The Queen's Exiles (14 page)

“Famished.”

She found cold porridge in a crock, and a congealed leg of roasted rabbit. At least she hoped it was rabbit. She set about fixing a trencher for each of them, spooning out the porridge. There was no way to heat it with the galley hearth in a shambles. “It’s not the fare from the Queen’s banquet table that you’re used to, but at least we won’t starve.”

He watched her as she worked. “First Edinburgh, now here, that’s twice you’ve saved my life,” he said quietly. “You mend my ship. You mend my body. I think, Fenella, you could mend a man’s soul.”

It took her breath away. “My lord . . .” she stammered, looking down.

“You really must call me Adam.”

She looked up. His smile, slightly crooked, sent a tingle down her backbone. “Adam,” she said, her hand with the spoon almost trembling.

“I never thought to find you here,” he said. “I thought you were going north.”

“I did. I got my money and then took Johan home. He was happy to see his niece. I left him there, at her farm.” She said nothing about Claes. And would not.
It’s safer for Claes this way,
she told herself, though she knew such caution wasn’t necessary with Adam. He was on the side of the rebels and would never betray a fellow fighter in the cause. No, there was a deeper reason that she could not deny—or face. She did not
want
Adam to know her husband was alive.

“And then?” he asked. “What brought you to Brussels?”

“Wanted to see old friends. Berck and . . . other friends. I’ll go see them today.” She wanted no more questions about herself. “Here,” she said, bringing him the trencher. “You need to build your strength.” She sat beside him. They ate in silence. Fenella tasted nothing as she chewed and swallowed. Her eyes were on her food, but her mind was locked on every slight movement he made, every breath he took. When they finished, she took the trenchers back to the table, then sat down beside him again. His good arm was next to her. An inch closer and she would feel its warmth. She hated that inch of air.

“Adam . . .” The name, so intimate, still felt new on her tongue. Felt wonderful. “What happened? Who hurt you?”

He ran a hand through his tangled hair. He was clearly troubled. “I told you I was going to get my children. I saw my daughter, Kate. Spoke to her.” He shook his head. “Then lost her.”

Fenella gasped. “How?”

“Treachery.”

He told her how his agent had said the children would be at the Church of Saint Nicholas for instruction with the priest, how he had gone there and seen his daughter outside with an escort of two men. When she went in he slipped in through a back door and found her praying. “She looked at me like I was the devil.” His tone was bitter. “It’s her mother. She’d poisoned Kate’s mind about me. I told Kate the truth, and I think I could have persuaded her to come. But her mother had put her in that church as bait. To capture me. She arrived with half a dozen soldiers.”

“They attacked you?”

He nodded. “I had to run.”

Fenella’s heart ached at the pain in his voice. “How did she know you’d be there?”

“My agent, Tyrone. Had to be him, he’s the only person who knew I was in the city.” He gritted his teeth. “Frances put the children in a convent. Days ago, Kate said. Somehow, Frances knew I was coming. It can only have been through Tyrone. So she hid them, then brought out Kate to lure me.”

He turned to her and she saw the haggard look in his eyes. “Fenella, you know I have to get home to report to the Queen. That’s what we planned, you and I, to get my ship and hasten to England. But I can’t leave yet. I have to try to get Kate and Robert.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “I can’t do it alone. Their mother will have them well guarded.”

“I’ll help you. Gladly. What can I do?”

He looked at her in surprise. Affection shone in his eyes. “You stand by your friends so loyally. Johan. Me. You have a good heart.”

I’m a witch,
she thought.
I want to leave Claes and live in England with you. Forever.

“But I would never involve you in this,” he said. “Too dangerous.”

“You can’t do it alone; you just said so. Look how narrowly you escaped. And they’ve already hurt you.”

“I know someone who may help.” He gave her a look so tender it pierced her heart. “I’m so glad you’re here. To talk to. It’s such a . . . blessing. But it’s dangerous for you. There’s a price on my head. You mustn’t be seen with me.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m going to go.”

“Where?”

“I left my horse at an inn near the Antwerp Gate. Too far to go last night, covered in blood. Would have attracted suspicion. But now I’ll make my way there.” He added quietly but firmly, “You shouldn’t stay in this city.”

He didn’t mention her crime. He didn’t have to. “A price on both our heads,” she said, then jested with a bravado she did not feel, “Valuable folk, aren’t we?”

“You are,” he said warmly. “Above rubies.” He hesitated. Then murmured, “I wish . . .” He didn’t finish, but the searching look he gave her made her burn to know what it was he wished.

“I’ll see you aboard the
Odette,
though, won’t I?” she said. She was suddenly afraid that something would foul their plan. Afraid that this might be the last time she would see him. “We’ll rendezvous at the cove?”

“Yes, just as we planned. We said two days from now, but now I’ll need longer.”

“Four days?”

He nodded. “Four days, good. I’ll be there. I hope to God it’s with my children.”

“I’ll be there, too.” She would sail with him to England. And never come back. “Adam, if anything should hold you up—”

“It won’t. Whatever happens,” he added grimly, “with or without Robert and Kate, I must report to the Queen.”

“But if you’re stopped, or if you need help, send me a message. To that stable in the village by the cove. Remember? The ostler?”

He nodded. “The ostler.”

“Promise me.”

He smiled. “I promise.”

“What were you about to say, before? That you wish . . .”

He looked away. “If wishes were ponies . . .”

She raised her hand to his cheek and drew his face back to her and whispered, “No nursery rhymes.”

He gazed at her for a long moment as though struggling over whether to speak what he felt. Then he said quietly, simply, his eyes never leaving hers, “I wish I’d met you years ago. Before I married.”

The words sent a thrill through her. She couldn’t stop herself. She let her fingertips slide over his lips. He clapped his hand over hers as though to stop her, but instead he pressed her hand tight against his cheek.

“Adam,” she breathed.

He bent his head and kissed her. A hesitant kiss, so light it made her yearn for more. He drew back a little and his eyes searched hers with such a naked need she knew he yearned as she did. Then his arm was around her waist, pressing her body to his.

“Your wound—”

He stopped her words with a kiss so hungry it took her breath away.

I
sabel Valverde couldn’t bear to stay in the candlelit opulence of the Duchess of Feria’s long gallery a moment longer.

It wasn’t the stuffy heat, nor the headache-making babble of the well-heeled throng. In coming here with Carlos, Isabel had known full well what the crowd would be: a mix of arrogant Spaniards, toadying Dutch sycophants, and English Catholic exiles, near traitors in Isabel’s opinion. She’d been ready for all that, ready to be gracious for her husband’s sake. But among the crowd was a face she had never anticipated. Her brother Adam’s traitorous wife! There Frances brazenly stood, chatting with the Duchess of Feria and the Duke of Alba, apparently unaware of Isabel’s presence. Isabel was finding it hard to absorb the shock.

“Carlos,” she whispered with as much control as she could muster, “I won’t stay. I can’t.”

“I swear to you,” he said tightly, “I didn’t know she’d be here.”

Her anger spurted. “Really?” She loathed his closeness to Alba.

“You think I knew the guest list? I’ve been on horseback for the last fourteen hours, coordinating patrols with the Mechelen garrison. I barely had time to change my clothes.”

She bit back further harsh words. He was clearly as astonished to see Frances as she was.

“What am I bid for this exquisite work of art?” called the auctioneer. The crowd murmured in excitement as servants held up a painting, the property of a merchant arrested at Alba’s command for speaking out against the Spanish occupation. The gentlemen and ladies here were all keen to snap up such confiscated treasures. The English-born Duchess of Feria was hosting the event to raise money for her exiled countrymen, and Alba’s attendance gave luster to the exiles’ cause. The whole event disgusted and disturbed Isabel.

She knew she should not blame Carlos . . . yet part of her did. He
knew
how she felt about these people, about the wretched Spanish occupation. After witnessing the boy’s awful execution in the market square she had told Carlos she was going home and taking the children with her. She’d immediately regretted that angry outburst, though. After all, she had willingly come to the Netherlands with him. In sixteen years of marriage they had rarely been apart. In Peru, when he’d been captain of the viceroy’s guard, she had accompanied him to his postings throughout that country and enjoyed it. Their one separation had been eleven years ago when he’d gone to Scotland, and that strained episode had taught her that she hated being apart from him.

But she also hated the brutality she saw every day in Brussels. If there was anything she could do to stop it she would, but that was impossible, of course. Ludicrous. Like hoping to stop a marching army from squashing an ant. Besides, given the precarious state of their personal finances she knew how much Carlos wanted and needed the Spanish pension that he’d earned but that Alba had yet to deliver. So she and Carlos had forged a compromise. He had promised her that if the pension did not come within six months they would go home. She had hesitated, because she felt that her first duty had to be the welfare of their children. Brussels was a hideous place for them and the new babe was due in less than two months. But she’d seen how much her threat to leave had hurt Carlos, and that broke her heart. So she had agreed. Six months.

Now, though, once she had seen Frances, six
hours
seemed too long.

“Wait until the auction’s over,” Carlos urged. “We can’t leave now; we just got here.”

You can’t, perhaps. I don’t work for Alba
. She had her eyes on Alba as he smiled and chatted with Frances. “Look, he’s her champion. All these people are, I warrant. To them she’s the long-suffering wife of the Englishman they hate. The pirate baron.” She fumed at the injustice. “I swear, Carlos, if I have to speak to her I may spit in her face.”

“The two of you were friends once,” he reminded her.

“The more fool I. Who knew she would try to murder the Queen? And Adam barely escaped with his life.”

“She’s paid for it, by the look of her.” Isabel had to admit that might be true: Frances had become thin. She’d always been angular and now the angles had sharpened, her chin more pointed, her elbows sharp. “Three years on the run,” Carlos added.

“With Robert and Katherine in tow, poor things. Adam’s had men looking for them all this time.” A terrible thought struck her. “Carlos, I’ve heard talk about these exiles. They’re urging Philip of Spain to back an invasion of England and put Mary of Scotland on the throne. Do you think Frances could be part of that cabal?”

He scoffed. “Gossip. The King’s not going to invade anyone. He has his hands full fighting the Turks plus keeping these Dutch in line. People spread rumors to sound important.”

“But Frances committed treason once. Why not again? And look at the people she’s consorting with. There, see, by the window? That’s the Countess of Northumberland. Her husband
was
a traitor. He raised the Northern Uprising and took Durham before Her Majesty put it down and executed him. Everyone knows his wife burns to avenge his death.”

As though Frances had heard, she suddenly caught sight of Carlos and Isabel. Frances stared, clearly as astonished as Isabel had been. But she held her head high.
No wonder,
Isabel thought grimly.
She’s among powerful friends. To these people, I’m the outsider
.

A man hustled past Carlos and Isabel toward the auction activity and knocked her side. Instinctively, she laid a protective hand on the babe in her belly. Carlos shot the man a fierce look, saying, “Watch where you’re going.”

“Oh no,” she whispered, stiffening. Frances was coming this way. Carlos let out a low groan as they watched Alba stroll alongside Frances to join them.

“Señora Valverde,” Alba said. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

Isabel dipped a curtsy and murmured as politely as she could, “Your Grace.”

“Hello, Isabel,” Frances said. Her thin lips formed a tense smile. “Hello, Carlos,”

Carlos jerked a bow of his head. “Lady Thornleigh.”

“It has been a long time,” she said to Isabel, tentative but friendly, an overture apparently.

What mischief was she brewing? Isabel struggled to set a sociable face over her disgust. “Indeed it has. Your travels kept you away from us in England.”

Alba went on, “I have only recently met your charming sister-in-law, a welcome addition to our city.” He added smoothly to Carlos, “Tell me, Valverde, are all the ladies of this family blessed with such beauty?”

Isabel bristled, guessing what he was really asking:
Where does your wife’s loyalty lie?
Carlos replied steadily, as though he, too, caught the meaning, “Every one, my lord.”

The auctioneer’s voice rang out announcing the opening of bids for an emerald necklace. “Will you pardon me?” Alba said. “I promised the duchess I would bid on this for my wife at home in Spain.” With a courtly bow of the head to the ladies, he turned and left them.

Frances’s eyes flicked to the mound of Isabel’s belly. “Your fourth, I think?” Her tone turned wistful. “I well remember your help in delivering my Katherine. We were close, then, you and I. I hope we can be friends again. It’s been . . . lonely.”

Isabel felt thrown, almost moved. “Have my niece and nephew come to Brussels with you?”

Frances stiffened. All she’d heard was the rebuff. “My children are well. I shall tell them you asked after them.”

Isabel impulsively took her sister-in-law’s hand. “Frances, this is no life for them. Exiled from home, no country to call their own. Send them back to Adam. Don’t make them pay for your crime.”

Frances withdrew her hand with icy forbearance. “In this land, my dear, it is your brother who is the criminal.”

Isabel flinched. Was this a threat?

Frances went on, her voice hard, “I came to give you a kind word, for your sake.” She glanced at Carlos. “Both your sakes. A warning for Adam. Tell him, if he values his head, to keep his distance.”

“Your kindness is not required,” Isabel replied steadily. “I never see my brother.”

Frances held her gaze for a moment as though gauging the truth of her words. Then she proudly lifted her chin again. “Excuse me. I, too, will join the bidding. My dear friend the duchess hopes to raise a sizable purse to comfort the poor souls who’ve fled England for their faith.”

“Poor?” Isabel challenged. “The Countess of Northumberland and her wealthy friends? They’re all drawing pensions from the pope.”

“There are carters and coopers and cloth workers, too. Would you have them starve?”

“I would have them loyal to Her Majesty.”

Frances seemed to bite back a reply. “I shall pray,” she said evenly, “that God will grant you a safe delivery.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

Isabel was trembling with indignation. “I won’t stay in the same room with her. Or these people. I’m going home. This moment.” She turned to leave.

Carlos took her elbow to stop her. “Isabel, I can’t go until—”

“Then don’t,” she snapped. “I don’t need you.”

Across the room Alba was watching them. Carlos looked loath to be seen arguing with his wife. “I’ll take you,” he told her. He guided her by the elbow toward the gallery doors. “I’ll tell him you aren’t feeling well.”

“That’s right, lie. This place makes liars of everyone.” She shot a hostile glance over her shoulder at Alba. “Everyone toadies to him.”

“That’s enough,” Carlos said, marching her through the open doors. “We need him.”

“We need to get home to England.”

“And live on what?”

“At least we
would
live. Here he’s going to get you killed.” They were on their way down the stairs, their eyes on a trio of chatting Spanish grandees coming up, and she said nothing until the Spaniards had passed. Then she went on, “He has forced this country to its knees and they’re going to turn on him, and when that happens I’m afraid you’ll be fighting for him.”

“I am
bound
to fight for him.”

“Bound? By what law?”

“By honor. And by our need.”

“My need is to get our children out of this madhouse of a country. Get them safe home. If you won’t go, I’ll take them myself.”

“No. I need you to stay.”

“Why? When you know how I feel. We just quarrel. Why
shouldn’t
I go?”

Because the travel is rough and I’m afraid you’ll miscarry. Because I want you by my side. Because you and the children are everything.
That’s what Carlos had felt when she’d hurled the question at him an hour ago on the duchess’s staircase. He hadn’t been able to put the feelings into words. All he’d managed was a terse, “Because you’re my wife.”

“Obedience, is that it?” she had said. He saw that he had hurt her, though he could not fathom how. How he hated this wrangling! At the duchess’s front doors he’d called for the litter Isabel had come in and seen her into it, and when his horse was brought he’d swung up into the saddle.

Now, keeping his horse to a walk, he rode beside her litter through the dark streets, both of them silent in the presence of their two servants led by a linkboy with a torch. Carlos could not get over how strange and uncomfortable the meeting with Frances had been. It made him all the more uneasy because he had not told Isabel what Alba had said that night at the brothel, that there was one sure way to prove his loyalty and secure the pension: track down Adam.

The night was windy, sending broken twigs scurrying along the cobbles of the courtyard at the Valverdes’ house. Carlos dismounted and his groom took the horse to the stable. Handing Isabel from the litter, Carlos saw her stormy face, so he sent the servants ahead to bed, not wanting them to see the discord between him and his wife. With no torch, there was only candlelight from the windows to light their way to the front door. Isabel stumbled on an uneven stone. He put out his hand to steady her. She pulled back, refusing his help. It hurt him more than all her angry words.

Wind rustled the high bushes that flanked the door, and Carlos caught a glint of something among the branches. A form stepped out, a man, cloaked. Black in the shadows, he stood barring their way. Carlos pulled Isabel behind him to shield her as he drew his sword. “Who’s there?”

“A friend.”

Friends don’t accost friends
. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The man held up his hands in surrender to Carlos’s blade. “A word. No more.” With one hand still raised he used the other to push his hood back from his face.

“Adam!” Isabel cried. She rushed out from behind Carlos.

Carlos froze.
Thornleigh
. His heart thumped. His mind galloped.
Deliver him to Alba. Win the pension....

Isabel threw her arms around her brother’s neck. He flinched as though in pain. “Adam, what—”

“Not here,” Carlos warned, sheathing his sword.
Be friends. Get him into the house
. He glanced at the upper windows of the neighbors’ houses on either side visible above the courtyard wall. Some windows were dark. In others, candles flickered. “God knows who’s watching. Come inside.”

“Oh yes,” Isabel whispered, sobered. “Adam, they mustn’t see you.” She pulled his hood up to shadow his face. “Nor our servants, either.”

They brought him inside, passing the servants, and led him into the parlor. Carlos closed the door. When he turned back Thornleigh had again pushed back the hood. Their eyes locked.

“Christ, Thornleigh. You’re taking a chance.”

“I know.”

“
Do
you? Do you know my position here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I cannot—”

“Hush, Carlos,” Isabel said. “Of course we can. Adam, you’re most welcome.” She was removing his cloak. The shirt he wore was loose at the neck and got tugged off his shoulder. She gasped. “You’re hurt!”

Carlos saw the bandage and the small bloom of blood that had wept through it. Thornleigh gave his sister a crooked smile. “Blame your enthusiastic greeting.”

“Not for that wound,” Carlos shot back.