The Queen's Gamble (34 page)

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” Grenville said, “but I’m afraid you have come a day too late. Your wife left yesterday for London.”

It knocked Carlos back. If he hadn’t heard of her being there and detoured to come for her, it wouldn’t have felt like such a heavy disappointment. But having got his hopes up, this felt like he had lost her all over again.

“Will you stop and rest the night, as my guest? You would be most welcome.” Grenville’s eyes glinted amusement. “Or do I sense a husband’s keen desire to ride on to London to be with his wife?”

Carlos almost smiled. Was he that obvious? But the smile died in him. There were still over three hundred miles to cover before he saw Isabel, and the distance seemed ominous, as though he might never close up the awful chasm between them. He had been fantasizing about her forgiving him, even getting the reward of a soft smile, but what if she could
not
forgive? What if she never smiled at him again?

“Your offer is kind, sir,” he said. “But I have a fair moon. I’ll ride on.”

Grenville grinned. He gestured toward the doors. “Let me see you to your horse, and from there I shall wish you Godspeed.”

She scanned every window and door, looking for a way to escape. Morton stood with his back against the door to the great hall, his arms crossed, his eyes on her. He had sat her down in a chair at the center of the library where there was no object she could touch. The desk with its ledgers, its books, its lantern—things she might somehow use to defend herself—was at least ten feet behind her.

The merry din from the hall seeped in around the door that Morton guarded. Impossible to get past him. There was one other door, at the far side of the room. It opened to the tunnel that led to the mill. Could she reach it before Morton stopped her? Was it locked? If not, she could bolt down the tunnel. Morton was strong, but he had the lumbering body of a wrestler gone to fat. Running fast, she might have a chance. But the door seemed so far away.

The windows? They were to her right, three tall windows in a row, their gold brocade curtains pushed to either side, revealing the main courtyard. Each one was big enough to climb through. But all were shut, snugged tight with an iron latch. And each held nine panes with lead partitions—she could not smash an opening big enough. There was another window, smaller, higher. It was open an inch, and a draft of the night wind touched her face, a special torture, for this window was too small—only a child the size of Nicolas could climb through it.

Two dairyhouse maids hurried past the three large windows, arriving for the play. In the moonlight they slipped past like ghosts. Giggling ghosts. Isabel heard them as they hastened for the door to the great hall. She heard that door grate open, then shut. Then silence. At the far side of the courtyard, by the main gates, a horse in the shadows whinnied.

She looked at Morton and swallowed. “Is he coming back?”

No reply. He watched her with calm indifference, arms crossed, as if merely keeping an eye on a wagonload of his master’s belongings at the fair. She knew the answer in any case. Grenville would be back. He had found out about her. How, she did not know. The fearfulness she had suffered for days now hardened into bonedeep terror. Grenville was a careful planner of treason. He would have a plan for her.

The tunnel. That was her only hope. To have a chance, she had to make Morton come to her.

She stood up. Morton’s arms dropped to his sides, ready for action. “Sit,” he said. “Or I’ll make you sit.”

Ignoring him, she dragged the chair over to the tall windows.

“Christ,” he growled, and started for her.

She jumped up on the chair and reached for the window latch. A mad move, they both knew, for he was within two steps of her and would easily lift her down and drag her back.

But he was near, that was all that mattered.

She grabbed the curtain and whipped it around his head. He pawed at it to rip it off. She leapt off the chair and dashed for the tunnel door. She was almost there when she heard him pound after her. He snatched the back of her dress and wrenched her, spinning her with such force it sent her tumbling. She hit the floor on her back, and pain shot up her spine. He grabbed her arm with a brutal grip and hauled her to her feet, then dragged her over to the chair, grabbed it with his other hand, and dragged both back to the center of the room. He pushed her down into the chair. “Sit.”

She thudded onto the seat, catching her breath. She braced her hands on the seat’s sides and tried to force down the panic that threatened to close her throat.

She heard voices outside the windows. Men’s voices. She and Morton both looked. Moonlight shone on two figures leaving by the main door. Isabel’s heart jumped. Carlos! He was with Grenville. They were walking toward the gates. Chatting like friends. They reached the horse tethered in the shadows. Carlos swung up into the saddle. He was going to leave. No! She was about to scream,
Carlos, stop! Help me!
She could shout that much before Morton stopped her. And Carlos would come.

She strangled the cry in her throat. If she called out to Carlos, Grenville would act. There were a score of his armed retainers in the hall who would rush to the call of their lord. At his order they would stop Carlos. He would fight them. They would take him prisoner. Or kill him.

He reached down from the saddle to shake Grenville’s hand. Isabel clamped her hand over her trembling mouth to keep the scream from bursting out. Every fiber in her craved to see Carlos leap from his horse at the sound of her voice and come running to her. But if he did, Grenville would have him cut down.

She shut her eyes and pressed her palm against her mouth so hard her teeth dug into her lip.
Keep still. Keep quiet. He must not hear you. Must not see you.

But her eyes sprang open. Her need to see
him
pulled her up from the chair. The need to see him go, to make sure he got safely away.

Morton’s meaty hand pushed her back down onto the seat. “Have it your way,” he said. He pulled a length of leather cord from his pocket and wrenched her arms behind her back and tied her wrists. The leather bit into her skin. She twisted her head to see Carlos. He had reined his horse around and was starting for the gates at a trot. Grenville waved to him. Carlos rode out through the gates, his cloak rippling behind him, and was swallowed up by the night.

Isabel felt as if her heart had been dragged from her body. Carlos was gone. Whatever Grenville meant to do with her, she would have to face it alone.

He came back, buckling on his sword. He had thrown on a cloak and was booted and spurred, ready for a journey. “Thank you, Morton,” he said, eyeing Isabel’s bound hands. “Well done.”

She said with forced bravado, “You have no right to treat me thus.”

“Oh, but I do. Of that I am quite sure.”

“You are mad. You cannot hold me here for long.”

“I do not intend to.” He took her by the elbow and pulled her to her feet. “We were on our way to the mill, remember? Shall we continue?”

She dug in her heels. “My husband came for me. He’ll be back. With my kinsmen.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Bit of a blockhead, isn’t he?”

She spat at him.

He slapped her face so hard it wrenched her head sideways. Pain exploded up her neck. With her hands bound she had to fight to keep her balance. But she made herself stand tall. They stared at each other. He wiped her spittle off his upper lip. Isabel’s stung cheek was on fire.

“Your treason will not prevail. The Queen will stop you. I wrote and told her everything.”

He almost smiled. “You wrote, but she will not read it.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. She saw the broken seal. Her letter! “Your Indian put up a surprising fight. Rather comical, really. My men made short work of him.”

Pedro!
“Dear God,” she cried. “What have you done to him?”

“What was necessary.”

“You
killed
him?” She swayed at the shock. Pedro . . . dead . . . following
her
orders. Tears scalded her eyes.

“You weep for one heathen,” he said in contempt. “You, who would send hundreds of brave Englishmen to hang.”

“A traitor’s death for traitors—it’s what you deserve!” Her voice was a croak, her heart breaking for Pedro. “I hope they hang you and cut you down alive and disembowel you. Monster!”

He was not listening. He opened a drawer in the desk, shoved the letter in and closed it, then picked up the lantern and carried it to the tunnel door. “Morton,” he said, opening the door, “bring her.”

28

Treasures of the Mill

F
rom her bedchamber window Frances watched Carlos reach down from the saddle to shake Christopher’s hand. Then he turned his horse and rode out through the gates. Christopher walked back toward the house. He glanced up at the window. Frances lurched back a step, out of sight. She was so horrified, she felt almost numb.

Carlos must have come for Isabel! Christopher, smiling, had sent him away. What had he told Carlos?
What has he done with Isabel?

She paced from the window to the bed, back and forth. Had he locked Isabel away?
Like me—locked in, unable to warn her
. She hugged herself, cold with the knowledge of her sin against Isabel.
My fault . . . my fault.
Back and forth she paced.
Like a caged animal . . . that’s what Christopher has made of me.
She buried her face in her hands in misery. No—no animal could suffer the lashes of guilt she suffered.

What has he done with her? Think like he does.
He would not let Isabel loose to warn the Queen of his plot. No, he would keep her a prisoner. Maybe even . . . kill her?

Dear God, would he go so far? She looked at the cradle where Katherine lay, and shuddered, remembering the horror. He
would
have gone that far with her baby. Frances had stopped him . . . had told . . . had put Isabel’s life in peril.

Katherine began crying. Frances scooped her up and held her close and swayed with her to soothe her. To soothe herself. She looked out the window as she swayed, trying to muster strength. By now, Carlos would be turning onto the road to London. Everything was up to her. She was not an animal. A sinner, yes, but still human, with free will. She could act.
Must
act. If Christopher had been ready to kill her baby for his ends, none of them were safe.

It gave her a jolt of determination. And cleared her mind. Hurrying now, she snatched her warmest shawl and bundled Katherine in it. She pulled the coverlet off the bed and yanked the linen sheets away. Taking scissors, she snipped each sheet, then tore them into wide strips. She tied together all the strips except one, forming a makeshift rope. Holding Katherine tightly against her breast, she wound the last strip around herself and the baby and tied it snug. All she could see of Katherine was the top of her little head. Frances dug a purse of coins out of the desk drawer and snugged it in with the baby.

The window, almost as tall as she was, opened easily. The March wind gusted in on her. She pulled a chair close, climbed up with the sheet rope, and climbed through.

She stood on the ledge, clutching Katherine to her, her own heart drumming wildly against the child. The wind rushed around them with a roar like the sea. Bright moonlight washed over them. Below, the roof of Christopher’s library jutted out. Three servant girls were hurrying across the courtyard, making for the main door, eager to get to the play. Frances waited until they had gone inside. Her baby squirmed against her.

Just a short drop to the library roof,
she told herself. But she was stiff with fear. Would her baby survive the fall? No, this was madness! Katherine let out a cry as if she knew, and Frances caressed the small head to comfort her. She could not bear to hear Katherine cry. But neither could she keep standing here—the crying could alert Christopher’s men. With a rush of resolve, she hugged her baby tightly.
Do it now!

She jumped.

Her feet hit the roof with a spasm of pain. She lost her balance and fell, tumbling to the edge, one foot tangled in the rope of sheets. She stopped herself just in time to brace herself from going over. The violence of it silenced Katherine. Frances’s heart stopped.
I’ve killed her!

Katherine gasped a breath and let out a wail. Frances almost wept in relief. She realized now, too, that the sound of the wind riding through trees and across the rooftops was so loud it masked her baby’s crying. No one below would hear.

She untangled the rope of sheets. A gust caught it, but she snatched it back. She got to her feet, her ankle so painful when she put her weight on it that tears sprang to her eyes. She bit back the pain and hobbled across the roof, carrying the makeshift rope to the library’s chimney. A loop around the chimney, a knot, and it was done. She took the rope to the edge of the roof and tossed the end over, but saw in dismay that it reached only halfway down. Was that enough? It had to be—she had no choice. She tested it. It felt strong. She stood on the roof edge and said a prayer. For Katherine . . . for Isabel . . . for her sinful self. With trembling arms she gripped the sheet rope and eased herself over the edge.

So hard to hold on! The linen jerked through her hands, burning her palms. But she held tightly enough to slow her descent. The rope ran out. She let go. She hit the ground on her hurt ankle and almost cried out at the pain, then staggered to get her balance. Hobbling, she made her way around to the front door. She did not dare go in and be seen—the chamberlain had orders to keep her locked up. She stopped a young groom hustling in for the play.

“I need your help,” she told him, catching her breath.

He gaped at her disheveled state and the baby bound to her breast. “What’s amiss, my lady?”

“Do you know my maid, Nan Rouse?”

“Aye.”

“Fetch her. Tell her to come to the stable. Mark you, tell no one else. No one!”

The play had not yet begun when Frances rode out through the gates. She was alone. Nan had the purse and orders to hide the baby until morning, then take her to the inn at Kirknewton, stay there, and hire a wet nurse. Whatever happened now, Katherine would be safe.

Grenville opened the tunnel door at the mill end. The roar of the river rushed at Isabel like a blast of wind. Morton pushed her in, her wrists bound at her back, and she stumbled to keep her balance. Grenville hooked the lantern over an iron ring on a wood beam. Under its light Isabel shrank back so he would not see her straining to loosen the leather tie at her wrists. Coming down the tunnel, she had worked at it so frantically the leather had cut her wrist.

Grenville went to the staircase that led downstairs and called down, “Father York.” Morton stood by Isabel waiting for orders. Outside, the big waterwheel hit the river with a constant
Slap! Slap! Slap!
that sent a tremor from the floorboards up into the bones of Isabel’s legs. The iron shaft powered by the wheel creaked as it went round and round. The air was dank, and she saw why. Where the shaft met the waterwheel there was a gap between the wall and floor, a space as wide as a table, and through it she could see down to the river. Swollen by the rains, the water churned in a white froth around the wheel. Fear crawled over her skin.

The priest came trudging up the stairs. He was dressed to travel as Grenville was, in riding boots and heavy cloak, with a black scarf wound below his long, white face. He carried a full burlap sack slung over his shoulder, heavy enough to make his final steps up the stairs an effort. He set it down and Isabel saw that it bulged with sharp angles. He looked at her with eyes as hard as wet coals. “Surely you are not bringing the woman,” he said.

“Of course not. Forget her,” Grenville said. He indicated the sack. “Where is the rest?”

The priest pointed across the room. In front of a wall of sacks plump with grain and reaching almost to the ceiling were three sacks that bulged with angular objects. “Those three are sorted,” he said. “Two more to come up.” Resting against them was a cross of gold as long as the priest’s leg, and studded with gems. Isabel remembered it from the room downstairs that held the secret hoard of sacred objects. Greenville and his people had saved them from dozens of churches all over Northumberland before the Queen’s agents could confiscate them. The priest’s sacks, she realized, were crammed with some of that treasure.

“And horses?” Grenville asked.

“Ready at the door, for us and the load.”

“Good.” He looked at Isabel. “Now, just one last task.”

He jerked his chin at Morton, a command. Morton gripped Isabel’s elbow and yanked her to the riverside wall so that she was only a step away from the gap. Sickness shot up her throat. He was going to push her into the churning water! She balked, but he held her firmly. There was no way she could fight him, and the turning iron shaft at her hip boxed her in. If he pushed her, her only chance in that water was to get her hands free. In panic she was straining with all her might against the leather cord, grating the skin raw, and she felt a warm trickle of blood—but the cord was loosening! She just needed time! She called to Grenville, “Wait!” Her voice was a thin reed against the roar of the water and the slap of the wheel.

“Yes, do wait, Morton,” Grenville said calmly. “Some insurance is needed.” He pulled an empty burlap sack off a hook on the wooden beam and took it over to a rubble of broken millstones.

Isabel felt the cord loosen a fraction. Just a little more time! “Where are you taking that treasure?”

“Why, to Newcastle,” he said with mock surprise. “Did you not learn that in your spying? The sacred objects will gladden the hearts of our fighting men.” He was loading the sack with fist-sized jagged stones. “Some final organizing to do there. Seven hundred men are waiting for the call, and once we have them we go on to Durham. But, of course, that you know. Twelve hundred more stand ready to join us there. With God’s grace, we will raise our banners at Durham Cathedral on St. Joseph’s Day and march on London.”

He took a rope from a shelf and with it tied the throat of the sack, leaving a length of rope that he looped and knotted. He carried the sack over to Isabel. Her heart was banging so hard she felt it would crack her ribs as he hung the sack around her neck. It was so heavy she had to fight against it pulling her down. “In London,” he said, “thousands will rejoice to see us depose this bastard queen.”

“Please . . .” She was shaking. Her voice was a quaver. “I beg you. I am with child. Spare its innocent life.”

He looked disgusted. “Another Thornleigh whelp? There are too many of your blood already.” His voice was thick with anger. “A family of murderers. My father, dead. My brother, dead. Your blood is black with sin.” He brought his face so close to hers she felt his hot breath. “I should have let you die in the storm.”

He yanked her closer to the gap. She stumbled, unbalanced by the weight, and almost lost her footing at the edge. A gust that rose from the churning water jerked her skirt, blowing icy mist on her bare leg. She tried to bolt forward but Grenville blocked her. The iron shaft barred the way to her left, Morton barred the way to her right. She and Grenville stared at each other, she panting, straining against the sack’s weight like a yoked animal. It swung between them, a dying pendulum.

He stepped back, leaving Morton with her. Morton again gripped her elbow. Grenville went to the sacks of church treasure beside the grain and picked up the big gold cross and held it in both hands outstretched before him. Its gemstones gleamed in the lantern light, and he gazed at it as if drawing inspiration. “Is it not beautiful? I shall hold it high before me, just like this, as we march into Durham Cathedral. I shall return this cross to the altar, its sacred home.”

He looked at Morton and nodded. A signal.

“Wait!” Isabel cried. “Give me a moment to pray, I beg you!” She was shivering so hard she could hardly force out her voice. But the leather was almost loose! A few moments more and she might wrench her hands free. “Give me that much, in Christian charity.”

He shrugged. “Why not.”

She dropped to her knees and shut her eyes, half expecting Morton’s boot to push her plunging into the water. She was not praying, only struggling in terror to loosen the leather.

“Enough,” Grenville said. Isabel’s eyes sprang open. He had set down the cross and bent now to pick up one of the treasure sacks, ready to go. “Morton, do your office.”

“Father!” Isabel cried to the priest. “Your blessing, at least, before I die!”

Father York regarded her with a look as cold as stone. “All who support the bastard Elizabeth are heretics. There is no grace for a heretic.” Done with her, he said to Grenville, “Help me bring up the last loads.”

The two of them went down the stairs.

Morton yanked Isabel to her feet. She froze, dizzy with terror. He gripped both her shoulders.

There was a crash at the ceiling, a pounding of boots on the floor above. Isabel flinched, but she could see nothing, Morton’s body a massive block before her. She was pushing against his hands with every ounce of strength in her. She heard the boots come pounding down the stairs. Morton was wrenched backward. Isabel fell forward at the sudden freedom. Strong hands grabbed her to steady her. She looked up though her dizzied vision, and gaped in shock. Carlos!

Morton got his balance and grappled Carlos by the throat. They staggered back together, wrestling.

Isabel was too stunned to breathe. Frances was running toward her, crying, “Isabel!” Frances pulled her away from the gap. Isabel’s legs gave way in shock. Frances struggled to hold her up.