The King's Daughter (36 page)

“She is,” Andrews replied. “It took Her Majesty a few days to rally. After all, rather shocking news for a monarch, isn’t it?—rebellion just before her wedding. But we’ll trounce these upstarts. No fear of that.”

“Who is your captain?”

“Ross. A Lancashire man. Over there.” Andrews nodded toward a squat but burly man parsimoniously doling out coins to the landlady for the billet. His scuffed leather brigandine was so worn that the iron plates sewn onto its canvas lining made impressions right through to the leather surface. His face was red and badly pocked above a thick, ginger beard. Carlos did not know him. Andrews leaned toward Carlos and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Bit of an oaf, Ross is, but a bulldog on the field. He’ll do.”

Carlos looked around at the familiar signs of martial encampment. The soldiers’ bows and pikes and bedrolls were being strewn around the common room as the company settled down. The inn’s odors of stale ale and musty floor rushes were overpowered by those of horses and leather, and the biteof metallic smells—swords and harness and armor. The idea that had glinted in Carlos’s mind began to glow like a polished breastplate in the sun. He felt freedom beckoning—the freedom of action. No more of this skulking around, of hiding and sneaking and lying. No more waiting to kill or be captured. The new idea warmed him like a delivery from the gallows, like a pardon.

He had tested the notion on Andrews, who’d thought it a fine idea. Carlos had relaxed for the first time in weeks, and the evening at the Anchor had stretched out, mellowed by ale, easygoing gambling, and comradeship.

Now, at the card table, Andrews counted out the coins he owed Carlos and grumbled good-naturedly to the chambermaid, “Aye, lass, it’s the Spaniard’s night, to be sure.”

Carlos raked in his winnings and laughed. It felt good to laugh again, too. The maid whipped out her kerchief for him to dump the money into.

Andrews, shoving the last of his debt across the table, glanced at his superior. “Well, Captain?”

Captain Ross had lost heavily in the game and sat hunched over the meager remainder of his coins, staring sullenly at Carlos. He said nothing, and made no move to hand over the money he owed.

Andrews laughed lightly at his own loss. “Valverde, once we’ve put this trouble down so the Prince of the Spaniards can have
his
night—with the Queen, that is—I’ll try you for some of that back.”

“Anytime,” Carlos said, scooping coins into the maid’s kerchief. She rushed around and settled on his knee to finish the task of collecting. He let her.

“Another game?” Andrews suggested, drawing out another small purse from his doublet.

Carlos smiled. “Why not.”

“Captain?” Andrews asked. “Are you in?”

Captain Ross’s eyes, fixed on Carlos, flicked to the chambermaid who was helpfully testing one of the coins between her teeth. Carlos caught the glimmer of longing in Ross’s eyes. He had noticed Ross stealing looks at the girl all evening, his pocked face growing darker whenever she smiled at Carlos or touched him. He’d also noticed the fine Damascene blade of Ross’s sword, and the way his hand fidgeted on its hilt every time the girl snuggled closer. That combination of honed weapon and honed resentment, Carlos knew, could lead to something he’d rather avoid. Besides, for his plan to work, he needed the captain’s friendship.

“Different stakes, Captain?” he asked suddenly. “You wager a crown, I will wager the girl.”

The captain blinked, startled.

The chambermaid’s mouth fell open. She stared at Carlos. “What’s that?” she cried. She jumped up off his lap, her face flushed with fury. “Bastard!” Her hand flew out and smacked his cheek.

Carlos bounded up from his chair. His hand grappled the girl’s throat. She staggered back a step, choking.

Ross leapt up, his sword scraping from its scabbard. “Let her go!” he yelled.

Carlos blinked at the captain’s bright blade and allowed worry to crease his face. All the soldiers in the room were watching now. Ross glowered at Carlos, his sword raised, his lip curled back, breaths snorting from his nose.

Carlos let go of the girl’s neck. For a moment his hand hovered over his own sword hilt. Then, abruptly, he dropped to his knees in front of the captain and threw his arms wide in a gesture of total surrender to Ross’s superior prowess.

The maid rushed over to Ross, clutching her reddened throat, gasping in relief. She threw her arms around Ross’s neck and looked at Carlos with furious contempt. “Who do you think you are, Master High-and-Mighty Spaniard, offering to trade me like some filly at the fair! I’ll be friends with who I want, so I will!” She glared around the room at the men who had sat there while she’d been almost murdered, then gazed back at Ross, her rescuer. She hooked her arm in his and nestled close. “Captain, you’re the nearest thing to a gentleman among this sorry lot.”

Ross reddened with pleasure. He looked down at Carlos. Carlos returned the look with a small smile.

Ross frowned at him as if unsure of what he’d just seen. But Carlos saw a surprised gleam of thanks steal into the man’s eyes. Ross understood that Carlos had just delivered the maid to him. “Get up, Spaniard,” he said gruffly. “Let’s play. Same stakes as before, three shillings.” They sat, and the maid stood close behind Ross, still sniffing in wounded indignation.

Music fluted through the room as a young soldier at one of the tables began tweedling a tune on his wooden pipe. Another man jumped up and danced an energetic jig. Others slapped the table in time. They laughed as the children’s terrier yapped at the dancer’s heels, making him cavort in increasingly wild antics.

“Valverde!” Andrews called above the noise. “Show us that Cossack caper. Like you did in Norwich.” He looked around at his mates. “A Tartar taught him this, watch. Go on, Valverde. Get up.”

Amid the calls of Andrews and the others, Carlos stood to oblige. He quaffed down the last of his ale with exaggerated gusto, as if needing it for fortitude, which brought a wave of laughter. He stepped out into the center of the room. The piper improvised an exotic, almost oriental tune reminiscent of snow-swept steppes. The soldiers gathered around Carlos. The landlord’s children peeped between the men’s legs to watch. Carlos held his arms straight out at his sides. He began with slow, controlled steps on the spot, alternately crouching and standing, and then, when in the crouch, his feet shot out in the straight-legged kicks of the Cossacks. The soldiers whooped in approval. Gradually the piper picked up the pace. Carlos’s steps matched it, his arms now folded over his chest. Soon, the music was as furious as galloping Mongols, and Carlos, locked in a crouch and grinning, kicked frenetically in time. The soldiers in the circle whistled and stomped and clapped. The ones still sitting banged their tankards on the tables in time with the wild rhythm. The children gaped and giggled.

The front door swung open. Isabel stepped in. Cold wind whistled into the room. The soldiers turned to her. Carlos stopped dancing.

“Iss-bel!” the landlord’s little girl cried, running to her. Isabel stared in astonishment at the crowd of soldiers. “Iss-bel, there’s dancing!” the child cried. She pulled Isabel forward into the circle and pushed her in front of Carlos. Many of the soldiers had kept on clapping despite the interruption, and when the piper saw the lady he maneuvered his tune into a genteel but lively galliard. The clapping picked up the new tempo, and the soldiers loudly egged on the couple to dance.

Carlos and Isabel stood awkwardly face to face. He did not know how to dance with a lady. And she looked almost too exhausted to stand.

She fixed him with an intense, private question in her eyes:
Did you find him?
Carlos shook his head:
No.
Her shoulders slumped. She turned away.

The clapping dwindled. The laughter and chatter quieted. The circle drifted apart. The soldiers went back to their tables, to eating and playing dice and calling the children to fetch more ale. Andrews, at the card table, cleaned his teeth with his own silver toothpick. Captain Ross picked up his tankard and followed the maid to a far corner where the two of them stood talking quietly.

Isabel sat on a fireside stool that a soldier had vacated for her, and unfastened her snow-dusted cloak. The little buck-toothed girl stuck by her side. She always did, Carlos had noted; followed Isabel like a puppy. He sat at the card table beside Isabel and watched her. Where had she been all day? What had she been doing?

“Lizzy, who are all these men?” Isabel quietly asked the child.

“Sojers. They’re going to live with us, Mama says. They’re upstairs, too. Even in the stable!”

Isabel looked around and murmured, “The Queen’s soldiers.”

“Mama made a
big
pot of stew,” the child said, throwing out her hands to indicate a cauldron twice her size. “Do you want some?”

Isabel smiled and nodded.

“I’ll
get it! Mama told me I must help serve tonight.” She added proudly, “Mama needs me.”

“I’m sure she does.”

Smiling, the child skipped off to the kitchen.

Isabel shivered and rubbed her hands before the fire, eyeing the soldiers anxiously. She met Carlos’s gaze. He looked down to scoop up the kerchief, bulging with coins, that he’d left on the table.

“I see your day has been a profitable one,” she said to him, and added with more weariness than rancor, “if not in the way I had hoped.”

Carlos said nothing. He tucked his winnings into his jerkin.

The child skipped back with a trencher of thick, steaming stew which Isabel accepted with thanks. She dug her spoon into the bowl, then glanced at Carlos. “I hope,” she said with a slight smile of scorn, “you will not be tempted to leave my employ now that such great wealth is yours.”

“He can’t do that, mistress,” Andrews said amiably across the table, turning in his chair to stretch out his legs. He politely introduced himself to her, then explained, “A mercenary doesn’t change sides in the middle of a campaign.”

“Really, sir?” she said. “I did not know that.” She looked at Carlos as if for corroboration of the statement. “What’s to stop them?”

“Would not be hired again,” Carlos confirmed.

“I see,” Isabel said between bites of stew. “Still,” she went on to the lieutenant, “his working for me can hardly be called a campaign.”

“Technically, it is. He is pledged to his employer until his commission is fulfilled.”

She frowned. “I see he has told you all about me, sir.”

“Not at all, dear lady,” Andrews said gallantly. “But since he is interested in joining our company, and since the job with you apparently will not last beyond—”

“Joining you?” she said in astonishment.

“Aye, to smash these poxy rebels.”

Isabel’s face hardened. She ate in stony silence. Carlos grabbed a fresh tankard of ale from the landlord’s boy going past. There was a burst of private laughter from a far table.

“Well,” the lieutenant said, stretching as he rose, “I’m done in.” He bowed to Isabel. “A pleasure, mistress. Let me know if any of my men here disturb you. ‘Night Valverde.” He glanced at Captain Ross, still talking in the corner with the chambermaid. Andrews smiled and went upstairs.

Tight-lipped, Isabel put down her trencher and came over to Carlos at the table where he now sat alone. The drone of the soldiers went on around them. She glared down at Carlos. “Is it true?” she asked in an angry whisper. “Are you joining the Queen’s forces?”

“When my job with you is done, yes.”

“That’s disgusting,” she said with a vehemence that surprised him.

“That is my work,” he said evenly.

“Your work today was to find my father! But you didn’t!”

“I looked,” he said roughly, though keeping his voice low. “The Marshalsea Prison and King’s Bench. It took all day. He was not in either of them. When I got to Newgate prison they were locking up for the night. They turned me away. But I will go back in the morning. Your father must be there. I will finish this.” He had thought it out. In the morning he would convince her that it was too dangerous for her to accompany him into Newgate, the dumping place for the most violent criminals. He would go alone, then come back and tell her that her father had died inside. It wouldn’t be much of a lie, since Thornleigh was bound to be hanged. And, despite her fantasies, there was no way anybody could get him out of Newgate. She would have to give up. She would haveto leave England and go to Antwerp, just as her father had told her to do. That was best.

And he could simply forget about Thornleigh.

“We
will go in the morning,” she corrected him, and added coldly, “There’s less chance of a card game luring you away if I’m along.”

He shrugged. He would deal with her in the morning.

But she did not leave his side. She fixed him with burning eyes. “Why will you join the tyrant’s side?”

“What?”

“Why not help the liberators?”

“Because they will lose.” He drank his ale.

She stared at him openmouthed. “How can you know that?”

“They have no experience as an army. No stronghold in the country. No war chest to hire outside troops. No backup from other powers.” He caught in her eye a glimmer of defiance at the last statement.

“Those things can be overcome if they have the will. All of England will join them if they have the will. And they
have,
because they’re in the right. They are protecting England from the onslaught of Spain, from the terrors of the Inquisition. My God, you must have seen how they torture and burn people there.”

“I have not been in Spain since I was a boy.”

“Well, it’s barbaric. And the rebels here have risen up to prevent such appalling injustices from coming here. How can you fight for injustice?”

Carlos almost smiled. She was so green. “Injustice does not end, whoever wins. Soldiers on both sides will pay with their blood, and people like you will live to see that nothing changes.”

She lifted her head high. “Thank you for the military lesson, sir. Obviously, you may fight for whomever you wish. I cannot stop you. Now, if you will excuse me, it has been a tiring day and I’m going to bed. I ask only that before you rush off to help the Queen, you remember your duty in the morning. As the lieutenant pointed out, you are pledged to me.” She turned to go.