The Queen's Exiles Page 12

  He stood on the busy quay and looked out at the ships and barges and wherries, and took a deep breath of the fresh, waterborne air. What a marvel the canal was. Dug eleven years ago, a length of almost eighteen miles, with four locks that lifted the vessels uphill. It let ships avoid navigating the sandy little Zenne River, and gave direct access to the Scheldt River and thence to the port of Antwerp and the North Sea. Watching the crew of a ship with Swedish flags haul in their anchor cable and prepare to set sail, Adam couldn’t help admiring Spanish enterprise in overseeing the construction of this canal. England had nothing to match it.

  A barge alongside the wharf was being loaded with bawling sheep. He remembered what Fenella had said when they’d reached the cove, that she had a friend here with a barge. Not on the canal, but on Sint-Gorikseiland near the city center. It touched him that she’d been thinking of his safety. He hoped she was safe, hoped she’d got her gold from the banker and was already headed back to the cove. With luck, he’d be on his way there tomorrow with his own gold: Robert and Kate.

  Dusk was darkening the city as he made his way back toward Tyrone’s house. The streets were full of people heading home. Hawkers around the Anderlecht Gate were packing up their wares, hoisting baskets onto carts and satchels over their shoulders. Church bells clanged from the cathedral. Seven o’clock. Adam’s stomach growled; he’d had nothing all day but those morsels of pork at the market and a few swallows of Tyrone’s wine. He was hungry for a real meal. But hungrier to hear what the Irishman had found out about the children.

  In the quiet cul-de-sac Adam waited in the tree-cast shadows outside the red-gabled house. No need to show his face again to Tyrone’s inquisitive maid. Overcautious he might be, but it didn’t hurt to assume that a servant who knew he was a foreign lord might blab about that. A bat streaked past his ear. He went a few paces toward the mouth of the cul-de-sac. A horse clopped past. Then, in the silence, he heard footsteps. He stepped out from the shadows and intercepted Tyrone.

  “Ah, my lord! You startled me.” He glanced over his shoulder as though to check that no one had followed him. Adam was glad the fellow was diligent about that.

  “It’s all right; we’re alone. Did you see the tutor?”

  “Aye, that I did.”

  “And? What did you find out?”

  Tyrone’s smile was one of satisfaction. “More than we’d even hoped, my lord. Peterszen told me that tomorrow morning Lady Thornleigh will accompany the duchess to visit friends near the Coudenberg Palace. While she is away young Lord Robert and his sister will go to the Church of Saint Nicholas for their regular instruction.”

  “Instruction?”

  “In the catechism. Seems they see the priest every Wednesday morning at ten.”

  Adam groaned. His children were English, brought up as Protestants, but it was no surprise that Frances had wrenched them back to popish ways. It irked him. But he understood what Tyrone was implying and was glad of the opportunity it gave him. When Robert and Kate were with the priest they’d be far from Frances, and from the duchess’s men. “Where is this church?”

  “On Boterstraat, my lord. Behind the Bourse. Peterszen says the children meet the priest in the side chapel of the Holy Virgin.”

  Adam clapped his agent on the shoulder. “Well done, Tyrone. I owe you.”

  The next morning, thunder rumbled above the leaden skies of Brussels. Rain’s not far off, Adam thought as he left his inn and made his way toward Boterstraat. It was just after nine. He wanted to get to the church early. The blithe townsfolk took no notice of the impending rough weather. The streets were filled with maids carrying baskets to and from market, and carts clattered by as apprentices, farmers, clerks, and priests went about their business. The hammers of bricklayers and masons clanged on a half-finished house. Adam’s eyes were on the steeple of the Church of Saint Nicholas to give him his bearings as he navigated the narrow streets toward the steeple. A wagon piled with ale kegs rolled past, the rear wheel just missing his foot, and he lurched back. He was so keyed up to see Robert and Kate he wasn’t being careful where he stepped.

  He carried on and turned the corner. There, across the street, beyond the passersby, rose the church, a soot-grimed, centuries-old building, oddly asymmetrical. He stopped. Four people stood outside its doors between the stone pillars. Two burly men and two women, one gray haired and dour faced, dressed in the apron and shawl of a waiting woman, the other slender, shrouded in a pale gray cloak, its hood up, her face turned away. By her posture she was much younger. Could it possibly be Kate? No, his daughter was a child and this was a young woman, quite tall. Then she glanced his way and his heart gave a kick. Kate! Good God, how she’d grown! She turned away again, and he almost lurched in disappointment at having seen her face for only that moment. He was very glad he’d come early. It was not yet ten. He studied the two men with her. Retainers of the duchess? Likely, for they were armed with swords.

  One opened the church door for Kate and she went in. Alone. Adam held his breath. Where was Robert? Inside already? No, Kate’s party had arrived early. Had Robert not come at all? That was a blow. Adam had imagined the children coming together, as Tyrone had said. He took a breath, forcing himself to move past the disappointment. He had found Kate, at least. He would have to find another way to get Robert.

  He longed to go in after her, but he held himself back. Impossible to go through that door without passing the pair of armed men. They were chatting with the waiting woman. Clearly, they were letting Kate take her religious instruction in private. Reason told Adam he should turn around and leave. Wait for another opportunity to get both children together. But reason fought with his burning desire to see his daughter.

  As the three servants chatted he quickly crossed the street and slipped down the lane beside the church. It curved around, and he gripped the handle of the dagger at his belt, half-expecting to come face-to-face with some of Alba’s soldiers. The lane was narrow and he had to squeeze past an old woman leading a donkey laden with firewood. He was looking for a door into the rear of the church.

  He saw one ahead, a low, arched door studded with nails. He tried the latch. It opened. A musty passage led into the whitewashed sacristy, a workmanlike room whose single, high window spilled gray light onto the vestment wardrobes, the stone basin, the crucifix on the wall. The room was deserted, no priests. That was lucky, and Adam was grateful. He opened the inner door and immediately found himself behind the apse, another world of rosy light filtered through stained glass and incense-scented air. Gold and silver gleamed on the altar, and beyond it rose the polished wood of the choir stalls and the carved rood screen. Over all was the hushed vault of the high-columned nave.

  The side chapel. That’s where Tyrone said the priest gave the children instruction. Around to Adam’s left he saw it, an alcove where votive candles flickered beside an ornate marble altar. Above the altar stood a statue of the Virgin Mary painted in gold and bright sky blue. Adam saw no priest. Just Kate, kneeling at the altar, her head bowed. She held up a golden crucifix on a chain round her neck, held it with both hands as though offering it up to the statue while keeping her head humbly lowered. Then she raised her face to the Virgin, and Adam’s breath caught. How like his sister she looked. The same wide-set dark eyes, small nose, full lips. His daughter, his sweet girl . . . now almost a woman.

  “Kate!” The name burst from his mouth as he went to her. She looked startled. She jumped to her feet with a wide-eyed look of surprise. “Father?” Confusion rushed over her face. Then dismay. Who can blame her? he thought, his heart aching. We’ve been apart so long.

  He reached her and enfolded her in his arms. “Kate, my chick. It’s so wonderful to see you!” She’d been just nine when he’d last seen her and now she was as tall as his shoulder. A laugh of joy escaped him and he pulled her away to arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Good Christ, you’re so grown. And a beauty, by heaven.” Yet her skin was so pale. Did she never see the sun?


  She lurched back, away from him. “Sir, you . . . blaspheme,” she stammered. “In a house of God.”

  That threw him. Frances’s work, of course, pounding religion into the girl. But he was too happy to let it bother him. “You’re right. Sorry. It’s just a shock to see you. A good shock, I assure you.” He looked around, realizing he’d been a fool not to keep his voice down. Was the priest near? It struck him how quiet the church was, as though deserted. He lowered his voice. “Where’s your brother? Still at the duchess’s house?”

  “No . . . he—” She stopped herself. She looked utterly bewildered.

  “Never mind. We’ll get him later.” He held out his hand for hers. “Come, we haven’t got much time.”

  “Time?”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “I . . . don’t understand. Home with Mother?”

  “No, your real home. England. As soon as I can get Robert, too.”

  “England?” she said. Her voice was thin. She sounded horrified. “No.”

  No? He laughed, a nervous laugh. It had never occurred to him that she would not want to go. “Kate, look, I know I’ve startled you, surprising you like this, but—”

  “You abandoned us,” she blurted.

  “I what?”

  “It’s been years. You haven’t come to see us. Haven’t written to us. Why would we want to go back to England?” Her misery and confusion cut him. “You don’t care a whit about us.”

  Fury tightened his throat. What tales had Frances told them? What lies? “That’s not true,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’ve been trying all this time to find you. I love you, both of you.”

  A thud sounded down the nave. “Christ, is that the bloody priest?” Kate gasped again at his profanity. “There’s no time to talk,” he said quietly. “You’ve got to come with me, right now.” He took her by the hand. “Come. Out the back.”

  She snatched back her hand. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” She clutched her crucifix, gripping it to her chest with both hands as though for protection. “Father Hubert will soon be here. I’m taking lessons with him. Studying.”

  “Lessons?” He was struggling to think of how to get her to come. How to break through her resistance.

  “Perfection of our daily duties. Purity of intention. The patience and perseverance of prayer.”

  He whistled in mock bemusement. “That’s a lot of p’s.” A thin jest, a desperate jest.

  She glared at him and went on doggedly, “The ceremony for taking the first habit. The needed virtues of a sister.”

  “Habit? You don’t mean . . . a nunnery?”

  “Of course. The Cistercian abbey at Ixelles. Robert’s there, too; we’re staying at the school.” She raised her chin proudly. “In two weeks I’ll enter the order as a novice.”

  He was appalled. A nun? It was grotesque. “This is your mother’s doing.”

  “God’s doing,” Kate said with spirit. “I have a calling, sir.”

  “You have a scheming mother. She can’t marry you off since you have no dowry and no family connections, so this is her solution. But I’ll see hell freeze before I let her entomb you in a convent.”

  She gaped at him, appalled and angry and hurt. Her chin trembled. “My mother loves God. And you, sir . . . you should fear Him for your sins.”

  “My sins? I’m here because of your damned mother’s sins. She’s a traitor.”

  She gasped. “How dare you!”

  Good Christ. She had no idea what Frances had done. “Why do you think she snatched you and Robert and fled England?”

  “She said you . . . abused her.”

  He could hardly breathe for fury. “She tried to kill the Queen. She fled to escape being hanged!”

  Kate’s face was pale, her eyes deep pools of confusion. It broke Adam’s heart. His rage at Frances drained as love for his daughter flooded in. She was really still a child and he hated to hurt her. The church bell clanged, startling him, a clangor like thunder in a cave. Bells across the city pealed as if in echo, ringing the hour. Ten o’clock. He gently reached for her hand. “Kate, I’ll explain everything. How she’s lied to you. But not now. Now we have to go, before—”

  “No!” She snatched back her hand again. She gripped her cloak tightly to her chest. “I will not stay and hear this.” She bolted out of the chapel. Turned down the nave. She was heading for the front doors.

  “Don’t!” Adam ran after her, hurrying past rows of empty benches. “Kate, stop!”

  But she was swift. She had one of the double doors partway open by the time he reached her. He snatched her by the shoulders and yanked her backward. She stumbled against him with a small cry, her back to his chest, and he held her to steady her. He looked across the top of her head through the half-open door and froze at what he saw. Armed men. Six of them in the green livery of the Duchess of Feria, their swords at the ready. The bearing of soldiers. They stood with the two retainers and the serving woman who’d come with Kate. And beside them another woman, her back to him, richly dressed in a cape of blue silk. She turned sharply to look at the street, her face in profile. Adam’s stomach lurched. Frances.

  She hadn’t seen him. She and the soldiers had moved a little away from the church doors and were watching the street. Waiting for me, he realized. The truth came crashing in on him. He’d been betrayed. But how? Who?

  The church bell stopped its clangor. Adam ducked behind the open door. They had not heard Kate open it amid the noise of the bells, but closing it now might draw their attention. “Kate,” he whispered, “there are soldiers outside. Do you see them? They must not find me.”

  She looked at them. At him. “Why not?”

  “Just trust me, please. Come with me now, quietly, out the back.”

  “What have you done?” She shook her head. “No, I told you, I’m not going.”

  She wasn’t budging. He had to shock her to move. “Your mother is out there, too. Do you see her? She brought the soldiers.”

  Kate looked out again. Then back at him, blinking, struggling to make sense of it. “Maybe she’s come to fetch me.”

  “So she sent you here?”

  “Yes, who else?”

  “But you said you’re staying at the convent. How long have you been there?”

  “Since Friday.”

  The day after he’d landed. How could Frances have known that?

  “Or maybe,” Kate said innocently, “she’s come to speak to Father Hubert.”

  “Where is Father Hubert? Not here, because she told him not to come, to keep the way clear for the soldiers to take me. Why do you think the church is empty? They sent everyone out.”

  Her eyes darted from him to the group outside and back again, like a hunted doe hiding in bracken. He reached out for her, a silent request that she give him her hand. She did not move.

  “Kate, listen to me. Your mother has used you to lure me here. Used you as bait.”

  She was as still as if caught in a spell, her eyes huge. He felt that if he said one wrong word he would lose her.

  “Think,” he whispered. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Her mouth trembled. She swallowed. “You’re lying now.” She pulled open the door with such force it scraped the stone and the handle clanked.

  Adam saw Frances whirl around at the sound. She pointed to him and cried, “There he is!”

  The soldiers rushed up the steps, raising their swords. Adam grabbed Kate’s arm and ran, pulling her. She kept pace with him to avoid stumbling, but she was straining back, resisting. He dragged her on past the empty benches. Heard the soldiers pounding after them. “Halt!” the leader yelled.

  Adam and Kate were almost at the crossing, the rood screen and choir stalls just ahead. His only hope was to get out the way he’d come, around the apse, through the sacristy, and out into the lane. But Kate was balking and squirming, holding him back. She grabbed hold of a bench and anchored herself, wrenching Adam to a halt.

  The sold
iers pounded closer, their swords gleaming red from the light of the stained glass windows. Every instinct told Adam to protect his daughter from their weapons. He turned to face them, dragging Kate behind him, screening her with his body. He whipped out his dagger.

  The benches on either side forced four of the soldiers to bunch up behind the first two, so the rear ones veered sideways, two to the left, two to the right, to attack his flank. Impeded by the benches, they jumped over them but were still slower than the front two who came straight at Adam. One lunged at him. Adam lunged at the same moment with a stab that missed, but it surprised the man enough that his sword sliced the air wide of Adam’s shoulder and the man stumbled aside. The next one swung at Adam, and his blade tip gouged the side of Adam’s neck. It felt like a punch. Blood wetted his shirt.

  “Father!” Kate cried at seeing his blood. She reached out for him.

  “Stay back!” he said, pushing her clear of the two men coming from the right.

  She whirled off her cloak and threw it at the two men. It fell on the sword of one. He struggled to disentangle it.

  Kate cried, “Go, Father! Run!”

  He looked at his daughter for one agonizing moment. Then he turned and crashed through the rood screen. A soldier pounded after him to the altar. Adam grabbed the golden cross as long as his arm and hacked at the man’s sword. The sword fell with a clatter and the man staggered, off-balance.

  “Don’t let him escape!” Frances shouted, rushing down the nave. She reached Kate and snatched her.

  Two more soldiers charged Adam.

  “Run, Father!”

  He turned and ran.

  8

  The Bargeman

  Her horse plodded through Brussels, head down, under heavy rain. Wet and saddle-sore, Fenella kept her head down, too, though much good it did. One shoulder of her cloak was soaked through, and water dribbled down her hood and found the opening under her chin, letting chilly drops snake down her neck. She shivered and with one sodden leather glove bunched the fabric more tightly at her throat. Plodding on through the half-deserted streets, she thought wryly, Sensible people are indoors.