Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05]

by Blood Between Queens

Frances had to step aside as two men carrying a corpse between them lumbered down the gangplank. The smell was so foul, again she pressed her sleeve to her nose. “The sick. Where are they being taken?”

  “Sign of the Trident.” He pointed to a harborfront tavern, then turned back to block a housewife who had clawed past the other anxious women. “Back now, you lot,” he told them. “Plenty of time. Dead men don’t scamper.”

  Frances hastened across the harbor to the tavern. Its door stood open, awaiting more sick men to be brought from the ship, and inside the tables had been cleared as makeshift beds to receive them. The room was far from crowded. Only five men lay on the tables, and although a few looked barely conscious, their wounds had been dressed already by women who now stood grim-faced with towels and buckets of water, ready to nurse more of the ailing as soon as they should arrive. A scatter of other survivors, seven or eight, sat hunkered along the walls, a few on stools but most on the floor as though too weak to sit on a chair without falling. All were filthy. All, emaciated. None spoke. Cups of water and trenchers with bread and sausage lay beside them. One man was vomiting into a bucket after gorging on the food.

  Frances scanned the faces, terrified of seeing Adam among these deathly ill wretches, yet more terrified of not finding him. If he wasn’t on the ship’s deck as captain, and wasn’t among the sick, was he among the dead?

  Then she saw a face she knew. “John Bingham?” she cried.

  She rushed to him. He sat on the bottom step of a staircase and looked up as she reached him. He had sat in her parlor discussing the expedition with Adam, and the man she remembered had been a ruddy-cheeked, clean-shaven, tidy fellow. Now a wiry black beard engulfed half his face, and matted hair hung in ropes from his head. His cheeks were concave, the skin sallow and pocked with sores. A grimy sling held his left wrist, and the linen sleeve was stiff with blackened blood. The shirt hung from his bony shoulders as from a board.

  He blinked up at her. “Lady Frances?”

  She winced at the sight of his mouth. Gray teeth, some missing. Scabbed lips. He was the son of a wealthy wool merchant and, like Adam, a member of the Company of Merchant Adventurers. He tried to struggle to his feet in courtesy.

  “Sit, please sit. Oh, Master Bingham, where is my husband?”

  He hung his head. “Adam . . .”

  “Dear God, tell me he is not—”

  “I saw him . . .” He looked up, desolation in his eyes. “Was it yesterday?”

  “Where?”

  “Bowsprit. Cutting a man from the nets.”

  The anti-boarding netting. “Then he’s alive?”

  “The poor wretch had lost a leg,” Bingham muttered. “Cannonball. Months ago. Don’t know how he lasted. Crawled to the nets to die.” His head lolled against the banister. “Shark food now.”

  “But Adam? Where is Adam?”

  He fought to focus on her. He licked his parched lips. She grabbed a wooden cup of watered ale from a nearby table and held it out to him. He took it in his good hand, the fingers grimy, and drank slowly, as though it hurt his throat. He looked at her. “God’s truth, Lady Frances, I do not know.”

  She looked across the room and out the open door at the activity around the misty ship. She didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t let her aboard to search, so all she could do was wait and hope to see him brought here, alive.

  She sank down on the step beside Bingham. “What happened? Was it a storm?”

  He grunted, a sound like a snarl. “A storm of Spaniards.”

  “Pirates?”

  He shook his head. “The viceroy himself. Mexico.”

  She was shocked. “They attacked you?”

  He drank more ale and seemed to take a little strength from it. Lowering the cup, he stared into its darkness. “We’d finished our trading south of their territory, all seven vessels. Took on victuals at Curaçao and were about to head home. When we entered the Florida Channel, one of the old salts told me he could smell the hurricane. It hit our fleet like the devil’s own hammer. The Jesus of Lubeck began to break up, her planks gaping. Fishes swam among her ballast as if in the sea. The William and John disappeared. The storm died, but it had blown the rest of us off course. We were lost. Then we realized we were in the Gulf of Mexico, drifting toward reefs off the Yucatán. Spanish territory. With leaking ships we had to make for harbor in Veracruz. San Juan de Ulúa—that’s what they call their God-cursed port. We were making our repairs there when we got word that the flota was expected any day.”

  She knew about the flota. Everyone did. The fleet that Spain sent out twice yearly to carry back the immense riches of gold, silver, and precious gems from Mexico and Peru across the Atlantic to the coffers of King Philip.

  “Thirteen ships, they were, bristling with cannon. And on board their flagship was Mexico’s new viceroy. We were anchored in their roadstead, and were well armed ourselves, but we wanted no fight. Nor did they, we thought, for they had to dock, load, and get back to Spain before the weather worsened. So Hawkins and their commander struck a bargain. They would let us finish our repairs and in return we’d let them into port. Then we’d be on our way.

  “Liars. When we were lulled by the truce, they attacked. Three hundred Spaniards tried to board the Jesus. Many leapt across from the Jesus to the Elizabeth and grappled us in hand-to-hand fighting. Adam ordered our gunners to open fire and we struck the mainmast of their flagship. We cut our cables and turned to fight, trading cannon fire with cannon fire. But Spanish reinforcements swarmed from ashore. They sank the Angel. Overran the Swallow. The Jesus, with Hawkins aboard, was listing badly. Under heavy fire he ordered Adam and Drake, captain of the Judith, to take on men. Then Hawkins gave the order to abandon ship. He was the last to climb aboard the Minion.”

  She listened, appalled. “Adam . . . was Adam wounded?”

  He seemed not to hear her, trapped in recalling the horror. “We watched the Jesus sink with all our treasure. The Spanish sent fire ships among our midst, separating us. The Judith had vanished. We on the Elizabeth were alone.” He shuddered, as though speaking so much had drained the last of his strength. “We beat homeward . . . northern gales ripping at us. Low on food, water . . . ate every dog aboard . . . every parrot and monkey. When they were gone, we ate the rats.”

  Frances glimpsed through the open door a man starting down the ship’s gangplank. She jumped to her feet. “It’s him!”

  She dashed out of the tavern. Pushed through the crowd. By the time she reached the wharf edge her heart was pounding from her haste. Adam! Her breath caught at the sight of him. Unkempt beard, gashed cheek, soiled shirt, ripped doublet. He was carrying a boy of ten or eleven who lay in his arms as still as a rag doll. “Adam!” she called.

  He looked up. Confusion clouded his face as he scanned the crowd. “Over here!” Frances called. He spotted her, and his confusion slowly cleared into a smile of wonder. The smile made Frances weak-kneed with joy.

  The boy he was carrying struggled to look too, and Adam staggered on down to the end of the gangplank as Frances, rushing forward, met him amid dockworkers, barrels, and barking dogs.

  “Oh, Adam,” she murmured, aghast at how thin he was, how pale. She imagined him giving the last rations of dog meat to his starving men, going hungry himself.

  “Frances,” he said, his voice a rasp, “we must see Sparling’s taken care of.”

  She flinched. The boy stank, and pus oozed from sores around his mouth. Thankfully, a sturdy dockworker reached them, saying, “I’ll take him, sir.” Adam looked shaky with exhaustion as he transferred his burden into the arms of the worker. “Lord,” said the man, “the boy’s in a bad way.”

  On death’s door, it seemed to Frances. If only they would take him away so she could embrace Adam.

  “Did we make it, sir?” the boy whispered, blinking at Adam with milky eyes.

  “We did, lad.” Adam tousled the boy’s matted hair. “We did.”

  The boy slumped in the worker’
s arms as though the relief was a blow.

  “Here’s water,” a woman said, bringing a bucket. She handed Adam a ladle of water, and he took it in both hands and gulped it down, fingers trembling, then scooped another ladleful and held it to the boy’s lips. Much of the water dribbled around his scabby mouth. “But you don’t get off that easy, Sparling,” Adam said. “Where’s my sovereign?”

  “Sovereign?”

  “A bet is a bet.” Adam’s voice was still raspy, but Frances recognized his jesting tone. “We made it home alive. I win.”

  The boy’s eyes watered. His mouth opened, but he was too overcome with feeling to speak.

  “I’ll come round to collect it when you’re better,” Adam said gently. “No shirking, you hear?”

  “Aye, sir . . . a sovereign, sir,” the boy murmured. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Off with you, now.”

  The dock worker carrying the lad started for the tavern. Frances had held back as long as she could. “Adam,” she burst out, “welcome home!”

  He looked suddenly rocky and gripped the edge of a barrel for support. He seemed dazed, almost faint.

  “You are ill!” she cried.

  He shook his head, struggling to gain control. “Sick at heart . . . so many dead. Young Sparling won’t make it.”

  “Come away to the inn,” she urged, taking his arm to support him. “You need a doctor. Food. Rest.”

  He resisted. “Must see to the men.” He looked around. “Where’s Curry?” His longtime first mate. “His arm’s broken.”

  “Never mind the men, half the town have come out to help them. You can do no more, Adam. You’re sick yourself. Come away.”

  “Any word of the others? Hawkins on the Minion? Drake on the Judith?”

  “No. You are the first back.” She felt almost cheated. Adam would not embrace her in front of so many people even if he had the strength. “Please, come away to the inn. I’ll take care of you there and we—”

  Her words were cut off by the voices of townsmen who had pushed through the crowd to him, three of them. The chains of office around their necks proclaimed them aldermen. “Sir Adam! Great God in heaven, what hell you have been through!” They barraged him with questions, and as he told them of the Spanish attack, of the loss of ships and hundreds of men, of his own crippled ship, there was cold steel in his eyes, a quiet fury that Frances had not seen in him for years, not since . . . since that day they’d stood together at the altar. No, she would not think about that now, that unhappy past. He was home, his life spared by God, she was sure. God had given her a new chance to make their future happy.

  “Gentlemen,” she said sternly, coming between the men and Adam, “my husband needs food and rest, and I am taking him to the Green Glass Inn. Visit him there, later. Now I entreat you, let us pass.” They demurred, acknowledging the need for Adam to recuperate, and stepped aside.

  Adam, looking dazed again, muttered with a hollow chuckle, “Yes . . . a wash would be good.”

  Frances took charge, guiding him through the crowd. People parted to make way, whispering in awe about him, the captain who had escaped the devil Spaniards. She longed to get him quickly to the inn where they could be alone, but he was limping slightly, some weakness in his knee, and she had to keep the pace slow.

  “Frances,” he said with an anxious look, “how are the children?”

  “They are well. Katherine has prayed for you every night.”

  “Ah, my Kate.” He smiled a truly warm smile for the first time. “And Robert, is he grown?”

  “Past my waist. He’ll be overjoyed to see you.”

  “My father? Lady Thornleigh?”

  “Your parents are hale.”

  “Look,” he said, blinking up at the sky. “The sun’s coming out.” He looked at her, and his voice gentled. “It’s good to be home.”

  She could have cried for happiness.

  At the inn the landlord and his excited wife and customers made a fuss about the “hero,” and it was all Frances could do to get Adam up the stairs without being mobbed, and into the room. She closed the door. Alone, finally. Adam sank onto the bed with a groan. Head hitting the pillow, booted feet barely off the floor, he was asleep by the time Frances reached the bedside.

  He slept for thirteen hours. She sat in a chair by the bed, watching him, taking breaks to eat quick meals brought to her, to nap, and to send the mayor’s messenger away with her own message that no one was to disturb her husband yet. She washed the scabbed gash on Adam’s cheek with a damp towel, careful not to wake him, through it would have taken a lightning strike to do so, she thought with tender amusement. She inspected his body as best she could and was satisfied he had no crucial wounds, though his hands were lacerated with tiny cuts and his neck was sunburned to leather and his beard held trapped dirt she didn’t even want to imagine. She was content to just be alone with him. She planned how, once he awoke, she would bathe him, cut that beard and shave him, then feed him, just a slice of bread and a little lean meat at first, maybe a baked apple; if he gorged he would be sick.

  He awoke with a hoarse shout. “All hands to pumps!”

  “Shh,” Frances said, moving to his side.

  He sat up with a start, looking around with haggard eyes, struggling to recall where he was.

  “It’s all right, you’re off the ship,” she assured him.

  He stared at her as at a stranger, then seemed to remember. “Is there water?” he asked, licking his parched lips.

  She hastened to pour a cup for him from the pitcher. He gulped it down. He rubbed his face with vigor, as though to ready himself for battle. “My boots,” he said, swinging his legs over the bed side. He scanned the satchels of his belongings that Frances had had delivered from the ship. “Where are my boots?”

  She smiled. “No need for boots.” She had tugged them off him as he slept.

  He looked at her. “Get them, please.”

  She didn’t want an argument to be their first conversation, so she fetched the boots. Perhaps they made him feel more like himself. “I’ll have the landlord bring you food,” she said as Adam pulled on the boots. “You must eat sparingly at first, you know.”

  “I will.” He stood, sucking in a deep breath to steady himself. “Have them pack something for me to take, too.”

  “Take?”

  He raked his fingers into his beard. “And tell them I need scissors. And a razor.” He patted his shirt. “And clean clothes.” He looked around as though impatient. “Then, time to go.”

  Home! She could not hide her delight. He wanted to be home! “Why not take a day or two here to get back your strength?” Just the two of us, she thought happily. “The children can wait.”

  He didn’t seem to be listening. He was pouring water from the pitcher into a washbasin. “Where is Elizabeth? At Whitehall? Richmond? Or on progress somewhere?”

  She stiffened. Elizabeth. The name always made her cringe. “Why?”

  He was pulling off his shirt to wash. “If you don’t know where she is, find someone who does, would you? One of the aldermen, perhaps. Or the mayor—he may know something of her schedule.”

  She stared at him as he splashed water on his chest and arms. Though thin, his body was still strong looking. A body that Elizabeth coveted. Frances forced her voice to stay calm. “If your intention is to send the Queen a message, I shall call for paper and pen.”

  He turned, drying his face and chest with a towel. “Message?” His tone was stern. “Good God, no. I’m going.”

  It stung her. “You are not well.”

  “Well enough.”

  “But why to her?”

  He tossed the towel aside with a sigh. “Frances, don’t do this.”

  “If you are well enough to ride to her, you’re well enough to ride home.”

  He stared at her with such obvious disdain she felt it like a slap. “Over fifty of my crew lie at the bottom of the sea, limbs ripped off by Spanish cannon. Dozens from our o
ther ships were taken prisoner and will by now have been mutilated under the torture of the Mexican Inquisition. Dozens more, sailing home, starved to death before my eyes. It is my duty, madam, to report these atrocities to our queen. Even you should see that.”

  She said nothing, too hurt.

  He let out a tight sigh, his look contrite. “Forgive me, Frances. I know you mean well. But I must, in all haste, make to Elizabeth.” He moved past her, impatient to get to his satchels. She saw the steel of hate flash in his eyes as he muttered, “And as God is my witness, I shall make the Spaniards pay.”

  Not an hour later she stood in the inn’s stable yard watching him ride off for London. She had seen his hatred, his fury at Spain, and she understood it. But it could not match her own hatred for Elizabeth. She felt it like a stranglehold, a force so powerful that if she could be in Elizabeth’s presence and turn the hatred physically against her, Elizabeth would fall dead at her feet. She watched Adam become a speck swallowed up by the road. She choked back a wail. After almost two years at sea, he was going to her rival.

  10

  The Brawl

  Adam reached London after a punishing, fast ride. It was dark when he arrived, bone weary and aching, at Baynard’s Castle on the River Thames. Baynard’s was the Earl of Pembroke’s London house, massive and magnificent, and tonight the earl was hosting a dinner for Elizabeth. Adam rode in through the gates on the Strand and drew rein in the torchlit courtyard. Dismounting, saddle sore, he handed his horse to a groom and looked up at the castle. The windows were alive with candlelight. Like Elizabeth herself, he thought. To him, she always moved in a nimbus of light. He heard music. Knowing her, there would be dancing.

  Inside, as he climbed the staircase lined with torches that led to the long gallery, the thought of her warmed him like an inner flame. He needed its warmth, for he felt he was still struggling through a cold fog of death. His massacred crew. His maimed ship. It seemed that the torch flames he passed twisted like men writhing, and his every footfall up the steps sent a shudder that brought back torturing images. Howlett’s head torn off by a cannonball. Payne with a Spanish axe in his gut. The spurting red stump where Poole’s arm had been. The starved cabin boy Adam had carried down the gangplank, Sparling, who’d felt like a bag of bones in his arms. He had come to Elizabeth to do more than report the atrocity. She alone could give him what he wanted. He would make the Spaniards pay in gold and blood.