by Barbara Kyle
The girl said no more.
The guard called over the barwoman. He asked if she had seen a big Spaniard come into the cookhouse today or the day before. She testily told him she had not, and when he asked if she was sure, she huffed, “Lord, do you think me so daft that Spaniards can come tromping through, and me not know it?”
The guard grumbled an oath. After a moment Carlos heard the door clatter open. Footsteps came toward him. He caught a glimpse of the girl’s blue skirt. He looked up. He sensed by the slumping of her shoulders in relief that the guards had gone. She looked at him and nodded the all clear.
He felt he was suffocating. He craved air. He stood, snatched the sheepskin from its peg and headed for the door, pulling on the coat. He pushed his way out to the street where he glanced in both directions. He could just make out the shadowed forms of the guards trudging into the darkness down the street. Taking no chances, Carlos hurried around the corner to an alley. He stopped under a high window where a candle flickered, and slapped his hands flat on the cold brick wall. He sucked in deep breaths, forcing the icy air down into his lungs until it stung like knives.
She caught up with him. He turned. Under the candle’s aura her eyes looking up at him were deep pools of trust. He stared at her in wonder. “You could have found your father.”
“We’ll find him yet, together.”
“But it means everything to you.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Then why …?”
She gave an unconvincing shrug. “What good is finding him without you to get him out?”
“You could hire someone else.”
“I cannot hire a friend.”
“Friend?”
“You saved my father’s life in jail. Against the assassin. I’d call that a friend.”
He swallowed.
She shivered, already cold. In hurrying after him she had left off her hood, and the night wind played with her hair like a lover. “Master Valverde,” she said with a sad smile, “like it or not, in this you are my only friend.”
He stepped back, away from the pull of her eyes, her voice, her softness. “No. I am only a soldier,” he said roughly. “To choose a friend takes … cuidado … care.”
She blinked, clearly hurt. “I’ll remember that in the future. But now, if you please, I’d like to go back to the Anchor. I’ve missed most of my supper over you. I don’t want to miss a decent night’s sleep as well. We have a search to continue in the morning.”
She turned and started out of the alley. He followed her. He had no choice.
“Transferred?” Edward Sydenham stared at his steward, appalled. “What in God’s name are you saying, Palmer? Didn’t you reach that Spaniard?”
The steward, a sallow-faced man of forty whose sunken eyes spoke of chronic ill health, shivered on the windy doorstep of Edward’s London house. Leaving Colchester, he had ridden through knifing winds all day and reached his master’s door in the dark just as Edward was coming out to attend the Venetian ambassador’s dinner. “That I did, sir,” Palmer replied. “Night before last. And he agreed.”
“Don’t tell me you paid him before the act, you fool?”
“'Course not, sir. I told him he’d get the money after the job and after his pardon. We arranged to meet next week at the Blue Boar.”
“Then, damn it, what went wrong?”
Palmer sighed heavily. “Hard to say, sir, because there was havoc at the jail yesterday. All the turnkey could tell me about Thornleigh was there’d been a brawl and Thornleigh and the Spaniard were chained up, and then"—he lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness—"yesterday morning Thornleigh was transferred to prison here.”
“The turnkey told you this?”
“No, sir, the sheriff. He was in a fume over the mess in the jail. Seems the jailer was murdered just after Thornleigh was taken out. There was some sort of riot, and most of the prisoners escaped, including the Spaniard. In fact, the sheriff believes the Spaniard was behind it.” Palmer shook his head malevolently. “You can’t trust a mercenary, sir. I almost wish he would come to the Blue Boar sniffing for his fee, and then I’d—”
“All right,” Edward snapped. He was trying to think. And cursing himself for not anticipating this transfer. It was a common enough procedure in Essex homicide cases of any importance. But it had happened so swiftly! Now, he realized with a stab of anxiety, his peril was worse than before. Thornleigh would come before a judge after all, and now it would be a London judge, in a packed London courtroom, with a score of influential people hearing Thornleigh cross-examined about his past … his wife’s past … Edward’s past.
“One more thing, sir,” Palmer was saying. “The daughter didn’t sail from Maldon Harbor with her mother, as we’d thought.”
“What?” Edward asked testily.
“Thornleigh’s daughter. She didn’t leave, just settled her mother on board with a nurse, then came ashore before the ship sailed. Odd thing is, she’s gone from their house.”
Edward did not like the sound of this. It was a loose end that could prove troublesome. Given the unstable circumstances, even one Thornleigh was one Thornleigh too many. Besides, he recalled that the girl had shown spirit under Lady Grenville’s abusive attack in the graveyard. There was something in the girl that was too much like her mother. It pricked Edward’s concern.
An icy wind rifled the furred edges of his cape like a pickpocket. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned, “I’ll be late at the ambassador’s.” The Fuggers’ representatives must not be insulted. The royal loan was at stake. Edward’s credibility with the Queen was at stake. “Find the girl, Palmer,” he ordered. “Have her watched.” He lowered his head into the wind and hurried on.
At the Anchor Inn Isabel could not sleep. Her body craved it, but her tangle of worries would not release her mind. The clanging of the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow had sounded hours ago, marking curfew, but she tossed in herbed, plucking at the covers. Was there really any hope that she and the mercenary could rescue her father? And when could she possibly get away to Rochester to deliver her report to Wyatt? And how was she to break the news to Martin that her family had been shattered?
A scuffling in the passage caught her attention. Some late arrival at the inn, she thought. But the sound did not stop. It became a faint banging, intrusive, insistent. She tried to block it out with a pillow and will herself to sleep. But the longer the noise continued—a dull, rhythmic thudding now—the more annoying it became.
She got up to investigate. Opening the door quietly, she peered across the dim passage. It seemed deserted. The thudding was coming from the opposite end. She stepped out and looked that way.
And froze.
The mercenary stood face to face with the chambermaid against the wall. But she was not standing. Her bare legs were wrapped around his thighs, her skirts rucked up around her waist, her arms around his neck. He held her against the wall, his hands under her buttocks. One side of her loose bodice was pulled askew exposing a large breast that jiggled as she and the mercenary moved together, thudding against the wall. He suddenly stood still and glanced toward Isabel. Their eyes locked. The maid, oblivious, kept shoving her hips forward and moaning softly.
Isabel ducked back inside her room and shut the door.
She lay on her bed, unmoving, eyes wide and dry with fatigue. Her mind tried to hide in other thoughts, even in her worries. But the picture of his body bent over the willing maid, thrusting into her, overpowered all else. When sleep finally claimed her, she saw his image still.
Carlos lay on his straw mattress, one arm folded under his head, his eyes on the ceiling. The maid, sitting on the edge of the bed, was tugging her clothes back into place, about to leave—"Else that dragon landlady’ll skin me alive,” she had said. After the interruption in the passage they had staggered into Carlos’s room to finish. It had not taken long.
The maid stood and bent over Carlos and placed a wet kiss on his mouth. “Wish I could stay, lov
er,” she said with a sigh.
She left. He lay still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. But all he saw was the girl’s face staring from the doorway. He closed his eyes and saw her still. Was there no escape from her?
No. Not until the job was done and he was gone. Then he would be free.
15
Traitors and Trus
Edward strode into Frances’s chamber at Whitehall with a smile. “I have great news for the Queen, my dear. About the loan.”
He stopped as Frances and her brother John turned from the hearth, their faces wan and strained. Still grieving for their father, Edward realized. He would have to hold his enthusiasm in check. Seeing Edward, Frances’s mourning face lifted into a tentative smile. Her brother nodded a sober greeting. “Edward.”
“John.”
Edward came solemnly to Frances, his arms outstretched in sympathy. “Gracious, how chilly,” she said, taking hold of his hands. “Have you just come in?”
Edward nodded. He did not bother to explain that he had spent the night at the Venetian ambassador’s house following last night’s lavish supper with the Fugger banking representatives. He was eager only to report his success to Queen Mary. But the Queen was busy in yet another endless meeting with her councilors. Edward had passed gentlemen hurrying toward the royal chamber in twos and threes, with sheaves of papers in their hands and anxious frowns upon their brows. The palace stairways and galleries and corridors fairly buzzed with anxious rumors about the strength of the uprising. But Frances, Edward hoped, could get him admitted to the royal presence.
“Come, warm yourself,” Frances said, drawing him nearer the fire. “Although,” she added, as grief stole back over her features, “I fear that John and I are cold company.”
Edward mustered a suitably mournful smile, though his thoughts were far from unhappy as he anticipated the Queen’s gratitude for his efforts.
A couple of men loudly arguing about Wyatt hurried past the chamber’s open door. A wolfhound trotted after them, its eyes wide with worry as though in imitation.
Frances glanced at the doorway. “Her Majesty is beset with problems today, Edward. Everyone is clamoring at her.”
“But I bring good news.”
“The loan? Have you arranged it?”
He smiled. “On rather decent terms, too.”
Frances beamed. “Oh, Edward, you are clever. Don’t worry, I’ll get you in.”
Edward’s smile broadened. Frances—his reliable conduit to the Queen. He took her hand and patted it, then turned to John. “Have you heard how your mother fares?” he asked solicitously.
John barked a bitter laugh. “Colder, even, than us. Christopher sent us word. Mother rocks on a stool by day and night, he says. Will not speak. Barely eats. Christopher daren’t leave her side. And, what’s worse—”
“What’s worse, Edward,” Frances broke in, “is that in Colchester some are whispering the slander that our Father set out to commit murder. Imagine, murder!” Her voice was a tight with indignation. “He was only trying to exterminate a heretic once condemned to death. But her husband got in the way.”
Edward shot her a glance.
“Yes,” she said. “Mother told us all about the Thornleighs’ wickedness.”
John slammed his fist on the mantel. “Dear God in heaven,” he said through clenched teeth. “If I had that villain Thornleigh’s neck in my hands I’d—” He bit off his words and let out a kind of sob and lowered his forehead to the mantel in a surrender to grief. Frances threw her arms around his neck and gently rocked with him.
Watching, Edward could not help feeling pity.
John swung around, his face controlled with determination. “By heaven, Edward, you’re the man to set things right. You’ll make Thornleigh pay.”
Edward stiffened, on his guard. He decided it would not be wise to withhold what his steward had reported. After all, there was still time to dispatch Thornleigh in private. “There’s a development you may not be aware of,” he said. “Thornleigh has been transferred to prison in London.”
“You mean he’ll stand trial here?” John asked.
Edward nodded.
John practically pounced on the news. “Why, that’s perfect. Now all the world will learn the facts. No one will dare to whisper against Father’s memory again.”
The facts. Edward smiled weakly. He was aware of the fire crackling, and of sweat chilling his upper lip. He tried to recall when the next delivery dates for the major prisons would come up, when the pending cases would go to trial. He would only have until then to think of some way to deal with Thornleigh.
“And we couldn’t hope for a better lieutenant than you, Edward,” John was saying.
“Oh?” Edward asked. He was not quite sure what John meant.
“To marshal Thornleigh’s trial for treason.”
Edward felt his heart thud to a stop. “Treason?”
“We’re going to see justice done,” Frances said warmly, “and all thanks to you, Edward. John told me. About Thornleigh conspiring with Wyatt.”
“Conspiring?” Edward asked, his mouth dry. “Who said so?”
“Why, you did, man,” John said. “Have you forgotten?” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t wonder. I only just remembered it myself, what with all the evil that’s happened. But I was just telling Frances what you said to Father and Mother that night, about how the Thornleighs were implicated with Wyatt. And Frances said—”
“I said, thank God for Edward,” Frances finished for him, smiling. “And I’m going to tell Her Majesty all about it. Then we’ll see true justice done.”
“And once Thornleigh’s drawn and quartered,” John said with grim satisfaction, “maybe Mother can live again.”
Edward blinked at them both, unable to speak. Thornleigh, giving evidence in a national trial for treason!
A young woman came in wearily rubbing her forehead. “She wants you, Frances,” she said testily as she reached the hearth. “Or rather wants that concoction of yours.”
“Which one, Amy? Be specific.”
“The one she raves about. For her headaches.” The young woman flopped down onto a stool by the fire. “Lord,” she sighed, “what a day.”
“Excuse me, Edward,” Frances said. She went to a corner where a small cupboard under a crucifix held various jars, carafes, and vials.
The young woman looked up, noticing Edward. She gave him a glittering smile. “I’m Amy Hawtry.”
“Forgive me,” John said with cool civility. “Edward, Mistress Hawtry has just joined the Queen’s ladies. She shares Frances’s chamber. Mistress, this is Edward Sydenham.”
Edward made a perfunctory bow. His mind registered that the young woman was blond and pink-cheeked, but his thoughts were unfocused, and his distraction had nothing to do with her beauty, though it was considerable.
“Ah, so this is Frances’s betrothed,” Amy said, studying Edward with a quizzical smile. “The confidant of princes and emperors.”
“Well,” John cut in brusquely, “I must go. Edward, I’d ask you to ride with me to Finsbury Field—my archers are drilling there, preparing for the Queen’s summons. But I know you are anxious to see Her Majesty.”
Edward nodded distractedly. “Quite.”
John said good-bye to Frances, nodded to Amy, and went out.
Amy babbled on to Edward, asking questions about the great personages of the Emperor’s court. Edward muttered answers, hardly hearing her or himself. Frances came back to the hearth carrying a purple vial.
“That’s the one,” Amy said, blithely waving Frances on. “Go on. Take it on down to her.”
Frances’s eyes darted between Edward and Amy, and she gave the young woman a frosty look before she started for the door. Edward rushed to her side, stopping her.
“Frances, you know that I yearn as much as you to see justice done for your family,” he said. “But, really, it hardly seems right to trouble Her Majesty with our sorrows when she has
so many of her own. You won’t mention it, will you? About Thornleigh?”
Frances tenderly touched his arm. “Oh, Edward, you are good to consider Her Majesty’s feelings. But think how relieved she will be at this news. To know that one of the traitors who has brought on this calamity is already under lock and key here in her capital. And,” she added with a proud smile, “I’ll be sure to tell her that the one who can testify to Thornleigh’s crimes of treason is you. She’ll be so grateful.” Her eyes misted with emotion as she added, “And so am I. Now, let me take this balm in to her meeting, and I’ll whisper to her that you are waiting to see her.” She went out.
Edward wiped sweat from his upper lip. The room seemed unbearably hot. Amy was speaking to him, but Edward was trying to think. He had to stay to see the Queen and report his success with the loan. But immediately after, he could rush home and instruct his steward. He must reach Thornleigh before the Queen’s officers did.
He hurried out after Frances, leaving Amy blinking after him.
Frances Grenville stood behind Queen Mary, ready to offer the vial of balm, but the Queen, speaking to four of her councilors, was too distraught to notice.
“Do you mean, my lords,” the Queen asked incredulously, “that I have no more personal protection than the two hundred men of my Palace Guard?”
“That is why you must flee to Windsor!” Bishop Gardiner cried.
“Naturally, we shall keep trying to raise troops,” Lord Paulet said quietly, looking at the floor. “But …” He shrugged. Frances noted dark skin like bruises below his eyes, testimony to four sleepless nights since Wyatt had proclaimed rebellion. “Even in Kent can count on less than one thousand men.”
“And the cowards desert an hour after they’re mustered,” the Earl of Pembroke broke in.
“However,” Paulet went on, ignoring the gruff soldier’s remark, “my entreaty to the corporation of London for men-at-arms has brought some success.” He lifted a parchment scroll and extended it to the Queen. Bishop Gardiner intercepted it, unfurled it and scanned the writing.
