The Traitor's Daughter (29 page)

20

The Rescue

S
nowflakes scurried like fugitives over London's rooftops and scampered down streets and alleys. Frost slicked the cobbles under Kate's shoes as she reached the gates of her father's house at twilight. Across busy Bishopsgate Street, at the intersection with Threadneedle Street, the sun had slipped down behind the Merchant Taylors Hall, where clothiers and their clerks tramped in and out, finishing the day's business. The snowflakes, winter's advance infiltrators, were barely visible in the dying light.

Kate had not a moment to lose. Her grandmother's remembrance supper was tonight. Within hours the Queen would step onto her barge at the water stairs of Whitehall Palace and her oarsmen would carry her around the bend of the river to Lady Thornleigh's house. If Kate was right about Robert, he would soon set out from their father's house for the same destination.

She passed through her father's open gates into the courtyard where a few servants were going about their chores. She kept to the shadows of the big gates, her eyes on a maid carrying a basket of turnips on her hip. “Susan!” she called softly.

The young woman turned, startled. “Mistress Lyon!”

“Come here, please.” When the maid approached, Kate asked, “Is my brother inside?”

“Master Robert? Aye, he is.”

“You're sure? You saw him?”

“Oh yes, just now in the long gallery. He was asking John the footman about the snow.”

Thank God.
That had been Kate's worst fear, that he might already have left. “Take him this.” She handed the girl a folded paper. “And hurry. It's urgent.”

Surprised, the girl gestured to the house. “Won't you come in, mistress?”

“I cannot. Now go. Quickly!”

She watched the maid disappear into the house. Walking out again through the gates she looked up at the sky. Dusk was stealing over the city, but enough twilight remained to illumine gray clouds pregnant with snow. A memory ambushed her of Robert beside her on the terrace of their father's old house in Chelsea, the two of them catching snowflakes on their tongues. They had run out to see the year's first snowfall. She was seven, he was five.

“Tastes like nails,” she had said.

“How do you know? You don't eat nails.”

“I'll eat
you,
” she had said with an ogre's crazed grin, and chased him back inside, Robert squealing with glee.

She banished the memory. The sweet time with her little brother was long past, its bright enchantment turned to ashes.

Would her message flush him out? She crossed Bishopsgate Street, her nerves as taut as a bow string. A scruffy beggar sat slumped at the foot of the steps of the Merchant Taylors Hall and he eyed her intently as she passed. Something about his hard-eyed stare made her even more nervous. She chided herself.
I'm in a sorry state when beggars start looking like enemies.

She reached the alley that ran between St. Helen's churchyard wall and the walled garden of the Leathersellers Hall. There, under a leafless mulberry tree where he had tethered the horses, Owen stood waiting.

“He's there?”

“Yes. Susan took my note.”

“And you're sure he'll come?”

“He'll come.” Her bravado sprang from having Owen with her. She loved him so much for standing by her. It buoyed her with hope that her plan was going to work.

As they watched the alley mouth, waiting, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze to calm her nerves. She looked at him and smiled her thanks. Snow speckled the shoulders of his black wool jerkin and instantly melted at his body's warmth. Kate felt that warmth in his hand—and in the memory of their lovemaking last night.

Her passion had surprised her. When he had agreed to help her save Robert the anger she had felt at that awful scene of him with the countess was swept away in a grateful tide of love. She could not wait to have him. His passion matched hers, and they had pulled off each other's clothes and fallen on his narrow bed of straw with a hunger born of days of separation in body and spirit. Then, without words, they had slowed, savoring long kisses and caresses, giving and taking, loving each other silently with lips, tongues, fingertips, with sighs, moans, gasps. They had shared the inexpressible, exhilarating communion of being reunited, being man and wife again. Being one.

They were one now as they stood waiting for Robert.

The day, though, had been one of excruciating suspense. First, Owen had had to ask Northumberland for leave to go to London. He'd done it cleverly, requesting the honor of delivering Northumberland's gift of a falcon to Whitehall Palace for the Queen. Kate had heard with relief that his request was approved. As soon as they reached London Bridge Owen hired a porter to deliver the falcon to Whitehall Palace while he and Kate went down to Galley Wharf. At the Black Whale, a fetid seaman's haunt in the shadow of the bridge, Owen sought out a ship's captain, a gap-toothed, greedy rogue named Halter, and bargained with him. Kate watched their talk, well aware that she could never have managed the shifty transaction herself. All this, while the hours until her grandmother's supper marched closer. Excruciating hours. But now, with Robert just across the street, she allowed her hope to surge. Success was so near!

And yet, holding hands with Owen in the alley, waiting, she felt a twinge of shame. She had not told him her awful suspicion about Robert, that he was planning to kill the Queen this very night. After all, her fear might be nothing more than her fevered imagination. She had no evidence, only Robert's vague letter to Mother. But if she was right, she would stop him now by sending him away, far from Mother's evil influence. No one would ever know of his mad scheme. The perfection of the plan made Kate almost giddy again with hope. With this one act she would save Her Majesty's life and save Robert from a traitor's death—all without destroying her own cover or Owen's.

A shouted order and the tramp of feet sounded. Kate and Owen tensed. The alley mouth was dark in the gathering dusk, making the snowflakes darting past it look like eddying cinders. They moved closer to investigate. A troop of men was marching toward them down Bishopsgate Street. Their lines were ragged, undisciplined, but even in the fading light Kate saw that the faces were sober with concentration, like boys imitating soldiers.

“A company muster,” Owen said. “Coming from Moorfields, I warrant.”

“The Leathersellers?” Kate suggested. The captain was heading for their hall. The city's livery companies and trade associations all had to train a troop of their men, ready to serve the monarch in time of war. The Leathersellers Company hall was next to St. Helen's, by whose churchyard wall they stood.

“Looks like,” Owen agreed. “They're shabby enough. And green as girls.”

He sounded amused and Kate saw that he was right. The Leathersellers were not a rich company and many of the men were armed with only pitchforks or clubs. Unlike their wealthy colleagues the Mercers, the Grocers, the Drapers, and the Goldsmiths, they could not afford experienced captains or smart uniforms and weapons. She could not help being touched by the patriotic effort of these amateur soldiers. “They'll do Her Majesty well enough in a fight.”

Owen cracked a smile. “That they will. I've seen them knock heads at football. They're bulldogs.”

“Like England,” she said with a rush of pride. That was how she saw her small country facing the threat from abroad—like a bulldog protecting itself from a ravening bear. She looked at Owen, her heart full. “We're doing our part in the fight, too, you and I.”

He grinned. “God help any foe who meets
you
in a dark alley.”

She laughed. It felt good to laugh with him. She kissed him. “No, my love, it's mettle like
yours
that makes England strong.” She had never felt the truth of it so powerfully. Though the image of him with the countess still held a sting, she knew he had lain with the woman only to get valuable information to protect the realm. Like the Leathersellers, Owen stood up for England, and not from a lust to invade and conquer, but from a need to protect what mattered most: hearth and home. She would never forget how he had opened his heart to her, confessing that he had become a spy to win her. For all his intellectual quickness and vigor he was not so different than the company men plodding into their hall after a hard day of training. It warmed her in the deepest part of herself. A people who fought for these things would always prevail over tyranny.

He pulled her into his arms and growled with mock lechery, “I'll show you my mettle when I get you alone.” She laughed. Turning serious, he murmured, “Kate, my Kate. My heart's desire.” He held her and kissed her. She gave herself to the kiss, letting its promise thrill her.

Owen let her go, his eyes flicking past the top of her head to the street. “Here he comes.”

Kate's heart kicked.
Robert.
She turned to see him hurrying across the street toward the alley, his clothes flapping in his haste. He looked distraught.

Owen looked at her. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Robert jerked to a halt at the alley mouth. Seeing his sister, his eyes went wide. “Kate!” he cried. He held up her note. “What's the meaning of this? You say my life is in danger?”

“Hush!” she hissed. “Follow me!” She turned and hurried toward the horses.

“Follow?” he said in bewilderment. “Where? Why? What's—” Owen grabbed his arm before Robert could get out another word. “Come!” he said darkly, and shoved him after Kate.

Robert staggered a few steps from the shove, then angrily dug in his heels and shrugged off Owen's grip. “Who's this?”

Kate was untying her horse's reins. “My husband. Owen Lyon.”

“Good God.” Robert gaped at Owen.

“That's right, he's on our side,” Kate said, and added sternly, “and he is risking his life to save yours.”

“Greetings, Master Thornleigh,” Owen said with mock courtliness. He had untied one of the other two horses. “Forgive me if I don't wax eloquent about the pleasure of meeting you. We'll enjoy that chat later, you and I, when our necks are not in jeopardy.” He thrust the reins into Robert's hands.

“Kate,” Robert demanded, “what has happened? Why—”

“They've found out about you!” she shot back. “The Queen's men. They
know.
Now come! You have to get away.”

“What?” Wild-eyed, he looked from her to Owen and back at her. “Found out? How?”

“To horse!” Owen ordered him, pushing him toward the saddle. “Talk later.” He cupped his hands for Kate to mount her horse.

“Do it, Robert,” she said, settling onto the saddle. “You have to get away! Now!”

“Get away?” he said, resisting, distraught. He threw a desperate look back toward the street. The tramping of the Leathersellers echoed hollowly down the alley. He dropped the reins. “No, I . . . I can't go anywhere! I have an important—”

“They're
coming
for you!” Kate cried. “Don't you understand? You have to come with us now, this very moment!”

“But . . . how did you hear?”

“At Grandmother's house. Lord Burghley came to inspect the security for the supper with Her Majesty. It's tonight. Sir Francis Walsingham rode in not two hours ago. I heard him tell Burghley they have discovered a cabal—that's what he called it. He named Captain Fortescue and others. And
you!
He issued orders for your arrest. Now, to horse! We're taking you away.”

He gaped at her. “Away . . . where?”

Owen said, “Galley Wharf. There's a ship. I've paid the captain.” He had untied his own horse and again thrust the reins of Robert's horse at him. “Mount, man!”

Robert looked distractedly at the reins in his hand. He took an unsteady step toward the horse, then halted. “No. My mission . . . tonight . . . cannot abandon my mission . . .”

Kate leaned over her pommel and hissed at him, “Listen to me, Robert. They're coming for you right now and if we tarry a moment longer we'll
all
go to prison. And then to the scaffold. I don't want to die. And I won't let you die, either.” She nodded to Owen.

Owen snatched the back of Robert's collar. He had drawn a dagger and he held it at Robert's chin. “I'll carve you some new whiskers before I let your sister be taken. So how about you save your fine-looking face and save all our lives?” He gave him another shove.

“Yes . . . yes,” Robert stammered. He gave a last agonized glance in the direction of the house. He let out a strangled curse at his fate, his face contorted with a last flash of fury. Then, resigned, he slid his foot into the stirrup.

As soon as Robert was mounted Owen swung up into his own saddle. “Follow me.”

They left the alley single file, entering Bishopsgate Street, Owen at the head, Robert next, Kate at the rear. The trudging Leathersellers' troop crowded the street, forcing them to keep to one side and keep their horses at a walk. From the company's hall Kate caught a whiff of roasting meat and heard laughter. She imagined them, tired from their day of training and glad to be at table.

She did not know if she wanted to laugh, too, or cry. Laugh with relief, because soon her brother would be on a ship bound for Portugal. Cry, because she was horribly sure now that she was right. He
had
meant to make an attempt on Her Majesty's life.
“My mission . . . tonight . . . cannot abandon my mission.”
It rocked her. She held tight to her horse's pommel, glad to have to concentrate on riding. Darkness was claiming the streets. A linkboy holding his lantern high led a gentleman down a lane toward a cookhouse where candlelight glowed in the windows.