The Queen's Gamble (19 page)

Carlos was surprised. “Here in the estuary?”
Elizabeth
was Adam Thornleigh’s ship. Adam was daring, but not insane. The fortress guns would sink him like a sieve.

“They got by us via the north shore at night. Now they’re sniping and raiding all along the banks of the Forth, in Fife and West Lothian.”

This was bad. “Must be supplying the enemy. Or they wouldn’t venture so far west.”

D’Oysel nodded with a grim look. “I agree. As for our lost fleet, I’ve had reports of ships being dashed all along the North Sea coast, bodies washed up all the way to Denmark. The Marquis d’Elbeuf was commanding, and I hear he struggled back to Dieppe, so I’m confident he’ll soon send me more troops, and stores, too.” D’Oysel reached for the decanter and topped up Carlos’s goblet. “Nevertheless, my options for now have dwindled. Like my stock of powder has. So I’m inclined to keep it dry until the marquis resupplies me. On the other hand, I must consider the enemy attempting an attack.” He poured wine to refill his own goblet. “What do you think, Valverde?”

That I’d rather be in sunny Peru,
but Carlos bit those words back. The thought that plagued him was,
Who do I want to win?
If France was victorious and then conquered England, it would be bad for Isabel’s parents, if they’d stayed. Under an occupying French army, they would suffer. But if the rebels mounted a successful attack and captured the garrison, Carlos could be taken prisoner. He could expect Quadra to negotiate his release as a noncombatant, but that could take months, assuming the rebels even acknowledged such rules of war. If not, he might
never
get home. Besides, he had another reason for backing France, one more deeply ingrained. All his life as a fighter he’d been loyal to whatever commander paid him, because without such a reputation you didn’t get hired for future campaigns. He wasn’t hired now, of course, but in every real sense his paymaster was Philip of Spain. Everything he had earned in Peru—the
encomienda,
the grand house, the silver mine, the gentleman’s life—all of it came from the King. And, because of Carlos’s base birth, he held on to it only at the pleasure of the King. And what the King wanted in Scotland was a French win, to rout the heretic rebels.

He made his decision. And hoped that Isabel had convinced her stubborn parents to leave England with her.

“I think you shouldn’t wait,” he told D’Oysel. “If the English Queen has sent them money, they’ll soon buy men and artillery. Don’t give them that chance.”

“You mean, attack?”

Carlos nodded. “Cut them down. Now.”

The bugler sounded the Stand to Horse, a blast through the cold air.

Carlos gulped down the last of his breakfast beer, shoved a crust of barley bread in his mouth, and left the officers’ mess. D’Oysel doesn’t waste time, he thought. Last night the commander had explained today’s plan, but this was early, the sun barely up. A few candles still guttered from supper. Well, the French hadn’t risen to power on Europe’s battlefields by being sluggish. He was still fastening his leather jerkin as he strode into the thin morning light of the courtyard. He wanted to check that Pedro had left before dawn, as he’d ordered. Best to have him on his way with the report to Quadra before this action began.
Wish I could be gone too,
he thought.

Throughout the garrison men were falling out of barracks, forming into companies in the forecourt amid a roar of voices and boots and horses’ hooves. Good discipline, though, Carlos noted. He imagined the sleepy Scots waking up in their tents, totally unprepared. Poor bastards. D’Oysel was an experienced commander, his troops highly trained and battle hard, and he was about to launch them in a full assault.

Decent cavalry, too, Carlos thought as he passed a lieutenant barking orders at his horsemen. Grooms scurried with harnesses and saddles. Officers’ body servants buckled on their masters’ cuirass breastplates and swords. Horses snorted steam in the cold air and danced with pent-up excitement, harnesses jangling. In the gallery above the mustering men, a dozen or so women, officers’ bedmates, lined the railing, still in nightdress. Some were shivering, some leaning on the railing, but all were chattering as they watched the companies form up. A scarlet shawl caught Carlos’s eye. Fenella. She was watching him.

He climbed the stairs at the side of the stables, knowing Pedro slept there in the loft with the grooms. He found the loft empty, nothing but messy heaps of straw that were the grooms’ beds, and a few scattered pieces of their clothing. Good, he thought, Pedro must have left. He went to the edge of the loft and looked down at the grooms leading out the last of the horses. It felt strange to just watch, not be saddling up himself. Strange, but just fine. His soldiering years were behind him, and all the misery of that life, too. The old pain in his right knee from a German lance gave a twinge as though in reflex at this battle preparation.

“You might want to see this.” A woman’s voice.

He turned. Fenella stood in the loft doorway. She jerked her head to indicate the courtyard behind her. “Your lad.”

He followed her out, and she pointed down to the courtyard. Pedro stood with a French captain who seemed to be yelling at him. Carlos felt a stab of disappointment that Pedro hadn’t gone. God only knew when he could get away now. He seemed to be almost cringing, as though the Frenchman was haranguing him. What the hell was going on?

“Thanks,” he said to Fenella as he hurried down the staircase.

He was crossing the courtyard, pushing past horses’ rumps and passing men buckling on swords, when he saw the captain slap Pedro so brutally it drew blood.

He reached the Frenchman and grabbed him by two fistfuls of his collar. “Leave the boy alone.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Nobody. Hit the boy again, and you can tell the commander that nobody broke your jaw.”

Pedro wiped blood from his mouth, apologizing to Carlos,
“Lo siento, señor. Él me paró.”
Sorry, sir. He stopped me.

Carlos tightened his grip on the captain’s collar. “You stopped my servant? Why?”

“He was taking a horse, for God’s sake.”

“It’s
my
horse, you fool.” He let the man go with a shove.

Maybe he shoved too hard. The captain staggered backward, stumbled on a cuirass breastplate on the ground, and sprawled on the cobbles. Carlos saw the humiliation and anger in the man’s eyes, and regretted the push. He knew how seriously these Frenchmen took their precious honor.

He turned to Pedro, who was still shaken from the slap. “Come with me,” he said, and led him away, squeezing the back of the boy’s neck to calm him down. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

The kick from behind surprised Carlos. A sharp boot at the back of his knee that made him lurch and almost lose his balance. He whirled around to see the French captain’s fist coming at him. He jerked aside enough to miss it smashing his nose, but the blow glanced off his cheekbone. Christ, the idiot wanted to
fight?
Carlos shoved him again, a flat-handed thump on the man’s chest, and this time with no regrets. “Save it for the Scots,” he said.

“They needn’t tremble,” a woman shouted from the gallery in a taunt. “Renault’s all push, no poke.”

That brought laughs from dozens of men. The laughter inflamed the fury of the captain, apparently named Renault. Carlos groaned as the Frenchman pulled his rapier. He lunged at Carlos. Carlos chopped Renault’s forearm sideways to knock the blade from his hand, but it didn’t break the Frenchman’s grip. Renault slashed with the rapier, and Carlos jumped back, the blade an inch away from slicing his throat. He took advantage of Renault’s follow-though and kicked his rapier hand so hard, Renault finally dropped the weapon. It clattered on the cobbles. Men and officers stepped back, sensing the danger of the captain’s fury. Renault went to snatch up his weapon. Carlos grabbed him and spun him around, took his wrist, and bent his arm up behind his back. It immobilized Renault.

If Renault had accepted defeat, it would have been over. Carlos wanted it over. Instead, Renault gave a roar of rage and tried to turn on him. Carlos heard Renault’s arm bone crack. The man cried out at the pain. Carlos let go. Renault staggered in agony, looking about to collapse.

Soldiers moved in, shouting in alarm. Two grabbed Renault to prop him up. D’Oysel pushed through the crowd, the sun glinting off his steel helmet. “By God, I’ll whip the hide off any man brawling—” He stopped in surprise when he saw it was Carlos. He looked at Renault, who was moaning, his face gone white. D’Oysel said, “Christ, Valverde, what have you done?”

“Captain Renault’s arm is broke, sir,” one of the men said.

D’Oysel looked dismayed, but held his anger in check. He gave brisk orders for a sergeant to take Renault to the surgeon, and for the others to resume forming up. He called over a cavalryman, a ramrod rider who was clearly alarmed that his captain had been sidelined. D’Oysel told him he was promoting the next man in line under Renault. “Fetch him. It’s Lalonde, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said nervously. “But the Scottish ague hit Lieutenant Lalonde this morning. Didn’t you get word, sir? He’s puking his guts out. Can’t stand, sir, let alone ride.”

D’Oysel shot Carlos a hot look of disdain that said:
You’re responsible for this.
“Renault is the nephew of a duke, Valverde. There’s going to be hell to pay.”

Carlos felt a surge of fury. How could he be blamed for an idiot like Renault? But his fury was partly shame because he knew he
was
responsible. The idiot’s arm didn’t break by itself. Worse, he’d just jeopardized his own reputation. If word got back to Quadra that he’d been brawling and had injured a duke’s nephew, he could kiss good-bye his hopes for a seat on the Trujillo city council, or for any advancement at all. He’d be lucky to hold on to his
encomienda
.

D’Oysel scratched his chin, looking worried, and grumbled, “After Lalonde it’s Roux, the brainless bastard of a bishop who dumped him here. Doesn’t know a hackbut from a halibut. We’ll suffer, that’s the truth of it.” He made a snap decision. He ordered a stand down, then sent word for all officers to attend him in his quarters. After a last glare at Carlos, he headed back inside.

Carlos followed the officers, and D’Oysel ignored him as he came in to sit in on their meeting. D’Oysel asked for his officers’ opinions. Should they postpone the action until Lalonde recovered? The feeling was that Lalonde would be ill for days. Could Roux, then, handle the commission? The response was clear—no one had confidence in Roux. Carlos listened with mounting concern. He imagined the cavalry unit on the field straggling out of formation, leaderless. Imagined them getting swarmed by the Scots, by their sheer brute numbers, and taken down. The Scots had far more men, so this attack would work only if it was total—a disciplined, lightning assault. Otherwise, D’Oysel might have to call a retreat, and then the war would drag on and on, and Carlos would be stuck here. When D’Oysel was about to speak again, Carlos gritted his teeth and spoke up. “Could I have a word alone?”

D’Oysel took him aside as the men went on talking. “I could lead the company,” Carlos offered.

D’Oysel looked startled, but almost instantly there was a keen interest in his eyes. “You would do that?”

“For a favor.”

“Which is?”

“No mention about Renault to my king’s ambassador.” He thought grimly,
If I make it back.

D’Oysel called the men’s attention, told them Carlos would lead the company, and explained that he had served with distinction as a captain of cavalry in many Continental wars, had even fought the Scots years ago, fighting then for England. The announcement brought enthusiastic looks of relief. Carlos knew some of these officers from card games, and they trusted him. He cursed himself one last time for getting himself into this mess, then told D’Oysel, “Give me an hour to talk to the company.”

An hour later the gates of the fortress flew open, and two thousand French troops surged out with Gallic war cries. Mounted in half armor in a borrowed cuirass, on a warhorse he hadn’t trained, with a sword he hadn’t had time to hone, leading men he barely knew, Carlos rode at the head of the company. He cursed all Frenchmen as he raised his sword and galloped forward to rout the Scots.

15

The Bridge

I
sabel was getting dressed after the first deep sleep she’d had in her weeks of rough travel. She was pulling on her stockings when she heard shouts from the street. Another prisoner being locked up? Glencairn had lodged her on the High Street in the house of a shipwright’s widow, and the tiny attic room she had been given was across from Edinburgh’s tollhouse, which held the jail. Nine or ten of Knox’s men were billeted in the widow’s lower floors, and last night, as Isabel was getting ready for bed, she had heard them spill out into the street to jeer a prisoner being admitted to the lockup. They hated turncoats more than anything. Looking out the attic window, she had caught the fearful look on the prisoner’s face. He had seemed eager to get inside the jail where Knox’s men could not slit his throat.

Now the sun was up as she went to the window to investigate the shouting. Horsemen cantered past, over a dozen, heading for the city gates. Among them she glimpsed Glencairn and the two other rebel earls who had met her yesterday on the hill—Argyll and Ruthven. A bell was clanging from a church tower, and people were scurrying out of houses and shops and side streets. What was happening? She craned to look down the street and saw men trooping this way, at least a hundred. They didn’t look like a military company in their mismatched clothes, but they marched like one. People fell in beside them—shopkeepers, laborers, housewives, children—watching with expectant looks as if a traveling troupe of actors had just come to town.

Isabel whirled on her cloak and ran down the stairs. The house seemed empty, the billeted soldiers gone. She had slept so soundly she hadn’t heard them leave.

“Tom!” she called down the cellar stairs. “Tom—” She stopped, seeing him already hurrying up the stairs, still tucking in his shirt.

“What’s the commotion?” he asked.

“The soldiers are marching out.”

“Are we under attack?”

“It can’t be. People are flocking to see.”

They both hurried out the front door as the rebel company marched past, people following in their wake. Isabel stopped an elderly man who was limping, trying to keep up. She asked him where the soldiers were going, and his eyes glittered with nervous glee.

“Master Knox and the earls are hurling their army at the Frenchies!”

“At Leith?”

“Aye, mistress. Now we’ll see some frog blood flow!”

Tom said, “Does it run green?”

The old man wheezed a laugh. Isabel knew Tom’s jest was to mask his concern, but she could not share it. She felt as excited as the old man. Within hours, perhaps, the rebels could be victorious! She thought of Carlos and thanked God that he would be out of the fray. He had no part in these hostilities, and wanted none. He was a civilian, and there were laws of war. She knew such niceties could get trampled in combat, and that gave her a moment of alarm. But Carlos was so experienced, and clever, too. He would know how to take care of himself.

Oh, let this be a day of victory for Knox and his men! He had alarmed her last night with his dour words and his insistence that she stay to see for herself how weak his force was, but she had already seen enough, and could not believe his grim assessment. He was exaggerating so that she would carry his plea to Elizabeth for more money, that was all. These scores of soldiers in the street were marching to join the full rebel host encamped in the fields between the city and Leith, and they were several thousand strong, while the French had fewer troops and were likely unprepared, too. She felt a rush of pity, for men would surely die, on both sides. But after this one battle it could all be over, and that would
save
lives.
Please, let this rebel army send the French packing!

The soldiers were out of sight now, gone out through the gates, their footfalls becoming faint. The people following had disappeared after them, but many were left—the old, the young mothers, the fearful. The women snatched their children, and soon they all stole back into their houses and shops, and closed their doors. The street became oddly quiet.

Isabel could not bear to shut herself in, ignorant of what was happening beyond the city walls. “Tom,” she said, “get the horses ready. I want to go and see.”

He looked dismayed. “Pardon, my lady, but that’s daft. Blood will flow out there, be it green or red.”

“That’ll be miles away. Come, I must have a look.”

In the stable they could not find her horse. She questioned the barefoot child who mucked out the stalls. He shrugged. “Gone, mistress. Soldiers.”

“What?” she said, appalled. “They took my horse?”

“For the glorious cause,” Tom said with a growl. “Now, my lady, let’s you and me go back inside and sit us down and wait, like the sensible folk of this town. We’ll know the upshot soon enough.”

“No. Your horse is sound enough for two, and we’ll not go far. Come, saddle up.”

They rode out through the city gates at a trot, Isabel riding astride behind Tom and holding onto his sheepskin jerkin. They weren’t alone. Men and a few women straggled along on foot, curious, all eyes on the distant horizon. The few tents in the nearby fields were abandoned, the soldiers gone ahead, leaving a muck of trampled snow and mud. Their exodus had been abrupt. Isabel saw cauldrons that steamed above still-smoking cooking fires. A few women crouched blank-eyed by the fires. One was slinging satchels onto a mule, preparing to flee. Isabel and Tom rode on up the road. The farther they went, the fewer people they passed.

“All right, my lady, seen enough?”

“I haven’t seen anything. Go on, Tom.”

He grunted his displeasure but kicked the horse’s flanks to carry on. They were approaching a narrow wooden bridge over a stream when Isabel saw smoke on the horizon, a mere thread. Birds flapped by above her head, fleeing. She felt a shiver go up her spine. Where was the smoke coming from? There were no crops to burn in the dead of winter, and neither army would bother razing the farmers’ miserable huts. “Is it the fortress, do you think?” Her throat had gone dry. Carlos was inside there.

“Or maybe the thick of the camp tents up yonder,” Tom said. “Canvas burns quick.”

She heard it before she saw anything. Faint clangs and shouts. The sounds of battle. But so far away, it was impossible to know what was happening. Then came a low rumble that she felt steal up from the earth into her bones. She didn’t need to see. “Cavalry,” she said. And at that moment she knew the rebels’ camp was burning. Only the French had cavalry.

Tom had halted the horse on the bridge, as though he sensed, as Isabel did, the threshold they had reached. Before their eyes the horizon now came to life. It happened so slowly it was mesmerizing. Small, indistinct figures spread across a wide swath, growing larger. The rumble of hooves became louder. Crows shrieked in the sky. A company of riders was racing this way.

Isabel stiffened in dread.
I was mad to come here
.

“Back we go,” said Tom, jerking the reins.

“No. We need to hide.”

“There’s nowhere—”

“Go down,” she told him. “Under the bridge.”

He instantly understood. “Right.”

They jostled down the bank. Halfway down the slope the horse found the footing slippery in the snowy tangle of weeds, and balked. Isabel kicked its flanks and the horse then bolted down to the stream. They splashed through the water, icy droplets stinging Isabel’s face. The bridge was low. Bushes reached almost to the underside. Too low for her and Tom to stay mounted. He jumped off the horse and helped her down. The water was ankle-deep and frigid. They dashed through it, Tom leading the horse, and they reached the bridge. They stood crouched, crammed together beside the horse, catching their breath, eyes cast upward to the mossy boards just inches above their heads.

The riders thundered overhead, a hollow roar of hooves on wood.

It was over quickly. A smaller group than Isabel had thought. Much smaller, just eight or nine. When they had passed, she ventured a few steps from the bridge and watched them gallop away. The sight froze her. Their colors. Not a band of French cavalry. Rebel officers in retreat.

The horse whinnied. Tom gave a strangled sound. Isabel twisted around to see a filthy, bearded man grappling Tom backward against his chest, his arm around Tom’s neck.

“Go quiet, and I’ll nae cut your woman’s throat.”

Isabel saw in horror that he wore the colors of Glencairn’s company. A deserter. He had wrapped the horse’s reins around a bush before grappling Tom. He meant to take the horse.

She forced out her voice. “Let him go,” she demanded.

“Aye, soon’s he’s quiet.”

Tom’s hands were free and she saw him slowly pull his dagger. “Tom, don’t!” she cried. The deserter looked desperate, vicious. “Let him have the horse.”

Tom obeyed, and stilled his hand. But the blade was already out.

“Good lackey,” the deserter said. He punched Tom in the ribs, a blow so hard it made Tom gasp and drop his dagger and sink to his knees.

Isabel ran to help him. The deserter gripped her by the throat. She staggered on the spot, choking.

“Fine lady, eh? Must have some lady’s gold.” He groped inside her cloak for her purse. She tried to stop him, but his other hand was a muscled claw squeezing her windpipe and she had to fight just to breathe.

She saw Tom, a blur behind the man, struggle to his feet. He lunged for the man’s back and grabbed him and yanked him away from Isabel. She staggered free.

The deserter whirled around on Tom. He pulled a long knife. Tom stood helpless, his own weapon on the ground near Isabel.

She snatched it up, about to throw it to Tom to defend himself. But before she could, his legs buckled and he sank to his knees. She saw in horror that blood covered his side. The deserter’s earlier punch to Tom’s ribs had been more than a punch—he had stabbed him with this knife. Tom stood on his knees, blank-eyed from the pain. The deserter stood before him and lifted his blade, poised to slash Tom’s throat.

Isabel’s body worked before her brain did. She raised Tom’s dagger high in both hands and plunged it down into the man’s back. He jerked with a grunt of surprise, then clawed at the knife in his back like a man scratching. He twisted around and gaped at Isabel. He dropped to his knees. She stood panting, dry-mouthed, both men kneeling before her in shock.

The thief gave a roar, and his hand shot out and snatched her ankle. In panic, she kicked, breaking his grip. He toppled sideways toward the stream and landed sprawled in the shallows. His eyes went glassy. Water gurgled around him, turning pink with his blood.

She backed away from him in horror. “Tom . . . Tom, come!”

He managed to get to his feet, clutching his side where blood seeped between his fingers, but he could barely walk. She threw her arm around him and dragged him to the horse. He was too weak to mount. Nothing she tried helped. Sweating from the effort, she stood still, trembling, trying to think what to do. She looked up at the bridge.

“Tom, can you make it to the bridge?”

He nodded, so dazed with shock he seemed to smile. She half led, half dragged him up the bank and midway across the bridge, then guided him to the edge. She scrambled back down and loosed the horse from the bush and struggled up into the saddle. She nudged the horse forward, her hands shaking as she held the reins, until she was directly beneath Tom. He looked down at her from the edge of the bridge and seemed to understand. He managed a crooked smile. “I’m no fairground acrobat,” he said.

“Yes, you can do it.” It was a short jump, but he looked so ashen. “We can’t stay here, Tom. They’re coming. You’ve got to hop on.”

He looked uncertain, but nodded again, and shuffled forward so his toes were over the edge. Then he let himself drop. His body fell against her back like a sack of grain. The horse staggered. Isabel said, “Hold tight!” and Tom held on to her shoulder and she got control of the horse. She kicked it gently to get it moving. They stumbled up the bank, awkward and barely balanced, and finally made it onto the road.

Isabel headed back to Edinburgh. She heard the battle clamor behind her, far away at first, then getting louder. Two horsemen galloped past her. She barely glanced at them. Her concentration was on getting to the city to find a surgeon to see to Tom’s wound. She longed to gallop, but Tom was too weak to hold on. Every jounce made him groan. She had to keep the pace slow or risk him falling off.

More riders cantered past her in twos and threes. Then men on foot, running. And men driving carts, with soldiers lying in the carts, bloodied and moaning. Isabel didn’t need to look behind her to know this was a terrible retreat. But she could not think of that. Tom’s grip on her shoulder was slipping. He was slumped against her back. She felt the wetness of his blood, soaked right through her cloak. And he was so quiet. She reached back to grip his arm. She felt him slip off. Heard him thud on the road.

“Tom!”

She lurched to a halt and slid off the saddle and ran back to him. Men and horses surged past her. She dropped to her knees beside Tom and bent over him and took his hand. “Tom, look at me!”

His eyes were open but glazed. Blood soaked the side of his sheepskin jerkin. His face was white as chalk. Isabel sank back on her heels and cradled his head in her lap. Tears burned her eyes and her throat. Men and horses and carts eddied past. She looked up and cried out to a man driving a cart, “Help me! Please, stop!”

The man drove on.

Then, a voice behind her. “Mistress Valverde!”

She turned, and through her tears saw a horseman lurch to a stop. Glencairn.

“Help me, my lord! My servant is wounded!”

He looked appalled to see her. “What are you—”

“I beg you, sir, help me get him to a doctor.”

“Good God, woman, there are hundreds wounded. And dead.”

She shook her head. “A doctor . . . that’s all he needs. I just—”

Glencairn swung off his horse and grabbed her arm. “Get up, madam. You cannot stay here.”

“No. Tom needs—”

“That man is dead. Come away.”