The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  “Brussels.”

  7

  “Mares’ Tails and Mackerel Scales”

  Never underestimate the enemy. Adam Thornleigh had learned that lesson in fighting Spaniards, but now he realized he had failed to follow it. The enemy here in Brussels was his wife.

  He stood in Balienplein Place, a busy square lined with the stone mansions of the wealthy, and studied the one with four gray granite columns. More like a palace. According to Tyrone’s last report, this was where Frances was living. It unnerved Adam. For three years he had held a mental picture of his wife on the run, scuttling from one bleak hiding hole to the next with their two children in tow, her money dwindling, no social connections to turn to, barely getting by. He had cursed her for dragging Kate and Robert into such a desolate life, and his fears for them had stoked his resolve to track her down and rescue the children. He’d imagined it as a simple thing once he found her, Frances weeping and wailing, no doubt, but powerless to stop him.

  Now, he saw that he’d made a serious miscalculation. His wife had at least one powerful friend in a very high place: This mansion belonged to the Duchess of Feria. He could not just march in, take Robert and Kate, and march out. The duchess would have dozens of servants and armed retainers, and if Frances screamed for help he would be in a very dangerous position. He was a wanted man, and soldiers were everywhere. Across the city, at the Grote Markt, he had passed harquebusiers standing in formation with their long guns guarding City Hall and the King’s House. Cavalrymen patrolled the streets on horseback. Off-duty infantrymen lounged in groups outside taverns. Adam had left his sword behind so as to pass as a menial commoner, and now he was keenly aware of how ill-armed he was with only a dagger.

  He looked around the Balienplein Place square. Executions took place regularly here. So did festivities. Swords and sausages, he thought wryly, the twin sides of the governance coin. Today there was a market, drawing scores of people. Farmers were selling cabbages and strawberries; bakers were hawking rye seed loaves. Ribbon sellers and knife sharpeners bawled inducements to passing customers. A knot of gentlemen stood talking under a chestnut tree. There was a smell of burning charcoal in the air. Scanning the rooftops of the duchess’s mansion, Adam read the sky, a seaman’s habit. Wispy white clouds—mares’ tails, sailors called them—led to a sea of rippled clouds that sailors nicknamed mackerel scales. Clear signs that rain was coming within twenty-four hours. Likely a storm. A vivid memory tugged at his heart of Kate, age four, sitting on his shoulders as he strolled through the orchard one autumn day in Chelsea, the two of them looking at clouds. He’d taught her the old proverb and she’d repeated it over and over in her child’s singsong voice: Mares’ tails and mackerel scales tell tall ships to lower sails.

  He heard children’s laughter and looked to a fountain in the city conduit where two boys and a little girl were floating toy boats. Their excited chatter sounded so like Robert and Kate. It gave him a pang. What if he could not reach them? What if they were lost to him?

  No, he would not let his thoughts run in that hopeless direction. A plan was what he needed. And first, facts. After all, Tyrone’s last report was old. For four months Adam had been away, working alongside the Sea Beggars harassing Spanish shipping, then in the German lands on his mission for Elizabeth to the prince of Orange. In that time Frances and the children might have moved on. That was the first thing he had to find out.

  He didn’t have much time. In four days he had to meet Fenella at the cove outside Antwerp and sail to Sark to get his refitted ship. They needed to leave Sark before the Spaniards came looking for them both. Head home to England. Elizabeth was waiting for his report about the prince. But right now home seemed a long way away. He would not leave Brussels without his children.

  “Pig’s foot, meinheer?”

  Adam turned to see a scruffy boy of seven or eight offering him a stick stuck with morsels of charred pork. He realized he was hungry. He paid the boy and munched the gristly meat as he made his way through the crowd toward the duchess’s house, thinking: Could he get inside by posing as a servant? He looked convincing enough in this garb: homespun shirt, scuffed leather jerkin, coarse breeches the color of burrs. He’d stabled his horse, a telltale sign of affluence, back at the inn. He recalled what Fenella had said as they’d parted, that he would also have to hide the air of the lord about you, as she’d put it.

  “Air?” he’d said, doubtful. His lofty rank was a recent thing. He’d spent much of his life at sea.

  “Because you know the world is yours.”

  She was clever, Fenella. Warmhearted, too, for all her independence. He had taken an intense pleasure in the days they’d spent coming from Sark—the peace, the fine sailing, the easy camaraderie with her. Thinking of her brought a rush of feeling that surprised him. He remembered a moment one night, a sultry night under a star-spangled sky when she had sat beside him at the helm and he’d told her about his children. She’d listened with a sympathy that had moved him.

  Be honest, he told himself. You want her. Everything about her tempted him. Her lush body, close enough to him that night that he’d felt her warmth. The scent of her skin, like rose water tanged with sea salt. Her loose sunset-colored hair fingered by the breeze like a lover. Her smooth forearm, the sleeve pushed back, brushing his hand as she took over the helm. He’d had to force his eyes off her and up at the sails, unnerved by the jolt of desire. It had felt like a betrayal of Elizabeth.

  Was it? That bond had been forged so many years ago. Elizabeth had been a frightened princess of twenty and had needed him, but he knew now, in a way that saddened him, that the passing years had slackened the bond. Over a decade ago she had taken possession of the kingdom and had become a skillful monarch, and he had long known that his place could never be by her side. He would always defend her as his queen in any way that she still needed him; it was why he was helping the Sea Beggars, to check Spain’s power, a threat to Elizabeth and to England. She had told him she would not openly endorse his actions because she feared Spain raging against her, so he had taken the role of pirate. That was the stark fact: They both had roles to play. They were monarch and subject, moving in separate spheres. Their brief time together as mere man and woman was long past.

  Fenella was different. As they sailed together, he had sometimes felt her watching him and would turn to find her sea-green eyes on him as warm as summer pools. She was beautiful and warmhearted and thrillingly near, and on the day they anchored in that quiet cove and worked together to secure the sail their hands had touched, fingers lingering, and she had not moved away. In that moment he’d imagined what it would be like to have her in his arms and make love to her.

  Fool, he told himself. With a marriage as fouled as his, naturally he hungered for Fenella. The lust of a dissatisfied man. It was pathetic, really, the stuff of gross comedy in a play. She was a brave and spirited soul. She deserved better.

  He swallowed the last of the pork and tossed the stick, his eyes on the mansion’s grounds. The property was walled, but the massed treetops told him the grounds extended far back from the square, some of the trees frothed with white cherry blossoms. He turned into a lane that led between the houses, narrow and muddy. A dirty lad was tugging a stubborn pig by a rope. The cart of a rag-and-bone man rattled past. A couple of workmen were pushing barrows through the open wooden gate that led into the duchess’s property. Gardeners? Their barrows were piled with pungent-smelling dung. Manure for the flower beds and fruit trees, no doubt.

  The gate was closing behind the gardeners. Adam ran for it and caught it with his boot. “The Duchess of Feria lives here?” he asked. They looked him up and down skeptically. One said, “What’s your business with Her Ladyship?”

  No business of yours, he almost said, but remembered Fenella’s advice. Act subservient. “My master has sent a message for her steward,” he said. Would a magistrate’s name sound convincing? “From Meinheer Dekker.”

  The man grunted, flies buzzin
g around his cartload of dung. “That way.” He pointed through the trees toward the house. “Round to the west. Steward’s rooms are over the main gatehouse.” The other man closed the garden gate.

  Adam walked briskly down the path through the orchard. He passed gardeners at work on their knees, housemaids carrying baskets of laundry out of the rear of the house, a footman lugging in a load of firewood. No one stopped him. No one spoke to him. He walked straight through the bustling kitchen, humid with steam and smelling of onions, then along a flagstone passage. A few of the servants he passed glanced at him, but he marched on as if he knew where he was going, then up a dim, narrow flight of stairs where, blessedly, he seemed to be alone. He passed through a heavy door and knew he’d reached the family’s quarters: The marble corridor was broad and airy, its walls hung with tapestries. He saw a housemaid with an armload of linens coming toward him, a puzzled look on her face as though she wondered who he was. He ducked into a side corridor and kept walking, looking over his shoulder, thinking he was a fool to have come inside this place. What was he going to do, ask a maid where to find his wife? Insane.

  Then he saw her. At the far end of the corridor, coming out of a room. Frances. Her back was to him, but he instantly recognized that ramrod posture. She wore a gown of rich black taffeta, Spanish-style, with a stiff white ruff. She patted the lace coif over her hair as she walked away, and he saw that her hand was heavily jeweled with rings. She reached another door and opened it and disappeared inside.

  He felt a lash of fury. The plot she had abetted to assassinate Elizabeth had almost succeeded, yet Frances had not only escaped, she’d also found this luxurious haven. If she had fled alone he might merely have cursed her and considered her dead to him, glad to be rid of her. But she had stolen his children, and for three years he’d lived in an agony of worry, wondering if they were even alive. He reached the door and gripped the handle, burning to march in and shake Frances until her teeth chattered.

  He quickly came to his senses. A half-dozen people might be in that room with her, ladies come to play cards, or the duchess herself entertaining visitors. Or might Kate and Robert themselves be in there? It was torture to think that only an inch of wooden door might separate him from them. But if Frances saw him she could raise an alarm, and then armed retainers would come pounding in. His powerless state was a bitter thing, hard to stomach. Frances had everything on her side. Control of the children. Protection. Influence. He dare not confront her. Could not let her see him, or even know that he was in the city. If she did, she might hustle the children into a coach and bolt with them. Then he might never find them.

  He let go of the door handle, tense with frustration. He told himself that at least he’d confirmed she was staying in this house. That meant Kate and Robert were, too.

  Voices. Adam saw a stairway at the end of the corridor. People were coming down it from the floor above. He turned and quickly went back the way he’d come. Servants eyed him as he went through the kitchen, but he made it outside without being questioned, then back out through the garden gate.

  At the Balienplein Place market he slipped into the crowd with the galling sense of being beaten in a skirmish, forced to retreat before he’d even seen his enemy face-to-face.

  The Black Boar Tavern lay just inside the Anderlecht Gate in the city wall, set in a row of shops and alehouses crammed together like crooked teeth. The tavern was the address Adam had used to correspond with his agent, Leonard Tyrone.

  “The Irishman?” the barkeep said in answer to Adam’s question. Stained wooden cups lay in a tub of scummy water behind the bar, dousing any thirst Adam might have had. “He moved out.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago. Had his bags sent. You want his room?”

  No, nor the lice that came with it. “Where did you send his bags?”

  It was a short walk to the new address, a leafy cul-de-sac where four houses nestled in the lee of a quaint old church. The house was a fine stone structure with red gables, making Adam wonder if the barkeep had made a mistake. Three years ago when he’d hired Tyrone to search for Frances around Dublin, the Irishman had been scrounging for work. If he did live here he’d certainly moved up in the world.

  Adam knocked. A thickset maidservant with a hooked nose frowned at him as though doubting such a common fellow could have business with her master and grudgingly led him through to a parlor. A trunk and boxes lay open, half their contents unpacked. Tyrone was lounging at a small table, eating alone, a half-consumed leg of capon before him and a flagon of wine. His goblet was halfway to his lips when he saw Adam. Startled, he jumped up.

  “Your Lordship . . .” he stammered.

  Adam caught the maid’s wide-eyed look before she curtsied and left, closing the door. “Sorry to barge in on you, Tyrone.” They eyed each other. It had been a long time since they’d been face-to-face. “Your last report. About my wife. That’s why I’m here.”

  Tyrone blinked at him. Swallowed hard. He looked rattled, almost panicky. “My lord, please let me explain—”

  “No need. You did good work, tracking her. I was just there, at the duchess’s house, and I caught a glimpse of my wife. Now I need your help.” He nodded to the wine. “Can you spare a glass? I’m parched.”

  Tyrone relaxed a little, though Adam thought he still looked uneasy. “Of course, your lordship . . . of course.” He moved quickly to fetch a goblet from a sideboard. He poured the wine so fast it splashed over the rim.

  Adam took a large swallow. An excellent Burgundy. He set down the goblet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing around at the gold brocade curtains, the ornately carved bench by the oriel window. The place must have come furnished if Tyrone had just moved in. “You’re doing well,” he said. “Other enterprises on the go?”

  Tyrone was fussing with setting out another plate and shot him a glance. “A lucky windfall, your lordship. A relative died. Will you join me in a bite to eat?”

  “No thank you, no time. I have a job for you. You found my wife and I thank you for that. Now I’ve come about my children.”

  “Ah,” Tyrone said, as though struggling to catch up. “The young Lord Robert and your daughter?”

  “Katherine. Yes. Can you confirm that they’re living in the duchess’s house with Lady Thornleigh?”

  “Grenville, my lord.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s the name your wife is using. Lady Grenville.”

  Her maiden name. It gave Adam a sting of disgust. The Grenville family had caused his own family so much misery and grief. But something in him was glad that she no longer used his name.

  “You’ve found out a lot. That’s good. I need you to find more. About the layout of the house, and where exactly in it my children stay. And about my wife’s routine, and the children’s routine. I know you’re clever, Tyrone, and you have contacts. I need information about how and where I can reach Robert and Katherine alone.”

  The Irishman’s eyes went wide. “You intend to reclaim your children?”

  Not your business, Adam thought. “I’m their father. I intend to talk to them.”

  Tyrone made a groveling bow as though aware he’d gone too far. “Of course, your lordship.”

  “The thing is, I need to keep my head down. That means you don’t know I’m in this city. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, my lord.”

  “So, can you find out what I need?”

  “The fact is, I am in quite a good position to help your lordship. In my investigation about the whereabouts of Lady Gren—I mean Lady Thornleigh, I got to know some people of the duchess’s household. I made a friend of one in particular, your children’s tutor, Goert Peterszen.”

  “Does he live in the house?”

  “He does.”

  “Good. Grease his palm if you need to.” Adam drew a few ducats from his pocket. “I’ll need the information as soon as possible.”

  Tyrone took the coins, pocketed them, the
n tugged down his doublet. “I’ll go right away. Shouldn’t take long.” He reached for his cap. “And where shall I report to you, my lord? Where are you staying?”

  Adam shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to loaf around at his inn all day, waiting to hear. “I’ll come back. Be here at seven this evening.”

  Adam walked briskly across the city, heading for the Willebroek Canal. Near the Grote Markt he noticed a half-dozen soldiers on horseback trotting toward him. He kept his eyes on the ground, plodding on like a laborer until they trotted past him.

  Crossing the Grote Markt, he passed a towering statue of the Duke of Alba with sword drawn, his fierce bronze eyes seeming to look straight at Adam. He looked up at the grand Gothic façade of the King’s House, Alba’s palatial seat. Inside those rooms five years ago the captive leaders of the Dutch resistance, Count Egmont and Count Hoorn, had spent their last night on earth. The next morning Alba had them beheaded in the Grote Markt. It was the beginning of what the people called Alba’s reign of blood.

  Adam passed the phalanx of Spanish harquebusiers stationed outside the palace with their long guns. They had the bored, arrogant look of entrenched victors. He thought of his sister Isabel’s husband, Carlos. A good man, Adam had always thought. Carlos had once saved his life. But now, Carlos was somewhere in this city, a part and prop of Alba’s martial power. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary, Adam thought with disgust. How could Isabel stand being here?

  He made his way westward toward the canal, past houses and churches and shops, gauging how long it would take to reach the canal from the duchess’s house on Balienplein Square. This was the route he would take with Kate and Robert once he had them. A quick dash and the three of them would be on a canal boat heading to Antwerp before Frances could rouse her friend’s retainers. He felt buoyed with cautious hope. Would he finally have his children back?