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Authors: Barbara Kyle

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He glanced at the window where a light snow was falling. Where was she, anyway? Gone to buy Christmas gifts, the chamberlain had said, but she’d been out for hours. He wished she had taken a manservant with her. This could be a rough city. He had friends in Spain who were shocked at the liberty English women took, going out into the streets with no male kinfolk. But Carlos had seen Isabel manage situations rougher than most people ever had to face.

Still, it was getting late.

And in more ways than one, he thought. Time for them to get home to Trujillo. Past time. He had a lot to see to. The troubles with the Potosí silver mine, for one thing. He had invested a lot in the mine, maybe too much.

“There, good as new.” Thornleigh had fixed the wheel. Nico beamed his thanks and took the toy over to Carlos and ran it back and forth along his father’s thigh to show him it was working. Carlos absently stroked the boy’s hair, still thinking about the mine. He needed information about the problems and was hoping for a letter from Enrique Hernandez, his majordomo. He had told Enrique to send it to the Spanish embassy.

“So,” Thornleigh said. “What’s your opinion?”

Carlos wanted no part in this developing war, and he hoped Thornleigh wasn’t expecting that he did. He could honey the facts, tell the old man what he wanted to hear. Put this English problem behind him and sail back home with Isabel and Nicolas. But he and Thornleigh had been through a lot together. Carlos had no stomach for lying to him.

“The Scottish rebels might hold their own against the French for a while,” he said. “The Scots are tough fighters. But they’re not soldiers. They never come to the field with more than two weeks’ rations. And if it comes down to a battle for Edinburgh, that means the fortress at Leith, which the French hold, and the Scots have none of the big ordnance they’d need against those fortifications. If the French stand on the defensive until the Scots exhaust their provisions, the Scottish fighters will head back to their homes, and their leaders will be forced to yield. Then the French will be in an ideal position to march into England—they’d have a victory under their belts, and massive troop strength, and seasoned commanders. And England?” He shrugged. “No standing army. Few able captains. The Queen could raise a force of experienced foreign troops if she could afford it, but does she have the money?”

“No,” Thornleigh conceded bleakly. “She’s nearly bankrupt.”

“And unless those troops are levied right away, they’ll arrive too late.” He looked Thornleigh in the eye. “The French have come when your new Queen is weak. England cannot be defended. If the French want to take her, they can.”

He watched the full weight of this estimate sink in. Thornleigh rubbed his forehead, thinking. Carlos hoped the old man would not cling to delusions of victory. He had found that people’s delusions were often impossible to shake. “What does Adam say?”

“That he has a job to do. Defend England. That’s all he sees.”

“And you?”

Thornleigh turned to him. He said soberly, “I think you’re right.”

Carlos was surprised, but relieved. His father-in-law was a realist after all.

“That’s why I want to ask a favor of you.” Thornleigh lowered his voice, although Nico was oblivious to their talk, busily playing with his toy on the floor. “I’m sailing to Antwerp tomorrow on behalf of the royal council, to purchase munitions. The Queen’s border defenses are so meager we need to build them up, and quickly. While I’m away, I want you to promise me something.”

“If I can.”

“Take Isabel and your son home. I want them out of England, Carlos, before this disaster hits. I want them safe.”

5

The Ambassador’s Agenda

T
he Spanish embassy in London was lodged in Durham House, a stone mansion that lorded over prime riverbank property on the Thames. It stood between the sprawling precincts of Whitehall Palace to the west and venerable York House to the east, with the busy, cobbled thoroughfare of the Strand at its back. A gatehouse on the Strand led into the embassy’s spacious courtyard, but like many of the stately homes of the nobility along this sweep of the Thames, Durham House stood closer to the river than the street, and most visitors used its water gate.

The tilt boat that had brought Carlos and Isabel nudged the water stairs of the landing stage. Other boats bobbed around them, loading and unloading embassy visitors under pillar-fixed torches that flared in the chilly evening gusts. Isabel looked up at the candlelit windows of the private rooms overlooking the river and took a breath to compose herself. The attack on her at St. Paul’s had been just a few hours ago, and she still felt tender. As Carlos helped her out of the boat, she winced at the pain in her bruised hip.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked. “If it’s too much, I’ll take you back. I can see the ambassador anytime.”

“No, I’m fine. We’ve arranged the meeting, and I want to be with you for it.”

He growled under his breath, “I wish I’d been there.”

She was glad he hadn’t been. Almost certainly there would have been bloodshed. When she had arrived home late that afternoon after the attack and her unsettling meeting with Adam, she’d had no chance to speak to her parents about what her brother had told her. Her father had left on his munitions-buying mission for the Queen’s council, riding off to Gravesend to sail for Antwerp. Her mother was still at Whitehall Palace. But Carlos had been home, and she had told him about the incident. Just the fact of it, and its flashpoint—her crucifix—not the awful details. That would only have made him more furious at the men who had assaulted her, and what could he do about it? They would never find her assailants. Once she had calmed him down with assurances that she was unhurt, she had explained the far more important situation—the crisis that Adam said threatened Queen Elizabeth. Carlos said that her father had told him the same thing. That hurt Isabel. “Why wouldn’t he tell
me?

“He’s concerned about you.”

“Or doesn’t trust me.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“He and Mother have always championed the Protestant cause. Anti-Catholic feeling is strong here. The city is seething with it.”

“Not your parents, though. No, your father just doesn’t want to get you involved, for your own safety.”

There had been no time to discuss it, for their appointment with the Spanish ambassador was in two hours, and Isabel barely had time to dress before they had to set out, she whirling her furlined cloak around her. Carlos had hailed a tilt boat at the Three Cranes Wharf and they’d climbed in under the canopy and settled on the cushions, a little stiff in their fine attire. Low, humped waves slapped the boat, and the city’s torch lights glinted off the choppy water as the two oarsmen toiled upriver against the evening tide.

“Maybe Adam’s exaggerating,” Isabel said, hoping. “He’s so preoccupied with ships and armaments and Mary Stuart’s claim to the throne. It’s made him see nothing but preparations for war. But that doesn’t make an invasion inevitable.”

Carlos shook his head. “He’s an expert on naval matters. We know that, and so does the admiralty. No, Adam will have got that right. And your father agrees. He thinks this threat is so serious, he wants me to take you home.”

“He said that?”

“Made me promise.”

“Go home when?”

“Right away.”

“And you agreed?”

He nodded. “I think he’s right.”

She looked out at the watery lights reflected on the river, feeling in turmoil. How could her father want to send her away? How could he think she would not want to help them through whatever was to come? In any case, how
could
she go, after the pledge she had given her brother? “I cannot go so soon,” she said. “I promised Adam I’d stay to help with his wife’s delivery.”

He frowned. “How long?”

“She’ll have the baby in a few weeks. I’d have to stay for at least another three or four weeks.”

He didn’t look happy about it. “Seems we made two promises that conflict.”

Isabel could not beat back a nagging sense of dread. “Carlos, it’s my parents I’m worried about.”

“Why?”

“If France invades England, they’ll be in danger. My father would lose everything—his property, his lands. And my mother . . . well, you know about her past.”

“That was long ago. Before you were born.”

“The church never lifts a heretic’s death sentence. Under a French regime—a Catholic regime—she could lose her life.”

He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said, “An invasion might never happen.”

“You mean, you think the Scottish rebels can win? Throw out the French?”

“No, the French will win. But they wouldn’t try for England if the Queen had powerful help. Spain is her ally. If King Philip backs her, France won’t take on Spain.”

Of course—Spain! Isabel happily took heart at this scenario. She didn’t know about troop strength and artillery and strategies, as Carlos did. He had seen it all, on battlefields throughout Europe. But everyone knew that King Philip was the mightiest ruler on earth, the lord of Spain and the Netherlands and most of the New World. The treasure fleets from Mexico and Peru paid for his huge armies, which were feared everywhere. And Spain’s selfinterest was at stake with the tremendously lucrative trade between England and the Spanish-occupied Netherlands. Trade was the very basis of the English-Spanish alliance. King Philip would not let France jeopardize that. If needed, he would come to England’s aid. By the time Isabel and Carlos disembarked at the embassy wharf and climbed the broad steps to Durham House, she felt much calmer.

Waiting footmen opened the doors and others took Isabel’s cloak, and she and Carlos made their way to the great hall, passing through a sizeable throng of well-heeled English merchants, visiting Spanish grandees with their ladies, and scavenging petitioners and hangers-on. Several of the men cast Isabel approving looks, and Carlos murmured to her, “I told you that gown was the right one.”

He had, indeed. The Venetian blue silk gown spangled with embroidered silver stars was her finest, and his favorite. She was pleasantly aware that its success had less to do with its quality than with its curve-hugging fit. Carlos looked quite wonderful himself. At home he was happiest in plain breeches, shirt, and jerkin, but he knew how to dress when it mattered, and his fitted velvet tunic of a green so dark it was almost black looked splendid with its gold-embroidered sleeves and short cape of green satin, while his sword’s scabbard was polished to the shimmer of a mirror.

A quick-moving young man with a trim black beard greeted them, introducing himself as Diego Perez, the ambassador’s secretary. He spoke with an easy, practiced charm. “Welcome, Señor Valverde, and Señora. His Excellency is looking forward to meeting you. Ah, and before I forget, señor, there is a letter come for you.” He sent his clerk to fetch it. “Now, please, do come and meet my lord, the ambassador.”

He guided them across the hall to a man who stood near one of the marble pillars, chatting with a plump-faced matron. Perez deftly interrupted them. He presented the Valverdes and introduced to them the ambassador and the lady, a marchioness from Madrid.

The ambassador turned to his new guests with an expectant look. Álvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, was middle-aged and thin almost to wasting, with an aura of the intellectual aesthete. Isabel had seen the type among the dedicated friars in the missions of Peru. But Quadra had an upright, alert posture that spoke of great energy, and keen gray eyes under the bony socket ridges. As his secretary finished the introductions, Carlos bowed and Isabel made a deep curtsy.

“What a pleasure, Señor Valverde,” Quadra said genially. “I was delighted to receive your note.” He spoke an elegant Spanish that marked him as Castilian aristocracy.

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” Carlos said.

“And you, dear lady,” Quadra said to Isabel. “I have heard of Baron Thornleigh’s exemplary judgment on Her Majesty’s council, and have heard also of Lady Thornleigh’s beauty. I venture to say that their daughter has inherited the best of both parents.”

“You are gracious, my lord. If I attain even half of my parents’ sterling qualities, I shall count myself blessed.”

“I hope to meet your father soon. Sadly, no opportunity has yet arisen.”

Isabel understood. It was his job to know everyone of influence at court, but her father’s elevation to the minor nobility had been so recent. “He would be honored, sir, by your acquaintance.”

Carlos was pulling a letter from the breast of his tunic. “As promised, my lord.” He handed it to Quadra. “From Doña Beatriz de Mendoza.”

Quadra beamed as he took it. “My dear cousin!”

“And my dear friend,” Isabel said with a smile.

“How is she? We get so little timely news from New Spain.”

“She is well, my lord,” she assured him. “And newly expecting their third child when she gave me that letter for you. Our journey took months, so the babe will soon be on its way.”

“I shall read this with the greatest pleasure,” he said warmly, tucking the letter into a pocket of his roomy cloak. “Beatriz was my childhood companion. I thank you, dear lady, and you, señor.”

Isabel was pleased to have had such an effective calling card. Beatriz was married to a nephew of the viceroy, Don Andres Hurtado de Mendoza, the King’s representative. There was no higher society in Peru. Carlos’s reputation on its own would have won the ambassador’s regard, but her friendship with his cousin bolstered it.

Yet she was sure she saw a shadow of wariness in Quadra’s eyes when he looked at her. She had no idea what was behind it.

“I hope you will enjoy your evening here,” he said, nodding toward the tables laden with platters of succulent-looking foods and decanters of wine. “I understand, dear lady, that you arrived in London only a few days ago,” he said to Isabel with a pleasant smile. “You must find it somewhat bewildering, returning home, do you not? So much is new in England since God took the late Queen Mary to His rest. Such upheavals. Why, look at this place.” He waved a bony hand to indicate the residence. “Its walls could speak a testament to the turbulence of the last fifteen years.” He asked her and Carlos if they knew the checkered history of the house. Both said they did not, and the plump lady from Madrid declared she was equally ignorant.

Quadra looked happy to inform them. “In 1345,” he said with the relish of a scholar, “the Bishop of Durham built the house, and it remained the property of the diocese of Durham, and the London home of its bishops, for the next two centuries, until King Henry VIII decided to add it to his collection of palaces and manors and persuaded the incumbent bishop, Cuthbert Tunstall, to gift it to him.” His emphasis on the word
gift
was decidedly sardonic. “When King Henry died and his nine-year-old son Edward became king, he granted Durham House to his half sister, the Lady Elizabeth, for life. Now, thirteen tumultuous years later, she is Queen of England and has housed our embassy here. But pity poor Bishop Tunstall, whose home it was! First, King Henry took the house from him. Then King Edward dissolved the See of Durham, depriving Tunstall of his bishopric, too, and giving the house to the Lady Elizabeth. When the Lady Mary came to the throne she restored Tunstall to his See and gave Durham House back to him. Now he has been deprived of it
again
by the new Queen Elizabeth. The poor man must feel quite giddy with such headlong turnings of the wheel of fortune.” He related all this with sociable affability, but Isabel sensed his deep disapproval of the radical wrenching of the realm away from the Catholic Church, both before the reign of Queen Mary and again after it. He was a bishop himself, after all, and there was no mistaking the tinge of disgust when he mentioned the Protestant Queen Elizabeth.

Is that why he offered the little history lesson? she wondered. To see if I share his sentiments? Though she had married a Spaniard, she had been born a Thornleigh. Was Quadra gently probing to see where her loyalty lay?

The lady from Madrid said to her, “You in the Indies are fortunate to live far beyond such disorders.” She added with obvious approval, “I understand the heathen Indians have been quick to embrace the one true faith, thanks to the tireless work of our churchmen. Countless souls saved.”

“The friars have done wonders, to be sure, my lady,” Isabel said diplomatically. She had found that few Spaniards shared her revulsion at the violence done to the Indians in the early days of the conquest—violence sanctioned by the Church. She kept in mind, instead, the many friars she knew personally to be good and sincere men of God.

Perez’s clerk arrived with the letter and handed it to the secretary, who handed it to Carlos.

“From Enrique,” Carlos said to Isabel. Then, to the ambassador, “My majordomo in Trujillo, my lord.”

“Good news, I trust,” said Quadra.

“So, your mother is Lady Thornleigh,” said the lady from Madrid, eyeing Isabel. “A great friend of the English Queen, I hear. The Duchess of Norfolk mentioned just yesterday that Lady Thornleigh is often in the company of Her Majesty on walks in the palace gardens.”

Isabel bristled. Strangers knew more about her mother’s closeness to the Queen than she did. She said pleasantly, “My mother delights in all things relating to a garden, my lady.”

“And I understand the Queen grows some very exotic plants,” Perez offered.

“True,” the lady said, failing to hide a smirk. “Heresy flowers in England.”

There was a silence at this overt insult to the host country. Quadra’s eyes flicked to Isabel.

“And also, I hear, in Scotland,” Carlos said.

Isabel stiffened. What was he doing?

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