity leapt. “Have you heard something about him?”

He turned and set down his goblet on the dressing table. “Did Castelnau tell you whom to contact in Sheffield?”

His evasion of her question jarred her. Had he heard something about Guise or not? “Yes, a man named Harkness. At a place called the Hall at the ponds. Owen, if you've heard any—”

“You must be planning to leave soon,” he said, looking again at her satchels.

“At first light.”

He looked at her finally, and she saw anxiety in his eyes. “Dear God, I wish this mission had fallen to anyone but you, Kate. I wish it were me going to Sheffield.”

That moved her. He would not change her mind, but she was warmed by his love and concern. “Exchange missions?” she said ruefully. “No, Northumberland hired a secretary. I could not do what you're doing at Petworth.”

Unease, like a shadow, crept over his face.

She took his hand. “I'll be fine.” She drew him to the end of the bed and sat and indicated he should, too.

He sat down beside her, still uneasy. “Will you have protection?”

“Yes, I'm taking my grandmother's man, Soames.”

He scowled. “Just one?”

“I won't hear an unkind word about Jasper Soames. He's a loyal fellow.”

“But can he fight?”

“A fortnight ago he won a wrestling match with the neighbor's blacksmith. He'll do.”

Owen opened his mouth to speak, still frowning. But then he seemed to concede the point with a tight sigh. “And what have you told Lady Thornleigh?”

“That I'm visiting Aunt Isabel at Roche Hall. Now, enough about that. I'll deal with tomorrow's problems tomorrow.” She caressed his stubbled cheek. “Tonight, we have each other. My love, it's more than I had hoped.” She kissed him softly.

He returned the kiss with a fierce intensity that surprised her, though she welcomed it. As they both caught their breath he looked into her eyes and whispered, “Ah, Kate. I've missed you.”

“Has it been terrible at Petworth? The tension? I hear Northumberland's a brute. Owen, what's happening there? Matthew won't give me any details. Though he said you've at least developed a source.”

He stiffened, glaring. “He told you that?”

“After I badgered him. He didn't say who, though. Who is it?”

He got to his feet. “I can't talk about my mission.”

The rebuff cut her. “Why not? I've told you about mine.” Why was he keeping things from her? He wouldn't even look at her. Staring at his back she felt a shiver.
Something's wrong.
“Owen, what's happened?”

When he turned to her, his face was grave. “I've come to tell you something very disturbing. At Petworth I saw your brother.”

Her mouth fell open in amazement. “Robert?” It made no sense. “You met him?”

“No, just saw him.”

“I don't . . . understand. You've never met, so how could you know it was him?”

“I was told it was him.”

She stood. “Who told you?”

“The countess.”

This was even more bewildering. “How does
she
know Robert?”

He looked irritated. “That's my point. Don't you see? I fear he's working with them.”

Kate almost laughed. “Ridiculous. The countess was clearly mistaken. It was someone else, not Robert.”

“It was Robert.”

She bristled at his severe tone. “If it was—though I don't see how it possibly could have been—then I'm sure there's a simple explanation.” She was about to say,
Like that small lie in his testimony. He explained it.
The words were on her lips, but she did not say them. If she told him that Robert had come to England at the deranged whim of their mother he would totally misconstrue the meaning. Robert had done a brave thing by cutting all ties to Mother once he got here, but she feared Owen would never accept that. Looking at him, she thought:
If you can hold back information, so can I.

“I'm sorry, Kate, but you see I was right to caution you about him.”

That fueled her resentment and she lashed out. “I see only this—that you've been bent on mistrusting my brother since the day I told you he'd come home.”

“Nonsense. Kate, you cannot pretend this isn't cause for alarm. You cannot defend a possible traitor.”

Traitor?
He wielded the word like a weapon. Anger streaked through her. She hid it behind a scoff. “You've become as bad as the Puritans, seeing an enemy behind every bush.”

“No, but when I see someone meet secretly with Northumberland I'd be a fool to close my eyes to it.”

“So you're calling me a fool?”

“I'm saying we need to find out more about your brother.”

“And I'm saying your suspicion is absurd. The countess was obviously mistaken.”

He took a sharp breath as though to rein in his frustration. “What we need is facts. When did you last see him?”

Her own frustration was boiling. She grabbed one of her stockings that lay askew on the bed and balled it and threw it at the open satchel, then felt even more angry that he was making her act like a petulant child. “A few days ago. He visited Grandmother. I invited him. He is
kin.
”

“Did you notice anything suspicious?”

“Of course not. I tell you, there is some explanation.”

“No doubt. And I intend to find out what it is.”

“If you are so mindlessly fixed on this I'll ask him myself. Will
that
satisfy you?”

“Don't. Don't speak to him, Kate. You'll be giving him warning.”

“Warning? This is insane! The Queen's council interrogated him, for heaven's sake, Lord Burghley at their head. They found him blameless. But that's not good enough for you?”

“They may not have asked the right questions.”

“And the fact that he lives now with my father? That alone should tell you how horribly wrong you are. You
know
how fiercely loyal Father is.”

“Of course. What I
don't
know is what your brother is up to. But I'll find out. Or Matthew will.”

“Matthew?”

“Yes. I sent him a message.”

She felt as stunned as if he had struck her. “You told Matthew? Before I even have a chance to talk to Robert? How
could
you?”

“How can
you
be so blind? I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. You took an oath to protect the realm, yet you want to inform a possible traitor that he's being watched! Do you not realize how close to treason you're slipping
yourself?
”

She was trembling with outrage. “I know my oath very well. Just as I know my brother. It's
you
I don't know any longer.”

“Oh, come! This is not about us.”

“Is it not? Father warned me about you. You married him in haste, he told me. You did not know his true character, he said. I see now he was right. This marriage is no marriage if you trust me so little!”

“How
can
I trust you when you show such gross misjudgment?”

Fury held her like steel bands. Words crammed up in her throat. Blood pumped in her ears. “You said you intend to find out. What are you going to do?”

“Watch and wait.”

“I see. Like a coward.”

He stiffened, his face as pale as if drained of blood. She was glad to have struck back. “I would take this to my brother face-to-face,” she said, “but you want to sneak and hide. How is that not cowardly?”

He snatched his cloak and turned to her with icy forbearance. “I see you are impervious to reason. And that my company is irksome to you. Please convey my respects to your lady grandmother.”

“You're leaving?”

“I never said I could stay.”

“Like a coward.”

“I told you I was given an errand,” he snapped. “To do it I must be in the city.” He did not even look back as he made for the door. “God speed you on your journey.”

She did not stop him. Humiliation and rage held her to the spot. Then, a stab of misery. How suddenly her marriage had been torn asunder!

14

The Banquet

“A
sk her to dance, my boy.”

Robert had to strain to hear his father's voice above the music and chatter and laughter around them. They stood watching guests dance to a lively galliard while others crowded the banquet tables, everyone enjoying themselves in the great hall of his father's house on Bishopsgate Street. Having maneuvered his way back into his father's good graces, Robert had been living here for three days and he found it strangely exciting to be back in the house he had left at the age of six. Tonight was quite thrilling. He was the guest of honor. His father was hosting the banquet to introduce him to his influential friends.

“Ask whom, sir?” Robert had to raise his voice, too. “Lord Burghley's daughter?”

His father laughed. “No, I'm afraid that's aiming too high. I meant Margaret Brooke. There.” He nodded toward her, a slim girl, about eighteen, in demure gray satin. “She's the youngest daughter of Baron Cobham. Her mother has a prestigious position at court as the Queen's Lady of the Bedchamber. Cobham will settle a generous dowry on Margaret. And she's rather nice looking, don't you think?”

Robert did. He had noticed her earlier. “She is fair indeed, sir.”

He watched her dance. Another unexpected bit of excitement. Since coming to England he had been so focused on his mission to rescue Mary when the invasion came, and now on planning the more perilous goal of killing Elizabeth, he had not allowed himself any thought of the possibilities of life after victory. A settled home life. A pretty wife. How strange that his father should be pointing him in this direction. It was disconcerting to realize—his father cared about him.

Margaret Brooke turned away in the dance, smiling. She was partnered by the athletic, ginger-bearded Sir Christopher Hatton, whose wolfish grin at her snapped Robert's fantasy.

Sobered, he scanned the crowd for Captain Lundy, the captain of his father's guard. Robert was waiting for him to report. He had given Lundy a commission to procure him a pistol. No sign of him yet. Suddenly, at the thought of firing the pistol, he felt a clutch of anxiety. The bold idea of killing Elizabeth had sparked in him when he'd visited Kate at their grandmother's house. In twelve days Elizabeth would be dining there, in a house where he was a welcome visitor. Success was stunningly possible. Yet part of him cringed. Killing old Prowse had made him faintly sick. And now, to kill a queen! It was both thrilling and horrifying.

“Don't be shy, Robert. As my heir
you're
the catch,” his father assured him. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “A dowry is all well and good, but one day you shall be the third Baron Thornleigh.”

His father's evident pride jumbled Robert's emotions even more.
You're proud of me now, but where were you during my hard years of exile?
Yet he could not help basking in the glow of his approval.

He turned to him with a smile. “Sir, would you introduce me to Mistress Brooke?”

His father beamed. “Gladly. Come, this dance is almost done and next there'll be a pavane. We'll get Hatton to surrender the field to you.”

They crossed the crowded floor. The air was pungent with the perfumed sweat of ladies and gentlemen alike. Roasted meats on the banquet tables wafted succulent aromas. Candlelight from dozens of candelabra glittered off the soaring stained glass windows and the women's jewels. The boisterous music of the trumpets, viols, and shawms stopped at the close of the galliard, and the dancers' chatter rose in a crescendo as partners bowed and curtsied to mark its end. Robert was aware of how people watched him with clear curiosity. Several nodded greetings of respect. His finery of green and gold velvet matched that of any courtier present, as did the magnificent sword his father had gifted him. He found it exhilarating. He was in the company of the most powerful men in England.

The graybeards were Elizabeth's stalwarts—and Mary's enemies. Four of them had interrogated Robert at Whitehall Palace and he had not forgotten a moment of that harrowing experience. One was old Sir Ralph Sadler, Elizabeth's veteran diplomat, hobbling past the dancers with his cane. Thirty-three years ago, at Elizabeth's coronation, she had sent Sadler to Edinburgh to arrange an alliance with the Scottish Protestants who had deposed their queen, the celestial Mary.
Curse them,
Robert thought,
heretics all.
Beneath the musicians' gallery, laughing with Lady Burghley, was Sir Walter Mildmay, who had prepared the evidence that sent the Duke of Norfolk to his execution after the Earl of Westmorland took up arms against Elizabeth. Westmorland—exiled these thirteen years. There, eating strawberry pudding at the banquet table, was the great Lord Burghley himself, Elizabeth's closest adviser all her life. And over there, a late arrival, was the strutting Earl of Leicester with his wife, the beautiful Lettice. Leicester had once hoped to marry Elizabeth and become king of England. He still had Elizabeth's ear so constantly he might as well be king.

And, of course, there was Father, the most loyal to Elizabeth of all. Across the hall was his red-haired wife, still pale of face from her recent illness—a miscarriage, Robert understood—but statuesque in her blue brocade gown as she chatted with her guests. Fenella. Her name marked her as the poor Scot she was, Robert thought. Oh, she'd been friendly and gracious to him, had presented him with an exquisite pair of embroidered gauntlets of butter-soft calfskin to accompany his father's gift of the sword. He could not, in conscience, fault her. But every time he looked at her he saw a trollop who had usurped his mother's place and taken her title. Calling her Lady Thornleigh put his teeth on edge.

He and his father were now just paces away from Margaret Brooke, who was chatting with Hatton, unaware of them, when Robert spotted Captain Lundy. The swarthy soldier was coming in from the screened passage to the kitchens, slowing his walk, examining the crowd.

“Excuse me, Father,” Robert said, “I just remembered, I promised to fetch Lady Sadler a glass of Madeira. She was feeling rather faint. I'll only be a moment.”

Starting toward Lundy he heard his father protest that a footman could fetch the wine. Robert pretended not to hear.

Lundy saw him coming and jerked his chin to indicate the screened passage where they would have some privacy. They stepped behind the screen, keeping to one side to let servants pass in and out with platters and jugs. Lundy held up a shallow wooden box the size of a man's foot.

“This will serve, Master Thornleigh.” He lifted the lid. Inside lay a wheel lock pistol. The steel barrel was engraved with a scrolling pattern. The stock was fine hardwood. The handle ended in an ivory bulb. A gentleman's weapon, but made for action. “Do you know how to use it?” he asked skeptically. Pistols were not common in England. “I can teach you.”

“No need.” Robert could load the ball and powder in half a minute. Westmorland had trained him. The snapped reply had sounded more harsh than he'd intended, and he saw that Lundy had taken it as a reprimand. His weathered face had gone pink.

“Pardon the liberty, sir. I'm just careful for your father's sake. I hope you understand.”

“Of course, Captain,” Robert said more gently. The story he had given Lundy was that he wanted the weapon to protect his father from lunatics like the gunman arrested on London Bridge after shooting at the Queen. Robert had heard the story from Lundy himself, who had been on the bridge leading his men alongside Robert's father. They'd had only swords against the man's pistol. “It was a bad moment when the villain aimed at Lord Thornleigh,” Lundy had said, “but a skittish horse bumped his arm and that saved His Lordship. Then we nabbed the bastard. A close call, though.” His tone was grim, as though he would rather be hanged than fail in his duty. “Glad I am that you'll be armed with this, sir,” he said, handing Robert the box. “If anyone goes for Lord Thornleigh, you let him have it.” He tapped the spot between his own eyes.

“I shall, Captain. Thank you. And remember, not a word to my father. He would only worry for my safety.”

“Of course. And if I may be so bold, sir, welcome home.” Bowing, Lundy took his leave.

Robert took the box upstairs to hide it in his bedchamber. As he went up the steps he saw his father watching him. The box was too big to cover; he couldn't help that. If his father questioned him about the pistol Robert would give him the same story he'd given Lundy:
a son's duty, gladly rendered.
Thankfully, his father turned away to greet a guest his wife was guiding toward him. Lutes sounded the opening strains of a stately pavane. The new dance began.

Excitement hummed through Robert as he went down the corridor to his bedchamber. Now that he had the weapon his squeamishness vanished. Possessing it made him feel stronger, calmer. He was a soldier in this war, doing his duty. It would be a dereliction of that duty to fail to take advantage of the extraordinary opportunity that had presented itself. He had said as much in his meeting with the Earl of Northumberland.

“We'll never get a more perfect chance, my lord,” he had urged. He had reached Petworth late at night, and at daybreak had met with Northumberland in his study. “None of the faithful have access to the dowager Lady Thornleigh's house as I do. And I've carefully examined every facet of my plan. I can do it.”

He saw how eagerly Northumberland wanted to believe it, but the man was cautious. He had not survived the watchful eye of Elizabeth's government for so many years by being reckless. And they both knew how many attempts against the Queen's life had failed. Mulling it, Northumberland chewed the end of his moustache, his eyes fixed on Robert. “Elizabeth will be guarded. The grounds, too—all guarded.”

“I will be inside the house before she arrives. I will bring a gift for her. That will please my grandmother and she will welcome me in.”

“And your father? You say he'll be there. He has risked his life before to save Elizabeth.”

“But he won't suspect
me.
On the contrary, my lord, he is eager to introduce me to her. He has told me so. He will also arrive before Elizabeth—that's protocol—and when he sees me I daresay my presence will surprise him, but I will beg his indulgence, professing my eagerness to meet Her Majesty. He'll like that. As for the other guests, there will be only Lord Burghley and his wife. Burghley won't be an obstacle. He is old.”

“And you're sure there will be no others?”

“None. Lady Thornleigh told me so herself. It is a private anniversary she shares every year with just Elizabeth, Burghley and his wife, and my father and his wife.”

“How do you propose to do it? A dagger? Poison?”

“A pistol.”

Northumberland allowed himself a cautious smile. “Good.”

They discussed every detail, every possible eventuality, including Robert's escape. In the chaos around the Queen he would race for his horse in the courtyard and gallop west. Northumberland would have a man waiting at Kingston bridge with a fresh horse. Robert would race for the south coast, where another fresh horse would be ready for him at Guildford. At Portsmouth a waiting boat would take him to Ireland. The bold plan was coming together so fast, Robert scarcely let himself consider how nearly impossible it was for each piece to fall into place with so many people involved. But
nearly
impossible did not mean impossible. The first thing, the main thing, was killing Elizabeth. For that, he needed no one's help.

“I'll send word to Paris immediately,” Northumberland said.

Robert almost jumped out of his skin with excitement.
Paris
meant the leaders of the invasion plan: Westmorland and the Duke of Guise. Influential English exiles would be part of the deliberations, too, including Mother. Westmorland was readying fifteen thousand Spanish troops to sail from The Hague in the Netherlands and land in Yorkshire, while in the south Northumberland and the Earl of Arundel had seven thousand men ready to march on London.

“I am your servant, my lord,” Robert said. “However, this means I'll be unable to carry out the rescue at Sheffield.” Until this moment his mission had been to prepare his band of seven men to attack Sheffield Manor and free Mary when the invasion troops landed.

“As of now you're essential to the dispatch of Elizabeth. I'll have someone else take command for Sheffield. John Ballard can do it. He's at Arundel. He goes by the name Captain Fortescue. Can you go there to confer with him?”

“Willingly, my lord.”

“It will mean more time away from your father's house. That won't be a problem?”

“I'll tell my father I have some business to conclude in Lewes. He knows I was practicing as a physician there.”

“Good. Now, bring me up to date on the men you've organized for Sheffield.”

They discussed how Elizabeth's assassination had to be perfectly coordinated with Mary's rescue. In the uproar of Elizabeth's death there must be no time for her faction, Robert's father among them, to send word to fortify the guard on Mary. Mary must be freed and immediately brought to London.

Daylight was breaking when Northumberland ended the meeting. “Go back to your father's house, Thornleigh. Unless you receive further instructions to the contrary, be ready to make good your plan.”

Robert had ridden away from Petworth in a near fevered state of elation. He had scarcely noticed the deluge of rain.
Rejoice, Mother. Your faith in me is leading us to greatness.

The following days at his father's house had tested his nerve. The warmth of his father's affection. The friendliness of his father's wife. The sense that stole over him in this house of being, truly, home. And then, tonight, the sight of pretty Margaret Brooke. These softening influences had beguiled him.