by Barbara Kyle
Carlos knew his land was lost.
When the verdict finally came from the judge’s mouth Carlos barely listened. His eyes were fixed on Sydenham. Sydenham glanced over at him, then turned back to the judge. But Carlos had recognized something in the look. He had seen the same nonchalance in the eyes of a German Prince-Bishop he had once fought for. Following a murderous skirmish before a fortified town, the Prince had sat his horse on a safe mound, gazing over the strewn corpses of his own troops. “Eighty,” the Prince had said. But it was not the dead men he was counting, only yards of terrain gained in the brutal advance. Sydenham’s glance at Carlos had made the same cold-blooded reckoning.
The judge rose. The court rose. The judge left through a side door. The clerk rustled papers together. Grenville got to his feet, bestowed a smile on Sydenham that said he had expected no less, and strode out of the court. Sydenham moved toward the clerk to retrieve his voice at his shoulder, a drone of apology—the words, to Carlos, a senseless mumble. Then Powys, too, walked out.
Carlos rose, his eyes still locked on Sydenham. Sydenham had killed him. Carlos knew that much: he was still standing, but Sydenham had killed him. And now Sydenham was chatting with the clerk and laughing. A polished laugh, like a woman’s. There was a pain inside Carlos’s head like alongbow too tightly strung. It snapped. He started toward Sydenham.
Sydenham turned and saw him coming, and the mirth drained from his face. He stepped backward toward his table, the backs of his thighs hitting the tabletop. Carlos kept on walking, stalking. The bailiff at the back of the room shouted to Carlos, “Hoy!” Then, to his two men, “Stop him!”
One of the bailiff’s men thrust himself between Carlos and Sydenham as a shield. All that registered in Carlos’s mind was that the man was smaller and afraid. He grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s jerkin at his chest and shoved him aside like a scarecrow. The man fell, then scrambled away. Carlos was now only an arm’s length from Sydenham. Sydenham, trapped by the table, groped behind him for balance, knocking books and papers off the table.
Carlos’s hand shot out for Sydenham’s throat. But before he could make contact two hands from behind clawed at his ears and jerked back his head. Carlos knew it was the bailiff’s other man. The man’s knee rammed the small of Carlos’s back, sharp as an ax. His arm whipped around Carlos’s throat, clamping his neck in the crook of his elbow. With his windpipe on fire, Carlos leaned forward to break the stranglehold, but the bailiff’s man hung on so that he was practically on top of Carlos’s back. he must shake off this pest. But he saw Sydenham inching away along the edge of the table—slithering toward safety. With a sudden savage burst of power Carlos ran backward and rammed the man on his back against the wall. The man slid off Carlos’s back and collapsed on the floor, moaning in pain.
Sydenham hurried for the end of the table. Carlos saw it. He was about to lunge for Sydenham, but from the corner of his eye he saw the bailiff himself running toward him, dagger raised. Carlos responded instinctively, reaching for the hilt of his sword. He stepped away from the wall to give himself a broader field of play for his weapon, and onlookers lurched backward from the blade’s deadly arc. As the bailiff with the dagger reached him, Carlos swung around with his raised sword, all his weight thrown into the downward movement, giving it ferocious momentum.
The sword hacked diagonally into the bailiff’s face. The blade carved off half his chin. The tip sliced the artery in the side of his neck, then ripped a gash through the cloth and muscle of his opposite shoulder. Horror flooded his eyes. He dropped the dagger and clutched the scarlet pulp where his jaw had been. Blood gushed from the severed artery. He thudded to his knees and looked at his dripping red hands with amazement. Then he toppled. Dead.
Carlos heard the commotion around him—shouting, scuffling, sounds of panic. But he was calm now, no longer disoriented. No man in this room could have killed so swiftly.
He swung around to locate Sydenham. But other men had moved in around Carlos in a wide circle, and Sydenham was not among them. The men’s eyes were full of fear and aversion, as though they had surrounded a maddened wolf.
Carlos heard an icy voice inside his head telling him that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
3
The Agreement
Christ, Honor, don’t you see that we’ve got to leave? You’re not safe in England.”
Richard Thornleigh angrily slapped down his gloves on the table of his room in London’s Crane Inn. It was the day after the mob’s attack on the Spanish envoys. He and Isabel and Martin, split apart in the chaos, had each found a way to scramble to safety, but his anxiety over the incident had not left him. He and his wife, just returned through the falling snow from a morning at the Blackwell Hall wool market, had been arguing about the affair since passing the gallows on Cheapside where the body of the mob ringleader, executed that morning, was hanging.
“You don’t know that,” Honor said. “It was all so long ago, no one remembers.” She whirled off her cloak, making snowflakes flurry around her. “In any case, I won’t let them run us off, Richard. They have no right.”
“They have the power. And, by God, this Queen will use it. She’s dead set on bringing back all the terrors of the old Church. The Protestant priests here know it. That’s why they’re fleeing to the German cities, getting out before she strikes.”
“Priests are conspicuous. I’m not a priest.”
“You’re a perfect target nonetheless.”
“Not if I’m careful. I’ve already given Father Gilbert a generous contribution for the new parish cross and a pyx for Mass. He’s singing my praises. He doesn’t suspect I am, or ever was, anything but one of the faithful flock.”
“And Anthony Grenville? Do you think you can buy him off with such baubles?”
“Lord Grenville knows nothing about my past,” she said, loosening her hair to shake off more snow.
“Not yet. But we’ve only been his neighbors for a few months and he’s already gathered that we’re hardly the ideal Catholic family. That’s grist for his mill. And now the Queen’s restored the Mass by law, so how long do you think you’ll be able to avoid attending? How long until Lord Grenville publicly scorns you for that in the parish and begins investigating?”
She shrugged. “I won’t be alone. Half the parish won’t attend. You won’t attend.”
“Good God, woman, it’s not me they’ll come after!” Their eyes locked. Thornleigh saw that she was not backing down.
There was a knock on the door. It opened, and a boy of about fourteen poked his head in. He held a lit taper. “Light your fire, sir?”
“No,” Thornleigh said irritably, “go away.”
“Oh yes, please, Peter,” Honor said to the boy, beckoning him in. “It’s cold in here.” Thornleigh threw up his hands in exasperation.
The boy clattered with logs at the fireplace. Thornleighwalked to the window and looked out. The falling snow had almost stopped and a pale sun was struggling out from behind the cloud cover, but some stubborn flakes still drifted down. In the street below, children squealed in a snowball war. On the church steps an official had stopped a pauper to inspect his hand for the brand that was his license to beg. Thornleigh turned back to the room. Honor was moving about, folding clothing for their journey home to Colchester tomorrow, and chatting with the boy. Was his mother’s cough better? she asked. And had he enjoyed the city’s Twelfth Night revels? Thornleigh watched her. Why was she willfully blinding herself to the dangers? Had the past taught her nothing?
The boy finished his task and stood, a robust fire crackling behind him. Honor thanked him and asked him to have Master Legge prepare dinner for them and their daughter. Leonard Legge, the landlord, was an old friend of the Thornleighs.
“Oh, Mistress Isabel’s not in her room, my lady. She said to tell you she was going out.”
“Where to, did she say?”
“The apothecary’s, my lady. Said she wanted sweetmeats for her n
ephews. I told her Sandler’s makes the best.”
“Well, in that case, dinner for two.” Honor moved toward him with a coin, tossing back her dark hair as she held out her hand to him. The boy flushed. Thornleigh almost smiled, appreciating the boy’s discomfort; at forty-four his wife was still a beautiful woman. The boy took the coin, mumbled his thanks, and hurried out.
Honor sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Thornleigh with a serious expression as if their earlier conversation had not been interrupted. Good, he thought. At least she’s not going to pretend.
“Richard, you know how I feel about this. We’ve been through it and—”
“And you refused to leave. I know.” He yanked a chair over to the bed and sat, leaning forward in the chair so they were almost knee to knee. “But that was before Christmas. Things have changed. For the worse.”
“Perhaps for the better,” she said cryptically. Her dark eyes seemed to be testing him.
“No, Honor,” he said harshly, “for the worse. The Queen will bring back the heresy laws. Burning at the stake for all who defy Catholic authority. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Last month you said she might not.”
“Last month I still hoped she might keep to a course of restraint. And God knows I’ve tried to convince myself of her goodwill.” He shook his head. “You should have heard me yesterday lecturing Isabel and Martin. Give the Queen a chance, I told them. She’s showing tolerance, I told them. But the fact is she’s doing no such thing. We must leave England, now. With Isabel.”
Honor was looking at the floor. “Back to Antwerp?”
“Yes.”
“Again.” She said it like a declaration of defeat. “And start all over.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
She raised her eyes to him. The sadness in them stung him like a rebuke. “You don’t think I could?” he challenged. He was eleven years older than she was. An old man, some would say, though he did not feel it.
She leaned forward and rested her hand on his knee. “You could, my love, and you would,” she said softly. “Of that I have no doubt. But that is not the question here.” Her eyes hardened. “I won’t let them chase us out. Not this time.”
So obstinate, Thornleigh thought. He looked at her tumbled hair, and thought he caught the scent of lavender from it. He recalled the many different ways he’d seen it. Piled up like a milkmaid’s as she hoed her herb garden. Glossy as ebony that night a few summers past when they swam in the moonlit pond after making love on the grass. Caked with filth that dreadful moment twenty-odd years ago when hehad pulled her body from the hold of his ship. His heart had wailed then at the certainty that she was dead. What courage she had shown in those dangerous days. Courage—and obstinacy. Honor did not change.
“So,” he said, “we just sit and wait for the burnings to begin, is that it? Wait for them to come for you and strap you onto the hurdle and haul you to the stake?” Damn it, he would bully her into acting rationally if he must.
“There may be another course,” she said. There was controlled excitement in her voice. She went to the door to make sure it was tightly shut, then came back and stood before him. “Richard, you know we’ve been hearing the rumors for weeks. The city is crackling with them. But now I believe they are true. There is going to be an uprising.”
Thornleigh straightened. “What have you heard?”
“At Gresham’s goldsmith shop yesterday two apprentices were whispering that a dozen pistols were delivered the night before to a house on the Strand.”
Thornleigh was unimpressed. “I know. To the Duke of Suffolk’s townhouse. Calthrop was buzzing about it at the wool market.”
“Really?” Honor went on with growing excitement. “And when I played cards yesterday at the old Marchioness of Exeter’s, someone said the Queen should be careful the country does not rise up in anger over her coming marriage, and the Marchioness went white and hushed her friend and said, ‘Not a word of that!’ And then, here this morning, a gentleman at breakfast said Lord Courtenay, the Earl of Devon, has placed an order with his smith for the trimming of a new suit of mail.”
Thornleigh waited for more. “That’s all? That’s your evidence of rebellion?”
“All?” Her eyes flashed irritation. “Richard, the Earl of Devon is planning an insurrection, and his mother, the Marchioness, knows it!”
Thornleigh shook his head. “Courtenay’s an addlebrained young fop. He spent too many years in that comfortable Tower cell. Not his fault. Old King Henry never could abide a kinsman to be out loose—not one with as much royal blood as Courtenay has. But since he grew up in that pampered prison, the poor dolt can barely even sit a horse. He never learned. A fearless commander of rebels? I think not.”
“But he was the royal council’s choice to marry the Queen—probably the whole country’s choice. Because of that royal blood, and because he’s English. And the Queen must have insulted him terribly by refusing his suit and choosing the Spanish Prince instead. Courtenay’s a perfect candidate for conspiring against her, whether he fits your image of the manly soldier or not. And the country would rally behind him.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Richard, people don’t want this Spanish alliance. The country won’t stand for it.”
“Talk is cheap. The country may not like what’s happening, but the Queen is the Queen and the law is the law. People will grumble, then they’ll accept. It’s what people do.”
“But what if, this time, they don’t accept. What if they fight?”
“Then they’ll become gallows fruit.”
“Not if they’re at the forefront of a massive revolt—if enough people support them. We could. Perhaps by giving them money.”
“Absolutely not! Christ, Honor, face the facts that concern us, will you? A harebrained uprising has nothing to do with us.”
“It has everything to do with us. A rebellion could sweep the Queen from the throne. Princess Elizabeth is next in the line of succession, and she is no religious zealot. Don’t you see? Rebellion will bring real hope.”
“And if the rebellion is crushed? Then there’ll be no hope.”
Honor answered quickly; it was clear she had given this serious thought. “Even if an uprising is put down, Queen Mary will at least have seen the extent of the anger at herpolicies. She’ll have to temper her actions. She might never bring back the heresy laws.”
“And pigs might fly.”
“Stop it, Richard. Look past your cynicism for once. It’s not just us involved here. Look at how many others will suffer unless the Queen is stopped. Can’t you see how important this is?” Her voice had risen with emotion.
“With only one good eye,” he said wryly, “I get a different view.”
She shook her head, then looked away, struggling to compose herself.
Thornleigh left his chair and took her by the shoulders. “I do see this much. You’re hoping a gang of hotheads will solve our problem. But I won’t put my trust in such a chancy prospect. The Queen is going to marry a ruler who believes with all his heart in the sanctity of the Inquisition, and in using the most hardened Spanish troops to pacify resistance. Once Philip of Spain lands in England, there will be no turning back.”
“Turning back?” she murmured, her eyes misting. “Lord, Richard, how many times in Antwerp I wished we could turn back and come home. A pampered prison, you just said about Courtenay in the Tower. That’s what our exile was. I’ll never forget sailing back into Great Yarmouth after all those years abroad, and standing on the deck and pointing out to Isabel the native country she’d never seen. She was only a child and she didn’t really understand, but it was one of the happiest days of my life.” She looked deeply into Thornleigh’s eyes. “Richard, this is our home. It’s Isabel’s home, and Adam’s. What we’ve built here belongs to them. This country belongs to them, as much as to Lord Anthony Grenville or even the Queen. I want to live here and die here.”
For the first time, he saw how much it meant to her.
She went on eagerly, “And consider how much we stand to gain by this rebellion. If it succeeds and Princess Elizabeth takes the throne, it will usher in a new age of tolerance and we’ll never have to fear again. And if it fails the Queen will be busy dealing with the known rebels. As long as I stay quiet, no one will even look my way. There could hardly be less risk to us.”
Thornleigh sighed heavily. He was far from convinced, but her arguments were beginning to make sense.
“Look, Richard,” she said, pressing her advantage, “we can send Isabel to Antwerp now. Adam’s there and she’ll be fine there with him. That way, if you’re right and we do see danger coming, they’ll be safe on the other side, and the two of us can slip onto a ship at the last moment and join them. If, on the other hand, everything turns out well here, as I think it will, we’ll bring them home—to a new, moderate regime. All right?”
Did she really not understand? “Honor, it’s you who will be in danger, not Adam and Isabel.”
“But in troubled times, innocents often pay for the acts of others. And Bel is a true innocent in this.”
Thornleigh knew what she meant. They had always kept their daughter ignorant of their former life, for her own safety.
“So let’s send her off immediately,” she said.
“Agreed,” Thornleigh said. This was a start, after all. “In fact, I have the Curlew set to sail for Antwerp with a cargo next week, so she can take passage on her.” Besides, he thought, Adam was already scouting prospects for expanding the business there. Thornleigh wasn’t worried about that end of things. He kept a small residence and warehouse in Antwerp for the twice-yearly international cloth fairs, and he could sell the Colchester property here through an agent. They’d be starting over, yes, but hardly poor.
“But we will stay,” Honor said.
Thornleigh turned away. He paced, rubbing the back of his neck, thinking.
“If we do …” he began, but he stopped as Honor’s face brightened. He held up a hand to check her enthusiasm. “If we do, we’ll do it my way. No getting involved with wild-eyed rebels. We’ll just wait and watch. Do you hear me?”
