Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05]

by Blood Between Queens

  “I too have ears at the inquiry. Norfolk seems loath to condemn you. I warrant he is thinking that one day he may have to bow to you as queen of England, as Elizabeth’s natural successor. Then you would not look kindly on him having branded you a harlot and a murderess.”

  She flinched at the offensive words. But Christopher noted that she did not refute them. “So he is neutral in my cause,” she said. “Neutrality is cheap. To take up arms is another thing entirely. After all, he is Elizabeth’s cousin.”

  “But he grumbles at how his greatness goes unrewarded. You could reward him.”

  “I? How?”

  “Marriage.”

  She looked appalled. “What?”

  “Think of it as he would. If Elizabeth dies childless then you, her heir, ascend to her throne. Offer Norfolk marriage and you’ll have him feverishly dreaming of being King of England.”

  “Need I remind you that I am already married? Bothwell may have gone to ground in Denmark, but he is still my husband.”

  “So rid yourself of him. Have the marriage annulled.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Anything. That his own marriage was not yet annulled when he married you. Just get this in motion. All that matters is that Norfolk knows you are proceeding toward annulment. We must give him hope of marrying you himself. We need Norfolk with us.”

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. “All right. Can you get word to him to broach the union?”

  He was relieved at how easily she was abandoning Bothwell. “Yes. Leave it to me.” It was bracing how alliances were shifting all around him. Mary cutting herself loose from Bothwell. Norfolk ripe for plucking away from Elizabeth. Most wonderful, Justine taking Mary’s part, no longer under Thornleigh’s thumb . . .

  Justine. A sudden fear gnawed him. “You say my daughter has gone to York?”

  “Yes, she left this afternoon.”

  “As soon as she returns, do not let her out again. And watch her closely for who she speaks to.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust her?”

  How much should he tell her? Everything, he decided. Otherwise she might not keep a watch on Justine. “There is a problem.” He told her about his visit four months ago to the town near his former property of Yeavering Hall. About his meeting a servant from the Hall. “The girl recognized me. I could not let her babble that she had seen her former lord. Everyone thinks I’m dead. So I silenced her.”

  Mary asked, unblinking, “She is dead?”

  He nodded. “The trouble is, she was my daughter’s friend. Justine has vowed to find the killer. She told me she has questioned people and unearthed what may be a witness. He has disappeared, but if she keeps searching . . .” He could not suppress a shiver. He had brought his daughter back to his side, but how strong was her bond with him, really?

  Mary’s eyes flashed in alarm. “You fool!” She slapped him.

  Stunned, his hand flew up to strike her back. He stopped just in time. He glared at her, breathing hard. Any other woman would now be on the floor, bleeding.

  “How could you be so stupid?” she cried. “What if she finds this man? Dear God, they will arrest you. They’ll discover your treason of years ago. They will put you on the rack to question you. And you will tell them everything!”

  “No, I promise you—”

  “What good is a promise when they are tearing your limbs from your body?” Her eyes had the wild look of a cat cornered by dogs. “You will tell them I’m plotting to kill Elizabeth. And then she will cut off my head!”

  He took her by the shoulders. She was rigid with fear. “It will not come to that. Trust me. Before Justine can find the witness, you will be queen of England.”

  “You do not know that!” She shook her head with such a fearful look she seemed beyond reasoning. “No, no, we cannot let her find him. If she does you will have to silence her.”

  He was stunned. “Silence . . . my own daughter?”

  “If they capture you, I am dead!” She shook off his hands. “Give me your word. If it comes to choosing your daughter or your queen, swear that you will choose your queen.” She jabbed a finger toward the floor. “Swear on your knees, before God.”

  He could not move. Yet, without Mary, he had no future. No life.

  “Swear it!”

  Stiffly, he sank to his knees. He swore what she asked. And silently prayed that he would never have to make such a choice.

  17

  The King’s Gold

  Adam Thornleigh was sure he was going to die. Either today on the sea with his throat slit by a Spanish blade, or later on Tower Green, condemned by Elizabeth, his head hacked off by the executioner’s axe. Alone at the helm of his pinnace, Curlew, he chased the big Spanish carrack Nuestra Señora through low chop fifteen miles off the Dutch coast, his mouth as dry as canvas as he thought of his chances. He told himself that if he was going to die over this he would rather it came on the water; here, he’d always felt most alive. The sun was shining, the waves were dancing, and the fresh breeze blowing steady from the west made his lively boat with its single sail fairly sing. It was the kind of day he had loved as a boy larking on the estuary in his father’s skiff.

  This enterprise, though, was no lark. The Nuestra Señora carried a hoard of gold bullion to pay King Philip’s troops stationed in the Netherlands. The modest merchant vessel was a mask for transporting the gold, and Adam was desperate to capture it. Otherwise, bankruptcy would drown him. But there was maybe one chance in fifty he would succeed. Then, if he survived, maybe one chance in a hundred of success with the second part of his plan: convincing Elizabeth to be his accomplice. If he couldn’t do that—if she took Spain’s part against him—she might not even grant him the dignity of the axe but would have him swing like a common pirate from gallows in the riverbank mud of Wapping’s Execution Dock. That made him shudder. They used a short rope for pirates. It didn’t snap the neck, so the condemned died by slow, agonizing strangulation.

  He set his mind to the wind to shake off his fear. If death is coming, let it be here. Give me at least the satisfaction of taking some God-cursed Spaniards to Hell with me.

  The big merchant carrack was lumbering at a lazy pace, bellying in the wind, and Adam’s nimble boat soon closed on her. He skimmed alongside the tall hull and eased the sheets to slow his way and keep pace with the ship. Her fresh paintwork of gold stars and green chevrons gleaming in the sun was a pretty sight, but a false front; he knew that behind the closed gun ports level with his head lurked three demi-cannons and two culverins, with the same array on the starboard side. The guns weren’t much compared to the armaments on a man-of-war, but they were enough to make any would-be attacker think twice. The culverin amidships would blast straight into Adam’s face.

  He cast a nervous look at the sea behind him. The big brigantine that bristled on the horizon was the White Boar, the only insurance for his plan to work. But she was so far away he could not even make out her flags. He needed her near, or else he’d be stranded. He squelched his fear and took courage from the strong, steady wind. If it remained constant, with the White Boar running fast before it, he had a chance.

  Up on the Nuestra Señora’s deck three seamen had come to the port rail to look down at him. Adam held up a hand to shade his eyes from the sun behind the men. The glare made them black, featureless forms. He grinned, then hailed them with friendly words in Spanish. “I am Sir Adam Thornleigh. Is your captain Miguel Fuentes of Seville?”

  “Inglés”—Englishman—one said to the others with a chuckle at Adam’s clumsy, accented speech. He called down in Spanish, “Yes, sir. Señor Fuentes. You know him?”

  “I do. What luck to sight you. Where are you bound?”

  “Rotterdam.”

  “I am for Amsterdam.” Adam was lashing his boat’s line to the ship’s chain plate. “I’ll come aboard and say hello to my old friend.” They dropped the ladder for him and he climbed up, leaving Curlew nudging the big ship as if for company a
s the two vessels carved through the waves together. On deck he forced himself to keep his fighting hand at his side, not lay it on his sword hilt. A friendly visit, that’s what he had to make them believe.

  A couple of curious passengers, merchants by the look of their rich doublets and capes, sauntered closer for a look at him. They didn’t interest Adam, but the five men across the deck did, steel-helmeted Spanish soldiers with pikes. They were aboard to protect the cargo of gold destined for King Philip’s troops. He hired mercenaries by the thousands to fight his wars and quell the peoples he had conquered. Adam did his best to hide his churning hatred. Spanish soldiers like these had butchered his crew at St. Juan de Ulúa.

  The merchants made way for the captain striding forward from the sterncastle, a squat, square-shouldered man with a bulbous nose and weary eyes. “Greetings, Miguel,” Adam said.

  The captain looked mildly baffled. “I do not recall our acquaintance, sir. Have we met?”

  “We have not.” Adam kept his tone breezy. “But what better time than the present to make new friends?”

  The seamen around them frowned, puzzled. Fuentes shot a glance down at the pinnace alongside. Harmless, no one aboard. “Do you require assistance, sir? Is your boat in difficulty?”

  “None whatsoever.” He stepped close to the captain and said very quietly, “But your ship will be if you don’t listen carefully. Where can we talk alone?”

  Fuentes looked anxious. “What’s the danger? Have you seen pirates?” He motioned brusquely to the seamen to move on. They obeyed him, walking away. The merchants, too, drifted off to leave the captain to his private business.

  “I’m here for the King’s gold,” Adam said. Surprise flickered in the captain’s eyes. The special cargo was a carefully kept secret. Adam blessed Anthony Porteous for his uncanny access to information. “I want it transferred to my boat. Now.”

  Fuentes’s eyes widened, incredulous. He let out a bark of a laugh. “You are mad.” He cast a glance at the soldiers.

  “Pikes won’t stop cannonballs,” Adam said. “See that brigantine?” He jerked his chin astern to indicate the White Boar bearing down on them, running fast before the wind. Her English flags were plain now, fluttering above the hull whose gun ports yawned open, ready for action. The ship belonged to Porteous, who had armed her well. Adam had commissioned his longtime first mate, James Curry, to captain her and they had culled a crew of hard men from Portsmouth’s taverns to sign on for the spoils. “She’s mine, Fuentes, and she’s coming for you. She’ll blow holes in you unless you give me the gold.”

  Now the captain understood. His eyes flicked nervously between the oncoming ship, Adam, and the soldiers.

  “Her cannon will start firing,” Adam warned, “unless my mate sees my signal.”

  Fuentes unsheathed the dagger at his hip and growled, “You cannot signal if you’re dead.”

  “Kill me and you’ll have a war on your hands.” Adam pulled folded papers from inside his jerkin. “These are letters of marque from the English Admiralty, signed by Her Royal Highness, Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland by the grace of God.”

  Every seafaring man knew the significance of letters of marque issued by whatever country. They allowed a victim of piracy, if he could not get justice in a foreign court, to mount an attack on a vessel of the offending country to recoup his losses. Adam jabbed the tightly folded papers close to the captain’s face like a knife. “Ever hear of San Juan de Ulúa?” He prayed the man would not demand to see the writing, but was ready to unsheathe his sword if he did. The papers were drawings by his daughter for his new ship’s figurehead. Drawings of her cat, Gilly.

  He stuffed them back in his jerkin and put steel in his voice. “Do as I say and no one gets hurt. Or be blasted by my ship’s guns and die. Either way, I’ll get the gold.”

  The Spanish captain’s look was fiercely unrelenting. He swatted the document aside with contempt. Paper was only paper. Gunpowder and swords settled matters at sea.

  A knife-tip of panic pricked Adam. He was alone. Curry in the White Boar was not bearing down fast enough. Come on, Curry! he yelled in his head. Don’t make this my day to die.

  A few snowflakes drifted from the pewter-colored sky over London’s Cripplegate Ward as Richard Thornleigh and his wife reached his sister’s house on Silver Street. Honor knocked. The door opened and the servant girl curtsied and told them the mistress was not home. Richard felt a tinge of relief. He wouldn’t have to tell Joan yet about Will and Justine’s betrothal. He felt a coward, since he had known about it for months. He had wanted to spare his sister the blow. But he also wanted to protect Justine. Joan’s grief ran so deep it had long ago hardened into hate.

  “But she’s just up the street, your lordship,” the girl added helpfully. “At St. Olave’s churchyard.”

  Richard and Honor shared a look. They understood. Joan was making her afternoon visit to Geoffrey’s grave. Richard groaned inside. He feared that no good could come of this visit. However, he was here to try.

  “Another time?” Honor suggested to him. “Leave her in peace today?”

  “No, I cannot put this off any longer. Come, let’s get it done.”

  They set off walking eastward, and as they turned the corner onto Wood Street Honor gave him a sly look. “I’m not sure I would visit your grave twice a day.”

  “Good Lord, not even once, I beg you. Bury me at sea.”

  “Gladly, my love, if I’m alive to do it. But if I’m not, the churchwarden will have his way, so be prepared for worms.”

  He looked at her, glad she could turn a jest to try to lighten his mood. Snowflakes touched her cheek and instantly melted at the warmth of her skin. It stirred a memory in him. He was a lad, dashing outside with his little sister Joan into the white-speckled field by their house—the first snowfall of the season. She was laughing as she turned her face upward, mouth open to catch the flakes on her tongue. Poor Joan. It seemed to Richard ages since he had heard her laugh.

  “Maybe she won’t take it so badly,” he said, forcing hope. “After all, it’s been ten years.”

  “I would not forget it if they murdered you. Whether ten years ago or twenty.”

  “But you would not brood like Joan does, surely.”

  “Would I not? Do you imagine me dancing?”

  “Look out.” He gripped her elbow to tug her out of the path of a fat porter on a winded horse trotting into the Castle Inn’s yard. “That fellow’s half-asleep.”

  He’d used his left arm to pull her, though it was nearly numb again. The clumsy maneuver was not lost on Honor. He saw concern flicker over her face, but she said nothing and looked away. Keeping her promise. He knew what it was costing her to bottle up her worries. Weeks ago she had questioned him about his malady—it was hard to conceal a dragging leg, though the leg was fine now; it was his arm giving him grief—and he had finally told her about the ongoing numbness. She had taken immediate action, calling in one doctor after another to ply their cures. Richard had acquiesced for her sake, though in his estimation they were charlatans and mountebanks, the lot of them. He had swallowed their herbal potions that tasted like horse piss and worn amulets around his neck that smelled like dead rat. He had let them bleed him and bind him and chant over him, until finally he’d had enough and sternly told Honor no more doctors. Told her to promise him she would give up searching for some miracle cure and accept the truth, that his body was failing and there was nothing they could do. His words brought her to the brink of tears, and she silently shook her head, refusing. She rushed out to her garden and fussed with her flowers for a while, and when she came back in it was with clear eyes and a small, brave smile. “Once the inquiry is over and Elizabeth can spare you, let’s visit Isabel and Carlos. I long to see the children, and some hunting would do you good.” She had kissed him and promised to say no more about his malady. Nevertheless, at moments like this with his clumsy movements, he saw her struggle to keep her promise.

 
“There she is,” Honor said. They had reached St. Olave’s churchyard shadowed by shaggy ancient yew trees, and Richard saw Joan kneeling on the grass by Geoffrey’s headstone, a garden trowel in hand. She was digging weeds from a small square of autumn flowers. Even on her knees, his sister’s back was straight as a board.

  “Richard, are you sure this is a good idea? She looks so lonely.”

  He almost changed his mind. His wife had a tender spot in her heart for Joan. He, too, would always be grateful to his sister for nursing Honor after her ordeal in the Tower. But that was the past. He was thinking now of the future. “It’s time.”

  Joan looked up as they approached. Her smile was small but genuine. “Well, this is a surprise.”

  “Susan told us you were here,” Honor said. “My, don’t these purple asters make a brave showing, even with frost threatening. And your Michaelmas daisies, too.”

  Joan set down her trowel with a satisfied look at her handiwork. Richard regarded the pitiful tiny garden. Either the women deluded themselves or else he couldn’t see what they saw. A few hardy bright blossoms stood erect, but the rest was a choke of drooping, haggard summer blooms with withering yellow leaves. The thinness of his sister’s face struck him. Didn’t she eat?

  “Richard,” she said, getting to her feet, “you have made Susan and old Joseph very happy with your gift. A whole side of venison. They’ll be enjoying it until spring.”

  “You too, I hope. Your servants have plenty of meat on them.”

  She gave him a tolerant smile. “I devoured the honey cakes Honor sent.” She added warmly to her sister-in-law, “Thank you, my dear. So kind.” She rubbed her gloved hands together briskly to loosen the dirt. “What news of Adam?”

  “Marooned at his house in Chelsea,” Honor said.

  Richard said, “He chafes and grumbles, but it’s no more than he deserves.” He spoke roughly, for his son was in disgrace with Elizabeth for his lethal assault on the Spanish ambassador’s cousin. Secretly, though, he sympathized with Adam lashing out after Spain’s perfidious attack on him and Hawkins at San Juan de Ulúa. The terrible loss of English lives and treasure. When he heard of Adam’s safe return from the Indies, Richard had felt deep relief.