The Queen's Exiles (11 page)

Tyrone was fussing with setting out another plate and shot him a glance. “A lucky windfall, your lordship. A relative died. Will you join me in a bite to eat?”

“No thank you, no time. I have a job for you. You found my wife and I thank you for that. Now I’ve come about my children.”

“Ah,” Tyrone said, as though struggling to catch up. “The young Lord Robert and your daughter?”

“Katherine. Yes. Can you confirm that they’re living in the duchess’s house with Lady Thornleigh?”

“Grenville, my lord.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s the name your wife is using. Lady Grenville.”

Her maiden name. It gave Adam a sting of disgust. The Grenville family had caused his own family so much misery and grief. But something in him was glad that she no longer used his name.

“You’ve found out a lot. That’s good. I need you to find more. About the layout of the house, and where exactly in it my children stay. And about my wife’s routine, and the children’s routine. I know you’re clever, Tyrone, and you have contacts. I need information about how and where I can reach Robert and Katherine alone.”

The Irishman’s eyes went wide. “You intend to reclaim your children?”

Not your business,
Adam thought. “I’m their father. I intend to talk to them.”

Tyrone made a groveling bow as though aware he’d gone too far. “Of course, your lordship.”

“The thing is, I need to keep my head down. That means you don’t know I’m in this city. Understood?”

“Perfectly, my lord.”

“So, can you find out what I need?”

“The fact is, I am in quite a good position to help your lordship. In my investigation about the whereabouts of Lady Gren—I mean Lady Thornleigh, I got to know some people of the duchess’s household. I made a friend of one in particular, your children’s tutor, Goert Peterszen.”

“Does he live in the house?”

“He does.”

“Good. Grease his palm if you need to.” Adam drew a few ducats from his pocket. “I’ll need the information as soon as possible.”

Tyrone took the coins, pocketed them, then tugged down his doublet. “I’ll go right away. Shouldn’t take long.” He reached for his cap. “And where shall I report to you, my lord? Where are you staying?”

Adam shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to loaf around at his inn all day, waiting to hear. “I’ll come back. Be here at seven this evening.”

Adam walked briskly across the city, heading for the Willebroek Canal. Near the Grote Markt he noticed a half-dozen soldiers on horseback trotting toward him. He kept his eyes on the ground, plodding on like a laborer until they trotted past him.

Crossing the Grote Markt, he passed a towering statue of the Duke of Alba with sword drawn, his fierce bronze eyes seeming to look straight at Adam. He looked up at the grand Gothic façade of the King’s House, Alba’s palatial seat. Inside those rooms five years ago the captive leaders of the Dutch resistance, Count Egmont and Count Hoorn, had spent their last night on earth. The next morning Alba had them beheaded in the Grote Markt. It was the beginning of what the people called Alba’s reign of blood.

Adam passed the phalanx of Spanish harquebusiers stationed outside the palace with their long guns. They had the bored, arrogant look of entrenched victors. He thought of his sister Isabel’s husband, Carlos. A good man, Adam had always thought. Carlos had once saved his life. But now, Carlos was somewhere in this city, a part and prop of Alba’s martial power.
Once a mercenary, always a mercenary,
Adam thought with disgust. How could Isabel stand being here?

He made his way westward toward the canal, past houses and churches and shops, gauging how long it would take to reach the canal from the duchess’s house on Balienplein Square. This was the route he would take with Kate and Robert once he had them. A quick dash and the three of them would be on a canal boat heading to Antwerp before Frances could rouse her friend’s retainers. He felt buoyed with cautious hope. Would he finally have his children back?

He stood on the busy quay and looked out at the ships and barges and wherries, and took a deep breath of the fresh, waterborne air. What a marvel the canal was. Dug eleven years ago, a length of almost eighteen miles, with four locks that lifted the vessels uphill. It let ships avoid navigating the sandy little Zenne River, and gave direct access to the Scheldt River and thence to the port of Antwerp and the North Sea. Watching the crew of a ship with Swedish flags haul in their anchor cable and prepare to set sail, Adam couldn’t help admiring Spanish enterprise in overseeing the construction of this canal. England had nothing to match it.

A barge alongside the wharf was being loaded with bawling sheep. He remembered what Fenella had said when they’d reached the cove, that she had a friend here with a barge. Not on the canal, but on Sint-Gorikseiland near the city center. It touched him that she’d been thinking of his safety. He hoped
she
was safe, hoped she’d got her gold from the banker and was already headed back to the cove. With luck, he’d be on his way there tomorrow with his own gold: Robert and Kate.

Dusk was darkening the city as he made his way back toward Tyrone’s house. The streets were full of people heading home. Hawkers around the Anderlecht Gate were packing up their wares, hoisting baskets onto carts and satchels over their shoulders. Church bells clanged from the cathedral. Seven o’clock. Adam’s stomach growled; he’d had nothing all day but those morsels of pork at the market and a few swallows of Tyrone’s wine. He was hungry for a real meal. But hungrier to hear what the Irishman had found out about the children.

In the quiet cul-de-sac Adam waited in the tree-cast shadows outside the red-gabled house. No need to show his face again to Tyrone’s inquisitive maid. Overcautious he might be, but it didn’t hurt to assume that a servant who knew he was a foreign lord might blab about that. A bat streaked past his ear. He went a few paces toward the mouth of the cul-de-sac. A horse clopped past. Then, in the silence, he heard footsteps. He stepped out from the shadows and intercepted Tyrone.

“Ah, my lord! You startled me.” He glanced over his shoulder as though to check that no one had followed him. Adam was glad the fellow was diligent about that.

“It’s all right; we’re alone. Did you see the tutor?”

“Aye, that I did.”

“And? What did you find out?”

Tyrone’s smile was one of satisfaction. “More than we’d even hoped, my lord. Peterszen told me that tomorrow morning Lady Thornleigh will accompany the duchess to visit friends near the Coudenberg Palace. While she is away young Lord Robert and his sister will go to the Church of Saint Nicholas for their regular instruction.”

“Instruction?”

“In the catechism. Seems they see the priest every Wednesday morning at ten.”

Adam groaned. His children were English, brought up as Protestants, but it was no surprise that Frances had wrenched them back to popish ways. It irked him. But he understood what Tyrone was implying and was glad of the opportunity it gave him. When Robert and Kate were with the priest they’d be far from Frances, and from the duchess’s men. “Where is this church?”

“On Boterstraat, my lord. Behind the Bourse. Peterszen says the children meet the priest in the side chapel of the Holy Virgin.”

Adam clapped his agent on the shoulder. “Well done, Tyrone. I owe you.”

The next morning, thunder rumbled above the leaden skies of Brussels.
Rain’s not far off,
Adam thought as he left his inn and made his way toward Boterstraat. It was just after nine. He wanted to get to the church early. The blithe townsfolk took no notice of the impending rough weather. The streets were filled with maids carrying baskets to and from market, and carts clattered by as apprentices, farmers, clerks, and priests went about their business. The hammers of bricklayers and masons clanged on a half-finished house. Adam’s eyes were on the steeple of the Church of Saint Nicholas to give him his bearings as he navigated the narrow streets toward the steeple. A wagon piled with ale kegs rolled past, the rear wheel just missing his foot, and he lurched back. He was so keyed up to see Robert and Kate he wasn’t being careful where he stepped.

He carried on and turned the corner. There, across the street, beyond the passersby, rose the church, a soot-grimed, centuries-old building, oddly asymmetrical. He stopped. Four people stood outside its doors between the stone pillars. Two burly men and two women, one gray haired and dour faced, dressed in the apron and shawl of a waiting woman, the other slender, shrouded in a pale gray cloak, its hood up, her face turned away. By her posture she was much younger. Could it possibly be Kate? No, his daughter was a child and this was a young woman, quite tall. Then she glanced his way and his heart gave a kick.
Kate!
Good God, how she’d grown! She turned away again, and he almost lurched in disappointment at having seen her face for only that moment. He was very glad he’d come early. It was not yet ten. He studied the two men with her. Retainers of the duchess? Likely, for they were armed with swords.

One opened the church door for Kate and she went in. Alone. Adam held his breath. Where was Robert? Inside already? No, Kate’s party had arrived early. Had Robert not come at all? That was a blow. Adam had imagined the children coming together, as Tyrone had said. He took a breath, forcing himself to move past the disappointment. He had found Kate, at least. He would have to find another way to get Robert.

He longed to go in after her, but he held himself back. Impossible to go through that door without passing the pair of armed men. They were chatting with the waiting woman. Clearly, they were letting Kate take her religious instruction in private. Reason told Adam he should turn around and leave. Wait for another opportunity to get both children together. But reason fought with his burning desire to see his daughter.

As the three servants chatted he quickly crossed the street and slipped down the lane beside the church. It curved around, and he gripped the handle of the dagger at his belt, half-expecting to come face-to-face with some of Alba’s soldiers. The lane was narrow and he had to squeeze past an old woman leading a donkey laden with firewood. He was looking for a door into the rear of the church.

He saw one ahead, a low, arched door studded with nails. He tried the latch. It opened. A musty passage led into the whitewashed sacristy, a workmanlike room whose single, high window spilled gray light onto the vestment wardrobes, the stone basin, the crucifix on the wall. The room was deserted, no priests. That was lucky, and Adam was grateful. He opened the inner door and immediately found himself behind the apse, another world of rosy light filtered through stained glass and incense-scented air. Gold and silver gleamed on the altar, and beyond it rose the polished wood of the choir stalls and the carved rood screen. Over all was the hushed vault of the high-columned nave.

The side chapel. That’s where Tyrone said the priest gave the children instruction. Around to Adam’s left he saw it, an alcove where votive candles flickered beside an ornate marble altar. Above the altar stood a statue of the Virgin Mary painted in gold and bright sky blue. Adam saw no priest. Just Kate, kneeling at the altar, her head bowed. She held up a golden crucifix on a chain round her neck, held it with both hands as though offering it up to the statue while keeping her head humbly lowered. Then she raised her face to the Virgin, and Adam’s breath caught. How like his sister she looked. The same wide-set dark eyes, small nose, full lips. His daughter, his sweet girl . . . now almost a woman.

“Kate!” The name burst from his mouth as he went to her. She looked startled. She jumped to her feet with a wide-eyed look of surprise. “Father?” Confusion rushed over her face. Then dismay.
Who can blame her?
he thought, his heart aching.
We’ve been apart so long
.

He reached her and enfolded her in his arms. “Kate, my chick. It’s so wonderful to see you!” She’d been just nine when he’d last seen her and now she was as tall as his shoulder. A laugh of joy escaped him and he pulled her away to arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Good Christ, you’re so grown. And a beauty, by heaven.” Yet her skin was so pale. Did she never see the sun?

She lurched back, away from him. “Sir, you . . . blaspheme,” she stammered. “In a house of God.”

That threw him. Frances’s work, of course, pounding religion into the girl. But he was too happy to let it bother him. “You’re right. Sorry. It’s just a shock to see you. A
good
shock, I assure you.” He looked around, realizing he’d been a fool not to keep his voice down. Was the priest near? It struck him how quiet the church was, as though deserted. He lowered his voice. “Where’s your brother? Still at the duchess’s house?”

“No . . . he—” She stopped herself. She looked utterly bewildered.

“Never mind. We’ll get him later.” He held out his hand for hers. “Come, we haven’t got much time.”

“Time?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“I . . . don’t understand. Home with Mother?”

“No, your real home. England. As soon as I can get Robert, too.”

“England?” she said. Her voice was thin. She sounded horrified. “No.”

No?
He laughed, a nervous laugh. It had never occurred to him that she would not want to go. “Kate, look, I know I’ve startled you, surprising you like this, but—”

“You abandoned us,” she blurted.

“I what?”

“It’s been years. You haven’t come to see us. Haven’t written to us. Why would we want to go back to England?” Her misery and confusion cut him. “You don’t care a whit about us.”

Fury tightened his throat. What tales had Frances told them? What lies? “That’s not true,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’ve been trying all this time to find you. I love you, both of you.”

A thud sounded down the nave. “Christ, is that the bloody priest?” Kate gasped again at his profanity. “There’s no time to talk,” he said quietly. “You’ve got to come with me, right now.” He took her by the hand. “Come. Out the back.”

She snatched back her hand. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” She clutched her crucifix, gripping it to her chest with both hands as though for protection. “Father Hubert will soon be here. I’m taking lessons with him. Studying.”