The Queen's Exiles (15 page)

“Who hurt you?” she said, a cry of concern.

Thornleigh didn’t answer. His eyes had not left Carlos. “You’re one of Alba’s commanders. I know that. We hold different . . . positions. But you’re also my sister’s husband. And my friend.”

“I was.” He saw that Thornleigh had no weapon. It would take only a moment to subdue him.

Isabel’s eyes flicked between them, agonizing. “Carlos, stop this. Of course you’re friends. He’s
kin
. Adam, you’re in trouble, that’s clear. What’s happened?”

Doubt flickered across Thornleigh’s face. “I need . . . your husband’s help.”

“Of course,” she said. “How?”

“It’s about Robert and Kate.”

That startled Carlos. He shared a glance with Isabel. She looked as surprised as he was. She said, “We just saw Frances at the Duchess of Feria’s house. Frances is staying with her. She assured me the children are fine.”

“They’re not fine,” Adam growled. “They belong in England, with me. I mean to take them home. But she has them hidden away, and well guarded.” He looked at Carlos. “I can’t do it alone.”

Carlos couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You want my help to . . . ?” He almost laughed. “You’re brainsick.”
And as good as dead if you barge into the duchess’s house. Her men will have you in chains.

“No, Carlos, he’s not. This is our niece and nephew. We can’t abandon them.” Isabel came to him. Her voice softened. “You taught Kate how to shoot a bow and arrow, remember? Her seventh birthday, when we visited them, everyone so merry? And you’re Robert’s godfather. We stood together at his christening. Please. Isn’t there some way?”

She looked up into his face, waiting.... Thornleigh stood looking, too, waiting. Carlos suddenly knew:
I’m the one who’s brainsick
. Turn Thornleigh over to Alba? No, he could never do that. He had let Alba believe that he might track Thornleigh down, but that was only a tactic to get a step closer to a pension from the King. Thornleigh was Spain’s enemy; there was no doubt of that. He had hit Alba hard by pirating a pay ship with gold meant for Alba’s troops and he was still hitting Spanish shipping. So Thornleigh might still have to fight for his life.
But not at my hands,
Carlos thought.
We are not foes
.

And there was Isabel. He knew that she and her brother were waiting for him to say something, but he wanted to hold on to this moment, savor Isabel’s beseeching look. It wasn’t about winning their quarrel. It was about what he saw shining in her eyes. Trust. It warmed him. Made him feel strong.

But strong enough to defy Alba? That brought him crashing up against reality. Anyone found aiding the enemy would get a savage response from Alba.
He could throw
me
in chains. Hang me. Then what would Isabel do, with Nicolas and Andrew and Nell to raise and the new child on the way?

She squeezed his arm. “Carlos? Please?”

C
arlos galloped through the open gates of the Cistercian abbey. Fifteen of his best men rode behind him, thundering in under the gatehouse arch, hooves clanging on the cobbles. A young kitchen maid, the first to see them, screamed.

“Spread out!” he ordered his men. “Shut the gate!” Their swords scraped from scabbards. The maid dropped her basket. Cabbages rolled from it like heads. She ran.

The horsemen fanned out, cloaks rippling. They cantered alongside the two low wings that formed the north and south sides of the quadrangle. Carlos galloped across to the east side formed by the church, sending terrified nuns scurrying out of his path. The raid had to be quick. The daylight was fading. He’d waited all day so he could hit the place at sunset.

He drew rein beside an old woman who cowered, looking up at him, the sunset’s rays reddening his steel breastplate and helmet. He hadn’t drawn his sword. It might have been years since the older cloistered women had seen a soldier and there was no need to cause terror. Surprise was all he needed, and by the sound of the screams and shouts and the flurry of nuns scattering from his men he’d accomplished that. “Where’s your abbess?” he asked the old woman.

Trembling, she pointed to a stone house beside the bell tower of the church. Carlos was about to say,
Fetch her,
when he saw a tall woman stride out the door of the house, passing helmeted horsemen and frightened nuns. Her haste in marching toward Carlos sent the white scapular over her black habit fluttering. Her blunt features were set in stern dismay at the chaos. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded as she reached him. “Who are you?”

From the saddle, he jerked a respectful bow of the head. “Valverde. Commander of the Brussels Guard in the service of the governor, His Grace the Duke of Alba. You’re the abbess?”

“Yes. What—”

A clang and a shout. They both looked to the main entrance under the gatehouse. His lieutenant, Martinez, had closed the gate. Carlos turned back to the abbess. “Reverend Mother, I have information that an enemy of Spain has taken refuge inside your walls. I’ve come to search the abbey for him.”

“Enemy?” She blinked in amazement. Carlos’s horse tossed his head with a snort and a jangle of harness. Carlos glanced across the quadrangle. Trotting ahead of Martinez was Adam Thornleigh in helmet and breastplate and armed with a sword. Carlos prayed that Thornleigh looked enough like one of them.
Get this over with fast,
he told himself. He was jittery at the terrible chance he was taking. If even one person suspected Thornleigh it could light a fuse of questions burning a path straight to Carlos.
Enough to throw nooses over both our necks
.

“But . . . we are a community of women,” the abbess said, shaken. “If such a man were here—
any
man—I would know of it.”

“I believe he’s in hiding. Pardon the inconvenience, but my men will search the buildings.”

She seemed about to say more but stopped. Though disturbed, she accepted his authority. His horsemen were already posting themselves at doorways along the wings. “Yes, of course, if you must.”

“You run a school here, I understand. Where is it?”

She pointed to the corner of the southern wing. “There. Why?”

“My information is that the criminal is hiding in the children’s quarters. That wing must be cleared.”

Her hand went to her mouth in concern. “The children? Are they in danger?”

He didn’t answer. The more confusion he could create, the better Thornleigh’s chances. “To carry out a thorough search I must insist that
all
inmates leave their quarters. The sisters, the children, servants. Everyone will congregate here in the courtyard. I ask that you assist us.”

She looked appalled. “Everyone? But we have sick patients in the infirmary. And elderly sisters who—”

“The patients can stay. Everyone else, outside. This man is dangerous, Reverend Mother. A killer. He would slit the throat of any nun in his way. Or take a child as hostage.” The young ones here were children of the lesser nobility, worth a ransom. “You understand?”

That hit home. “Dear Lord. Yes . . . yes, I’ll see to it. I’ll order the alarm bell rung.”

“Good. And one more thing. We’ll question the children separately. Have them grouped over by those trees.” He pointed to the far edge of the quadrangle, a sitting area of benches inside a circle of apple trees.

For half an hour it was a noisy, harried business as Carlos’s men searched the buildings, the church bell clanging the alarm non-stop. They searched in earnest, for he had told them they were looking for a rebel and ordered them to question every nun. They didn’t know the true identity of the foreigner riding with them. Carlos had introduced Thornleigh as the troop was about to ride out from barracks, telling them he was a Scottish lieutenant, an exiled Catholic eager to help Spain. His men had accepted that without question as they rode for Ixelles past the southern boundary of Brussels and into the abbey.

Dusk had fallen by the time all the inmates were herded into the quadrangle. A woman had fainted and nuns were clustered around her. Young novices clutched each other’s hands, wide-eyed as they watched the horsemen trot by. Scullery servants from the kitchens huddled together. A lapdog ran in frantic circles, yipping.

Carlos, overseeing from horseback in the middle of the quadrangle, heard a child crying under the apple trees. He had not gone near the children grouped there, afraid that if his niece and nephew recognized him they might call out to him. Had Thornleigh found them yet? Where was he, anyway? The last Carlos had seen of him, Thornleigh was trotting in circles around the children as they were led to the spot by two nuns. Carlos looked around for him, cursing the time this was taking. They’d spent too long here already. Too many people had seen Thornleigh’s face. Carlos saw the abbess march toward him. No fugitive criminal had been found, and of course none of the nuns or children questioned had reported spotting any suspicious man. Carlos spurred his horse away from the abbess to avoid her.

He trotted closer to the children under the apple trees. There were about twenty, girls and boys, the smaller ones in nightgowns, all agog at the horsemen. The two nuns had organized them, got them sitting on the grass. A few of the boys, excited, stood on their knees to watch the commotion. Carlos scanned the faces as he trotted by. He hadn’t seen Thornleigh’s children for years. Would he recognize them?

Then he spotted two and was sure they were Katherine and Robert. They stood hand in hand, she talking earnestly to an angry-faced nun. They hadn’t seen him. They had grown so much, Kate looked almost a woman now, yet Carlos knew them right away. The boy was not as tall, nor as robust looking, but seemed full of curiosity. Carlos felt a queer turbulence in his chest, relief to see them safe and pity for Thornleigh, whose wife had taken them away.

Where the devil
was
Thornleigh?

Carlos looked around at his men, who sat their horses awaiting his orders, their search inside completed. Two trotted aimlessly back and forth by the upset, massed inmates. The church bell had fallen silent. Carlos felt the abbess’s questioning eyes on him. He could stay no longer. If she raised an objection about his methods to the bishop he would face questions that could get him thrown into one of Alba’s prisons. He rode back to her, told her he was satisfied that the abbey was safe, and thanked her for her cooperation. He called his men together and they rode out the gates, Carlos at the head of the troop.

Thornleigh, wherever he was, would have to manage the rest on his own.

The quadrangle lay deserted in the darkness. The abbey’s dozens of windows were dark, too, except for a few where candlelight flickered. Night wind rode through the apple trees, rustling the leaves with a sound that seemed to Adam like the sea.
Ears playing tricks on me,
he thought. Maybe because he was so keyed up. He was crouched at the base of an apple tree, his eyes on the south wing, focused on the door to the children’s quarters. He’d been watching it for so long he was fighting a cramp in his leg. His bandaged shoulder beneath the breastplate ached.

An owl hooted from the roof above the door. The roof masked the moon, leaving the doorway in darkness, while out in the quadrangle moonlight silvered the grass and the gravel paths and the apple boughs. Adam had pulled his cloak around him to prevent the moonlight glinting off the steel breastplate. The helmet lay beside him in the grass, tucked into the shadows at the base of the tree.

Would Kate and Robert come out? He had snatched a few words with his daughter, that was all. She’d been standing at the edge of the circle of children under these trees, stunned to see him, and had gaped up at him as he’d leaned down from his horse and whispered, “Meet me here after dark. Right here. Bring Robert.” Questions had flared in her eyes, but she’d kept silent as one of Carlos’s men trotted near. Clever girl! Adam had seen Robert, too, just steps away from Kate, but Robert had not seen him. How the boy had grown! But he looked unhappy. A nun held him roughly by the arm and shook her finger at him. Robert stood tense in her grip, and his head jerked, not just once but several times as the nun went on scolding him. His jerks of the head seemed involuntary. A tic? Pity shot through Adam as the boy hung his head in shame. Then the nun cuffed him, a slap on the ear. Adam’s blood boiled. She had no right! But he had to trot away, could not risk his son noticing him. When he glanced back over his shoulder Kate was taking Robert’s hand and the nun moved away. Kate’s arm went around her brother’s shoulders, a protective gesture that touched Adam deeply.

He had pulled away from the pack of children and trotted down a path alongside the church. It led to a vegetable garden with a shed. There was no one in sight. Hoes and baskets lay at the edge of the garden, abandoned when the nuns working there had been herded to the quadrangle with the others. Chickens clucked from an enclosure of low stone walls. Adam tied his horse to a tree behind the shed, out of sight of the quadrangle, and sat down on a bench inside the shed to wait. Soon he heard Carlos and his troop ride out. Heard the nuns calling the children back inside, and tramping feet and chattering voices as the quadrangle emptied. Night fell. No one came to the shed. Adam had walked back to the quadrangle, staying close to the church wall lest a nun at a dormitory window catch sight of him. He’d slipped in among the apple trees.

Hunkered down now at the base of the tree, waiting, he wondered if he was mad to expect his children to come out to him. Their mother had hidden them here to keep them from him. He felt a punch of shock, remembering Frances’s face in the Church of Saint Nicholas, her fierce look as she’d shouted to the soldiers,
Don’t let him escape!
What an astounding change in her! Frances, once so possessive, so jealous of Elizabeth, so cloying in her love for him that he had relished his days at sea just to be away from her. Of course,
everything
had changed when she had committed treason, and never again would they live as man and wife, even in the uneasy partnership that had been their marriage. But at that church she had actually connived for his capture. Had arranged it by luring him to Kate and bringing soldiers. A capture that could have led to his death. It rocked him.

And Tyrone. He had changed, too, had become the enemy. Had Tyrone gone to Frances, or had Frances sought out Tyrone? Either way, Adam was convinced that the Irishman had betrayed him to her.

The other changed person was Kate, and that was a change that cheered his soul. Frances had surely done her best to poison the children’s minds against him—he’d seen that in Kate’s horrified look at first seeing him in the church—yet his daughter’s true allegiance had burst forth when she saw the soldiers attack him. Pride swelled his heart as he remembered how she had hurled her cape over the oncoming sword. It had let Adam escape. Now, having witnessed her self-control at seeing him ride in with Carlos’s troop, he felt buoyed with hope. If there was a way to get out of the dormitory with Robert, his daughter would find it.

If.
What if the nuns locked the dormitory at night and the children could not leave? He would wait for hours if he had to, but he must not be here come sunrise. He stared at the door, willing them to come through it.

The owl lifted from the dormitory roof and flapped across to the apple tree and landed on a bough above Adam’s head. Glancing up at it, he felt his sword scabbard scrape the damp grass. He was grateful to Carlos for the weapon, grateful for Carlos’s plan to get him inside the abbey and flush out the children. Whatever their differences in allegiance—and they were huge—Adam had gambled that family ties would tug Carlos enough to help him reach Robert and Kate. He’d been right. Thanks to Isabel.

He’d noticed she was pregnant. He hadn’t known, it was so long since he’d been in touch with her. A fourth child, that was a fine thing. Carlos was a lucky man, happy with his wife. Adam could scarcely imagine what that felt like, his own marriage being so fouled. Frances had failed to murder Elizabeth, but the attempt had murdered their marriage. Had it ever really lived? A stillborn marriage. Even in its early years when they’d each tried to accommodate the other, never once had he felt the true bond of husband and wife, man and woman united in spirit, one flesh.

Spirit and flesh.
Fenella
. The memory of their lovemaking on the barge came over him with a rush so powerful he laid his hand on the tree trunk to steady himself. Fenella’s mouth opening under his. Her body pressed against his. Her breath hot and moist on his neck. Her lips on his throat. He had groaned.

She’d stiffened in concern. “Your wound?”

No, it was not pain he felt but a craving for her that throbbed through his body. She had gone still, as though afraid their embrace had hurt his shoulder. It was enough to bring him to his senses. “I’m sorry . . .” he stammered. “I . . . have no right.”