by Barbara Kyle
But Isabel had heard enough. The proclamation had jolted her like the trumpet blast, blaring her duty to Wyatt and to Martin. Carlos’s jest of a moment ago about fighting one another in a siege suddenly soured. She had already pulled away from him. “Well,” she said, “we’re on opposite sides already, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
“If you’re going to sell yourself to the Queen, we are.”
His face darkened. “It is because your man has gone with the rebels, yes?”
She was taken aback. How did he know this about Martin? She had taken great care to give no hint of Martin’s whereabouts.
As though in answer, Carlos muttered, “Not hard to figure out.”
They stood in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. There is no time for this, Isabel thought. She must act. Wyatt was waiting for her. Martin was waiting for her. Yet how could she leave her father stumbling penniless and ill through London, his life still endangered by the Grenvilles’ vendetta? Once again, her warring loyalties tore at her.
“Back to the Anchor, then track your father,” Carlos said suddenly, as though deciding for her.
“Why the Anchor? So you can join the Queen’s troop there?”
“To get your horse.” He added steadily, “Yes, I will join the Queen’s soldiers. But I will finish the job with you first. Come. If we hurry, maybe we will find your father by nightfall.”
Isabel knew immediately that this was the right course. If she could quickly get her father on board a ship to safety, she could then hurry back to do her duty for the cause. The way was suddenly clear.
Far more murky was her tangle of emotions—gratitude and trepidation—knowing that Carlos would stay by her side.
* * *
Newgate’s jailer, Andrew Alexander, was pouring wine for his honored guest, the Sergeant of the Guard from Whitehall Palace, when the caretaker of the charnel house bustled in, out of breath.
“I’ve found your sixteenth man,” the caretaker wheezed.
Alexander looked up, vexed. “What’s that?” He hated interruptions in the midday meal, especially when he was entertaining so important a guest. The sergeant had agreed to stay only for a goblet of wine, but Alexander intended to keep him long enough to ask for a post for his son at the palace armory. This blockhead from the boneyard had no understanding of where and when to make his pestering reports.
The caretaker stood noisily catching his breath. “I sent you a complaint this morning about being delivered just fifteen of your dead when the tally was for sixteen. Well, I’ve found the sixteenth.”
“Then go bury him, man. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Bury a corpse that’s walked away, Master Alexander? You tell me how I can bury a body that’s toddled off, and I’ll bury your family for free.”
“How’s that?” the Sergeant of the Guard asked, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Walked away? What dead man? Who?”
The caretaker bowed to the sergeant, resplendent in his armor breastplate. “His name is Thornleigh, Your Worship. Richard Thornleigh.”
The sergeant’s mouth fell open. He glared at the jailer. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Alexander felt his son’s hopes for preferment dwindle away like piss down a drain. He had just finished explaining to the sergeant that Thornleigh had died of jail fever and was carted out just before the sergeant arrived to transfer him to the Tower. “Now, now, let’s not lose our heads, sir,” he said, then turned to the caretaker and demanded, “What is this nonsense, man? Corpses don’t walk.”
“This one did.”
“You saw it?”
“As good as. I was scratching my head over the puzzle of how I only got fifteen when I was supposed to get sixteen, when this young lady comes in looking for her father’s body, just deceased. Lost, it seems he is. In fact, she says, she never actually saw his body. She says his name is Richard Thornleigh, and curse me if that isn’t one of the names on my tally. So then I know my sixteenth has scarpered. Skedaddled. I have the answer to my puzzle, and you, Master Jailer, have an escapee.”
The sergeant bounded up from his chair. “Good God, Alexander, Thornleigh is a traitor wanted by the Queen!” He turned to the caretaker. “Is she still at the charnel house? The daughter?”
“Oh, no, Your Worship. I shooed her out so’s I could come here.”
“Damn, she might have led us to the traitor.” Adjusting his sword, the sergeant started out, telling the caretaker, “You, come with me back to St. Paul’s. Maybe someone saw her, which way she went.” At the door he looked back at Alexander. “And you, Jailer, had better unleash your dogs and organize a search party. Find Thornleigh, if you value your neck!”
24
Betraye
Isabel made her way through the Anchor’s crowded common room toward the stairs. Most of the encamped soldiers were out at this noon hour. When she and Carlos had left for Newgate the rank and file had gone under the direction of Lieutenant Andrews to drill in Finsbury Fields, preparing for the rebels. Now, in their place, the innkeeper’s gaming cronies had taken over the room to watch a cock fight. Isabel could hear the birds’ frantic crowing above the men’s loud haggling. As for soldiers, only a handful of officers were left, sitting at a far table over cold meat and ale, including the captain, whose ginger beard could not hide his badly pocked skin. He had an air of brutish authority about him. She also noticed three men standing apart from all the activity, apparently with no connection to either the gamesters or the soldiers—dull-eyed, rough-faced men, one completely bald. They made Isabel shiver. She’d seen enough faces like that in prisons lately.
Nevertheless, she started up the stairs feeling buoyant at the thought that she would soon find her father at some friend’s house—the Legges or the Hayeses, or maybe the McLeans, or some business associate of her father—and the knot of her problems would finally unravel. Carlos was already in the stable saddling the mare. She felt that this search would yield quick success.
As she opened the door of her room she was surprised to see a man in rich apparel standing at the window with his back to her. He turned at the sound of the door. But even before he faced her Isabel recognized him from the red hair smoothly combed below his jewel-studded hat. It was the man who had spoken to her by the graveyard at home six days ago—the day Lady Grenville had spat at her. A warning prickled her skin.
“Mistress Thornleigh,” he said in a low tone of sympathy, moving toward her with outstretched hands. “I have just learned of your father’s tragic death. Please, accept my profound condolences.”
Isabel stood stiffly, wondering how he had heard—and determined to give no hint that she was sure her father was alive.
“Of course, you do not remember me. Edward Sydenham. We met at—”
“I remember you, sir. You are a Grenville. Have you come to plague me now that the Grenvilles can no longer plague my father?”
“You are bitter, mistress,” he said softly. “And with good cause, I warrant. But I entreat you, see me for what I am. Though I will soon have the privilege of making Frances Grenville my wife, my name is my own, as is my honor.”
“Forgive me,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I do recall that you spoke kindly to me when we met.” What could this man possibly want with her? And how could she get rid of him? She wanted only to collect her small remnant of moneyand then be off with Carlos. “How can I help you, sir? I confess I am in some haste.”
He smiled gently. “It is I who hope to help you. And thereby, help myself. Will you allow me to explain?” He motioned to a chair.
She resisted the suggestion.
“Please,” he said. “It will take but a moment.”
She saw that she must listen before he would go. She sat down. He closed the door on the noisy cock fight below, then came to her.
“I have been following the troubles of your unfortunate father,” he said, “first in Colchester jail and then in Newgate prison. It has been my desire to al
leviate his plight in whatever way I could. Now, sadly, that chance has been forever removed.” He paused. “By the look in your eyes I see that you wonder why I come to you now, when your father has passed on.”
She said nothing.
“And, of course, you must wonder why I have concerned myself in this business at all.” He looked at her in deadly earnest. “I want to end the evil that hatred has wrought. Mistress, I have traveled a good deal in the German lands. I have seen the extraordinary suffering there—the wars, the civil strife, the hatred that poisons the very air between families who once lived contentedly as neighbors. And all this over religion. Catholics slaughtering Protestants. Protestants butchering Catholics. Now, I fear that the same unspeakable turmoil lies in store for England. I wish with all my heart that I could somehow stop it before it begins.”
He smiled ruefully. “There may be precious little that one man can do to halt this tide of evil. Be that as it may, I have pledged myself to effect whatever small good I can. I hope to bring peace between our families, the Grenvilles and Thornleighs. Religion was the spark that razed the happiness of both our homes. Both families have suffered in the tragedy. Both still suffer from the wounds. I want most deeply to halt these ravages, to begin the healing.” He took a step closer to her. “Sadly, fever took your father before I could help him. But, mistress, I can still help you. Will you allow me?” He paused for an answer. “If not,” he added with a self-deprecating smile, “you consign a man to failure. And I sense you are too tenderhearted a lady to commit so uncharitable an act.”
Isabel looked down at her hands in her lap, feeling torn by suspicion. Sydenham seemed all benevolence, but he came from the enemy. “You are most kind, sir, but I do not see how you can help me.”
“Mistress, I know that your mother has removed to the Continent, to join your brother there. I am certain that you wish to be reunited with them. But I suspect—pardon my bluntness, but harsh times call for harsh words—I suspect your resources have run low. And, well … you are so alone.”
“Not alone. I have a good man helping me.”
Sydenham let this pass. “Grave trouble is brewing in England,” he said, “with Wyatt’s rebels rampaging in Kent and threatening to advance on London itself. I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to cover the expense of sending you away from this scene of personal grief and impending conflict, and of reuniting you with your mother and brother. I have friends among the Flemish captains whose ships are moored in the estuary. A word from me and any one of them will guarantee you a passage complete with every luxury and security. And once across the Channel, you will be furnished with an escort at my expense to ensure your safe arrival at your family’s door. Will you let me arrange this?”
For a moment, Isabel was tempted. Not tempted to leave England, of course, but to accept Sydenham’s money, something she was sorely in need of. But an inner voice still warned against the man who was betrothed to Frances Grenville. “I thank you for your offer, sir, but—” She broke off at the sound of boots tramping in the hall.
The door swung open. A soldier in a breastplate strode in while two men-at-arms stood in the doorway. The charnel house caretaker leaned in between the men-at-arms. “That’s her!” he cried, pointing.
Isabel jumped up from her chair with a gasp.
“Sergeant!” Sydenham said in outrage. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Pardon me, Sir Edward,” the sergeant said, “but I must remove this woman for questioning. Her father is wanted for treason.”
“Her father is dead. Did they not inform you at the prison?”
“He is not dead, sir.”
“I tell you, Richard Thornleigh died this morning of jail fever.”
“No, sir, he did not. He only feigned death to escape. In the Queen’s name, I am leading a manhunt to recover him.”
Isabel tried to control her pounding heart. Her enemies had discovered her father’s ruse! And were after him as a traitor! She saw that the blood had drained from Sydenham’s face.
The sergeant reached for her. “And this woman may know where he is hiding.”
“I know nothing, sir!” she protested as he grabbed her arm. “Please!”
“Wait, Sergeant,” Sydenham said. “This innocent lady is still distracted at the news of her father’s death. I believe she has no knowledge whatever of his whereabouts.” He leaned in close to say, very low, “Give me a few moments alone with her, man. I believe I can clear this up in no time. A kind word with ladies, eh? What do you say?”
The sergeant looked doubtful. “I am responsible for the traitor.”
“As you know,” Sydenham said with new firmness, “the Queen has made me a lieutenant in the city’s defense, under Lord Howard. Are you questioning my authority?”
Still frowning, but sobered, the sergeant gave a brusque nod. “Five minutes, Sir Edward. My men and I will wait outside the door.”
The soldiers retreated. The door closed. Sydenham and Isabel were alone.
He flashed her a fierce look. “Do you know where he is?”
Isabel hesitated. Apart from his smooth talk of conciliation, what reason did she really have to trust him? Besides, in truth she knew nothing. “No,” she said.
He looked at her with such intensity, she felt he was almost looking through her. It was chilling. He shook his head like a man suddenly waking. “Forgive me, mistress, I hardly know where I am. Such extraordinary news! It is most wonderful, is it not?”
“Wonderful, sir?” she asked, incredulous. Wonderful that her father was being hunted down like a dog?
“Why, to learn that your father lives.”
“Yes …” she said, catching herself. “Wonderful, most certainly.” She hugged herself, unable to hide her anguish. “But the Queen’s men will find him. They will bring him in, and then they will …” She could not finish—it was too horrible. A traitor’s death, prescribed by law, was public castration and disembowelment.
“Then we must see that they do not find him,” Sydenham said evenly. “We must find him first.”
“We?”
“Mistress Thornleigh,” he said with feeling, “I told you I want to help you. I thought that all I had to offer you was passage out of England. But now I can do so much more, for you and for your father. I can help you both to safety.”
“Good God, how?”
“I have agents. Clever agents. I will send them out to search. When they find your father, I’ll get you both aboard a Flemish galley. You’ll be halfway across the Channel before the Queen’s men realize he’s gone.”
Isabel stared in disbelief. “You would do this? For us?”
“Most willingly. I know Thornleigh presents no real danger to Her Majesty. There are enough proven traitors for her to deal with. However, I cannot mount a private search without your assistance. You know your father better than anyone. You must tell me every place he may have gone, every friend who might give him succor, every hole where he might try to hide. That is the only way we can reach him before the Queen’s men do.”
“But … the sergeant is taking me into custody!”
Sydenham waved a hand impatiently. “You will not be taken. Leave that to me. Let’s you and I just agree to work together and find your father. All right?”
She blinked at him, trying to think. Could she use his help to send her father away, then stay herself to help Wyatt?
“Do accept my offer,” he said, almost pleading.
There was a scraping at the door. The sergeant, coming back. Sydenham fixed his eyes on Isabel and his tone became implacable. “Mistress, make no mistake, you are in need of my protection.”
The door latch lifted. Isabel gnawed her lip. There was no time to think!
“Quickly,” Sydenham urged. “Will you let me help you?”
The door swung open. Isabel looked back at Sydenham. “Yes!” she whispered.
The sergeant strode in. Sydenham faced him squarely. “Sergeant, it is just a
s I told you. This lady has no knowledge whatever of where the traitor may have gone to ground.”
“All the same, sir, I must take—”
“Have you any evidence to make an arrest?”
“Well, no sir, but she—”
“Then I suggest you stop harassing her and begin your search. Recover the traitor. That is where the Queen’s interest lies.”
The sergeant frowned, unsure.
“Meanwhile,” Sydenham added evenly, “this lady will be a guest in my home. I will personally vouchsafe her good behavior. If that presents a problem for you,” he challenged, looking the soldier in the eye, “I suggest you take it up with Lord Howard. Good day to you, Sergeant.”
The sergeant looked unwilling to force the issue. “Very good, Sir Edward,” he said, and added with the barest threat in his voice, “I’ll know where to find her, at any rate.” He turned and beckoned his men. They followed him out, and their boots clomped down the stairs.
Isabel stared at Sydenham, struck by the display of power he had just wielded. She finally found her voice. “Thank you,” she said.
He bowed graciously.
“But, sir, as for my coming to your house—”
“I do apologize, but you saw that it was necessary to satisfy that beef-headed soldier. I only hope,” he went on amiably, “that the comforts of my home will in some small way make up for the encroachment upon your liberty.” His smile was disarming. “And after all, mistress, this rough soldier’s billet is no place for a lady.”
He held out his arm to her. “Shall we go? I’ll send a servant to collect your belongings and settle your account.”
As they went downstairs together Isabel’s mind was in turmoil. What about Carlos, waiting in the stable? She must speak with him, explain all this. And then? Was this the last time she would see him?
Sydenham hustled her through the common room where the cock fight was still in progress, then out the front door. In the courtyard Isabel stopped, saying, “Wait. I must go to the stable.” She started across the cobbled yard.
