The King's Daughter

by Barbara Kyle

  Carlos gritted his teeth. It was true. Devon could no more lead an attack than Carlos’s horse could fly. They would sit here and do nothing while Wyatt passed right before them. Carlos looked out beyond the mass of Wyatt’s men. He could not see any of Pembroke’s troops from here, but it was clear that they, too, had sat immobile on either side of the mile of causeway between Knightsbridge and Charing Cross, and had done nothing. They had simply let Wyatt pass. Carlos knew why. Each commander was too uncertain of his men, too afraid of mass desertions, too downright timid. They were going to let Wyatt reach the city walls, and then they would rely on the city forces within to stop him. Carlos fumed in silence. The enemy was so easily within their grasp. It was maddening to watch.

  Another cannon ball whizzed over the horsemen’s heads. Carlos did not watch this ball land. He was looking intently down at Wyatt’s company. He was almost certain he could make out Thornleigh standing at the front of the waiting column. He’s as good as his word, Carlos thought. And as stubborn as his daughter. He pushed out of his mind the thought of the two of them and yanked his reins, wanting action. He must try to talk some sense into the idiot nobleman, Devon. As he turned his horse’s head, he caught a last glimpse of Thornleigh waving his arms toward the city as if eager to march forward. Carlos shook his head. Foolish old man.

  Isabel sat on the stool before Sydenham’s fire, a prisoner. Palmer sat at Sydenham’s desk, his dagger in his hand. In the distance, cannon boomed.

  Isabel was staring into the low fire, but her mind was on Ludgate. The scene she imagined there ate at her like the sharp flames eating the logs. She was sure that Wyatt’s inside supporters would have the gate open by now, and her father, advancing at the front of Wyatt’s army, would march straight in beneath the Grenville archers on the roofs. Instructed by Sydenham, they would slaughter him.

  She had to get to Ludgate.

  Desperately, she tried to think. How could she get free of Palmer? It seemed impossible. She was alone … had no weapon … no way …

  No way? Carlos’s words faintly echoed from that night they had talked in the stable. There is always a way. Surprise. And attack without mercy.

  A trumpet blasted outside. Palmer twisted abruptly, knocking over some pieces on the chess board, and peered out the crack between the closed curtains. Apparently seeing nothing alarming outside, he relaxed. He turned back and saw the fallen chessmen and meticulously began to rearrange the pieces, frowning in puzzlement as if unsure of their exact placement.

  Isabel turned back to the fire. The low-burning logs, the blackened brick interior, the ornate fire dogs, the poker.

  Her heart began to beat fast. Palmer’s careful handling of the chessmen—his scrupulous concern for his master’s possessions—sparked a thought in her. The fire had burned low but there were still enough orange-blue flames, like liquid teeth, rippling along the blackened logs. She glanced up at the shelf behind Palmer where Sydenham’s rare books,priceless gifts from the Emperor, lay in state. Unfortunately, they were beyond her reach.

  Her eyes fell on her mother’s book on the desk. Always a way.

  Abruptly, she stood. Palmer sat up straight, alert, his dagger ready. “May I at least read?” Isabel asked, pointing to her mother’s book.

  Palmer frowned, skeptical.

  Isabel came forward. Palmer got up, glaring at her, and raised the dagger. “Get back.”

  “Certainly,” Isabel said, reaching the desk. “I only want this.” She picked up the book, adding with a touch of scorn, “It is only one of your master’s precious books. See?” She fanned the pages before him. “No dagger hidden inside.”

  Palmer grunted, displeased but unwilling to make an issue of it. “Sit down,” he said.

  Isabel took her mother’s book back to her stool at the fire. She placed the book on her lap, lifted the two brass clasps, opened the cover, and glanced through the pages. Palmer settled back in his chair.

  Isabel ripped a page out of the book. Palmer stiffened in his chair. “What are you doing?” he snapped.

  Isabel leaned forward and dropped the page into the fire. It curled and shriveled and blackened. Palmer gasped and jumped up. Isabel tore out another page and cast it into the fire.

  “Stop! That’s the master’s!”

  Isabel crumpled several pages together, wrenched them out in a handful, and flung them onto the flames. She flipped back the book to the title page where the beautiful flower’s colors glinted in the firelight, and tilted it so that Palmer could see the gorgeous painting. She ripped the page free. She bent over the flame with it.

  “Stop!” Palmer ran forward, sheathing his dagger to free both hands to grab her. Isabel jumped up as he lunged for the book. They struggled over it. Isabel suddenly let the book go. Palmer had it. Isabel snatched up the hearth poker. Palmer’s eyes flashed with sudden understanding. He dropped the book and whipped out his dagger as Isabel smashed the poker against his head.

  He crashed to the hearth on his knees, dropping the dagger. His arms flailed at Isabel, groping for her. She raised the poker and brought it down on his head again, then again. He toppled and sprawled on the floor on his side.

  Isabel froze at the blood gushing from his forehead, pooling on the floor … and at her mother’s book being consumed by the fire.

  34

  The Battle of Ludgate

  Leave the guns!” Thornleigh yelled to Wyatt.

  Wyatt looked down from his horse, grime embedded in the lines of uncertainty that furrowed his face. He looked over to his battery of smoking cannon where the gunners were firing at will, aiming over the heads of the line of royalist cavalry on the slope of St. Martin’s Field, as Wyatt had instructed them.

  The cannon boomed again, and Thornleigh watched the enemy cavalry. They did not break. None of the shots had come near them. “If you’re not going to use the guns to kill, leave them!” he shouted to Wyatt. “They only hold us back.” He pointed toward the city. “We’ve got to move on!”

  The men anxiously awaited some order for action. Wyatt took a deep breath, deciding. “Right!” he said. “Cobham, maintain your troop here at the cannon and keep firing high. The rest of you …” He drew his sword and pointed it toward London, then stood in his stirrups and shouted to his men, “Onward! On to our London friends! On to Ludgate!”

  The men took up the cry. “To Ludgate!” they shouted. “Onward!” They rushed forward to follow Wyatt. “To Ludgate!”

  They marched four abreast. Thornleigh kept in the front rank. He glanced anxiously up at the Queen’s cavalry on the slope as he moved with Wyatt’s men toward Charing Cross. The horsemen remained in line, unmoving as Wyatt’s company marched into the village. They tromped through the narrow main street, passed the great cross, then marched out of it again and carried on eastward along the Strand. Thornleigh was amazed that the Queen’s horsemen had not attacked. He tried not to even think of that possibility. He concentrated on the muddy stretch of the Strand before him, glancing around only now and then for royalists, hoping he could continue unmolested along this last mile. He wanted only to make it into London and reach Sydenham.

  He could see Temple Bar looming ahead, the boundary between London and Westminster. From there it was just a half-mile to Ludgate.

  Another cannon shot screamed above Carlos and the Earl of Devon on the slope. It was too much for Devon, who dropped his reins to block his ears with his hands. His horse reared and Devon pitched backward. Carlos caught him before he toppled. Devon wriggled away from Carlos’s arm, screaming, “Let go, you fool!” His eyes were wild with panic as he scrabbled for the reins at his horse’s neck and yanked his mount around. “We are destroyed!” he cried. “All is lost!” He dug his spurs into his stallion’s sides and the horse bounded into a canter and he clung to its neck as it galloped southward toward Whitehall. Carlos looked around. The now leaderless horsemen were jostling and murmuring in fear. The cannon salvo paused long enough for Devon’s faint cries across the field to re
ach them. “Destroyed! Lost!” A half-dozen horsemen broke away and raced off after him. Panic broke out among the men:

  “The commander!”

  “Sound retreat!”

  “Is it surrender?”

  “We are lost!”

  Horses began jostling, uncertain of their riders’ shaky commands. Carlos galloped back to Wentworth. “Keep those men in line!” he yelled, pointing to the right. Circling the lieutenant at a gallop, Carlos headed back to the other end of the line where three more men had just fled and another was urging his confused horse to follow. Carlos drew his sword over the last man’s head and brought the blade down, slicing the man’s reins in half. The man groped for the remnants by the bit, fumbling for control. As the other horsemen stared in amazement, Carlos galloped in a tight circle in front of them, his sword held high, and shouted, “Next man who deserts will feel my blade across his throat!”

  The horsemen fearfully reined in their mounts. There was silence. The salvo from Wyatt’s guns on the road started up again. The horsemen cringed, afraid to stay, afraid to leave.

  The Earl of Devon’s stallion clattered over the cobbles into the gateway of Whitehall Palace. “All is lost!” Devon cried. The men of Sir John Gage’s troop at the gate scattered apart to let him in. They had heard the frightful roar of the cannon up by Charing Cross but no one knew what was happening. Their anxious questions exploded like a hail of shot:

  “Has the Earl surrendered?”

  “Has Wyatt won?”

  “Is it a rout?”

  Panic swept the courtyard. Gage’s soldiers bolted toward the great hall where the men of the Queen’s personal guard were stationed, and shouted, “Pembroke has gone over to Wyatt!” Panic took hold of the Queen’s guard and theyslammed the hall doors on Gage’s men, keeping them out. Panic trembled through the knots of the Queen’s ladies huddled in the great hall’s corners. “God have mercy upon us!” one cried.

  Queen Mary walked quietly, stiffly, out the rear of the hall. She mounted the stairs to the empty gallery above the gatehouse. She went to the windows and looked out toward Charing Cross. Beyond the village and the hedged fields and the houses lining the Strand, the walls of the city stood implacable under the bright morning sun.

  Mary could hear the commotion all through the palace: women screaming and sobbing, and Gage’s soldiers, barred from the hall, running through the corridors. She saw her deserting soldiers burst out from the kitchens and dash through the woodlot and toward the water stairs on the river. She stood alone, watching. Shakily, she made the sign of the cross, touching her forehead and heart, leaving the priest’s anointed cross of ash a sooty smudge on her pale brow.

  Isabel ran all the way. She turned the corner of Ave Maria Lane and stopped at what she saw ahead. Peckham had done it. The big doors of Ludgate stood wide open. There was no sign of royalist soldiers, and fifty or so of Peckham’s men stood milling at the gate, ready to defend it. Isabel saw Peck-ham himself directing a man into position. Peckham noticed her and threw her a brief smile that said he’d half expected her to join them. He strode on to the small door of the walkway that led through London Wall beside the gate, and opened that door as well. Peckham had done everything possible to help Wyatt into London.

  Isabel saw Sydenham, too. But he did not see her. He was cowering in the recessed doorway of the Belle Sauvage Tavern, his eyes fixed ahead on the gate. Isabel looked up to the roofs on one side of the street, then the other. There were ladders, and there was scaffolding on the rooftops, but there were no archers. She looked out the open gate to empty Fleet Street and felt a surge of hope—no archers anywhere! She could hear the blasts of cannon not far off. Wyatt was coming! She quickly pictured it all. The French had joined Wyatt’s men and helped them cut down the Queen’s army on the way. Wyatt and her father were going to march victorious through the gate Peckham held open for them, to be thronged by cheering Londoners streaming from their houses. It all seemed possible. Wonderfully possible!

  There was a drumming of horses’ hooves. Isabel turned. Rounding the corner of Ave Maria Lane, horsemen were galloping toward her, about twenty of them, all wearing the white coats of the loyal London troops. Lord Howard rode at the head, his jowls waggling in fury. “Shut that gate, by order of the Queen!” he cried.

  Isabel dashed into an alley by the Belle Sauvage and turned to look back just as the horsemen galloped past her. The last glimpse she had of Sydenham was seeing him cram himself, white-faced, further into the tavern’s entrance.

  “The gate stays open!” Henry Peckham cried. His men had drawn their swords and stood firm in their defensive line. There were at least twice as many of them as Whitecoats.

  But as the last of the horsemen thundered past Isabel, a mob of armed loyalist citizens ran after them, joining them. The street shook with the thud of feet and hooves. Among the citizens, Isabel caught sight of the broad red face of Master Legge of the Crane. Legge, like the others with him, was out to defend his property from rebel plunder. These loyalist citizens, numbering at least as many as Peckham’s group, swarmed up beside Howard’s Whitecoats, ready to fight with them. Howard raised his sword. “Down with the traitors!” he cried.

  His loyalist faction set upon Peckham’s faction. The two groups raged at one another with swords, pikes, daggers, and fists. Men slashed, kicked, gouged, and rolled in the mud. Isabel peered out from the alley, holding her breath. While the two factions skirmished, the gate remained open.

  Another sound of tramping feet made Isabel twist back. John Grenville was riding down Ave Maria Lane toward the fracas and behind him ran a string of men. Each wore on his breast the Grenville badge of three green towers, and each had a longbow and a quiver slung on his back. The famed Grenville archers.

  Grenville reined in his mount well back of the skirmish at the gate and motioned to his archers. They raced to either side of the street. Isabel pressed her back against a doorway in the alley, for she dared not look out and be seen by Grenville, but she could hear the scuffling of the archers as they climbed the scaffolding up to the roof of the Belle Sauvage, and she could see, across the street, that they were scrambling up the ladder to the flat roof above the gatehouse, too.

  “Sturridge!” The frantic voice was Sydenham’s. “Giles Sturridge! Stop!”

  “Sir Edward?” came the reply from near the scaffold.

  “A hundred pounds, did I say? Make it two hundred. No, five! Five hundred pounds if you kill Thornleigh.”

  “Done, Sir Edward,” the archer said eagerly.

  Isabel stiffened against the door and a jutting nail dug into her back like an arrow.

  A cry from an archer on the gatehouse roof rose above the skirmishing among Howard’s and Peckham’s men. “I can see the rebels! They’re at Temple Bar! They’re almost here!”

  Isabel gasped. Heedless of Grenville, she looked out around the corner. The two fighting factions at the gate suddenly stood still, apparently dumbfounded that the moment was at last upon them. Wyatt was coming. And the gate still stood wide open.

  Isabel’s eyes flashed up at the archers, then down at the uncertain faces of Howard’s Whitecoats and citizens. Would they all remain loyal at the final moment, or would they rush over to join Wyatt as she’d seen Norfolk’s army of Whitecoats do at Rochester? She looked straight ahead at the gate opening. Her father was about to come marching through it. She could not entrust her hopes to a mass defection. Even if every Whitecoat went over, even if Legge and his citizen comrades threw down their arms, even if the mass of archers refused to fire on Wyatt’s soldiers, the man named Sturridge would surely loose the fatal arrow—for five hundred pounds. Her father’s only hope of survival was for Lord Howard to shut the gate.

  Isabel rocked back against the alley door, appalled at the choice that lay before her. If Ludgate was closed, Wyatt and his cause would be lost. But if the gate stayed open, her father would surely die.

  Wyatt’s cannon kept pounding the slope at Charing Cross above t
he Earl of Devon’s nervous horsemen.

  “They are firing high!” Carlos shouted to the horsemen, slashing his hand in a line above his own head in illustration. “See? Always high.”

  The cannon roared on, but the horsemen relaxed somewhat, and soon, with Wentworth’s help, Carlos brought the troop back to order. They sat their horses, waiting for his command.

  Carlos looked down the Strand toward London where Wyatt’s small army, having left a troop to keep firing the cannon, could be seen marching on. Carlos had to strain to see them. Soon they’d be out of sight. And soon after that they would reach Ludgate. He took a long look at his anxious men. If he was going to act, it had to be now.

  He lifted his sword and pointed it at the sky. Slowly, he lowered the sword tip toward Wyatt. He kicked his horse’s flanks. “Charge!” he yelled.

  His horse bounded forward into a gallop. Carlos lowered his torso over the horse’s neck and tightened his legs against its sides and tore down the slope toward the road. For several moments he was riding alone. Then he heard them, the pounding hooves of sixty horses racing down the hill behind him—the familiar, thrilling thunder of a cavalry charge. Carlos’s breathing settled into a quickened but steady rhythm.

  He galloped past Temple Bar and saw them ahead on Fleet Street: Wyatt’s army. They were marching past houses and laneways, lulled at having passed so far unmolested. Then one of them, a young soldier at the rear, heard the thunder of the hooves and he turned and shouted something. Several more twisted around.

  “Lieutenant!” Carlos commanded, veering at a gallop to the right of the column while pointing his sword to the left. Wentworth, following the order, cut to the left. Suddenly acting with the assurance of men well led, half the cavalry galloped after Carlos and the rest followed Wentworth. They fanned out along Wyatt’s column like the arms of a nutcracker. Then they set upon Wyatt’s stunned men.