Keeper of the King’s Secrets

by Michelle Diener

  He smoothed his hand down the back of her neck, careful not to hurt her, then kissed her forehead. “We’ll find out. But there is something I have to do before I go out and ask questions.” He rose, and she tipped her head back to look at him.

  “What?”

  “Get you another knife.”

  There was a deep eave over Norfolk’s door, and Susanna shivered in the cold gloom, pulling her cape tighter about her.

  Parker leaned forward and hammered on the door again.

  At last they heard the shuffle of footsteps, and the clink and rattle of keys.

  As the door swung inward, Parker gave it a shove and Norfolk’s man stumbled back. He looked more like a stablehand than a servant. No wonder there had been a delay in opening the door. When Norfolk had realized who was knocking, he’d gone to find one of his thugs to welcome them.

  Susanna saw the servant’s eyes flick from Parker’s chain of office, a mark of how high he stood in favor with the King, to his face. The servant took a step back, his gaze moving to the right.

  “Parker.” Norfolk stepped from the shadows of a passageway with a cold smile. He appeared relaxed, leaning against a door frame, but Susanna noticed his hand gripped the wood instead of resting against it.

  She hadn’t seen him since the service at St. Paul’s. The King had arranged the ceremony to give thanks to God for the death of his rival for the throne, Richard de la Pole. The fact that Norfolk had been conspiring with de la Pole, and that she and Parker had uncovered that conspiracy, even though their hands were tied over exposing the Duke, had made that meeting colder than the freezing air of the cathedral.

  The atmosphere was no warmer now.

  Parker took a step forward, and the color drained from Norfolk’s face. His smile wavered, then he gathered himself and gave a curt nod.

  “We’ll talk in my study.” He made a motion to the servant, and the man melted back into the shadows of the hall.

  Norfolk preceded them down the passage a little way and turned into a room. Susanna knew it must have cost him to turn his back on Parker.

  Parker closed the door behind them, and Norfolk spun as it thumped shut, then sank slowly into his chair. “What is it you think I’ve done?” He forced his hands still by laying them on his desk.

  “Draw back your cape,” Parker commanded.

  Susanna lifted the heavy velvet hood off her head, and untied her cloak at the neck to reveal her wound.

  Norfolk started, and Susanna had the feeling it was in relief. “That wasn’t me.” Norfolk’s eyes did not leave her.

  “I’m not suggesting you did this with your own hands.” Parker had not raised his voice, but Norfolk’s gaze moved to him.

  “It was not on my orders, either.”

  “Sometimes your orders are rather … vague.” Parker drew her cloak closed. “And we know you tried to kill my lady before.”

  Norfolk’s nostrils pinched as he drew in a breath. He tilted his head. “I tell you, I had no part in this.”

  Susanna looked at him, at the deep lines of discontent and arrogance defining his face, and believed him. “Do you know a diamond cutter, Jens of Antwerp?”

  He seemed startled that she’d spoken.

  “Diamonds?” Norfolk asked slowly, drawing the word out as if stalling.

  “We are not talking about diamonds.” Parker’s voice betrayed no hint he had noticed Norfolk’s reaction. “We are talking about diamond cutters. And whether you have one in your employ named Jens of Antwerp.”

  “I do not.” Norfolk had hold of himself again, and he stroked his chin. “Was that who attacked Mistress Horenbout?”

  Parker didn’t answer the question. He stepped back and opened the door, holding his arm out for Susanna to take.

  She didn’t curtsy to Norfolk or even nod farewell, despite his being the highest-ranking nobleman in England aside from the King.

  “I see the good doctor Pettigrew is in town,” Parker said, and she froze mid-step across the threshold, glad Norfolk couldn’t see the surprise on her face. Pettigrew was back?

  Norfolk spluttered and she glanced over her shoulder, and saw he had gone pale for the second time since they’d arrived.

  “You can tell him, especially after the attack on Susanna today, that if he sets foot in Cheapside again, he will not come out alive.” Parker did not wait for Norfolk’s response as he stepped into the hall with her.

  “Parker, that business is finished. You, your lady, and I, we have an agreement. I will abide by my end, you by yours. Pettigrew is no longer a danger to either of you.”

  Parker gave him one last look. “Pettigrew may be no danger to me, or to Mistress Horenbout, but you can be sure if he comes to my side of London again, I will be a danger to him.”

  3

  For, although one may be very strong in armed forces, yet in entering a province one has always need of the goodwill of the natives.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 3

  Harry’s boys had done well to track Jens down so fast.

  Parker stood deep in shadow at the back door of the inn, forcing himself to be still, though the chill night air made him want to move about for warmth.

  The building stood at a crossroads. Carts and travelers had been coming and going through the early evening, but things were quiet on the road now.

  The only noise came from the tavern. Someone had started up on a lute, and the sound of singing, clapping, and stomping filtered out into the crisp night.

  The inn was a good place to hide. No one would notice a traveler here, especially if he took a private room and kept to himself.

  Master Jens might have managed it—except he’d returned this afternoon with a knife wound. Even in London, that was something to be remarked upon.

  The back door creaked and a shadow slipped out, then hesitated a moment.

  Parker noted his spy’s stealth with approval. Harry had not been working for him long, but he’d proved himself in that business with Norfolk a month ago. He’d proved himself again today by finding Jens so quickly.

  Parker stepped forward. “What do you have?”

  Harry put a hand to his heart. “You move too quiet for someone so big.” His voice quavered and he cleared his throat. “Our man is in his room. He had a visitor ’bout twenty minutes ago. He was up there less than ten minutes ’fore he came back down.”

  Parker could smell the hops on Harry’s breath. “Had a mug, did you?”

  In the weak light seeping from the shuttered inn windows, Parker saw him grin. “Had to blend in.”

  “As long as it doesn’t slow you down.”

  “We’re going up?”

  “I am.” Parker scanned the back courtyard. “You keep watch downstairs.” He tucked his cloak behind his sword. “There a servant’s way up?”

  Harry nodded. “Go left when we’re inside. You won’t need to go through the main tavern to get upstairs.”

  Parker opened the door and held it as Harry slipped past, then stepped into the narrow passage after him. Laughter and the clink of cups came from a large room to the right, and Parker took the dimly lit way to the left, leaving Harry to slip back into the taproom.

  He could smell the rich, dark flavor of stew and the sharp sourness of beer as he came to a steep staircase.

  He climbed it swiftly, without worrying about creaking wooden boards or the sound of his footsteps.

  He already knew which room Jens had taken, had been watching it from below. With the shutters drawn, he’d only been able to see the weak glow of candlelight from within.

  He went straight to the door, tapped it lightly, then stood back. His hand went to his sword and he began to draw it from its scabbard.

  Without warning, the door was flung open. Parker leaped back, his sword coming up.

  The man rushing from the room had his head down, a hat drawn low over his face.

  He came on fast, dodged Parker, and leaped down the stairs, swearing as he slipped and half-fell
the rest of the way. Parker heard the drum of the man’s boots as he ran down the passageway, then the slam of the back door as it was flung open.

  Parker kept his sword in hand. He had to choose, and he chose Jens.

  He stepped into the room, sword up and center. The only person within lay on a bed pushed against the far wall. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, his hands pawing at his neck, and Parker moved closer.

  Jens flinched back and drew in a rattling, wheezing breath. There was a garrote around his neck, which he’d loosened enough to give him precious air, and Parker grabbed the twine and pulled it wider, allowing him a full, deep breath.

  There were scratches on the diamond cutter’s neck along with a deep, angry welt. Blood stained his nails where he’d fought to loosen the garrote’s hold. He lifted his hands, scrabbling at Parker’s chest as if to keep him off. His mouth opened and closed like a fish as he choked and whooped, fighting air into his lungs.

  Parker turned back to the door. The assassin had failed, and he must know it.

  If he were a professional, he would try again. Soon, before Jens could talk.

  Parker had been prepared to kill him himself—but this murder attempt showed clearly that Jens was not the only one who would kill to keep his presence in London secret.

  Parker needed more information.

  He glanced about the room. There was a large traveling bag on the floor, and a small satchel on a desk. Parker grabbed them both.

  He risked turning his back on the door for a moment to haul Jens upright and pull him from the bed.

  Jens resisted, twisting in his arms.

  “I’m taking you somewhere safe.” Parker tightened his grip. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

  Jens was still gulping in air, but he relaxed, let Parker set him on his feet and steady him with an arm.

  Where in damnation was Harry?

  He didn’t want to step out of the room with only one hand free, and the weight of a man and two bags on his other arm.

  There was a sound of running feet from the main stairs, and Parker dumped Jens back on the bed. He dropped the bags and raised his sword with one arm, flicked the other arm, and felt the cool hilt of his knife drop into his palm.

  It was Harry, breathing hard. “Tried to follow him, but he disappeared about ten paces outside the inn. He could have gone anywhere, and I guessed you might need me here.”

  Parker jerked his head toward the diamond cutter. “Help him down the back stairs. I’ll make sure there are no more surprises.”

  He picked up the bags and went ahead, listening first, then gesturing to Harry to bring Jens down. Harry had grown in the last month, but he was still slight and thin from years of starving on the streets, so his progress with the injured man was slow.

  At last they reached the back door. Parker held it open, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he waited for Harry. They were exposed, with the light from within the tavern making them a perfect target.

  “Fast as you can.” He forced the impatience from his voice as Harry moved past him, breathing hard under Jens’s heavy weight.

  There was a tiny scrape of metal on metal, and Parker instantly pulled Harry down, jerking him out from under Jens’s arm.

  Jens fell with a cry as Parker pushed Harry into the shadows, his eyes straining for any sign of the assassin in the darkness of the yard.

  To his left, Jens convulsed, and Parker saw a crossbow bolt protruding from his throat. The diamond cutter fought an impossible battle for air, then lay still.

  In the sudden silence, Parker heard movement and braced for another bolt, but the only sound was of boots running on cobbles, fading into the night. Parker could hear an uneven cadence to the step: a limp. The assassin had hurt himself in his tumble down the stairs.

  “I thought he’d run off the first time.” Harry emerged trembling from the dark corner where Parker had pushed him.

  “He hadn’t finished the job.” Parker stood and went over to Jens’s body. The man’s eyes were lifeless, staring up into the cold, clear night.

  He crouched down to study the bolt sticking out of Jens’s throat. The wooden shaft was well made, the metal tip buried too deep to be visible.

  It was a master shot.

  “How did he slip past us to get in that room to begin with?” Harry flicked a glance at Jens, and then away.

  Parker rose up. “He must have been watching you. Went up when you came to report to me.”

  Harry looked like he wanted to be sick. “I didn’t notice anyone.”

  Parker moved out into the courtyard and Harry followed him. “What will we do with the body?”

  Parker glanced back at Jens, crumpled against the back door. “Leave it where it is. We have to find the other man you saw going up to Jens’s room. And visit the jeweller’s shop Susanna saw Jens leaving yesterday.”

  Harry looked at him sharply. “What about the assassin?”

  “If Jens had a secret someone wants to bury, then anyone who had contact with Jens before he died is in danger. If we find them first, the assassin will come to us.” Parker led the way down a short alley, to where they’d left their horses. “At least we know a few things.”

  “We don’t know anything.” Harry untied the mounts with sharp, frustrated tugs. “We didn’t even see his face.”

  Parker sheathed his sword. “When he fell down the stairs after I’d interrupted him with Jens, he swore in French.”

  He slipped a foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up.

  “A Frenchman! You really think he’ll go after whoever had contact with Jens?”

  Parker nodded.

  “But that means …” Harry couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Parker did it for him, as he forced his mount into a canter. “Susanna is in this bastard’s sights.”

  4

  But when states are acquired in a country differing in language, customs, or laws, there are difficulties, and good fortune and great energy are needed to hold them, and one of the greatest and most real helps would be that he who has acquired them should go and reside there.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 4

  Parker’s face was grim. Dark shadows clung to him as he stepped into the hallway, and Susanna drew him into the study, into the warm glow of the fire.

  “Harry?” she asked.

  “In the stables, helping Eric and Peter Jack see to the horses.”

  “And Master Jens?”

  “Dead.” He looked straight at her as he spoke.

  Jens had tried to kill her, but she could not link the wild-eyed man in the alley to the man she had known. The man she had respected and liked. She felt a strange sense of confusion. She did not know what to do with her hands, with any part of herself.

  Parker’s gaze rested on her, and she had the sense that he wanted to draw her to him but didn’t know if she would accept his touch. “His death was not by my hand. Someone wanted him silent.”

  She lifted her hands to his cloak, undid the tie, and drew it off his shoulders. At last he slid his hands along her arms, pulled her close. They stood, quiet, peaceful, and she closed her eyes, leaning into him.

  When she stepped back, he took his cloak from her and draped it over a chair, his face lighter than when he’d come in.

  She should paint him like this. Standing by the firelight, dressed in unrelenting black, his black hair gleaming. There was something in the way he carried himself, a readiness for action, that would be a challenge to capture.

  “You will mourn him?” He walked to the windows and checked that the shutters were fast.

  “I will. I don’t know what I will say to my parents.” She rubbed at her temples. There were plenty of things she did not know how to say to her parents. Her presence in Parker’s house being one. Her presence in his bed another.

  Her parents had sent her to Henry’s court to separate her from a man they thought unsuitable, and to paint for the English king, and already sh
e had found a betrothed, been drawn into court intrigue, and made an enemy of the Duke of Norfolk. Her father would bring her home if he knew but the half of it.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Parker turned. “Have you told them of our betrothal?”

  She nodded. “I have. I want to give them as much time as possible to make plans to attend the wedding. I expect a reply soon—if they’re still talking to me.”

  Parker’s grin lit his face and pierced her heart. He was beautiful when he smiled. “You’re marrying a king’s courtier. Surely that is better than the illicit liaison with a blacksmith your parents sent you to England to prevent?”

  She snorted. “I don’t think my father will see it that way when he learns I’m living with you already.”

  Parker raised an eyebrow. “They do not know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “I could offer to send you to my home in Fulham. But in truth, I want no such thing.” He bridged the small distance between them, put his hands on her shoulders. “I want you close, Susanna. Close as you can be.”

  A feather-brush of warmth, of delight, stroked across her skin at his words. Who would have guessed this journey to London had not been into exile, as she first thought, but a chance to find a love she never dared hope for?

  Parker’s eyes slid to the shutters. “If the man who killed Jens learns you saw Jens this morning and spoke with him, you could be his next target.”

  She went still. “How could he learn of it?”

  “Jens could have talked.” Parker shrugged. “He could have been following Jens this morning, come to that.”

  “What was Jens involved with? Why would he risk everything, even his life, for it?”

  Parker’s gaze hardened. “Whatever it is, Norfolk is involved somehow—which means there is some advantage in it for him.”

  Susanna recalled the shock in Norfolk’s eyes. “When I said ‘diamond cutter,’ he almost lost his composure.”