Читать книгу Christmas At The Tudor Court - Amanda McCabe - Страница 15

Chapter Five

Alys couldn’t bear the shouting another minute.

She sat very still on the edge of her bed, trying to breathe, to turn her thoughts away from what she knew was happening outside, to pretend she was somewhere, anywhere else. When she was a child and her father often rode out to track down rebels and criminals, her mother would hold her all night and whisper tales of faraway Spain into her ear, tales of sunshine and strange music, to calm her and distract them both.

It wasn’t working now.

It had come at dinner, when the household was eating their tense, silent meal in the great hall. Her father had tried to smile at her, to pretend naught was amiss. But she had seen the mud-splashed messengers hurrying in and out of the castle, had glimpsed rows of soldiers marching out from Galway City and the fort. Rumours had flown like sparks that Sir Richard Bingham, the lieutenant of Fitzwilliam who had so brutally put down the chieftains’ rebellion, had been marching up the coast towards them, hunting for the shipwrecks. He had already taken and summarily executed dozens of shipwrecked Spanish sailors, and was marching now towards Galway.

Alys’s father had sent her to her chamber, but she could still hear the panic of the castle outside. The servants were rushing around the corridors and stairs of Dunboyton, panic-stricken, and the great storm that had swept suddenly over the skies only added to the confusion and terror. The thunder pounded overhead and icy rain beat at her window.

Alys jumped down from her bed, unable to sit still any longer and let the not knowing sow fear in her mind. Facing a danger and fighting it was always better than endless waiting.

The corridor outside her chamber was empty, but she could still hear voices, fierce, low murmurs and high-pitched shrieks, coming from below. She followed the sound down the stairs to the great hall.

There she found a few of the servants gathered around the fire, whispering and talking together, their faces white with fear. A few soldiers who had already been out patrolling the ramparts were slumped on the benches in their wet clothes, gulping down hot spiced cider. Their unfinished supper still littered the tables, with her father’s dogs fighting over a few bits of chicken and pork pies.

Alys caught a pageboy who was rushing past. ‘Have you seen my father?’

He shook his head frantically, his eyes wide. ‘Nay, Lady Alys. They say his lordship rode out hours ago.’

‘Did they say where?’

‘Nay, my lady.’ The boy practically trembled with fear and excitement.

Alys knew he could tell her nothing. Likely no one could—or would. Not if Bingham was abroad. They said he enjoyed torturing his prisoners before he killed them, making them die slowly after he had robbed them of whatever they had. She hoped her father had not been summoned to his regiments.

She spun around and ran up the twisting stairs to the ramparts of the tower. She caught up her cloak from its hook and wrapped it over her woollen gown. The freezing rain beat at her hood and the howling, whipping wind caught at her skirts, but she barely noticed. She took up the spyglass and turned it on to the beach below.

What she saw made a cry escape her lips. Surely it was a nightmare. She was asleep in her bed, seeing phantoms conjured by all the fear around her.

She lowered the spyglass, closed her eyes, and shook her head.

But when she looked again, it was still there.

Out to sea, vanishing and reappearing in the surging waves, were two ships, breaking apart in the storm. Chunks of wood and furls of sail bobbed in the foaming waves. And on the beach was a straggling group of men, thin, barely clothed in rages, swaying on their feet, collapsing to the sand.

It seemed Bingham had already arrived, for soldiers in helmets and breastplates that gleamed in the glow of the lightning moved among the prisoners. As they passed them, the captives would collapse to the ground. As Alys watched, frozen and horror-stricken, a sword flashed out and one of the sailors fell to the rocky sand, his head rolling free. Weak screams were carried to her on the wind.

The Spanish had come to Galway, but certainly not as the maids had feared, as conquerors. They were now pitiful victims.

‘Nay,’ she cried out. This could not be happening, not here at her own home. She had heard the terrible tales of the rebellions, the murders and pillaging, but this was the first time she had seen such things and she found she could not bear it. Those men down there were obviously defeated and beaten, and they were her mother’s fellow Spaniards.

She whirled around and ran as fast as she could back to the great hall. She had no clear thought now; she moved on pure instinct. No one seemed to pay her any attention as she ran out the door and across the bridge that led from the castle to the gardens and the cliff steps. It was meant to be guarded, but she saw no one there now. No doubt they had run to the beach for their share of the excitement and of any Spanish treasure that could wash ashore.

The steps cut into the cliffside, steps she had run up and down ever since she was a child, were slippery and perilous in the storm. Alys almost fell several times, but she pushed herself up and struggled onward. She didn’t know where she was going, or what she would do once she got there, she only knew she had to try to stop some of that horror.

Once she reached the beach, the straggling group of half-drowned sailors was still far away, but she could see more. And she wished she could not. One of the starving sailors dropped to his knees, snatches of a prayer in Spanish carried to her on the wind. A soldier drove his sword through the man, then yanked a gold chain from his neck.

A surge of bitter sickness rose up at the back of Alys’s throat, choking her. She clapped her hand over her mouth to hold it back. She didn’t even like to see a cook kill a chicken for the pie pot. How could she bear such wanton cruelty?

She took a blind, lunging step forward and a hard hand caught her arm. She screamed at the cold jolt of surprise and spun around to find a soldier standing there. She could see little of his face beneath his helmet, just the hard set of his jaw.

‘You should not be here, my lady,’ he said. ‘’Tis not safe.’

‘I see that.’ She glanced back at the beach to see a clutch of people in cloaks and mantles, villagers, searching the beach for anything that might have washed ashore. ‘Those men are no better than scarecrows now! Surely they are no threat. Perhaps they have information, or could be ransomed...’

‘They are rabid Spanish dogs, my lady, and would have slaughtered us all if they could,’ the man answered. ‘This is war.’

Alys looked back to the beach and felt that bitter tang of sickness at the back of her throat again. ‘This does not look like war.’ It looked like wanton slaughter.

‘Go back to the safety of the castle, my lady—now,’ the soldier said, as implacable as stone.

‘My father shall hear of this,’ Alys said, though she feared he must already know. She marched away, leaving those horrors behind her, but she did not go back to the cliff steps. She made her way around through the sand dunes and the sodden reeds, hoping the rain would wash away her fury over what she had seen, her rage at her own helplessness.

Suddenly, above the whine of the wind, she heard a groan. She stopped, her senses on alert, half-fearful, half-hoping she was not alone. Yet it seemed it had been her imagination.

She started forward again. ‘Please!’ a hoarse voice called from the reeds. ‘Please.’

She knew she had not imagined that. It was definitely a person, someone in trouble. She ran to the reeds, which were higher than her waist, and searched through them.

‘Please,’ the voice came again, weaker this time, fading.

In the blinding curtain of rain, Alys tripped over him before she saw him. She stumbled over a booted foot and nearly tumbled to the marshy ground.

Cautiously, she leaned closer to study him. He was a tall man, probably once with powerfully broad shoulders and long, muscled legs. He wore what she could tell had once been very fine clothes, a velvet-and-leather doublet with gold embroidery on the high collar and expensive, well-wrought soft leather boots. But they were sodden and caked in mud and sea salt now, hanging loose off his thin figure.

Alys glanced up at his face. His hair, over-long and trailing like seaweed, and his beard were dark, his skin brown from the sun and weather of a long sea voyage. She could make out little of his features, but suddenly his eyes opened and focused directly on her. They were the brightest, clearest emerald green and they seemed to see deep into her very heart. She felt sure she knew those eyes.

‘Please, mistress,’ he said hoarsely, slowly, as if each letter was dragged painfully from a raw throat. ‘I must go—I have messages...’

He had no hint of a Spanish accent, but then Alys’s mother’s words had not either. Was he Spanish, a noble soldier, or mayhap one of the English exiles they said sailed with the Armada, hoping to regain their lost estates? Either way, his life was in the gravest danger from that barbarity on the beach.

‘Help me,’ he said. ‘I must deliver these.’ He reached for her hand. His fingers, roughened, torn and bloodied, barely touched her, but she felt a jolt of heat from his skin to hers, something that startled her and made her draw back. She saw a glint of gold on his hand, a ring on his smallest finger.

She glanced back frantically over her shoulder. She could see nothing from the reeds that closed around them, but she could hear the screams from the beach. She thought of her mother, of her dark Spanish eyes, her wistful smile, and Alys was completely torn.

Aye, this man could be the enemy and if she helped him she could find herself in much trouble. But as she looked into this man’s eyes, practicality and danger gave way to human feeling. He was a person, a human being, and deserved a chance to tell his tale before he died, to deliver these messages that seemed so important to him. She thought of the men being killed so wantonly on the beach and she shuddered.

How could she ever face her mother in heaven if she did not help him?

She thought quickly and prayed she had enough strength to carry out such a wild plan. ‘It is well now,’ she said soothingly. ‘I know where we can go. You can trust me. Confia en mi, señor.’

His eyes widened in surprise at her words in Spanish, and he nodded. ‘Gracias.’

‘Can you stand at all? We must hurry.’ The screams on the beach were growing louder and soon the looters would spread out in their search.

He nodded again, but Alys wasn’t sure. He did look very pale, almost grey beneath his sun-brown. She slid her arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit. He was very lean, but she could feel the strength of his muscles beneath his sodden clothes. He must have been no idle nobleman. His jaw set in a grim line, and his skin went even paler, but he was able to push himself to his feet. He swayed there precariously and Alys braced her shoulder against his ribs to help hold him up.

She was not a tall woman and had inherited her mother’s small-boned, delicate build, but carrying around baskets of laundry and digging in the kitchen garden had not been in vain. Between the two of them, he soon had his balance again.

‘We must hurry,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

They made their way through the sand dunes, crouching low to avoid being seen. The rain had slowed down and the clouds slid back and away from the moon, which was good and bad. She could see her way a bit clearer, but that meant so could the soldiers on the beach. She found the second set of stairs etched into the cliff, around the curve of the beach and more hidden. The steps went only up to the old abbey and were seldom used.

‘Can you climb here?’ she said. She looked up at him and saw that his face, starkly carved like an old Roman statue, was set in lines of determination. He nodded and closely followed her as she climbed the stairs. He swayed dangerously at one point, almost falling backward, and Alys caught his arm and pulled him up with her.

At last they reached their destination, the ruins of the ancient abbey. Alys had gone there often when she was a child, sneaking away from her nursemaids to pick flowers and just lie in the grass, staring up at the sky through the crumbling old stone arches. Sometimes her mother would take here there, too, for picnics and games.

It felt like another world to her from that of the crowded castle, a world of peace and beauty. But sometimes the sight of the abandoned cloisters seemed to make her mother sad. What had once been a grand and glorious place, with a soaring church and dozens of monks and priests, was abandoned and silent.

Alys had never seen it quite like this, with rain pounding down on the old stones, lightning casting an eerie glow through the empty window frames. The wind, howling around the collapsed vaults of the roof, sounded like the cries of the banished monks.

If they were there now, watching with ghostly eyes, Alys begged them for their help. She wanted to cry, to scream, but she knew she couldn’t. She needed all her strength now.

She took a deep breath of the heavy, cold air and made herself focus carefully on what she was doing. The wounded man had walked so bravely up the stone steps and along the overgrown path to the abbey, though she could tell it pained him greatly. He held himself very stiffly, placing his steps carefully, and once or twice she heard a muffled moan. She gently touched his cheek and found it burning hot. He needed rest.

‘Almost there now,’ she said encouragingly, trying to smile.

‘You should leave me here,’ he answered. ‘I am away from the soldiers, I can hide from them on my own.’

‘You certainly cannot! You can’t even walk on your own. I have taken too much trouble over you to abandon you now.’ Alys thought of the terrible scene on the beach, the helpless, half-drowned men just cut down, and she shuddered. No one deserved such an end. Treating helpless prisoners thus cruelly made the English no better than the Spanish devils the maidservants had feared so much.

And this man did not seem to be a cruel demon, come to garrotte and brand English children. There was a kindness in his eyes, beneath the wariness.

She led him into what had once been the dairy for the abbey. It was one of the only buildings still mostly intact, with its roof and door. It was windowless and cool, the thick walls lined with shelves that still held buckets for milk and covered containers for butter and cheese. There was a hearth where cream would be stirred.

‘Wait here,’ she told him, propping him against the wall. A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips beneath his beard, as if her bossiness amused him. She hurried to find a pile of old canvas sacking, which she used to make an improvised pallet bed by the hearth. There was a bit of wood left in a basket by the fireplace, along with a flint and some twigs for kindling. It was a bit damp, but she managed to get an ember to catch.

She turned back to the man, whose tall body sagged against the wall. His eyes were closed, his skin very pale. Alys hurried to his side and slid her arm around him again. He was so very tall and she couldn’t reach around his chest. Surely he would soon regain his health and be a fine figure of a man again.

‘Come, sit down by the fire,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm, to hide her fear. ‘It isn’t much, but at least it’s out of the rain. You can rest quietly.’

She helped him to lie down on the improvised mattress. He fell back to the sacking with a suppressed, painful sigh. He made no protest as she unfastened the buttons of his ruined doublet. The fine fabric was sodden and crusted with salt, but she saw that the buttons were silver and there were traces of metallic embroidery on the collar.

Who was he? She was greatly intrigued by the mystery of him and how he came to be on that ship. But her curiosity would have to wait.

As she peeled away the doublet to find a bloodstain on the torn shoulder of his fine linen shirt, a small packet of letters fell out. Alys reached for it, but despite his wounds he was faster. He snatched it away, holding it tightly in his long, elegant fingers. His gold ring glinted.

‘Don’t let these be lost,’ he gasped. ‘They must stay with me.’

‘Of course,’ Alys said gently, even as she burned with curiosity to know what those letters held. Her rescued sailor became ever more intriguing. ‘Be easy, señor. They will go nowhere.’

He studied her closely with those otherworldly green eyes, until she felt her cheeks burn hot with a blush. At last, he nodded and laid back down again. When Alys was satisfied he rested calmly, she hurried back outside to find the cistern near the old refectory. She dipped him a pottery goblet of the clean water, and went back to kneel at his side. His eyes were still closed, but she could see the lines of pain etched around his mouth.

‘Here, drink a bit of this,’ she said. ‘I need to look at your shoulder. I’ll have to fetch some food and medicine for you from the castle and I should see what exactly I will need.’

He nodded and laid very still as she eased the salt-stiff shirt away from his shoulder. His chest was smoothly muscled, with pale brown hair lightening the sun-browned skin. But that perfect expanse of skin was marred with a deep gash at his shoulder, apparently from a dagger-like splinter.

Alys ripped a bit of canvas from the sacking and dipped it into the clean water to dab at the wound. As she cleaned away the crusted blood, she saw that it was a long cut, but not terribly deep. She would need pincers to clear away the smaller splinters.

As she worked, she tried to focus only on her task, not on him, his breath as he moved against her, his eyes that watched her so closely. She had tended wounded men before, but somehow it had never felt quite like—this.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. The sudden sound of his voice, so deep and dark, startled her and she glanced up at him. He still watched her and the glow of his green eyes made her somehow want to fall into them, to drown in their jewel-like colour and never leave him. ‘I must be your enemy.’

Alys looked back to her work. ‘If you are indeed an enemy, you must be honourably imprisoned and questioned, perhaps ransomed back to your family. You would surely fetch a fine price, to judge by your clothes and your fine manners.’

A wry smile touched his lips. ‘You know the procedures to follow battle, then?’

‘My father has been governor of Dunboyton Castle since I was a child and has fought to help put down many rebellions against the Queen. I have learned a thing or two.’ She ripped another piece of canvas into a long strip for a bandage. ‘And I know that what was happening there on the beach had naught to do with honourable battle. I am sure Queen Elizabeth would be appalled to have such barbarity done in her name.’

She could still feel him looking at her, that burning sensation she felt deep inside of herself. ‘Is that all?’

Alys hesitated to say more. ‘My—my mother was Spanish. She often told me about her home, her family and brothers. We are not monsters, even if we come from different countries. We are all people. If they...’

She couldn’t say anything else, as tears choked her throat.

‘I will help you to recover, if I can,’ she said.

‘Then send me to your father?’

Alys had not thought that far ahead. She could only think of getting food and medicine for him, of which herbs she would need. ‘You can’t stay in here for ever.’ She tied off the end of the makeshift bandage and pushed herself to her feet. ‘I will be back. I have to find you some food, some dry clothes and blankets. I won’t be gone long.’

He reached out his hand, his fingers brushing hers and leaving a trail of tingling fire behind. ‘May I at least know the name of my saviour?’

She looked down at him, and the firelight limned him in gold. Beneath the wild hair, the paleness of his illness, he was extraordinarily handsome. The most handsome man she had ever seen. Surely such allure made him doubly dangerous. ‘I am Alys.’

‘Alys,’ he said and the word sounded like honeyed wine in his dark voice. ‘I am—Juan.’

Alys tried to smile at him. ‘I will be back, Juan. You rest now. You should be safe enough here.’

She hurried out of the small building, back out into the storm. Even the cold rain and howling wind could not frighten her. Only the emotions she had thought long buried inside of her, emotions this strange man was bringing out, could frighten her now.

* * *

He had been saved, snatched from the sea and the murderous soldiers, by an angel.

John laughed as he laid back against the rough canvas of his new bed. He would never have thought heaven would send him such a rescuer. He had done too many bad things in his life, had killed, cheated, stolen, to deserve it.

Yet, just when he thought death had come to claim him, he had opened his eyes and seen her. His angel. Alys.

She was so small, so frail-looking, with her long, rain-soaked dark hair and her pale, elfin face, yet she had the strength and determination of a warrior. So calm, so steady and unafraid. When he looked into her dark eyes, he forgot the pain, forgot the duty that had brought him to this place, forgot—everything. Because of her, he had a chance to finish his mission. He couldn’t let his angel’s sacrifice be in vain. He owed her so much.

John pushed away the waves of pain and crippling exhaustion that threatened to push him down and made himself sit up. Grimacing, he pulled off his ruined boots and stretched his freezing feet towards the fire. The warmth was something he barely remembered after months at sea and it was delicious. Almost as wondrous as Aly’s touch on his hand.

He reached for the packet of papers. Their oilskin pouch had kept them relatively intact, their coded symbols and words still legible. He could recreate them before he delivered them to Walsingham. But Peter’s letter had not fared quite as well. He could see it was in Spanish and could make out a few words. Perhaps it would be easier when it was light.

It had been so important to Peter that it be delivered, but to whom? Peter had often spoken of some friend, someone in England, who would know what to do when he found them. John would have to track them down now.

Another wave of crushing dizziness washed over him and he couldn’t quite resist it this time. He hid the packet under the edge of the canvas bedding and laid back down. The ceiling above him was painted with a scene of angels peering down from the shelter of fluffy white clouds, an unexpected scene of beauty in such a strange place. John studied them as sleep overtook him, and he noticed that one of them had large brown eyes and a wary smile. Just like an angel named Alys...