The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  She knew she should not blame Carlos . . . yet part of her did. He knew how she felt about these people, about the wretched Spanish occupation. After witnessing the boy’s awful execution in the market square she had told Carlos she was going home and taking the children with her. She’d immediately regretted that angry outburst, though. After all, she had willingly come to the Netherlands with him. In sixteen years of marriage they had rarely been apart. In Peru, when he’d been captain of the viceroy’s guard, she had accompanied him to his postings throughout that country and enjoyed it. Their one separation had been eleven years ago when he’d gone to Scotland, and that strained episode had taught her that she hated being apart from him.

  But she also hated the brutality she saw every day in Brussels. If there was anything she could do to stop it she would, but that was impossible, of course. Ludicrous. Like hoping to stop a marching army from squashing an ant. Besides, given the precarious state of their personal finances she knew how much Carlos wanted and needed the Spanish pension that he’d earned but that Alba had yet to deliver. So she and Carlos had forged a compromise. He had promised her that if the pension did not come within six months they would go home. She had hesitated, because she felt that her first duty had to be the welfare of their children. Brussels was a hideous place for them and the new babe was due in less than two months. But she’d seen how much her threat to leave had hurt Carlos, and that broke her heart. So she had agreed. Six months.

  Now, though, once she had seen Frances, six hours seemed too long.

  “Wait until the auction’s over,” Carlos urged. “We can’t leave now; we just got here.”

  You can’t, perhaps. I don’t work for Alba. She had her eyes on Alba as he smiled and chatted with Frances. “Look, he’s her champion. All these people are, I warrant. To them she’s the long-suffering wife of the Englishman they hate. The pirate baron.” She fumed at the injustice. “I swear, Carlos, if I have to speak to her I may spit in her face.”

  “The two of you were friends once,” he reminded her.

  “The more fool I. Who knew she would try to murder the Queen? And Adam barely escaped with his life.”

  “She’s paid for it, by the look of her.” Isabel had to admit that might be true: Frances had become thin. She’d always been angular and now the angles had sharpened, her chin more pointed, her elbows sharp. “Three years on the run,” Carlos added.

  “With Robert and Katherine in tow, poor things. Adam’s had men looking for them all this time.” A terrible thought struck her. “Carlos, I’ve heard talk about these exiles. They’re urging Philip of Spain to back an invasion of England and put Mary of Scotland on the throne. Do you think Frances could be part of that cabal?”

  He scoffed. “Gossip. The King’s not going to invade anyone. He has his hands full fighting the Turks plus keeping these Dutch in line. People spread rumors to sound important.”

  “But Frances committed treason once. Why not again? And look at the people she’s consorting with. There, see, by the window? That’s the Countess of Northumberland. Her husband was a traitor. He raised the Northern Uprising and took Durham before Her Majesty put it down and executed him. Everyone knows his wife burns to avenge his death.”

  As though Frances had heard, she suddenly caught sight of Carlos and Isabel. Frances stared, clearly as astonished as Isabel had been. But she held her head high. No wonder, Isabel thought grimly. She’s among powerful friends. To these people, I’m the outsider.

  A man hustled past Carlos and Isabel toward the auction activity and knocked her side. Instinctively, she laid a protective hand on the babe in her belly. Carlos shot the man a fierce look, saying, “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Oh no,” she whispered, stiffening. Frances was coming this way. Carlos let out a low groan as they watched Alba stroll alongside Frances to join them.

  “Señora Valverde,” Alba said. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

  Isabel dipped a curtsy and murmured as politely as she could, “Your Grace.”

  “Hello, Isabel,” Frances said. Her thin lips formed a tense smile. “Hello, Carlos,”

  Carlos jerked a bow of his head. “Lady Thornleigh.”

  “It has been a long time,” she said to Isabel, tentative but friendly, an overture apparently.

  What mischief was she brewing? Isabel struggled to set a sociable face over her disgust. “Indeed it has. Your travels kept you away from us in England.”

  Alba went on, “I have only recently met your charming sister-in-law, a welcome addition to our city.” He added smoothly to Carlos, “Tell me, Valverde, are all the ladies of this family blessed with such beauty?”

  Isabel bristled, guessing what he was really asking: Where does your wife’s loyalty lie? Carlos replied steadily, as though he, too, caught the meaning, “Every one, my lord.”

  The auctioneer’s voice rang out announcing the opening of bids for an emerald necklace. “Will you pardon me?” Alba said. “I promised the duchess I would bid on this for my wife at home in Spain.” With a courtly bow of the head to the ladies, he turned and left them.

  Frances’s eyes flicked to the mound of Isabel’s belly. “Your fourth, I think?” Her tone turned wistful. “I well remember your help in delivering my Katherine. We were close, then, you and I. I hope we can be friends again. It’s been . . . lonely.”

  Isabel felt thrown, almost moved. “Have my niece and nephew come to Brussels with you?”

  Frances stiffened. All she’d heard was the rebuff. “My children are well. I shall tell them you asked after them.”

  Isabel impulsively took her sister-in-law’s hand. “Frances, this is no life for them. Exiled from home, no country to call their own. Send them back to Adam. Don’t make them pay for your crime.”

  Frances withdrew her hand with icy forbearance. “In this land, my dear, it is your brother who is the criminal.”

  Isabel flinched. Was this a threat?

  Frances went on, her voice hard, “I came to give you a kind word, for your sake.” She glanced at Carlos. “Both your sakes. A warning for Adam. Tell him, if he values his head, to keep his distance.”

  “Your kindness is not required,” Isabel replied steadily. “I never see my brother.”

  Frances held her gaze for a moment as though gauging the truth of her words. Then she proudly lifted her chin again. “Excuse me. I, too, will join the bidding. My dear friend the duchess hopes to raise a sizable purse to comfort the poor souls who’ve fled England for their faith.”

  “Poor?” Isabel challenged. “The Countess of Northumberland and her wealthy friends? They’re all drawing pensions from the pope.”

  “There are carters and coopers and cloth workers, too. Would you have them starve?”

  “I would have them loyal to Her Majesty.”

  Frances seemed to bite back a reply. “I shall pray,” she said evenly, “that God will grant you a safe delivery.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Isabel was trembling with indignation. “I won’t stay in the same room with her. Or these people. I’m going home. This moment.” She turned to leave.

  Carlos took her elbow to stop her. “Isabel, I can’t go until—”

  “Then don’t,” she snapped. “I don’t need you.”

  Across the room Alba was watching them. Carlos looked loath to be seen arguing with his wife. “I’ll take you,” he told her. He guided her by the elbow toward the gallery doors. “I’ll tell him you aren’t feeling well.”

  “That’s right, lie. This place makes liars of everyone.” She shot a hostile glance over her shoulder at Alba. “Everyone toadies to him.”

  “That’s enough,” Carlos said, marching her through the open doors. “We need him.”

  “We need to get home to England.”

  “And live on what?”

  “At least we would live. Here he’s going to get you killed.” They were on their way down the stairs, their eyes on a trio of chatting Spanish grandees
coming up, and she said nothing until the Spaniards had passed. Then she went on, “He has forced this country to its knees and they’re going to turn on him, and when that happens I’m afraid you’ll be fighting for him.”

  “I am bound to fight for him.”

  “Bound? By what law?”

  “By honor. And by our need.”

  “My need is to get our children out of this madhouse of a country. Get them safe home. If you won’t go, I’ll take them myself.”

  “No. I need you to stay.”

  “Why? When you know how I feel. We just quarrel. Why shouldn’t I go?”

  Because the travel is rough and I’m afraid you’ll miscarry. Because I want you by my side. Because you and the children are everything. That’s what Carlos had felt when she’d hurled the question at him an hour ago on the duchess’s staircase. He hadn’t been able to put the feelings into words. All he’d managed was a terse, “Because you’re my wife.”

  “Obedience, is that it?” she had said. He saw that he had hurt her, though he could not fathom how. How he hated this wrangling! At the duchess’s front doors he’d called for the litter Isabel had come in and seen her into it, and when his horse was brought he’d swung up into the saddle.

  Now, keeping his horse to a walk, he rode beside her litter through the dark streets, both of them silent in the presence of their two servants led by a linkboy with a torch. Carlos could not get over how strange and uncomfortable the meeting with Frances had been. It made him all the more uneasy because he had not told Isabel what Alba had said that night at the brothel, that there was one sure way to prove his loyalty and secure the pension: track down Adam.

  The night was windy, sending broken twigs scurrying along the cobbles of the courtyard at the Valverdes’ house. Carlos dismounted and his groom took the horse to the stable. Handing Isabel from the litter, Carlos saw her stormy face, so he sent the servants ahead to bed, not wanting them to see the discord between him and his wife. With no torch, there was only candlelight from the windows to light their way to the front door. Isabel stumbled on an uneven stone. He put out his hand to steady her. She pulled back, refusing his help. It hurt him more than all her angry words.

  Wind rustled the high bushes that flanked the door, and Carlos caught a glint of something among the branches. A form stepped out, a man, cloaked. Black in the shadows, he stood barring their way. Carlos pulled Isabel behind him to shield her as he drew his sword. “Who’s there?”

  “A friend.”

  Friends don’t accost friends. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The man held up his hands in surrender to Carlos’s blade. “A word. No more.” With one hand still raised he used the other to push his hood back from his face.

  “Adam!” Isabel cried. She rushed out from behind Carlos.

  Carlos froze. Thornleigh. His heart thumped. His mind galloped. Deliver him to Alba. Win the pension....

  Isabel threw her arms around her brother’s neck. He flinched as though in pain. “Adam, what—”

  “Not here,” Carlos warned, sheathing his sword. Be friends. Get him into the house. He glanced at the upper windows of the neighbors’ houses on either side visible above the courtyard wall. Some windows were dark. In others, candles flickered. “God knows who’s watching. Come inside.”

  “Oh yes,” Isabel whispered, sobered. “Adam, they mustn’t see you.” She pulled his hood up to shadow his face. “Nor our servants, either.”

  They brought him inside, passing the servants, and led him into the parlor. Carlos closed the door. When he turned back Thornleigh had again pushed back the hood. Their eyes locked.

  “Christ, Thornleigh. You’re taking a chance.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? Do you know my position here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know I cannot—”

  “Hush, Carlos,” Isabel said. “Of course we can. Adam, you’re most welcome.” She was removing his cloak. The shirt he wore was loose at the neck and got tugged off his shoulder. She gasped. “You’re hurt!”

  Carlos saw the bandage and the small bloom of blood that had wept through it. Thornleigh gave his sister a crooked smile. “Blame your enthusiastic greeting.”

  “Not for that wound,” Carlos shot back.

  “Who hurt you?” she said, a cry of concern.

  Thornleigh didn’t answer. His eyes had not left Carlos. “You’re one of Alba’s commanders. I know that. We hold different . . . positions. But you’re also my sister’s husband. And my friend.”

  “I was.” He saw that Thornleigh had no weapon. It would take only a moment to subdue him.

  Isabel’s eyes flicked between them, agonizing. “Carlos, stop this. Of course you’re friends. He’s kin. Adam, you’re in trouble, that’s clear. What’s happened?”

  Doubt flickered across Thornleigh’s face. “I need . . . your husband’s help.”

  “Of course,” she said. “How?”

  “It’s about Robert and Kate.”

  That startled Carlos. He shared a glance with Isabel. She looked as surprised as he was. She said, “We just saw Frances at the Duchess of Feria’s house. Frances is staying with her. She assured me the children are fine.”

  “They’re not fine,” Adam growled. “They belong in England, with me. I mean to take them home. But she has them hidden away, and well guarded.” He looked at Carlos. “I can’t do it alone.”

  Carlos couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You want my help to . . . ?” He almost laughed. “You’re brainsick.” And as good as dead if you barge into the duchess’s house. Her men will have you in chains.

  “No, Carlos, he’s not. This is our niece and nephew. We can’t abandon them.” Isabel came to him. Her voice softened. “You taught Kate how to shoot a bow and arrow, remember? Her seventh birthday, when we visited them, everyone so merry? And you’re Robert’s godfather. We stood together at his christening. Please. Isn’t there some way?”

  She looked up into his face, waiting.... Thornleigh stood looking, too, waiting. Carlos suddenly knew: I’m the one who’s brainsick. Turn Thornleigh over to Alba? No, he could never do that. He had let Alba believe that he might track Thornleigh down, but that was only a tactic to get a step closer to a pension from the King. Thornleigh was Spain’s enemy; there was no doubt of that. He had hit Alba hard by pirating a pay ship with gold meant for Alba’s troops and he was still hitting Spanish shipping. So Thornleigh might still have to fight for his life. But not at my hands, Carlos thought. We are not foes.

  And there was Isabel. He knew that she and her brother were waiting for him to say something, but he wanted to hold on to this moment, savor Isabel’s beseeching look. It wasn’t about winning their quarrel. It was about what he saw shining in her eyes. Trust. It warmed him. Made him feel strong.

  But strong enough to defy Alba? That brought him crashing up against reality. Anyone found aiding the enemy would get a savage response from Alba. He could throw me in chains. Hang me. Then what would Isabel do, with Nicolas and Andrew and Nell to raise and the new child on the way?

  She squeezed his arm. “Carlos? Please?”

  10

  Enemies Unseen

  Carlos galloped through the open gates of the Cistercian abbey. Fifteen of his best men rode behind him, thundering in under the gatehouse arch, hooves clanging on the cobbles. A young kitchen maid, the first to see them, screamed.

  “Spread out!” he ordered his men. “Shut the gate!” Their swords scraped from scabbards. The maid dropped her basket. Cabbages rolled from it like heads. She ran.

  The horsemen fanned out, cloaks rippling. They cantered alongside the two low wings that formed the north and south sides of the quadrangle. Carlos galloped across to the east side formed by the church, sending terrified nuns scurrying out of his path. The raid had to be quick. The daylight was fading. He’d waited all day so he could hit the place at sunset.

  He drew rein beside an old woman who cowered, looking
up at him, the sunset’s rays reddening his steel breastplate and helmet. He hadn’t drawn his sword. It might have been years since the older cloistered women had seen a soldier and there was no need to cause terror. Surprise was all he needed, and by the sound of the screams and shouts and the flurry of nuns scattering from his men he’d accomplished that. “Where’s your abbess?” he asked the old woman.

  Trembling, she pointed to a stone house beside the bell tower of the church. Carlos was about to say, Fetch her, when he saw a tall woman stride out the door of the house, passing helmeted horsemen and frightened nuns. Her haste in marching toward Carlos sent the white scapular over her black habit fluttering. Her blunt features were set in stern dismay at the chaos. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded as she reached him. “Who are you?”

  From the saddle, he jerked a respectful bow of the head. “Valverde. Commander of the Brussels Guard in the service of the governor, His Grace the Duke of Alba. You’re the abbess?”

  “Yes. What—”

  A clang and a shout. They both looked to the main entrance under the gatehouse. His lieutenant, Martinez, had closed the gate. Carlos turned back to the abbess. “Reverend Mother, I have information that an enemy of Spain has taken refuge inside your walls. I’ve come to search the abbey for him.”

  “Enemy?” She blinked in amazement. Carlos’s horse tossed his head with a snort and a jangle of harness. Carlos glanced across the quadrangle. Trotting ahead of Martinez was Adam Thornleigh in helmet and breastplate and armed with a sword. Carlos prayed that Thornleigh looked enough like one of them. Get this over with fast, he told himself. He was jittery at the terrible chance he was taking. If even one person suspected Thornleigh it could light a fuse of questions burning a path straight to Carlos. Enough to throw nooses over both our necks.

  “But . . . we are a community of women,” the abbess said, shaken. “If such a man were here—any man—I would know of it.”

  “I believe he’s in hiding. Pardon the inconvenience, but my men will search the buildings.”