The King's Daughter (33 page)

She sat up straight in the saddle, forcing away such thoughts. She looked ahead at Rochester castle. Martin was there. She longed to see him.
Needed
to see him. She kicked her heels against the mare’s flanks and they began down the hill at a trot.

A hawk glided overhead in free and unencumbered flight, and Isabel smiled. It was wonderful to be moving forward, to be acting, to feel her impotence since the nightmarish attack on her mother melting away like the ice melting on the rocks beside her and trickling down to the river. At the foot of the hill she approached the bridge manned by a small troop of Wyatt’s confident-looking soldiers, and suddenly all things seemed possible: Carlos would find her father today and together they would rescue him; Wyatt would win; she and Martin would be married. Order was going to be restored—to the country and to the chaos of her life. The way lay right before her.

The mare stepped onto the bridge, its hooves clopping hollowly over the wooden timbers. Isabel noticed that the soldiers were eating as they stood duty on the bridge, some munching hunks of bread and cheese, some slurping at roasted legs of fowl. They idly watched her approach, and she overheard their brief, bawdy exchange of jests.

A bandy-legged guard with a grizzled, salt-and-pepper beard stepped out in front of the others in a mock heroic stance of defending the bridge against this attack from a lone female. His mates laughed. The grizzled guard tossed his chicken bone over the side of the bridge and ambled toward Isabel, his thumbs hooked into his belt. He halted in her path, blocking her way, and suddenly spread his arms dramatically wide as if in defiance of a terrible foe. “Who goes there?” he asked in a deep, dread voice consistent with his pantomime.

Isabel smiled at the foolery. “Prince Philip in disguise,” she said.

There were guffaws from other soldiers. “She’s got you there, Tom!” one called out with a laugh. The grizzled guard frowned, apparently not appreciating Isabel’s bettering him in the jest.

If he was the leader of the guard detail, Isabel decided, she’d better not antagonize him further if she wanted entry. She dismounted, stepped up to him with a look of earnest deference, and said,
“Dieu et mon droit”
This was the password Ambassador de Noailles had instructed her to give. She’d been careful to deliver it loudly enough for the other soldiers to hear.

The grizzled guard’s face immediately cleared. He glanced back at his friends who were watching in silence now, aware that something significant was happening. When he looked back at Isabel his face radiated pride that he was part of this secretive, official exchange. He drew himself up to his not very considerable height, and with a grand gesture welcomed her to cross the bridge.

They walked across side by side, Isabel leading her horse.

“Is Sir Thomas Wyatt available to see me, sir?”

The guard looked flustered. “What’s that? The commander? Aye, m’lady. Instructed me to bring the lady with the password straight on up, no dithering about. He’s yonder, up at the castle.” He continued to frown uncertainly, as though distressed.

Inside the town, Wyatt’s strength of numbers amazed Isabel. Evidence of it was everywhere. Not only in the large companies of soldiers trooping the streets and drilling at the archery butts, but also in the cohorts of carters handling supply wagons, blacksmiths clanging at anvils, esquires hefting saddles, cooks stirring massive, steaming pots over fires. The calm confidence of everyone in their preparations warmed Isabel like sunshine.

She and the guard entered the castle precincts and threaded their way through milling groups of soldiers waiting to go into the great hall to eat. She looked among them for Martin but could not see him. The guard led her through the castle’s main doors and up a stone staircase. The succulent aroma of roasting pork wafted up from the hall, and Isabel’s stomach grumbled. She had eaten nothing since a snatched bite of breakfast before dawn at the Anchor.

Once up the stairs the guard nodded toward a closed door. “Commander’s inside, m’lady. Time I head back to the bridge.”

“Thank you, sir. Good day.”

He frowned and cleared his throat, looking very uncomfortable. He seemed almost to squirm.

“Yes?” Isabel asked. “What is it?”

“That’s twice you’ve called me
sir”
he said. “Sir’s for dandies, them that’re cowering now under the Queen’s Spanish skirts. This army is for the plain, honest workingmen of England, m’lady. Excepting the Commander, of course, for he be the brains behind us. But I be a yeoman and proud of it. If you please, m’lady, you must call me Tom.”

Isabel grinned. “England is safe in your hands, Tom.”

“Thirty French ships?” Wyatt’s eyes widened in astonished delight.

“Under the command of Admiral Villegaignon,” Isabel confirmed. She and Wyatt stood alone in the sunlit solar above the great hall. She could hear the muffled noise of men tramping into the hall to eat. “At the moment,” she went on, “the Admiral’s fleet is lying off the Normandy coast. Monsieur de Noailles says the ships will bring you twelve companies of infantry.”

“Ah!” Wyatt raised his hands and eyes to heaven as if in thanks for deliverance.

“He also says that Admiral Villegaignon can move his fleet among our southern harbors, if you wish. He asks what landing places would suit you best.”

“Portsmouth, Hastings, Dover. Tell de Noailles that. Lord, this is great news. And what of the French force bound for Scotland?”

“The King of France promises that troops will soon be landing just north of Newcastle.”

“Soon? How soon?”

“Monsieur de Noailles did not say.”

Wyatt frowned.

“But regarding the south,” Isabel went on, “he has received a coded message from the mayor and aldermen of Plymouth expressing a willingness to receive a French garrison.”

“That’s good. Very good. And what news of the Queen’s preparations in London?”

“The Tower has been revictualed and its artillery over hauled. The Queen has placed Lord William Howard in command of the city’s defenses. Guns are being placed at every gate.”

Wyatt scowled at this but gave a shrug. “That was expected. What size are the Queen’s forces?”

“Surprisingly small, sir. The Ambassador believes that at this point she has little more than her Palace Guard.”

“Why, that can’t be more than two hundred. Are her councilors too busy bickering to gather their own musters?”

“I do not know, sir. However, the Ambassador suspects that she may be sending the trained bands of the City out against you. Though their force, he feels, cannot be large.”

Wyatt said nothing, but Isabel thought he looked worried. However, there was no more she could tell him. She had reported everything the French Ambassador had told her the day before yesterday in his pantry at the Charterhouse. Her duty here was done. Still, she felt an urge to say more.

“Believe me, sir, there is wondrous support for you all through the city,” she ventured. “One hears it everywhere. And Ambassador de Noailles introduced me to Master Henry Peckham who is organizing a great, secret body of support for you. They will be ready to strike with you when you come. London is yours. I feel it!” She looked down, aware that she had overstepped some martial convention with her enthusiasm.

Wyatt gave her a small, grim smile. “I am counting on it,” he said. He moved to a table littered with maps, picked up a jug of wine and poured two goblets full. “Well done, Mistress Thornleigh,” he said, handing her one. “I confess that I had almost given up on you. But this news of the French makes up for all.” He raised his goblet in a toast to her. “Congratulations,” he said, and drank.

Isabel felt a thrill of exhilaration at her successful mission. She drank with him, deeply and gratefully, for she was very thirsty after the long ride. The wine almost instantly swirled to her head and she felt emboldened to say, “It is
you
who must be congratulated, Sir Thomas. Such a great army you have drawn together! You will hardly even need the help from France.”

Wyatt fixed her with a stern look. “Don’t meddle in strategy, mistress. Stick to reporting about the French fleet.” He turned away, but she heard him murmur, “It just might save us.”

She was taken aback. She realized that her understanding of these things—of troop strength and readiness—was imperfect, but anyone could see that the army of English followers camped outside was formidable. “But sir—”

“You must be famished,” Wyatt said, as though to change the subject. He smiled. “Any other messenger, I’d tell him to help himself in the hall. But I’ll not toss in a pretty young woman alone amongst that pack. However, I have a meeting with my lieutenants at the armory and I must leave you. So I’ll have some food sent up to you here. All right?”

She thanked him. But there was still more she needed to say. And his mention of his lieutenants gave her the opening. “Sir Thomas, might I speak with Martin?”

Wyatt was downing his wine, about to go. “Who?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Martin St. Leger.”

“Oh. No. Sorry, you can’t.”

She bit her lip. “It would mean a great deal to me, sir. Would it upset military discipline so dreadfully to allow Martin a few moments with me?”

“No, I meant you can’t because he’s not here. He’s in Sevenoaks helping Sir Henry Isley march troops to us. He left the day before yesterday. They should arrive soon. I hope so. I can’t go on until I have them.”

“Oh,” she said. Sevenoaks was only fifteen miles away. Could she ask to stay at the castle until Martin returned? She longed for the reassurance that seeing him would bring. But she also knew she must return to London for her father’s sake. Even if Carlos did find him today it could take days toplan and execute the escape. A wave of resentment swelled inside her. If it were not for her father she could see Martin and be part of these exciting events. She could
stay
here with Martin, and be safe from … everything.

“Eat up, have a rest, then get back to London on the double,” Wyatt said brusquely.

Isabel nodded bleakly.

Wyatt started for the door. “I’ll expect you with another report from de Noailles as soon as possible.”

“Come back?” she gasped. “But … I cannot. At least, not right away.”

Wyatt turned. “What’s that?”

“I have … urgent business in London. Personal business that will keep me from—”

“You
asked
for this job, woman!” he said fiercely. “And against my better judgment, I agreed. I’ve waited four days for you to show up. And now, when our country’s very life could depend on the information that only you can bring, you want to bow out?” He had come toward her and stood glowering in her face. “For some God-cursed social engagement?”

Her anger flared. It was hardly that she
wanted
to risk her life skulking around London’s prisons, for God’s sake. “No, sir,” she said tightly. “But something has happened which—”

“You’re damned right something’s happened. While you’ve been dawdling in London a war’s begun. And like it or not, you’re part of it!”

She bit her lip and looked down.

Wyatt let out a small sigh of exasperation. “Look,” he said, clearly trying for patience, “I know my troops out there must seem like a mighty lot to you, but …” He paused, apparently unwilling to divulge military information, but then plunged ahead. “I already have Lord Abergavenny and Sheriff Southwell on my tail. They’re near Sevenoaks too, you see, collecting a royalist army. And the trained London bands you said the Queen might send against me? She already has. Yesterday. The Duke of Norfolk is in command. They arrived in Gravesend this morning, my scout tells me.” He frowned at her. “Do you understand what all this means?”

“That Norfolk will attack you here?”

He nodded. “So I should get out and march for London, right? But if I do, Norfolk and Abergavenny will combine and strike my rear. So I should stay and fight from this fortified position, right? Right. I’m staying. But as soon as I have Isley’s troops from Sevenoaks, I’ll march. And when I do I’ll need every scrap of information from de Noailles about what French support and what London support I can count on. I’m relying on
you
for that. Understand? I am depending on you.”

There was a cheer outside. Wyatt glanced at the window, then hurried out the door to investigate. Isabel ran to the window. Below in the cobbled bailey stood a ragged circle of Wyatt’s soldiers inside which stood two lines of men, a half dozen in each line, all wearing the baggy breeches of sailors. Resting upon their shoulders was a large black demicannon. Their leader, a stout man with a face the color of cured oak, stepped forward as Wyatt emerged from the castle. Isabel pushed open the window shutter to hear.

“Sir Thomas Wyatt?” the weather-beaten leader asked. “I’m Captain Winter, commander of the Queen’s ships moored in the estuary. I was awaiting orders to sail to Bruges and escort Prince Philip to the Queen when we heard what you were doing.” He glanced back at his men. “So someone else will have to ferry the Spanish Prince if they want him here to lord it over Englishmen. We’ve come to join you. And to make sure of our welcome, we’ve brought you one of the Queen’s guns.” He gestured toward the demicannon glistening in the sun. He grinned broadly and added, “There’s four more beauties just like her on board. And the rest of my men, too.”

Wyatt threw his arms around the captain in a joyous embrace. Wyatt’s men cheered and swarmed the new arrivals. Tom, the bridge guard, cheered the loudest and danced like a heathen around the muzzle of the demicannon, staring it in the mouth in a parody of fearlessness that made the men laugh.

Isabel laughed, too, as she closed the window again. She moved to the table and poured herself another goblet of wine.
Sir Thomas is too cautious,
she thought, still smiling as she sank into a chair to rest her saddle-sore muscles.
We shall win!

In Whitehall Palace people were almost crushing Queen Mary. The scene on the staircase was total confusion. Frances Grenville anxiously took the Queen’s elbow, making her body a barrier between the Queen and the men clamoring on the broad staircase. The Queen, Frances, and Amy Hawtry had been on their way up to chapel when they had been stopped by a breathless messenger calling up to the Queen. Almost immediately people had come running from everywhere as rumors shot down the corridors, and now the women were surrounded on the stairs by lords and courtiers pushing closer to hear. The muddy messenger on the step below them gulped to catch his breath after delivering the news.