The Queen's Gamble (26 page)

He regarded Isabel with somber interest, for it was the first time he had seen her. Frances had told him how she had regained consciousness soon after fainting in the courtyard, but then had lapsed into listless, blank-eyed shivering through all the ministrations of the women servants. They had peeled off her sodden clothes, dried her, dressed her in a clean nightdress, and settled her gently in the bed. Frances had been dismayed to find that Isabel’s skin was hot to the touch, and perspiration slicked her forehead. She was suffering not just from the cold, but from fever! Her fingers and toes, though, were icy, and frighteningly white.

First things first, Frances had told herself, taking charge, for she had heard of frostbite killing the body’s extremities. In severe cases, fingers could turn black and drop off. When she saw one of the servants rubbing Isabel’s fingers to warm them, she ordered her to stop, and when a girl brought in two pig’s bladders of scalding water to lay at Isabel’s feet, Frances pushed her away. Heat and friction were the enemy, she told the wondering servants. Frostbitten flesh had to be slowly and gradually brought back to normal. She made the women follow her precise instructions. They folded Isabel’s arms over her chest and tucked her hands into her armpits, and they swaddled her feet in soft, thick wool cloths. Then they covered her with a quilted blanket, tucking it up to her chin, while others laid a fire in the grate. But through this flurry of activity Isabel had been near delirium with fever, and had soon slipped into unconsciousness. Frances had sat on the side of the bed, watching over her.

Now night had fallen, shrouding the hills and river around Yeavering Hall, and still Isabel had not opened her eyes. She looked so pale, her lips drained of blood, her body jerking in fevered shudders. Frances was beyond fearing that she might lose a finger or toe—she now feared for Isabel’s very life.

“One horse, you say?” Christopher asked. “They rode it together?”

He kept his voice low, as though to keep from waking Isabel. If only we could, Frances thought.

“The boy’s horse was stolen at the last inn they stopped at,” she said. She had gotten this information from Isabel’s servant, for that’s who he was, the Indian lad she had brought from Peru. He had told of their ordeal as he gulped warmed wine in the kitchen, his Spanish translated by the Italian houseguest. “That was last night,” Frances went on. “They set out this morning on the boy’s horse—though why Isabel would push on in this storm, I know not.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He just kept saying over and over that she wanted to get to London.”

Christopher frowned in sympathy. “Not in this weather. And not in her weakened state.”

Frances found a shred of hope in his response, for he had not said
She’ll die
. “According to the boy, the Cawthorpe bridge had collapsed, and as they forded the stream the horse went lame, so they walked the last four miles. Imagine. Walked!”

“Madness.”

Frances’s fears surged back. She could not bear to lose her sister-in-law. Isabel had stood up for her against Adam’s parents. And during the awful childbirth she had saved Frances’s life and her baby’s life, of that she had no doubt. She owed Isabel so much.

“So,” Christopher said gravely, studying the pale face, “another Thornleigh.”

Frances heard the new edge in his voice. The old feud. She knew it was up to her to protect Isabel. “She is one of us, Christopher. I assure you.”

He looked at her, an eyebrow raised in skepticism. “With those parents?”

“She is not like them. Truly, she is a loyal Catholic. In London she joined me at mass in the Spanish ambassador’s chapel. And her husband is with the French in Scotland as a military adviser, helping them.”

“He’s a Spaniard, you said?”

“Yes, and the Spanish are the most pious people on earth. Isabel has come from visiting him in Edinburgh at the Leith garrison. Believe me, she is a faithful daughter of the Church.”

Christopher considered this gravely. He gave his sister a slight smile. “Then I bow to your superior judgment.” She felt the hidden barb—weeks ago he had made his opinion clear that she had shown
no
judgment in marrying Adam. And yet, as he looked down at Isabel lying so still, pale as an alabaster saint, he murmured with obvious sincerity, “She’s actually quite lovely, isn’t she?”

A twitch tugged Isabel’s brow, some fevered nightmare clawing at her in the depths of her unconsciousness. Sweat glistened on her face. Desperate to help, Frances dipped the linen cloth she’d been using into the basin of water and laid it on Isabel’s brow to cool her. Her skin was alarmingly hot.

“Yes, do what you can for her,” Christopher said with an earnestness that touched Frances. “We must not lose her.”

Morning came. Frances sat slumped in the chair by the bed, bone-weary from her sleepless vigil, and from her fears. All night, Isabel had not moved.

Frances got up, rubbing her stiff neck, and pulled open the heavy damask curtains. The wind had died, and a pale sun struggled past the edge of the heavy, massed clouds that were slowly departing, leaving the field like a mighty enemy whose power is spent. The storm was over. Frances glanced back at the still figure in the bed. Isabel’s storm was still upon her.

Children’s laughter startled her. Then the scuffle of small feet scampering by outside the chamber. She hurried to the door and opened it to see a trio of children running past—her niece and nephew and their playmate, the chamberlain’s daughter.

“Hush, there!” she whispered. “Keep your voices down!”

The elder girl slowed. “Beg pardon, Aunt Frances, it’s the mummers! They’ve just come! Master Horner says we may watch them get ready. It’s to be Saint George and Beelzebub!” They all giggled and ran on.

Foolishness, Frances thought, closing the door. The arrival of the traveling actors’ troupe had already set the servants to chattering. Nan, who had brought Frances her breakfast of bread and a slice of cold beef a half hour ago, had whispered excitedly about it even as Isabel lay in the depths of fever. It shook Frances that the life of the household could go on so blithely when Isabel lay near death.

The listless day dragged on. Downstairs in the great hall the actors were setting up a makeshift stage for their nonsense, and laughter and snatches of drumming and piping snaked up to the bedchamber, setting Frances’s teeth on edge.

Dusk settled over Yeavering Hall. Hour after hour, she watched Isabel’s face for any sign that her spirit was returning, but her skin had become horribly pallid, the fever sweat giving a waxen sheen, and Frances despaired.

Night fell. Isabel lay as still as death.

21

The Secret Gift

“N
ico!” Isabel cried. Her eyes sprang open.

The sunlight hurt. She squinted to fend off the glare. Each blink felt like sand grating under her eyelids. Her throat felt shredded by a razor. Her head throbbed. Her stomach roiled. She struggled to take in the unfamiliar chamber. Wainscoted walls of gleaming oak. A ceiling painted in rosy hues. The perfumed bed she lay in. She felt a lurch of panic.
Where am I?

“God be thanked,” a man said.

She jerked her head on the pillow to find him. It made the room spin. He sat in a chair by her bed. He was leaning toward her, a hopeful smile on his face.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Who—” It was pain to speak, her throat was so parched. Her mouth felt caked with dirt. She tried again. “Where—”

“Here, have a little water.” He reached for the goblet on the table beside her. “Can you raise your head?”

She did, and it sent hammers pounding in her skull. The cool water was heaven on her dry lips and parched throat. She gulped it down.

“Not too fast,” the man said with a gentle laugh.

Isabel sank back on the pillow, exhausted from her effort, her stomach still rocky.

“You see?” he said. “It’s wise to go slow.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Who
was
he? His steady blue eyes on her made her uneasy. To cover herself she tried to tug the blanket up to her shoulders, but her arm was so weak that her hand trembled. She looked away, disoriented at feeling helpless, confused.

“Do pardon me,” he said gently. “It must be awful to wake up to a strange face in a strange house. But it was my turn to watch you. Frances was needed in the dairy house. A milkmaid cut herself, and Frances is clever with salves.”

Frances! It came to her in a rush. The freezing walk in wind-driven sleet. Fingers and toes numb, legs aching, brain fogged with fever. Stumbling through the gates of Yeavering Hall to strange faces calling questions. Pedro shivering—

“Pedro ! Where—”

“Your Indian boy is fine, don’t worry. He was up and about the next day, none the worse for wear. He’s busy in the stable, doctoring your lame horse. Even slept with the animal.”

“Next day? I’ve been here . . . for two days?”

“Three, as of this morning.” He nodded to the bright sunshine streaming through the windows. “Pardon me again, I am doing a poor job of introducing myself. I am—”

“I know.” His resemblance to Frances was unmistakable. This had to be Sir Christopher Grenville, head of the house of Grenville in fact if not in law, since his dead brother’s sons were underage. Horrible images rushed in of how that other Grenville had tortured her mother and chained up her father . . . how her mother had killed the brute.

He frowned in concern at the change in her. “What is it? Pain?”

She knew not how to answer.

“Ah,” he said, nodding sadly. “You feel . . . how shall I put it . . . unease at being my guest?”

Unease? Paltry word! Not only because of him; he seemed all kindness. But civil words failed her as the terrible memory of Leith suddenly rushed back. Carlos’s brutal words. His unforgiving glare as she had ridden out of the garrison with Pedro. She turned her face away from Grenville, overcome with anguish. Thoughts of the last days in Scotland tumbled through her mind. She had ridden straight to Stirling Castle, her heart breaking, and had given Knox all the information she had noted about the French guns and fortifications and troop strength. She had said nothing about the Queen Regent’s gift. No need to. On the way, burning with suspicion, she had opened the box and found that her suspicions were wrong about a dark connection between the Queen Regent and northern Englishmen: the gift was a silver rattle, a christening gift for Lady Percy’s baby, exactly as the Queen Regent had said. Nothing incriminating—that had been her overwrought imagination. She left Stirling wanting only to get to London, get Nicolas, and end this nightmare. She had set out just as the storm clouds gathered over her head. By the time she and Pedro had crossed the border, the storm was so bad she had made for the shelter of Yeavering.

Nicolas.
“I must go . . .” She pushed off the blanket and threw her legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden move rucked her nightdress up above her knees, but there was no time for modesty. There was only her driving need to get to her son. She pushed herself out of bed.

“What?” Grenville cried. He rose and grabbed her arm to steady her, for the moment her feet touched the floor her legs had begun to give way.

“Let me go. I must get my son!”

“Madam, you are not well. Please, let me—”

“No . . .” But she was dizzy. And short of breath. The room wavered. She collapsed in his arms.

He lifted her and laid her back in the bed, his hands sliding under her bare legs to settle her. Looking embarrassed at his impropriety, he pulled the blanket up to cover her to her shoulders, and tried to lighten the moment with a jest. “Awaking to my rough face has frightened you, I dare say. But do not let it force you to flee.”

Not rough at all, was her wandering thought. For weeks she had been among soldiers, unwashed men with bristled chins and scabs and scars. Grenville was as smooth-faced as a courtier. He even smelled like one, a faint scent of lemon thyme rising from the fresh linen shirt beneath his doublet of russet satin.

Isabel’s head was pounding, her nerves were frayed, her stomach threatened to heave, and she felt like a fool. “Pardon me, sir. You are right, I will rest first. And please accept my thanks, for I believe your care these past days has saved my life.”

“Oh, I did nothing but assist Frances, I assure you. She did it all. Nursed you, and wept like a mother when we thought we were losing you.” Looking down at her, his jesting smile now gone, he said somberly, “We have you back, thanks be to God. It is a sign, I dare to think, that He would like us to be friends. For my sister’s sake, and for mine, will you join me in putting past griefs behind us? My brother, I am ashamed to say, was a vicious man. I beg you not to judge all our family by his example.”

She felt his sincerity, and it moved her. Forgive and forget? Why not? Why should the two of them continue a feud they had taken no part in?

She thought of Carlos, and misery swamped her again, all but crushing her spirit. Could he ever forgive and forget? Could
she?
It was impossible to forget his merciless words.
“I will take Nicolas home with me to Peru. And you may go where you want.”
Tears stung the back of her throat. She beat them back, anger spiking her misery, for she refused to regret what she had done. It was necessary—for England’s safety, her parents’ safety. How could Carlos not see that?

“Forgive me,” Grenville said, “I should not have brought up such a painful subject.”

“No, no, it is not you. You are most kind, sir. Believe me, I am most grateful for your friendship.”

“Good. And please, do let me know if there is anything at all I can do for you.”

She thought of the package in her saddlebag. “Might I further entreat your kindness to deliver a gift?” She wanted to get this task over with. Every thought of Leith was painful. She wanted it behind her. “It is for the Countess of Northumberland, for her baby. I believe the earl’s home is not far from you.”

He was clearly taken aback. “You are acquainted with Lady Percy?”

“Not I, sir. I am only the messenger. I have come from Leith, where the Queen Regent did me the honor of entrusting this small task to me. The gift is hers. I understand the two ladies are longtime friends.”

The change in him was astonishing. His look of gentle amiability vanished and in its place was intense curiosity. His face, his body, his every muscle fell into a new alignment. It put Isabel in mind of a hunting dog excited at sniffing the prey and pointing with nose and tail. She felt as though Grenville had lifted a mask and she was seeing the real man.

“Where is it?” he said.

“In my saddlebag. Or it was. Pedro will know and—”

“I’ll get it myself.” His eyes glittered with suppressed excitement. “Madam, you are more welcome than I can say, for you have brought more joy than you can know.”

Something cold slid down her backbone. All this for a rattle? She said carefully, “A christening is, indeed, a joyful thing.”

He grinned as though delighted at her being his accomplice. In what, she had no idea, but felt that it could only be bad.

The players settled in at Yeavering Hall. The whole household assembled in the great hall for the nightly performances that brightened their spirits in these dead days of winter. The mummery, as the people called the age-old plays, took the form of a different tale every evening, though each was a variation of a virtuous hero vanquishing evil. Christopher Grenville presided for the first night’s performance, then rode the next day to Kirknewton for the assizes where he was a justice of the peace, leaving Frances to represent him in the great hall.

Isabel still felt too weak to attend the play. Frances sat by her bed during the day and read to her and chatted, though Isabel sensed that something was troubling her. Did she, too, wonder about her brother? Frances never said, and Isabel could think of no way to bring it up, so they kept their talk to household matters, mutually complicit in not mentioning their misgivings about Grenville. Frances did, however, tell her some wonderful news. Queen Elizabeth had mustered an army of ten thousand foot soldiers and seven hundred horsemen and they were marching into Scotland at that very moment. That had cheered Isabel greatly.
May it save Knox and his men
.

But she suffered during these days. Her body was healing, but not the wound in her heart. Nights were the hardest. In the daylight she had Frances for company, but in the darkness, all alone, she was tormented by nightmares. Carlos throwing her out of Leith, his sword raised against her. Carlos carrying Nicolas away to a ship. Nico crying and squirming, reaching out to get back to her. She would wake up weeping, wildly confused, and feeling so bereft, so empty, she felt half-dead.

On the morning after Grenville went to the assizes she made herself get out of bed and get dressed, shaky though she was. She longed to set out for London right now and reclaim Nicolas, but knew that she was too weak yet to sit a horse. A day or two more, then she would go. She climbed the stairs to the third floor, and in the solar she found Frances sewing while rocking Katherine’s cradle with her foot.

“You’re up!” Frances exclaimed in delight.

“A little shaky, but on my feet at last.” She took Frances by the hand. “Thank you so much for all your tender care.”

Frances squeezed her hand in return. “Without you, my dear, I would not be here to care for anyone.”

“Ah, look at my pretty niece.” Isabel took a ball of scarlet yarn from Frances’s sewing basket and dangled it above the cradle. The baby gazed at it in fascination and tried to touch it with her tiny fist. Isabel smiled and thought ahead to her own baby’s birth. It would be August, high summer, fields of green, flower-scented breezes. But where would she be? Where would Carlos
allow
her to be? Would he really take Nicolas to Peru without her? Would her new baby grow up fatherless? Such thoughts were torture. The future was a fog, what lay ahead unknowable. All she could do was get to London, get Nicolas, and pray that Carlos would come to his senses. She forced her mind back to the here and now. “She is a beautiful babe, Frances.”

Frances smiled with pride, and patted the chair next to her. “Sit you down and take your rest. You are not yet strong.”

They spent the day sewing baby clothes for Katherine, reading, chatting, enjoying the antics of the gray kittens, soft as dandelion fluff, who tumbled on the floor with the yarn until they got quite tangled in it. Isabel gazed out at the snowy hills that bordered Scotland and remembered what Knox had said to her, that the idle life of a lady was not for her:
“You are meant to be in action. God wishes it. It is your destiny.”
Extraordinary, his tone, like some prophet. Well, she had done all she could. The rebels’ fate—and England’s—now lay in the hands of others. She did not dare discuss the war with Frances, for she wondered about her sister-in-law’s divided loyalties. She knew how much Frances loved Adam, and was sure that she feared for his safety, but Frances was also a devout Catholic, and Grenville’s sister. If Grenville was involved in some way with the Queen Regent, did Frances know that? Was she encouraging it?

But
was
Grenville involved? And if so, how? Isabel had nothing to go on except his extreme reaction, his evident excitement, when she had told him of the Queen Regent’s gift for Lady Percy. Which was nothing, really.

That night, she could not sleep. She longed to be on her way to London. With Nicolas safe in her arms, and both of them back in her parents’ house, she would find the strength to take stock, decide what to do next. Here she felt so alone. Frances was a good friend, and Grenville, despite Isabel’s vague suspicions, was kindness itself. She was grateful for everything they had done, but they were not her family. They could not fill the hollowness in her heart. She had to get home.

Staring at the moon through her window, she heard the creak of wagon wheels. Many wagon wheels. She got up and went to see. Her room overlooked the rear of the stables and the armory. The wagons stopped, five of them ranged in a line. A man came out of the armory with a torch, and Isabel watched as at least a dozen men unloaded crates. Who would be making deliveries at this late hour? The crates were sealed, but a drayman who went to unload the second wagon slid the top off the first crate, perhaps to verify its contents, and Isabel could plainly see moonlight glinting off the steel barrels of arquebusses and muskets. So, a delivery of weapons. Every large landowner kept an armory stocked for his tenants to defend the manor in a crisis, but the number of guns being unloaded seemed astonishing. If each crate held this many, there must be hundreds. Another drayman flipped back the canvas cover of his wagon and she saw that it was filled with bundled spears and staves, enough to equip a substantial company of fighters. Another wagon was piled with bows and sheaves of arrows, thousands of arrows. The man with the torch looked up at her window, and Isabel quickly stepped back, out of view. But from the shadows she watched as the men uncovered the final wagon. Her breath caught at what it held. Three bronze light cannons: a falconet and two demi-culverins.