The Queen's Gamble (12 page)

“Only that the rebels hold Edinburgh.” Though he had fought in Scotland years ago, he had never seen their major city. “But I understand the French have landed over seven thousand troops, and they will have strengthened the nearby fortress.”

“At Leith, yes, on the coast. But the rebel dogs have camped their tents right out into the fields past Edinburgh, forcing the Queen Regent to take refuge with the Leith garrison. Rebels—bah! Too meager a word. An unholy band of heretics. When they rampaged down from Perth, they ransacked all the churches in their path. They sicken His Majesty. They sicken all of Spain. They are an affront to God Himself.” He gave Carlos a pointed look. “I trust you understand my meaning?”

He did—that it was not in Spain’s interest to allow the rebels to win. “You want a French victory.”

Quadra did not say so, but his nod made it clear. Carlos wasn’t surprised.

They were approaching the arch of Newgate in London Wall, where Newgate Prison rose three stories above them, and white-faced prisoners stared out from barred windows. Carlos and Quadra passed under the arch, the clang of their horses’ hooves echoing off the frosty stone walls.

“The hair in the ointment is the English Queen,” Quadra went on doggedly. “She is anxious about so many Frenchmen on her border. His Majesty wants no quarrel with Queen Elizabeth, for she is his ally, and he has proclaimed his neutral position. However, neither can he allow the attacks of these Scottish curs against the one true Church, and in this goal he is united with the King of France. They are kinsmen, after all, since His Majesty last summer wed the French King’s sister. These two great kingdoms are now handfast friends. More important, they are united in their dedication to doing God’s holy work.”

So much for neutrality, Carlos thought.

“Señor Valverde, it pleases me greatly that you have proved yourself such a loyal servant of the King. In her letter my cousin Beatriz wrote a glowing tale of your exploits in putting down the traitor Mendez’s rebellion. Others who know Peru have told me the same, and it seems no exaggeration to say that you saved his excellency the viceroy from a defeat that would have gravely undermined the King’s authority in that land.”

Carlos nodded. He was glad of the rewards the Peruvian campaign had brought him, but had little interest in going over old ground. He looked to the road ahead, where a dozen or so cattle plodded toward him and Quadra. A farmer trudged at the rear of the cattle. Here, outside the city walls, there was a stink from the tanneries to the south, where livestock entrails were slopped into the Fleet Ditch. To the north lay Smithfield fairground, not busy today with no horse market. Past it, frozen fields.

“Tell me,” Quadra said, “as a military man, how do you rate the chances of our French friends?”

Isabel’s father had asked him the same question. Carlos hadn’t changed his mind since then. “Is Leith the only fortress the French hold?”

“No, there are more. Principally, Dunbar and the island of Inchkeith.”

“What about the stronghold of Edinburgh Castle? Have the rebels taken it?”

“No, Lord Erskine commands it, ostensibly for the Queen Regent, though he has proved unwilling to turn his guns on the rebels.”

“But he hasn’t gone over to them?”

“No.”

“Who commands the French troops?”

“Monsieur D’Oysel. He has advised the Queen Regent for many years, and she trusts him completely.”

But can he fight? Carlos let that question go. “How many troops have the French landed?”

“Seven thousand at the Leith garrison, and we know that the Marquis d’Elbeuf is readying at Dieppe to sail in forty ships with six thousand more, and cannons.”

Battle-hardened troops against a ragtag army of clansmen who had no artillery and would turn and walk home to their hovels when their few weeks of rations ran out. There was no real match here. “The French will succeed,” he said.

“Indeed, we must hope so. But hope is no substitute for action, I’m sure you’d agree. Although in this case our actions must be circumspect. Which is why I hope that you will accept a mission in His Majesty’s name.”

Carlos looked at him, taken aback. “Mission?”

“To Leith. As our military liaison to the French commander. We need someone of your caliber close to the decision making, to safeguard Spain’s interests.”

Carlos kept his eyes ahead on the approaching cattle, hiding his alarm. A posting to Scotland was the last thing on earth he wanted. He had put soldiering behind him. He was a gentleman now.
I earned it, damn it
. But he couldn’t say any of that. He answered carefully, “I am always at His Majesty’s service, my lord.”

Quadra gave a courtly nod. “As are we all.”

“However, his excellency the viceroy has requested my return, and I am his to command. I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but I expect to sail to Peru almost immediately.”

“Not until Easter, your wife said.”

Carlos looked at him, surprised. “My wife?”

“She came to tell me about your application to His Majesty’s Council of the Indies. For a seat on the Trujillo city council? She asked me to add my recommendation.”

Did she? “Of course,” he said, not wanting to seem unaware of his wife’s doings. He was pleased, actually. It was a good idea. Clever Isabel. He wanted that Trujillo seat badly. It would be expensive, what with the fee to the Council of the Indies, but well worth the cost. The position was permanent, and carried the authority to sell scores of minor offices and pocket the cash. It would bring in so much, he could keep the house and give Isabel everything she would ever need or want, and let him build a fine patrimony for Nicolas.

“I would like to assist your application,” Quadra said. “Naturally, only those who have proved their loyalty to His Majesty can be considered for such an honor. As you have so capably done, Señor Valverde, and will, I am sure, continue to do. May I rest easy that I can entrust this Scottish mission to you?”

So that was it. Carlos felt the heavy weight of the ultimatum. To win the seat that would discharge his debts, keep the house that Isabel loved, and build the legacy he wanted for his son, he would have to endure a God-cursed billet in stinking Scotland. “My lord, please consider my position,” he said, making one last stand. “The viceroy does not allow absentee
encomenderos
. By staying away from Peru I could forfeit my
encomienda
.”

“Oh, your land holdings will in no way be jeopardized. I will personally assure the viceroy of the necessity of your mission, and your indispensability to His Majesty.”

Carlos gritted his teeth. No way out. He answered as calmly as he could, “In that case, my lord, I am His Majesty’s servant to command.”

Quadra smiled. “Excellent. Don’t worry, Valverde. If you’re right about the superior French capability, and I pray to God that you are, this whole thing could be over in weeks.”

9

Departures

I
sabel was delighted with Frances’s quick recovery. The change was remarkable. Within a day the bloom had crept back into her cheeks, and she was sitting up in bed contentedly reading a friend’s note of congratulation. Isabel had immediately sent a message to the Admiralty to be forwarded to Adam, telling him about his baby daughter, who was quite perfect, she added, and assuring him of Frances’s good health. It tickled her to imagine her devil-may-care brother as a father, but she knew the role would please him tremendously. Frances had named the child Katherine.

Isabel had encouraged her to dismiss the hired wet nurse and suckle the baby herself, and by the following day little Katherine was nursing well. Frances had regained a hearty appetite, too, and ordered her kitchen to prepare roast capon and baked cinnamon apples for herself and Isabel, arranging the details with brisk efficiency. Isabel sensed that she was seeing the real Frances emerge. Cowed before by her fear of childbirth, she had confronted that demon and conquered it, and now, eager to get on with life, the able manager in her came striding forth. Isabel loved sitting with the baby in her arms when Frances napped. She would watch the tiny fingers curl around her own finger, and dream of having another babe of her own. Carlos wanted more children, she knew. It made her long to get back to her parents’ house. Could she leave yet? Frances was certainly well enough. She decided she would stay one more night, make sure that Frances was comfortably settled in the morning, and then go. Tomorrow night she would be lying in Carlos’s arms. A daughter next time, wouldn’t that be wonderful?

That evening, as she was about to undress for bed, Frances surprised her by coming into her room. “Is everything all right?” Isabel asked.

“Yes. Katherine is sleeping.”

“As should you.”

“I will. I just wanted to say . . . Isabel, I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. I believe you saved my life. And my child’s.”

“Nonsense. You did all the work. I only fussed.”

“No. I owe you everything, and I shall never forget it.”

Isabel couldn’t resist. “No odd effects from the water? A mad desire to swim? Fishy scales on the babe?”

Frances laughed. “I’ll tell her when she’s older how her aunt made me face down my fears in a washtub.”

They embraced, Isabel feeling happy that she had so faithfully discharged her promise to her brother, and even happier that she would soon be going home.

Frances pulled away. “I am leaving tomorrow. I just received a note from Adam.”

“Ah! You are going to join him?”

“No.” Frances looked down, her sadness all too plain. “He is not coming home. His duties keep him away.” Isabel felt sorry for her, all alone in this house with only servants. She had invited her to come to the house on Bishopsgate Street, but was not surprised when Frances declined. Isabel knew there was little love between her sister-in-law and her parents.

Frances looked up, and a brisk new energy straightened her back. “I will not pine,” she said. “I am going to visit my brother Christopher at his house in Northumberland. It will cheer me. And the wholesome country air will be good for Katherine.”

Isabel felt a prickle of alarm. Another Grenville, this Christopher. She had never met him, and hoped she never would. But that was not the only cause of her concern. “Are you sure you can manage such a journey?” she asked. It would take three weeks at least, over ice-hard roads. And Frances was still recovering.

“I will go in a litter. I
must
go, Isabel. Must get away from London. Katherine has to be baptized, and I will not have it done in one of their filthy churches.”

“Things are no different in Northumberland.”

“Ah, but they are.” She lowered her voice. “If one knows where to go.”

The cryptic comment sounded conspiratorial, as though they shared a secret. It opened a dangerous door, Isabel thought. To partake of a mass held by the Spanish ambassador was one thing; he was an eminent dignitary privileged by his position. To join country people in outlaw worship was something else altogether. Isabel was about to urge her to reconsider, when a maid came to the doorway.

“A letter for Mistress Valverde,” she said as she curtsied.

Isabel opened it. It was from Sir William Cecil, a brief note, but one that sent a shiver through her. The Queen, he said, required her presence at Whitehall Palace.

“Not bad news, I hope,” said Frances.

Isabel forced a smile. “Not at all. Mother wants help with the Christmas preparations.” She folded the letter and tucked it away. “Frances, since you’re leaving tomorrow—”

“Yes, of course, do return to your parents’ house. I am sorry to have taken you from them.” The formality of her words sounded as though she was trying to hide how much she would miss Isabel.

“Mistress Valverde. Wake up.”

Isabel surfaced from a dream of swimming in a sunlit sea with a naked newborn in her arms. “What is it?” She blinked in the glare of the candle flame held near her face.

Frances’s servant girl, Nan, stood near the bed. “Your husband. He’s asking to see you.”

Isabel sat bolt upright. “He’s here?”

“I told him you were sleeping, but he—”

“I’m coming.” She got up and whirled a robe around her shoulders, kicked her feet into slippers, and hurried down the stairs. At the bottom, the murky light of dawn from the stairwell windows made Carlos a shadowy form standing at the front door. He turned when he heard her coming, making his spurs clink and his sword glint in its scabbard.

“What’s happened?” she asked as she reached him. “Is it Nico?”

“No.”

“Mother?”

“No. She’s fine.”

He looked so serious, she knew something was wrong. Why was he booted and spurred? “What, then?”

“Is your sister-in-law up?”

“At this hour? No. Did you get my message? About the baby?”

He nodded. “Isabel, I came to say good-bye. I’m on my way north.”

She blinked at him. “Good heavens . . . where? What for?”

“To Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh! Why?”

“Quadra.” He explained: The ambassador was sending him to the French garrison at Leith. He was to be Spain’s military attaché to the French commander. He added bitterly, “Why? Because I happen to be in this cursed country.”

She stared at him in shock. He was going to help the
French?
A voice in her screamed
No!
And it was no peacetime posting . . .
He’ll be in the fighting!
Her stomach twisted at the horror of it. She fought to speak rationally. “But . . . how can he ask this of you? You’re not involved in that anymore. Soldiering. You have property in Peru that—”

“It’s about the seat on the city council. I won’t get it unless I do this. He made that clear.”

Her hand flew to her mouth to bottle up a gasp. “Oh, no. I asked him to endorse you. This is
my
fault.”

“No, he told me you asked him, and I’m glad you did. His word carries weight. I’ll get the seat faster.”

“The seat doesn’t matter. It’s
you
I care about.”

“It does matter. I need the money.
We
need it. It’ll cover our debts.”

“The money’s not worth it if you get hurt or—”
Killed
was the appalling, unspoken word. “Carlos, you can still refuse. Tell Quadra about your commitments to the viceroy. He has said he needs you back to—”

“No, Quadra’s settling all that. The King’s service comes first.” When she opened her mouth to say more, he held up his hand to stop her. “Enough. Isabel, I’ve agreed. I’m going. Listen, what I came to tell you was . . .” He stopped, as though he found the next words difficult.

“What?”

There was a scuffling sound at the top of the stairs. He looked in that direction. It was Nan, yawning as she came down. It made Carlos even more reluctant to go on with what he had started to say. Instead, he told Isabel, “Have my things sent, would you? Clothes. I’ll travel faster without baggage. Send it after me. Quadra’s secretary will tell you where.”

She could scarcely believe this was happening. The crisis had sucked them both in . . . and was pulling them apart.
We’re on opposite sides.
It so stunned her, dizziness shot to her head. She swayed.

Carlos grabbed her arm to steady her. “You’ve worn yourself out caring for Adam’s wife. Do you need to sit down?”

“No. No,” she insisted, struggling to come to terms with the devastation of her world. She fought to respond as he would expect, and heard words come out of her mouth: “How long will you be gone?”

He shrugged, grim-faced. “Until someone wins.”

Should she tell him everything? Tell him she had offered to help Cecil, to help the Queen? No, she had promised Cecil her silence. She cursed that promise now, hating to lie to Carlos, lie to him by her very silence. The longing to explain made her say, “About Ambassador Quadra . . . I’ve had a message from . . . the palace. The Queen has asked to see me.”

He looked astonished. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” It was only half a lie. Cecil had sent the summons but no explanation of what it was about. “Maybe because we’re friendly with Quadra . . . so maybe she thinks I’ve heard some useful information.” It was half the truth.

He frowned, puzzled. “About Scotland?”

She shrugged, mute with misery. She had already said too much.

He shook his head with a look of impatience, as though he thought it a waste of time to discuss something neither of them knew the facts of.

Muffled clangs sounded from the kitchen, servants starting their morning chores. And preparations for Christmas, Isabel thought bleakly. It was just a week away. She looked at Carlos. “Nicolas will hate Christmas without you.”

It seemed to prod him with a new urgency. “Isabel, I came to tell you something. If French troops surge into England, things could get bad here.” He took her by the shoulders, gently but firmly. “I want you to go home.”

“I am. Today,” she said, not caring. “Frances is fine now.”

“I mean
our
home. Trujillo. I want you to get Nicolas and take the next ship to Spain, and then sail home. I’ve left all our money for you, all but enough to get me by. Take it, and take Nico, and go home.”

She stared at him, unable to speak. Leave without him? Everything in her said
no
.

“And talk to your mother,” he said. “Convince her that she and your father should go with you.”

“They won’t. I’ve tried.”

“Try again. But no matter what, you and Nico get home. You hear me?”

No, she could not agree to this. If it became necessary she could send Nicolas to Spain to stay with Beatriz’s family in Seville. He would be well taken care of there. But she would not go home without Carlos. Nor even leave England herself, not yet. She had promised. She said, “Nico and I can go to Seville and wait for you.” When he looked about to argue the point, she added flatly, “Carlos, you must trust me. I’ll do what has to be done.”

He frowned as though not quite satisfied, but then nodded. “All right. Seville.” He heaved a tight sigh. “Now, I must go.”

They stood looking at each other, both unwilling to say the awful word
good-bye
. Her devastation that they were on opposite sides was swallowed up in sheer anguish that he was going at all, putting himself in harm’s way—that this was the last she would see of him for . . . how long, God only knew. “I’ll come out with you,” she managed.

The air was frigid as they stepped outside, and Isabel snugged her robe tightly around her. Fog shrouded the street. She could hear a wagon rumble over the cobbles but it was invisible in the misty gloom. A horse whinnied nearby, and Isabel could make out the shape of two waiting horses, one with a rider. It was Pedro. He would have left Nicolas asleep in bed. It gave her a shred of comfort to know that Carlos would have someone with him who was a part of their life. They walked hand in hand to the horse that Pedro was holding for him, and she greeted the lad.

“Señora,”
he replied with a nod.

Carlos turned to her, ready to go. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “Come summer, we’ll both be home.” He added, trying to sound lighthearted, “You’ll be on the veranda telling me to take my boots off before I come in the house.” But the tightness in his voice betrayed his emotion. He took her face between his hands and kissed her. She could barely respond, for her heart was breaking.

A burst of laughter came from the street—two apprentices hustling to work. They were laughing at some jest as they went on their way, unaware of Carlos and Isabel, but it was enough to pull him away from her. He mounted his horse. Isabel gripped the bridle, madly wishing there were some way she could stop him from riding off. She laid her hand on his knee and said, “Be careful.” Paltry words! She hated them. Hated Quadra. Hated that she had no power to stop this.

“And you,” he said with feeling. He covered her hand with his and squeezed. He looked as though he wanted to say more. But there was nothing more to say.

Isabel said to Pedro,
“Tome cuidado.”
Take care.

“Gracias, señora.”

Carlos turned his horse’s head, easing it into a walk. Pedro followed him. Isabel watched them go—past the neighbor’s house, past the baker’s shop, then on into the gloom beyond, the horses’ hooves clacking on the cobbles. She closed her eyes, finding it unbearable to watch Carlos disappear, on his way to help the enemy.

At the sound of galloping hooves her eyes sprang open. He was cantering back to her. He swung down from his horse and pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion he had intended before the apprentices had interrupted them. She held him tight and gave herself to the kiss with all the longing she knew would haunt her cold nights to come.

“Vaya con Dios,”
he whispered. He kissed her forehead tenderly, then swung back up into the saddle. Just before he turned his horse, he looked down at her and said, “Isabel, be careful with the Queen. You and I are subjects of Spain. Make sure she honors that.”