The Queen's Gamble (14 page)

“But I, sir, would speak with my guests,” she snapped.

“I beg your leave to wait.”

She glared at him. “Suit yourself.”

He cast his eyes down again in angry silence. The tension between them was almost palpable. The Queen pulled out the gilded chair meant for her at the table and sat down with obvious relief after her strenuous morning of business. She ignored the covered platters, reached for a silver dish of sugar-dusted almond macaroons the size of coins, and popped one into her mouth. Munching, she sat back and stretched her legs straight out. “Master Nicolas, watch those kittens in the basket, if you will. They like a tickle. But be gentle, or their mother will scratch you.”

“I like kittens,” he said, dropping to his knees beside them.

“Good lad. So do I.”

She turned to Isabel, and a new graveness settled over her features. “Now, Señora Valverde, I have been told of your visit to Bishop de Quadra. I cannot say that I like the information you got from him, but I thank you for bringing it to us.”

Isabel was taken aback. Business, after all. It was hard to know where she stood with this queen. “I only hope it may serve useful, Your Majesty.”

“It already has. It has set our new policy.”

A grunt escaped Cecil—a clear and caustic disapproval. The Queen glowered at him, an equally clear and caustic rebuke. Isabel did not know what to make of their discord, but she took the Queen’s introduction of the subject as an invitation to speak. She was eager to do anything she could to help end the crisis in Scotland, for the sooner it was over, the sooner Carlos could come home. “Your Majesty,” she said, “if I may be of further use, I am your servant. I will visit the ambassador again, if you wish.”

The Queen looked barely interested, the matter closed. “Do, yes,” she murmured. “That will be helpful.” She picked up another macaroon, but only toyed with it, as though her worries had stifled her appetite. She looked at Nicolas and said, “Master Kitten-Tamer, do you like sweetmeats?”

He shot a puzzled look at Isabel. He didn’t understand the word.

“Dulces,”
she translated. Sweets.

His eyes went wide. “
Sí!
I mean, yes!”

“Good lad,” the Queen said, “so do I. Here, catch.” She tossed the macaroon at him, high in the air. He leapt up and caught it. She chuckled.

Isabel wasn’t sure she liked her son being treated like a performing dog. And was there to be no more discussion about Quadra? About Scotland?

“Madam, enough!” Cecil said. Everyone looked at him, shocked at his outburst. “Forgive me, but I can no longer abide this charade. The crisis is too dire, much as you try to avoid it. Please, let me say—”

“I shall not!” the Queen said with a blast of fury. “We have been through this, ad infinitum. I know your mind, sir. I wish you would take more heed of
mine!
”

He bowed to her. He looked overwrought, pale, almost as though he were ill. “Indeed, madam, it is my duty and pleasure always to do your will. I assure you that I will never pursue a policy of which you do not approve. And since I am certain that you are mistaken about the peril in Scotland, I cannot carry out your wishes effectively. Therefore, I humbly request that you transfer me to other duties. My only wish is to faithfully serve you. Allow me to do so, please, in matters on which we are in harmony.”

She gaped at him, stunned. Isabel looked from one to the other in astonishment. Cecil was refusing to carry out the Queen’s policy—or was as near to refusing as any minister of a monarch anointed by God dared go. Isabel’s mother, too, was staring at him in amazement. And something more. Anger. “Sir,” she said tersely, “if you think you can coerce Her Majesty into—”

“Coerce?” he shot back, insulted. “My life is Her Majesty’s to command. I will serve in any capacity that furthers her welfare and good government for the people of England. But this policy,” he said, turning to the Queen, “does everyone ill. I cannot, in conscience, promote what I abhor. Transfer me elsewhere, madam, I beg you.”

It was the Queen’s turn to look pale. Her mask of power dropped. “Sir William,” she said, looking very vulnerable, “how can you?” Isabel suddenly saw her as the green ruler she was, inexperienced and untested. “How shall I do without you?”

“Do
with
me, madam!” he implored. “Heed my counsel. Help our Scottish friends. I know your heart is with their cause.”

She raised her head as though to master herself, and said simply, “
Their
cause, sir? Nay, my heart is with the cause of England.” The sincerity of it struck Isabel.

“Their cause is our cause,” he said, “and if—”

“Sir William,” Isabel’s mother interrupted, “we
all
support their cause. But not to the point of committing suicide. We cannot prevail against the combined might of France and Spain.”

“You leap to outcomes, Lady Thornleigh,” he said. “We need only devise a way to aid the Scots in their fight without France or Spain getting wind.”

“Which cannot be done,” was her stern reply. “Please, sir, you know their network of spies. Nothing goes unnoticed.”

“We will not know that unless we try.”

Watching them spar, Isabel felt hungry to understand. Her mother was arguing the Queen’s position of noninvolvement. Cecil was urging engagement. Who was right?

“And if King Philip finds out?” her mother challenged. “He already considers Her Majesty a heretic. If he sees her aiding a Protestant rebellion he will intervene, to our utter ruin.”

“He will not have time if we act first,” Cecil insisted. “The Scots can win this, if we help them. They are ill funded and ill equipped, unable to pay their men and starved for adequate munitions. If we can provide the money to build their strength, they can win this fight.”

“Spain has far more strength,” her mother countered, “and the King will consider it a holy crusade to use it. He has said so, through his ambassador, to my daughter. He will never abide a Protestant Scotland allied with a Protestant England. And if Spain lands troops to crush heresy in Scotland, he will come to yoke England next and call it the crown of his crusade.”

“Which is precisely why we must help Knox’s rebel force
now,
immediately, before Spain can act.”

A log in the fire lost its footing and tumbled, flinging sparks. It seemed to cut through everyone’s thoughts. A spark was exactly what Isabel felt.
Mother is wrong. Cecil is right.

But that seemed far from clear to the Queen. She looked into the fire with a look of dread, as if searching for an answer to her problems. Isabel felt she was seeing the core of the woman laid bare—young and inexperienced, but driven by a fierce love of her country. “It is too late, sir. I have written to the Scottish Queen Regent assuring her I will do no meddling in Scottish affairs.”

“Irrelevant,” he said, and his keen eyes glittered at her note of wavering resolve, as though he felt he might now sway her. “Since then she has asked France for aid, and her Guise brothers have shipped thousands of soldiers to her, with thousands more on the way.
They
have altered the situation. You, as a sovereign queen, must adapt.”

She looked at him gravely. “No. Lady Thornleigh is right. The risk of antagonizing Spain is too great.”

“The risk of doing nothing is greater,” he shot back. “If we allow the French to subjugate Scotland, they will not stop there. They will come for England. And to try to stop them then will take more money and men and arms than we can ever muster. Your Majesty, I implore you. Help the Scots fight now, or risk a bigger fight that we can only lose.”

The Queen looked anguished. “A gamble. That is what you are asking me to take. A gamble that we can help the Scots without enraging Spain.”

“A necessary gamble,” he said steadily. “If we wager nothing, we could lose all.”

Listen to him,
Isabel thought, bursting to speak. The longer this war festered, growing ever more malignant, the longer she and Carlos would be on opposite sides.
Strike now, help the rebels win, and end this
.

“But help them
how?
” the Queen demanded. “Quadra has his hired eyes and ears posted in every second doorway. So have the French. Anyone we send north with gold would not get past those spies without being spotted, perhaps captured.”

Isabel said, “Any
man,
perhaps.”

They all looked at her, startled.

“That’s right,” she said, “send me.”

Her words held them all silent, as if locked in a fairy’s spell. Isabel herself hardly knew where her voice had come from, so strong and clear. But she knew she could say the words again, and just as steadily.

Cecil was the first to speak, and he did so with fresh energy. “This is a fine idea. A messenger no one would suspect.”

“No, it is too risky,” her mother said. Isabel sensed her inner battle, as though she was proud of her daughter for offering—but dead set against the idea. “You’ve done enough.”

“If I can do more, I will, and gladly,” she said. “Your Majesty, please let me go. I can do this.”

The Queen, however, looked darkly skeptical. Her eyes seemed to bore into Isabel’s. When she spoke, a new coldness hardened her voice. “You could,” she said. “If I could trust you.”

Isabel was so shocked, she wondered if she had misheard. “Pardon, Your Majesty?”

“That statement you got from Quadra, was it before or after you kneeled beside him at mass?” She added with icy precision, “You see, señora, I too have extra eyes and ears.”

Fury leapt in Isabel. How many times must she hear this attack on her allegiance? First her mother, then Adam, now the Queen.
You’re Catholic
—that was all they could see.
I am one of you!
she wanted to shout.

Her mother surprised her by coming to her defense. “Elizabeth,” she said sternly, “Isabel has always been loyal to your cause. Five years ago she helped Sir Thomas Wyatt in his attempt to curb the tyranny of Queen Mary, an attempt undertaken in your name.”

Isabel felt a rush of gratitude. Turmoil, though, clouded her mother’s face, for she seemed to realize that she had endorsed Isabel’s offer.

The Queen rose from her chair. “Did she, indeed?” she said, still skeptical. Her eyes had not left Isabel, and she came forward, stopping within a few feet of her. They were the same height, the Queen perhaps an inch taller, and now they stood face-to-face. “But that was before she married a Spaniard. One who has now gone to Edinburgh to help his king against us.”

Isabel fought to stay calm. Where did this woman
not
have spies? “It is not so, Your Majesty,” she managed to reply. “He has gone merely as an observer.”

“Is he not a loyal subject of King Philip?”

Here was the trap. “He is. And, as such, he is eager to preserve Spain’s long alliance with England.”

“And you? Of which crown are you a loyal subject?”

“I am English, Your Majesty. Nothing can change my blood.”

The Queen seemed struck by that. “Blood ties. Ah, they are strong indeed.”

“And think, Your Majesty, no one would be watching me, for I am not one of your court. My sister-in-law is about to travel north to visit her brother. What if I traveled with her? Who would suspect two ordinary ladies plodding north to visit family? Her brother’s home is in Northumberland, almost on the border with Scotland. I can slip across to Edinburgh, deliver your gold, and return to London, all while the Spanish ambassador’s spies are busy looking elsewhere.”

The Queen considered this in silence, studying Isabel for a long moment, the slight frown of skepticism still lurking. She said to Cecil, “If I agree to this, no gold must go to that toad, John Knox.” It was an order, delivered in an irritated tone. “I will give no succor to the author of that monstrous book.”

Isabel did not follow. What book? But a cautious excitement flooded her, for there was no mistaking the Queen’s meaning. She had agreed. They had convinced her. She would send money to the Scottish rebels, and Isabel would deliver it.

“No need for that, Your Majesty,” Cecil said, magnanimous in his victory. “Mistress Valverde can deliver your gold to the duke. Hamilton is our steadfast friend. Or to the Earl of Arran, if you wish. We shall keep Knox at arm’s length.”

“I would keep him in a dungeon,” she growled.

“Unfortunately, he is essential to their cause. The fighting Scots follow Knox.”

Isabel felt a shiver. What had she got herself into? She knew none of these people—a duke, an earl, this man Knox whom the Queen clearly hated. And what a dark new world she glimpsed, with spies, dangerous borders, fighters, and the punishment of a dungeon at the Queen’s command.

The Queen said to her, with a wary look still in her eyes, “Well, mistress, it seems you have won the mission. Is that what you wanted?”

There was no going back. “I will serve you to the very best of my ability, Your Majesty.”

“Will you, indeed?” It sounded not like a question, but a challenge. Without waiting for a reply, she went to the table and reached for the dish of macaroons. She turned to Nicolas. “Come here, young sir.” She held the dish up to lure him.

What is she doing? Isabel thought with a prickle of alarm.

Nicolas came to her slowly, hesitant. Isabel knew he wanted the sweets but was nervous about the Queen’s domineering tone. The Queen held the dish high. “Closer,” she said.

He crept to within a long stride of her. She reached for his hand and yanked him to her side. He tried to resist, struggling against her grip, whimpering, “No, I don’t want to . . .” but she held him firmly by her. He cried, “Mama!”

Isabel could not move, torn between the fear in her son’s eyes and her duty to respect the Queen’s authority.
What is she doing?

“Godspeed to you, Mistress Valverde,” she said. “Account yourself well in Scotland, for as you can see, much depends on it.” She held Nicolas’s hand tightly in hers. “While you are away, Master Nicolas shall remain here. He will be my guest.”

The meaning stunned Isabel.
A hostage
.