The Queen's Exiles Read Online Free PDF

He nodded to his empty sleeve. “I lay there in my blood. Fenella dragged me out. Our house went up in flames.” He plucked at the sleeve, picking off a speck of dirt. “They rounded up the village men on the quay. Fenella and I made our way there, me fainting, staggering. We did not dare cross the line of soldiers, but we saw past them, past the screeching women. They tied the men together, two by two, face-to-face. To save the time it would take to hang them. They pushed them into the river. They tied Claes to Vos the bookbinder. I saw them go under. . . .” His voice cracked.
    Adam stood silent, picturing it.
    “Polder was in flames.... Fenella and I, we spent weeks in the forest. She foraged . . . kept me alive.” Doorn rasped a cough. It became a spasm of coughing that made his narrow chest crumple and his shoulders shudder. When it passed, he spat, then swallowed, and got control of himself. “The commander that day was a fair-haired Spanish lord, name of Don Alfonso.”
    Good God, Adam thought. His prisoner. He saw the nobleman again, scrambling for the Elizabeth ’s longboat. Tumbling overboard, his face blown away, a red pulp of blood and bone.
    “Now you know, my lord. Why she hates the dagos.”
     
    The sky glittered with stars over Fenella’s cottage. The night breeze stole through the open window, jerking the flame of the candle on the table where she stood. The table was spread with boat gear—blocks, sheaves, shackles—crowding the crockery pot of thyme that Fenella grew. She bit off a mouthful of bread slathered with goat cheese and topped with a spring of thyme and chewed it slowly, trying to savor the tang of the cheese and the sweetness of the bread. Trying not to think about the dead Spaniard. I’ve done murder . For one stunning moment when Don Alfonso had pitched overboard she had felt a thrill of satisfaction. If only she could have shot him five years ago! Killed him as he strolled the wharf while his soldiers drowned the men in pairs. She could still see Claes’s wild eyes as he hit the river with Vos, arms bound, thrashing like a speared fish.
    She closed her eyes to shut out the awful memory. What was the use of remembering? She had long ago forced herself to let the past die.
    But what she had done today could not be forgotten. Of all the stupid, impetuous things she had done in her life, killing Don Alfonso was the stupidest. The thrill was gone, swamped now by a fear that made her feel almost sick to her stomach. Was she going to prison? Seigneur Helier was the Queen’s authority here, the lord of Sark, but he was Fenella’s friend, so could she hope he might turn a blind eye? Lord Thornleigh outranked him, though. Would Thornleigh clap her in irons? Her hand holding the bread trembled. He hadn’t detained her—that was a good sign. Besides, he was fighting Spaniards himself, killing them. He’d almost hanged the don.
    But even if both the seigneur and Thornleigh turned a blind eye, what about the Spaniards? What would they do when they heard she had killed one of their own? For they would surely hear. The Spanish seamen whose necks she had saved would make landfall in France as soon as they could, at Saint-Malo or Ushant, and there one or more of them would blab. Probably not to inform on her, not with malice, but just because when they reached a tavern the tale was too good not to tell. The “Sea Queen of Sark” who blew off the face of a Spanish grandee. What sailor could resist telling that? Then word would reach Spain. Don Alfonso might well have a powerful family; they might be royal courtiers. They would demand vengeance from King Philip. Panic nipped at her. She took another bite of bread and cheese to quash it. Manchet bread was her special treat. The fine wheat flour, doubly milled, was expensive. She had it brought from England and baked it herself using her own recipe with rose water and nutmeg. Those items were as dear as diamonds, but a few drops and a few