The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  He looked stunned to see her. “Fenella . . .” His shirt was drenched with blood and water, his hair and face wet with rain. The shoulder of his sleeve was ripped and she saw the gash in his flesh, the muscle glistening red.

  “Dear God, you’re wounded.”

  He managed a tortured smile. “Sorry, this was the nearest place. Your friend. You said, remember?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Need a place to lie low. The blood . . . hard to hide.” The dog, smelling the blood, growled at him and bared its teeth. Fenella picked up a stone and hurled it at the animal, striking its side. It yipped and bounded off into the trees. Adam was looking at the barge where Berck still stood. “Is this the boat? That’s your friend?”

  “Yes. What happened? Who did this to you?” He was a wanted man. “Alba’s men?”

  He said nothing, just winced. The pain must be awful, she realized. His face was so pale! “Come aboard,” she said, indicating the boat. “You need help.”

  He frowned, hesitating. “Didn’t expect you here . . . don’t want to get you into trouble.” He looked so doubtful, she was afraid he would turn and go.

  “You won’t. Really,” she insisted. “Come aboard. Let me see to your wound.”

  He was looking past her. “Sure your friend won’t mind?” She turned to see Berck coming down the jetty toward them, scowling. He held a dagger.

  “I’ll deal with him,” she said, though her heart was racing with alarm as Berck reached them. The two men eyed each other. “This is Berck Verhulst,” she told Adam. Then to Berck, “This is . . . Adams. A friend from Sark.” If he was on the run from Alba’s men she must not disclose his identity. “You can see he’s badly hurt. Help me get him below.”

  Berck blocked the way. “What happened to you, mate?”

  Adam looked him in the eye. “Scurvy fellow thought he’d be happier with my purse.”

  Berck didn’t budge, his face dark, hostile.

  Adam gave the barest nod. “Right. I’ll be on my way.” He turned to go, grimacing in pain.

  “No!” Fenella cried, and caught his good arm to stop him. “You can scarcely stand. Berck, you can’t turn him away. He’s a fellow seaman.”

  Berck grunted, considering it. He glanced at a cottage across the path. “We can’t stand here. Neighbors will be nosing out their window.” He sheathed his dagger. “Bring him below.”

  Thank God! At Fenella’s urging Adam wrapped his good arm around her shoulder and she guided him aboard and down the companionway. The way he leaned on her both thrilled and alarmed her. He would not do so unless awfully weak. How long had he been walking the streets in this condition? Berck followed her down, bringing her satchel, and she asked, “Where can we rest him?” Berck pointed to the berth littered with gear. She swept the blocks and sheaves to the foot of the berth and Adam sat down on it, his eyes on her. He said very quietly, “I won’t stay long, Fenella. Not good for you.”

  “Hush. Lie back.”

  He looked reluctant to relax his guard by lying down. Instead, he swung his boots up onto the berth and eased his back against the bulkhead, like a soldier still on watch. Fenella leaned over him and carefully lifted the bloodied, torn edge on his sleeve to look at his gashed shoulder. Even in the dim light the wound gleamed wetly.

  “Bandages,” she said, turning to Berck. He stood with arms folded, watching Adam, curious or suspicious or both. No bloody help, she thought. “Berck, do you have anything clean we can use? A freshly laundered sheet?” He looked at her as if she’d ordered a roast pheasant. “Never mind,” she said, and unsheathed the dirk at her belt. She always carried this knife. Lifting the hem of her dress, she used the dirk to cut two long strips off the bottom of her underskirt. “Can you fetch some rainwater?” Berck nodded and clomped up the steps. She resheathed the knife and turned to Adam with the makeshift bandages but hesitated. With a wound so painful could he take off his jerkin and shirt? But he saw what she was doing and didn’t need to be asked. He unbuckled the jerkin and shrugged out of it. Then, wincing at the pain, he pulled the shirt off over his head. Fenella felt a clutch at her heart. Half-naked, blood streaking his chest, he looked both more virile and more vulnerable.

  Berck brought a mug of water and Fenella sat on the edge of the berth and used a balled strip of her underskirt to gently sponge Adam’s wound. Sensing his eyes on her, she felt warm blood flush her cheeks. She readied the other, longer strip and without a word Adam raised his arm and she wound the linen around his shoulder and under his armpit, careful to lay it gently but firmly against the tender wound.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Their eyes met, and the warmth in his sent a flutter to her belly. She swallowed. “You must be parched.” She looked over her shoulder. “Berck, draw a mug of ale for him, would you?”

  She was tying off the ends of the linen strip when Berck shoved a foaming mug at Adam. “Drink up, mate.” He said it as if he wished it were poison. She longed to ask Adam how he had really been wounded—she doubted his tale about a thief—but she could not with Berck near. He’d sat down on his bench at the table with his own full mug. Her questions would have to wait.

  Adam raised his mug to Berck. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Berck eyed him in silence and took a mouthful of ale. Fenella asked him for a clean shirt for Adam, whose own was foul with blood. Berck brought one, dingy and threadbare, but at least it was dry. As Fenella helped Adam pull it on she tingled at the touch of his skin. He had finished half the ale and already it was having its effect. His eyelids looked heavy. He needs sleep, she thought. She took the mug from him and urged him to lie down. He let himself slump, too weary to keep sitting. She looked around for a pillow and wasn’t surprised to see none. From her satchel she took a shawl and folded it and snugged it under his head. He smiled at her, a sad smile like an apology. Then his eyes closed.

  “He’s out.” Berck let out a burp. “On the run, is he?” His words were a little slurred by the drink. “What’s he done?”

  She looked at him. “I don’t know yet.” It was only half a lie.

  “Why’d he come here?”

  “I told him you were a friend.” She looked at Adam, glad to hear his steady breathing. “He can’t be moved until he gets back his strength. All right if we stay the night?”

  Berck gave her a knowing look that said, So now my boat’s satisfactory? “I told you before, the stern cabin’s yours.” He looked away, muttering, “You paid for it.”

  Anger flickered in her at his tone, but she doused it when she saw him stumble off to a berth in the abandoned quarters where he’d once had crew.

  She left Adam and closed the door of the stern cabin and lay down on Berck’s berth in her clothes, ready to jump up if Adam should need her in the night. Worry about him kept her awake. Was he on the run as Berck suspected? Were Alba’s men after him? She lay atop the blanket listening to the sounds outside. Above her, rainwater dripping off the rigging onto the deck. Onshore, a barking dog. She tried to think about tomorrow, about delivering the money to the Brethren, but thoughts of Adam kept surging back. His grateful, weary smile. His whispered, Thank you. The warmth of his skin on her fingertips. The warmth spread through her, down to her belly, both thrilling and frustrating. When she finally sank into sleep, it was in a dream of sinking into his arms, her hands on his body.

  The next morning Berck was bleary-eyed and heavy-footed from drink, his hair a rat’s nest. He downed a cup of ale to fortify himself to go to work at the lock. When he went up on deck to leave, Fenella came up after him to say good-bye. The rising sun pinked the sky, promising a fair day. She squeezed his elbow. “Thank you. For the safe haven.”

  Sullenness darkened his bloodshot eyes. “Any port in a storm, eh?”

  His morose tone irked her. Why did he wallow in gloom? “You need to pull yourself together, Berck. Clean up this dirty boat. Clean yourself up.”

  He flinched as if she’d slapped him.<
br />
  She wasn’t sorry. Whatever his troubles were, they were nothing compared to Adam’s. Or mine. “Rolling that big ale keg into the river would be a start.”

  “Who are you to talk to me like that?”

  “Your friend. I mean it, Berck. You need to find a way to live again.”

  They stood for a moment eye to eye, glaring at each other, like two wrestlers about to set on each other. The thought made a laugh bubble up in Fenella. She, wrestle this mountain of a man? She chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” He looked flummoxed.

  “Nothing. Go on now, get to work.”

  He gave her a last bewildered look, then trudged off down the jetty. She watched him tramp down the riverbank path. Her heart was lighter. Now she could talk to Adam.

  He was sitting on the edge of the berth when she came below. No blood had wept through the bandage onto the shirt. A good sign. And he looked well rested. “How’s the wound?”

  “Better,” he said with a smile. “Thanks to you.”

  She needed to do something, to be busy, else she’d gaze at him like some daft girl. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  She found cold porridge in a crock, and a congealed leg of roasted rabbit. At least she hoped it was rabbit. She set about fixing a trencher for each of them, spooning out the porridge. There was no way to heat it with the galley hearth in a shambles. “It’s not the fare from the Queen’s banquet table that you’re used to, but at least we won’t starve.”

  He watched her as she worked. “First Edinburgh, now here, that’s twice you’ve saved my life,” he said quietly. “You mend my ship. You mend my body. I think, Fenella, you could mend a man’s soul.”

  It took her breath away. “My lord . . .” she stammered, looking down.

  “You really must call me Adam.”

  She looked up. His smile, slightly crooked, sent a tingle down her backbone. “Adam,” she said, her hand with the spoon almost trembling.

  “I never thought to find you here,” he said. “I thought you were going north.”

  “I did. I got my money and then took Johan home. He was happy to see his niece. I left him there, at her farm.” She said nothing about Claes. And would not. It’s safer for Claes this way, she told herself, though she knew such caution wasn’t necessary with Adam. He was on the side of the rebels and would never betray a fellow fighter in the cause. No, there was a deeper reason that she could not deny—or face. She did not want Adam to know her husband was alive.

  “And then?” he asked. “What brought you to Brussels?”

  “Wanted to see old friends. Berck and . . . other friends. I’ll go see them today.” She wanted no more questions about herself. “Here,” she said, bringing him the trencher. “You need to build your strength.” She sat beside him. They ate in silence. Fenella tasted nothing as she chewed and swallowed. Her eyes were on her food, but her mind was locked on every slight movement he made, every breath he took. When they finished, she took the trenchers back to the table, then sat down beside him again. His good arm was next to her. An inch closer and she would feel its warmth. She hated that inch of air.

  “Adam . . .” The name, so intimate, still felt new on her tongue. Felt wonderful. “What happened? Who hurt you?”

  He ran a hand through his tangled hair. He was clearly troubled. “I told you I was going to get my children. I saw my daughter, Kate. Spoke to her.” He shook his head. “Then lost her.”

  Fenella gasped. “How?”

  “Treachery.”

  He told her how his agent had said the children would be at the Church of Saint Nicholas for instruction with the priest, how he had gone there and seen his daughter outside with an escort of two men. When she went in he slipped in through a back door and found her praying. “She looked at me like I was the devil.” His tone was bitter. “It’s her mother. She’d poisoned Kate’s mind about me. I told Kate the truth, and I think I could have persuaded her to come. But her mother had put her in that church as bait. To capture me. She arrived with half a dozen soldiers.”

  “They attacked you?”

  He nodded. “I had to run.”

  Fenella’s heart ached at the pain in his voice. “How did she know you’d be there?”

  “My agent, Tyrone. Had to be him, he’s the only person who knew I was in the city.” He gritted his teeth. “Frances put the children in a convent. Days ago, Kate said. Somehow, Frances knew I was coming. It can only have been through Tyrone. So she hid them, then brought out Kate to lure me.”

  He turned to her and she saw the haggard look in his eyes. “Fenella, you know I have to get home to report to the Queen. That’s what we planned, you and I, to get my ship and hasten to England. But I can’t leave yet. I have to try to get Kate and Robert.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “I can’t do it alone. Their mother will have them well guarded.”

  “I’ll help you. Gladly. What can I do?”

  He looked at her in surprise. Affection shone in his eyes. “You stand by your friends so loyally. Johan. Me. You have a good heart.”

  I’m a witch, she thought. I want to leave Claes and live in England with you. Forever.

  “But I would never involve you in this,” he said. “Too dangerous.”

  “You can’t do it alone; you just said so. Look how narrowly you escaped. And they’ve already hurt you.”

  “I know someone who may help.” He gave her a look so tender it pierced her heart. “I’m so glad you’re here. To talk to. It’s such a . . . blessing. But it’s dangerous for you. There’s a price on my head. You mustn’t be seen with me.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m going to go.”

  “Where?”

  “I left my horse at an inn near the Antwerp Gate. Too far to go last night, covered in blood. Would have attracted suspicion. But now I’ll make my way there.” He added quietly but firmly, “You shouldn’t stay in this city.”

  He didn’t mention her crime. He didn’t have to. “A price on both our heads,” she said, then jested with a bravado she did not feel, “Valuable folk, aren’t we?”

  “You are,” he said warmly. “Above rubies.” He hesitated. Then murmured, “I wish . . .” He didn’t finish, but the searching look he gave her made her burn to know what it was he wished.

  “I’ll see you aboard the Odette, though, won’t I?” she said. She was suddenly afraid that something would foul their plan. Afraid that this might be the last time she would see him. “We’ll rendezvous at the cove?”

  “Yes, just as we planned. We said two days from now, but now I’ll need longer.”

  “Four days?”

  He nodded. “Four days, good. I’ll be there. I hope to God it’s with my children.”

  “I’ll be there, too.” She would sail with him to England. And never come back. “Adam, if anything should hold you up—”

  “It won’t. Whatever happens,” he added grimly, “with or without Robert and Kate, I must report to the Queen.”

  “But if you’re stopped, or if you need help, send me a message. To that stable in the village by the cove. Remember? The ostler?”

  He nodded. “The ostler.”

  “Promise me.”

  He smiled. “I promise.”

  “What were you about to say, before? That you wish . . .”

  He looked away. “If wishes were ponies . . .”

  She raised her hand to his cheek and drew his face back to her and whispered, “No nursery rhymes.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment as though struggling over whether to speak what he felt. Then he said quietly, simply, his eyes never leaving hers, “I wish I’d met you years ago. Before I married.”

  The words sent a thrill through her. She couldn’t stop herself. She let her fingertips slide over his lips. He clapped his hand over hers as though to stop her, but instead he pressed her hand tight against his cheek.

  “Adam,” she breathed.

  He bent his head and kissed her. A hesitant kiss
, so light it made her yearn for more. He drew back a little and his eyes searched hers with such a naked need she knew he yearned as she did. Then his arm was around her waist, pressing her body to his.

  “Your wound—”

  He stopped her words with a kiss so hungry it took her breath away.

  9

  Isabel

  Isabel Valverde couldn’t bear to stay in the candlelit opulence of the Duchess of Feria’s long gallery a moment longer.

  It wasn’t the stuffy heat, nor the headache-making babble of the well-heeled throng. In coming here with Carlos, Isabel had known full well what the crowd would be: a mix of arrogant Spaniards, toadying Dutch sycophants, and English Catholic exiles, near traitors in Isabel’s opinion. She’d been ready for all that, ready to be gracious for her husband’s sake. But among the crowd was a face she had never anticipated. Her brother Adam’s traitorous wife! There Frances brazenly stood, chatting with the Duchess of Feria and the Duke of Alba, apparently unaware of Isabel’s presence. Isabel was finding it hard to absorb the shock.

  “Carlos,” she whispered with as much control as she could muster, “I won’t stay. I can’t.”

  “I swear to you,” he said tightly, “I didn’t know she’d be here.”

  Her anger spurted. “Really?” She loathed his closeness to Alba.

  “You think I knew the guest list? I’ve been on horseback for the last fourteen hours, coordinating patrols with the Mechelen garrison. I barely had time to change my clothes.”

  She bit back further harsh words. He was clearly as astonished to see Frances as she was.

  “What am I bid for this exquisite work of art?” called the auctioneer. The crowd murmured in excitement as servants held up a painting, the property of a merchant arrested at Alba’s command for speaking out against the Spanish occupation. The gentlemen and ladies here were all keen to snap up such confiscated treasures. The English-born Duchess of Feria was hosting the event to raise money for her exiled countrymen, and Alba’s attendance gave luster to the exiles’ cause. The whole event disgusted and disturbed Isabel.