by Barbara Kyle
“Goose for supper, that would be tasty,” Johan said as he and Fenella headed for the front door. He grinned at her. She thought the grin looked strained. He was more exhausted than he let on. They passed a chopping block outside the door: a tree stump where an axe stood on its tip buried in the flat top. Flies buzzed around a gleam of blood. Something, goose or otherwise, had just been killed.
Inside, no one greeted them. The house sounded empty. Fenella had expected the noise of children. Johan had said his niece had four little ones when he’d left five years ago. The silence seemed odd. Was the whole family away? “Is it a market day?” Fenella asked.
He was looking around. “What?” He seemed distracted. Fenella noticed the glowing peat fire in the hearth, and the iron pot suspended over it gave off the aroma of an oniony stew. No one home, but supper cooking. Strange. “Where can they be?” she said. Something else was odd, too. She’d seen many farmhouses and this main room looked no different from most, with its wide brick hearth and scuffed wooden table, its cupboards and benches and stools. But it seemed barren of life, with none of the usual family clutter. No hanging herbs. No caked mud on the floor. No basket of linens waiting to be washed, no shirt or breeches left on the table for mending. No tools on the bench. No child’s poppet. It was as if no one lived here. Not even a dog.
She heard the low bellow of a cow. “Maybe someone’s in the byre,” she suggested. Johan seemed engrossed in poking a ladle into the contents of the pot at the hearth, so Fenella decided to check the byre herself. She opened the side door that led outside. A stone path overgrown with nettles took her to the low shed of rough boards. Inside, in the dusty gloom, a solitary cow stood munching. She swung her heavy head toward Fenella, blinked, then turned back to munching. The place was rank with a smell of musty hay. Fenella stood still, taking in the silence. She heard a rustling. She was peering into the gloom beyond a heap of straw when something bolted past her, startling her. A cat. It leapt up to the crossbeam, streaked along it, and disappeared into the shadows.
She turned back toward the door bright with daylight, calling, “Johan, they must have gone to—”
A figure surged at her from the brightness. She gasped. The huge black shape loomed over her, his arms raised above her head, something black stretched between his hands. She saw the outline of a feather in his cap. She lurched back and collided with another man. He grabbed her arms from behind. “Johan!” she yelled. “Run!” The man with the feather jammed the black thing over her head. A sack. She gasped in fear, sucking in dust from the burlap, coughing. Before she could catch her breath the man behind her whipped rough cord around her wrists and yanked them tightly together. “Open it,” he ordered. “Then get the other one.” Fenella heard the man with the feather scuffle past her. Heard a loud creak.
Blind in the blackness, her hands painfully bound, she twisted around in terror, but the man who’d spoken suddenly lifted her off her feet. He heaved her across his shoulder, his shoulder bone punching the breath from her stomach. Then they were moving. She was jostled so hard she could not catch breath to shout. She heard the heavy thump of his boots, thud, thud, thud. She squirmed, coughing, but he held her tight. Thud, thud, thud. Then he rocked to a stop. She felt cold air sweep over her. There was a dank, fishy smell. Where was she?
He set her down on her feet. She swayed, struggling to get her balance, blind and bound, out of breath from fear. She heard thud, thud, thud. Then, “Put him down.” A loud creak like before. The slam of wood on wood. A click.
The sack was wrenched off her head. She stumbled at suddenly being able to see. She jerked her head, taking in what was around her, though the light was dim. A ladder. A trapdoor at the top, dust sifting from the door having been slammed shut. They were beneath the cow byre!
She twisted around. Five strangers, four men. One held a candle, the only light. Beside him, the man with the mustard-colored feather in his cap. And a woman, stout and square jawed. One of the men was pulling the sack off Johan’s head. Johan staggered. He blinked at the woman. “Wilhelmina?”
The woman lurched at him with a dagger and held the tip menacingly at his throat. Johan froze. “Never speak that name again,” she said. She pressed the tip to his flesh until a bead of blood broke through. “Understand?” He swallowed, his eyes wide. “My name is Sister Martha. Understand?” He nodded.
Fenella watched in amazement. This fearsome woman was Johan’s wife’s niece?
“How did you know about us?” the woman demanded of Johan. Her red, chapped hand kept the dagger poised at his throat.
“I . . . didn’t,” he stammered. “I guessed. I . . . hoped.”
She studied him for a moment. Then lowered the blade. Johan rubbed his throat. A smile wobbled on his lips. “Thank you . . . Sister Martha.”
She marched over to Fenella, asking, “Who’s this?”
“Who in hell are you?” Fenella demanded. The men certainly weren’t Alba’s soldiers. They looked like laborers. Homespun clothes, calloused hands, stolid faces.
Sister Martha glared at her for her defiance, and for a moment Fenella was sure she was going to feel the woman’s blade.
Johan said, “It’s all right, Sister Martha. This is my daughter-in-law.”
The woman blinked. “You mean—?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She and the others stared at Fenella in astonishment. She bristled under their scrutiny. What made them so damned interested in her? The man with the feather touched Sister Martha’s shoulder as though to rouse her. She flinched, still staring at Fenella. Then she said with a faint rueful smile, “Who in hell, true enough. You might as well know.” She leaned around and cut Fenella’s bonds, then pointed with her dagger to the men, one after another. “This is Brother Sebastian. Brother Dunstan. Brother Ambrose.”
Fenella rubbed her chafed wrists. “Johan, what’s happening? Who are these people?”
“Friends,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Friends of the homeland.”
Rebels? She was stunned. And furious. “You said nothing.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“But you suspected. How could you not tell me?”
He spread his hand in a gesture of apology. “You wouldn’t have brought me.” His eyes gleamed with tears. “Nella, I thank you. I’m home.”
“Sister Martha,” the yellow-feather man said as the others kept gawping at Fenella, “we need to fetch Brother Domenic. To tell him.”
“I know,” she snapped.
“No need,” the third man said. “He’s already here. His boat just landed.” He pointed. Fenella looked across the dim room to a dark hallway, narrow and low. A tunnel. It was the source of the dank, fishy smell, she realized.
She’d had enough of this. She could be hanged just for being found with these people. All she wanted was to get out. “Johan, you can stay if you want, but I—”
“Brother Domenic,” the woman said, a deferential greeting.
Fenella turned. A thin man emerged from the tunnel, half-crouched from its low ceiling. He carried a lantern, bringing light into the dim space. As he straightened up he raised the lantern high to examine the newcomers.
Fenella’s heart gave a painful kick. Then it seemed to stop. Before her, his white-blond hair aglow under the light, stood Claes Doorn. Her husband. A dead man.
5
Frances
Footmen swept open the doors to the gallery in the Duke of Alba’s palace, bowing to the Duchess of Feria and her companion, and the two ladies strolled into the long, glittering room. Heads turned.
Frances Thornleigh, head high, savored every moment of making this entrance beside her exalted friend Jane, the duchess. The gallery was crowded with the leading men of Brussels and their ladies: magistrates and merchants, churchmen and military men, Dutch lords and visiting Spanish grandees. Some were awaiting an audience with Alba, some milling for gossip and trade talk. Clerks and servants scurried with messages. Sunshine through the flo
or-to-ceiling windows made everything gleam, from the banner-bright silks and satins on ladies and gentlemen alike to the shell-white marble floor. A sprightly music of lutes and viols lilted above the gabbling throng, and the air was spiced with the perfumes of Spain.
Frances exulted. What a thrill it was to see and be seen in this splendid palace! She was nervous, but only from excited anticipation about her imminent audience with Alba. She and Jane had prepared their appeal with great care. Frances’s heart was beating almost painfully fast, but she was ready. After years in exile—three aggrieved, lonely, worry-gnawed years—she was ready to do anything to get back the life in England that had been stolen from her. Winning Alba’s support was the key. He had the ear of King Philip, who trusted Alba’s judgment and acted on it. And Philip, master of vast armies with which he ruled half of Europe, had the power to knock the heretic Queen Elizabeth off her throne. Then, it would be safe for Frances to return. Restoration of honor. Vindication. She yearned for it. And today, God willing, she would take the first grand step. Success was not guaranteed, of course. She knew there were deep currents and counter-currents in Spain’s relations with England, so deep and swirling it was difficult to stay abreast, especially since she lived far from the power centers of either court. But everyone knew that the two countries were on the brink of war. And Frances was in touch with a different source of power. She had brought the proof, a letter, folded in her pocket. A letter so potent it just might turn the tide against England.
She glimpsed a man across the gallery. Wiry, swarthy, almost hidden by the crowd. He stood very still and seemed to be watching her. A hard face, almost scowling, that gave her a prickle of unease. Should I know him? she thought.
“They’re all looking at you, my dear,” Jane whispered. “They’re wondering who you are.”
Frances turned to her with a rush of delight. It was true: So many people were watching. How delicious, this curiosity she was arousing by her association with her distinguished benefactor. For three years Frances had been careful to stay hidden, bitter years of tedium and resentment, forced to abandon her title as Lady Thornleigh, her status as an English baroness. For her own safety and her children’s safety she went by her maiden name, Grenville. But today she had dared to come into this prominent public place, and it was exhilarating to be in society again. She could go on and on basking in people’s curiosity if she weren’t so keen to see Alba. Then, a pang of apprehension. Might she and her friend be far down the queue of petitioners? After all, Alba had the governance of the whole unruly country; even a duchess might have to wait her turn. “Will we have to wait long?” she asked Jane, who was smiling to acknowledge the bow of a bishop.
Jane shook her head. “As soon as he’s finished his dinner. His secretary assured me we are the first of his afternoon appointments.”
“Thank heaven. My heart can’t take much more of this anxious beating.”
“Don’t be nervous, my dear. He’s not as ferocious as they say. He cultivates the fierce reputation.” She added with a sly twinkle in her eye, “It stupefies the ignorant.”
Frances smiled. She squeezed Jane’s elbow, grateful for her friendship and support. Over twenty years ago, in the bloom of their youth, they had both enjoyed coveted places at the English court as fellow maids of honor to Queen Mary. Jane had been winsome young Jane Dormer then, the daughter of a prosperous Buckinghamshire wool merchant, and had won the heart of the dashing Spanish ambassador to London, Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa of Cordova, the Duke of Feria. He married her, and Jane had left England as a duchess to live the rest of her life in wealth and splendor in Spain. Now, she was a widow. Frances had been at her side in Spain when Feria died last year and had helped Jane through her grief. Frances felt like a widow herself, cut off as she was from Adam. Forever. His hatred for her was a kind of death. But that pain did not bear dwelling on. It was Jane who was her mainstay now. Frances owed her so much. God knows what she and the children would have done without Jane’s help. Though an exile, Frances was living very well as Jane’s guest.
“I am nervous, it’s true, but eager,” she said. “I know the governor will listen to you, his old friend.”
“More likely to you, my dear,” Jane said, “when I tell him of your bravery in the uprising and how you almost succeeded.”
Yet failed, Frances thought grimly. She still felt scarred by that debacle. Worse, she hadn’t been brave at all, had only done what her brother had told her to do, making her house in Chelsea available for the attempt on Queen Elizabeth’s life. In the end they’d blown up the house but not Elizabeth. Terrified of arrest, Frances had snatched the children and fled. “Anne came nearer success,” she said. “I so admire her.” Anne, Countess of Northumberland, was another stalwart among their group. Brussels was home to many English Catholic exiles, from nobles and gentlemen and priests to merchants and traders and seminary students. Frances and Jane had come to Brussels expressly to confer with them. “How she has suffered,” Frances murmured.
The Northern Uprising, people had called it. Anne’s husband, Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, had led it. In Spain Frances had followed the clandestine reports of Northumberland gathering an army of discontented northerners and she had prayed that he would march on London and overthrow the heretic Elizabeth. But that she-devil had more lives than a cat. Her army routed Northumberland’s forces before they got farther south than York. Northumberland fled to Scotland, and his wife, Anne, escaped to the Netherlands. Northumberland took refuge with a Scottish border raider. But the vile Scot sold his noble guest to the Earl of Moray. Anne tried to raise enough money to ransom her husband from Moray, persuading King Philip and even the pope to contribute to her cause. All in vain. Elizabeth outbid her! Took charge of Northumberland and executed him. And then, to demonstrate her total power, she executed his chief supporter, the Duke of Norfolk, the foremost peer of the realm. Frances still seethed with indignation. Spain could not move fast enough to bring down Elizabeth.
A hand touched her shoulder, startling her. She turned to see the swarthy man who had been watching her across the room. He wore the well-tailored but sober clothes of a merchant’s agent or a gentleman’s steward. Crinkly black hair and a chin shadowed with black stubble. The bloodshot whites of his eyes were spidered with red.
He bowed to Jane. “Pardon, Your Grace.” Then said to Frances, without bowing, “A word with you, my lady, if you would be so kind.”
He spoke English with an Irish accent, and there was a forwardness about him that raised Frances’s hackles. The kind of Irish upstart who did not know his place. “What do you want?” she said.
“It’s about what you will want, my lady. News.” He leaned in to speak in her ear, and she grimaced at the sour smell of beer on his breath. He whispered, “About your husband.”
A chill touched her scalp. Adam.
He gestured toward an alcove where they could speak in some privacy. Frances said, as calmly as she could, “As you wish,” and told Jane she would return in a moment.
“Who are you?” she demanded the moment she was alone with the man.
“Leonard Tyrone, at your service, my lady.”
“I need no service. How do you know my husband?”
His half smile showed brown teeth. “I work for him.”
A jolt of terror. He’s come to drag me back to hang. No, she thought, willing her frightened heartbeat to settle. If that were Tyrone’s mission he would have grabbed her in the dark of night or on a quiet street, not here among this crowd. The crowd, though, made it the ideal place for him to approach her. But for what? She challenged him, suspicious, “What kind of work?”
He shrugged. “I see to His Lordship’s interests.”
“I don’t believe you. My husband has no property in the Netherlands.” Nor ever would as long as he was wanted for his criminal pirating against Spain. Frances had heard the stories. Stories told by people who did not know she was Adam’s wife. Stories that made her cringe.<
br />
“Not that kind of interest,” Tyrone said. A sly gleam came into his eyes. “Ireland wasn’t to your liking that first year, I imagine, leastways not the tenements of Waterford. I’m sure you found the Duchess of Feria’s feather beds in Seville much more pleasant.”
Cold fear crept over her. “You’ve been following me?”
“Not personally. I pieced it together from what I heard here and there.” He added with obvious pride, “That’s what I’m good at. Tracking.”
For Adam. She tried to think past her fear. Why had this Irishman waited until now to approach her? “What do you want?”
“I told you. I’ve got something you’ll want. Information.”
She relaxed her guard a little. It seemed he hadn’t come to harm her. “About him?”
“Now you get my drift.”
“What do you know?” She’d had no contact with Adam in three years. “Where is he?”
Tyrone held up his hands to forestall her questions. “Not so fast. We haven’t agreed on a price. I’ve got expenses, my lady, and His Lordship is tardy with his pay.” He nodded to her hand. “That ruby will do me fine.”
Her other hand darted to cover the ring, protecting it. “You’re mad. This gem is worth fifty ducats.” Ten times what a maidservant would earn in a year.
