He did. How the hurricane had damaged the Jesus of Lubeck, forcing Hawkins to order their fleet of seven into San Juan de Ulúa for repairs. How the Spanish flota arrived, thirteen ships with the new Mexican governor aboard. How Hawkins met with the governor, who agreed to let the English complete their repairs and then get under way. How they had traded gentlemen hostages as insurance that neither side would fire their cannon. Elizabeth listened intently as she worked at cleaning his hand.
“They lied,” he said. “We sent them gentlemen—Richard Temple, John Varney, Thomas Fowler—but they sent us sailors got up in gentlemen’s clothes. Then they sent fire ships to burn us as we stood at anchor.” He told her about the battle. The blood and fire and smoke. The dying. The sunk Angel and Swallow and Jesus, going down with all the expedition’s treasure and most of their victuals. The vanished Judith. Told her how the Spanish had captured scores of men who by now would have been tortured by the Mexican Inquisition. How he had taken on survivors from the crippled English ships. How, in escaping, he was separated from Hawkins on the Minion. How, aboard the Elizabeth as he sailed her home with only the mizzenmast and ruptured canvas, his men had suffered famine and thirst and festering wounds, and had died in the dozens.
When he was finished, he saw horror in her eyes. And something harder. Steelier. It fired him with fresh energy. This was why he had come. “Elizabeth, you hate them as much as I do.”
She let out a scoffing breath. “Much good that does us.” She squeezed blood-tinged water out of the white silk, which she then wrapped loosely around his palm, finished.
“I know you,” he said. “You won’t let them get away with this.”
She raised an eyebrow coolly. “Will I not?” Getting up, she took the bowl of water and set it on a table and picked up a towel to dry her hands. “Much happened while you were in the Indies. You do not know how badly things stand between us and Philip.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“It started in Spain, with the people at my embassy. Over religion—always religion,” she said with wearily. “It was one of the church processions through the streets that Spaniards are so obsessively fond of. My people, being Protestant, refused to doff their caps as the religious relics passed. They were arrested. I objected, pointing out to Philip that I allow the people of his embassy to celebrate mass. He answered that it was the Inquisition who arrested my people, so there was nothing he could do.” She tossed the towel on the table in disgust. “Then my foolish ambassador, Dr. Man, made matters worse when he was heard grumbling an insult about the pope, called him a canting little monk. Philip put him under house arrest.”
“I heard about this. You brought Man home, and quite rightly, and you’ve sent no replacement.”
Her look was pained. “My claws are as a mouse’s against the beast of the Inquisition. And in the Netherlands things are even more dire since Philip invaded. He has given the Duke of Alva a free hand over the Dutch, and a cruel hand it is. He is butchering Protestants. That so infuriated some of my councilors they raised money to send arms to the Dutch rebels. Philip was apoplectic, and de Spes even more so. I tried to calm the waters, made a proclamation that no munitions could be shipped to the rebels.”
“Ah, but I heard you held off announcing it for several days, giving Leicester time to ship the arms before your proclamation came into force. I have kept myself informed, Elizabeth. And I know your ways. You’ve done your sly best to stand up to Philip, just as you should. And now it’s time to do more.”
“You know nothing of what I should do,” she snapped. “I need Spain. England needs Spain. Our lifeblood is trade with the Netherlands, and if Philip cuts that he can strangle England. And Spain isn’t the only danger, Adam. There’s France. Charles massacring Protestants, calling me a heretic.” She rubbed her temples as if the worry made her head ache. “The Catholic realms aligning against me . . . that’s my worst fear. A Catholic League sending troops across the Narrow Sea to turn our green pastures red with English blood. So no, do not vex me with foolish talk about standing up to Philip. I dare not openly defy him.”
It sent a knife of dread into him. Had he misjudged her? He got up and came to her. “The Spaniards have already massacred Englishmen. My men. Being timid with them just invites more assault. Philip responds only to strength. Show him you are a force to be reckoned with.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. I have no such force.”
“You do. You have me. Let me go after them.”
“Go after—?”
“Attack them, as they did us. Hit their next treasure fleet bound from the Indies for Spain.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “The flota? They sail with enough cannon to blast apart a mountain. An attack would be lunacy.”
“Not if you supply me well. I’d need fast ships, seasoned men, and plenty of gun power. I can do it, Elizabeth. You know I can.”
A door seemed to close in her eyes. “I know this much—the Spanish call you a pirate. You were in their territory. You had no right to be there.”
“I told you, the hurricane blew us off course.”
“Hawkins knew the risk of encroaching on Spain’s New World territory. So did you. It’s a criminal trespass in Philip’s eyes.”
“Philip is not God. He made a law, that’s all. You can make laws, too. Let’s make these devils pay. Give me justice.”
“No. He is already furious about English piracy in the Channel. If I were to condone it in his New World possessions, it could push us to the brink of war.”
“We’re already at war. Elizabeth, they slaughtered my men, sank our treasure. If that’s not an act of war, what is?”
She glared at him. “Attacking Philip’s kinsman tonight, that’s what. They tell me the count has a broken nose and three broken ribs, and his heart is weak. If he dies, Adam, God knows what price I’ll have to pay.”
“Pay nothing. It’s Spain who must pay. Let me take their treasure fleet and I’ll fill your coffers with gold and silver, enough to buy an army to match his and to build the finest navy in the world.”
“Stop! You are fevered. Or drunk. Or just mad for revenge. Whatever, this scheme is not rational. A rupture with Philip would be disastrous for England. I will not give you license to ruin my realm!”
She turned her back on him, leaving him smarting at her rebuke. She heaved a troubled sigh and muttered, “Mad for revenge, like Mary. You’re as irrational as she is.”
“Who?”
She threw him a wry look. “You have been away too long.” She sat down wearily on the divan and rattled off a tale about the Scottish queen: her imprisonment, escape, defeat on the battlefield by the Earl of Moray, her flight into England. “She has asked me to raise an army for her. Great heaven, she actually expected I would let her lead English troops against her enemies. Revenge, that’s what drives Mary.”
Adam was only half listening. Scotland meant nothing to him, but he saw Elizabeth’s deep concern, which worried him. Caught in a web of Scottish politics, she would not focus on the real enemy. “The Scots are an inconsequential nation and their queen is a froth-headed fool. Dispatch her back to her own land and turn to face the true threat. The guns of Spain.”
“Mary has more power than you know. A power that swords and cannonballs cannot match.”
“What power?”
“The succession.”
The pain in her voice caught him off guard. He knew about this burr in her heart. Childless, she had no heir. After her coronation nine years ago she had told him she would never marry, because her choice would have to be a foreign prince, and such a king-consort would draw power to himself, eclipsing hers. Adam had heartily approved her decision, glad that if he could not have her, no other man would either. Gossip abounded, of course, mostly about her and the Earl of Leicester. Some said they were lovers. Adam didn’t believe it. He bridled at the lurid court whisperings, but he knew Elizabeth’s heart was his.
But the succession was a m
atter he knew she took very seriously. He sat down beside her. “Mary Stuart is nothing but a French marionette. A woman with so sense.”
“She stands next in line to my throne, that I cannot dispute. And who else can I name?” She gave him a sad smile. “I envy you your family. You have a wife, children—” She held up a hand to stop him interrupting, a gesture that acknowledged she understood how joyless his marriage was. “The children are worth it all, Adam. And your splendid parents—you know the love I bear Lord and Lady Thornleigh. I have lost father and mother, sister and brother. I shall never have a husband. Nor children.” There was a catch in her voice. She got control of it. “The people of England are my family. I ask for nothing more. Shall I endanger them by leaving no one to guide and protect them? Shall I invite civil war? Already the succession has dangerously split my council. Half of them hound me to name Mary my heir, the other half to marry and produce one.”
“She is not a tenth the ruler you are.”
“But more a woman. She has a bonny baby son.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “While I am barren stock.”
He saw her anguish. He took her hand and kissed it gently, wishing with all his heart that he could comfort her. She pressed his hand to her cheek and looked into his eyes and whispered, “I thank God for bringing you home.”
He pulled her to him to kiss her, but before their lips touched cheers burst from the shore. Elizabeth flinched and pulled back. Through the crack in the curtains Adam saw that they were approaching Whitehall Palace and people were jostling on the wharves for a chance to see Elizabeth. He cursed them. They had snapped his bond of intimacy with her.
She stood up with sudden vigor, banishing self-pity. She smoothed her skirt, her hair, preparing to disembark. Adam saw his chance to convince her slipping away. In a moment she would become the public person, no more the private woman. He jumped up. “What are you going to do about my murdered men?”
She turned slowly. “Your men? Were they not my subjects?”
There was a knock on the door. “Your Majesty?”
“I’m coming.”
Adam said, “They were indeed. Loyal Englishmen, butchered by Spain. It’s time to take action.”
She gave him a cool look. “Vengeance is not wise politics.”
It grated him. He was not a politician. “I tell you, I cannot let them get away with this.”
“We are done here,” she said dismissively. “For your misbehavior tonight with my foreign guest, my decision is that you shall bide in quiet seclusion at your house outside London until the Spaniards’ fury cools.” She swept past him to the door.
Their fury? “Good God, Elizabeth, their foul attack on us cannot stand. I am going after their fleet, with or without your help. They are a menace to you, to all of us. I am going to stop them.”
She turned at the door. Her voice was steel. “Don’t. I have saved your skin tonight, Adam. Disobey me on this, and I promise I will have you dragged to the Tower in chains.”
11
Mary’s Tale
The noonday sun was hot, the road dusty, and Justine was thirsty, her hands damp with sweat inside her riding gloves. Yet she felt a fresh, exciting sense of accomplishment as she rode with Mary across a bridge over the River Swale in the Yorkshire Dales. They trotted side by side behind Lord Scrope and his ten outriders, while his thirty men-at-arms followed as Mary’s guard. The household carts brought up the rear. Mary was being moved south, deeper into England, and Justine was responsible for the move.
Mary did not know of her involvement, of course, which made Justine cautiously proud of having managed it. At Carlisle Castle she had paid a laundress, a woman whose husband was the barman at the village tavern, to report to her any local talk about Mary, and the woman passed along what her husband had heard: that there were northern gentlemen so zealous to protect Mary and support her claim to the English throne they were murmuring about descending in force on Carlisle Castle to carry her away. Alarmed, Justine had asked for names, but the laundress had said, “I know not, mistress, and my man knows no more.” Then she had whispered with some awe, “But round here everyone knows the Scottish queen’s champion is the great earl himself.” Justine was amazed. The Earl of Northumberland! She wrote to warn Lord Thornleigh, making it clear that she had no evidence, was only doing her duty in conveying the rumor, but he had obviously thought it important enough to tell Elizabeth, because Elizabeth’s command quickly reached Lord Scrope: Mary must be moved.
Mary had not made it easy for Scrope. Justine knew how infatuated he was with his royal guest, and it was with much anxious bowing that he had informed her that his orders were to escort her to his seat of Bolton Castle eighty miles southeast. Mary had burst into tears, wailing that she did not deserve such mistrust and disrespect, that she loved Elizabeth, who should love her in return. She had flung herself down on the window seat and wept. Lord Scrope had looked almost as upset himself, and for a moment Justine thought he might capitulate to Mary. But he was no fool; despite his infatuation he was Elizabeth’s man, immovable about her command. Justine had seen Mary’s tears harden into a cold glare at him. Icily, she had agreed to the move. Justine felt a small thrill at this early measure of success in her mission.
The entourage traversed the bridge, the horses’ hooves clanking on the stone, and Justine welcomed the cool air on her face from the gurgling river. She breathed in the subtle scents of the wildflowers scattered along the green riverbanks—water violets and wood sorrel, yellow pimpernel and marsh hawk’s-beard, bluebells and bog myrtle. There was something achingly beautiful about high summer; August would soon slip into autumn, and here in the north autumn was but a short prelude to winter. Though she had lived for eight years in England’s cultivated south she had to admit that something of this wild moorland country was in her blood. It gave her a pang, a reminder of her one deep regret about the move: Bolton, though still in Yorkshire, was farther from Yeavering Hall and therefore she would be farther away from a chance to uncover information about Alice’s killer. The longer she stayed with Mary, the colder the killer’s trail would become. It grieved her. But she was committed to the mission. Doing her duty with Mary was paramount, for Elizabeth and for herself.
She glanced back at Jane de Vere and Margaret Currier, her fellow ladies-in-waiting, their horses’ flanks almost touching as the girls leaned close to talk. About me? Justine wondered as she caught Jane’s inquisitive glance. She was aware of the honor of riding in pride of place beside Mary. She had settled well into Mary’s household, though she’d been careful not to fall into gossiping with Jane and Margaret. Her sole aim had been to get Mary’s trust, and happily she had succeeded beyond her highest expectations. Whether it was because of her fluency in French, which was clearly a comfort to Mary, or the unstated bond of Catholicism between them, Mary was treating her as the most favored of her ladies, almost a confidante. Justine was thankful—and quite prepared to exploit the situation. If Mary wants a friend, I’ll be that friend. Recently, she had begun to teach Mary English. In Scotland Mary had dealt with her educated nobles in French; she had only a rudimentary knowledge of the Scots language. Her letters to Elizabeth were in French.
“River valley,” Justine said, gesturing at the lush greenery that crowded the riverbanks. “Vallée de la rivière.” Continuing the lessons on the journey had helped to pass the time.
“River valley,” Mary repeated, concentrating on the hard Anglo-Saxon R . She looked up at a scatter of swallows on the wing. “Et comment dit-on oiseaux?”
“Birds, my lady. Swallows.”
Mary’s brow furrowed in confusion. She pointed to her neck. “Swallow? As, to drink?”
“Ah, no, that is a different swallow.”
Mary shook her head, frowning in frustration. “English.”
“I know,” Justine said, amused. “A baffling tongue.”
They shared a smile. They reached the other side of the bridge, the river burbling behind them, and trotted up to the
crest of the riverbank. A deer ambled out from the woods ahead, froze at the sight of Scrope’s outriders, then bolted across the road, disappearing into the trees.
“C’est arbre, que’est-ce que c’est?” Mary asked. What tree is that?
“An oak tree, my lady. A tough hardwood. The oak is the symbol of England.”
“England,” Mary mused, scanning the moorland that stretched before them, a rolling expanse of woodlands, grasslands, and open heath. “It is very . . . green.”
Justine heard her admiration. Was she coveting this realm, wanting to be queen of it? “You must miss your own land, my lady. Are you homesick for Scotland?”
The word was new to Mary. “Homesick?”
“Nostalgique.”
“Ah. No, I am thinking this is green like France.”
It made sense. Mary had lived in France for most of her life, hadn’t come to rule Scotland until she was eighteen. It struck Justine with a small shock that they had this experience in common: Both had been transplanted far away from the place of their upbringing.
“Either way, my lady,” she said, slowly so that the English words were clear, “you are far from home.”
Mary gave her a warm smile. “You teach well, cherie. It remembers me that I—”
“Reminds me,” Justine gently corrected.
“Ah, oui, reminds me to write letters to my English friends. You will help me with the words, non?”
Justine felt a pinch of excitement. What friends? About what? A plan to escape Lord Scrope’s custody? She said diplomatically, “You honor me, my lady.”
Mary looked up at the birds and melancholy stole over her face. “I would wish to be like them. To fly.”
I warrant you would, Justine thought. But not if I can help it. She decided to make a bold try. “Is one of your friends the Earl of Northumberland?”
Mary gave her a sharp look. “Why should you think so?”
“He sent you that haunch of venison last week,” she said innocently. “It was delicious.”
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