Free The Queen's Gamble by Barbara Kyle

were about to leave on a campaign. On the contrary, they would make a spectacle of themselves.
    Adam gave a formal bow of the head to Frances, scrupulously and coldly polite. “Thank you, madam. Now, get you home and rest yourself. I must go.” He called his lieutenant to escort Isabel, made a last rudimentary bow to his wife, and then went smartly down the stairs to the jetty.
    Frances gazed after him. Isabel took pity. “I shall visit you, Frances. Soon, I promise.”

    “So, I want your opinion on it,” Richard Thornleigh summed up, “as a military man.”
    Carlos looked up from the fire’s embers. Thornleigh was waiting for an answer. They were sitting in the parlor, legs stretched out in front of the hearth, while Nicolas played on the floor beside them, lying on his belly to race his wheeled wooden caterpillar back and forth. The thought struck Carlos that anyone would think he and his father-in-law were relaxing over a talk about hunting dogs or horses, not about preparations for war.
    Thornleigh added, like an apology, “I know it’s a lot to consider.”
    Too much for Carlos’s liking. Not the facts of the situation in Scotland that Thornleigh had just laid out. It was Thornleigh’s own deep involvement, both his and his wife’s, that bothered Carlos. He had the uncomfortable feeling that his father-in-law wanted an assurance that he, too, would be eager to get involved. For the sake of the family.
    “Here, more wine,” Thornleigh said, lifting the pitcher from the hearthstone and refilling their cups.
    Carlos raised his in thanks and took a mouthful, though he’d already had enough. “It’s good,” he said, wanting a minute to think. Easy to give an answer right now, but should he?
    “Aye, the best burgundy. The French do some things right.” He fixed his eye on Carlos. “But can they do this, that’s what I need to know.” This meant invade England. “It isn’t the first time they’ve threatened us from Scotland. You know that as well as anyone. You fought there.”
    Carlos nodded. “For this Queen’s brother.”
    “Unlike her, though, he had a full treasury. In forty-nine he could afford to hire the finest mercenary troops from the Continent.”
    “Forty-eight,” Carlos corrected him mildly. Eleven years ago. The battle of Pinkie Cleugh. Carlos had brought a company of forty light horse over from Germany. They had joined the English army of sixteen thousand as they faced the combined force of twenty-four thousand Scots and French. In all his years of soldiering, at all the godforsaken bivouacs and battlefields he’d seen, whether in Spain, the German lands, the Low Countries, France, or Portugal, he had never been in a place as bone-chillingly miserable as Scotland. Thank God his soldiering years were behind him.
    “And despite the odds,” Thornleigh said with obvious relish, “you won.”
    Carlos took another mouthful of wine. Armchair commanders. They saw victory as so simple.
    “Oh! Mi oruga!” Nicolas cried.
    Carlos glanced at his son. A wheel had fallen off the toy.
    “Es quebrada,” the boy said in dismay. It’s broken.
    “English, Nico.”
    “But, how do you say . . .” He held it up. “Oruga.”
    “Caterpillar.”
    “Bring it here,” Thornleigh said. “I’ll fix it.”
    Nicolas took it to him, carrying the three-wheeled toy as gently as if it were an injured pet. Carlos watched his son and the old man bend their heads together as Thornleigh set the thing on his knee. He straightened the axle pin to fit the wheel back on, Nicolas watching with grave concentration.
    Carlos had to smile. It was good for Nicolas to have met his only grandparents. He knew that Isabel was upset about not being a party to their doings, but it seemed to him natural that they had their own life here. Considering what he had expected to find in getting off the ship—her family destitute—the reality was all good, in his view. Her parents were thriving. They were rich. He settled