The Queen's Gamble (10 page)

She glanced at Quadra on her other side. He was watching the newcomers file in, his benign smile welcoming them. He obviously prided himself on being the shepherd of this little flock of English Catholics in need of a secret shelter to practice their faith.

Then Isabel spotted a face among them that made her stifle a gasp. It was Frances. Several bodies were between them, almost blocking Isabel’s view of her, but there was no doubt that it was her sister-in-law. And, from the way she set her eyes on a rear bench as though it were
her
spot, it seemed she had been here before. Shocked though Isabel was, she realized that she should have suspected it. Unlike the Thornleighs, the Grenvilles had always been a staunchly Catholic family. Did Adam know that his wife frequented the embassy chapel for mass? Impossible—he would never allow it. She finally caught a clear view of Frances, who had not yet seen her. She looked exhausted, so heavy with child, and rather frightened as she clutched her rosary, her pale lips moving in a silent, fervent prayer. Isabel’s heart went out to her, for she looked so alone. She thought of her promise to Adam. Frances’s fear, she was sure, was not just about the risk she was taking by being here. It was about her impending labor.

She felt Quadra’s eyes on her. Checking for any sign in her of disgust at these English lawbreakers? It kindled an idea. Frances had reached the rear bench and was about to sit. Isabel got up and went straight to her. Frances froze at the sight of her. Her eyes went wide as though in fear.

“It’s all right,” Isabel whispered. She slipped in beside her, standing with her at the bench, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to reassure her. She could feel Frances’s rigid muscles. “It’s all right,” she said again.

Frances blinked at her. “Please . . . Adam—”

“Shhh, it is our secret,” Isabel whispered. “Here, you need to sit.” She gently lowered Frances onto the bench. Frances looked up at her in wonder. Isabel sat beside her and patted her knee. “There. All right now?” she murmured.

Frances’s eyes filled with relief. She nodded.

Isabel looked ahead, up the nave. Ambassador Quadra was watching her.

Mass was over. The English worshippers had left as furtively as they had come. Isabel had rejoined Quadra, and as she walked with him out of the chapel and down the stone corridor he was like a different man, chatting easily without a hint of lingering mistrust. She had not only partaken of mass with reverence, her show of solidarity with Frances had clearly pleased him. He asked her the identity of the lady she had comforted, for although he knew who most of the well-to-do worshippers were, this visit had apparently been Frances’s first. When Isabel told him the lady was her brother’s wife, he looked very satisfied to know that more of her family were secret Catholics. Isabel felt quite victorious. She had passed the ambassador’s test.

He returned to the topic of Carlos’s application for a seat on the Trujillo city council, told her that it was always a pleasure to do what he could to advance men of promise, and that he would send a letter recommending her husband to His Highness with the next post bound to the court at Valladolid.

Isabel could not have asked for more. She thanked him most sincerely. Now it was time to find out what she had come for. The information that Cecil needed for the Queen.

“My lord, might I ask your advice on another matter?” She slowed to a stroll so that the two clerks walking behind them, deep in a private conversation, could pass them.

Quadra assured her that it would be his honor to advise her in any way he could.

They were now walking alone. “My husband and I plan to stay in London until Easter,” she said, “but this situation in Scotland has me wondering if that is quite sensible. We have our little boy with us, and I’m rather alarmed at all the whispered talk I hear of an invasion by the French. A friend even suggested that we should get out as soon as possible, to be safe. What do you think? Is this just alarmist talk, or should I plan our return sooner?”

“It might be wise, indeed, to advance your departure.”

“Really? But if the French do dare to threaten England, His Majesty the King will surely come to the aid of his ally, Queen Elizabeth, will he not?”

“Not if these heretic rebels gain strength.” He inclined his head closer to her so that he could keep his voice low as they strolled on. “You, as a loyal daughter of the one true Church, can appreciate Spain’s sacred position as defender of the faith.” Isabel knew that he was speaking now not just as ambassador but as Bishop of Aquila. “His Majesty is the most pious prince in Christendom. I assure you that he will
never
allow a heretic Scotland allied with the heretic Queen of England. He will back France.”

8

A Promise Fulfilled

“F
or the baby,” Isabel said, offering the gift. It was the size of a small book, and wrapped in silver satin.

“How thoughtful.” Frances, moving with a ponderous gait, so great with child, had come to greet her as the footman led Isabel in from the front door. If she felt surprise at Isabel’s visit at nine o’clock in the evening, she did not show it. “Thank you.”

The calmness was a mask, Isabel thought—Frances was itching to speak of their meeting that morning in the Spanish embassy chapel. So was Isabel. It was partly why she had come. But it was not a safe topic with servants near—the footman lingering for further instruction, and a maid passing by with a coal scuttle. Servants talked.

It was the first time she had been at her brother’s house. Despite its fashionable address, it was old and felt dim and cramped—not at all what she would have expected Adam to choose. But then, perhaps he hadn’t. He was so often away on navy business, her mother had said. Because he preferred to be away from his wife? Isabel wondered. She nodded at the gift in Frances’s hands. “Open it.”

Frances unwrapped the satin and lifted out a pink coral for teething. It was plum-sized, its original spines smoothed to gentle bumps, and was mounted on a handle of silver shaped like a tadpole. She smiled. “How sweet.”

She invited Isabel upstairs to the birthing chamber to show her the other gifts. An old woman sat in a rocking chair by the fire, knitting. Her face was lined with deep ridges like the bark of a walnut tree, and she was wrapped in a brown shawl that had seen such long service the wool was fuzzy as a caterpillar. Frances introduced her: Mistress Dauncy, the midwife. Apparently, she had been brought in preemptively and was staying—more proof of Frances’s anxious state about the coming ordeal. Her first child, at the age of forty-two. The room smelled musty, Isabel thought. Every window was shut tight, the heavy brocade curtains drawn against the darkness. Candles flickered on the sideboard.

Frances told the midwife she could retire for the night.

“I’ll rest me bones by the kitchen hearth for a spell if you don’t mind, my lady,” the old woman said, struggling out of her rocking chair. “There’s grumbling wee devils in me joints, bad with this wet cold.” It took her some time to gather up her basket of yarns and needles. Waiting, Isabel dutifully praised the baby gifts laid out neatly on a table: tiny lace caps with white silk strings, little shirts of the finest Dutch linen, embroidered bibs, a silver rattle.

“Your mother sent the swaddling clothes,” Frances said, fingering the coral as she watched the midwife. “And Lady Gonson sent the christening gown. Is it not fine?” It was exquisite. Ivory taffeta shot with silver threads, with a soft little ruff of lace.

The old woman waddled to the door, her movements so slow that Isabel wondered about her competence. But Frances apparently felt lucky to have found her. “A goodwife of the good old ways,” she whispered pointedly. Isabel understood. In every parish, only midwives approved by the church were allowed to practice their art, because if the baby seemed likely to die before a parson could arrive, the midwife had to baptize the child. It had always been this way, but now the official orthodoxy was Queen Elizabeth’s reformed church, and Isabel doubted that Frances would put her baby’s soul in the hands of a Protestant. This woman must be an adherent of the old church, practicing unlawfully.

The moment they were alone Frances grabbed Isabel’s hand and said with quiet fervor, “It gladdened me so to see you at mass. What a joy to know that you are one of us!”

Isabel stiffened. Us? Meaning the Grenvilles? No, Frances would not make such a blunder. Catholic, she meant. “I was the ambassador’s guest,” she replied, realizing it sounded like an excuse.

Frances did not seem to hear that note. “A good and pious man,” she said. “I do not know him personally, but I thank God for him. His chapel is our refuge.” She asked, looking very anxious, “You will not tell Adam you saw me there, will you? He wouldn’t . . . understand.”

No, he would not. “Of course I won’t. And Frances, please, you must tell no one about
my
being there. If my parents heard . . . well, you know.”

“My dear, I shall not breathe a word.” She squeezed Isabel’s hand and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “It goes hard for us, Isabel, we of the true faith. But we can rejoice in the fellowship of our own kind.”

Isabel could not share the zeal. She slid her hand free. “Our secret, then. Good.”

Frances smiled. “And thank you for this, truly,” she said, indicating the teething coral. She set it down alongside the other baby gifts and stroked the neatly folded swaddling clothes. Her smile faded. “The midwife says my time draws near.” Isabel saw the slight tremor of her fingers as she touched the baby things. “Is there much blood?” she whispered. “I know there is pain, but it’s . . . it’s the blood that I—”

“You’ll be fine, Frances. You are hale, in good health.” She laid her hand gently on her sister-in-law’s arm. “And I have come to stay with you, to help in any way I can.”

Frances looked at her in wonder. “Stay?”

Isabel had not been looking forward to this chore, but she had made a promise to her brother and meant to keep it. Besides, Frances looked so frightened and lonely with no kinswomen to lighten the time. Her mother was dead and she had no sisters, while her sister-in-law, the widow of Lord John Grenville, had almost certainly shunned her since Frances had married a Thornleigh. Isabel was still uneasy about Adam marrying into the family that had brought her own family so much pain, but none of that misery was Frances’s fault. “That is, if you want me to.”

“Oh, yes. Yes!” She almost beamed.

“Good. Adam wanted to be sure that you are well taken care of.” She hoped it might cheer Frances to know that.

“Did he?” She seemed desperate to know. “Did he really?”

“Yes, indeed. He said so, just before you came to bid him good-bye.” Isabel left it at that.
It’s the child that matters,
he had said, and she could not forget the stiff formality of his farewell to Frances at the Old Swan Stairs, and the yearning in Frances’s eyes. She found it rather pitiful, especially since Frances seemed well aware of where she stood in her husband’s affections. What wife isn’t? she thought. “Now, let me begin by doing the office of your maid and seeing you into your bed.” She guessed that between her discomfort and anxiety, Frances was not getting much sleep. She looked quite haggard.

They reached the bedchamber, a cheerless room with old-fashioned dark paneling. The air held a strong smell of vinegar. Isabel sent a maid downstairs for some spiced wine, then helped her sister-in-law undress. She eased Frances’s cumbersome body onto the mattress and under the covers, then plumped the pillows as Frances fussed with her prayer book. Crossing herself, she tucked the book under her pillow, then sank back with a sigh and gave Isabel a wan smile. “You are very good to stay with me, Isabel. I am most grateful.”

“Nonsense, I’m glad to help.”

The chamber was chilly. A bird had made a nest high in the chimney, Frances explained, so the fireplace could not be used until the sweep arrived to clean it. Isabel asked if she wanted to order a brazier of hot coals for warmth, but Frances shook her head as though she had no energy to even consider such things. Isabel was glad when the wine arrived.

“Here,” she said, handing her a goblet of the warm, spiced claret, “this will help you sleep.”

But later Isabel, too, found sleep difficult. Her small chamber down the corridor from Frances had no fireplace at all and was stone cold. She lay under the covers, curled up for warmth, and stared through the window at the sliver of moon, sharp as a blade, hanging high in the black sky, and thought back to her meeting with Sir William Cecil. After leaving the Spanish embassy, she had gone to his house on Canon Row to report what Ambassador Quadra had told her.

“God help us,” Cecil had muttered. She had sensed that he was not panicked, only digesting the information, but his words had chilled her nonetheless. He saw dire trouble ahead for England, and the reason was Spain. “Just as I feared,” he said. “King Philip will not sit quietly by if Scotland looks ready to fall to Protestants.”

“What will he do?”

“Who can say? Perhaps send his own troops to crush the Scots rebels. And bestir the pope to send his. The French are already urging the pope to declare that any of the faithful who can depose our queen will win his endorsement.” He shook his head in dismay. “The worst scenario? An open Catholic League—the forces of Spain, France, and the pope—rampant on our very border, and casting ravenous eyes southward on us. If they cross that border, it’s catastrophe for England.”

Invasion—Isabel saw it looming. Saw that Queen Elizabeth would stand little chance of beating back such a fearsome alliance of foes. And then, she thought, what will happen to the people of England? To my parents, so closely tied to the Queen? To Adam, a captain in the Queen’s navy? Standing there in Cecil’s study, she had hated the sense of helplessness. Was there not something more she could do? she had asked him. “I might be able to learn more from Ambassador Quadra. If information from that quarter would be of use, sir, I will gladly try.”

“Not yet. I shall impart to the Queen what you have told me.” He had looked at her for a long moment, as though weighing risk and gain. “Be prepared. Her Majesty may want to speak to you.”

She was astonished. “Me? Why?”

He frowned. “Do you want to help or not?”

Did she? If it meant enmeshing herself in the crisis? The answer came in a heartbeat. “Yes.”

But the secrecy that Cecil asked for did not sit well with her. He had asked her not to tell her mother about her visit to Quadra, which Isabel did not mind, since she did not want her mother to know of her attendance at the mass, but he had also insisted that she not tell Carlos, and that felt difficult. She had never kept secrets from him before. Yet she sensed it was necessary. Carlos, for all his generosity in offering shelter to her parents in Peru, did not feel the same concern that she did about what happened to England. She was surprised herself to find how very deeply she cared. It felt oddly stirring, as though she had been given a second chance. A chance to atone for her actions five years ago at the Battle of Ludgate.

The memories of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s rebellion crowded back now as she looked up at the stark slice of moon. She had been nineteen, and so naïve. Wyatt was planning an uprising against Queen Mary, and Isabel had eagerly pledged to help him, for she had thought herself in love with one of his captains, a young man as naïve as herself. Wyatt and his two thousand men had marched north from Kent toward London. The Queen’s forces brutally cut them down, but a few hundred straggled all the way to Ludgate in London Wall. By then, Isabel’s father had joined them. When she learned that an assassin hired to kill her father lurked inside the wall, she had to choose between her father and her pledge to Wyatt. She chose—and helped Londoners close Ludgate on Wyatt and his men. The Queen’s forces set on them, killing most, capturing the rest. In the mass executions that followed, Wyatt was hanged. Queen Mary had triumphed, and England had suffered for it—in the few years of her reign she burned hundreds of men and women at the stake for their beliefs—and Isabel felt in some small way responsible. Carlos had assured her that Wyatt’s forces had never stood a chance from the very beginning, but a nagging question lingered that she could never quiet:
If I had helped keep Ludgate open, might Wyatt have rallied to claim the day?
Now England stood to suffer again if the French invaded, and their occupation would be harsher than Queen Mary’s rule. Cecil was asking Isabel to help prevent that, and she welcomed the chance. It felt like a chance to redeem herself.

Carlos would not understand that.

I’m not so unlike Frances, she thought with a shiver as she lay in her cold bed. We both love our husbands, but we’re keeping secrets from them.

She had not been asleep for more than an hour when a scream jolted her awake. It came from down the corridor. Isabel jumped out of bed, the floor icy on her bare feet. She whirled a robe around her shoulders and snatched a guttering candle and hurried to Frances’s chamber. The way was dark, the air frigid. She found her sister-in-law quaking in her bed, her eyes wide with terror. She kneaded the sheet in fists on either side of her distended belly.

“It’s all right, Frances. I’m here.” Coming to the bedside, Isabel saw that the mattress was soaked.

“Is it blood?” Frances gaped at her in fear.

“No, no,” Isabel quickly assured her, “not blood.” The poor woman was too terrified even to look at the sheets. “Your water has burst, that’s all. It’s—”

“Will I die?”

“Of course not,” she soothed. “It’s perfectly normal. It just means the baby is on its way. You’re going to be fine.” She took Frances’s hand and stroked it to calm her. “Now, how far apart are the pains?”

“Terrible . . . terrible!”

“All right, let’s get you to the birthing chamber.”

“No!”

“But it’s so cold here, and everything is ready there for—”

“No!”

Isabel was shocked at the panic in Frances’s eyes. Nothing was going to induce her to move. “All right, all right,” she said calmly. “Don’t worry. I’ll fetch the midwife here. Try to breathe slowly, deeply.” Frances gulped frantic breaths, and Isabel didn’t have the heart to correct her. It was more important to soothe her with support. “That’s right. Even more slowly. Good, keep doing that.”

She hurried down the corridor. Behind her she could hear Frances moaning. On the stairs she stopped a sleepy young maid who was padding up with an armful of kindling, and asked where the midwife was. The girl blinked and scratched her neck. “I know not, mistress. She were in the kitchen after supper, asking cook for a lemon.”

“What’s your name?”

“Nan, mistress.”

“Go to Lady Frances’s bedchamber, Nan, and stay with her. Her time has come. She must not be alone.”