The King's Daughter (40 page)

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Right here.”

He shrugged as though to say he wasn’t responsible for the lunacy of a paying customer. He set the keg on the edge of the wagon floor and jerked out the bung, letting the frothy contents gush onto the cobbles.

The moment Isabel thrust her hands into the stream of ale, Carlos was in doubt no longer. He plunged his hands in beside hers. They stood side by side, letting the cold foam wash away the charnel-house horrors.

Isabel felt a bubble of happiness rise inside her. She felt almost giddy—from joy at not finding her father’s corpse, from the icy zing of the ale, from the whole macabre search she and Carlos had just been through. She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “The caretaker,” she said. “He thought you were one of his charges rising from the dead.” Her laughter burst out. “He thought you were a ghost!”

Carlos grinned. He threw back his head and laughed with her.

The apprentice shook his head at the folly taking place before him. As they went on laughing, he hefted out a fresh keg and carried it to the tavern where sane people congregated.

Isabel dried her hands on her skirt, then wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. She beamed at Carlos. “We did it. We searched every inch of that charnel house and he wasn’t there. He’s escaped.”

He nodded. “I think so.”

They stood smiling at each other, warmed by their success.

Isabel felt a shadow fall over her face as a horseman rode by. Her smile faded. “The question now is, where has he gone?”

“Home?”

“To Colchester?” She shook her head. “There’s no one left. Even if he wanted to, he has no horse, no money. He obviously lost the money he had, because he was thrown in with Newgate’s beggars. And he’s sick, too. Very sick, if the girl was right about his delirious talk. How long can he last, out on his own in such a state, in this cold?”

“He has friends?”

She brightened. “Yes, of course! He’d go to a friend’s house. He’d have to!”

Horsemen clattered into the crowd up the street. Carlos glanced in that direction.

Isabel watched him. She thought of how doggedly he had done what was required in the charnel house, how he’d manhandled the bodies, the tainted flesh that he loathed and feared. Just for his payment? she wondered. Surely more than that. He knew how little money she had left;
she
knew how paltry was the reward she had promised him. Was it for her, then? She forced away the dangerously exciting remembrance of last night in her moonlit room. That had been a frenzied half dream, a moment of delirium to be obliterated from her memory—never,
never
to be thought of again. But this was something else; he’d done things for her that could not be ignored.

“Carlos,” she said. He turned back to her. “You’ve done so much. Saved my life in the Fleet. Stuck by my side. And you thought of this, too—my father feigning death to escape. Back in Newgate, when the girl said she saw him taken out, I was ready to give up.”

“Not you,” he said quietly. His mouth curved into his crooked smile. “In a siege, I would hate to find you fighting on the other side.”

At this absurd image of her in combat against him, she had to grin. She looked up into his eyes, knowing her gratitude shone on her face. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For all you have done.”

He took her face between his hands tentatively, gently. She was ashamed at her body’s instant response to his touch—her breath quickening, her knees softening. He seemed to be studying her. “What is it?” she managed to say.

“You …” He spoke as if it were something he’d been waiting for, hoping for. “You are smiling.”

She knew she should pull away. But his touch was so light, a caress. Not mastery, she thought, but sheer tenderness. It seemed to startle him as much as her, for he stared at her with a look of wonder.

The blast of a trumpet made them both turn. It had come from the knot of horsemen up the street. They had stopped beside the Great Cross and the crowd had thickened around them. Four of the horsemen, three dressed in rich fur-trimmed velvets, were mounting the steps of the Cross. Isabel recognized one: the Lord Mayor, Thomas White.

The Mayor held up his hands for silence from the milling crowd. He quickly introduced the men beside him: Lord William Howard, Sheriff Hewett, and the common crier. White beckoned the crier, who came forward, took a broad stance, and began to declare a proclamation.

Isabel could not hear all of it. The commotion of chattering people and whinnying horses drowned out half the crier’s words at this distance. But she caught the gist of it, a denunciation as traitors of all those who gave Wyatt succor. The crowd hushed and she clearly heard the last of the proclamation. “… and any man who delivers up to Her Majesty the traitorous Wyatt, his body living or dead, shall receive from the Queen’s Majesty a gift of lands carrying an income of one hundred pounds per year, to be the property of him and his heirs forever!”

Isabel felt suddenly cold. She saw that Carlos was listening intently.

The crowd erupted in questions and babble. Three merchants passed Isabel deep in a harangue. “Not a hope!” one said. “Lord Howard has the guns to defend the Queen.”

“But Wyatt has the soldiers!” one of his companions insisted.

“Guns, soldiers, bah!” the third put in. “The point is where will
Londoners
stand? Whither goes their allegiance, eh? That’s what everything hinges on. And all of us with property in the city must consider …” His voice trailed as the trio pushed on.

But Isabel had heard enough. The proclamation had jolted her like the trumpet blast, blaring her duty to Wyatt and to Martin. Carlos’s jest of a moment ago about fighting one another in a siege suddenly soured. She had already pulled away from him. “Well,” she said, “we’re on opposite sides already, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

“If you’re going to sell yourself to the Queen, we are.”

His face darkened. “It is because your man has gone with the rebels, yes?”

She was taken aback. How did he know this about Martin? She had taken great care to give no hint of Martin’s whereabouts.

As though in answer, Carlos muttered, “Not hard to figure out.”

They stood in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes.
There is no time for this,
Isabel thought. She must act. Wyatt was waiting for her. Martin was waiting for her. Yet how could she leave her father stumbling penniless and ill through London, his life still endangered by the Grenvilles’ vendetta? Once again, her warring loyalties tore at her.

“Back to the Anchor, then track your father,” Carlos said suddenly, as though deciding for her.

“Why the Anchor? So you can join the Queen’s troop there?”

“To get your horse.” He added steadily, “Yes, I will join the Queen’s soldiers. But I will finish the job with you first. Come. If we hurry, maybe we will find your father by nightfall.”

Isabel knew immediately that this was the right course. If she could quickly get her father on board a ship to safety, she could then hurry back to do her duty for the cause. The way was suddenly clear.

Far more murky was her tangle of emotions—gratitude and trepidation—knowing that Carlos would stay by her side.

* * *

Newgate’s jailer, Andrew Alexander, was pouring wine for his honored guest, the Sergeant of the Guard from Whitehall Palace, when the caretaker of the charnel house bustled in, out of breath.

“I’ve found your sixteenth man,” the caretaker wheezed.

Alexander looked up, vexed. “What’s that?” He hated interruptions in the midday meal, especially when he was entertaining so important a guest. The sergeant had agreed to stay only for a goblet of wine, but Alexander intended to keep him long enough to ask for a post for his son at the palace armory. This blockhead from the boneyard had no understanding of where and when to make his pestering reports.

The caretaker stood noisily catching his breath. “I sent you a complaint this morning about being delivered just fifteen of your dead when the tally was for sixteen. Well, I’ve found the sixteenth.”

“Then go bury him, man. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Bury a corpse that’s walked away, Master Alexander? You tell me how I can bury a body that’s toddled off, and I’ll bury your family for free.”

“How’s that?” the Sergeant of the Guard asked, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Walked away? What dead man? Who?”

The caretaker bowed to the sergeant, resplendent in his armor breastplate. “His name is Thornleigh, Your Worship. Richard Thornleigh.”

The sergeant’s mouth fell open. He glared at the jailer. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Alexander felt his son’s hopes for preferment dwindle away like piss down a drain. He had just finished explaining to the sergeant that Thornleigh had died of jail fever and was carted out just before the sergeant arrived to transfer him to the Tower. “Now, now, let’s not lose our heads, sir,” he said, then turned to the caretaker and demanded, “What is this nonsense, man? Corpses don’t walk.”

“This one did.”

“You
saw
it?”

“As good as. I was scratching my head over the puzzle of how I only got fifteen when I was supposed to get sixteen, when this young lady comes in looking for her father’s body, just deceased. Lost, it seems he is. In fact, she says, she never actually
saw
his body. She says his name is Richard Thornleigh, and curse me if that isn’t one of the names on my tally. So then I know my sixteenth has scarpered. Skedaddled. I have the answer to my puzzle, and you, Master Jailer, have an escapee.”

The sergeant bounded up from his chair. “Good God, Alexander, Thornleigh is a traitor wanted by the Queen!” He turned to the caretaker. “Is she still at the charnel house? The daughter?”

“Oh, no, Your Worship. I shooed her out so’s I could come here.”

“Damn, she might have led us to the traitor.” Adjusting his sword, the sergeant started out, telling the caretaker, “You, come with me back to St. Paul’s. Maybe someone saw her, which way she went.” At the door he looked back at Alexander. “And you, Jailer, had better unleash your dogs and organize a search party. Find Thornleigh, if you value your neck!”

24
Betraye

I
sabel made her way through the Anchor’s crowded common room toward the stairs. Most of the encamped soldiers were out at this noon hour. When she and Carlos had left for Newgate the rank and file had gone under the direction of Lieutenant Andrews to drill in Finsbury Fields, preparing for the rebels. Now, in their place, the innkeeper’s gaming cronies had taken over the room to watch a cock fight. Isabel could hear the birds’ frantic crowing above the men’s loud haggling. As for soldiers, only a handful of officers were left, sitting at a far table over cold meat and ale, including the captain, whose ginger beard could not hide his badly pocked skin. He had an air of brutish authority about him. She also noticed three men standing apart from all the activity, apparently with no connection to either the gamesters or the soldiers—dull-eyed, rough-faced men, one completely bald. They made Isabel shiver. She’d seen enough faces like that in prisons lately.

Nevertheless, she started up the stairs feeling buoyant at the thought that she would soon find her father at some friend’s house—the Legges or the Hayeses, or maybe the McLeans, or some business associate of her father—and the knot of her problems would finally unravel. Carlos was already in the stable saddling the mare. She felt that
this
search would yield quick success.

As she opened the door of her room she was surprised to see a man in rich apparel standing at the window with his back to her. He turned at the sound of the door. But even before he faced her Isabel recognized him from the red hair smoothly combed below his jewel-studded hat. It was the man who had spoken to her by the graveyard at home six days ago—the day Lady Grenville had spat at her. A warning prickled her skin.

“Mistress Thornleigh,” he said in a low tone of sympathy, moving toward her with outstretched hands. “I have just learned of your father’s tragic death. Please, accept my profound condolences.”

Isabel stood stiffly, wondering how he had heard—and determined to give no hint that she was sure her father was alive.

“Of course, you do not remember me. Edward Sydenham. We met at—”

“I remember you, sir. You are a Grenville. Have you come to plague me now that the Grenvilles can no longer plague my father?”

“You are bitter, mistress,” he said softly. “And with good cause, I warrant. But I entreat you, see me for what I am. Though I will soon have the privilege of making Frances Grenville my wife, my name is my own, as is my honor.”

“Forgive me,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I do recall that you spoke kindly to me when we met.” What could this man possibly want with her? And how could she get rid of him? She wanted only to collect her small remnant of moneyand then be off with Carlos. “How can I help you, sir? I confess I am in some haste.”

He smiled gently. “It is I who hope to help you. And thereby, help myself. Will you allow me to explain?” He motioned to a chair.

She resisted the suggestion.

“Please,” he said. “It will take but a moment.”

She saw that she must listen before he would go. She sat down. He closed the door on the noisy cock fight below, then came to her.

“I have been following the troubles of your unfortunate father,” he said, “first in Colchester jail and then in Newgate prison. It has been my desire to alleviate his plight in whatever way I could. Now, sadly, that chance has been forever removed.” He paused. “By the look in your eyes I see that you wonder why I come to you now, when your father has passed on.”

She said nothing.

“And, of course, you must wonder why I have concerned myself in this business at all.” He looked at her in deadly earnest. “I want to end the evil that hatred has wrought. Mistress, I have traveled a good deal in the German lands. I have seen the extraordinary suffering there—the wars, the civil strife, the hatred that poisons the very air between families who once lived contentedly as neighbors. And all this over religion. Catholics slaughtering Protestants. Protestants butchering Catholics. Now, I fear that the same unspeakable turmoil lies in store for England. I wish with all my heart that I could somehow stop it before it begins.”