The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  The gangway was lowered and he and his fellow passengers started disembarking.

  “Carlos!”

  He almost lost his footing on the gangway when he saw Isabel. She was hurrying toward him through the stream of passengers getting off. Too impatient to wait his turn, Carlos shouldered sideways past people on the gangway and hopped off the edge and hurried to meet her. When he reached her his heart skipped. She held a baby in her arms. “My God,” he said.

  Isabel grinned. “Meet your daughter, two weeks old. A bumpy passage across the Channel hurried things along. She came the day after I landed.” The baby was asleep and Isabel beamed at her, then at Carlos.

  In awe, he ran his thumb tip across the baby’s tiny rosebud mouth, soft as a petal. The little lips began sucking, even in sleep. It gave Carlos a glow of joy. This child was their fourth, but the marvel never staled.

  “I’ve named her Anne,” Isabel said. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it. I love her. I love you.” He took his wife in his arms, baby and all, and kissed her. As their lips parted he asked, suddenly sober, “She came early. You’re all right?”

  “Right as rain,” she assured him.

  The baby stirred and her eyes blinked open. She frowned at Carlos as if to say, Who are you? He laughed. Then kissed the babe’s forehead.

  “Let me look at you,” Isabel said. “Oh, we were so worried. Three weeks, and not knowing. But here you are!” She kissed him again.

  “Where’s Nico? And Andrew and Nell?” He couldn’t wait to see them. “With your mother?”

  “No, we stayed with her at first, but now she’s gone to Rosethorn House. She’s getting it ready for a visit from Her Majesty.” He knew the Queen and the Dowager Lady Thornleigh were old friends. “So we’re staying at Adam’s house.”

  “Adam! He’s back?”

  “Oh, you’ll hardly believe the news.” She rattled off a tale that amazed him. Adam attacking Alba’s soldiers to get his children from his wife. The Brethren supporting the attack. “In our house! He got Kate safely out and brought her home, but he had to flee before he could get Robert. Frances has him still. Oh, Carlos, Adam grieves for the boy.”

  Sad news. To leave a child behind. Carlos felt even more eager to see his own. “Come, tell me all about it on the way.” With a grin at the baby he wrapped his arm around Isabel and led her past the people on the quay. Adam’s house on Bishopsgate Street was not far.

  “We’re invited to Rosethorn, too,” she said as they walked. “Her Majesty arrives the day after tomorrow. She’ll be in good spirits—she always is with Mother—so it might be a good time to ask her again for a post.”

  “After helping Alba?” He shook his head. “She’ll think me more of a Spanish sympathizer than ever.”

  “But you turned against Alba. That might move her.”

  He doubted it.

  “And you saved Claes Doorn, who’s fighting the Spaniards. Oh, Carlos! I didn’t tell you about that. Doorn stayed in Antwerp, but Adam brought Mistress Doorn home with him and Kate. Brought her to stay with Mother.”

  “What? Why?”

  “She helped him organize the attack on our house. And that’s not all. I’m sure Adam’s in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it, and see that she feels the same about him.”

  Good God. “You mean she’s left her husband?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He’s with the Brethren fighting Alba.” She smiled at him, excitement in her eyes. “And there’s more. It turns out that Mistress Doorn has quite a lot of money, and she told me she intends to give you much of it for saving her life and her husband’s. Five thousand pounds, she’s promised us! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  He was astounded. But it took only a moment for relief to flood in. It was wonderful. Five thousand would halve his debts.

  “God bless Mistress Doorn,” said Isabel heartily. “I like her very much. She’s a courageous soul. And yet . . .” She shook her head, bewildered. “This thing between her and Adam is rather sad. They’re both married. I don’t quite know what to make of their . . . relationship.”

  Neither did Carlos. Adam with Fenella—it was a surprise. They were both fine people who’d suffered, and Carlos hoped they might find some happiness together, if only in private behind closed doors. He suddenly remembered the decision he’d made while sending Isabel off in the duchess’s coach with the Doorns, a decision to one day tell her about his moment with Fenella years ago, tell her just so that everything between them was aboveboard. It had been a meaningless tryst in Edinburgh, born in the crisis of war and long forgotten. Now, though, hearing about Adam, he came to the opposite and firm decision. For everyone’s sake, that bit of the past must stay hidden forever.

  “Nico still limps a bit from his broken leg, but the bone has healed well,” Isabel chattered on as they crossed Thames Street, busy with wagons and foot traffic. “And Nell has made a silk sash for you. And Andrew can’t wait to show you the pony Mother has given him, and . . .”

  Carlos squeezed her shoulder, eager to hear it all. It was good to be home.

  Fenella took the letter from the Rosethorn chambermaid, thanked her, and closed the door. The sun was barely up and Fenella was still in her nightdress. She’d been awake when the maid knocked and about to dress, but the delivery of the letter jolted her as though from sleep with a clanging alarm. It was sealed, but she recognized the outside handwriting. From Claes. She had sent him word of where she was staying. Now, he would want her to come home.

  She needed air. She went to the window and opened it. The bedchamber overlooked the Dowager Lady Thornleigh’s rose garden, and the blossoms’ fragrance drifted in around her on the soft summer air. She took a deep breath of it to steady herself. She watched bees drowsing among the roses and iris and gillyflowers.

  She sank down on the soft window seat of moss-green velvet and turned the letter over in her hands. She dreaded reading it. The moment she did, this sweet dream she’d been living at Rosethorn House would burst like a bubble of sea foam. She would find herself cast on the rocky shore of reality. Claes was her husband. Her place was with him.

  Her gaze drifted across the beautiful room. The cherrywood linenfold paneling. The four-poster bed with its curtains of moss-green brocade. The man-sized chest of carved, gleaming oak. The dressing table with its looking glass crowned with a spray of fresh roses, damask red and white. The silver bowl heaped with lavender and sage. Though she’d been here for only two weeks, she had come to love this house. A safe harbor from the madness she’d been through. A haven of tranquility and peace. How kind old Lady Thornleigh had been. She was Adam’s stepmother, a widow, and Fenella sensed the lady’s deep personal acquaintance with grief. Yet her house was a cheerful place where servants were at ease and where the toy boats and poppet dolls of her grandchildren were as cherished as her costly works of art. Today, the household folk were up early to prepare for the Queen’s visit tonight and Fenella suspected that Lady Thornleigh was, too, supervising it all.

  Fenella was nervous about meeting Queen Elizabeth. Lady Thornleigh’s seamstresses had created a gown for Fenella for the grand occasion, a lovely thing of silver satin, the bodice embroidered all over with pink rosebuds, and she felt she looked well in it, but she had no experience with courtly ways and feared that despite the finery she might seem like a fishwife among the lords and ladies. Dozens of guests would be coming. So would Carlos and Isabel Valverde. The Queen had offered to be their newborn baby’s godmother, an extraordinary honor and one that Fenella suspected they owed to Adam. Her Majesty valued Adam’s friendship, and this was his way of thanking Valverde for saving Fenella’s life. She had offered her own thanks to Isabel Valverde in the form of five thousand pounds and Isabel’s delight had touched her. Such a wonderful family. She felt blessed for everything they had done for her.

  Adam would be here tonight, too.

  She looked down at the letter in her lap. She could no longer put off opening it. She slid her
finger under the seal, pried it loose, and unfolded the paper.

  My dear wife,

  I rejoiced to read your letter. Praise God for keeping you safe. Our noble English friend and his kin are gracious people and glad I am that you are in their care.

  I trust you will have heard the news from here. After Brielle and Vlissingen three more towns in Zeeland have opened to us. Everywhere, our countrymen are panting to throw off the yoke of the oppressor. Many have joined us. We have word that Prince William will soon send an army. We are resolute. But this is only a start. Our enemy is strong, a many-headed monster that will devour hosts of men before it dies. This work will take time. It may take years. Many years.

  The work consumes me, Fenella. I must roam the land to prepare our people, and go wherever I am needed to fight, to build a country free from tyranny, to die if that is God’s plan. And because I must do this, I cannot have you with me. I cannot be a husband. I pray that you will understand. I think perhaps you do already, and will forgive me. Mine will be a lonely life.

  For my sake, do not be lonely, too. Stay in England. Be happy. You have my blessing and my love.

  Your faithful husband,

  C. Doorn

  She got to her feet. The letter slid to the window seat. Emotions tumbled inside her, a whirl of joy and relief, gratitude and confusion. A hummingbird darted in front of her outside the window, whirring its jeweled wings, hovering. It seemed to look right at her as if to say, Rejoice! He has set you free!

  She felt free. Clearly, Claes did, too. For years he had been living as if he had no wife. He had known she was on Sark but had left her there. And after she’d been wounded at Brielle he had left her to go and fight. He had to go, she knew that, but she also knew that she did not matter to him the way the rebels’ cause mattered. Rejoice. He has set you free.

  The hummingbird darted away as suddenly as it had appeared. Fenella felt adrift. Was she free? Marriage was a legal bond acknowledged by all of Christendom, and nothing that Claes had said, nor all the love she felt for Adam, could change that fact. Until death do us part.

  The open air was a welcome respite after the ladies’ cloying perfume in the great hall of Rosethorn House. Perfume made Adam’s eyes itch.

  He crossed the terrace in the twilight and headed for the rose garden. Behind him, strains from the Queen’s musicians in the house quivered on the warm air. He was still savoring the effect Fenella had had on his stepmother’s guests. He doubted that any of them had ever seen anything like Fenella, a woman of humble birth so vibrantly independent, so stunning in her confidence, so herself. They were whispering about her and him, of course, no way to stop that, and he hated to think the gossip might hurt her. But she’d been magnificent this evening. Before being presented to the Queen, Fenella had quietly told him she was nervous, but he hadn’t noticed it. Hard to notice anything except how beautiful she looked in that silver gown.

  He noted Elizabeth’s guards standing sentry at the base of the terrace, and he set his mind to business. Why had the Queen summoned him to this private meeting when supper was about to be served? Urgent news from the Low Countries? She’d already told him she wanted him to be an intermediary in her clandestine dealings with the prince of Orange. Or could it be word about Robert? No, he told himself soberly. That was his private cross to bear, not Elizabeth’s.

  He reached the rose garden and passed under its brick entrance arch. Inside, the trellised walls reached as high as his shoulders, the dusky red blooms climbing the trellises. The voices and music in the house sounded ever fainter as his boots crunched the gravel path. Two ladies-in-waiting bobbed curtsies to him, Blanche Parry and a new one he didn’t know. Blanche gestured down a rose-sided alley. Elizabeth stood with her head bent to sniff a blossom. She wore her favorite colors, black and white, all silk, bejeweled all over with rubies and sapphires. She turned when she saw him coming.

  “Lady Thornleigh will be glad her roses cheer you, Your Grace,” he said, bowing.

  “They do. The variety she cultivates has a lovely perfume. I warrant it’s a kind that even you do not turn up your nose at.”

  He smiled. She knew him well.

  “You take after her,” she said.

  “I, Your Grace? I’m afraid I am no gardener.”

  “Yet you have brought a new kind of bloom into our court.”

  Ah, Fenella. “I take it you refer to Mistress Doorn. A brave and valiant lady.”

  “Indeed. I like her spirit well. But take heed, my friend. With roses come thorns.” She flicked her fingers toward her ladies. Obeying, they turned and moved away, out of hearing. “I am hungry for supper, Adam, so I will get to the point. I have considered your request and have an answer for you. You will find it bittersweet. Which part will you hear first, the bitter or the sweet?”

  “I’ll take the sweet, Your Grace. To gird myself for the bitter.”

  “Very well. At your request I am granting you an annulment of your marriage.”

  The relief was so powerful it jolted him. Frances had been an anchor grounding his ship on a lethal reef. Elizabeth had cut the cable. He was free!

  “Annulment is a grave matter,” Elizabeth said, “for marriage is a sacrament. But this is an extreme case. Your wife is a vicious traitor who tried to murder me, and would have succeeded but for you.”

  He bowed deeply. “I am your very grateful servant.”

  “Good. Let service be your guide as I tell you the bitter part. You will now do something for me, something very difficult.”

  “Anything, Your Grace.”

  “You will disown your son.”

  The words startled him. Had he misheard? “Disown . . . ?”

  “Robert is the boy’s name, I believe?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Renounce him. Disown him. Wash your hands of him.”

  He gaped at her. She could not be serious. What possible cause could she have?

  “I demand this, Adam, for your own safety. Your wife tried to have you killed. You told me so yourself. And we know why. Your son would inherit your title, your lands. Your wife controls the boy and she holds that dream ever in her mind, of being the mother of the new Baron Thornleigh. But if you cut him off, you kill her dream. She will have no reason to hazard another attempt on your life.”

  He could find no words. He saw Elizabeth’s reasoning . . . but reason faltered in the face of a demand that cracked his heart.

  “The boy is lost to you, Adam. You know that. She will never, ever let you near him. She has Alba on her side.”

  “I might yet try . . .” His words trailed. He felt their hollowness. Try what?

  “No. You shall not. And I will tolerate no debate on this. You are too valuable to me. Though you would risk your life, I will not. Disown the boy. It is my command.”

  Their eyes locked. Inside the house, the music ceased.

  Elizabeth laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Pity softened her voice. “However, I have a sweet to give you yet, my friend. Honey to salve your wound.” She beckoned Blanche Parry and told her, “Bring me Mistress Doorn.”

  Fenella could not tame her tumbling thoughts as she followed the Queen’s lady-in-waiting across the terrace and down to the rose garden. Mistress Parry had said only, Her Majesty wishes a word, and Fenella could scarcely imagine what that word would be. Perhaps, Who do you think you are, you foolish woman? Or, How dare you impose on this noble family’s goodwill? Or, Quit my kingdom this very night!

  But nothing prepared her for the sight of Adam standing with Her Majesty. They watched her coming. The Queen looked grave, Adam bewildered. Fenella reached them and sank into a deep curtsy before the Queen.

  “Rise, mistress. I have a question or two to put to you. Kindly make your answers brief, for I am hungry and eager to sit down to Lady Thornleigh’s roast pheasant.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Her voice was so thin she barely heard herself.

  “How do you like England?”

  Fenella
blinked at her. “Your Majesty?”

  “Do you find the country pleasing? Salubrious to your health? Overflowing with wise and gentle people?”

  “England is . . . all that, Your Majesty,” she stammered.

  “Ha, she is a born courtier, Lord Thornleigh.”

  Adam gave Fenella a look that said he was as mystified as she was.

  “I have just rid this gentleman of his troublemaking wife,” said the Queen. “He is in love with you. Do you love him?”

  Fenella was astounded. Adam clearly was, too.

  “It is not a difficult question, mistress. Do you love him, yea or nay?”

  Stunned though she was, Fenella could not help admiring the bluntness. “With all my heart, Your Majesty.”

  Her Majesty seemed slightly startled. “My, you do speak your mind. Good. Then, it’s settled. You like England, and England has given you a protector in Lord Thornleigh. I therefore proclaim you forthwith a denizen of my realm, with all the rights, privileges, and duties of an English subject. My people, my nobles, and all the world will henceforth consider you an Englishwoman.”

  Fenella blinked again. What did all this mean? “I . . . thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “No need for thanks. You’ve provided me a fine opportunity to somewhat pacify the bellicose king of Spain. I must pacify him, you know, for with one lash of his fury he could send an army to our shores. So I intend to have it known far and wide, here and abroad, that I make you my subject for one reason only.” She turned to Adam, a twinkle in her eye. “Can you guess it, sir?”