The Queen's Gamble (24 page)

Bells clanged. He glanced out the window. Across the barracks rooftops he could see the bell tower on the garrison church. The bells were ringing not for mass, but for a muster. Had D’Oysel received another report? Better go and see. Where had Isabel gone, anyway? She had said she’d be back soon to await the Queen Regent’s note summoning her to visit, but it had been two hours since she had left their bed.

He grabbed his sword, buckling it on as he crossed the room. When he opened the door he was surprised to find a woman, her fist raised, about to knock. D’Oysel’s blond. Fenella.

“Going out, are ye?” she asked.

“Yes.” She had visited him a few days ago saying she was collecting old shirts for rags, and had lingered to make a point of letting him know how unsatisfactory she found D’Oysel as a lover—“my wee frog,” she’d called him. Carlos had sent her to Pedro for the rags. He said now, “If you’re looking for my Indian boy, you’ll find him in the stable.”

“Nay, it’s you I want. Are you looking for your wife?”

He knew she kept a keen eye on events around here, but her scrutiny of his affairs was a little unsettling. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

She had not moved, stood blocking the doorway, and now she leaned one hip and shoulder against the doorjamb and twirled a thick lock of yellow hair around her finger. She gave him a lazy, sad smile. “Until she came, I was beginning to think you fancied me.”

“Look, I have to go. If there’s something—”

“She’s not what she seems, you know.”

“What? Who?”

“I was in town last night. Met some chums at the Spotted Dog. Dunstan was there.”

“Who’s Dunstan?”

“You’ve seen him about. Scruffy fellow with a beet nose. He does some watching work for my wee frog.”

D’Oysel’s spy, Carlos realized. The commander used a few in the town. Turncoat Scots.

“Anyway,” Fenella went on, “he’s an old chum of mine and we had a good chinwag. I mentioned your wife visiting you, gave him quite a pretty picture in words. Imagine my surprise when Dunstan says he’s seen her before.” She leaned closer to Carlos and lowered her voice, enjoying her knowledge. “I’ll tell ye this, Master Spaniard. Your pretty little wife’s been lying to ye.”

19

The Second Hostage

I
sabel’s head swam with numbers, details of gun calibers, lists. For hours she had strolled the garrison under the pretense of taking morning exercise, making mental note of everything she saw: munitions, artillery, battlement layout, stores of victuals, the physical state of the troops. She had started early, when the place was quiet, but now church bells had begun signaling a muster and soldiers were hurrying past her on their way to form up. It gave her a shudder. Were they planning to march out and attack? Should she get out at once, ride to Stirling and warn Knox? But warn him of what? This might be no more than an inspection. She was being too panicky, she told herself. Calm down. Wait and see. At least with everyone’s attention on the muster she was all but invisible.

But it was impossible to be calm when she felt almost sick with her private misery. Shame swept her at how despicably she had acted with Carlos. Her lies. Her evasions. Her promise to flee England with Nicolas when she had no intention of fleeing—England might be torn to pieces! Only, right now
she
was the one being torn apart, between Knox’s cause and Carlos. But the only way was to keep going. Lies were all she could give Carlos.

She forced herself back to her task. Get the information.
The sooner I get it, the sooner I can go.
She had gathered a good deal already. She had peered through a barred window and counted the stockpiled lasts of gunpowder, and the stores of muskets and arquebusses. She had walked into the infirmary, pretending to look for Pedro, and seen dozens and dozens of soldiers lying ill on cots and pallets, weakened by a virulent flux. When a kindly surgeon ushered her out, saying she should not risk contagion, she thanked him, having seen enough to know that almost a full company of men was unfit to fight. She had walked the base of the fortress walls, and when she saw a lieutenant coming down from a watchtower, a friendly fellow she had chatted with at the banquet, she struck up a conversation with him, asking what could be seen of the sea and the countryside from the tower. He had given her a description of the view, no more than he would give any curious tourist, but Isabel had gathered enough about angles of attack to be useful. When he had moved on, she’d scanned the fighting platforms on the towers and noted the number and caliber of the big guns, from falconets and culverins to demi-cannons and cannons.

It felt eerily familiar, noting munitions to report to a rebel leader. Five years ago she had carried the same information to Sir Thomas Wyatt. He had tried to prevent Queen Mary from making England a vassal state of Spain through a marriage to Prince Philip, but Wyatt’s uprising had ended in tragic failure—in some small part, Isabel knew, because of her. When Wyatt’s soldiers reached the walls of London, her father’s life had suddenly hung in the balance, and she had made the tortured decision to help close Ludgate against the rebels. Queen Mary had crushed them, married Philip, and England then suffered through her harsh reign. Now the threat to England came from France, and this time Isabel was determined to do everything she could to halt that threat.

She was passing a small window at ground level when a sound reached her that made her stop. A low, guttural moan. The window, without glass, was not much bigger than her foot, and its iron bars were rusted. The foul stench that snaked through it, and the moans, more bestial than human, turned her stomach. A dungeon, she was sure. Captive men of Knox’s army, in chains. She longed to crouch down and whisper some encouragement to the poor victims, but soldiers were tramping by all around her and she did not dare draw their suspicion.

A door opened beside her, forcing her to move back. A soldier stepped out, followed by D’Oysel, the commander, bullnecked but as short as Isabel. A wave of the prison stench rolled out with him. He was wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Isabel gave a little laugh. “Monsieur, you startled me.” Her heart thudded. Had he seen her peering down at the dungeon in pity?

He made a slight bow, looking rather surprised himself. “Señora Valverde. Are you walking alone?”

“What safer place?” she said lightly. “The fact is, my husband has letters to write and I have learned not to disturb him.”

He smiled. She saw that the handkerchief he was using to wipe his hands was smeared with blood. A rebel prisoner’s blood. The threat of sickness rose up in her throat. She forced it down. “Monsieur, might I have a word with you?”

“Of course.” He gave the soldier the bloodied handkerchief and a curt nod, at which the soldier saluted and walked away. “Forgive me, madam,” D’Oysel said, “but I can give you only a moment. Our muster, as you see.”

“That is my very question, monsieur.” Feigning the alarm of a nervous civilian, she blurted, “What is it for? Do you expect an attack?”

“Not at all. Have no fear. A mere inspection.”

“Oh, thank heaven for that. They terrify me, the rebels, I do admit. Such barbarians. Though I am sure that if they did attack, you are well equipped to repulse them. I only hope the disease that has felled so many of your soldiers has not left you undermanned. Have you sent to France for more troops?”

She could see the walls of his defenses rise. His businesslike smile said,
I cannot discuss that.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said with a courteous bow, “I must see to the muster.”

Isabel cursed herself for pushing too hard, too fast. “Excuse my foolishness, monsieur. It is only for my husband’s sake. I long to see him home soon.”

“Ah, now there I cannot share your sentiment, madam,” he said pleasantly. “Your husband has been such a boon to us, I will be loath to see him go. I almost cannot do without him.”

She didn’t understand. “You mean, for his counsel? As a neutral observer?”

He laughed. “Neutral? Hardly. He was an enormous help when we marched out against the enemy. He cut a bloody swath of death through their ranks. Nobody leads a cavalry charge like Valverde.”

She was so stunned, so furious, she barely noticed the soldiers she walked past. They were thick on the ground now, hurrying by her in packs. Her only thought was to find Carlos, demand an explanation. A cavalry charge! Her every footstep forged her dismay into white-hot anger. How
could
he? She banged a passing soldier’s elbow and didn’t even pause to acknowledge his apology as she hurried on. She had left Carlos writing to Quadra and hoped he was still there. The room was in a squat tower connected to an identical tower by an arched walkway, and as she approached it she saw him coming down the stairs. Halfway down he saw her and stopped.

She could not hold back her anger. “You fought for the
French?
”

He bolted down the last steps so fast, Isabel didn’t have time to say another word before he grabbed her by the arm and hustled her into the arched stone passage beneath the walkway. Blocking the sun, the arch felt like a cave, but she could still see the hard look on his face, and dread crept over her.

“Why did you come to Scotland?”

“Carlos, you’re hurting me. Let me go.”

He tightened his hold. He almost shook her. “Why did you come?”

His cold fury frightened her. She winced at the pain of his grip. “I told you. To see you. I wanted—”

“No. You came to Edinburgh five days ago and met with the rebel leaders. Why?”

Her heart banged in her chest.
He knows
.

Seeing the pain in her face, he looked horrified that he was hurting her. He let her go. The sudden freedom made her stagger a step to get her balance.

“Please, Isabel, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me what I’ve heard is all wrong. That it was some other woman who met them.”

Heard? How?
She tried to think. It was hard to breathe.
Who betrayed me?
Sweat made her skin clammy. Only one thing was clear—she could not go on pretending. Her only hope was to trust him with the truth. She lifted her chin and mustered what steadiness she could. “If you heard that I brought Master Knox good cheer from the Queen of England, you heard aright. I was glad to do it. I would do it again.”

He let out a sharp breath like he’d been punched in the stomach. “The
Queen?
”

There was nowhere to go but forward. She told him about Cecil’s appeal for her help. About her mother taking her to see Elizabeth. About the Queen’s wish to send money to the rebels in secret, and Isabel’s offer to deliver it.

He stared at her, appalled. “You volunteered?
Madre de Dios
. What have you got yourself into?”

“A fight that must be fought. Carlos, we have to help Knox and his reformers. They have to win. Only they can keep the French from invading England.”

“Knox and his—” He was scowling at her as though at a stranger. “You’ve been with them?”

“Yes. In Edinburgh, then in Stirling. That’s where they’re regrouping to—”

“You’ve been living among those men? In their camp?”

It sounded horrible, as though he thought her a harlot. She shivered at the revulsion in his eyes. “Carlos, you must listen to me—” But her words were drowned out by the tramping of soldiers along the walkway overhead, a din that echoed through the stone arch.

Carlos plowed a hand through his hair, shaking his head in shock. “I cannot . . . cannot believe you’ve done this. Lied to me—”

“You’ve got to understand, I
had
to—”

“Betrayed me. With the enemy!”

This was all wrong!
He
was wrong, talking like she was some traitorous slut. She had done nothing to be ashamed of.
He
had. “It’s
you
who’s gone over to the enemy,” she cried. “I just heard what a friend to the French you’ve become. You
fought
for them, for God’s sake. Killed Knox’s men for them! How
could
you?”

“How could
I?
”

“It’s disgusting. Like you want the French to win.”

“Of course I do.”

She gaped at him. “How can you say that?”

“Because the King of Spain wants it. And our lives are in his keeping.”

“Our lives are
not
in his keeping. Only our livelihood.”

“It’s the same thing!”

“It’s not! You want that council seat, but we don’t
need
it. We don’t even need the
encomienda
. We have enough money. You could leave this wretched place today and—”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Of course we need it. Our life is in Peru. And my son will grow up to be a gentleman, damn it, not a godforsaken soldier. I’m helping here because the King of Spain wants a French win, not a Protestant Scotland, and
we are Spanish
.”

“
You
are Spanish. I am English.”

He glowered at her. His next words were menacingly restrained. “You are my wife. We are the subjects of Spain. And you will do what I—”

He stopped as more soldiers jogged toward them on their way to the muster. Carlos pushed Isabel up against the arched wall to give the men room to jog past. Standing face-to-face with him, their bodies pressed close, she felt sickeningly disoriented. He was so brutal, so deaf to her words, when just hours ago he had made passionate love to her. She clung to that, the bond of their love. She
had
to make him understand. “Carlos, this is about more than us. Something bigger. England.”

“Bah. A country is not flesh and blood.”

“It is to me. You’ve never had a country. You’ve fought in so many. And always to destroy, never to build. You’ve never called a country home.”

“Peru is home.”

“No, Peru is your reward. Your pay. But no matter how much money you get, the Spaniards there will never accept you as one of them. They’re obsessed with pedigree. You will always be beneath them. Can’t you see that I’m fighting for the country that has
always
been mine? A country that
would
accept you?”

“Fighting? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re playing. Meddling. And it could ruin us.”

He was
still
deaf to her pleas. She wanted to scream. How had this happened? How had he even found out? That thought shot a new fear through her, and the moment the soldiers had gone on she asked, “Who told you about me? Who knows?”

“A Scot. A friend of D’Oysel’s spy. She came to warn me.”

A woman? “My God, Carlos, she’ll tell them about me.” He might be furious at her, but he could not possibly want her arrested.

He shook his head. “I paid her to keep her mouth shut. Gave her enough to keep the spy quiet, too.” He was looking at her as though seeing her clearly for the first time . . . and hating what he saw. It made her feel cold to her bones. “You haven’t told me why you came
here,
” he said. “Was it to spy for the rebels? For the Queen? Tell me.” He almost snarled, “And don’t dare lie to me again.”

She could not find words. He wouldn’t believe a denial, and she would not grovel to explain.
I did what I had to do,
she thought, but in her misery she knew that silence was her confession.

His eyes glittered with revulsion. “I see. You’re on a mission. So last night was . . . more lies.”

No!
she wanted to cry,
I love you!
but his face was so hard. Her thoughts were a storm of confusion. “This is pointless,” she said, struggling to think what to do next. She had to get away from here, that much was clear. The woman who had blabbed to Carlos could not be trusted not to tell the French commander. This place now held only danger for Isabel. She glanced at the massing soldiers. “Carlos, if the commander finds out about me, it will be bad for us both. I must get out. Right now.”

“Sir, excuse me.”

The voice startled them. A young soldier stood waiting. “Pardon, sir, but the commander asks if you will stand with the officers for the inspection.”

Isabel could see Carlos pulling himself together. “Yes . . . in a moment. Wait over there,” he said with a nod to the gravel path beyond the arch.