The King's Daughter

by Barbara Kyle

  The window was unglazed. Once his foot reached the sill he swung over it, kicked in the shutter and dropped inside, banging his hip on the sill. He struggled to his feet, rubbing his bruised hip, and found himself on a dark staircase landing. This must be the porter’s lodge. He listened. Nothing. The quarters apparently had been abandoned.

  He went down the stairs and through the house until he reached a door at the northern end that he judged must lead to the street about midway along the width of the bridge. He opened the door and found he was right. He stepped out under the overhanging roofs that had obscured his view from atop the gatehouse. The sound of the swirling water reached him again, louder now. This patch of the street was dark, but not far to the north he could clearly see the Queen’s soldiers and their torches. He jumped sideways into the shadows to avoid being seen.

  Scores of royalist soldiers were moving about, armed with longbows and arquebuses. Their breastplates and helmets gleamed under the torchlight. Their desultory voices rose above the water’s hiss. Their three small cannon, pointed in Thornleigh’s direction, glimmered. But there was no obvious barrier between the soldiers and him, nothing except a black expanse of street. What had made them stop there?

  Slowly, quietly, he moved forward in the darkness, his eyes fixed on the soldiers. He found the answer as his right foot felt the edge. He stopped just in time. Before him yawned a black chasm. He realized what had happened. The drawbridge for boats at the seventh arch had been cut away. All that was left between the north and south sections of the bridge was this gorge, and the angry river frothing below.

  “Suicide, Thomas!” Wyatt’s kinsman lieutenant, George Cobham, made his point by slicing an imaginary knifeacross his own throat. It was the concluding remark to a meeting between Wyatt and his officers, held in Wyatt’s chamber in Southwark’s dilapidated Tabard Inn. Armed with the information about London Bridge that Thornleigh had just reported, they had been discussing the feasibility of attacking. Wyatt had thanked them for their comments and dismissed them, but had asked Thornleigh to stay behind.

  As the officers filed out of Wyatt’s room, Thornleigh waited, studying the commander’s face. It was the first time he’d been in Wyatt’s presence. It was to Cobham that he’d volunteered to scout the bridge.

  Cobham’s voice had not been the only heated one during the officers’ discussion. “A frontal attack is impossible,” Thomas Culpepper had declared.

  Henry Vane had agreed. “Even if we could carry up enough bridging material, we’d be mowed down by their guns.”

  “That’s right, sir,” Anthony Norton had put in. “Guns bombarding us from the Tower. Guns in our face on the bridge.”

  “And no possibility of an outflanking movement,” Culpepper had pointed out.

  “Suicide, Thomas!”

  Now, the anxious officers were gone. Wyatt moved thoughtfully to a table and poured two goblets of ale from an earthenware jug. He handed one to Thornleigh, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his face a mask. He stared ahead as if Thornleigh were not there. Thornleigh drank down his ale. In the next room, a baby cried. The sound seemed to effect a softening of Wyatt’s features. He gave Thornleigh a wry smile. “I married at seventeen. Five children, three girls and two boys.” He sipped his ale, then said quietly, “My son George is my heir.”

  Thornleigh gazed into the dregs of his own goblet, thinking of his own children. Outside in the street, boots clomped by as soldiers made their way to the foot of the bridge to relieve the watch. When they’d passed, and there was silence again, a church bell tolled faintly from London.

  “Hacked down the drawbridge, eh?” Wyatt said, musing. He sounded bitter with himself for not having anticipated it, but Thornleigh also heard the note of respect for an enemy’s clever stroke.

  “They must have towed it away,” Thornleigh said.

  Wyatt snorted. “Must be the first time in thirty years that damned drawbridge has even been budged.”

  “More like forty-five years,” Thornleigh said. “When I was a boy it used to be raised to let ships pass through to Queenhithe. That was when Queenhithe was as busy as Billingsgate Wharf is now. But nothing bigger than barges and wherries has gone through for decades.” He felt a need to reassure the younger man. “Most people have forgotten the drawbridge is even there. Stands to reason you wouldn’t have thought of it.”

  Wyatt stood and picked up the jug and poured himself more ale. “Know about ships, do you?” he asked as he refilled Thornleigh’s goblet.

  “I own a few.”

  Wyatt’s look at him showed a new esteem. “A man of substance, I see. I’d been wondering about Isabel’s family.”

  Thornleigh was taken aback. “Isabel?”

  “Yes, I congratulate you, Thornleigh. She’s doing fine work for us. You should be proud.” Wyatt lifted his goblet in a toast and drank.

  “What? Look, how do you know Isabel?”

  Wyatt blinked, puzzled. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what, for God’s sake? I haven’t seen my daughter in over a week.”

  “But even before that … Good Lord, you really don’t know. Why, man, she’s been my eyes and ears in London. Carrying messages between me and the French Ambassador and reporting to me about our supporters inside London. Invaluable information, all of it.” His gaze traveled to the window. “In fact,” he said quietly, “I am relying on her now more than ever. Our London support, it turns out, may be all we have.” He walked to the window.

  Thornleigh felt slightly dizzy.

  Wyatt gazed out at the murky street where his troops had left a soup of mud. Snow was beginning to fall, and the flakes jerked in the erratic wind like tiny lost souls. When he spoke, his voice was bleak as the night. “I can’t wait much longer for French help. And I have no more than the three thousand men I began with at Rochester.” He took in a long breath as if to gather strength. “But London can still decide the day. If London gives the lead, the country will follow.”

  Thornleigh had barely been listening. “When did you last see her?”

  “What?”

  “My daughter.”

  “Oh, she was just here. Left about an hour ago.”

  “How?”

  “In a boat. She rowed.”

  “Alone? And you let her go back?”

  “Her chances are better alone than if she’s caught with soldiers of mine.”

  “Her chances? Good God, she’s just a child!” Thornleigh thumped down his goblet and turned to go, adding under his breath, “Bastard.”

  “Thornleigh,” Wyatt’s stern voice commanded, stopping him at the door. “You do not know your own flesh and blood. She’s a very brave girl.”

  Thornleigh left with the words ringing in his ears. Carlos had told him virtually the same thing.

  31

  Threats

  Where have you been, Isabel?” Edward Sydenham had hurried to greet her the moment she’d opened the door to his great hall. Two dozen men standing in groups at the far end of the hall turned at her arrival, but then, seeing it was only a woman, went back to their talk. Their martial dress looked incongruous in Sydenham’s elegant hall with its exquisite Flemish tapestries and windows glazed with costly painted glass. Sydenham kept his voice low. “My servants tell me you’ve been out all morning. I was becoming quite distressed.”

  “I remembered another of my father’s friends, an old seagoing man. I’ve been to see him.”

  “And? Any news?”

  She shook her head, afraid her face would betray her lie. She was in fact just returning from Ambassador de Noailles’lodging where she’d delivered Wyatt’s urgent appeal about Ludgate. It had been impossible to do so the night before. She had eluded the soldiers from the bridge by hiding for an hour in the stable, and then, dodging the citizens’ patrols all the way back, had barely made it into Sydenham’s house and hurried up to her room before she’d heard him arrive home from Whitehall. This morning he had left the house early.

&nb
sp; “And what is this? My dear, you’ve hurt yourself.” He was helping her off with her cloak and she had not been quick enough to pull down her sleeve to hide the bandage on her wrist.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, sir. I was too anxious getting the groom to saddle up this morning. I made the horse jumpy, and it nipped me.” She forced a light laugh. “Serves me right for rushing.”

  He was gently holding her arm and examining the bandage with a look of concern. His fingers brushed up her forearm under her sleeve. She stiffened and pulled back. Sydenham looked hurt. Isabel instantly regretted her response, a purely reflexive shudder at his long, cool fingers touching her. It seemed petty when he was doing so much to find her father and making her so comfortable in his house. All while she was spying on him.

  “Thank you for your concern, Sir Edward,” she said sincerely, “but really, the hurt is nothing.” Looking at the men across the hall she saw John Grenville, tall and haughty, his eyes narrowed on her in hatred, his father dead at the hands of her father. She ignored him and asked Sydenham, “Another meeting?”

  He said in a confidential tone, “The Queen’s commanders, plus a good number of others. Come, let me escort you through. John Grenville is there, you see, and he and Frances find your presence here … difficult to understand.”

  “Sir, you are kind.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and guided her through the hall. Isabel felt the men’s stern, impatient looks. She recognized Lord Howard’s jowled face from his previous visits here, and the fidgety Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas White, anxiously pacing. The others, a collection of middle-aged men who, by their hardness or craftiness or both, had safeguarded their lands and authority through three violent reigns, looked equally grim. She judged that the smoothfaced young man with the long blond locks was the Earl of Devon, Lord Courtenay. Dressed in yellow satin, out of place among these rough, soldierly lords, he had a reputation for foppery. She could only guess at the identity of the others, but she knew that among them must be the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Abergavenny, Lord Clinton, and Sir John Brydges, the Constable of the Tower, all of them powerful servants of the Queen.

  Sydenham murmured in her ear as they walked, “Forgive the brusque looks. We’re waiting for a captain of Abergavenny’s who infiltrated Wyatt’s camp. The fellow is unconscionably late. The commanders are somewhat vexed.”

  Isabel was glad to reach the end of the hall and leave behind the irritated stares. She was exhausted from her night’s terrors on the river and her morning with de Noailles, and longed for the peace of a few hours’ sleep upstairs. But rest must wait. Now, her task was to listen in on the commanders’ meeting from the squint hole behind the minstrels’ gallery.

  A shuffle of heavy footsteps sounded at the other end of the hall. The door swung open.

  “About time,” Abergavenny burst out. “Gentlemen, this is Valverde. He got into Wyatt’s camp at Dartford. He’ll report, then ask him whatever you like.”

  Isabel twisted around. Carlos had stopped in the doorway, two young lieutenants behind him. Carlos’s eyes locked with Isabel’s.

  Sydenham stiffened at her side. “That Spanish dog.”

  Carlos suddenly shouted, “A traitor is here!”

  The commanders looked astonished. “What’s that?” Lord Howard asked. “What traitor?”

  Carlos pointed at Sydenham. “Him. He keeps in his house the daughter of a rebel.”

  “This woman?” Abergavenny asked in bewilderment.

  “How dare you!” Sydenham cried.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Mayor demanded.

  Carlos’s sword scraped from its scabbard. “In Wyatt’s camp I saw Richard Thornleigh, a known traitor.” He pointed his sword at Isabel. “And she is his daughter.”

  Isabel was too stunned to speak. John Grenville pushed forward. “You saw Richard Thornleigh? With Wyatt?”

  “More than saw. I talked to Thornleigh.” Carlos looked hard at Isabel and spoke loudly and clearly. “He told me he will help Wyatt attack London. He said he will march in the front line. He is a traitor.” His sword tip jerked between Isabel and Sydenham. “This woman is his daughter and this bastardo keeps her! He is one of them!”

  Isabel’s legs felt as weak as reeds. Sydenham stared, dumbfounded. The commanders began shouting questions, demanding answers—of Carlos, of Sydenham, of one another. It was all confusion.

  Carlos moved fast. Beckoning the two lieutenants who’d come with him he jerked his chin toward Sydenham. “Take him!” The young soldiers looked conflicted about arresting so illustrious a gentleman, but their acceptance of Carlos’s authority was absolute. They advanced on Sydenham.

  “The woman too,” Carlos said. “She must be questioned.” He strode toward her. Every muscle in Isabel’s body yearned for escape, but to try to flee would be proof of guilt. Trembling, she stood firm.

  “Abergavenny!” Sydenham cried in outrage as Carlos and the two lieutenants reached him and Isabel. “This is absurd! This man is an escaped convict!”

  Carlos thrust his face an inch from Sydenham’s. “No longer,” he said, his teeth bared in vindication. “I am pardoned.”

  Sydenham staggered back a step and the two lieutenants took hold of him. The commanders watched in astonishment. “Abergavenny!” Sydenham protested again. Carlos ignored him. He was looking at Isabel, sheathing his sword, preparing to take her. He grabbed her arm and beckoned his men. “Come!” They pulled Sydenham, and Carlos pulled Isabel. The arrest had happened so fast that the commanders stood gaping. Carlos’s lieutenants were struggling to pull Sydenham past the knot of men, but Carlos was out into the passage with Isabel before anyone could stop him.

  He slammed the hall door behind them and dragged her to the front door. As he opened it she squirmed out of his grasp and twisted back toward the hall. He caught her by the elbow, wrenched her around to face him, and pushed her up against the wall. “Listen to me!” he said in a harsh whisper. She sensed that he expected her to try to push away again, so instead she slumped and dropped to the floor. She scrambled past him on hands and knees, about to get up and run back to the hall.

  But he was quicker. He caught her by her dress between her shoulder blades and dragged her backward along the floor. He pushed her to sit up against the wall. With the breath forced out of her she flopped back, limp as a doll. Dropping to his knees, Carlos straddled her legs so she could not get up. He forced her shoulders against the wall, his face inches from hers. They stared at each other, both breathing hard.

  They heard Sydenham in the hall rage at the lieutenants, “Let me go, you idiots!”

  “Stop!” Abergavenny bellowed. “Let Sir Edward go!”

  Carlos’s eyes flicked anxiously to the hall, then back to Isabel. “You must come,” he said. “Sydenham—”

  She spat in his face.

  His eyes filled with such a strange intensity that for a moment she didn’t know if he would strike her or kiss her. He did neither. With her spittle still on his cheek, he began to haul her to her feet. She resisted. “You’ve killed him, haven’t you!” she cried.

  “No. Get up.”

  “Then it’s all lies! You didn’t see him. If you had, you would have killed him.”

  “I did see him! Listen to me! You must not stay with Sydenham.”

  The passage door flew open. “Valverde!” Abergavenny shouted in horror. “Release the lady! She cannot be held for the crimes of her father. Let her go!”

  Men crowded into the passage. Abergavenny and Howard pulled Carlos up off Isabel. “The man’s insane!” Sydenham cried, rushing to Isabel and helping her to her feet. Struggling for balance, she threw her arms around Sydenham’s neck. He clasped her waist.

  Carlos wildly lunged for Sydenham. It took three men to restrain him.

  Sydenham whisked Isabel to safety out of Carlos’s reach. As he led her back to the hall she glanced over her shoulder at Carlos. He was staring after her, his face a mask of fury.

  That evening E
dward Sydenham and John Grenville stood at the edge of Thames Street waiting for a troop of soldiers to march by. Edward was still recovering from Valverde’s ferocious attack. He wished he could send the Spaniard to the bottom of the Thames, but the man had become Lord Abergavenny’s favorite, so Edward could not touch him. Edward and John were on their way to London Bridge to inspect the defenses. Edward would rather not have come, but John had insisted, and he was now the head of the house of Grenville. Watching the soldiers go by, impatient to move on, John said, “The Thornleigh girl, how did she get that wound?”

  “Hardly a wound, John. A horse bit her.”

  The troop passed, their torches flaring in the night wind. John strode into the street. Edward followed.

  “A horse?” John asked suspiciously. “Are you sure? Were you there when it happened?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  John grabbed Edward’s elbow to halt him. “I was on the bridge last night with my archers. My captain, Giles Stur-ridge, fired on a boat rowing fast toward the Old Swan Stairs. It was dark, but Sturridge thinks he might have hit the rower in the arm.”

  “Well?”

  “It was a woman.”

  Edward frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “The Thornleigh girl may be a spy for Wyatt.”

  Edward sighed. “John, I know you and Frances find the girl an irritant. And the Lord knows we’re all under a great deal of strain. But do you not think it a trifle far-fetched to cast her as a traitor?”

  “Her father is. And a murderer.”

  “Indeed. But she has nothing on her mind except finding him. She is obsessed with that. Believe me, she is barely able to see the crisis around her let alone involve herself in rebel heroics.”

  John started forward again, obviously unconvinced. Edward followed. The nine o’clock curfew tolled. They were approaching the foot of the bridge when John said, “Now that we know where Thornleigh is, the girl need hardly stay with you any longer. You have no more use for her. Tell her to leave.” He glanced at Edward with a disapproving frown, and added, “And let Frances know that the girl is going.”