The Traitor's Daughter (15 page)

Burghley grunted. “Small fry, really. Oxford scholars, minor nobles, priests. As for the Dutch and Spanish names, they're mostly merchants and shopkeepers.”

Hatton pointed out like a warning, “Two of the priests are Jesuits.” His hatred of priests was well-known.

“And we already keep a watch on them,” Burghley assured him sternly. “All right, let's get started.” He turned to the two clerks. “Henshaw, have them bring in Master Thornleigh.”

Adam felt them all glance at him. He kept a stony face. Inside he was awash with dread.

As the clerk hurried out, Sadler addressed Adam. “My lord, may I suggest that you leave the questioning to us?”

“Might be best,” Burghley agreed. “Keep it impersonal.”

Adam had expected no other procedure. “Of course.”

The others looked relieved. Waiting, they shuffled papers. Sweat prickled Adam's back. The windowless room was stuffy, hot.
Or is it just me?
His mouth was as dry as sailcloth.

Two guards brought Robert in. Warring sensations swept through Adam. First, astonishment at the man his son had grown to be. Wiry. Angular. Quick of movement. Hazel, alert eyes.
So like Frances.
Second, relief at seeing he had not been mistreated in detention. Then, pity at Robert's obvious fear . . . but then another surge of dread.
Men do not fear if they are innocent.

Seeing his father, Robert's astonishment was plain. He opened his mouth to speak, and Adam was sure the word his lips began to form was “Father,” but Robert choked it back, made no sound.

Burghley cleared his throat. “Let us begin.” He launched into the formalities. Asked Robert to state his name, present abode, occupation, the date he had arrived in England, and at which port. Robert swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was tight but clear. Adam listened to the answers, his thoughts in turmoil. Burghley then asked Robert to explain his connection with four individuals he had listed.

Robert's voice took on an edge of fear. “They are friends of my mother, my lord.”

The councillors looked unsurprised. They knew Robert had been brought up by his mother. Adam felt the presence of Frances hovering.

Sadler and Mildmay and Hatton each took a turn with the list, questioning Robert about names. His answers were short and brittle. Adam realized that his son's fear was that of anyone called to testify before men who had the power to cast him into prison or even order his death. It was not necessarily the fear of the guilty. It gave him an overpowering relief.

“And your mother,” Burghley went on. “Where is she now?”

“The last I heard, my lord, she lives in Brussels still. I have not seen her in six years, though, so I cannot be sure.”

“Yes, you spent five years studying at the University of Padua,” Burghley said, scanning a paper. “You did not see her in all that time?”

“No, my lord.”

“Nor hear from her?”

“She wrote to me. I answered. I owed her that much because she arranged my education. But since I came home I have not heard from her.”

Home.
Adam felt a catch in his chest.

“Nor written to her?” Mildmay probed.

“No, sir.”

Burghley asked, “What is the source of your mother's revenue?”

Robert seemed perplexed. “Revenue, my lord? She has none.”

“Come, come,” Sadler said testily. “Does she not receive a pension from the pope? Or from Philip of Spain?”

Adam waited with excruciating curiosity. The pope and Philip paid handsome pensions to many of the English exiles, a reward for their loyalty to the Catholic church, and, Adam had no doubt, an inducement to act against England should the opportunity arise.

“No, my lord,” Robert said. “She is poor. But her friend the Duchess of Feria has been generous to her. Her generosity extended to my education.”

Sadler asked darkly, “And does your mother join the generous duchess in fomenting hatred of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth?”

Robert looked pained. Adam held his breath. Sadler's words had been more snarl than question.

“My lords, I humbly submit to you that my mother is not the antagonist you seem to imagine.” His voice turned bitter. “Of course, I am profoundly ashamed of her past crime. I lived with her for only four years, when I was a child, and as soon as I could leave for Padua, I did. But her crime is in the past. Now, she is merely a deluded old woman. She thinks she has the ear of men who serve King Philip's governor in Brussels, but in reality she has no influence, not even with the English exiles who grumble about Her Majesty. They do not listen to her. They find her pathetic. Many of the people she talks about do not even know her.”

“The exiles,” Burghley said, “tell us about them. What do you know about Sir Francis Englefield?”

“Nothing, my lord. I do not know who that gentleman is.”

“Sir William Stanley?”

“I do not know him, either, my lord.”

“Were you ever in the company of Lord Paget?”

“No.”

“You do not know him?”

“I know of him. I never met him.”

Hatton jumped in. “What about Father Joseph Creswell?”

“I know him by name only, sir. I have heard that he is a priest who begs for meetings at the court of King Philip.”

Burghley resumed his attack. “How do you know Thomas Morgan?”

“How?” Robert looked taken aback. The knot in Adam's stomach twisted again. Morgan, who lived in Paris, was the chief gatherer of secret intelligence for Mary Stuart. “I am sorry, my lord, but I do not know this gentleman,” Robert said. “Neither in person nor by name. Does he live in Brussels?”

They banged on, name after name. Jasper Heywood. William Crichton. Claudio Acquaviva, the Father General of the Jesuits. Robert assured them he knew none of these men.

Mildmay took over. “Were you ever in the company of the Earl of Westmorland?”

“The earl, my lord?” Robert looked amazed. “Goodness, my mother and I did not move in such high circles.”

“And since you've come to England, have you been in contact with Anthony Brown?”

“No. I do not know the gentleman.”

“Lord Montague of Cowdray?”

“No.”

“The Earl of Arundel?”

“No.” At this badgering, Robert looked distraught, as though struggling to dam up unmanly tears. “Good my lords, I know none of these men. I assume you consider them somehow dangerous to the security of Her Majesty and her realm, but I swear to you I neither know them nor know of them.”

Adam caught the glint of tears in his son's eyes and a memory leapt: the fire in Brussels when he'd tried to get Robert away with Kate, but failed. He'd seen the boy crying, seen Frances and her henchman take him. The young, tear-stained face had haunted Adam all these years. Now, though duty demanded his skepticism, he longed to believe what Robert was claiming. He struggled to stay impartial.

The other councillors exchanged glances, a silent consultation over whether they had any more questions. “The witness?” Mildmay suggested quietly to Burghley.

Burghley nodded and motioned to the clerk.

A florid, well-dressed man was ushered in. Asked to state his name and occupation he gave clear replies, though tinged with nervousness. Gilbert Levett, merchant of Lewes in Sussex. He threw an anxious glance at Robert, who'd been told to stand to one side. Burghley asked him to explain how Robert came to live with him.

“Ten months ago I received a letter from my colleague John Hamilton in Padua, my lord. He said his son's friend, a young doctor, was coming to England and could I take him in. So when young Master Parry—”

“Thornleigh,” Mildmay corrected him.

“Aye, Master Thornleigh, as I've now been told. When he arrived my wife and I gave him room and board as he set up to dispense his physic. He did not speak of his family beyond saying his parents were dead. I did not probe.” As though afraid of censure for having been too trusting, he added defensively, “He's a well-behaved young fellow, my lord, well liked by all our neighbors. Always accompanies me and my family to church. He cured my daughter Judith of her asthma.”

“Really? How?”

“Discovered the cause was feathers.”

The councillors stared at him. “Feathers?” Sadler said.

“Aye, sir, turns out she can't be near them without losing her breath something terrible. We threw out all the feathers in the house and it has worked.” He beamed. “She's suffered no more attacks.”

The tale was oddly touching. Adam felt a tickle of admiration. And something akin to pride.
Clever Robert.

They asked Levett about his business, his colleagues in Europe, his religious practices. His testimony revealed an exemplary loyal Englishman: a successful trader and pillar of his community who prayed to God every Sunday to keep Her Majesty in health and God's grace.

He was excused. Mildmay questioned Robert about his patients. He answered fulsomely about agues and fluxes, treatments and physic, his previous anxiety seeming to dissolve in his obvious love for his subject. With every answer Adam's admiration rose. Hope swelled in him. Could Robert be exactly what he claimed to be?

But Burghley and the others were not finished.

“Why did you steal into England under a false name?”

“To protect my family, my lord—my father and my sister. I understand why you mistrust me. I, too, would mistrust a man who foreswore his name. But, my lords, I had good reason. The taint of my mother's treason hangs over me. I had no wish for it to taint my lord father and my sister, too. That is why I wanted to stay hidden.”

“Then why come to England at all?” Burghley demanded. “You have acquaintances and connections enough in Brussels and Padua. Why come here?”

The glint of tears sprang again in Robert's eyes. He took a deep breath to quell them. “I love England, my lord. It's as simple as that. No, ‘simple' is not the right word. The craving for one's homeland is a tangle of yearning and misery and hope. Can you understand what it is to wake up every day longing for the sights of England? Her wildflowers and brooks. Her good, plain fare. Her honest, sturdy people. I fear that one day soon the King of Spain may wage war against Her Majesty.” He held up his hands in a gesture of denial, adding, “No, my lords, I know no particulars. But I hear the talk in my patients' homes, and in church, and in alehouses, and the talk of Spain these days grows constant and fearful. If the terrible day comes when England is in danger, I want to be here, in the home of my birth, helping my fellow countrymen. I am no soldier, to be sure, but I am a good doctor. I want to be of use here, in my own land, not molder in the papist corruption of the Spanish-occupied Low Countries. And if England ever faces invasion I
will
turn soldier. I will fight for my country in her hour of need.” He halted, as though to collect himself after this outburst. Then, quietly, he added, “I daresay I've been a fool to think I could go on pretending, hiding. But if I've been a fool, my lords, it is no underhanded motive that drove me to come home. Only love of my country.”

Adam was so moved he found it hard to keep silent.
He's innocent!
He was so thrilled he could scarcely sit still.
Wait,
he told himself with difficulty.
Let Burghley and the others do their job.

Burghley cleared his throat.
He's moved, too,
Adam thought with a fierce jolt of hope.

“Tell me this, Master Thornleigh,” Burghley said very carefully. “Do you love your country enough to go back to Brussels and report to us?”

Robert blinked at him in astonishment. Adam felt equally surprised.

“Forgive me, my lord, but no. I am no spy.”

“Yet you call yourself a patriot.”

Robert looked tormented. “And so I am, my lord. But I will not inform on people with whom I have no quarrel. Some of them were good to me.” His eyes swept them all, entreating. “I beg you, good my lords, I am a poor physician. I want only to be left alone.”

“Lying in prison you would get your wish.”

“Then cast me into prison! For I cannot do what you ask.” He let out a shuddering breath. His shoulders heaved with the effort to hold back tears.

“Enough!” Adam said. He was on his feet. “Burghley, arrest him if you have evidence. If not, let him go.”

Robert's mouth fell open. The councillors blinked at Adam in dismay. “My lord,” Sadler said with quiet formality, “please take your seat.”

“No. I've heard enough, Sadler. We've all heard enough. We are all careful in Her Majesty's business, of course. But admit it, there is no evidence to suggest my son is anything but what he says. Good God, if we hound and persecute loyal Englishmen, who will be left to defend the realm?”

He strode around the table toward Robert. His angry bluster was all show, a shield to deflect his colleagues' displeasure at his disregard of proper procedure. Inside he was giddy with gladness. Coming face-to-face with Robert, he looked into his astonished eyes. The nearness of him rocked Adam so deeply, he felt suddenly in danger of weeping. He clapped a hand on Robert's shoulder and forced steadiness into his voice. “Welcome home, my boy.”

Robert shot an incredulous look at the councillors. “But . . . Lord Burghley . . . prison—”

“There will be no prison,” Adam assured him. “Ha! Unless you call my house a prison.” He laughed, too happy to care how paltry his jest sounded. On an impulse too strong to deny, he embraced his son. Robert stood unmoving in his arms as though too stunned to respond. Adam let him go, laughing again at their awkwardness with each other. But he kept a gentle hand on Robert's elbow, a signal that in his father Robert had a steadfast ally.