The Queen's Gamble (3 page)

Muffled voices sounded in the screened passageway. Some belonged to the servants, but Isabel caught one voice that lifted her heart.

“Where are they? Are they here? Where—” Honor Thornleigh turned the corner to the hall and stopped speaking when she saw them, gazing as though to hold the precious sight forever. “You’re here! You’re really here!”

Isabel got up and rushed to meet her, and her mother wrapped an arm around her and said, “Oh, my darling girl.”

Isabel threw her arms around her neck. “Mother.”

The men had got to their feet and Carlos came to Isabel’s side, and she turned to include him, feeling too much to speak. He gave her mother a respectful bow of the head, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he addressed her by her new title: “Your Ladyship.”

“Carlos,” she said, returning the smile. “Dear Carlos.”

“It is good to see you,” he said.

“And you, sir. Thank you for bringing her safe home.”

Isabel wiped away tears of joy, even as she noted that her mother’s beauty, at forty-nine, was no longer the blazing light it had once been. It was now a gentle glow.

“Oh!” her mother cried. “This must be Nicolas!”

“Come, Nico, don’t be shy,” Isabel said, coaxing him forward. Her mother crouched down and gazed at the boy as though he were made of gold, and Isabel felt a flush of pride. Nicolas didn’t know what to make of her inspection, but Isabel could see that he immediately trusted this lady who smiled right into his eyes and caressed his cheek. She also noticed, with a pang, why her mother had used only one arm to embrace her. The other, the right one, hung at her side as though useless, as though the sinews at her shoulder had withered. How had that happened? During some violence with the man she had killed? She itched to know, but this was no time to blurt,
Whom did you murder?
The dead arm, though, unnerved her, and when her mother rose again Isabel embraced her with a rush of pity.

Her father called everyone to sit and be merry, and there was a flurry as servants carried in more food and poured more wine, and the dogs barked and trotted about, and the musicians swung into a new tune with gusto. As Isabel took her seat beside her father she saw her mother pause beside him, and she caught them exchange an unguarded look that seemed fraught with unease. If she had not been reaching for a plate for Nico, and her parents had not been surrounded by the swirl of activity that they believed screened them, she might have missed it. Their smiles had vanished, and she heard her father ask in a low voice, “Has she sent him to Scotland?”

“Yes,” her mother said darkly.

He looked grim and said, “She has also recalled the Earl of Northumberland.”

“Who replaces him?”

A shake of the head from her father, a mute admission that he did not know. The two shared a bleak look. Then her mother carried on to her seat at the other end.

Isabel had no idea what they were talking about, and she would not have minded if it weren’t for the tension that had so obviously gripped them. The
she
they had referred to could only mean the Queen. And the troubled looks that had clouded their faces could only mean that all was not well. But the moment had passed, and everyone was now seated, and her father was on his feet, expansive with high spirits again and calling for a toast.

“To Carlos and Isabel—”

“And me!”

“And Nicolas,” he added amid the smiles. His tone turned serious. “God be thanked for bringing you all safely to us.”

Everyone drank. Isabel felt such a swell of happiness, tears stung her eyes.

Her father banged his goblet on the table and said, “Now, tell us all about the New World.”

Isabel was happy to oblige, for she adored their home on the coast in sunny Trujillo. “Well,” she began as others started eating, “when we first arrived we were like any dazed immigrants. Utterly confused. Everything looked so strange and different. I didn’t know an
encomienda
from an
audiencia.
”

“Isabel makes it sound worse than it was,” Carlos said with a smile. “We got along fine.”

“
You
did, speaking Spanish. It was all foreign to me.”

He shook his head and said to her mother, “She made friends with so many people, we dined with a different family every night.”

“Ah, but that was because of your success, once you became captain of the viceroy’s guard.” She was eager to let her parents know this. “The viceroy is Don Andres Hurtado de Mendoza. He is the representative of King Philip and oversees all Peru like a prince. He liked Carlos, and the trust he put in him changed our lives. It happened last year when a group of
encomenderos
rose up in rebellion. Carlos distinguished himself brilliantly in putting them down.”

Isabel’s mother raised her goblet. “To Carlos. Well done.”

He raised his goblet and said with a wry smile, “To the rebels.”

They all laughed.

“And because of that,” Isabel went on, “the viceroy rewarded him.”

“With gold? Land?” her father asked.

She smiled. He always got straight to the point. “With an
encomienda,
” she said. “That’s what everyone there wants. It’s a big grant of land that’s worked by the Indians. The whole country runs on the
encomienda
system. But only the King awards the
encomiendas,
through the viceroy, so the competition is fierce.”

“These Indians,” her mother said. “Are they your slaves?”

“Goodness, no. They’ve always worked the lands for their own rulers, the Inca leaders. They still live in the same villages they used to. All that’s changed is that the rulers are now Spanish.”

“Making the Spanish very rich,” said her father. He turned to Carlos with a probing look. “It seems that includes you. Am I right?”

Carlos nodded. “The
encomienda
is a good one. Produces more wheat even than the one the viceroy gave himself.”
Good
was an understatement, Isabel thought as she shared a look with him. She could almost feel his deep satisfaction. He wasn’t arrogant like so many Spaniards, but he was proud of how far he had come. And no one was more proud of him than she was. “And there’s our silver mine,” Carlos went on. “It’s producing well.”

“Silver!” Isabel’s mother exclaimed, impressed.

“I’ll send you a dozen sets of plates and goblets, Lady Thornleigh,” he said. “Only the Queen’s own will match the quality.”

“But what about the climate?” Frances asked. “Do you not die of the heat?”

Isabel was a little startled. It was the first time Frances had joined the conversation since they had arrived home. “No, I love it,” she said.

“Ha,” her father said. “Just like your mother.”

“And the food,” Isabel went on. “We pick lemons right off the trees by our veranda. There are bananas, pineapples, coconuts. They have a grain that’s like tiny pearls, called
quinoa
. And they prepare whitefish by soaking it in lime juice, no cooking at all, and it’s delicious.” She knew she was rattling on, but it was such a pleasure to be speaking English again. So easy. So comfortable. “And there’s a pear-shaped fruit with black skin rough as a snake, but inside is a luscious, pale green, velvety flesh that’s as rich as butter. They call it avocado.”

“Sounds wonderful,” her mother said. “Oh, for fresh fruit and vegetables.” She wrinkled her nose at her spoonful of spiced cabbage to make the point. “I long for spring to sow my garden. Perhaps I should plant some avocado seeds.”

“Seeds?”
Nicolas said with a sputter of a laugh.

“They’re very large,” Isabel explained. “Big as a baby’s fist.”

“Goodness me.”

Her parents quizzed Nicolas about his favorite things in Peru, and he said making sand castles by the sea, and playing tops with Pedro, and riding Father Bartolomé’s one-eared donkey. Isabel listened, tickled by his Spanish accent as he spoke English, and pleased that he was doing so well. She tried to have him keep up his English at home, but having lived all his young life in a Spanish land he was Spanish through and through.

He was yawning.

“Nico,” Carlos said, “time for sleep.”

“I’ll take him upstairs,” Isabel said.

“No, stay and talk. Enjoy.” Carlos got up, saying to their son, “
Vamos,
Nico.”

She kissed Nicolas good night, and he bowed to his grandparents, then to Frances, and then he and Carlos went off, hand in hand.

Isabel looked across the table at her sister-in-law. Frances was idly poking a piece of roast goose with her knife, most of her food untouched. No appetite, apparently. Because of being so heavy with child? It was hard to get used to the fact of Adam being married to this quiet, sad-looking lady who had to be ten years older than he was. Isabel felt sorry for her. “What about you, Frances?” she asked. “We’ve rattled on about us. I’d like to know about you. Did you grow up in London? Who are your people, your family? And how did you come to wed my wild brother?” She added with a laugh, “I hope you’ve tamed him.”

Frances went still, her face turning pale. Isabel was aware of a heavy silence. Her father set to cutting his meat. Her mother took refuge in a swallow of wine. Isabel couldn’t understand their coldness to their daughter-in-law. Frances was clearly upset about something, and their behavior, especially her father’s, was downright rude.

“It has been a long day,” Frances said. “I shall say good night, too.” She got to her feet, making the dogs at the hearth raise their heads.

“Oh, I know what it’s like,” Isabel said. “I got so tired in the weeks before Nicolas was born. When do you expect to be delivered?”

Tears welled in Frances’s eyes. In her effort to subdue them she clasped her hands tightly together above her bulging belly. “A month. God willing.”

She’s afraid of childbirth,
Isabel thought with a rush of sympathy. She stood and reached across the table and took her sister-in-law’s hand. It felt chilly and chapped. “You’ll do fine,” she said, and gave her a squeeze.

Frances offered a hesitant smile. “I hope you’ll visit me, Isabel. Later, once you’re settled.”

“You don’t live here?”

“No.”

“Their house is on Lombard Street,” her mother said. “Frances, thank you for bringing them from the quay. And, of course, you’re welcome to stay the night.” The words were generous, but the tone was not.

“Yes. Thank you. But I’d rather be home.” Then, to Isabel, “Do visit me, won’t you?”

“I will.”

“I’ll call in James to have someone take you,” Isabel’s father said, not even bothering to look at Frances. He started to get up.

“Don’t bother, sir. I’ll find him.”

Then she was gone. The dogs settled down again at the hearth. Faint sounds of women’s chatter came from the kitchen as the maids cleaned the dishes.

In the silence, Isabel’s mother said, “Richard, you really must try.”

“I do. But, by God, she’s the last woman I would have chosen for Adam.”

“Well, it’s done. Till death do them part. We must accept it.”

He seemed about to say something more, but stopped himself and poured another goblet of wine.

Isabel was bursting to ask for details, but feared Frances might still be within hearing. Instead, she allowed herself a verbal poke to her father. “You once said, sir, that Carlos was the last man you would have chosen for me.”

They both looked at her, her father with a frown.

Her mother’s lips curved in a small smile. “Your father is man enough to admit when he’s been wrong. Aren’t you, Richard?”

His expression softened. “In your case, Bel, dead wrong.” But there was no mirth in him as he added, “In Adam’s case, I doubt it.”

Isabel was tucking Nicolas in. He had said he couldn’t sleep. He missed Pedro, who usually slept with him. In all the excitement, Pedro had been lodged in the servants’ quarters. Isabel made a mental note to correct that tomorrow.

“You don’t have to check under the bed for ogres. Papa already did,” Nicolas told her as she snugged the blanket up to his shoulders. They were speaking in Spanish. He added, as though to break hard news to her gently, “He does it better than you. He checks with his sword.”

“There are no ogres in England,” she said. A single candle cast its light from the bedside table, making him look small in the big bed, all alone. “They were rounded up and told to leave.”

His eyes grew large. “Where did they go?”

“Back to Ogreland. They’re having a big feast there now. They’re glad to be home, with their brothers and sisters.”

“I wish I had a brother. He could play tops with me when Pedro’s busy.”

“You’ll soon have a cousin. Your aunt Frances and uncle Adam are having a baby.”

“Tonight?”

“Soon.” She kissed his forehead.

“A song, too,” he negotiated.

She was singing softly to him, his eyelids growing heavy, when her mother appeared at the doorway. Isabel beckoned her in as she kept singing.

Honor sat down on the opposite edge of the bed, and they both watched Nico’s eyelids drift shut as Isabel’s song ended. Then she felt her mother’s gaze on her. “I’ve read your letters so many times, Bel, I think I’ve memorized them.”

“I did the same with yours,” Isabel said. “But, oh, it was hard to wait the months for the letters to reach us. Especially this last year, hearing nothing after Adam sent the news.”

“And so you made that long journey just for me.” She shook her head in wonder. “My darling.”

“It’s worth it, just to see you again.” Could she ask now?
Whom did you kill?

Her mother nodded, smiling. They both looked again at Nico, the living embodiment of their bond of blood. “That was a pretty tune you were singing. I wish I understood Spanish. What was it?”

“Just a ditty the friar sings to the children.”

“Father Bartolomé? With the one-eared donkey?”

“The same. He’s a good teacher. Nico adores him.”

Her mother smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt, as though to avoid comment. Was she disturbed, Isabel wondered, that the priest would be teaching her grandson the Catholic catechism? It tripped her for a moment, realizing that she should have thought of this. She had come home to a country that had turned Protestant. She said quickly, to avoid that topic, “Nico knows his letters so well now. He’s quick.”