The King's Daughter (56 page)

And so did her mortification over Carlos. She knew she should despise him, but she’d felt something far different when he had exploded into Sydenham’s hall and their eyes had met. Something in her had leapt. Now, she shook her head violently to dispel his image. What degeneracy was it in her that made her body turn toward the man like some mindless green shoot toward the sun? How could such feelings exist in her for a man who was her enemy in every way? A man who murdered for money. A man who had crowed about her father’s whereabouts to a hall full of her father’s enemies?

And yet, something gnawed. Something was not right. She knew Carlos to be practical, never taking a risk unless it was his only chance, and then he would charge ahead without restraint. And although he had joined the Queen’s army, she knew he had no romantic zeal for their cause. Besides, he said he’d been granted a pardon by Lord Abergavenny, so he was once again secure. So what had he hoped to gain by his wild accusations this afternoon? Why would he risk arresting Sir Edward Sydenham in his own hall, amongst Sydenham’s powerful friends—and arresting Isabel too—on such a paltry pretext? He must have known he had no hope of taking Sydenham away, nor her. Why, then, had he tried? It was almost as though he’d blurted her father’s whereabouts and tried to haul her away in some fit of madness. Yet even as he’d dragged her into the passage, she had known he was in full command of himself, not deranged at all, as though, while he’d raged and created chaos, he had been bent on one thing only: getting her out. Why?

There was a soft knock at her door.

“Come in.”

Sydenham poked his head inside with an apologetic smile, then walked in. He was carrying a goblet. “Nothing can make up for the ordeal you suffered this afternoon at the hands of that barbarian,” he said, holding out the goblet like an offering, “but I hope some spiced wine may soften some of the hardest edges.”

Isabel stood and managed a smile. “You are all thought-fulness, sir.” She took the silver goblet. Its warmth made her realize how cold her hands were.

“I thought you might like some company,” Sydenham said. He gestured to a spot beside her in the window seat. “May I?”

“Oh, please,” she said. “My own thoughts are such a misery, anything will be better than—” She stopped, realizing the implied insult.

He smiled. “Well, if misery in this case does not exactly
love
company, toleration is quite acceptable.” He laughed lightly, but Isabel saw that his mirth was forced, and that he was far from relaxed. He made a motion inviting her to drink. “Do try it,” he said.

She sipped the warm wine. The taste, like the aroma, was exotically spicy.

“Do you like it?”

“Delicious.”

“An infusion of claret, nettles, white ginger, and cloves. Or so Frances tells me. She sent me a cask at Christmas. I’ve enjoyed it myself.” He added in an abstract way, “Frances is clever with such things, you know.”

He picked up her mother’s book and idly glanced at it, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He put the book aside. “Isabel,” he said. “I have come to apologize. Abjectly.” His voice was heavy with sadness. “I have failed. With your father.” He shook his head. “Extraordinary. Who would have thought he would go to the rebels? And, according to that appalling Spaniard, he actually means to march in the front rank.” He gave her a sudden, sharp look. “What do you make of such a statement?”

Isabel had no doubt. “I believe it to be true.”

He nodded gravely. “So do I.” Isabel thought she saw a tremor go through him.

“However,” he went on, “there may still be a way to save him. It is only a chance, mind you. A slight chance.”

“Yes?” She had already wondered how she might get to her father in Southwark, for she might be able to persuade him to leave Wyatt before the attack on London. After all, how much help could a one-eyed old man be to such an army? But she’d been unable to think of any way to reach him. London Bridge bristled with royalist soldiers, every boat, by royal order, was tied to the northern shore, andevery wharf was watched by sentries. The city was completely cut off from Southwark.

“The situation is bad, I grant you,” Sydenham said as though reading her thoughts. “However, a plan has occurred to me. It centers on the fact that the Earl of Pembroke is certain Wyatt will attempt an attack of London at Ludgate or Newgate.”

Isabel felt a prick of alarm that the royalists had so quickly deduced Wyatt’s strategy. Perhaps it was obvious, given his lack of alternatives. At least they did not know that he’d decided on Ludgate. In any case, it was her father’s fate that concerned her now. Was that wrong, she wondered, when Wyatt, and so many with him, were about to risk their lives? Once again, her warring loyalties battled inside her. But Wyatt surely had no more need of her. The French would arrive soon—any hour now, de Noailles had said—and Peckham, leading Wyatt’s London supporters, would throw open Ludgate to welcome Wyatt’s army. She was no longer necessary to the cause. But maybe she could still save her father.

She waited for Sydenham to tell her how. A coal on the brazier popped in a small shower of sparks. A dog down the street howled like a wolf.

“Accordingly,” Sydenham went on, “we will concentrate our forces at the western gates. John Grenville has received orders to post his archers inside, and they can quickly be moved to the gate Wyatt attacks. The archers will be positioned on the rooftops of the buildings immediately inside, and their mission will be to repel any rebels who make it through. I am no military man but even I can see that, given the narrow passages through the gates, such a placement of the archers offers an almost unassailable position of strength. And the Grenville archers are the finest in England. No rebel will get past their murderous hail of arrows.”

Isabel shivered, thinking of her father, of Wyatt, of all the good men with him.

“Now,” Sydenham said earnestly, “this is my suggestion. I shall persuade the Grenville archers to single out Richard Thornleigh and spare him. Though they fire on every other rebel who broaches the gate, Thornleigh shall walk through it unscathed.”

Isabel blinked. “Persuade?”

He gave a small smile. “I am a wealthy man. I can make it well worth their while. No one will know. The archers will be killing rebels, so who will notice that they are sparing one?” His smile evaporated. “This plan offers a small hope, mistress, that is all. In no way does it remove all jeopardy from your father. Pembroke’s troops will be stationed outside the gates, and I can do nothing about them. But should Wyatt broach a gate—which is only too likely—the archers can preserve Thornleigh. Then, if we can reach him, you can both row out to van Borselen’s ship, and sail out of the country.”

Isabel realized she’d been holding her breath. It came out in a rush of astonishment. “You would do all this for us?”

He took her hand. “We have come thus far together in our quest for reconciliation. I do not intend to shirk at the last moment. Do you?”

Isabel felt a shudder threaten at his hand’s cool touch, but she suppressed it. What business had she shying from him when he was offering her her father’s life! Impulsively, she took up his hand and held it to her cheek to prove her friendship. “Sir Edward, there are no words … how can I ever repay you!”

He looked at her strangely. “Repay?” he murmured as his gaze slid down to her breasts. “My dear, the war between our families has caused so much suffering. Peace is its own reward.”

She nodded. He touched her cheek. She did not shrink back, not from such a friend. “There is, however, one service I would request of you,” he said.

She flinched in spite of herself, so suggestive was the remark and the look in his eye. “Certainly,” she said steadily. “What can I do?”

“I must give the archers an exact description of your father, but I have never seen him. Would you furnish me with such a description?”

Isabel smiled as her schoolgirl fears of him dissolved. Hope for her father washed over her like a tide. “Take me to the archers,” she said eagerly. “I shall tell them myself!”

He smiled. “That will not be necessary.”

All the next day the city held its breath. Not for over a hundred years had a rebel army come so close to London. But Wyatt made no attack from Southwark. And the Tower cannon were silent, for the Queen’s council feared provoking the people of Southwark by firing on them.

London waited.

In Westminster, judges hearing cases wore armor beneath their robes. In Whitehall, the Queen received Mass from a priest wearing armor beneath his vestments. The soldiers of the Queen’s personal guard trooped into her private chambers in armor with their pikes and poleaxes, sending her ladies scurrying and whispering in fear. All London’s gates were shut and bolted, and the watch was doubled on every one. The city had become a fortress. The Queen’s court was like a garrison.

But still, Wyatt made no move.

32
The Broken Gun

W
yatt’s cannon boomed from the Southwark shore, sending frightened gulls screeching over the rooftops of London Bridge. The cannonball arced through the dawn drizzle and splashed into the humped, gray water of the Thames. The blast had only been an insolent salute to waken the Queen’s soldiers camped on the bridge. A departing sneer. Sir Thomas Wyatt could wait no longer. He was about to march his army out of Southwark and head westward to Kingston.

Thornleigh stood in the rain among Wyatt’s army at the foot of London Bridge where mules were harnessed to the big guns from the Queen’s ships. The few score horsemen steadied their mounts, but the great mass of the soldiers were on foot. They watched as Wyatt jumped down from his horse and strode to the bolted gatehouse entrance. In a theatrical gesture of defiance, Wyatt lifted his gauntleted fist to the timber doors and banged. He turned to his soldiers. “When we came to Southwark I knocked. Now, twice have I knocked and not been suffered to enter. Next time I knock at a London gate I will be let in, by God’s grace!”

His men cheered. Thornleigh stared in silence at the drizzle-shrouded city across the water. Sydenham was there. Sydenham, who’d goaded Grenville to shoot Honor and had now lured Isabel into his trust. One by one Sydenham was removing all who might divulge his past.

The artillery officer lit the cannon fuse again. It boomed a second salute. Wyatt mounted his horse and led out his cheering soldiers. At their backs, the rising sun struggled to lighten the pewter sky.

It was noon when Carlos cantered through the rain toward St. James’s field a mile west of London Wall.

All morning in Westminster he had paced, waiting for orders in a crowded corridor while the commanders and the council bickered over troop placement. Carlos had finally left. He had rubbed down his horse, eaten a cold meal of bread, cheese, and ale, honed his sword, then had come back and waited again in the corridor, growing ever more disgusted with the leaders’ delays and confusion. Finally, Abergavenny, stomping out of the meeting, had thrust a paper at him. “You’re posted to Courtenay, the Earl of Devon.”

“Where do I find him?”

“St. James’s field, mustering with the others.” Abergavenny had added darkly, “Devon could use some help.”

“I will take Lieutenant Wentworth, yes?”

“Take whoever you want,” Abergavenny had said, striding away.

St. James’s field was churning with men and horses. Carlos and Wentworth trotted past groups of archers, pikemen, and arquebusiers, each company going through flustered motions of drilling on the soggy grass. Carlos thought,
The arquebuses will be useless in this rain.

A lieutenant directed him to Devon’s troop. Carlos took heart as he approached, for he saw at once that it was a decent looking squadron of cavalry he’d been posted to. The sergeant pointed out the commander to him. “The Earl’s yonder, under the elm,” he said.

Carlos looked toward a dripping tree under which the young nobleman sat a strong white stallion. Devon’s long yellow hair was straggly in the rain, and the purple plume of his hat drooped soggily. He was leaning over his horse’s mane, struggling to disentangle the reins which were twisted over one of the horse’s ears. Leaving Wentworth with the sergeant, Carlos trotted over. He pulled off his gauntlet to tug out the paper under his breastplate. Handing it over to the Earl, Carlos explained that it set forth his orders to join the Earl as his captain.

“Orders?” Devon snapped. “No one told
me.
Blast Pembroke! Lord Commander, ha! I will not suffer many more of his insolent ‘orders,’ I can tell you!” As he petulantly flicked his reins, his hat slipped off and tumbled onto the muddy grass.

Carlos was about to draw on his gauntlet again when an itch on his cheek made him raise his hand to scratch. He hesitated. It was the spot where Isabel had spat at him yesterday. He half expected that if he touched it he might feel a small crater where her spittle had burned. It had felt like that, like boiling pitch, her hatred on his skin.

Shaking off the thought, he scratched his cheek, then drew on his gauntlet. He had a job to do here.

He looked around the field. Not far beyond it, toward the river, the towers of Whitehall Palace loomed through the slanting rain. He looked south. Wyatt would come from that direction, from Kingston, heading for the city. He surveyed the field itself, crowded with men and horse and small cannon. Some archers were confusedly following orders togroup. Some horsemen’s mounts were slipping on the wet foothold. The Queen’s forces did not have discipline, Carlos admitted that. But they did have numbers—maybe eight thousand now compared to Wyatt’s three. And they did have cavalry.

The rain streamed. Wyatt’s soldiers trudged silently along the road over Putney Heath, their feet squelching in the mud. The cannon carriages thudded over the water-filled pits. Mules alone could not pull the cannon over these huge depressions and through the thick mud, so teams of men were helping, straining with ropes over their shoulders, their clothes spattered with muck to the waist. Even so, the cannon constantly bogged down and had to be wrenched, pulled, lifted, and rocked free.