The Queen's Exiles

by Barbara Kyle

  Kate’s eyes went wide with surprise when she saw her aunt. “Madam!” She rushed to Isabel and bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, it has been so long!”

  What a young beauty Adam’s daughter had become! Isabel had to smile despite her anxiety. “Too long, my dear.” She embraced the girl as closely as her pregnant state would allow.

  Kate’s hand flew to her mouth in concern. “Have you brought word of my father? Is he in England? Is he ill?”

  “Enough!” Frances snapped. “You know I will not hear him spoken of.”

  Kate held her tongue, but with a look of furious resentment. Her mother glared back at her. The girl’s spirit moved Isabel, and her heart ached for Adam’s sake. She wished it were in her power to take his children home with her. What would become of them here, fatherless? Robert was staring at her, and she saw confusion in his eyes. He had been only five when he’d last seen her four years ago, and she guessed that he was struggling to remember who she was. He made a childish bow to her, then continued to stare, his head jerking oddly. A tic, she realized, feeling pity. The boy was without a father and had a traitor for a mother.

  A traitor that I must now charm.

  A young priest appeared at the door. “Lady Frances, we are behind our time.”

  “Quite right, Father.” Frances clapped her hands at the children. “To your lessons now with Father André. Katherine, at my next visit you will recite the Order’s rules on the patience and perseverance of prayer, or your meals will be bread and water until you can. The Sisters will not take a dunce for a novice.” She turned to Robert with a motherly smile and patted his cheek. “Go.”

  The children bowed to her and to Isabel, then trudged out the door after the priest.

  “I am glad to see my niece and nephew so hale,” Isabel said. “I can only imagine the depth of your own relief.”

  “Pardon?” Frances gave her a quizzical, impatient look that made Isabel wonder: Has she not heard of Alba’s abominable act? It seemed impossible; gossip was rife. More likely she did know and was unmoved—a chilling thought. Frances’s consideration for the young did not extend to beggars.

  “They are hale indeed, and I was just leaving,” she said, adjusting her cloak. “Why did you ask to see me? What do you want?”

  Isabel forced a smile. “Peace, Frances. I hope we can mend the rift that has kept us apart. There was a time when we were friends.”

  “Long past.”

  “Yet I remember those days fondly. Don’t you?” She had helped Frances through her difficult first labor, had delivered Kate, placing the babe into Frances’s exhausted and grateful arms. “I’ll never forget your face at that first sight of your daughter.”

  “Ah . . . yes.” There was a softening in her voice, a note of regret. “You were kind.”

  “You were brave.” Isabel smiled.

  Frances, however, looked newly wary. “Come, Isabel, what has brought you? You must want something.”

  “I have heard that your friend the Duchess of Feria is ill. I hope it is not serious?”

  “An ague. It will pass.”

  “She keeps to her bed, though, I’m told.”

  Frances’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What concern is that of yours?”

  “I have not met the duchess, but I’m sure she is aware that my husband is a trusted commander in the governor’s service.”

  “Yes, Alba holds Valverde in high regard, I believe. What on earth are you getting at?”

  “I need your help, Frances. I am leaving Brussels. With my children.”

  “What?” She was all astonishment.

  “I will not pretend to you. Carlos and I feel very differently about the Spanish occupation, and have for some time. He sees honor and duty in keeping his commitment to Alba. I see suffering and unrest, an uprising in the making. Danger. I do not want my child to be born here. So I am going home, and taking Andrew and Nell. We’ll sail from Antwerp.” Her hand went to her belly. “But I am almost eight months gone, Frances, and you know how punishing thirty hard miles on horseback would be in this condition. It’s not my comfort that concerns me; it’s the safety of the babe. So I have come to ask a favor. Your friend the duchess has a coach. Given her illness, she has no need for it at the moment. Would you intercede on my behalf, and ask her for a day’s use of the coach to take us to Antwerp? I warrant the coachmen will have it back overnight.”

  Frances regarded her sister-in-law thoughtfully, as though considering her dilemma with some sympathy but weighing what benefit the favor would bring to herself.

  Isabel said with feeling, “We may have different beliefs, Frances, but we share one thing in common. We have both fallen out with our husbands for their actions on opposite sides of the Spanish cause. Broken marriage . . . it’s a cross we both bear.” She reached out for her hand. “Please, be my sister in this? Be a friend to my unborn child, as I once was to yours.”

  Frances blinked at her. Whether she was moved or dismayed Isabel could not tell. “When would you want the coach?”

  “Today. Right now.”

  “But your children—”

  “They’re packed, ready. I shall collect them on the way. If you’ll just help us with the duchess . . .”

  A wistful look came over Frances. “I knew her when she was simple Jane Dormer, you know, long before she caught the eye of the late duke. We are old friends.”

  “Then you’ll ask her?”

  “No need. I take the coach whenever I wish. Come back with me to her house. You shall have the coach. If you will do me a favor in return.”

  Isabel hesitated. “If I can.”

  “Oh, it is not difficult. I would merely have you deliver a letter. To a friend in London.”

  Caution pricked Isabel. She had heard enough to suspect that Frances was scheming against Queen Elizabeth with her fellow Catholic exiles here. It was no secret that they wanted to see their favorite, Mary Stuart, Queen of the Scots, on England’s throne, and rumor said that they hoped to entice Philip of Spain into backing them with troops. Frances had likely forged her friendship with Alba to further this plan. And no doubt the exiles kept their English friends abreast of developments. If Isabel delivered her sister-in-law’s letter, would she herself be an accomplice to treason?

  That’s unknowable, she decided. While my present mission is clear. She could waste no more time. “Certainly, Frances. It will be my pleasure.”

  They took the litter Isabel had come in and reached the duchess’s mansion with its granite columns facing Balienplein Place. The business of ordering the coach was quickly done. It clattered up to the front entrance, an impressive sight: two white horses drawing a vehicle gorgeously painted in primrose and forest green, two coachmen in livery of the same color scheme, the coach doors emblazoned with the gold crest of the Duchess of Feria. Frances gave Isabel the sealed letter, then told the coachmen they would be picking up the lady’s passengers. “Follow her instructions.”

  The two women shared an awkward, tense moment, both of them aware that this might be the last time they would see each other, both silent about the man in their thoughts, Isabel’s brother, Frances’s husband. A brisk “Good-bye” from Frances, a gentle “God be with you” from Isabel, who then climbed into the primrose velvet cushions of the coach.

  She had never been inside such a conveyance—popular with the Continent’s rich, coaches were still not common in England—and she was thrilled by how swiftly it flew down the street, for she had told the coachmen to make all haste. People on foot and on horseback quickly moved aside to let the noblewoman’s coach pass. Isabel took a grateful, nervous breath. She would be in Antwerp by evening.

  Church bells all over the city were ringing the mid-afternoon hour as the coach jounced toward the Laeken Gate, the most northern exit in the city wall. Isabel knew the tolling bells summoned citizens to attend the executions at the Grote Markt, and her heart was beating fast as she watched people leaving their houses and shops. She was not clear of the city ye
t, but on one score she took comfort. She had lied to Frances when she’d said she would collect Andrew and Nell. They were already gone. Early this morning Isabel had sent them to the canal wharf in the care of Hughes, a loyal manservant, to take the Antwerp-bound barge. At the port they would embark for England, and there Hughes would deliver them to Isabel’s mother in London. No matter what happened now, Isabel could trust that her children were safe.

  But was Carlos? Was she in time? The questions drummed inside her head as the church bells clanged. Were the executions in progress? Carlos had faced past dangers on battlefields and Isabel had often feared for his life, but never as acutely as she did at this moment. If he failed, Alba’s wrath would be terrible. She feared . . . and she hoped. And never had she loved her husband more.

  The crowd’s too thin, Carlos thought, feeling on edge. I need a bigger turnout. On horseback he was leading his small execution party toward the Grote Markt, dead ahead at the end of the house-lined street. Behind him his four mounted soldiers escorted the horse-drawn wagon that held the two prize prisoners, the rebel leader Claes Doorn and his wife.

  A boy darted across Carlos’s path and he reined in Fausto. The stallion snorted, as edgy as Carlos himself. He touched his spurs to Fausto’s flanks and trotted on. The street widened into the broad square of the Grote Markt and Carlos saw with relief that he’d been wrong about the crowd—it was as large as usual. Good. The air hummed with the people’s excitement. Two corpses already hung from the gibbets. Over a dozen more prisoners were corralled in a pen, awaiting their turn. On one side of the scaffold an executioner stood beside a butcher’s block where Doorn’s special agony would take place: castration, then his abdomen would be slit and his entrails drawn out before his dying eyes.

  Guards cut down the two dead rebels. A roar went up from the crowd. Church bells rang.

  Carlos looked to the side of the square. Stands had been erected for the Spanish dons and the city’s magistrates and leading burghers. On the top tier, under a canopy, sat Alba with his cane. As usual he was flanked by his Spanish advisers. He looked relaxed, chatting with one of them.

  Carlos glanced behind him. The wagon was open, its wooden sides cut down to waist height so that people had a good view of the prisoners. The condemned couple stood on either side, their hands bound behind them and tied to the wagon side. Doorn, the earless side of his head crusted with dry blood, looked delirious from his ordeal, barely able to stay on his feet on the jostling platform. Fenella was white-faced, her haggard eyes on her husband. Men and women jeered them as they passed. The soldier driving the wagon grinned vacantly. He was a slow-witted veteran who’d suffered a head wound that left him good only for menial tasks. Carlos had picked him specially for this job.

  They had reached the rear edge of the mob. Most of the crowd were looking forward, eyes on the scaffold where the next two prisoners were being led from the pen to the gibbets. Few had noticed Carlos’s party yet. Carlos’s instructions were to escort the condemned in a wide circle around the crowd toward the scaffold, moving slowly so that everyone could view the prize couple in the wagon. He would bring them past the dignitaries’ stand for Alba’s viewing. When they reached the scaffold, trumpeters would announce their arrival.

  Carlos turned in the saddle and held up his hand to his men. “Halt.”

  The dull-eyed veteran on the seat tugged the reins, stopping the draft horse. The wagon creaked to a halt. The four mounted men stopped, too, and looked at Carlos, awaiting his order.

  “We turn west.” He pointed down the street that led to the canal.

  His horsemen exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Now,” Carlos ordered.

  The driver, mindlessly obeying, flicked the reins and the wagon began moving. The horsemen, too, turned their mounts to the street Carlos indicated.

  He led them, uneasy, a prickle of sweat on his back. Was the crowd big enough after all to mask his detour? He heard the wagon creak behind him, heard the slow-clomping hooves of the nag and of his men’s horses. He longed to order them to speed up, but that might raise suspicion—not from his men, who would do what he commanded, but from people in the street who were heading in the opposite direction, toward the execution square. If even one of them mentioned the odd occurrence to a guard there and the guard sent word up to Alba’s lieutenants, Alba would send men galloping after Carlos.

  He dared a glance back. Fenella gaped at him in stunned wonder. Doorn seemed unaware, feverish, barely conscious. Behind them, Alba’s form in the stands was small as it receded, and Carlos could not tell where the man was looking. Was he watching in astonishment as his prize prisoners were taken away? If so, I’ll soon be kicking from one of those gibbets.

  Willing that thought away, he turned and straightened in the saddle. Last night, telling Isabel about the murdered beggar girl, he’d known she was right about Alba. No pension was worth working for such a man. Back in England Carlos would have to deal with his rocky finances, but that lay in the future—that is, if he lived to see England again. Right now, the decision to try to save Fenella and her husband made him strangely exhilarated. Death might be his reward. But he had faced death before. As long as Isabel got away, it’s worth it.

  The canal was not far—it ran through the city center—and in five minutes they reached the wharf. It was busy, bustling with merchants and barge hands, travelers with baggage, customers at chandlery sheds. A few looked with curiosity at the prisoners in the wagon led by the breast-plated commander and his men, but the Spanish martial presence throughout the city was too familiar a sight to raise concern.

  Carlos halted the party. He turned Fausto. “The prisoners are going to Antwerp,” he told his men. “From there they’ll sail to Spain to be executed for His Majesty’s view. The Antwerp Guard on the barge will take over from here. You’re dismissed.” He ordered them back to barracks.

  They looked mildly surprised at being freed from duty so early in the day but far from unwilling. They nodded to him and turned their mounts. Carlos watched them trot away.

  He dismounted. “You too, Freyer,” he told the veteran on the wagon seat. “Back to barracks. Down you get.”

  Freyer made no objection to the unusual command that would leave the wagon driverless. He climbed down.

  “Walk straight back. No stopping.”

  The man blinked at Carlos for a moment. Then, obeying orders as he had done all his life, he turned and trudged down the bustling wharf.

  Carlos led Fausto to the back of the wagon and tied the reins to it.

  “Spain?” Fenella said, her voice weak, hoarse with horror. “To burn?”

  He swung up onto the wagon and went to her.

  “Have mercy,” she said. “Kill us now.” Her haggard eyes begged him. “Quick and clean. Please.”

  He unsheathed his sword. Doorn blinked at him with fever-fogged eyes. Fenella straightened with a spurt of strength, ready for death. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Carlos sliced the blade behind her arms, severing the leather tie, cutting her free.

  She rocked on her feet, gaping up at him. “What . . . ?”

  He crossed to Doorn and cut him loose. Doorn slumped at the sudden freedom. Fenella rushed to him and caught him in her arms.

  “Lay him down,” Carlos said as he hopped off the wagon. “You too.” He pulled a tarpaulin from his saddlebag and tossed it up to her. “Cover yourselves. And be prepared for a rough ride.”

  She blinked in shock. In hope. “Where?”

  No time to talk. Guards might already be galloping this way. He left her and climbed up onto the wagon seat and flicked the reins. The horse lurched and the wagon creaked into motion. Carlos glanced back. Fenella was spreading the tarpaulin over herself and Doorn.

  Carlos drove the wagon north, making for the road to Antwerp. He whipped the nag and it broke into a startled canter. The rickety wagon rattled and groaned, lurching at every turn, jouncing the couple on the hard floorboards. People lurched out o
f their path and Carlos glared at anyone who was slow to make way. He heard Fausto cantering in train with his smooth, powerful gait.

  The Laeken Gate rose dead ahead. Two soldiers of the city guard stood viewing all who came and went. Carlos gritted his teeth and slowed the horse.

  The guards were deferential to Carlos; his steel breastplate and plumed helmet were his permit. But their duty was to question all who passed on execution days. One walked to the back of the wagon, asking Carlos as a courtesy, “Where are you bound, sir?”

  He mentioned a town and added loudly, “The cemetery.”

  The guard idly lifted a corner of the tarpaulin. Carlos threw an anxious glance over his shoulder. Would Fenella take his cue? Yes, thank God, she lay as still as death. Doorn looked unconscious, his grisly wound apparent. “The governor wants them out,” Carlos said, and added quietly, as though to forestall panic lest any of the public heard, “in case it’s plague.”

  The guard dropped the tarpaulin in revulsion. The other one had heard, too, and quickly waved Carlos through. “God speed you, sir.”

  As soon as they were clear of the gate he whipped the horse and the wagon rattled northward. Traffic coming onto the city was thin since it was an execution day, with many shops and markets closed. The land was flat, sparsely treed. Fields stretched out on either side, blue-flowered flax, golden barley. No place to hide.

  Carlos reached the bisecting road that ran east toward Maastricht and the German lands and west toward Ghent and the coast. Just north of this crossroads the road rose slightly over a bridge, allowing a stream to run beneath.

  Once over the bridge Carlos slowed, taking the wagon to the side of the road. The verge leading down to the stream was weedy, the water sluggish and brown. Besides the bridge, the only structure in sight was a windmill lazily moving to the east. In a distant field, men were scything grain. Behind, to the south a half mile across the flatland, the Laeken Gate was still visible. A black-robed priest on a donkey was ambling toward the bridge. In a few minutes he would reach it.