by Barbara Kyle
Edward smarted at the reproof. Clearly, Frances had been whining to her brother. “Of course,” he murmured.
“I will have the Thornleigh girl watched,” John went on. “She may incriminate herself before tomorrow is out.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Wyatt cannot possibly come over the bridge, and to cross otherwise he would need a fleet to ferry his army, also impossible. So Pembroke feels sure he will march upriver to Kingston and cross there. That will bring him back to London at Newgate or Ludgate. And he will likely start out tomorrow.”
Edward felt a tremor of fear. There would be real fighting. He had not thought it would come so soon. He was about to speak when a gunshot blasted from the bridge.
“Come!” John said, hurrying forward. Edward reluctantly followed.
They found the bridge crowded with soldiers, two hundred or more jostling in the narrow street with longbows, arquebuses, and torches. John pushed his way through with Edward in tow. A sergeant with a torch met them halfway to the drawbridge gap. “Arquebus shot, sir,” he reported to John. “Ours.”
“Why? Has Wyatt attempted some kind of attack?” John asked as he pushed on toward the gap.
“No, sir,” the sergeant said, falling into step beside him and Edward. “Seems there’s a wild man on Wyatt’s side.”
They reached Lord Howard who stood behind a row of five arquebusiers fanned out along the gap with their guns poised on forked rests. The long wicks, soaked with saltpeter and looped over the gunbarrels, smoldered as the gunners waited for an order to fire. Edward squeezed between two cannon, avoiding their cold touch.
Lord Howard turned. “Ah, Grenville. Sydenham. What do you make of it?” He pointed across the gap. “Fellow over there’s capering about like a mad monkey.”
Edward’s eyes stung in the sulfurous smoke from the discharged arquebuses as he peered across the chasm of the gap. He saw no sign of life in the deserted houses on the bridge. But a lone figure stood on a flat roof at the gap, a mere silhouette in the darkness.
Lord Howard said with a snort, “What an imbecile. Doesn’t even look armed.”
Grenville nodded with a smile. “What do you think, Sydenham? Non compos mentis?”
The man’s silhouette suddenly moved to the edge of the roof. “Sydenham!” he yelled as if challenging the whole city. “I’m coming for you! I know!”
The Queen’s men looked at Edward with curiosity. Fear, like a cannon ball, slammed Edward’s stomach. Could this man be Thornleigh?
The figure on the roof raised an arm, fist to the sky, and shouted wildly, “I’m coming, Sydenham! I’m going to kill you!”
Near midnight Edward knelt before the altar of the Virgin Mary in the private chapel of his house, John on his knees beside him. As they’d left London Bridge, John had solemnly suggested that they take a moment in Edward’s chapel to pray for the Blessed Virgin’s help in the coming battle.
Edward never came into this small, dark space. He loathed the gloomy oak slab walls, the mawkish Madonna, the wax altar candles as pale as a corpse’s skin, but most of all he loathed the airless silence, like a tomb. He stole a glance at John. John’s eyes were closed, his hands clasped in supplication, his lips silently mouthing a prayer.
Edward could think of nothing but Thornleigh’s threat on the bridge. “I know!” he had cried. It sent a fresh shudder down Edward’s backbone. Somehow, Thornleigh had traced Grenville’s attack on his wife back to him. Everything had unraveled. Thornleigh was coming for him. Thornleigh was going to kill him.
What was he to do? Oh, Christ, what was he to do?
He tried to think, but he felt the air sucked out of the tiny space, saw the altar flame gutter in the starved air, felt his lungs begin to collapse … the place was a coffin! His heart banged against his ribs. He made fists and dug his nails into his palms to bring himself back to reality, forcing himself to see and hear what was real. The Madonna still looked down with her longsuffering gaze. John’s inane prayer droned on. Good, now concentrate, Edward told himself, subduing his pounding heart. Identify the problem. Devise a solution. Think!
What had John said on the way back? Edward had beenso stunned by Thornleigh’s threat he’d barely listened to John. But now he began to recall John’s words. Something about Ludgate and Newgate, and posting the Grenville archers. Yes, that was it. The rebels were going to attack at one of these western gates. And if they did, Edward realized, Thornleigh would be among them. In the front line—that’s what the Spaniard had said. At the thought of fighting, Edward’s bowels churned—he could almost see Thornleigh raging toward him with a bloody sword—but he forced himself to imagine the scene.
There must be an answer here. There must be some way out.
Isabel sat in the velvet cushioned window seat of her bedchamber and looked out at the skeletal arms of the apricot trees in Sydenham’s orchard—black, bony fingers grasping toward the night sky. The room’s scented candles cast a gentle glow, and the brazier radiated soft waves of heat, but Isabel felt cold. Her mind still reeled from Carlos’s attack, and his astounding declarations. The news that her father had joined Wyatt’s army had stunned her.
She looked down at her mother’s book on her lap. Was there no end to the surprises of her parents’ characters? She fanned the pages, remembering how Master Legge had said this book had changed her mother’s life. Changed it how? Isabel wondered. She felt resentment rise in her again over the secrets her parents had kept from her. Secret voyages, burnings, rescues, mysterious books.
The book’s leaves fell open at the title page. There, the brilliant blue speedwell flower gleamed back at her like a mild rebuke. She had never been as proficient in Latin as her mother was, but she’d understood, from snatched readings of the short text, that its thesis was that immortality of the soul might be merely a man-made fantasy. This was truly heresy. But it didn’t horrify Isabel. It seemed to her that earth was bountiful enough in natural splendor and meaning without the dream of a life after death. It made her feel a new kinship with her mother, a kinship beyond blood. One of spirit. The kinship of equals.
Why was there no news of her? She must surely have arrived in Antwerp by now, so why had the nurse not sent word? Or Adam? Was it because her mother had not survived her wound? The thought terrified Isabel. She couldn’t imagine life without her mother. A woman who, apparently, had faced dangers as grave as Isabel did now, and had fought them and prevailed. That’s what she would hang on to, Isabel decided. That’s what she would be led by. Her mother’s example.
She ran her fingertip over the lovely blue speedwell, and its fragile, veined petals seemed to quiver as if under her mother’s breath as she used to whisper the family fable about Isabel’s eyes. So your father gave up one of his own eyes to fill yours with this wondrous blue … Isabel shook her head with a sad smile. Such sweet nonsense. Yet as a child she had believed it, and adored her father for his sacrifice.
Tears pricked her eyes. How was she to save him now? At first, after Carlos’s attack, she’d been overwhelmed with hope, for Wyatt would surely prevail in the coming fight, and then she and her father would be reunited and all the Queen’s power and all the Grenvilles’ venom would dissolve. But soon doubt had crept in. Carlos had also said her father planned to march in Wyatt’s front line. Even if Wyatt was victorious, his first men attacking the fortified city would likely be cut down. If her father was going to be among them, she could not save him. The thought dismayed her.
And so did her mortification over Carlos. She knew she should despise him, but she’d felt something far different when he had exploded into Sydenham’s hall and their eyes had met. Something in her had leapt. Now, she shook her head violently to dispel his image. What degeneracy was it in her that made her body turn toward the man like some mindless green shoot toward the sun? How could such feelings exist in her for a man who was her enemy in every way? A man who murdered for money. A man who had crowed about her father’s whereabouts to a hall fu
ll of her father’s enemies?
And yet, something gnawed. Something was not right. She knew Carlos to be practical, never taking a risk unless it was his only chance, and then he would charge ahead without restraint. And although he had joined the Queen’s army, she knew he had no romantic zeal for their cause. Besides, he said he’d been granted a pardon by Lord Abergavenny, so he was once again secure. So what had he hoped to gain by his wild accusations this afternoon? Why would he risk arresting Sir Edward Sydenham in his own hall, amongst Sydenham’s powerful friends—and arresting Isabel too—on such a paltry pretext? He must have known he had no hope of taking Sydenham away, nor her. Why, then, had he tried? It was almost as though he’d blurted her father’s whereabouts and tried to haul her away in some fit of madness. Yet even as he’d dragged her into the passage, she had known he was in full command of himself, not deranged at all, as though, while he’d raged and created chaos, he had been bent on one thing only: getting her out. Why?
There was a soft knock at her door.
“Come in.”
Sydenham poked his head inside with an apologetic smile, then walked in. He was carrying a goblet. “Nothing can make up for the ordeal you suffered this afternoon at the hands of that barbarian,” he said, holding out the goblet like an offering, “but I hope some spiced wine may soften some of the hardest edges.”
Isabel stood and managed a smile. “You are all thought-fulness, sir.” She took the silver goblet. Its warmth made her realize how cold her hands were.
“I thought you might like some company,” Sydenham said. He gestured to a spot beside her in the window seat. “May I?”
“Oh, please,” she said. “My own thoughts are such a misery, anything will be better than—” She stopped, realizing the implied insult.
He smiled. “Well, if misery in this case does not exactly love company, toleration is quite acceptable.” He laughed lightly, but Isabel saw that his mirth was forced, and that he was far from relaxed. He made a motion inviting her to drink. “Do try it,” he said.
She sipped the warm wine. The taste, like the aroma, was exotically spicy.
“Do you like it?”
“Delicious.”
“An infusion of claret, nettles, white ginger, and cloves. Or so Frances tells me. She sent me a cask at Christmas. I’ve enjoyed it myself.” He added in an abstract way, “Frances is clever with such things, you know.”
He picked up her mother’s book and idly glanced at it, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He put the book aside. “Isabel,” he said. “I have come to apologize. Abjectly.” His voice was heavy with sadness. “I have failed. With your father.” He shook his head. “Extraordinary. Who would have thought he would go to the rebels? And, according to that appalling Spaniard, he actually means to march in the front rank.” He gave her a sudden, sharp look. “What do you make of such a statement?”
Isabel had no doubt. “I believe it to be true.”
He nodded gravely. “So do I.” Isabel thought she saw a tremor go through him.
“However,” he went on, “there may still be a way to save him. It is only a chance, mind you. A slight chance.”
“Yes?” She had already wondered how she might get to her father in Southwark, for she might be able to persuade him to leave Wyatt before the attack on London. After all, how much help could a one-eyed old man be to such an army? But she’d been unable to think of any way to reach him. London Bridge bristled with royalist soldiers, every boat, by royal order, was tied to the northern shore, andevery wharf was watched by sentries. The city was completely cut off from Southwark.
“The situation is bad, I grant you,” Sydenham said as though reading her thoughts. “However, a plan has occurred to me. It centers on the fact that the Earl of Pembroke is certain Wyatt will attempt an attack of London at Ludgate or Newgate.”
Isabel felt a prick of alarm that the royalists had so quickly deduced Wyatt’s strategy. Perhaps it was obvious, given his lack of alternatives. At least they did not know that he’d decided on Ludgate. In any case, it was her father’s fate that concerned her now. Was that wrong, she wondered, when Wyatt, and so many with him, were about to risk their lives? Once again, her warring loyalties battled inside her. But Wyatt surely had no more need of her. The French would arrive soon—any hour now, de Noailles had said—and Peckham, leading Wyatt’s London supporters, would throw open Ludgate to welcome Wyatt’s army. She was no longer necessary to the cause. But maybe she could still save her father.
She waited for Sydenham to tell her how. A coal on the brazier popped in a small shower of sparks. A dog down the street howled like a wolf.
“Accordingly,” Sydenham went on, “we will concentrate our forces at the western gates. John Grenville has received orders to post his archers inside, and they can quickly be moved to the gate Wyatt attacks. The archers will be positioned on the rooftops of the buildings immediately inside, and their mission will be to repel any rebels who make it through. I am no military man but even I can see that, given the narrow passages through the gates, such a placement of the archers offers an almost unassailable position of strength. And the Grenville archers are the finest in England. No rebel will get past their murderous hail of arrows.”
Isabel shivered, thinking of her father, of Wyatt, of all the good men with him.
“Now,” Sydenham said earnestly, “this is my suggestion. I shall persuade the Grenville archers to single out Richard Thornleigh and spare him. Though they fire on every other rebel who broaches the gate, Thornleigh shall walk through it unscathed.”
Isabel blinked. “Persuade?”
He gave a small smile. “I am a wealthy man. I can make it well worth their while. No one will know. The archers will be killing rebels, so who will notice that they are sparing one?” His smile evaporated. “This plan offers a small hope, mistress, that is all. In no way does it remove all jeopardy from your father. Pembroke’s troops will be stationed outside the gates, and I can do nothing about them. But should Wyatt broach a gate—which is only too likely—the archers can preserve Thornleigh. Then, if we can reach him, you can both row out to van Borselen’s ship, and sail out of the country.”
Isabel realized she’d been holding her breath. It came out in a rush of astonishment. “You would do all this for us?”
He took her hand. “We have come thus far together in our quest for reconciliation. I do not intend to shirk at the last moment. Do you?”
Isabel felt a shudder threaten at his hand’s cool touch, but she suppressed it. What business had she shying from him when he was offering her her father’s life! Impulsively, she took up his hand and held it to her cheek to prove her friendship. “Sir Edward, there are no words … how can I ever repay you!”
He looked at her strangely. “Repay?” he murmured as his gaze slid down to her breasts. “My dear, the war between our families has caused so much suffering. Peace is its own reward.”
She nodded. He touched her cheek. She did not shrink back, not from such a friend. “There is, however, one service I would request of you,” he said.
She flinched in spite of herself, so suggestive was the remark and the look in his eye. “Certainly,” she said steadily. “What can I do?”
“I must give the archers an exact description of your father, but I have never seen him. Would you furnish me with such a description?”
Isabel smiled as her schoolgirl fears of him dissolved. Hope for her father washed over her like a tide. “Take me to the archers,” she said eagerly. “I shall tell them myself!”
He smiled. “That will not be necessary.”
All the next day the city held its breath. Not for over a hundred years had a rebel army come so close to London. But Wyatt made no attack from Southwark. And the Tower cannon were silent, for the Queen’s council feared provoking the people of Southwark by firing on them.
London waited.
In Westminster, judges hearing cases wore armor beneath their robes. In Whitehall, t
he Queen received Mass from a priest wearing armor beneath his vestments. The soldiers of the Queen’s personal guard trooped into her private chambers in armor with their pikes and poleaxes, sending her ladies scurrying and whispering in fear. All London’s gates were shut and bolted, and the watch was doubled on every one. The city had become a fortress. The Queen’s court was like a garrison.
But still, Wyatt made no move.
32
The Broken Gun
Wyatt’s cannon boomed from the Southwark shore, sending frightened gulls screeching over the rooftops of London Bridge. The cannonball arced through the dawn drizzle and splashed into the humped, gray water of the Thames. The blast had only been an insolent salute to waken the Queen’s soldiers camped on the bridge. A departing sneer. Sir Thomas Wyatt could wait no longer. He was about to march his army out of Southwark and head westward to Kingston.
Thornleigh stood in the rain among Wyatt’s army at the foot of London Bridge where mules were harnessed to the big guns from the Queen’s ships. The few score horsemen steadied their mounts, but the great mass of the soldiers were on foot. They watched as Wyatt jumped down from his horse and strode to the bolted gatehouse entrance. In a theatrical gesture of defiance, Wyatt lifted his gauntleted fist to the timber doors and banged. He turned to his soldiers. “When we came to Southwark I knocked. Now, twice have I knocked and not been suffered to enter. Next time I knock at a London gate I will be let in, by God’s grace!”
His men cheered. Thornleigh stared in silence at the drizzle-shrouded city across the water. Sydenham was there. Sydenham, who’d goaded Grenville to shoot Honor and had now lured Isabel into his trust. One by one Sydenham was removing all who might divulge his past.
The artillery officer lit the cannon fuse again. It boomed a second salute. Wyatt mounted his horse and led out his cheering soldiers. At their backs, the rising sun struggled to lighten the pewter sky.
