The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  The door clanged open. She scarcely flinched. Hope for herself did not even cross her mind. She knew she was going to die one way or another. The certainty of that gave her a strange sense of peace. It took the place of fear, even of strength. She would die, and so would Claes. Nothing could change that. The only hope she still held on to was that she would not tell Alba about Adam and the cove no matter what agonies he had in store for her. She had to stay silent. For Adam . . . for Claes, too, to honor the suffering he’d so bravely endured.

  There were four guards this time and their faces were new to her. Their clothes were far better than Redbeard’s. Peacock-blue doublets, all cut the same. She had seen these blue uniforms outside on duty in the market square. Soldiers of the palace guard. This prison lay beneath Alba’s palace.

  “Get up,” the captain told her. He tossed a bundle beside her. “Get dressed.”

  She felt the bundle. Clean clothes! It so enticed her, a spurt of strength pushed her to her feet and with trembling fingers she untied the shawl that wrapped the folded garments. There was a shift of clean, sweet-smelling linen. A wool dress of sage green, simple, warm! Worsted wool stockings. A forest-green shawl. It was like a gift from heaven . . . but why? She looked at the captain’s disinterested face and knew it was pointless to ask. She hardly cared, so eager was she to get out of her thin, filthy gown and into the clean, warm things. Her hand was on the lacing of her sleeve, ready to untie it and undress—she was waiting only for the guards to step outside. They did not move. No privacy, she realized bitterly. Did they think she could fly out of the cell like some witch? “Will you turn away, at least?” she asked.

  Silence. To hell with the bastards. Let them look. She stared straight back at the captain as she stripped naked. Slipping into the fresh clothes felt delicious, as soothing as balm.

  As soon as she was dressed and wrapping the shawl around her for its welcome warmth, they marched her out of the cell, the captain ahead of her, the other three behind. Marched her along the windowless stone corridor the opposite direction of the way she’d been taken to Claes. The corridor went on so long she realized it must be a tunnel. She stumbled several times, her muscles weak. They went up a stone staircase that wound around and around, going up two stories. Then along another corridor, this one with a wooden floor and plaster walls and daylight let in by some unseen window. She tugged the shawl tighter around her. “Where are you taking me?”

  Silence. The captain opened a door, and when Fenella and the soldiers followed him through it she took in a startled breath. The corridor was gorgeously paneled in gleaming hardwood, lined with colorful religious paintings, bright with sunshine from tall windows. She squinted in the light like a mole flushed from the dark earth. She was inside Alba’s palace.

  Maidservants in starched livery walked this way and that, going about their tasks, eyes down in subservience. A young clerk cast a curious look at Fenella as he bustled past, a thick ream of paper tucked under his arm. Two black-robed priests ambled ahead of them, deep in private talk. Fenella was unnerved by the casual, workaday atmosphere, everything so jarringly normal when she was likely on her way to die. She heard a lady’s faint laugh down a connecting corridor and caught a scent of rose-water perfume. It sent a shiver of longing through her, a longing to live! She squelched it. She had signed her own death warrant when she’d aimed her pistol at Alba. She accepted that. She’d known the risks of capture, and the consequences. As for Alba’s offer of sparing her life, allowing her to live out her days in madness in a dungeon in exchange for Adam’s whereabouts, that was easy. She would rather slit her own throat.

  The captain opened a door. He jerked his head, an order for Fenella to enter. She stepped through the door alone. It closed behind her. She was in a long gallery that overlooked a soaring great hall; the gallery ran all the way around it. The length of the gallery that she stood in was spacious, colonnaded and chandeliered, but quiet, empty of people. Between two nearby columns nestled a luxurious private oasis: two opposing settees cushioned in gold velvet. Fenella saw, past the near column, the edge of a small dining table whose white damask tablecloth was spread with silver platters of food. She took a curious step forward, and stopped abruptly when Alba came into view around the column. He sat at the table, his gouty foot resting on a gold velvet footstool. Before him was a platter of dark-sauced meat. On a small, silver plate he was cutting an orange into sections.

  “Come,” he said, beckoning her. “Join me, won’t you?”

  Fenella did not move, bewildered, confused. Why had he brought her here? Everything in her recoiled at the thought of coming near him. Then a thought gripped her: Grab a knife and stab his throat. But a glance at the gallery behind the colonnade revealed a half-dozen soldiers spread out against the wall. They stood on guard, as still as the paintings ranged above them. One word to them from Alba, one look, and soldiers would surround her.

  “Do join me,” he insisted. “This roast venison with tarragon sauce is very good.”

  The rich aromas made her mouth water. Roasted meat. Oniony, herbed gravy. A macabre thought came to her: the last supper. The dark humor of it almost made her smile. Since death was coming anyway, why not enjoy the bastard’s fine food? And show him a brave face. She came to the table, glad she could hold her head high, though hating that her legs were still shaky.

  “Excellent.” He indicated the orange he was cutting. “Here, let me offer you some of this. Do sit.”

  She stayed on her feet. “What have you done with my husband?”

  “Nothing. For the moment.” He finished cutting. The orange lay in a star of six sections. “From Seville. Delicious. Tangy sweet.”

  “The only good thing you Spaniards brought with you.”

  “Do have some.” He impaled a wedge and offered it up to her.

  She took it. Bit into it. Orange sunshine burst in her mouth.

  “Do sit,” he said.

  She stayed on her feet, letting the juice run cool and sweet down her throat. She swallowed it. Her stomach gurgled at the shock.

  “We bring far more, you know,” he said soberly. “Centuries of civilization to enlighten these crude people. The glories of the one true Church. Salvation for their heretic souls.”

  “You’ve brought terror.” She tossed the orange rind on the floor. “You are hated.”

  He smiled thinly. “Terror is an effective start to establishing order. Frightened people do as they are told.” He heaved a sigh. “The fact is, I have sacrificed four years of my life to this wretched place and would like nothing more than to return to my quiet villa in Spain and play with my grandchildren and eat oranges. But my king still needs me here, to bring harmony and stability to these fractious people, and I am but a servant of my king. So here I remain.” He cocked his head at her. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you.” He moved the platter of venison closer to him, thin slices bathed in glistening red-brown sauce, and picked up a serving spoon. “I’ve learned quite a bit about you, Mistress Doorn. You’re an intelligent woman, and enterprising. I admire how you built your ship salvage business on Sark.”

  A business I’ll never see again, she thought with a pang.

  “We know that’s where Thornleigh went after he sank the Esperanza . To Sark.” He lifted a slice of the venison with the serving spoon and slid it onto a plate. “And we know that you then sailed with him to His Majesty’s lands here. Is that where you two became close, you and Thornleigh, on the voyage? Is that when you fell in love with him?”

  She gaped at him. How could he know that?

  He smiled. “Your face tells me I’m right. I thought it must be so. Why else would you keep so loyally silent in the face of my . . . persuasions?”

  “Is that why you’ve brought me here? For more persuasion?”

  “If you call kindness persuasion, then yes.” He spooned sauce over the meat. “Tell me where I can find Thornleigh and you will never see a dungeon again. You will enjoy dishes like these, the most
succulent fare my kitchens offer, and tonight you will sleep in a soft feather bed.” He held up the plate, offering it to her.

  Did he really think a full belly would make her betray Adam? “You’re a fool.”

  “I fear you underestimate me.” He set down the plate, nudging it closer to her. “A feather bed not just for tonight, but every night for the rest of your life, back in your native country. Edinburgh is a fine city for starting again. How does that sound?”

  “Like the words of a liar.”

  He settled back in his chair, studying her. “He’s married, you know. Thornleigh.”

  She sneered. Of course she knew.

  “And has children,” he added. “A boy of nine and a girl of twelve. Did you know that his wife, Lady Thornleigh, lives here in Brussels with them? Thornleigh tried to abduct the children. He failed.”

  She stifled a gasp. Failed! It wrenched her heart. Poor Adam . . . getting his children meant so much to him. She felt a sting of tears. He loves them so.

  Alba was watching her closely. “After that, his wife feared for their lives, so she brought them to me. The boy and girl are now my guests. Right here in the palace.”

  What does this have to do with me? she thought, forcing back her tears. The smell of the rich food suddenly made her queasy, her stomach rocky. Alba’s talk was sickening and pointless. She would rather be back in her frigid cell than listen to his gabble. She took the plate of venison and gravy and dumped it on the tablecloth. It slewed across the damask in a lumpy, glistening pool. “I am not hungry for meat bought with the blood of Dutchmen. Nor for a feather bed bought with their heads. I’ll keep to my solitary cell, if you please.” She glared at him. “The company is better.”

  His face was as still as stone. Except for a twitch of his mouth. “Perhaps you do not understand how important capturing Thornleigh is to His Majesty. The man is a scourge to Spain. When he pirated His Majesty’s pay ship carrying gold for my troops, he almost sparked a war, and he continues to attack our peaceful merchant mariners, robbing them and killing them. I have sworn to rid the seas of his evil, for my king.” He added with quiet menace, “And for the honor of my house. When Thornleigh sank the Esperanza he captured Don Alfonso Santillo de Albarado de Cavazos, my nephew. Don Alfonso has not been seen since. Thornleigh murdered him.”

  “Ha! You’re wrong.” She itched to tell him. “It was me. I shot your nephew’s damned head off.” The words were out and she did not regret them. At Alba’s look of amazement, satisfaction swept through her, a rush of warmth like brandy. He was going to hang her no matter what, and Claes would die, too. Nothing would change that. But for this moment, she savored her small victory. “I’d do it again,” she said.

  He did not take his eyes off her as he raised his arm to beckon a soldier. A lean, helmeted captain with a pockmarked face came immediately to his side, his sword clanking in its scabbard. Alba nodded to him, a silent command. The captain turned and left them.

  Fenella held her breath. What was happening?

  Alba ignored her. He served himself a slice of venison from the platter and cut a bite. He chewed it thoughtfully, then drank some wine, a small mouthful, a slow swallow, then set down the goblet. He lifted the damask napkin from his lap and dabbed his mouth, then used the napkin to wipe a trace of gravy from his fingertips. Then he stood. “Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  He did not wait for Fenella. But he did not go far, only to the gallery railing that overlooked the great hall. Though it was just steps away, she did not follow him. She would not give him the satisfaction.

  “Handsome children, are they not?” he said, looking down at the hall. “Thornleigh’s young ones.”

  Her ears pricked up at the sound of a child’s voice. Curiosity leapt in her. She went to the railing and looked down. The hall was vacant except for the pock-faced captain strolling in with two children, a boy in a russet velvet doublet and a tall, slim girl in a violet-colored satin gown, her chestnut hair hanging loose. Both were looking around as though surprised to be there but curious and eager, as though playing a game of hide-and-seek. Fenella watched them, transfixed. Were they Adam’s son and daughter? The captain was speaking to the boy, who said something in return. Their voices echoed up from the marble floor, the man’s deep, the boy’s light, their words indistinct.

  “I daresay you have never met them,” Alba said, glancing at Fenella. “Just as I have not met the father. Are they like him, would you say? I’ve heard that Thornleigh has dark hair and eyes, like his boy there.”

  She could not take her eyes off the children. They were so like Adam! Their names came to her. Katherine—so pretty!—and Robert. The sight of his tousled dark hair and inquisitive eyes squeezed Fenella’s heart. Two more soldiers walked in and flanked the girl, who looked up from one to the other, a question in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips, like someone who’d been promised a treat.

  “So young and innocent,” Alba said.

  Fenella looked at him and dread seeped into her like ice water. Why has he brought Adam’s children before me?

  “Too young to die, I’m sure you agree.”

  She froze. “You would not.”

  “And will not, if you tell me where their father is hiding.”

  Her gaze flicked to the children in horror.

  “The girl first, I think. It will require a story for their mother, but so be it.” He shrugged. “Lady Thornleigh thinks she is important to me. She is not. I entertain many English exiles, and most have titles far grander than hers.” His eyes bored into Fenella’s. “Speak now. Or see the girl die.”

  A hoarse sound came from Fenella’s throat, a dry laugh of total disbelief. No, he could not mean it. It was impossible, even for him!

  “Obstinate woman,” he growled. He jerked a nod to the pocked captain. The captain grabbed the girl from behind, his arm like a bolt across her narrow chest, and unsheathed his sword with a screech of metal. He drew the blade across the girl’s throat, slow and smooth. Blood spurted. The girl twitched. Then slumped to the floor.

  Fenella’s heart stopped. No . . . No! . . .

  The boy was screaming. The soldiers held him between them.

  “Tell me now,” Alba said, “or the boy is next.”

  She could not breathe. The sight gutted her . . . the rag doll girl . . . the pool of blood....

  Suddenly Fenella was climbing. She planted a foot on the top of the railing. Grappled it to swing herself up. Up and over. Jump. Die. End this. He’ll let the boy go....

  “What?” Alba cried. “What are you doing?”

  She made it to the top, stood with both feet on the railing, her stance wide, swaying for balance. Jump. Die. End this! She spread her arms, closed her eyes, ready to pitch forward.

  He snatched the back of her dress and yanked. She tumbled backward, flailing at air. The side of her head and her hip struck the floor. Her vision swam bloodred. Sprawled at Alba’s feet, she clutched his ankle. He clamped the back of her neck and twisted her head, forcing her to look down between the posts. “Look.”

  She blinked at the horror. The dead girl . . . the captain, sword raised as he held the squirming, screaming boy, waiting for Alba’s command.

  Vomit shot up Fenella’s throat. “Stop! . . . I’ll tell you. . . . Don’t!” She gagged on her vomit. Forced it down. Swallowed it. Sucked in air that cut her throat like a knife. “Cove . . .” she moaned, “village of Kloster . . . hiding . . . cove . . .”

  18

  The Duchess’s Coach

  Into the lion’s den, Isabel Valverde thought with a shiver as she entered the hall in the Duke of Alba’s palace. Alba’s torturers mauled people as viciously as any lion. Gentlemen strolled past her, greeting one another, exchanging pleasantries. She felt almost ill at being here.

  The footman she was following guided her up to the second floor and down a corridor to a small suite of rooms. Isabel steeled herself. She had come to see her brother’s wife an
d must show Frances a brave face. The baby inside Isabel kicked, and her hand went to her belly. In five or six weeks she would have this new babe to protect as well as Andrew and Nell. Thinking of her children gave her strength for what she was about to do. Today was her last day in Brussels. Never again would she have to stomach Alba’s hideous regime. She was going home to England. Without Carlos.

  Frances came out of the adjoining room, fastening her cloak. Leaving already? Yet Isabel had been prompt in arriving for the appointment. The note she’d sent Frances early this morning at the Duchess of Feria’s home asking to visit had brought her sister-in-law’s terse reply, an instruction to wait on her at the palace at ten o’clock. It was not yet ten.

  Seeing her, Frances stopped and regarded her coolly. “Isabel. Your message took me very much by surprise.”

  “I daresay, Frances. But after all, family is family.”

  Kate and Robert came out of the adjoining room, and relief rushed through Isabel at seeing her niece and nephew safe. Last night, when Carlos had told her of Alba’s horrifying action of having a child killed in front of the Scottish woman, it had almost made Isabel sick to her stomach. Alba had had two child beggars brought from the street, Carlos had learned, and dressed them in fine clothes to convince the woman they were Adam’s son and daughter, a hideous ploy to induce her to reveal Adam’s whereabouts. The girl’s throat had been slit. Reeling at this atrocity, Isabel had then been amazed to learn from Carlos that the woman was believed to be an accomplice in Adam’s work with the Sea Beggars. It was dizzying. . . . Isabel knew no details, only what Carlos had brusquely outlined. But she’d been galvanized by the horror of the girl’s death to take action to get herself and her own children out of this cursed country. Alba had ordered another mass hanging for this afternoon in the Grote Markt. So much death . . . it rocked her. She had to get out before the killings began.