The Queen's Exiles (24 page)

Fenella lurched to him and dropped to her knees and took him in her arms. “Claes . . . Claes,” she murmured in anguish. His head lolled on her shoulder. His warm blood soaked the silk, wetting her skin.

“Where is Thornleigh?” Alba demanded.

With a snarl she twisted around on her knees and lunged for him. Her fingers raked his knee. Redbeard behind her snatched her shoulders and yanked her so hard she sprawled on her back with a cry of pain.

“Every time you refuse to answer,” Alba said, “my man will hack another part off your husband. His other ear. A hand. His nose.”

She struggled to get up. She was too shaky to get further than her hands and knees.

“Answer now,” Alba said, “or watch him bleed to death.”

“Don’t believe him,” Claes breathed. His voice was feeble, but he stood tall on his knees now, blood streaming down his neck. “He wants me alive . . . until the execution. My death . . . a show.” He struggled to keep upright, to focus his eyes on her. “You won’t change that.”

She gaped at him. He knew he was doomed. She sank back on her knees, stunned. Her heart bled for him.

“Say nothing,” he breathed.

Tears stung her throat.
If he can be strong, so can I.
She looked up at Alba, wishing she could claw out his eyes. She said again, “I know nothing.”

Was it morning or night? Fenella no longer cared. Sleep was fits of exhausted stupor shattered by wakefulness. Her nerve was shredded, her passionate fury drained. In her dank cell she lay curled up on the floor, clinging to her knees for the thin warmth it gave. They had brought her crusts of bread, but barely enough to fill her mouth, and her empty stomach roiled. They had given her water, but never enough, and thirst burned her throat. The constant headache hammered. Images of Claes tormented her . . . the bleeding, ravaged side of his head . . . his heartbreaking bravery. Alba had not mutilated him further. Claes had been right about that. Alba could not let him bleed to death. He wanted him alive for the grand public spectacle of his execution.

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.”