The Queen's Gamble (8 page)

He went on steadily, addressing the ambassador, “Will the rebels prevail there, my lord?”

“God forbid it,” Quadra snapped.

“The question is,” Carlos said, “will His Majesty forbid it?”

Quadra paused for the briefest, tense moment. Then, smiling, he shrugged as though to banish a disagreeable thought. “His Majesty has many other issues to occupy his every waking hour, señor. Particularly the rampaging Turks, who are wreaking havoc against us throughout the Mediterranean. Spain is fortunate in her cordial relations with her dear ally, Queen Elizabeth. And, indeed, with King François as well. We cherish our friends and gird ourselves against our foes, the Turks. In this Scottish situation, His Majesty is completely neutral.”

Perez steered the conversation toward Peru, asking Carlos and Isabel about recent fluctuations in the gold market, and for the next twenty minutes the group chatted about a merchant ship that had tragically been lost in the Gulf of Mexico, and about the viceroy’s new plan for irrigating Lima’s market gardens. The conversation interested Quadra until a clock struck eight, when he excused himself for a meeting with the visiting Count of Feria.

“Neutral,” Carlos said darkly to Isabel when they were in a tilt boat on their way back to the heart of London, and her father’s house. “Meaning Spain will do nothing to help the Queen.”

“I know,” she said. She understood why he had pressed his question to the ambassador. And she felt sick about the answer. “England is alone.”

It was late when they arrived. The house was almost dark, the servants abed. The chamberlain was checking through the rooms before retiring, and he told Isabel that her mother had come home an hour ago and gone straight to bed. Isabel looked in on Nicolas, who was sound asleep with his wooden caterpillar snugged up beside his pillow. In the dim light, Pedro stood by the window with his back to her, tossing some rubber balls in the air and catching them. Three balls. Juggling, she realized. Though not very well. He fumbled a ball, and it bounced up to his waist as he fought to control the other two. It bounced again, and on the third bounce Isabel caught it. Pedro twisted around, surprised.

“Pardon, señora,” he said, bowing, abandoning the other two balls. “I did not hear you.”

“Has Tom Yates been teaching you?”

He nodded, looking nervous. “Is it wrong?”

“Not at all.” She smiled, watching the two balls roll away. “Practice makes perfect, I dare say.” She tossed him back the ball she had caught. “Is he a good teacher?”

He looked relieved, and his round face softened in a grin. “Tom, he is a master.”

She laughed. “That he is. At all manner of foolery. To bed with you now, Pedro.” She went to the bedside and bent over Nicolas and kissed his forehead, then left him and her servant to their slumbers.

She passed her mother’s bedchamber. The door was closed, the band of space beneath it dark.

When she reached her own room Carlos was sitting in bed, his back against the headboard, reading the letter from Enrique in Peru. He always slept naked, something their Spanish doctor in Trujillo would have called an odd and unhealthy habit, but Isabel liked how the light from the candle beside him burnished his bare chest, the sheet reaching just to his navel. It roused the lovely, familiar flutter low in her belly. And her heart went out to him the way he concentrated on the letter, the words still a challenge. Five years ago, when she had met him, he could barely write his name. He had grown up among soldiers, and in that life literacy was not a skill that mattered, not like prowess on a warhorse or dexterity with a sword. Carlos could have ordered a cavalry charge in five languages, but he could not read or write. Isabel had taught him.

She sat down at her dressing table. “What’s the news from Enrique?” she asked as she unfastened her pearl necklace.

“There’s a lot.” He seemed reluctant to go on, and looked up at her. “Was Nico asleep?”

“Soundly.”

“No mention of the horse, then.”

“Horse?”

“He was excited about it. Your father, before he left, he told me to pick a mount from his stable, so I took Nico along. I was looking at a bay rouncy, but Nico saw a black jennet stallion and ran to it. Plenty of Barbary and Arab in the animal, so no wonder he liked it.”

“He loves
all
black horses,” she said, amused, as she rolled down her stocking.

He smiled at his own ignorance. “Ah, I didn’t know that. In any case, I told the stable master I’d take the jennet. Nico asked him what its name was, and it was a foolish one, so I told Nico he could give it a new name. He looked at the horse very seriously and said,
Noche
.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Night?”

Carlos threw up his hands in surrender. “I know, I told him it should be an English name. But he said the rider was a Spaniard—me—and said since I’d always told him a good horseman is one with his mount, the horse should have a Spanish name. He had me there. So,
Noche
it is.”

“I like it,” she said, getting up barefoot to undress. “Only I hope he didn’t talk you into a nag.”

“No, it’s a fine animal. We used jennets for light cavalry in Andalusia. The boy’s got good horse sense.”

They shared a smile. Nico, the four-year-old
caballero
.

She unlaced her bodice, her eyes on the lacings though she felt Carlos’s gaze on her. But when she looked up at him the letter had reclaimed his attention. She saw the good humor fade from his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Bad yield on the silver assay. Bad harvest of wheat, too. It’s going to be hard to make the payment on the loan for the mine.”

“Can you borrow more?”

He shook his head. “But don’t worry. If I get the council seat, it’ll pay off everything.”

“Yes, of course. Good.” He went back to reading, and she unfastened a silver earring, thinking. Months ago he had had his lawyer write to the Council of the Indies in Seville with his application for a seat on the city council of Trujillo. Though he now said
Don’t worry,
she knew that
he
was worried. Getting the council seat required the approval of the King, and Carlos was one among scores of petitioners for the lucrative post. An idea came to her as she unfastened the other earring. Ambassador Quadra. He was close to the King. If he gave Carlos his personal recommendation it could tip the balance in Carlos’s favor. She would go to Quadra, alone, and ask for this favor.

Only, she would have to be careful. Though Carlos had status as an
encomendero,
the problem was his base birth. Nothing meant more to Spaniards than family pedigree, and the more ancient the lineage, the better. Advancement was usually limited to nobles, or to knights and high-ranking gentlemen who had performed supremely for the King on Continental battlefields or in the service of his government or church. Peru held the single exception—the
conquistadores
. Under Pizarro these men, numbering less than two hundred, had taken the country in their legendary victory over the Inca thirty years ago and carved it up for themselves, becoming immensely rich, and whether they had originally signed on as lowly infantry, blacksmiths, shoemakers, or clerks, they were now so venerated in Peru they enjoyed the reputation almost of deities. Carlos was not a
conquistador,
but his military success in the viceroy’s service was marked enough for the Council of the Indies to reward him. But Bishop Quadra? Carlos’s mother had been a camp follower in Spain, a whore. He never knew his father. If Quadra learned of this ignominy, he might not lift a finger in Carlos’s cause. Yes, she would have to deal carefully with him.

A groan from Carlos.

“What?” she asked. “More bad news?”

“The mine assayer died of a fever. I’ll have to hire another. Two days later the strongbox at the mine office was stolen. Two hundred pesos’ worth of silver, gone.”

She looked at him in concern. “Does Enrique know who took it?”

“The assayer’s assistant, he says. The fellow’s taken off.”

“Has Enrique sent people after him?”

“No point. He comes from the
altiplano
. They’d never find him.” He scanned the page. “At the house, the bridge collapsed in the rains. Enrique wants to rebuild farther downstream, but that means moving the road. A big expense, so he won’t start until I get back. And the viceroy visited. He’s planning a major expedition into that jungle toward Brazil. Wants to talk to me about it.”

“Surely not to go along? You’re finished with all that.”

“No, he just wants my advice. Arming the company, choosing the captains.” He looked up at her. “Isabel, we need to go home.”

She turned away, taking refuge in the business of laying aside her clothes. She stood in just her chemise.
Go home?
It was hard to sort out her feelings. She shook loose her hair, then came to the side of the bed and sat down. She fiddled with the strings at the neckline of her chemise, thinking. “You know I promised Adam I would stay awhile, for Frances.”

He smoothed her hair to one side, exposing the back of her neck. “Three weeks, let’s say. She can’t expect you to stay longer than that. I’ll book our passage.”

“What about my parents?”

He brushed a soft kiss on the back of her neck. “We came here to help. But they don’t need our help.”

“They might if the French cross the border.”

“Your father has money and plenty of friends.” He slipped the chemise off her shoulder. It sent a sweet shiver through her. He ran his hand up into her hair and kissed her shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat at the feel of his lips, his warm breath, his calloused palm on her neck. She closed her eyes, wanting to keep her mind on the problem. Carlos added, “He has plenty of retainers, too. All the men on his estates. They’d fight for him.”

“Farmers with pitchforks against trained French troops?”

“Men defending their homes. A tough enemy.” He slid the chemise off her other shoulder. Kissed it. She swallowed at the warmth spreading through her loins. “And don’t forget they have the friendship of the Queen,” he said. “No matter what happens, she’ll see they’re protected.”

He had bent his leg, and he guided her by her shoulders to lean back against his raised knee. It made her breasts rise and the thin fabric slide down. Her nipples were so hard they caught in the lace trim. She could feel him erect through the sheet at her hip. He gazed at her, his breathing rough.

“The Queen . . .” She forced her mind to stay focused, though her body ached with desire. “She couldn’t protect them if the French learned my mother is a convicted heretic.”

“They’ve survived worse.”

“Years ago.”

“Your mother is clever. And your father always lands on his feet.”

“They’re not young anymore.”

“Mi amor . . .”
He pulled the chemise skirt up over her knee. She gasped softly as his hand smoothed up the inside of her thigh. He kissed her mouth, a kiss rough with want. Her thighs seemed to melt. He pulled her leg to one side to get his hand higher. She could hardly breathe as his fingers slid along her hot, wet cleft.

She gripped his wrist to stop him. “Carlos . . . please.” She straightened, pushing away his hand, catching her breath. She tugged up the chemise to cover her breasts.

He let out a quick, sharp breath, accepting. “All right, let’s talk about your parents. What do you want to do?” He added with gentle mockery, an attempt to make her smile, “Fight the French yourself?”

“No, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Me, then? I would fight a wild mob for you, Isabel, but I can’t take on the whole French army.” He was half smiling as he said it, but she heard the exasperation in his voice.

“I just wish . . .” She shook her head and said again, helplessly, “I don’t know.” She turned to look at him. “I just wish I could get them away from here.”

He shrugged. “Then let’s do it.”

“What?”

“Take them to Trujillo. They can live with us.”

She stared at him. The idea was like a bright light beaming on her, making everything suddenly clear, blazing her worries away. “Of course! They’ll be safe with us. We can take care of them. It’s perfect.” Wonderful images swirled in her mind. Her father bouncing Nicolas on his knee. Her mother training bougainvillea vines up the porch pillars to blossom in a canopy of blooms. Spirited conversations at the dinner table. Quiet talks with her mother. She threw her arms around Carlos’s neck. “Oh, my love, you are so . . . so . . .” She showed him with a kiss. A happy, grateful, heartfelt kiss. He returned the kiss with passion.

She pulled free and jumped up from the bedside. “I’ll tell her right now.”

“Who?”

“My mother. I can’t wait. It solves everything.”

He grinned and caught her wrist. “Let her sleep.” He pulled her back down with pretend violence, landing her on her back with a thud that made her laugh. He kissed her hard, and when his hand reached her breast, she gasped in pleasure. “That can wait until morning,” he said. “I can’t.”

6

The Visitor

M
orning came with sunshine so bright it blazed through the staircase windows of the Thornleighs’ London house, warming Isabel as she hurried down the steps still tying the lacing at the back of her bodice. She felt full of hope. Ice dripped from the eaves, melted by the strong sun. Birds chittered in the garden hedges. It felt like spring.
She
felt like spring, felt as eager as an April robin. She was bursting to tell her mother what she and Carlos had decided.

She found her at the east end of the great hall, where the bay of the oriel windows was festooned with a small jungle: flowering plants, vines, cuttings, seedlings, and sprouts. Her back was turned as she lifted a watering can to sprinkle a hanging vine.

“It looks like the rain forest of Peru,” Isabel said.

Her mother turned with a start. “Oh, you frightened me, my darling. I didn’t think you were up yet.”

She said this lightly, but Isabel saw the tiny lines of worry that radiated from the corners of her eyes. They hadn’t been there five years ago. And the way her right arm hung lifeless at her side, was it still painful? It had to be horribly cumbersome, at the very least. For all her mother’s verve and intellectual curiosity, there was a new weariness that she could not hide. Isabel felt a pang of pity. “You look like you didn’t get much sleep,” she said.

“I never sleep well when Richard’s away.”

“I’m the same when Carlos is gone. The moment he leaves, the murderers and ogres circle the house, waiting to get at me and Nicolas. The moment Carlos comes home, they slink away.”

Her mother nodded, amused. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

They shared a smile.

A ginger kitten lay on its back, batting a dead leaf between its paws like a practice mouse. There was an earthy smell from all the potting soil. Isabel realized she had always associated the smell of spring earth with her mother. As a child, looking for her, she had often found her in the garden.

“Shall we breakfast together? Is Carlos up, too?” Her mother pinched a sprig of sage from a tier of herbs and handed it to her. “Ellen has made barley bread, and there’s fresh churned butter.”

“No, no breakfast just yet.” Isabel twirled the sage between her fingers to release its fragrance. “I want to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Her mother set down the watering can and picked up a pair of scissors. She inspected a tendril of English ivy and snipped off a brown leaf.

“You told me Father was going to Antwerp to see an old friend. But I know the truth. He’s gone to buy munitions for the Queen. And you’ve been helping her, too.”

Her mother turned, the leaf stilled between her fingers. Her face betrayed no hint of emotion. “Who told you that?”

“Father did, told Carlos. But I heard it from Adam, too.” She gave a quick account of the mob at St. Paul’s, and Adam coming to her rescue.

“Good heavens! Did they hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. That’s not what I want to talk about. Adam told me about the crisis in Scotland. The huge buildup of French troops. The fear that they might invade England. How weak Queen Elizabeth’s position is. Mother, there’s no need to pretend anymore. I know the peril you face.”

There was the merest flicker of unease. “My. He told you a great deal.”

Isabel could not forget Adam’s other words:
You’re Spanish now. You’re Catholic
. Was her mother thinking the same thing? She hated this barrier between them. “Mother, you can
trust
me.”

“Certainly, my darling. I just didn’t want you to worry. None of this is your problem.”

“Of course it is. Your problems are my problems. Adam said that if England falls, our family falls. Under a French regime they could burn you at the stake.”

The horror of it hung in the air. Her mother said quietly, “All the more reason to hope that England does not fall.”

“But there’s no need for you to take that risk. Carlos and I want to help you.”

“Help?” Her mother fixed her eyes on her, and Isabel saw something new there, a flash of keen interest. “How?”

Nicolas dashed into the hall.
“Mami, mi conejo tiene hambre!”

Isabel sighed. “In
English,
Nico.”

“My bunny. He wants to eat.”

“Say good morning to your lady grandmother.”

He bowed. “Good morning, Grandmama.”

“Here,” her mother said, snipping off a bunch of leaves. “Take him this for his breakfast.”

“Gracias!”
he said, grabbing it, and ran out.

“Radish seedlings,” she explained to Isabel with a smile, sounding relieved that Nicolas had changed the course of their conversation. “I hope to plant them outside soon.”

Isabel could not return the smile. Why would her mother not acknowledge the danger she was in? Voices sounded faintly outside. They both looked out the window at the garden. Beyond the far brick wall, tendrils of smoke from the city’s chimneys rose in the still air. The gardener and his apprentice, digging in the winterbarren flower beds, were greeting Nicolas as he dashed to them. A wooden cage sat nearby under the hawthorn hedge. Nicolas, on his hands and knees, opened the cage and pulled out the rabbit and hugged it so tightly it made his handful of radish leaves spill to the ground. The rabbit squirmed to get to the greens but Nicolas clung tight.

“He’ll smother that creature with love,” Isabel’s mother said.

There was unmistakable fondness in her eyes as she watched her grandson.

It touched Isabel. Good for Nico, she thought. It reminded her of what was important. “Mother, wouldn’t you like to live where you could garden in the out-of-doors every day?”

“Mmm, that would be lovely.” She turned to a hanging plant and poked through its foliage.

“You can. In Trujillo.”

“Where?” she asked absently, barely listening.

“Peru. My home.” She took hold of her mother’s shoulders and turned her so they were face-to-face. She was so glad to be able to say this—like giving a gift. “Come and live with us. You and Father. Leave this unstable country. Leave all this frightening uncertainty behind. With me and Carlos you’ll never have to worry again.”

Her mother stared at her for a long moment, the words sinking in. Then she gave a light laugh, as if the idea was preposterous.

Isabel bristled. “I do not jest, Mother.”

“No, of course not, and it is very thoughtful of you, my darling. Very generous.” She patted Isabel’s arm. “I do thank you most sincerely. But no, the New World is not for your father and me.”

“You’re not well, Mother. Your arm. And the constant strain you seem to be under. You cannot bear the shocks you bore when you were—” She didn’t finish.

“Young?” her mother challenged, almost smiling.

“If you won’t think of yourself, think of Father. He’s not as strong as he was. How can you answer for him?”

“Your father and I have sparred about all manner of things over the years, but on this topic I promise you we are in complete agreement. We’ll stay where we are.”

So that was the end of it? She had made this enormous offer and this was her thanks? Summary refusal? “But you haven’t even considered—”

“I don’t have to. I shall never leave England again.”

“That’s just foolish. In Peru you’d be safe.”

“In that ferociously Catholic land?”

“But not a soul there
knows
you! There’s no one to betray you.”

“Enough, Isabel. No.”

“How can you be so stubborn!”

“Stubborn?” Anger flashed in her eyes. “You have no idea—” She stopped. Took a breath. When she spoke again it was with a wry smile. “Elizabeth, now
she
was stubborn.”

Elizabeth
. She used the Queen’s Christian name just as Adam had—so startlingly personal. “Is she the reason you won’t leave? The Queen?”

Her mother seemed annoyed by the question. “Of course. What else?”

“What is she to you? What is this
hold
she has on you?”

Her mother’s face softened. She came closer and caressed Isabel’s cheek with the back of her finger. “Bel, there were times in these last years when I missed you so much. Wished that I could just talk to you, be assured you were all right. Elizabeth is exactly your age, you know. She often reminded me of you. Strong-willed. Clever. But sometimes too impetuous.” A noise outside made her turn again to the window. “Ah, I see Carlos is up after all.”

“Up before me, actually.” She watched Carlos stride along the gravel path toward Nicolas. She was still struggling with how to convince her mother. “He went to the stables. He likes to see to the horses first thing. Old habit.”

“I’m so glad you have him, Bel. And he you. So glad to see you happy.”

“Mother, come back with us, please. You can have a happy life, too.”

“Sometimes, my darling, we need to think beyond our own happiness.”

“Even if it means courting death?” She could not believe this was happening. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Her mother turned to a tier of seedlings. She lifted a small clay pot where a green shoot, just three fragile leaves, trembled in the slight current of air. “I have seen four reigns here,” she said, touching the tiny plant with a kind of caress. “Four Tudor monarchs. I knew King Henry. He cared only for his own magnificence. At his worst, he was a tyrant. King Edward was a mere boy, bullied by powerful dukes, sickly to the day he died. Queen Mary was a pitiful woman, vicious in her weak-minded obsession with her religion. None of them thought of what was best for England.” She looked up at Isabel. “None, until Elizabeth. She has a heart that beats in sympathy with the English people. She senses their latent vitality. This poor realm is a seedling, Bel, struggling in the cold, harsh wind of an early spring. In Elizabeth’s hands it can flower, fresh and vigorous. Without her, tyranny can so easily trample it again.”

Isabel saw the passion in her eyes, and it gave her a shiver. She felt as though her mother was slipping away from her. “This is no answer.”

“It is
my
answer.”

“But—”

Voices sounded in the screened passage. Timothy, the young footman, appeared, followed by a man who strode in with a brisk air of business.

“Sir William!” her mother said in surprise. She sounded pleased at the interruption. Isabel was not. She tried not to glare at the man for intruding on them. He appeared younger than her mother by perhaps five years. His clothing was costly but somber.

“Honor, forgive the early hour,” he said as he reached them. He looked at Isabel and added affably, “The business of state keeps no hourglass.”

“Well, I trust the business will allow you to join us first for breakfast? Isabel, this is Sir William Cecil.”

Isabel was taken aback. What exalted circles her mother moved in! She knew Cecil to be the Queen’s first minister and closest adviser. “Sir,” she said with polite deference as she curtsied.

“Sir William,” her mother said, “allow me to introduce—”

“Your daughter. I know. And no, no breakfast.” His brusqueness might have seemed rude in someone else, but Isabel sensed a familiarity between him and her mother that spoke of a comfortable friendship. He gave Isabel a courtly bow of the head. “You, Señora Valverde, are the reason I am keeping you and your good mother from breaking your fast. I trust your evening at the Spanish embassy was pleasant?”

Isabel was astonished. How quickly gossip spread. “Very pleasant, sir. Bishop Quadra was most gracious.”

Her mother said wryly, “Really, my friend, do you have a spy in every closet?”

“No need for spies, Honor, not with a steadfast ally like Spain. Friends simply pass along to me what’s newsworthy.” He was tugging off his leather riding gloves, but his eyes were still on Isabel. “For example, I am told that you and Ambassador Quadra have a mutual friend in Peru.”

“We do, sir. His cousin. He was pleased to receive our news about her.”

He said with a warmth that surprised her, “Yes, family is everything. For us all. Your mother has told me how delighted she is to have you here. Your parents are such dear friends of mine, I feel I know you already. And although you are a married lady, I can think of you only as a Thornleigh. Do you mind?”

“I consider it a compliment.”

He smiled. “Just as it was intended. Which is why I have come to see you. Tell me, did the ambassador make any mention of the situation we face with the French in Scotland?”

His directness took her aback. He had indeed come on the business of state.

“I presume you do
know
about the buildup of French troops on our border?”

“I do.”

“Well, it has become dire. We now have reports that the Marquis d’Elbeuf has sailed from Dieppe in command of a fleet bringing seven thousand more French troops.”

“Sir William, is this necessary?” her mother said. The rebuke was mild but held an unmistakable tension.

“It’s fine, Mother. Sir, I hesitate only because I fear you will not find this news agreeable. My husband, in fact, asked Ambassador Quadra outright how Spain stood with respect to the French posting thousands of soldiers so near England. I expected no declaration of Spanish policy, of course, but I did hope to hear him confirm that England could rely on her alliance with King Philip if needed. Instead, he replied, diplomatically but quite clearly, that Spain intends to remain neutral.”

Cecil nodded, considering her words. “Thank you. Very helpful to know.” He seemed unperturbed by her report. Isabel had the feeling that it was actually not news to him at all. If so, why had he come to ask her? She looked out the window at Carlos playing with Nicolas on the gravel path. Carlos held the boy high in the air, then swung him down and tucked him under his arm the way he would a saddle. Nicolas laughed in delight, squirming to get free.

“Sir, may I ask a question?” she said to Cecil. “I understand everyone’s fear that if the French defeat the rebels they will be poised to invade England. But
would
they?” Could everyone be wrong? She was fervently hoping so. “After all, what possible pretext could they use?”