The Queen's Gamble (30 page)

You will be dumbstruck at what you read. But I assure you every word is true.

I write in haste, for this letter must go to you today. I still lack much detail on the plotters’ intended date to strike, their precise stratagems, and the locations of their mustering, for I have not been privy to all their deliberations. I will try for all of this. Meanwhile, I judged it needful to apprise you instantly of the threat so that you may alert Her Majesty, and she may move against these traitors posthaste. The men I know to be plotting are as follows: Sir Christopher Grenville, who is their leader. Henry Palmer. Sir Ralph Donaldson. Sir Cyrus Pinkerton. Charles Ives. William Conroy. Father Thomas York. I believe there are more, but I know only of these. I am told they will rise up in the name of the Earl of Northumberland, though I have not seen his face. I entreat you, show this letter to Her Majesty.

God keep you well, and my good father, and my dear son. If you are allowed, kiss my boy for me. I know not when I shall lay eyes on him again.

Written by my hand this eighteenth day of February,

Your loving daughter,

Isabel Valverde

She sealed the letter, then left her room to look for Pedro. She would trust none but him to take it. Going down the stairs she stumbled, so shaky was her balance, and she had to sit for a moment on the step, hugging herself to quell her trembling muscles and brace her mind for what lay ahead—more meetings with Grenville and his fellow traitors. Every hour in his home was agony. But she would stay and watch . . . and long for the day when she could leave.

The lockup beneath the armory was so cold, ice crystals frosted the stone walls. Carlos quickly surveyed the layout as he came down the stairs. Four cells ran along each side of the dim corridor. All were empty. The rebels they had held had recently been hanged. The Hole was a narrow cell facing him at the far end, hard to see in the dim light. The stairs he had come down seemed to be the only way out. He looked through the gloom toward the Hole. If he hadn’t known the English captives were there, the sharp stink of piss would have told him. The cell had no window, and the space was so narrow that if a man were on horseback his knees would touch the side walls, while the horse’s nose and tail would touch the ends. Behind the barred door Carlos could just make out the shadowy forms of two men. One sat on the floor, knees up, forehead on his knees. One lay curled on the floor as if asleep. Three men had been brought in, so where was the third? Had Adam been taken somewhere else?

A lone turnkey lounged on a stool halfway down the corridor. Carlos hoped he was French, not a hired Scot. Everything depended on that. Seeing Carlos approach, the turnkey got to his feet in deference to this visitor in gentleman’s clothing with a fine sword at his hip. Carlos noted the iron keys on an iron ring hooked to the man’s belt.

“Are those the English?” he asked in French. He pointed at the two men in the cell, shadowy in the dim light. The one with his head on his knees heard him and his head shot up. It was Adam. Relieved, Carlos added, “I’m here to speak to their captain.”

“Yes, sir,” the turnkey said. “May I see the order?”

Carlos handed him D’Oysel’s note, and then asked, switching to English, “Were you posted down here when the prisoners were brought in?”

The turnkey’s puzzled frown was all the answer Carlos needed. The man knew no English. He switched back to French. “I speak English. More effective for questioning them.”

The man’s frown cleared. He understood—the prisoners would better appreciate threats in their own tongue. “Yes, sir. This way, sir.”

Carlos followed him to the Hole. Adam blinked up at him, and Carlos gave him a fierce look that said,
Keep quiet
.

The turnkey unlocked the door. Carlos said, “Better wait down the corridor. They may not talk if you’re near.”

When they were alone, Adam struggled to his feet. He stared at Carlos with a look of disgust and sorrow. “I was hoping I’d imagined it . . . seeing you out in the courtyard.” The sorrow gave way to sheer contempt. “So, have your French masters sent you to me?”

Carlos bristled, but he had no time to explain. He glanced at the man lying curled on the floor, his eyes closed. His mutilated hand had turned black. Gangrene. His face was as white as a corpse. “There were three of you,” he said.

“Dawkins died in the night.” Adam took a steadying breath. “My crew—what happened to the rest of my crew?” He looked as if he barely trusted Carlos to tell the truth.

“They got away.”

Adam bowed his head in relief. “And my ship?”

“Confiscated.”

Adam nodded, accepting it. He was shivering, hugging himself, his side pressed against the wall as if he needed its support to hold himself erect. He looked up, his disgust returning. “And you . . . gone over to the enemy. Show me the gold they gave you, Carlos. I’ll shove it down your throat.”

“Save your strength.” He was trying to judge how bad Adam’s condition was. He looked almost as pale and weak as the sick man on the floor. When they’d been brought in Carlos had seen the crusted blood on the back of Adam’s jerkin slashed through from shoulder to hip. “How bad is your wound?” he asked. “Can you walk?”

Adam snorted. “For a stroll in the garden?”

“Could you make it down to the shore on your own?”

Adam gaped at him. “What?”

“Could you manage sailing a boat?”

“What are you talking about?”

Carlos glanced down the corridor. The turnkey sat on his stool a half dozen paces away, watching them, his face blank. Could he hear? Did he understand English after all?
If so, Adam and I are both dead men.
He lowered his voice even more. “I’m here to get you out. Answer me, could you sail a fishing boat?”

Adam looked at him with a dawning dread, as though Carlos were the hangman come for him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

That threw him. He had expected hostility, but not downright refusal. It was suicide. “Damn it, you’ve got to trust me. If you don’t—”

“Oh, I’m sure they think you’re the perfect man to make me trust. So you can deliver me to the rack, is that it? Turn the screws to make me talk? Break me on the wheel? Well, haul me out if you’re going to, but I’m not walking. I’d rather trust Satan himself.” The effort had drained him. His head lolled back against the wall.

Carlos didn’t know what to do. Everything in his experience told him to abort. The odds of getting Adam out to safety were terrible, even if Adam was ready and willing to try.
Without
his cooperation, the attempt was madness; Carlos would be courting his
own
suicide. He’d done his best, but he couldn’t do the impossible. If he had any sense he’d accept that reality, call the turnkey, and get the hell out of here. But what did sense have to do with it? He was awash with feeling. It was Adam’s face that did it. Dirty and bruised though it was, in it Carlos saw Isabel. That same proud tilt of the chin. The same knowing, clever eyes. It hit him hard. He knew where that pride in her came from. He had accused her of betraying him, but now, looking at her defiant brother, he knew that what she had done sprang from something deep inside her—a need to help. Her parents. Her country. Her defiance had confounded him when they’d stood face-to-face, because she had set herself against
his
need, a need to safeguard their future. She had lied to him, and as he had writhed at that wound she’d inflicted, he had thought he would never forgive her. But now, seeing her in Adam, knowing that her bravery was no less than her brother’s, he knew that he already had. Forgiven her. Wanted her. Would take steel in his belly for her.

“I’m going to get you out,” he told Adam. “Tomorrow, if I can. You have to believe that.”

“Believe you? Why should I? Why would you risk the wrath of your French paymasters?”

Carlos gritted his teeth. He would see this through. “For your sister.”

The scorn left Adam’s eyes. Carlos saw a glimmer of trust. Then, suddenly, Adam slid down the wall, too weak to stand any longer. He sat, looking dazed. “Good try . . . but I’ll stay.”

Carlos wanted to kick him. “You
have
to get out.” He squatted beside him. “They’re going to hang you.”

Adam shook his head. “They won’t. I’m worth a ransom. They know that.”

“Christ, is that what you think?”

“They’re like you. They won’t pass up the gold.”

“You’re wrong. You don’t know this commander.”
He’ll hang you to spite me.
“Listen, forget how angry you are at me. This is about your neck. Believe me, this man will break it.”

Adam frowned, the words sinking in.
Finally,
Carlos thought.

“So you’ve got to be ready to move when you get my signal. Before that, I’ll send you word of the plan.”
Once I have one
.

Adam thought about it for a long moment. Then, warily, “What’s the signal?”

Carlos let out a breath of relief. He’d convinced him. “You’ll know it when you see it.” He stood up. At the door he called to the turnkey to come and let him out.

Adam struggled to his feet again. He said very quietly, “All right. We’ll be ready.”

Carlos spun around.
We?
He glanced at the sick man on the floor. “No. Just you. You can’t risk being slowed by a man who’s almost dead.”

“That’s not possible. I won’t leave Braddock behind.”

The turnkey was at the door. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Yes . . . fine.” Carlos turned back to Adam and said in a fierce whisper, “Only
you
. Understand?”

Adam’s anxious eyes flicked to the turnkey unlocking the door, then back to Carlos. He looked down at his crewman on the floor. The door was open. When he looked back at Carlos he shook his head, grimly resolute.
No.

Isabel crossed the courtyard, looking for Pedro. In the kitchen they had told her he had gone out to the dairy house. She passed an oxcart creaking past with a load of the miller’s grain. A half dozen of Grenville’s mounted men-at-arms were trotting in through the main gate. She pulled her shawl tightly around her. It had looked like such a clear, bright day from her window she had not bothered with a cloak, but the moment she had stepped outside, the air’s cold sting reminded her that winter still held Yeavering by the throat. She had just reached the alley that led to the outbuildings when a man called after her, “Mistress Valverde. Stop a moment, please.”

She turned. Grenville’s grizzled steward, Peter Hardy, strode to catch up to her, his breath steaming in the cold. He said with polite concern, “Cook said you were looking for your foreign lad to make a delivery. I assure you, there is no need to go to the trouble. We have porters to do that for you.”

“Thank you, Master Hardy, but I prefer to send Pedro. He knows the house it is bound for. Really, it is no trouble at all.”

“But then you would be without your servant. Please, allow me to take the parcel to our porter. Do you have it with you?” When she hesitated he added, embarrassed at having to make his meaning clear, “I am sorry, madam, but it is my master’s request that nothing leave Yeavering Hall without I see it. I hope you understand.”

“What nonsense. It is only a letter.”

“Good. I will see that it is safely delivered.” He held out his hand, waiting.

She pulled it from her shawl and handed it over. He slid his forefinger under the wax seal, breaking it. She moved to stop him, saying, “How dare you—” when a horseman trotted alongside them. Grenville.

“Isabel,” he said. “What are you doing out in the cold? Is there a problem, Hardy?”

“This, sir.” He held up the letter.

Grenville ignored it, looking annoyed at the man. “No, no, not this lady. Do forgive the intrusion, Isabel. Hardy can be overcareful of my safety.” He scowled at his steward. “Let the letter pass, man.”

“Are you sure, sir?” he insisted, handing it up.

Grenville took the letter, impatient to end the matter. He scanned the writing. Then slowly folded the letter. “That is all, Hardy.”

The man bowed and walked away.

Grenville looked at Isabel. “You are taking this to your servant, I gather.” He added with feeling, “God speed him.” He handed the letter back to her. “When you’re done,” he said with a smile, “get you into the house and get warm.” He turned his horse and trotted for the stables.

Isabel walked on down the alley, tucking the letter back into her shawl. It read:

Dear Mother,

I trust this letter finds you in health and contentment. I hope to swell that contentment, for I have bought a gift for Her Majesty the Queen which I believe will delight her. I know her love of music, and my gift is a viol crafted from an ancient wood of this shire and delicately wrought. I am so eager to deliver it unto her, I entreat you to write me posthaste when Her Majesty will make her journey into Norfolk . . .

She walked on, her heartbeat calming as the other letter brushed her thigh—the letter hidden in her petticoat pocket.

24

New Friends, New Foes

T
he Earl of Northumberland’s role in the plot. Names of the plotters in Yorkshire. The date Grenville had set for the strike. Who, when, how? There was still so much Isabel did not know. Wrestling with these thoughts, she skirted the great hall, her mind in turmoil. How was she to find out what she needed? How much time did she have? Rain drummed the house in a downpour, for the temperature had shot up overnight, and her head ached from it. A wave of laughter followed her from the hall, the servants preparing for a performance by the actors, who were still in residence. She tried to block out the ruckus. She needed to think. She passed the library, its door closed. Grenville was in Kirknewton—on business, he had said. Meeting with the earl, Isabel was sure. If only she could be at that meeting!

She heard footsteps and looked back to see Frances leaving the library. She hurried on toward the staircase, hoping Frances had not seen her. The last person she wanted to talk to was her sister-in-law, a traitor like Grenville, perhaps not an active member of his conspiracy but a willing confederate, just as bad. She started up the stairs, eager for the refuge of her bedchamber.
Think.
There had to be a way to get Grenville to take her to the earl. As the most powerful lord in the north, and the one with the connection to the Queen Regent and therefore France, he was surely the lynchpin of the grand plot. She
must
get that proof for Queen Elizabeth. But what reason could she give Grenville? Perhaps if she said—

“Isabel, stop,” Frances called.

She kept on up the steps, head down, pretending she had not heard. A lie. Her head felt crammed with lies . . . so hard to keep track of them all, her smiling-faced dealings with these people when she wanted to scream at them . . . she almost felt she was losing her mind.

“Stop, I say!” Frances caught up to her and snatched her wrist.

Isabel lurched to keep her balance.
Let me go, all you Grenvilles!
It was hard to keep a civil face as she pulled her hand free. “Frances, you startled me.”

“I want you out of this house.”

Isabel blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“You heard me. I want you gone.” Another wave of laughter from the hall. Frances nervously glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around. Still, she lowered her voice. “I know that Christopher is trying to corrupt you. He may have already succeeded . . . I don’t know.” She looked pale, distraught, her hands clasped together as if to steady herself. “But all these men coming here—and the stockpiled arms—it is not about the border raiders, of that I am sure.”

Isabel could not find words. Frances knew nothing about the plot?

“I sniff treason,” Frances whispered, “though it pains my soul to say it. Whatever Christopher is planning, I cannot stop him. But you . . .
you
I will stop. I demand that you leave.”

“Are you saying”—
Wait. Go carefully
—“that in a crisis, you would not stand with your brother?”

“Like you, standing against yours?” The vehemence of the outburst left Frances unsteady. She clutched the newel post for support. “I never thought I would see the day that you would plot against Adam.”

“Let me understand—”

“He is fighting for England! If you strike at England you strike at him!”

“Shhh, keep your voice down.” She could hardly believe what she was hearing. But fervor shone in her sister-in-law’s face. Adam was the sun of her world. Isabel was suddenly ashamed that she had ever doubted her. “Frances, I . . . I have misjudged you.” A fresh energy coursed through her. To find an ally in Frances, after all! She grabbed her hand. “We cannot talk here. Come.” She pulled her up the stairs.

Frances balked. “No. You cannot hoodwink me with your smiles and soft voice. Christopher has made you his confidante, and I will not—”

“My friendship with your brother is a sham. I am with you, Frances. For England.”

“Ha. I do not believe you. You were in Leith with the French. You
said
so. Your husband is on their side.”

“He is—but I am not!” It had burst from her, the wound from Carlos still raw.

They stared at each other. Footsteps sounded, coming from the hall. “But . . . I have seen you with Christopher,” Frances stammered. “At the mill. And with his fellow—”

“Not here. Come.” She tugged her. “Please!”

Up the stairs they went. The moment they were in Isabel’s bedchamber, she shut the door and pulled Frances to the window across the room, far from servants’ ears. She sat her down on the window seat and sat beside her and gripped her hand. “Your brother is plotting a massive uprising. Under the earl’s banner. He and those men you’ve seen—they plan to strike at Durham, then London, kill the Queen, and take the realm.”

Frances’s hand flew to her mouth. She shrank back from Isabel, a look of horror on her face. “How can you know this unless”—she got to her feet—“unless you are with them. You
must
be!” She took an unsteady step back, looking for the door.

Isabel jumped up. She could not let her go! “I have
pretended
to be with them. You must believe me.” The details tumbled out of her, the whole tale. Cecil urging her to help. Her meeting with Elizabeth. Her mission to take the Queen’s gold to the rebel leaders. Her meeting with Knox in the rebel camp. Tom’s death, and the terrible retreat to Stirling. “It was awful . . . awful,” she said, almost breathless as she finished. Reliving it made her shudder, yet it was a relief to share her burden with a friend. She had been alone with it so long.

Frances looked stunned. And not convinced.

“I know you are amazed,” Isabel said, “but you
must
believe me. Look, I’ll prove it!” She dashed to the wardrobe and pulled out her brocade satchel, dug under the false bottom and into the hidden pocket, and pulled out a paper. “Here, look. It is the receipt Knox gave me for the Queen’s gold. Signed by his hand. Look!”

Frances took the receipt, her hand trembling. She looked up at Isabel, and all the doubt drained from her face. She murmured in awe, and revulsion, “The heretics.”

“Reformers, they call themselves. Frances, they are England’s only bulwark against a French invasion.”

“I know. Strange bedfellows,” she said unhappily. “But Adam is fighting for them, and I know it is for England.” The sadness in her eyes deepened to pure compassion. “Oh, Isabel—what risks you have taken.”

Isabel felt shaky still. She had told everything, except about Nicolas. She could almost hear again his cry to her when she had left him, and it wrenched her heart. “For Nico . . .” she said. She now told Frances how the Queen had kept him as a surety, and as the words tumbled out she could not stop the tears.

Frances reached out to her in pity. “Your son! Oh, my dear, how terrible!” She guided Isabel back to the window seat and they sank down on it together and Isabel fell into her arms, sobbing. Frances held her. “And Carlos?” she asked. “Does he know?”

Isabel cringed. She could hardly bear to speak of Carlos. “He does . . . and hates me for it.” She heard Frances suck in a breath of shock. Isabel straightened and looked at her. “I do not know . . . where I stand. He will not have me back. But, Frances, I am with child.”

Frances embraced her in a rush of pity. But Isabel forced her sobs to a halt. She did not dare sink into weeping for Carlos. If she let it, that pain would destroy her. She sat up and wiped her wet cheeks with her hands. “Enough . . . enough,” she said, mastering herself. “It is your brother we need to speak of.”

Frances looked still overwhelmed by Isabel’s anguish. But then she nodded, shifting her thoughts to the crisis. “Yes. You’re right. How can we stop him?”

“I have written to my mother telling her everything I know. Pedro is on his way with the letter. Mother will warn the Queen.”

“Ah, that is good! But it will take so long. Is there not something we should do here? I know the sheriff. Dawkins. Should I ride to Kirknewton and tell him?”

“No! He is one of them! I have heard them speak of him.”

Frances looked appalled. They were silent for a moment, lost in the immensity of the plot.

“Isabel, I fear you may be in danger. If Christopher discovers that you—” She stopped as though the prospect was too awful. “He can be cruel when crossed. You should leave.”

“I wish I could! But I must have more information. I need proof—there is just my word against the word of all these powerful men. The moment I have it I will fly from here, I promise you.” She gripped Frances’s hand. “But you should go. When they strike, you should be far away, lest, as his kin, you be tainted in the eyes of the law.”

“No, I will not leave you.”

“Frances, think of your baby. Take Katherine home.” It was hard to say, for when Frances was gone she would be alone again. But there was nothing her sister-in-law could do, and Isabel did not want to put her in danger. Despite her fears she forced a smile. “I swore to Adam that I would look after his wife and child. Do not make a liar of me, Frances. Go home.”

The Leith garrison had clanged with activity day and night, nonstop preparations to withstand the assault of the approaching English army. Lord Grey of Wilton, commanding nine thousand foot soldiers and seven hundred horse, had crossed the River Tweed three days ago and was now just twenty miles from Leith. The King of France had sent no reinforcements, concentrating all his forces instead on stamping out the Protestant menace at home—the Huguenots—whose plotters had come so close to abducting him and wreaking havoc throughout France. From dawn to curfew the gates of Leith stood open, heavily guarded by archers on the ramparts, as wagon after wagon rumbled in with barrels of brine-cured beef, crates of live rabbits and hens, bushels of cabbages, kegs of ale, and sacks of grain. The garrison forges belched smoke and ash as blacksmiths sweated, hammering at cannon carriages. Teams of soldiers grunted over picks and shovels, fortifying the citadel’s breastworks. The inhabitants of Leith knew they were in for a siege.

Carlos followed Fenella as she left a cookhouse. She made her way along the smoky alley between the armory and the bell tower. He caught up with her and grabbed her elbow and pulled her into a dark, narrow cul-de-sac straddled by a building above.

She snatched her arm free, crying, “Good Christ, what the—” She saw who it was. “You!” Then, in a fierce whisper, “Get away from me! You want him to
kill
me?”

Even in the dim light Carlos saw her fear. “I want to thank you. For keeping quiet about my wife.”

“Forget it.” She poked her head into the alley and looked both ways, as furtive as a cornered animal. “I told you to stay away from me. I can’t be seen with you.” The way was clear, and she was about to step out.

“Wait. I have to talk to you, that’s all.”

“Talk’s enough to get my teeth knocked out.”

“Fenella, listen. I can get you away from here. Out of the country.”

She looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? To get to your brother in Marseilles?”

Her eyes lit up. “You’re leaving? You’d take me?”

“No, but I can get you out, and across to France.”

That threw her. “How? What can—”

He held up his hands to stop her. “But I need you to do something first.”

She studied him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And what would that be?”

“The storeroom in the cellar beside the armory. Does D’Oysel have keys to it?”

“He’s got bloody keys for every bloody door in this bloody place.”

“Could you get one? A key to the storeroom?”

“What for? You plan to help yourself to some turnips and bacon?”

“I’m going to help a fellow next door.”

“In the armory?”

“Beneath it. There’s a prisoner who’d like some air.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise. “You want to spring one of the English? Why?”

“Doesn’t matter why. All you need to know is that he can sail a boat. It will be waiting for you, a fishing boat, in the cove below the ramparts. Get me the key to the storeroom and I’ll see that he takes you to France.”

Four infantrymen tramped down the alley in front of them. Fenella ducked back farther into the gloom and snatched Carlos’s sleeve to pull him after her. The stone vaulting above them was so low he had to bend his head. The soldiers tramped past.

“I . . . I can’t,” she said, her voice wavering, her bravado gone. He saw that she was shaking. “If he caught me stealing keys . . .”

“He won’t. You’ve got quick wits. And he has to sleep sometime.”

“Not him. He’s the very devil. Watches every move I make.”

He took hold of her shoulders. “Fenella, you can do this. Get clear of the bastard. Go to your brother. Live.”

She looked at him, hope warring with her fear. The fear won. She shook her head in misery. “I can’t. He’d break my neck.”

“And if you stay? You know the English are coming. Have you ever seen a siege? I have. Starvation is a slow and painful death. People start eating horses. Then rats. Then, late at night, they start digging up fresh corpses. Get out now—it’s your best chance, believe me. Stay, and you’ll be a corpse, too.”

Horror flooded her eyes. Her head lolled back against the wall in defeat. She groaned, “You’re a cruel bastard, you are.”

He saw that he had her. “The key. That’s all.”

She looked at him. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“How will we get out past the watch?”

“I’ll see to that.” He looked out into the alley, ready to go. It was clear. “Get the key to me by sundown tomorrow.” He looked back at her. “All right?”

She hugged herself as though trying to come to terms with the overwhelming risks. “So, you and me and the Englishman, out on the briny deep.”

“Not me. I’m staying.”

She frowned. “And starve to death? Why not bolt with us?”

Duty, he was about to say, but that wasn’t true. He had come to this God-cursed place for one reason only—to win the prize in Peru that he needed. Quadra could get it for him, and he’d be damned if he was going to give that up. Anyway, he’d soon be done here. He had written to Quadra his intention to be out before the English arrived. He would have fulfilled his mandate. The man could expect no more. “I’ll leave, but not yet,” he said.