The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  “No, but he is not far offshore.”

  She didn’t understand. “Pardon, Your Grace?”

  “I’ve had reports that he is with the criminals who call themselves the Sea Beggars.”

  She hadn’t thought of that but wasn’t surprised. “He has rejoined them?”

  “In a vessel he stole. We found his English ship on Sark and burned it.”

  The Elizabeth! Frances felt a strange mix of exultation and pity. How Adam had loved that ship.

  “They’ve been marauding coastal towns,” Alba went on. “Koksijde and Lauwersmeer last week. Several villagers claimed the English pirate baron was among them.” He pointed his cane to a tall window that looked west. “Thornleigh’s lurking somewhere along the coast; I can feel it. Perhaps in that maze of islands northwest of Antwerp. There are bays there that could hide a ship or two.”

  The chilling thought crept over Frances that Adam meant to try again to take the children. Thank God she had brought them here.

  Alba’s cane thumped on the floor. He looked at Frances with weary forbearance as though disappointed. “I had hoped you knew your husband’s whereabouts. But it seems we are still in the dark.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Now, you must excuse me. Business calls.”

  “But I do,” she blurted.

  He looked annoyed, impatient. “Do what?”

  “Know where he is. At least, I think we may be able to find out.”

  His hawk’s eyes fixed her with keen interest. “How?”

  “The person arrested last night, the one who tried to shoot you, I’ve heard it was a woman. A foreigner. Is that correct?”

  He looked puzzled. “Yes. They tell me she is Scottish. Why?”

  “Did you get a close look at her?”

  “Close enough.”

  “A redhead?”

  He shrugged. “Under a wig, yes.”

  “With a scar? Here?” She ran her fingernail over her cheek.

  “I could not say; her face was painted.” He frowned. “What do these questions signify?”

  “When I hired Tyrone he reported that my husband first arrived in this country with a woman. A red-haired woman with a scarred cheek.” Jealousy pinched her heart despite her will. She swallowed her humiliation and pushed on. “He thought she might be my husband’s lover.”

  Alba’s keen look sharpened. “And you think . . . that woman is the one who tried to kill me?”

  “I don’t know. But if she is, and if she will talk, she may know where Adam is hiding.”

  Alba smiled, a cold smile that even Frances found unsettling. “Oh, I assure you, madam, she will talk.”

  17

  Death in the Great Hall

  Fenella struggled against the ropes that bound her to the plank. For the second time the water chute thudded open above her face. She tensed in terror. Not again . . . no . . . no!

  Water roared down. It beat her face. Pounded her clamped-shut mouth. Blocked her nose. Suffocating! Sputtering, she strained against the hands that pinned her head. Stop! . . . Sweet Jesus, make it stop!

  Alba’s lean face swam above her. His voice rumbled through her water-plugged ears. “Tell me where Thornleigh is. Then this ends.”

  Make it stop! . . . Let me breathe!

  The chute grated shut. The torrent slowed to a trickle. Fenella gasped air. The hands let go of her head.

  She coughed out water, gasped more breath. Fire seared her chest. Water still blocked her hearing . . . blurred her vision . . . stung her nostrils. Panting, she struggled against the ropes. Too weak. The hemp bit into her arms, her thighs. The black dungeon wall glistened with splashed water. The henchman who’d pinned down her head was red bearded, his beard glistening with water drops. He shifted his feet . . . a spongy sound of boots on the watery floor.

  Alba said, “Tell me. Then you won’t have to suffer through that again. Where is Thornleigh? We know he’s somewhere along the coast north of Antwerp. You know him. You were his accomplice. You know his haunts.”

  Accomplice? she thought wildly. How could Alba think that?

  “Where is he hiding?”

  The cove. She was sure of it. That snug indent of the sea, scythe shaped, hidden by the crescent of trees crowding the shore . . . waterweeds nodding in the shallows. If he’s hiding, he’s there.

  “Tell me,” Alba demanded. “Or the next deluge may drown you.”

  She shivered, frigid with fear. The chute dripped water on her forehead. She willed herself to submerge the terror . . . forced her courage to resurface. But it was so hard to be strong! She summoned the memory of Adam to give her strength. Adam, smiling at her . . . moonlight in his eyes. Twice under the torrent of water she had clung to that memory and had not told Alba what he wanted.

  “Speak, woman.”

  She blotted out the image of the cove. Plunged it back down into the dark depths. It took every shred of strength she had. She concentrated on an image of Adam . . . free, beyond Alba’s reach . . . Adam, standing tall on his ship, sailing into the sun. . . .

  “Don’t know him,” she said, her voice a trickle. “Don’t know anything about him.”

  Alba nodded to his henchman, Redbeard. He clamped Fenella’s head again. Her heart kicked in terror. The water chute thudded open. The torrent crashed on her face, roared in her ears. She sputtered, choking. Her starved lungs screamed. Her heart crashed at her ribs. Dying . . . I’m dying!

  “Speak now. Your last chance.”

  The chute grated shut. The torrent stopped. She gasped air. Coughed. Sputtered. Sucked breaths that felt like knives in her throat.

  Alba’s voice sounded underwater through the gurgle in her ears. “Whom does he meet among the Brethren?”

  Brethren? She lay shaking, uncomprehending, gulping breaths. She could not focus on Alba for the water stinging her eyes. Next time he’ll drown me. . . .

  “We have the Frenchman and his wife. The wig you wore led us to their shop.”

  Marguerite! Jacques!

  “Friends of yours, are they?”

  She thought her heart would crack. Those good people . . . are they in a dungeon, broken, moaning for God? The water that stung her eyes mingled with her own tears.

  “I see that you care about them,” Alba said. “So I propose a bargain. Tell me where to find Thornleigh, and I won’t hang your friends. In fact, tell me what I want and I won’t hang you.”

  She blinked up at him, trembling. “Liar.”

  “You’re wrong. The bargain is worth much to me, your worthless life for Thornleigh’s. It’s him I want. So, tell me. Then you’ll live.”

  The cove rose up in her mind. The rustling trees . . . the lapping waves. “I will tell you the place—” She coughed up water and phlegm.

  “Yes? The place . . . ?”

  “Where you can go.” She spat at him. “To hell.”

  He grunted in anger. Nodded at Redbeard. The hands clamped Fenella’s head. Terror seized her. Don’t betray Adam! Please God, before I do that let me die!

  The chute thudded open.

  Was it night? Morning? Fenella had struggled to keep a mental grasp on what day it was, but her mind wandered, lost in misery and pain. The cell was icy cold. She lay in a tight ball on the frigid stone floor, shivering. She wore nothing but the thin gown of scarlet silk she had been arrested in at the brothel, the top of it clammy-wet from the water chute, the skirt ripped at the knee, the hem foul with her vomit. Her hair was coldly damp, tendrils plastered to her neck like snakes. Her teeth chattered.

  Sewage gurgled in the shallow trench that ran under the wall from other cells and snaked out under the far wall. The stench made her stomach heave, and watery vomit shot to her mouth. She spat it out as far away as she could without moving, desperate to stay coiled, trapping what little body heat she had. The acid taste of bile made her choke. Tears of shame stung her eyes . . . shame and fury and fear. To be left here like an animal . . .

  Her tears spilled, stinging her cracked lips. So thi
rsty! She craved water, but the memory of the torrent clogging her nose and mouth brought back a wave of horror. Thirst and horror clashed in her mind . . . craving water and terror of water.... I’ll soon go mad.

  The door clanged open. She froze, eyes straining in the gloom to make out the man who walked in. Redbeard? Would he drag her back to the room with the water chute? She couldn’t bear it again . . . the agony of near drowning . . . she felt she would tell Alba about the cove even before the chute opened!

  The man came to her and stood over her. Not Redbeard. It was Carlos Valverde.

  “Can you stand?” he asked. He offered his hand.

  Hope stabbed her. Was he taking pity? He had before, at his stable. Would he give her water? A blanket? Even . . . dear God . . . free her? She took his rough hand. It felt so warm she knew how icy hers was. She struggled to get up. Once she was on her feet Valverde let go of her hand. His face was unreadable, a stony mask, but did she see sympathy flicker in his eyes?

  “You didn’t tell me you were working with Adam Thornleigh and the rebels.”

  “I’m not.”

  He frowned at her, not believing. “So you decided all by yourself to kill Alba? To use me to get near him and shoot him?”

  “Yes, by myself. He deserves to die.”

  “He believes you’re Thornleigh’s accomplice.”

  Again, it stunned her. “Who told him that?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  She closed her eyes, hugged herself at the cold realization that she was utterly on her own. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.” His eyes went hard. “Are you ready to cooperate?”

  Why had she thought there could be any hope? Valverde was Alba’s creature. “I suppose you’re a hero for saving his life,” she said bitterly. “Ha. You’re just another of his murdering henchmen.”

  He ignored her malice. “Do you know where Thornleigh is?”

  “I didn’t tell Alba, so why would I tell you?”

  “Don’t fight me. I’m trying to help you.”

  “By betraying your brother-in-law?”

  “He’s used to looking out for himself. Alba’s got patrols checking every beach and every bay for miles up and down the coast and they haven’t found him yet. You need to think of saving yourself. Tell Alba what he wants and he’ll spare your life.”

  She suddenly understood, and it startled her. “Spare me . . . for your sake?”

  He nodded. It amazed her, and she felt a warm wave of gratitude. Then reality came roaring back. “What’s the point? He’d never let me go. I’d live out my days in a dungeon as a bag of bones.”

  He said nothing for a moment. He knew it was true. “Where there’s life, there’s hope. Take this offer. It’s your only chance.”

  Hope. Perhaps one day a pardon? Or escape? It was possible . . . freedom. Her legs felt weak at the glorious thought. Suddenly, she hated Valverde for offering it, torturing her with it. The price of hope was delivering Adam to his enemy. She forced what strength she could into her voice. “Never.”

  He let out a ragged breath of regret. Then he motioned to a man behind him. “Bring her.” The man stepped forward. Redbeard. “No manacles,” Valverde said.

  Redbeard took her elbow, pulling her toward the door. Fenella balked, fear swamping her. “What’s happening?” Neither man answered. Redbeard pushed her out the door.

  They walked down the dim stone corridor, Fenella shakily following Valverde, with Redbeard behind her. Valverde stopped at a scarred wooden door, closed but with its iron bar lifted. The door was new to Fenella. Not the water chute room, thank God. Then the thought struck her: Something worse? The rack? Would Alba tear her arms and legs from their sockets to get what he wanted? Fear made her tremble. Valverde opened the door. Redbeard prodded Fenella, and when she resisted he shoved her inside.

  The room was not much bigger than the cell she’d come from but not as dark. A torch blazed from a wall sconce. Fenella shuddered, seeing Alba, his granite-gray eyes. The torchlight sheened his black satin doublet like the wet black walls of the water room. She caught the look that passed between him and Valverde, saw the question in Alba’s eyes, and the answer in Valverde’s as he shook his head. Their collusion horrified her. How do they know so much about me? She looked around the room. No rack. No instruments of torture at all, just a barren space. But in the far shadows stood another man, a guard beside him. The man stepped forward into the light.

  Fenella’s heart leapt to her throat. Claes!

  How thin he was! How filthy, his fair hair matted, his beard crusted with dry blood, his lips scabbed. His dingy shirt hung like a rag from his bony shoulders, and bruises darkened his eyebrow ridge and neck. He stared at her as though in disbelief, and she read in his face the same wild mix of emotions that coursed through her. Confusion. Joy. Dread.

  The joy won out. He’s alive! She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck.

  His body trembled. Slowly, his arms enfolded her. He tightened his embrace, and she felt he was straining to hold back a sob. He said in her ear, his voice a rasp, “I’m sorry . . . so sorry. My fault. They only brought you because of me.”

  She realized: He doesn’t know. “No,” she whispered back, her heart breaking. “You’re not to blame. It’s me. . . . I tried to shoot him.”

  He released her, gaping at her in wonder. “What? How—”

  “Very touching,” Alba interrupted. “The happy couple.”

  Fenella stiffened. How had he found out that she and Claes were married? A thought clawed at her. Marguerite . . . Jacques. Had one of them shrieked the truth under torture?

  “Now,” Alba said, “let’s proceed to business.”

  Claes tore his eyes off Fenella and turned to him. “Let her go. You’ve got me.”

  Alba snorted in derision. Dread crept over Fenella. Why had he brought her and Claes together?

  “Let her go,” Claes repeated, “and I promise I’ll recant on the scaffold before I die. I’ll tell the world I’ve been wrong to oppose you.”

  Alba ignored him, his whole attention on Fenella. “As I said, to business. Where is Thornleigh?”

  Claes looked amazed at the name. “The English baron?” His eyes flicked to Fenella, a question burning in them: Why is he asking you?

  She felt them both staring at her. She could not think.

  “The pirate,” Alba said. “Tell me where he’s hiding and I’ll let your husband keep his ears.”

  She froze. His ears?

  Claes grabbed her hand. His fingers were bones of ice. “Tell him nothing, Fenella.”

  Redbeard pulled her away from Claes. “Take your hands off me!” she cried, and shook off his grip.

  Alba beckoned the guard behind Claes. The man stepped forward and took hold of him. Alba pointed to the floor, and the guard forced Claes down to his knees and bound his hands behind his back. Alba turned to Valverde. “He’s your prize; you brought him in. Take his ears, if you want.”

  Valverde growled, “I’m no butcher.” He shot a last look at Fenella, one of furious frustration. He turned and stalked out.

  Alba beckoned Redbeard, who stepped between Claes and Fenella and unsheathed a long knife. He held the knife an inch above Claes’s ear and looked to Alba, waiting for the order.

  Alba said to Fenella, “What’s it to be?”

  Her breath stopped. She stared at Claes. His body was rigid, his mouth clamped tight, readying for the pain. He looked up at her with haggard eyes. “Tell him nothing.”

  She could not move, in awe of Claes’s courage.

  “Nothing,” he urged. “Or what did Johan die for?”

  Redbeard kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over with a groan. Redbeard snatched his hair and yanked his head up, the knife poised again over his ear.

  Fenella looked in agony at Alba. He was unyielding, his face as cold as stone. No plea would move him. She swallowed. She looked straight into his eyes and said stead
ily, “I don’t know the man you mean.”

  Don’t look away. She turned to Claes. Her only hope—his only hope—was to show Alba that this wouldn’t work.

  Alba motioned to Redbeard. The knife sliced. Claes screamed. The ear tumbled. Blood spurted.

  “Claes!” Fenella cried.

  Redbeard let go of his hair and Claes swayed, moaning, eyes glazed in pain.

  Fenella lurched to him and dropped to her knees and took him in her arms. “Claes . . . Claes,” she murmured in anguish. His head lolled on her shoulder. His warm blood soaked the silk, wetting her skin.

  “Where is Thornleigh?” Alba demanded.

  With a snarl she twisted around on her knees and lunged for him. Her fingers raked his knee. Redbeard behind her snatched her shoulders and yanked her so hard she sprawled on her back with a cry of pain.

  “Every time you refuse to answer,” Alba said, “my man will hack another part off your husband. His other ear. A hand. His nose.”

  She struggled to get up. She was too shaky to get further than her hands and knees.

  “Answer now,” Alba said, “or watch him bleed to death.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Claes breathed. His voice was feeble, but he stood tall on his knees now, blood streaming down his neck. “He wants me alive . . . until the execution. My death . . . a show.” He struggled to keep upright, to focus his eyes on her. “You won’t change that.”

  She gaped at him. He knew he was doomed. She sank back on her knees, stunned. Her heart bled for him.

  “Say nothing,” he breathed.

  Tears stung her throat. If he can be strong, so can I. She looked up at Alba, wishing she could claw out his eyes. She said again, “I know nothing.”

  Was it morning or night? Fenella no longer cared. Sleep was fits of exhausted stupor shattered by wakefulness. Her nerve was shredded, her passionate fury drained. In her dank cell she lay curled up on the floor, clinging to her knees for the thin warmth it gave. They had brought her crusts of bread, but barely enough to fill her mouth, and her empty stomach roiled. They had given her water, but never enough, and thirst burned her throat. The constant headache hammered. Images of Claes tormented her . . . the bleeding, ravaged side of his head . . . his heartbreaking bravery. Alba had not mutilated him further. Claes had been right about that. Alba could not let him bleed to death. He wanted him alive for the grand public spectacle of his execution.