The King's Daughter (3 page)

From the mouth of the alley, Isabel, her father, Martin, and Robert had watched it all. Thornleigh turned, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Martin,” he said sternly, “did you have anything to do with this?”

“No, Master Thornleigh, he did not,” Robert said evenly. “We were waiting for you in the Belle Sauvage when we heard the disturbance begin. Martin was anxious that Isabel and you might be caught in it, so he ran out to see. In fact, he’s left his hat inside.”

“Never mind that,” Martin interrupted. He offered Thornleigh a sheepish smile. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve come for nothing. The business friend I asked you here to meet bolted as soon as the trouble began. Sorry. Especially after I had Isabel lure you with promises that my friend and I would make you rich.”

“I
am
rich,” Thornleigh said.

Isabel had to hide a smile.

“Yes, sir,” Martin said carefully. “But the Muscovy consortium really is a fine scheme. Particularly for a Colchester clothier like yourself. The vagaries of markets you face, and all that. I mean, the risk you carry in your ships alone—”

“Martin,” Thornleigh said, “leave the Colchester cloth trade to me, and stick to your family’s wine business. Even in lean years vintners never suffer. Now look,” he said with a glance back at the thinning crowd, “the Crane’s not far, where we’re staying. You need that lip seen to, and my wife has some excellent balm. And I’m sure Father Robert could use a quiet half hour by the fire after this.” He wrapped his arm around Isabel. “I know
we
could, eh, Bel? So come on back to the Crane with us, both of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Robert said quietly, “but I have another appointment.” He gave his brother a severe look. “Stay out of trouble, Martin.” He bid good-bye to Thornleigh and kissed Isabel’s cheek. She whispered in his ear, “Soon, Robert, you won’t have to visit Meg and your babes like some thief in the night. We’ll make this Queen let priests live like men.”

Robert pressed her hand in thanks and gave her a wan smile. He slowly walked away toward the cathedral.

Martin shook his head. “Robert always thinks he has to watch out for me,” he scoffed, but there was unmistakable affection in his voice.

Thornleigh was scowling, far from happy as he watched the remnants of the crowd. The women and children and older men had left, but many young men remained, cockily milling after their triumph. A Spaniard’s horse harness lay in snow that was pink with blood, next to iridescent blue feathers from a lord’s hat. Two boys in tatters were foraging in the litter, and one whooped at finding a Spanish leather glove. Thornleigh muttered, “This was a bad day’s work.”

“Maybe not,” Martin said, “if it makes the Queen think twice about the Spanish marriage. And about bringing back the Mass.”

“The Mass is the law now, Martin,” Thornleigh said. He made it sound like a threat.

Isabel wanted to get both men away before an argument could swell.

“Aye, it’s the law,” Martin grumbled. “And there’ll be full-blown popery next, as soon as Philip of Spain lands. And dumb dogs set up again in monasteries. And the Inquisition. They’ll be burning people in our market squares.”

“Don’t talk rot, boy,” Thornleigh snapped. He added, more gently, “The Catholics bought up as much monastic land aswe Protestants did. They won’t give it back any more than we will. As for the Inquisition, Englishmen would never stand for it.”

“Englishmen may not have a say in it. There’ll be Spaniards at court, and Spaniard troops here obeying a Spaniard King of England.”

Thornleigh sighed, apparently unwilling to debate the matter. “All I know,” he said steadily, “is that we’ve got to help Queen Mary find her way toward tolerance. In spite of what happened today, people are ready to support her. They rallied to her when Northumberland tried to change the succession. We must all—”

“Good heavens, sir,” Martin cried, “you sound like the papists.”

Thornleigh looked the younger man intensely in the eye. “Some of my very good friends and associates hold to the Catholic ways. They wish me no harm. And I wish none to them. That’s the only way to make this country work.”

“Sir, I only mean—”

“Just what the hell
do
you mean? You’d better think hard on it, boy. Because you’re going to have the responsibility of a family soon. And if you think I’ll let my daughter—”

“The book!” Isabel cried. She was staring at a man unconsciously trampling the volume she had bought for her mother. He moved on and the book lay in the dirty snow, abandoned in the open space between the alley and the crowd. Isabel started toward it.

“No, I’ll get it,” her father said, stopping her. “And then, Bel,” he added sternly, “we’re leaving.” He set out to retrieve the book.

Watching him go, Martin whispered to Isabel, “Does he suspect?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Nothing.”

“Good girl.” There was no condescension in his voice, only admiration.

“It hasn’t been that difficult,” Isabel said, her smile turning wry. “My parents see nothing but their own little world. Father with his eye all day on wool fleeces and cloth bales. Mother with her nose forever in a book.” She shook her head with disdain, then with vigor to clear these thoughts; it was not about her parents that she wanted to talk. She looked at Martin expectantly. “Well?” she asked. She could barely mask her excitement. She wanted so much to be a part of this great undertaking with him.

“Yes,” he said with a grin. “Sir Thomas Wyatt has agreed to meet you.”

Isabel took in a sharp breath in surprised delight, and felt the cold air sting her lungs. “When?”

“At our conference, tomorrow afternoon. When do you leave London for home?”

“The day after.”

“Good. But will you be able to get away from your parents?”

“I’ll manage it. When tomorrow?”

“Dinnertime.”

“Your house?”

Martin nodded.

“But is that wise?” she asked.

He smiled. “Most of my relatives have stayed on after Christmas, and with so many people coming and going it’s actually the safest place to meet. And tomorrow’s Thursday, so the whole family will be trooping off to the bear garden.”

Isabel felt a thrill warm her veins. It was part exhilaration, part apprehension. She pressed Martin’s arm, wanting to mark their communion in this great risk. Naturally, it was the men who would be facing the real hazards, but she was sure there was something she could do—arrange for horses, deliver a message,
something.
“I want so much to help,” she said eagerly.

Martin covered her hand with his own and squeezed it. The look in his eyes was pure love. Isabel lifted her face nearer his, wanting him to kiss her. “You’re wonderful,” Martin murmured as their lips came close. Suddenly he straightened and laid a warning finger to his mouth. Her father had started to come back, batting snow from the book.

A shout made Thornleigh turn. Isabel caught the sound of pounding hooves. Horses were galloping up Ave Maria Lane.

“It’s the sergeant and his men!” Martin cried.

Twenty or more horsemen in half-armor were bearing down on the remnants of the mob. The young men in the street stood still, gaping. From the opposite direction, a matching thunder of hooves echoed under Ludgate’s stone arch as more horsemen from the palace galloped in.

“Run!”

The mob broke apart, men dashing in all directions. Isabel saw her father engulfed in the swarm of fleeing people and converging horsemen. A horseman’s sword swung up, glinting in the sun, then slashed down. There was a scream.

“Father!”

She lurched toward him. But shouting men surged around her, stopping her. She was trapped. She caught a glimpse of her father’s face, then heard another cry of pain and whipped around to look for Martin. The swarm of arms and shoulders swamped her vision. She could see nothing. A man’s elbow jabbed her breast, shooting pain through her chest. She saw a horseman’s breastplate gleam above her and his sword plunge down. She saw a screaming man claw at his dangling ear that gushed blood. She saw a dagger raised before her face. She dropped to her knees.

She scrambled blindly back toward the tavern alley, past boots and hooves and blood-spattered snow, the cries of men above her. She made it to the mouth of the alley and struggled to her feet. She twisted around to find Martin. But the battling men had pushed closer to the alley and Martin was nowhere to be seen. Men ran past her, shoving her aside in a frantic bid to escape the sergeant’s men. A horseman was pounding straight toward her, sword raised, murder in his eyes. She bolted into the alley. High walls darkened the narrow space. Running, she stumbled over scattered garbage. Ahead, a lopsided hay wagon missing a wheel blocked the alley. She stopped and frantically looked back.

The horseman had not followed her.

Someone laughed. Isabel whipped around. Crouched on the back of the wagon were the two scavenger boys. Isabel gasped. They had hanged a black cat from the wagon, an iridescent blue feather stuck in its ear. One boy grinned at her as he gave the dead cat a poke to set it swinging. “See?” he said. “It’s the bloody Prince of Spain.”

2
English Justic

C
arlos Valverde, the defendant in the fifth case beginning at the quarter sessions in Colchester, Essex, narrowed his gray eyes on the visiting circuit judge and channeled his intensity onto the man, willing his favor. Miraculously, it seemed to be working, because the thick-necked judge glared down from his bench at the opposing lawyer and said sternly, “Master Sydenham, this court has other pressing business. In view of the absence of the plaintiff, I must rule that—”

As though responding to the summons, a man pushed through the rear door and strode in to join the lawyer. Edward Sydenham respectfully addressed the bench. “Your Honor, here is my client, Lord Anthony Grenville. And we do beg pardon for the delay.” They both bowed and sat.

Carlos swallowed his deep disappointment. He was not surprised,though; he’d never believed in miracles. This was going to be war.

“Quiet in the court!” the bailiff shouted. Grenville’s entrance had caused a stir at the back of the room among the small crowd of observers, including a knot of family well-wishers who’d been congratulating the lady who had won the previous case. The family scuttled out. The remaining dozen or so people hushed.

Carlos was studying his opponent, Lord Grenville, a solid, florid man of about seventy, dressed richly but not fussily, with a thick mass of white hair and an impatient air of authority. Without a word to his lawyer, Grenville sat back and laced his fingers over his stomach as if to say,
Let’s get this over with.
It was the first time Carlos had seen Grenville, though the harassment had been going on for months through Grenville’s agents. Carlos had had to sell his warhorse and all his battle gear to pay the legal costs; there was nothing left except the land. He had even been considering taking a wife, some wealthy citizen’s plain-faced daughter; the plainer the woman, the bigger the dowry. Carlos had taken possession of the manor only four months ago, so his tenants’ rents weren’t due for another month, and God knew he’d needed cash these last weeks to pay Powys, the bloodsucking lawyer seated beside him.
And to buy this fancy cloak,
he thought wryly, looking down at the fox-Iined, black velvet folds that draped from his shoulders. The extravagant purchase had been a bid to appear the fine gentleman in court, as his new status as a landowner demanded, but underneath the cloak he wore his battered, quilted-Ieather jerkin and, as always, his scuffed riding boots. He could do very well without fancy clothes, but not without the land. The land was everything.

He shuffled his feet in the cold draught, pernicious as ground fog, and felt a familiar jab of pain in his right knee—the legacy of too many of his thirty years spent in the Emperor’s soggy bivouacs. English winters afflicted his knee the worst.
Madre de Dios,
he thought,
how can a country be so cold and so wet at the same time?

“Thank you, Master Sydenham, we now have a plaintiff,” the judge said witheringly. “However, the question remains, do we have a defendant?” He looked hard at Carlos, then at the lawyer beside him, Powys, a reedy man with wispy gray hair, parchment-colored skin, and sour breath. “After all, Master Powys, I understand your client is an alien.”

Carlos stiffened. After six years in England he spoke the language well enough, but he feared a barrage of bewildering English common-Iaw terms. The law was terrain he had no experience in. It made him feel awkward, exposed. He hated that.

Powys stood. “With respect, Your Honor, my client was awarded denization five months ago along with the grant of the lordship of this manor, a deferred reward for his exemplary service in the King’s wars against the Scots. The affidavit from Chancery is before you.”

“Denization? Of a Spanish mercenary?” The judge was searching for the affidavit among his papers. “Most unusual.”

“Yes, Your Honor, but not without precedent,” Powys said. “One Alfonso Gamboa, colonel, received denization with his grant of the lordship, manor, and advowson of the rectory of Stanmer in Middlesex, in the year—”

“Quite, Master Powys,” the judge interrupted, holding up his hands, having found the document. “I said it was unusual, not impossible. I have no trouble accepting the veracity of this affidavit. And therefore the legitimacy of the defendant.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Powys sat.

The judge cast a look of skeptical appraisal at Carlos. “And how do you like it here, Master"—he glanced at his notes—"Master Valverde?”

Carlos offered a crooked smile. “It is cold, sir.”

The judge barked a laugh. “Well, I trust you will not find our justice cold.” He looked at his clerk for some appreciation of his wit and received the clerk’s insincere smile. Both lawyers also chuckled politely.

Carlos swiped a hand uneasily over his head, the hair close-cropped like boar bristles, then scratched his stubbled jaw. He had no envy for these soft, book-wise men, but they wielded the real command in this arena. He glanced at the two bailiff’s men who lounged, bored, against the wall near Sydenham, and he knew, with an uncomfortable conviction, that he had more in common with them. They were the brawn here, but not the power. The knot in his stomach tightened, a mixture of desperation and hope that had tormented him for weeks. Strange, because he’d faced far greater dangers on the battlefield and survived. But that was just it. He’d had enough of battlefields. And the tantalizing taste of luxury and status he’d been given—and, even more intoxicating, the power to build something permanent—had sharpened his hunger to hang on to what he had, no matter the cost.