The Queen's Exiles (27 page)

“They won’t. You know how fast the stallion is.”

It was a boast inflated only with hope, and Carlos saw that she knew it. But she said nothing more, and he blessed her for that. “I’ll lead them west, then turn and head for France. From Calais I’ll sail home. Now go. There’s no more time.”

Holding Fausto’s reins, he wrapped his other arm around Isabel and kissed her. A kiss to tell her all that she meant to him. A kiss to last him until he saw her again. If he lived.

“Help her in,” he told Fenella.

He made sure Isabel was safely aboard, despite her look of anguish at leaving him; then he told the coachmen to drive on with haste. The coachman flicked the reins and the vehicle clattered forward.

Carlos swung up into the saddle. He watched the coach go, dust spitting from the rear wheels. Then he turned Fausto and faced the oncoming horsemen. He waited just long enough for Alba’s men to spot him. His black stallion would be familiar to some of them. Waiting, he considered his chances. Fausto
was
fast. And with Isabel’s kiss still on his lips he made a vow. If he lived through this he would tell her what had happened between him and Fenella in Edinburgh. Tell her before she heard it from someone else. Tell her it had meant nothing.

He kicked his spurs into Fausto’s flanks and galloped west.

A
full moon shone over Antwerp. In the harbor, moored ships slumbered. On the wharf, fishmongers’ stalls lay deserted.

Fenella tightened her arm around Claes as she led him down the fishmongers’ dock, a spur of the main wharf. He was so weak she was half-dragging him. “Almost there,” she promised. She looked over her shoulder in dread of seeing someone come after them. Her arm around him trembled from the strain of holding him up.

She made for the battery of fishing boats, skiffs, and rowboats bobbing in the water alongside the dock. The bright moonlight made her feel horribly exposed, like a furtive harbor rat. Thank God they were in the shadows of the harbormaster’s tower. But Claes shambling beside her was so slow, like an anchor being dragged. She hated herself for thinking that about him after all he had suffered, but they had to
move
. She had to get to the cove to warn Adam. Alba’s men were surely coming for him.
Because I told
. The horror of the beggar girl’s murder, and the horror of how Fenella had betrayed Adam because of it, gnawed her without mercy. How she hated Alba for his unspeakable trick! She prayed that she might be wrong about Adam taking refuge in the cove, prayed that he was sailing somewhere, free, and far from Alba’s reach. But if he
was
in the cove, Alba’s men would soon swoop down on him.

“Just a few more steps,” she assured Claes. She knew he was trying hard to keep pace. On the coach ride from Brussels he had surfaced from the worst of his fever, had regained his mental bearings at least. Valverde’s wife had taken linen from her luggage and Fenella had used it to bandage the ghastly wound where Claes’s ear had been severed, winding strips around his head. The journey had given him a chance to rest, enough to croak his wishes when the coach reached the wharf at sunset. Valverde’s wife was preparing to board a merchant ship about to sail for Portsmouth, expecting them to come with her, but Claes had balked. “No, not England . . . not me,” he had said hoarsely. “I’ll stay . . . and fight.”

Fenella had not anticipated that. Her thought had been to get him away to safety and then she would follow after she’d warned Adam. But Claes’s refusal did not completely surprise her. He had made the rebels’ cause his life. She sensed that as long as he had breath he would fight the Spaniards. As for her own plan to reach Adam, she had not told Claes, nor told Valverde’s wife. Fenella couldn’t bear to admit to Adam’s kind sister that she had betrayed him. Besides, she was far from sure that she could warn him in time. “Madam,” she had said, “I am staying, too.”

“What? But you’ll be safe in England. Both of you.”

“Thank you, but no. There’s business to be done here first. God be with you, madam, and our heartfelt thanks.”

The lady had to get to England to join her children. She sailed away. Fenella and Claes waited until dark, hiding behind a wharf alehouse amid its crates and trash until the fishmongers’ dock was deserted. It had meant losing a precious hour but had given her a chance to explain to Claes where she was taking him, and why.

“The English baron?” His haggard eyes were suddenly bright with anticipation. “And he’s with the Sea Beggars?”

It was hard to hide the depth of her feelings for Adam. “That’s what Alba told me. And I believe it.”

“Good.
Very
good. We’ll join them.”

After that, Claes’s fever seemed to drag him under again. He fought it—Fenella
saw
him fighting to stay lucid, stay strong in spirit—but his body was so weak.

Now, half-dragging him along the dock, she prayed that they weren’t too late.

She chose a skiff small enough to sail single-handed. Claes was in no condition to help. The skiff was a grimy, slapped-together thing, its gunwales splintered, more a cracked cockleshell than a boat. She lugged Claes aboard, breathing hard at the weight of him, thin though he was. She settled him on a mat of rope in the stern, and he gave her a faint smile of relief that squeezed her heart. Poor Claes, what hell he had been through.

The cramped craft stank of fish, and its rigging was frayed, and as she raised the sail she saw that the canvas was patched. Her fatigued muscles were trembling as she took the helm. After the torments of the dungeon she hoped she still had the strength to sail. Blessedly, the breeze was on her starboard beam, pushing her away from the dock, and the bright moonlight now became her friend, illuminating the moored ships that she had to navigate around to get to the harbor mouth. Once clear of them she hardened the sheet and the wind caught the sail, and the skiff ghosted swiftly out of the harbor. Fenella took her first deep breath, relishing the fresh sea breeze. Freedom might not last long, but for this moment it tasted sweet.

The passage down the estuary and out to the scattered islands took six grueling hours. Claes spent it in restless half sleep. Fenella was bleary-eyed from
no
sleep and tense with worry. Had Adam already been discovered and dragged to prison? Dawn was a smudge of pearly light on the horizon when she spotted the whitish swirl of water over a rock shoal that told her she was near the cove. She stayed well clear of the shoal and scanned the aspen-thick shoreline, looking for the tall dead birch tree that marked the narrow opening to the scythe-shaped cove. Birds awaking in the trees chorused a liquid warble.

There it was, the dead birch! “Claes, wake up! We’re here.” He struggled to sit up and watched as Fenella tacked the skiff and steered into the narrow opening. The wind lightened in the lee of the trees. The sail flogged, and the drop in power made steering difficult. The passage into the cove curled like a nautilus, and as Fenella rounded the last of the curve she saw two ships lying at anchor.
Adam!

But no . . . her heart plunged. Neither vessel was the
Elizabeth
. Who were these interlopers?

Horror surged through her. Spaniards? Had they taken Adam away?

Fool! I’ve sailed right into the arms of the enemy!
Terrified, she scrambled to tack the skiff, desperate to sail out again before they saw her and Claes. Too late! A crewman on the near ship shouted of her approach. She was still straining to bring the bow around in the light wind when she heard Claes say weakly in surprise, “It’s Verhulst!”

Fenella whipped around and followed his gaze to the crewman on the ship’s foredeck. She stared in amazement. Berck Verhulst? How was it possible? But there was no mistaking Berck’s huge bulk and black beard. A memory flashed of him buying rope in her Polder chandlery, he and Claes discussing rigging. Now Berck stood pointing at her, and crew were coming to the rail to see. Fenella took another look at the ship, a caravel. Her terror of Spaniards had blinded her before. The caravel was startlingly familiar. The
Gotland
. . . from Sark!
She’s mine!

“Fenella!” Berck called. “Ahoy!”

The men at the rail moved aside and suddenly Adam was there. Stunned, Fenella could make no sense of any of it, but the sight of Adam was all she needed. “Ahoy!” she cried. She tacked back and in a moment brought the skiff alongside the
Gotland
. As she tied her bowline to the ship’s chain plate the crew tumbled a rope ladder over the side for her. She went to Claes to help him to his feet.

“Friends?” he said, struggling to get up. “Verhulst . . .”

“Yes, friends.” She helped Claes get a foothold on the ladder. He climbed, shaky but determined, and she kept a steadying hand on him as long as possible, then climbed up after him. On deck Berck had hold of him by the shoulders and gaped at him in amazement. “Claes, my friend! Back from the dead, as I live and breathe! And Fenella! What the devil are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you!” she said.

Claes blinked, looking around him. “Are we with the Sea Beggars?”

“You are, my friend.” Berck pointed across the deck to the other ship where crewmen, gathered at the rail, had made way for their captain, a gaudily dressed man with a baby face but fierce eyes. “That’s Captain La Marck!” Berck said, and pulled Claes into an embrace.

“Fenella . . .” Adam was gazing at her in wonder.

Shaken, she was hardly able to steady her voice. “I see you went to Sark.”

“And found they’d burned the
Elizabeth
.”

She gasped.
His ship!
“So you took the
Gotland
.”

“If I’d known where you were I—”

“No, it’s all right. You joined the Beggars.”

“To kill Spaniards.” He seemed about to say more but stopped as though questions crammed his throat. He looked at Claes, at his bandaged head, his neck and shirt stained with dried blood. “Who’s this?”

Claes struggled to stand tall. “The name is Doorn.”

Fenella held her breath. But Adam did not seem to make the connection. Naturally—he believed her husband was dead. And Doorn was a common Dutch name. “I’m Thornleigh,” he said.

“I know,” Claes managed, and added with clear admiration, “and I know of your work, my lord, in the cause of our country’s freedom.”

The two men regarded each other with open curiosity.

“There’s no time to talk,” Fenella blurted to Adam. “You’re in danger. The Duke of Alba has sent men to capture you.”

A murmur of alarm rose among his men, and she wished she had taken him aside to quietly give him the news. But it was hard to think clearly, standing between him and Claes, their eyes boring into her.

“Thornleigh!” La Marck called from the other ship. “What’s going on?”

Adam had not taken his eyes off Fenella, and he said in bewilderment, “Alba knows we’re here?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She dreaded explaining. And there was no time! “I’ll tell you everything, but right now you must believe me. We’ve come from Brussels to warn you. His men are on their way. You must go. Now!”

Adam looked at her for a long moment as though judging her words. Then he turned and gave the order to his mate to weigh anchor. The mate called out the order, and Adam crossed the deck to tell Captain La Marck. They had to raise their voices, ship to ship, and Fenella heard La Marck say, incredulous, “Leave? Before we’ve even got ashore? Are you sure the woman knows what she’s talking about?” Adam replied that he trusted her word and would trust her with his life.

“And ours,” La Marck growled, glaring at her. But he, too, ordered his men to weigh anchor. “Bah,” he grumbled, “what a pointless landfall this was.”

Adam came back to Fenella. His face was grave. “Surely it’s not safe for you to go ashore.”

“No. We’re coming with you.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice. Though I’m sorry to put you in danger.”

“Nothing like the danger we’ve just escaped.”

He looked from her to Claes as though burning with questions, but there were a hundred eyes on them and he had a ship to get under way. “Move!” he told his men.

Crewmen jogged to stations. Two turned the handles of the big windlass, hauling in the anchor cable. Others climbed aloft, readying to loose the sails. Fenella stood with Claes, who held on to the rail for support. She knew he was trying to appear strong, but she saw the strain in his face.

Adam said to Berck, “Take our guests below.” He indicated Claes’s bandage. “Have Westwood see to this man’s injury.”

“Aye, my lord.” Berck slung his arm around Claes to support him.

Adam started for the quarterdeck. “And give the lady my cabin.”

“Then your berth will do for both, my lord. They’re together.”

Adam stopped. Fenella did not breathe. Berck was leading Claes away. Adam turned back to Fenella, pinning her with his eyes. The anchor cable, slowly coming up, creaked and groaned as it wound on the windlass. Adam said, “It seems Verhulst knows more about you than I do, you and your friend.” He gave a hollow laugh. “And to think I waited for you.”

“Please, I can explain—”

“No need. I understand now why you sent that note. Obviously he’s the friend you prefer.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I think I do.” He started for the stairs to the quarterdeck.

“Adam, stop. Claes Doorn is my husband.”

Adam turned. He stared at her. “Doorn . . .” He said it like a man awaking.

“And he was my husband when you first came to Sark.”

“But, you said . . .” He looked at Claes being led toward the companionway to the lower deck. His eyes flashed back to Fenella. “You told me . . . he was dead.”

A loud
crack!
A scream. They both whipped around. A man tumbled from the mainmast and thudded on the deck, blood spurting from his neck. Another
crack!
Gunshots! Fenella looked ashore. Men were swarming onto the beach from the trees. Men with harquebusses. Men on horseback. Spaniards!

Adam ran up the steps to the quarterdeck shouting commands. “Hand gunners to starboard quarter! Master Curry, make sail!” Adam’s mate bawled the orders across the deck.

In the storm of action that followed, Fenella lurched out of the way of running crewmen. A shot from shore hit one of the men turning the windlass, throwing him backward, clawing at his shoulder.

“Cut the cable!” Adam ordered. “Hand gunners, fire at will!”

He shouted more commands and his mate bawled them up to the men aloft, who scampered to loosen the sails, monkey quick in the rigging. On La Marck’s ship men had been hit, too, and the crew had burst into action. All around Fenella was a din of barked orders and thudding feet and gunshots from shore and from the ships. Men with axes ran to the anchor cable to cut it. One cut loose the skiff Fenella had come in. She looked around for Claes. Men were pouring out from the companionway, but she could not see Claes or Berck. Had they made it below before the shooting started?

“Fenella, get below!” Adam shouted.

A man hauling a mainsail line beside her jerked like a puppet and dropped to his knees, blood blooming on his shirt at his collarbone. The line ran slack, like a panicked snake twisting in the air. She snatched it. The rope burned her palms, but she tightened her grip and got the line under control. She hauled, coughing from the acrid smell of gunpowder all around her. A man was suddenly beside her, grabbing the rope, taking over. “I’ve got it!” he said. Fenella stepped away.