The Queen's Exiles Page 24

  “We’ll call all the Sea Beggars together,” Adam said. “How many men does that give us?”

  “Thirty-two ships. Over four hundred men. Many of them louts.”

  “A lout can be trained. Manpower is manpower. And if we succeed, if we can just gain a toehold, the prince of Orange may send troops to help us. It’s the breakthrough he’s been waiting for.”

  “But attack where? They have fortified garrisons in every port of any size.”

  “I don’t know, not yet. But with so much territory to defend they must have a weakness somewhere. We need information. That’s why we have to make contact first with the Brethren.” They had talked before about the rebel landsmen. La Marck was well aware of the Brethren’s work. “Then,” Adam went on, “we’ll be able to combine and coordinate our forces.”

  They talked until the water swallowed the sun. The sky was a luminous gloom and the night breeze rose, cool on Adam’s neck. The first gleam of interest shone in La Marck’s eyes. “All right, Thornleigh. I’ll send boats to take the message to our other ships up and down the Channel. The sooner we do this thing, the better. My men need food.”

  “Good. I know an ideal spot to make landfall. It’s a sheltered cove, not a day’s ride from Antwerp. A safe hiding hole for two or three ships. From there we can sortie to make contact with the Brethren.”

  It was a risk. The village wasn’t far from the cove and the people there knew he’d killed the other stranger who’d come among them, Tyrone. Adam would have to be very careful. But the possibility of raising a countrywide revolt was well worth the risk.

  16

  “Señor Grande”

  It was a busy night in the subterranean rooms of the Golden Angel. In the candlelit reception area two naked, nubile courtesans swung their wooden bats in a sprightly game of shuttlecock, giggling at the half-naked customer who played the role of their net, his arms outstretched. Male spectators laughed and wagered bets. A yapping lapdog scampered back and forth between the girls, frantically jumping for the flying feathered shuttlecock. The dog stopped behind one girl and hopped up with paws on her rump and sniffed. Laughter erupted.

  Fenella, her nerves frayed, stood apart from the group with the brothel’s manager, Mevrouw Dekker, bearing the brunt of the woman’s displeasure. The other day when Valverde had introduced them Mevrouw Dekker had been all smiles, full of compliments for Fenella’s beauty, but of course the smiles were for Valverde since the connection with him, as one of Alba’s commanders, could bring lucrative trade. She was smiling no longer. “Sick again?” she asked.

  “It’s this cursed flux,” Fenella said, a hand on her belly. “I can’t keep anything down.”

  A lie. This was her third night at the brothel, keeping an eye out for Alba. She came only in the evenings and for the first two, pleading sickness to Mevrouw Dekker, had managed to evade servicing any customers. She had served them food and chatted with the other women and kept out of Mevrouw Dekker’s way. But tonight a customer who’d seen her last night had asked for her specifically. He was known here as the Inchworm. Despite the amusing name, Fenella sensed fear in the other women when they spoke of him.

  That wasn’t her only worry. She’d heard a rumor from a girl named Sophie, Alba’s favorite, that he was hosting guests from Spain at his palace and so might forgo visiting the Golden Angel for a while. Fenella felt almost desperate. This was the only place she could get close enough to Alba to kill him. In the chaos his assassination would create, the Brethren might have a chance to rescue Claes. The plan was wildly uncertain enough . . . and now, what if Alba didn’t come to the brothel for days, weeks? Claes could be dead by then. The not knowing . . . it left Fenella in agony. She could only wait and watch and pray that Sophie was wrong. But how much longer could she evade doing what she’d been hired for?

  Mevrouw Dekker regarded her with a scowl. “Well, you’d better keep it down,” she ordered, “at least until the Inchworm gets it in. This can’t continue. I’m losing money on you. Clothes alone.” Making her point, she flicked at the lacy décolletage of the gown she’d loaned Fenella, a garment of scarlet silk so gossamer thin it clung to her every curve. She poked a finger at Fenella’s cheek where the white makeup Fenella had applied barely masked her scar. “Don’t forget,” she warned. “With that cut face you are not for all markets.” She tugged the gown lower off Fenella’s shoulders to emphasize her bosom and pointed down the corridor. “He’s waiting. Give him what he wants, or leave the gown and don’t bother coming back.”

  Fenella could have slapped the woman. But that would not help Claes. She swallowed her disgust, feeling sick in truth. “Yes, madam.”

  Down the corridor she went, her eyes raking the guests in the frantic hope that she might spot Alba. His appearance, described by his favorite girl, Sophie, was etched in her mind: sixty-four, thin as a cadaver, lean face, cropped gray hair, beard like an iron spade. A couple strolled past her, the man nuzzling the woman’s neck. A little boy dressed like Cupid hurried by, delivering a platter of fruits to one of the private rooms where the door was open and lute music lilted. Two drunken men lumbered past, one grazing Fenella’s elbow. No sign of Alba. Her fingers were cold with worry as she fussed with her wig, a fanciful concoction of blond curls. Marguerite Beaumont had given it to her, thrilled by the possibility of removing Alba after hearing Fenella’s plan. Together, in the shop, they had created this disguise so that if she could manage to get out after doing the deed and remove the wig and makeup there was a chance she could escape. The Brethren would hide her.

  The deed, she told herself, focus on that. Get through tonight, and hope for tomorrow.

  She reached the closed door of the room Mevrouw Dekker had assigned her two days ago. The Blue Room. It was where Fenella had hidden her flintlock pistol. She opened the door. The candlelit space was cozy. Blue-tapestried walls. A four-poster bed with a blue brocade coverlet. A bedside table with pewter goblets and a decanter of wine.

  A stout man, florid faced, sat on the foot of the bed. He wore a gray robe that hung half-open in a V where his paunch bulged. Thin gray hair hung in limp fingers below his ears. He stood up, scowling. “You’re late.”

  “Am I? Well, I’m here now.”

  “Don’t talk back, woman. Close the door.”

  Fury and disgust roiled in her. But she told herself, I’ve come this far. She closed the door.

  He threw off his robe. He was naked. White hairs curled across his sagging breasts and the thatch around his flaccid cock. “Take that off,” he said with a flick of his hand at her gown.

  Fenella’s nerve almost deserted her. “There’s plenty of time, lover,” she said, moving to the bedside table. “Let’s have some wine first. Here, I’ll pour you—”

  “No.” He snatched her wrist. “I’m a busy man. And never again call me by that odious word.”

  She winced at the pain of his grip. The thick ring he wore dug into her flesh. Furious, she glared at it, an amethyst as big as an acorn set in gold crafted with crucifixes, and suddenly she realized its significance. This was a ring that people kissed. The man was a bishop!

  “Come.” He pulled her to the bedpost. She saw that he had tied a leather cord to the post. He lifted the cord, still holding her wrist. “Hands together.”

  She now saw what lay on the bed. A whip, the brown leather coiled languidly like a snake.

  “You’re mad,” she said, pulling free.

  “And you, doxy, are paid for.” He added with a dark smile, “Don’t pretend you’ve never seen the like.” He pointed to her scar. “Someone’s already had sport with you.” He grabbed a fistful of her gown between her breasts, about to wrench it off.

  She lurched back. “Keep your hands off me.” She glanced at the whip. “And that thing, too.” She was breathing hard. Everything in her wanted to get out, get away, but this wretched place offered her only chance with Alba.

  His hand was at her throat faster than she could gasp. “These hands?” he said
, savagely squeezing. The ring dug into her windpipe. She could not breathe.

  She groped for the table behind her, knocking the decanter. It fell with a crash. She groped and snatched a goblet. Raising it high, she brought it down hard on the top of his head. He staggered back from the blow. His hand flew to his head, to the bleeding cut. He looked at his hand, at the bright blood. Fenella dropped the goblet, cursing herself. Impossible to stay here now!

  Voices sounded in the corridor. Mevrouw Dekker’s, warmly welcoming. A man’s, deep, calm, accented. A Spanish accent?

  The bishop grunted in shock and rage. “What have you done?” He stumbled a step toward her, then stopped, swaying, weak with shock. He sank to his knees. Fenella hardly saw him. She was straining to hear the voices past the door.

  Mevrouw Dekker’s: “My dear sir . . .”

  The Spanish man: “Where’s Sophie?”

  Another man: “I’ll be in the card room.” Fenella stiffened. That third voice she knew. Valverde.

  “Here’s my Spanish knight!” a woman called gaily. It was Sophie.

  Fenella’s heart thudded. Alba! She went down on all fours and fished under the bed for her pistol. Behind her the bishop, still on his knees, snatched the back of her dress and yanked. “Cunt!” She tumbled backward and fell. Kneeling, he loomed over her, still half-stunned from the blow to his head, blood trickling down his neck. She struggled to get up and made it to her feet, but the silk skirt was tangled between her legs. He swiped at her like a maddened bear and his fingers raked the silk with a loud rip. She got her leg free and kicked him in the chest. He sprawled onto his back with a cry.

  The voices past the door faded. She heard a door close. She looked at the bishop who was sprawled on the floor, groaning in pain from her kick. She couldn’t risk him stopping her. She grabbed one of his arms and raised it to the bedpost where the leather cord hung. He gaped at her, still dazed. She wound the cord around his wrist and tied a knot. Snatching the whip off the bed, she grabbed his other hand and bound the whip around his wrist and tied it to the other bedpost, snugging it tight. Arms outstretched, on his knees, naked and bleeding, he looked like a fanatic mimicking Christ.

  It took her only a minute to load the pistol with the finger-sized powder charge, then the ball. Long enough for the bishop to come to his maddened wits. As she opened the door he bellowed obscenities at her.

  She shut the door and looked up and down the corridor, holding the pistol at her knee in the fold of her gown. A couple of women sauntered past and she greeted them loudly, smiling, to cover the bishop’s voice. The little spaniel trotted by. No sign of Sophie. Or Alba. The two doors opposite were closed. She opened one. Empty. Then the other. A couple writhed on the bed, the man young and blond. She shut the door. The bishop kept bellowing from the Blue Room. Fenella hurried to the reception area, then around the corner to the card room. Valverde sat dealing cards to a fat man and a pretty girl with a monkey on her shoulder.

  Fenella forced herself to look calm as she approached them. Forced her hand with the pistol to stop trembling. “Señor Valverde, how nice to see you.”

  He offered her a slight smile, a hint of pity in his eyes. “How is it working out for you?”

  “Fine. Have you seen Sophie? My gentleman likes a threesome. He’s asked for Sophie.”

  “Not likely,” the girl with the monkey scoffed. “Not when she’s got Señor Grande.”

  The girl’s glance over her shoulder at a room to the right was all the information Fenella needed. The Gold Room. She rejoiced. The Gold Room had a private staircase that curved up to the busy street. With luck, she could escape up those stairs, toss the wig, and hurry away among the foot traffic.

  She threw open the door. Beside a table laden with food stood Sophie, in green gauze, serving sweets to a well-dressed man in an armchair. He was thin as a cadaver, with cropped gray hair, beard like an iron spade. Alba.

  Startled, they both looked up.

  “Your Grace,” Fenella said, closing the door.

  “Yes?”

  It was so easy! He sat not fifteen feet away. The staircase was right behind him.

  Voices sounded in the hall. Pounding feet. Shouting. A cry from Mevrouw Dekker. Fenella told herself, Do it now! She raised the pistol. Aimed at Alba’s forehead. He jumped to his feet.

  “No!” Sophie cried. She lurched in front of Alba, arms spread wide to shield him.

  Fenella’s heart leapt to her throat. She could not shoot the girl.

  Two men pounded down the stairs, swords drawn. Fenella stiffened. His guards. Of course. Idiot!

  Alba pushed Sophie aside, a ferocious look on his face as though he would tear Fenella apart with his bare hands. He came at her. It gave her a clear shot. She steadied her hand. Aimed.

  The door burst open and a man lunged for her, chopping her arm with his hand. The blow was like an axe. Pain seared and the pistol flew from her hand, clattering to the floor. She turned to go for it. The man tripped her. She tumbled and sprawled on her back, her wig falling off. He stomped on her arm, pinning her to the floor.

  With a gasp of pain she looked up into the furious face of Valverde.

  Church bells chimed across Brussels. Frances Thornleigh thrilled to the sound as she made her way through the governor’s palace with her two children. It was as though the city were celebrating the Duke of Alba’s narrow escape from the assassin last night.

  No one was more relieved than Frances, for she felt her whole future lay in Alba’s hands. She needed him alive. If he could persuade King Philip to back an invasion of England they would topple Elizabeth and install Mary Stuart, the realm’s rightful, Catholic queen, and then, finally, Frances could go home. And now, if the would-be assassin last night was who she suspected it was, she might forge an even stronger bond with Alba. She was edgy with anticipation as she nudged her son and daughter to follow the footman who ushered them into the duke’s private suite.

  Kate obstinately resisted, gripping Robert’s hand. “How long do we have to stay?”

  Frances pinched the girl’s ear. “Hush! You’ll stay until you’re told.” Her fury at her daughter had simmered for days, ever since the girl had dared to plead Adam’s cause. Frances had slapped her and forbidden her to speak his name again.

  Robert looked nervously from his mother to his sister. Frances shoved them both. “Move! The duke is waiting!”

  They found Alba bidding good-bye to a trio of city magistrates. He leaned on a cane, a sufferer of gout, and looked very tired. The visitors appeared anxious. No wonder, Frances thought. All of Brussels was abuzz about the attempt on the governor’s life. She held back her children as the magistrates walked out. Alba then noticed her and beckoned her.

  “Your Grace,” she said, bustling forward with the children. “I rejoice to see you in health. We all praise God for sparing your life.”

  “God’s plan, madam. He knows I must finish my work in this heretic land before He calls me to His rest.” He regarded the children with vague interest. “Your son and daughter?”

  “Yes. Robert and Katherine.” She prodded Kate, who curtsied, though with an icy look. Robert made a bow stiff with awe and fear. “My lord,” Frances said, “I trust my dear Duchess of Feria made clear to you my dreadful plight?”

  “She did, yes, in her note. I sympathize, madam. A mother naturally wants to ensure her children’s safety.”

  “Oh thank you, my lord! I am quite beside myself with worry. Twice their father has tried to abduct them. He is dogged and devious. The abbey simply is not secure enough.”

  “The duchess suggested they take sanctuary here. Is that, in fact, your wish?”

  “I would be eternally grateful.”

  “Your Grace,” Kate said, a quaver in her voice, “may I speak?”

  He smiled thinly. “Of course.”

  “My father is a good man. He only wants—”

  “Quiet!” Frances ordered, aghast. She caught the look of distaste in Alba’s hawk-like eye
s. “His Grace wants none of your foolish prattle! Not one more word! Do forgive her, my lord. The upheaval has left her confused.”

  He let it go. Frances got him back to the matter at hand and the details were quickly settled: The children would stay; a young priest would tutor them. Alba called for his secretary, and as they waited for him Alba said, “I hope you will excuse me if I sit, madam. I am a martyr to gout.” He hobbled toward an easy chair.

  Kate whispered fiercely to Frances, “I will not stay here.”

  “You will,” she replied through clenched teeth, “and you’ll behave yourself.”

  “No. I will find some way out. To Father.”

  “Bah, then do it and be gone.” Having the girl out of her hair would be a blessing. It was Robert she needed. Robert she was careful to keep close. Through him she could regain everything she’d lost—rank, position, wealth—if the blessed day ever came when they returned to England. With Adam dead, her son would inherit his title. Robert, Baron Thornleigh. Frances, the Baron’s esteemed mother.

  The boy was silently crying. “Don’t leave me, Kate.”

  His sister squeezed his hand. “Of course not, Robin. I never would; you know that.”

  Frances tugged them apart. “His Grace does you an honor,” she firmly assured the boy. “You will prove yourself a fine, brave little man, won’t you? For Mother’s sake?”

  The secretary came padding in. “Albornoz,” the duke said to him, “take Lady Thornleigh’s children to the chamberlain. They are my guests. Indefinitely.”

  Watching her son and daughter go, Frances breathed a tight sigh of relief. She turned to Alba. “Your Grace, how can I ever thank you enough?”

  He regarded her from his chair. “The duchess’s note said you’ve had news about your husband.”

  This was what Alba wanted, she knew. Adam, dead or alive. Frances only wanted him dead. “I have,” she confirmed. “When he failed to abduct the children I sent my man Tyrone after him. I’ve now heard that Tyrone was found murdered in a village near Antwerp. Kloster, it is called, near the sea. From witnesses’ descriptions, I believe the killer was my husband. It means he may still be in the country.”