The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(87)
“You are on a Spanish ship. If I wish, I can send you to Spain for proper punishment.”
“But you won’t, because once King Philip is aware of my detention, he will ensure I am not harmed.”
“I don’t have to kill you to punish you. And it will take some time for King Philip to become aware.”
Madalena finally made her presence known. In her low, beautiful speaking voice that seemed always to hint of warm skies and fragrant trees, she said in Spanish, “It will take very little time for English soldiers to arrive. Do you think Her Highness would willingly put her dearest friend in danger without a plan to get her back?”
“Then,” Navarro said, “we have no time to waste.”
He opened the door and summoned two soldiers inside. “Take Lady Philippa above. I want the English to see what happens to heretics and witches.”
That did not sound promising. Philippa wished she could see all the steps between now and her final vision. But she had never been able to command her gift so far. She knew the end, but not everything along the way. All she could do was continue to shield Kit from as much of what was happening as possible to ensure he was not distracted from his own tasks.
Before they took her from the cabin, Navarro made her change into something resembling a penitent’s robe. Drab grey wool skirt and short coat, with the riding shoes she’d worn. She was momentarily surprised that he ordered Madalena to loosen Pippa’s hair from its tight plaits, but then she understood. He wanted that black streak to be clearly seen—the mark of the devil, as he thought it.
They took her off the ship to the courtyard of Hull Castle. There was no gallows present (not that she’d really expected one) nor even a platform, just a cleared space around one of the stone walls. The crowd was restive behind the cordon of Spanish soldiers. Pippa saw the Earl of Arundel near the front; he looked away as she passed him.
Matthew was there. She did not have to look at him to know his hands and ankles were chained. They would never have been able to keep him from her otherwise. She kept her head high and her concentration fixed. Led to the space next to the wall, she saw there were chains hanging from the stone above her head, and she knew suddenly what Navarro intended.
He would strip her to her shift, likely—surely he wouldn’t require more than that?—then, facing the wall, her hands would be pulled high above her shoulders and chained so she was held fast. And then he would whip her.
He would do it himself, of that she was certain. She noted that he had also changed for this occasion—the severe Jesuit robes removed to show equally severe shirt and hose. He held the whip, lightly flicking it against the ground as he pronounced her crimes and sentence.
You are making mistakes, she noted as he spoke. Your hatred has made you irrational…and one thing that will always turn an Englishman’s stomach is irrational emotion. Not to mention the circle of foreign soldiers threatening an English woman. An English girl…it suddenly seemed important for Pippa to make the most of her youth and fragility.
It wasn’t difficult to emphasize it when they removed her skirt and short coat, leaving her shivering in only her cambric shift despite the late spring warmth. She could feel Matthew’s rising anger and need to act, and so sent to him what comforting thoughts she could manage. She had asked Madalena to keep as near him as she could and remind him not to get himself dragged away or knocked out.
Then there was nothing to do but to divorce her awareness as much as possible from her body. She’d had practice these last months through her increasing illness, and thought herself prepared.
Until the first lash fell. The whip was not barbed, thank the heavens, but it was wicked enough and she gasped aloud at the shock of pain. In her life, Pippa had never been touched with anything but affection. Navarro had specified a dozen lashes. The second fell…the third…
With the fourth stroke, Pippa’s control breached and she could not keep from crying out. The focus she was so proud of deserted her, and only dimly was she aware of the murmur of the crowds, the shouts of her husband ringing the loudest. Navarro struck her a fifth time and she knew she would never remain conscious to the end. Why had this never been in her visions?
Six…and then a pause that stretched out so long that Pippa was slowly able to focus on something besides her bleeding back. Voices raised—angry voices—Navarro and…who? Not Matthew. And not Spanish. This particular voice was familiar, cultured English, the meaning of the words a jumble through the pain.
Then her arms were unchained and competent hands supported her to the ground. A light weight—a shawl or cloak—settled over her hunched shoulders and that same voice was speaking.
It was the Earl of Arundel. “I will see to her injuries myself,” Philip Howard said to a furious Tomás Navarro. “If you try to return her to the ship, I suspect you’ll have a riot on your hands. You’ve sent the rest of the ships and more than half your men to Berwick, and I’m not sure Hull can hold out against a determined uprising. So let me settle everyone’s tempers by taking charge of her.”
She thought it was in the balance whether Navarro would agree, but even through the fog of pain, Pippa could sense the growing discontent amongst the watchers. And not just the English—the Spanish soldiers were uneasy with Navarro’s fanaticism. If he ordered them to resist Arundel, she wasn’t sure what would happen.