The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  She wanted to stay like this forever, his eyes on her, his fingers kissing hers, his body so near she could feel its warmth. “Adam. It will be dangerous for you in Brussels. If you need a . . . a hiding hole . . . I have a friend. He has a barge. Do you know Sint-Gorikseiland?”

  He nodded. “The island in the Zenne.”

  “That’s where he lives. His name is Berck Verhulst. If you should need someplace.”

  “I’ll be fine. Promise me you’ll keep your head down.”

  “I will. One brainless act was enough.”

  He smiled. “Ten days, Fenella. We’ll meet back here. Yes?”

  “Yes.” They’d discussed this already. A rendezvous in ten days, he bringing his children, they hoped. They would sail back to Sark, get his ship, and sail to England. To safety.

  That night, as Johan snored in the cabin, Fenella lay awake in the cramped stern berth, her thoughts stealing up to the man asleep on deck under the stars. Thornleigh . . . Adam.

  Fenella and Johan turned onto Braderijstraat, where Spanish soldiers sauntered under more of Alba’s banners fluttering from a church. Fenella was beginning to wonder about her gold. She had not seen Joseph Oliveira in five years. She had sent him her profits twice yearly for safekeeping, because Sark was a frequent stopover for pirates and privateers, not the most law-abiding men. She had a soft spot in her heart for Oliveira, who had helped her after she’d first arrived in the Netherlands when she’d had nothing but the clothes on her back and a handful of her late brother’s coins. Oliveira was the first banker she had ever spoken to, nervously approaching him at the Antwerp Bourse about a small loan to start her chandlery in Polder, and she’d been grateful when he’d granted it. His investment had paid off, especially in the last few years as her business on Sark had flourished. She liked the man and trusted him. And now, seeing how much Antwerp had suffered under the Spanish occupation, she wondered how Oliveira had survived it. He came from a Portuguese family of Marranos, Jews forced to convert to Christianity, and all Jews, converts or not, were closely watched with loathing by the authorities of every Catholic country. The Duke of Alba was notoriously bent on making Antwerp spotlessly Catholic. A new thought struck Fenella. “Johan, what if Oliveira has gone?”

  “Gone?”

  “Fled. Like we did.”

  He looked puzzled. “At the Bourse they gave me the address of his house.”

  “The house of his business. But what if it’s passed into other hands? Spanish hands.”

  “He would have sent you word.”

  “Not if he was running for his life. Or hanged.”

  They reached the place, a well-kept house neither old nor new that stood inconspicuously on a quiet, narrow side street. Fenella noted its three stories, thinking they likely served the same functions of the homes of well-to-do shopkeepers that she’d seen from Edinburgh to Amsterdam: The street-level floor was the business, the family lived on the second floor, and the third floor attic housed apprentices and servants.

  She knocked. A stooped old clerk opened the door, his face deeply furrowed like walnut bark. He bowed to Fenella with a deference she assumed he granted to all potential customers. The dark foyer opened onto a hallway on one side, on the other a staircase that presumably led to the family’s quarters. Fenella inquired about Oliveira, showing the clerk a receipt of deposit. As he examined the paper a frown tugged his lined forehead. “Hmm, dated nine months ago.” What did that mean? Was Oliveira no longer here? “Kindly come this way,” the clerk said, beckoning her.

  Fenella followed him along the narrow hallway, and Johan followed her. She could see little of the premises, for the passage was hemmed in by high partitions of dark wood with several closed doors behind which she heard murmurs and clicking sounds, the business of the countinghouse. A young clerk with an armload of papers hustled past her on his way down an intersecting passage. The stooped old clerk knocked on a door, and at the murmured response of “Yes,” from within, he opened it. A messenger boy, sitting on a stool just inside the door, jumped up respectfully.

  The darkly paneled room was small, with one high window. Shelves covered every wall in a maze of cubbyholes that ran from floor to ceiling, each hole home to a sheaf of papers. At the far side two clerks younger than Fenella stood at tall desks, writing in ledger books. They looked up at her as she walked in, Johan behind her. A counting table covered in green baize held a scale and lead weights, and there a clean-shaven man of about forty sat with his head bent over a scroll, his quill pen scratching across it as he wrote in a swift but meticulous hand. He had the narrow shoulders of someone who haunts a desk, and a paunch curved the belly of his finely tailored doublet of russet velvet. Crisp curls of dark hair sneaked out from under a brown silk cap. He looked up at Fenella and a weight lifted from her heart.

  “Joseph Oliveira. You are well met, sir.”

  He blinked at her, recognition flashing in his eyes. He shot to his feet. “Bless my soul, it’s Mevrouw Doorn.”

  “I was afraid you might not know me, it’s been so long.”

  A blush tinged his cheeks. “The day I forget beauty is the day I leave this world.”

  She scoffed. Fancy words. “There’s beauty in gold, sir, and from the look of you I’d say your stock of it is burgeoning.” She grinned. “Mine too, I trust, thanks to your care.” She turned to Johan to introduce him. “My father-in-law, Johan Doorn.”

  Oliveira’s bright eyes turned sober. “My condolences, sir, though long overdue. I never met your son, but I know Mevrouw Doorn must have married a good man.”

  Johan nodded, looking uncomfortable. “He is with God.”

  Oliveira set down his pen. “Indeed.” He tugged the hem of his doublet as though readying to do business and approached Fenella. “Good lady, what brings you to Antwerp? I hope all is well on the Isle of Sark?”

  She hesitated. How much should she tell him? The fewer people who knew of her plan to go to England the better. She was taking a chance just in coming here. His clerks now knew she was in the city. “I mean to expand my business, sir. I need capital.”

  “Excellent. How can I help you? A loan?” He added graciously, “For such a valued client, I am quite satisfied about collateral security.”

  “No, sir, not a loan. A withdrawal of my funds.”

  “Ah. To what amount?”

  “All of it.”

  His eyes widened. “Goodness. Your plans must be extensive.”

  “They are. I’ll need all the money I’ve deposited with you.” She handed him a bundle of folded receipts, the top paper giving the sum total. “That’s my accounting. I’ve come to ask you to please ready the bullion for transport.”

  “In gold or silver?”

  “Gold, if you please.”

  “Of course. Will Tuesday suit you?”

  That jarred her. Today was Saturday. She didn’t want to hide in Antwerp for three days. “Why not right away?”

  If her impatience surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Unfortunately, I cannot gather such a sum before today’s end of business. Tomorrow we’re closed, of course, and Monday is a holiday. The Feast of Saint Venantious.” He brightened. “Perhaps you’ll join us? My wife is planning a splendid celebration, and we’ll have the honor of welcoming an illustrious visiting scholar from Seville, Father Sebastian, as well as Don Antonio de Reina, son-in-law of the Viscount de Zayas.”

  “Overmighty Spaniards? As your guests?” He looked taken aback at her tone, and Fenella realized she’d sounded terribly rude. But his casual attitude shocked her. “Forgive me,” she said. “It’s just that I was hoping to leave Antwerp immediately.” She found it hard to compose herself. “In truth, sir, I’m surprised you stay. Are you not worried for your safety? The safety of your family?”

  “Safety?” A guarded look. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “The executions. The mass arrests. The wholesale tyranny.”

  “Ah, you’re referring to punishment of the enemies of Go
d. Criminals, heretics, fomenters of riots. They were, and are, a terrible threat to the country. We sorely needed stability, and His Highness King Philip, through his exalted governor the Duke of Alba, has delivered stability.”

  Fenella shuddered. She saw again Polder in flames, Claes drowning, bound and struggling in terror. “Stability,” she managed. “At what cost? Slaughter and ruin. Alba is a monster.”

  Oliveira forced a tolerant smile as though dealing with an obstinate child. “As Alba himself says, ‘It is better that a kingdom be laid waste and ruined through war for God and the king, than maintained intact for the devil and his heretical horde.’ Wise words, I’m sure you agree.”

  “Wise?” She could only stare at him, dumbfounded.

  “I assure you,” he added in an unnaturally loud voice, “I count myself blessed to have the friendship of the distinguished Spanish gentlemen I’ve just mentioned who honor me with their friendship.”

  At his odd tone caution prickled her skin. She shot a glance at the two clerks across the room. Their eyes were focused on their open account books, pens poised over the pages, but neither pen moved. They’re listening. She stiffened. Magpies. Dear God, had she said too much? Curse my rashness! Stupidly condemning Alba . . . like shooting Don Alfonso. Always too rash, too reckless!

  She mumbled an apology to Oliveira, blaming her ill manners on fatigue and a headache, then quickly concluded her business with him, confirming that she would return on Tuesday for her gold. As she turned to the door to go she glanced at the two clerks. Had her rash tongue endangered Oliveira? The clerks were back at work, pens scratching on paper. Once out of the room she followed the old clerk, who led her and Johan back to the door to the street. Coming down the staircase was a pale, pretty woman carrying a baby on her hip. She gave Fenella a fleeting, polite smile before starting the opposite way, down the hall. Oliveira’s wife and child?

  “That fellow didn’t deserve your tongue-lashing,” Johan said, coughing, as he and Fenella left the house. “He’s just trying to keep his head above water. Like all of us.”

  Shame surged over her. She could blend into the crowd as a stranger, but Oliveira could not. As a citizen of Jewish descent he would always be suspect in a Christian land.

  Johan’s cough got worse as they walked to their lodging house. It made him hunch over, hacking into his tightly balled handkerchief as they crossed the Grote Markt. By the time they were in the cathedral’s shadows near the house he was weak, the coughing spasms so strong, Fenella had her arm around his shoulders to steady him and keep him upright. It frightened her. His fits had never been this bad before. He looked at her with unfocused eyes, unable to keep his grip on the handkerchief. The linen, red with blood, spread open in his hand like a noxious flower. Fenella bit back her dismay and tried to reassure him. “Just a few more steps, Johan. Then you can lie down.”

  He dropped the handkerchief and staggered to a halt, swaying. “I don’t . . . think I . . .” His legs gave way. He slipped out from under her arm. “Johan!” she cried. He dropped to his knees. But his innate stubbornness, his refusal to submit, kept him from toppling. People passed with furtive glances, careful to give them a wide berth. Fenella managed to get him to his feet and they covered the last steps to the house. By the time she got him up the stairs to his room and let him collapse on the bed she was out of breath and sticky with sweat.

  Johan looked barely conscious. His face was gray, his breathing strained, painful sounding. But his terrible spasms of coughing had abated. Feeling shaky, Fenella sat on the edge of the bed and gently laid her hand on his forehead. It was cold, clammy. Blood flecked the linen collar rucked up under his jerkin. His hand was stained with blood. Her heart bled at the thought of losing him. Don’t die, Johan.

  He sank into an exhausted sleep. She got a blanket and settled it over him, then sat beside him, willing him to survive, watching for signs of any strength returning. The afternoon shadows lengthened over his thin body. Several times Fenella was sure he had stopped breathing, but when she placed her palm on his chest she felt his heartbeat, though faint as a bird’s. Watching him so intently, her eyes scratchy with fatigue, she had an unnerving memory of lying beside Claes years ago and studying his face as he peacefully slept. How similar they looked, Johan an older, gaunter version of his son. The high cheekbones. The thin lips, wide mouth. The bony eyebrow ridge. But Claes, in death, had found no peace. She rubbed her eyes, rubbing away the memory.

  It was near dusk when Johan’s eyelids twitched open.

  “Not . . . here,” he said hoarsely.

  She was so relieved to see him return to her. “What’s that, Johan?”

  “Don’t want to die . . . here.”

  She squeezed his hand. “No one’s going to die. You’re better already, some color in your cheeks. It’s supper you need. We’ll get Mevrouw Smit’s good sausage and cabbage into you and by tomorrow you’ll be dancing a jig.”

  He feebly shook his head. “I’m done for.”

  “No, Johan, you just need doctoring and rest. I’ll see that you get it in England.”

  “That’s not . . . what I need.”

  “It is. As soon as we’re in England I’ll get you the best doctors money can buy. I promise.”

  He gripped her hand with a desperate strength. “No . . . no England for me. Home, Nella. Take me home.”

  It was in the village of Halsteren that Fenella first sensed she was being followed. Fleeting glances of a thickset man in a dusty maroon leather jerkin, a drooping, mustard-yellow feather in his cap. She had first noticed him that morning in Ossendrecht, mounting his horse as she and Johan had left the inn’s stable on their horses, and then again when they left Bergen op Zoom. Now, passing the church at the market cross in Halsteren, she turned in her saddle to push down the loose flap of her saddlebag and spotted the man disappearing behind the church wall. This time he was on foot.

  Perhaps it meant nothing. Farmers and craftsmen traveled back and forth all the time between villages like Halsteren and the big markets of Bergen op Zoom. The man might be one such trader. Might even have come from Antwerp just as she and Johan had. He seemed to be alone, nothing threatening about him. Since he was no longer on horseback, he likely lived here in Halsteren. So stop imagining things, she told herself, and nudged her horse on.

  She was taking Johan home, just as he had begged. After two days on the road they were close to Polder, and it was unnerving to be back in this countryside where she had lived with Claes. She constantly glimpsed the river to their left, a branch of the Scheldt that led to the North Sea, winding its way past hamlets and farmhouses. In that river Don Alfonso’s soldiers had drowned Claes. She didn’t like being back here. She wasn’t even sure she was doing the right thing in bringing Johan. She’d tried her best to make him agree to come with her to England, but he had been adamant, and she could hardly force him. In truth, his pitiful plea had moved her. He was too weak to go alone, and he insisted that this was what he wanted before he died.

  “There,” he said now, pointing to the flat fields that lay beyond the last houses of the village. “The farm’s not an hour down that road. We’ll be able to sup with Wilhelmina. Delicious cheese, she always made.”

  “That sounds good. I’m hungry.” Fenella had met this niece of Johan’s wife at her own wedding to Claes but only vaguely remembered her, a stout, big-boned young woman with white-blond hair and pale blue eyes not unlike the Doorns’. Johan had sent her a message from Antwerp and told Fenella he was sure Wilhelmina and her husband would take him in. Fenella found it strange to think of a farm being Johan’s new home. He had been a shipwright all his life, always near the sea.

  “They kept a fine milk cow, she and Goert.” He chuckled. “They’re not rich, but we’ll eat well.”

  He was in good spirits. So good, Fenella was beginning to think his sickness was not as threatening as she’d believed. Clearly, he was feeling much better since leaving Antwerp. That cheered her a little. If she co
uld see him contentedly settled with his niece, it would be less painful to leave him. But leave him she must. This country was not safe for her. She was determined to get to England. There was time. She had five days to return to Antwerp and collect her gold from Oliveira, then get back to the sheltered little cove where the Odette lay at anchor. Adam would join her there. Would he bring his children? She hoped so. She felt an eager curiosity to see the son and daughter he so obviously loved.

  Deep in her heart, though, it was Adam himself she yearned to see and sail away with. She tingled with anticipation, imagining the sea spray, the freedom from fear, and him. She was embarking on a new life. A part of her still chafed at having to leave behind everything she had built on Sark, but she knew it was her own rash fault. Besides, the island had never really been home. What is home? she wondered. Not the Scotland she had fled eleven years ago. Not Polder; that had been Claes’s home. So why not embrace England as the place where she could finally come to rest? She had no doubt that she could rebuild her business, maybe in Portsmouth or Bournemouth, busy centers of shipping. Or maybe on the Isle of Wight; she would have less competition there. It was exciting, really. Because Adam would be her partner in the business.

  Only in business? Could she hope for more? He clearly had no love for his wife. Besides, the woman was a traitor, so she could never set foot in England again. He was shackled to her in marriage by the laws of Christendom and nothing but death could change that. But his heart was not shackled. Nor his body. Fenella wanted both. Warm blood fired her cheeks at the thought. True, she was far below him: He was a fine lord, a baron. But on the boat, working together, they had been equals, and why should working together in business not be the same? In England, she felt happily, anything was possible.

  A frantic, flapping goose met her and Johan as their horses plodded into his niece’s farmyard. The goose honked and flapped aside, and Fenella looked around as she and Johan dismounted. The yard was hemmed in by the two-story house, some ramshackle outbuildings, a pigsty, and a well. She saw no pigs and heard none, but the yard certainly smelled of pig shit. The house was a substantial structure of wattle-and-daub walls and thatched roof, with a cow byre extending from the back. The building, weathered and begrimed, looked forlorn in the shade of a stand of elms. The trees sloped down to a stream, and the smell of decayed vegetation drifted from the overgrown reeds. At the well, a rope creaked in the breeze. No one was in sight. Fenella smelled burning peat, though, so someone must be home. Supper cooking on the hearth? Her mouth watered at the thought of the cheese Johan had promised. She loved the sweet tang of cheese. The goose, waddling toward the stream, disappeared into the reeds.