by Barbara Kyle
“No more!” the older man cried. “Christopher, take your mother into the church.”
Lady Grenville shrugged free again, and Isabel stiffened, ready to defend herself, but the woman did no more than step nearer. “Hear this, fool. Your father murdered a servant of God and he will roast in hellfire for all eternity. But before he goes to his punishment I promise you I will make him pay on earth.”
“Christopher, you must take her—”
“I know! Mother, come away.” The young man pulled her toward the church.
“He’ll pay with his life!” the woman cried over her shoulder, stumbling away against her will. “As God is my witness, I’ll make him pay!”
Isabel tried to stand firm, but her legs felt suddenly weak, and her vision was darkening.
“I am so very sorry, Mistress Thornleigh,” the older man said, his voice full of sympathy. “Please, accept my apologies on behalf of the family. Lady Grenville is unwell. This dreadful tragedy—” He stopped and gripped Isabel’s elbow just as she began to fall. He held her up.
Isabel felt the rush of blackness recede. She straightened and stepped back, ashamed, unwilling to let one of them see how deeply Lady Grenville’s venom had stung.
“Believe me, mistress, I am more sorry for all of this than I can say,” the man murmured with feeling. “My name is Edward Sydenham. If there is anything I can do, please—”
“I thank you, sir,” Isabel said, moving away from him. “There is nothing.”
Edward watched Isabel Thornleigh as she walked away from the churchyard under the glowering sky. She moved stiffly, as though summoning every ounce of effort to remain upright and follow the path. Edward felt sorry for her.
What chaos his disclosure to Lord Grenville had unleashed! Yet, who could have foreseen it? Who could have imagined that his words about Honor Thornleigh would inflame Grenville to such an act of madness? If only the old man had stuck to the plan that Edward had so carefully devised. An orderly separation of the families—that was all he’d intended. All he had wanted was peace, security. But now—Lord Grenville dead, Honor gravely wounded, Richard Thornleigh in prison, both families aggrieved. Chaos!
He caught up with Lady Grenville and Christopher in the church porch, Christopher about to go in to arrange his father’s requiem mass with Father Gilbert.
“Edward,” Christopher said, “my brother is in London with the archers, but I know he would agree with me. I’ve decided what we will do. I want Thornleigh brought to trial without delay. I want my brother-in-law, Rutland, to preside as judge. And I want Frances to alert the Queen about the urgency of the case.” He paused to control his rising emotion, but without success. “I want that murderer’s head on a pike by Lent. Arrange it, Edward. For my father’s sake.”
Lady Grenville pulled open the church door. “Trial?” she said, staring down the nave where the altar cross glimmered in candlelight. Her voice was steel. “There are other ways to skin a rat.” She started forward and Christopher followed her inside.
Blood pounded in Edward’s temples. A trial? Thornleigh giving public testimony? Thornleigh cross-examined about his heretic wife’s past, and her former associates? Testimony about me? It was the very catastrophe he had tried to avoid.
In his saddle Martin St. Leger threw back his head and laughed with joy. He drained the goblet—his third—and tossed it down to a foot soldier, then had to tighten his knees on either side of his mount, for the wine was already heating his brain. Laughing, he drew his sword, held it high, and crowed, “Wyatt and England!”
He kicked his horse’s flanks and bounded forward, crossing the muddy expanse of the lower ward of Rochester Castle at a gallop. He reached the swinging straw effigy of the Emperor Charles and slashed his sword at it, lopping off an arm already tattered by the swipes of officers who had struck before him. The mutilated effigy twisted in the air, scattering bits of straw. The banner across its chest, the black eagle, proud symbol of the Empire, was cut to shreds.
The crowd of foot soldiers cheered Martin’s attack and shouted, “Wyatt and England!” Caps and gauntlets flew into the air. Under the glowering sky, the walled castle ward, packed with soldiers, rang with jubilant voices.
Martin grinned as he reached the line of his fellow mounted officers on the far side of the ward, and wheeled his horse around to a halt. Wyatt’s captains grinned: William Knevett, George Brooke, Thomas Culpepper, Vane, Harper, Norton, Vaughan, and the others. Culpepper handed Martin another goblet. “Spoils to the victor, St. Leger,” he said. Martin laughed, sheathed his sword, and quaffed down the wine.
Another cheer erupted and Martin turned. Sir Thomas Wyatt had mounted the castle steps with a group of anxiously smiling magistrates. Wyatt looked out at the massed soldiers and raised his arms in a gesture of victory. “Rochester is ours!” he cried.
His soldiers cheered wildly.
Wyatt laughed and brought down his arms. “This is a great beginning! We shall show the world that England is her own master! Never shall Englishmen suffer overlords from Spain!”
“Not from Rome, neither!” a soldier called out. Others murmured agreement.
Wyatt smiled, ignoring these grumbles against the Catholic church. “Every man among you, take rest now. Your lieutenants will assign you billets. Accept the food and drink that the good people of Rochester are offering. And take heart! When we march out from these walls, we march to liberate our country!”
There was cheering and whistling. “Wyatt and England!”
Martin cheered the loudest. He threw his cap high in the air and watched it with slightly unfocused eyes. As it fell toward his horse’s rump he leaned backward to catch it and lost hold of his reins. He sprawled over the horse’s rear and started to slip sideways.
“Whoa!” his brother said, running over just in time to break Martin’s fall. With a laugh, Martin rolled off the saddle and into Robert’s arms, then quickly landed on his own somewhat unsteady feet. “You have the timing of the angels, Father Robert,” he said gaily.
Robert smiled. “That’s enough wine, Martin, or you’ll be suffering the devil’s own headache. Come into the great hall now, and sup with the others.” Already, soldiers were streaming past them into the castle, hungry after the cold march from Maidstone, while others pushed out of the ward toward their billets in the town.
“I need no nursemaid to tell me when to eat,” Martin scoffed. He pivoted out of his brother’s clasp and started toward the remains of the Emperor’s effigy, pulling out his sword again. “And the Emperor is merely wounded, not taken.” He punched a fist into the air and lifted his face to the heavens and declared with mock chivalry, “Knights’ honor is at stake! It is my duty—” He stopped abruptly as the first drops of rain stung his face.
“It’s the duty of every sensible man to come in out of the rain,” Robert said, reaching him.
Martin grinned sheepishly and fumbled to sheath his sword. Robert threw an arm around his shoulder, and Martin let himself be led toward the castle. Their progress was slowed by the crush of soldiers, some going in the same direction, others heading toward the town. “You knights may feel fresh after those ten frozen miles,” Robert said, “but I’m worn out. Especially my feet.”
“You could have ridden, too,” Martin pointed out.
“I like marching with the men. It gives them a chance to talk to me, tell me their troubles.”
Martin shook his head in pretended bafflement. But he stole a glance of admiration at his brother. “You’re the real knight,” he murmured, then added with piping-voiced gusto, mimicking the bravado of a boy, “You could slice the Emperor in two!”
They both laughed. Robert shook his head indulgently. But Martin knew he had not been far off the mark. As boys, when they had both been taught the martial skills of longbow and sword, as all youths of their class were, Robert had consistently outshone Martin and all their friends. Robert had the natural adeptness of a fighter, yet he had chosen the church. It was a choice
Martin respected, though he did not understand it. But he had no trouble understanding the frustration that had driven Robert to join this army. Married during the previous Protestant regime which had encouraged priests to take wives—and hundreds of them had—Robert and Meg now had two small boys. But four months ago Queen Mary had declared that priests had to give up their wives and children and return to the celibate life, or else give up their vocations and their livings. Scores of married priests had already left England with their families rather than submit. Robert, not willing to stomach the ultimatum, had joined the fighters.
“I’ll tell you a truth, brother,” Robert said quietly, as if he had guessed Martin’s thoughts. “I fear I may not be of any use at all in this endeavor.”
“What are you talking about?”
Robert hesitated. “I could not kill a man.”
Martin gave his brother’s head an affectionate cuff. “You probably won’t even get the chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look what’s happened here. The people of Rochester threw open their gates to us like we’re conquering heroes. It’ll be like this all the way, I warrant.” He looked around. The crowd was finally thinning. “At the rate we’re gathering men to us, the Queen will capitulate the moment she sees our host descend on London.”
“Think you so?” Robert asked hopefully.
“The Queen would be mad to take us on. You watch. It’ll all be over before a single arrow is loosed.”
“You sound disappointed.”
Martin grinned. “I wanted to have Isabel here, away from her family, all to myself. But if I’m right, if everything’s over in a trice, she won’t even get the chance to come.” He tilted up his face to feel the cold drizzle. “By the way, Sir Thomas told me that if we’re to get news now about our French support it must come from Isabel. The French Ambassador’s other spies have all deserted him, the spineless toads. Isabel was right in predicting that.”
“Isabel is a clever girl.”
“That she is,” Martin said with pride. “And loyal and brave.”
“Aye, and loyal and brave,” Robert agreed with a smile.
Martin shrugged clear of him and threw up his arms in a gesture of sheer joy. “And beautiful!“ he shouted into the cleared yard.
“Yes, yes,” Robert said, squinting up at the storm clouds, “the most beautiful maiden on earth. Now, come inside.” Suddenly, the icy rain thundered down in sheets. Robert ran ahead toward the doors. “Now, Martin!” he called over his shoulder.
Martin laughed and ducked his head and hurried in after his brother.
Night fell, and the storm that had broken on Rochester also broke over Colchester. Ice pellets lashed the ancient castle. Wind howled past the high, barred window of the jail. Snow swirled through the rusty bars and fell in granular showers onto the shivering inmates below, dying on contact with the warmth of their huddled bodies.
Swinging his lantern, the jailer, Mosse, walked past these bodies and headed for the far corner of the crowded ward. He stopped and called out, “Hoy, Spaniard! Get over here!”
Carlos Valverde looked around, crouching at his dice game with four other prisoners on the floor. Two of them were in chains. Carlos was not. He had bought this measure of freedom on his second day here, a week ago, getting his irons struck off by selling Mosse his fine cloak. He frowned up now at the jailer. “Me?”
Mosse glared at him. “How many Spaniards am I hosting? Follow me.”
Carlos tensed, his fingers tightening around his large handful of coins, his winnings. “Why?”
“Because,” Mosse answered with a macabre grin, “you’ve got an appointment.”
“With the hangman,” one of the gamblers muttered.
“Upstairs,” Mosse ordered Carlos. “On the double!”
Carlos stood, his heart thudding. Were they going to hang him inside the jail? At night? That wasn’t usual, was it? And wasn’t there supposed to be a trial first? That’s what the men in here had told him. And he’d hoped that given another week or so before the trial he could make enough money at dice to bribe the turnkey and maybe … He stopped the desperate flow of thoughts, knowing he was trapped. He had no weapons. His only hope was to fight with bare hands.
Mosse caught the tightening of Carlos’s body as if he’d been waiting for it. In one motion he set down his lantern and whipped out his dagger, yelling, “Rogers! Gray!” Three turnkeys appeared from nowhere, joining Mosse to form a circle around Carlos, two with their daggers out. The third held a truncheon. Mosse wiggled a beckoning finger at Carlos, challenging him. “Come on, Spaniard. Try it.”
The gamblers were watching Carlos. Mosse waited with a grin like a wolf. Other prisoners, too, had turned to look, and a silence like the hush before an execution stole over the section of the ward. Carlos saw it was hopeless. He clamped down his fury, and his fear. If this was the end, this was the end. But first he would wipe the sneer off that bastardo jailer’s face. He sprang at Mosse, stopped just inches from him, and with a roar of rage hurled his handful of winnings upward. The coins clattered against the stone ceiling then showered down on Mosse, the turnkeys, the prisoners. There was a frantic, noisy scramble for the money, with men shouting and diving, grabbing and gouging.
Carlos was glad. At his roar Mosse had flinched and his grin had vanished. Now the turnkeys were hopping helplessly out of the way of the madly scavenging prisoners. Carlos pushed past Mosse and strode toward the corridor to the stairs, leading the way. Mosse glowered, snatched the lantern, and hurried after him.
Upstairs, they stopped in the jail’s dingy front chamber, part of Mosse’s rooms. Wind rattled the window’s wooden shutters like a robber trying to break in. Mosse set his lantern on the table beside his half-eaten supper, a gray leg of rabbit in congealed grease on a wooden trencher.
“In there.” Mosse jerked his chin toward an open door. Carlos stared at it. Was that where he was going to die?
“Move!” Mosse barked.
Carlos walked into the room. It was a small storeroom. Except for a few ale kegs on the floor and a dusty shelf with some chains, it appeared empty.
“Carlos Valverde?”
Carlos spun around. A man stood between him and the door. A stranger. Dressed like a well-heeled servant, this was no hangman, nor even a bailiff’s lackey.
The man closed the door, then turned back to Carlos. “Valverde, I have a proposition for you.”
10
Speedwell Blu
Honor Thornleigh moaned in her sleep. Isabel dipped a cloth in a basin of cold water, wrung it out, and mopped the sweat from her mother’s face. She’d relieved Mistress Farquharson, telling her to go get some sleep, for the good old nurse had been sitting faithfully at the bedside for hours. Isabel folded the cloth and gently set it on her mother’s fevered brow, then felt her cheek. Hotter, if anything.
The door opened, and Isabel cast a look of dismay at the old family friend who walked in. “She’s worse,” she said. Her voice, even to herself, sounded like the thin plea of a child. “Will she die?”
Leonard Legge returned her troubled look. He was a man with the physique of a wrestler gone to fat, and below his bald crown, thick white hair hung to his shoulders, its blanched color in stark contrast to his florid face. He sat down heavily in the chair at the other side the bed. His deep voice, usually so loud and confident, was a quiet rumble. “She’s weathered worse, lass. She’s a fighter.”
But, oh so weak, Isabel thought. And so pale. As though her mother anguished over her condemned husband even in her sleep. It wasn’t normal sleep. And if she was fighting, the fight seemed beyond her control, like part of her spirit battled to survive while another part strove to never wake up, never face her husband’s terrible fate.
Isabel got up from the bedside. Weary, stiff, she moved to the hearth where blazing logs struggled to warm the cold room on this cold night. Outside, the storm howled. She hugged herself. No matter how close to any fire she st
ood she could not seem to get warm. “Oh, Master Legge. What am I to do?”
“What your father says.”
“You can’t mean it. The Grenvilles will have him hanged.”
“He knows that.”
It made her shudder. She stiffly rubbed her arms. “I don’t understand any of this. Why Lord Grenville did what he did. How this concerns the Queen. How Lady Grenville can make such threats.” She had told him about Maud Grenville accosting her in the churchyard. I’ll make him pay with his life, the witch had said. “But I know it means Father is in terrible danger. And I know we must do something.”
He glanced up at her, his face haggard. “I wish we could, Bel. But I have no magic to allay the Queen’s commands. I cannot even stay.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I must.”
“But he’s your friend. Don’t you care what happens to him?”
“More than you know.”
“Yet you’d leave him to die? Just to rush back to your customers and their money?”
“That’s enough, Isabel. You have no right.”
“No right? My mother was almost murdered before my eyes! She isn’t any kin of yours so maybe it means nothing to you, but are you so heartless you’ll let them now kill Father?”
Legge closed his eyes as if in pain, and Isabel instantly regretted the cruel thing she’d said. “Oh, dear God, I’m sorry.”
He nodded mechanically. “It’s all right.”
“No, no, it’s not. Master Legge, forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. This is a perilous time for you and yours.”
She came to him and held out her hand and he took it and they both held on tightly. She had known him, the master of the Crane Inn, since she was little. She had always clamored to be included in her parents’ visits to London, for Legge’s brood of intrepid grandchildren made exciting playmates, and Legge’s wife could be counted on to treat the children, including Isabel, with all the honeyed apples and candied apricots they wanted. She looked at him now through a mist of tears and asked, “Why has this happened?”