The Queen's Gamble (15 page)

“Mama, no! I don’t want to stay!”

She did not think. She lunged for her son. She grabbed him and wrenched him free and pulled him to her.

“Isabel!” her mother cried.

“Madam!” Cecil said, equally shocked.

Her mother gripped her by the shoulders, holding her back, and whispered tightly, “Bel, we must obey. It is done.” Cecil guided Nicolas back to the Queen’s side.

“Mama?” Nicolas looked stricken with fear, his tears brimming. “I don’t like this place. I want to go home!” He reached out for her.

It was all she could do to hold back. His tearful face wrenched her heart, but she would only increase his terror if he saw hers. “It’s all right, Nico. Just a little visit.” She forced a smile. “You can play ball with the nice young ladies.” Her eyes locked in hatred on the Queen.

The Queen’s voice rang with the steel of a monarch in command. “As you love your son,” she said, “so I love England. Understand this. The welfare of the two is now entwined.”

Christmas Day. A sunny morning, bright and crisp. Isabel, feeling none of the day’s joy, rode in the midst of Frances’s domestic entourage of servants and baggage train as they plodded over the snow-packed ruts of Bishopsgate Street, their slow pace dictated by Frances’s horse-drawn litter, for she was still recovering. The Queen’s gold was packed in leather satchels disguised as part of Isabel’s wardrobe strapped to a packhorse. Frances had been delighted when Isabel had told her she would travel with her as far as her brother Christopher’s house in Northumberland, then continue on to Edinburgh to see Carlos. The lie was convincing, since visits by wives to their military husbands were not uncommon. In Peru, Isabel had visited Carlos at various outposts where he had been stationed with the viceroy’s troops. Frances had no knowledge of the royal cargo her train was carrying as they reached the city walls and passed through Bishopsgate, leaving London behind.

Two maids riding mules laughed at something Tom Yates said. Isabel heard his voice spinning a lively yarn from his mount between them. He had returned yesterday from his errand to her father’s country estate, and her mother had insisted that he accompany Isabel north. As Frances’s party had assembled, Tom had entertained the other servants with magic tricks involving the miraculous appearance and disappearance of an angel coin. The household folk were missing their Christmas and needed cheering. Tom was doing a good job of it.

Nothing, though, could cheer Isabel. Though well screened in their midst, she felt exposed. The sun shone down on her so brightly from the vast blue sky, she felt that all the spies of France and Spain must have their eyes on her, whether in the faces looking out of cottage windows they passed, or masquerading as the farmers and laborers who trudged the road. She felt that they could hear her every thought carried on the cold, still air. Her horse shivered as though it, too, knew the dangerous path she was on. If anyone hostile to England discovered her mission, she could be captured. Imprisoned.

But what shook her far more deeply was how her family had been pulled apart. Carlos, drawn into the camp of the French. Nicolas, a royal hostage at Whitehall Palace. The Queen had made that chillingly clear. It had almost broken Isabel’s heart as she had said good-bye to her son, putting on a cheerful face for him as though the charade of the Queen’s hospitality were real. She had never hated anyone as she hated Queen Elizabeth. Yet she was pledged to do her all for the woman. Her only hope of getting Nicolas released was to succeed in her mission.

And if she failed? She glanced back at London as it disappeared in the wake of the baggage train. Was Nicolas at that moment sitting with the young ladies-in-waiting, trying not to cry, terrified by the disappearance of his mother? She looked ahead, up the Great North Road toward the imagined snows of Scotland. Was Carlos at that moment inspecting the French garrison’s artillery, offering advice on how to defeat France’s enemies?

I have to succeed, she thought, or I may never see either of them again.

PART TWO

Through the Enemy’s Gates

11

The First Encounter

G
ale winds in the North Sea lashed at Adam Thornleigh, blurring his vision with frigid sea spray. Yet he could see well enough the fleet of French ships scudding north-northwest toward him off his starboard bow. At least twenty, he reckoned.
God help us
.

He was captain of
Elizabeth
alongside seven other ships of Her Majesty’s navy under Admiral William Winter, and they had barely made it alive this far. They had left Gillingham after Christmas as a fleet of fourteen, but a witch’s brew of storms had ripped into them off the Yorkshire coast, damaging six ships so badly they’d had to limp back in the hope of reaching port. Just eight had carried on toward Scotland, beating their way to the North Sea in the teeth of the gales, riding under bare poles but for storm tops’ls. Only yesterday, finally, had the winds abated enough to let them carry more sail.

Adam wiped the icy sea spray off his face and looked up at his sails, their edges tattered from the furious winds. Three months ago, in warm autumn sunshine, he had overseen the refurbishing of
Elizabeth
from stem to stern. He had been so proud to see her freshly painted and tarred, her hull caulked, her guns oiled, her gun deck loaded with grapeshot and round shot, her masts stepped at a perfect angle to make her fly. But for three days now she hadn’t been flying anywhere, just prowling the approach to the French coastal fortress of Leith off Edinburgh, lying in wait for the enemy ships coming from France. He and his men had been battered by the roaring seas as the decks pitched under ice-crusted rigging, leaving Adam and the crew so cold some had lost feeling in fingers and toes. But though his body ached and he was chilled to the bone, fresh energy surged through him when he saw Admiral Winter’s flagship swing onto a downwind course to face the French galleons.
This is what we came for
.

“Master Curry!” Adam called to his first mate, shouting above the howl of the wind. “All hands lay to!”

“Aye, sir!” Curry turned and yelled to the crew in the waist of the ship, “All hands lay to!”

Seamen jogged to their posts. Adam called orders to his helmsman, and as
Elizabeth
swung onto the downwind course, gusts billowed her sails, and the shrouds let out cracks like pistol shots. They were charging toward the French fleet.

The two dozen soldiers aboard weren’t used to the lurching deck, and they gripped handholds at the gunwales. The French were close enough for Adam to see that the gales had hit them hard, too, their fleur-de-lis flags half shredded. But, God in heaven, they looked strong. At least twenty ships, maybe more. Reports he had heard before leaving Gillingham said this French fleet was coming from Dieppe with five thousand soldiers to reinforce the garrison at Leith. Among them were ten huge warship galleons. Against eight of ours, Adam thought, and only three of them galleons, the rest much smaller.
Elizabeth,
at just two hundred tons, could perch on one of the French quarterdecks. His heart thumped. He knew he must not show fear to his men.

“Prime all cannons,” he ordered. “Load grape. Action stations!”

Curry shouted the orders, and Adam glanced over his shoulder at
Pelican
under the command of Matthew Lockhart, carving the waves as she turned to face the French. Off his port bow was
Golden Lion,
one of the three English galleons, froth flying at her bow and in her wake. Beyond her,
Tiger
and
Swallow
and
Minion
alongside
Mary Willoughby,
all joining the charge.

Their orders were to harry the French to prevent them landing the troops, but not to fire unless fired on first. Also, if any English were captured, they were to say they were acting on their own initiative, with no connection to the Queen. Desperate demands, Adam thought. Elizabeth had no standing army, and only this meager navy, since her sister’s reign had left the treasury bankrupt, and for months she had been unable to do anything but watch as the French had built their strength in Scotland, knowing that if the French beat the Scots they could then pour south to conquer England. But now the danger was so clear, she had roused herself to dispatch Winter on this covert mission. About time, Adam thought. He had once urged Elizabeth to use ships as “walls” to protect her realm, and she was finally doing it. But his mission wouldn’t end here on the sea. His father, working with the Queen’s agents in Antwerp, had been quietly buying armaments and ammunition and shipping them home, and Adam had loaded
Elizabeth
’s hold with two demi-cannons, crates of arms, powder, and shot that he was going to deliver to the rebel force under John Knox.

If I survive today,
he thought as they closed on the French. He had never been in a naval battle—or any battle. His mouth was dry with fear. He knew his ship was up to the challenge—he had built her himself—but was
he?
He had lived most of his life on the sea, but always in peaceful trade. He’d seen hard service with the Merchant Adventurers’ tragic expedition to Russia, losing friends in those unforgiving seas, but this was something else. Enemy cannonballs that could blow your head off. Musket shots that could shatter a leg, shred an arm. Down the companionway he glimpsed his men on the gun deck loading the brass culverins, small cannons called “bastards,” five on each side set behind gun ports. And up here on the main deck they were loading the twenty-pounders at bow and stern. But these guns were nothing to match the French galleons’ mighty cannons.
Any one of them could blow my ship to hell.
And if the enemy boarded, that would be a different kind of hell, close combat. He looked across the tumbling waves at the hundreds of troops crammed on the decks of each of the French ships. If cannon fire crippled
Elizabeth
and the enemy closed to board her, those soldiers would swarm aboard with pistols, pikes, swords, and axes, while their archers let loose a storm of arrows. He imagined an axe caving in his skull.

He shook his head hard to shake off such thoughts. And reminded himself of the letter in the pocket of his sea-sodden jerkin. A daughter, Isabel had written, born a week before Christmas. Frances had had a rough time. Katherine, she had named the baby. Adam felt a fierce desire to see his child.
That’s why I have to survive,
he told himself.
For Katherine
. He would get through this. He would make it into Edinburgh to deliver the arms to John Knox’s rebels. And he would do anything else in his power to help Elizabeth. But all other thoughts of her he would put out of his mind, all remembrance of their brief, bright time together—his lips on hers, her body under his, her glory in his arms. He had been hoarding that treasure trove of memory for too long. It was time to let it go. Elizabeth had never truly been his, and never could be. He looked out across the deck at his seamen and soldiers all staring grimly at the ever-closing French, and saw a gunner make the sign of the cross on his chest. Saw a soldier unsheathe his sword and kiss the hilt. Adam looked up at the angry clouds roiling in God’s heaven, and he made a silent vow.
If I survive this, I will commit myself to my family.
Treat Frances more kindly. Build a world for Katherine. And hope for a son next time.

He plowed toward the French.

It began as a chase, Winter strictly obeying the Queen’s orders. The French fleet bore off southward, and the English ships followed, nipping at their heels. But then the French turned. A cannon shot from them, perhaps meant as a warning aimed to cross
Mary Willoughby
’s bow, instead tore away her bowsprit. The fight was on.

The swirl of battle swallowed the
Elizabeth
. A furious confusion of scudding ships, booming guns, men’s cries above the shriek of the wind, the smell of gunpowder in the sodden air. On Adam’s decks men scrambled for balance at their posts, lurching each time he maneuvered the ship through fast tacks, hardening her into the wind to chase an escaping French frigate, then bearing off to narrowly miss crashing into a monster galleon. He heard his fellow captains bellowing orders, heard French yells. Heard his own voice hoarse from shouting commands. Beyond
Mary Willoughby
wallowing in the confused seas, he glimpsed
Swallow,
half her mainmast blown away, the men aloft trapped in the wind-whipped mess of sails and rigging.

“Captain!” Jack Curry yelled. “The
Pelican!
”

Adam turned. Beyond his stern a savage broadside had blasted
Pelican,
blowing away much of her forecastle deck. She did not look mortally hit, but men were running and shouting, and in the commotion the helmsman lost control when a monster gust heeled the ship onto her side.
Too far,
Adam thought in dismay. A man aloft at the topsail fell, screaming. He pitched down past the antiboarding netting and plunged into the sea. The ship kept plowing ahead on her side, like a limping wrestler refusing to give in to an injury, but she was heeled at such a severe angle she could not right herself. Water would be roaring in through her gun ports, Adam thought. Within minutes she was sinking. Men leapt overboard from the listing main deck, screaming.

“Lower the longboat!” Adam ordered.

“Aye, sir!” Curry confirmed.

Elizabeth
’s boat splashed into the water and six crew clambered into it and rowed furiously between the lumbering ships, heading for
Pelican
’s survivors, who thrashed in the frigid, heaving waves.

“Fire!” The shout came from Adam’s main deck. He twisted around. The gaff-rigged sail on his mizzenmast was aflame. Tongues of fire licked out at the mainmast. If it spread to the mainsails, the fire would engulf the ship as fast as
Pelican
had gone down.

“Cut down the mizzen, Master Curry!” Adam ordered.

“Aye, sir.” Curry yelled to the crew, “Axes! Buckets!”

Men hacked at the base of the mizzenmast while others scurried for water buckets, just as Adam saw the bow of
Minion
bearing down on them. Her captain, Doan, a friend of his, was pulling the helmsman off the binnacle where he was slumped, blood pouring from a head wound. Adam ordered his own helmsman to tack immediately, and they swept past
Minion,
her bowsprit swinging across
Elizabeth
’s stern, not three feet between the hulls. Adam could hear her timbers creaking.

He looked up at the fire eating his mizzen. The swift helm maneuver had saved them from a collision but had put them on a course that made the wind whip the mizzen’s flames closer to the mainsails.

“Cut her down, men,” Adam shouted. “Be quick!”

They chopped furiously. Jack Curry jogged forward to organize the line of water buckets just as the mizzenmast toppled. Curry didn’t see it coming at his back. The massive oak timber felled him as it crashed on the deck, flames leaping, sparks flying.

“Jack!” Adam grabbed a water bucket and bolted toward him.

Men with buckets swarmed the mess of wind-whipped sails aflame on the deck, dashing water on the fire, and Adam jumped over the blazing rigging to reach his first mate. Curry lay moaning facedown beneath a mast spar that pinned his legs to the deck. His breeches were on fire. Adam heaved the water from his bucket onto Curry, dousing the flames, then tossed the bucket and yanked off his own leather jerkin, shouting for a crewman to give him his as well. Wrapping the leather garments around his hands, he shoved his hands under the glowing red spar and pried it up off Curry.

“Haul him out!” he told his men.

They pulled Curry by his feet and dragged him to safety. The others had doused most of the fire, and some had pulled off their jerkins to beat the last of the flames, coughing in the smoke.

Adam batted sparks from his shirt sleeves. The leather had protected his hands, but the spar had burned his forearms, branding a red welt across each. No time to think of the pain. The wind had veered, and a French galleon loomed to starboard. He had to think fast whether to beat north to windward to escape the cannon broadside that was sure to come blasting from the galleon. The only other choice was to go south and run before the wind, but that course would take him right into the middle of the French fleet.

He heard his third in command, young Hendricks, order the helmsman into the wind to flee from the galleon that now towered above them. They were hardening up to tack.

Adam leapt over the mast debris and dashed back to the wheel. “Belay that order!” he said. That course would doom them to the huge galleon’s cannons. The only way out was to go through. On his command they swung southward, heading straight into the maw of the enemy fleet. His men watched in horror, as if their captain had lost his mind.

South they went, racing before the wind through the massed galleons. Adam looked up to see the menacing three-deck cannonades rush past them. The big guns were silent, as he’d gambled. The tall galleons on either side of him could not risk firing at this lone, low ship, for their broadsides would have ripped into each other. He scudded through the center of the enemy fleet.
Elizabeth
was through. His men cheered.

They had escaped, but Adam saw that his ship was too wounded to fight on. They would have to head for shore, seek a sheltered Scottish bay to hide in and repair what they could. Adam set the new course, and watched as the smoke and booming of guns diminished in his wake. The French might rip apart the last of the admiral’s ships and slaughter Adam’s friends, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt cheated, angry.

That’s when he saw the French ships ahead. Two of them, hugging the coast. Not big galleons, not warships at all. These were galleys, likely supply ships. Supplying the French troops at Leith? Adam felt a blast of vindication. He would take those galleys, or die trying.