The Queen's Exiles by Barbara Kyle Page A

gleam, from the banner-bright silks and satins on ladies and gentlemen alike to the shell-white marble floor. A sprightly music of lutes and viols lilted above the gabbling throng, and the air was spiced with the perfumes of Spain.
    Frances exulted. What a thrill it was to see and be seen in this splendid palace! She was nervous, but only from excited anticipation about her imminent audience with Alba. She and Jane had prepared their appeal with great care. Frances’s heart was beating almost painfully fast, but she was ready. After years in exile—three aggrieved, lonely, worry-gnawed years—she was ready to do anything to get back the life in England that had been stolen from her. Winning Alba’s support was the key. He had the ear of King Philip, who trusted Alba’s judgment and acted on it. And Philip, master of vast armies with which he ruled half of Europe, had the power to knock the heretic Queen Elizabeth off her throne. Then, it would be safe for Frances to return. Restoration of honor. Vindication. She yearned for it. And today, God willing, she would take the first grand step. Success was not guaranteed, of course. She knew there were deep currents and counter-currents in Spain’s relations with England, so deep and swirling it was difficult to stay abreast, especially since she lived far from the power centers of either court. But everyone knew that the two countries were on the brink of war. And Frances was in touch with a different source of power. She had brought the proof, a letter, folded in her pocket. A letter so potent it just might turn the tide against England.
    She glimpsed a man across the gallery. Wiry, swarthy, almost hidden by the crowd. He stood very still and seemed to be watching her. A hard face, almost scowling, that gave her a prickle of unease. Should I know him? she thought.
    “They’re all looking at you, my dear,” Jane whispered. “They’re wondering who you are.”
    Frances turned to her with a rush of delight. It was true: So many people were watching. How delicious, this curiosity she was arousing by her association with her distinguished benefactor. For three years Frances had been careful to stay hidden, bitter years of tedium and resentment, forced to abandon her title as Lady Thornleigh, her status as an English baroness. For her own safety and her children’s safety she went by her maiden name, Grenville. But today she had dared to come into this prominent public place, and it was exhilarating to be in society again. She could go on and on basking in people’s curiosity if she weren’t so keen to see Alba. Then, a pang of apprehension. Might she and her friend be far down the queue of petitioners? After all, Alba had the governance of the whole unruly country; even a duchess might have to wait her turn. “Will we have to wait long?” she asked Jane, who was smiling to acknowledge the bow of a bishop.
    Jane shook her head. “As soon as he’s finished his dinner. His secretary assured me we are the first of his afternoon appointments.”
    “Thank heaven. My heart can’t take much more of this anxious beating.”
    “Don’t be nervous, my dear. He’s not as ferocious as they say. He cultivates the fierce reputation.” She added with a sly twinkle in her eye, “It stupefies the ignorant.”
    Frances smiled. She squeezed Jane’s elbow, grateful for her friendship and support. Over twenty years ago, in the bloom of their youth, they had both enjoyed coveted places at the English court as fellow maids of honor to Queen Mary. Jane had been winsome young Jane Dormer then, the daughter of a prosperous Buckinghamshire wool merchant, and had won the heart of the dashing Spanish ambassador to London, Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa of Cordova, the Duke of Feria. He married her, and Jane had left England as a duchess to live the rest of her life in wealth and splendor in Spain. Now, she was a widow. Frances had been at her side in Spain when Feria died last year and had