“I was a dock rat of gentle birth. The oldest son of a second son. My father was cast out from his family because of a disagreement with his father, and when he died, my younger brother and I worked the docks to help my mother put food on the table.”
Susanna tried to picture him as he had been, as ragged and sharp as Peter Jack.
“One day I was working at unloading a shipment of lace from France, and a Frenchman off the ship asked me the way to the palace. The King was in Westminster in those days, just a few short years after he’d been crowned.”
Parker crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “The Frenchman was a mercenary, by the look of him. Hard, cruel. He was the type to rob bodies on the battlefield. I didn’t know what he was up to, and not wanting trouble, I told him the way.”
Susanna watched as Parker turned his thumbs around and around each other, seeming to be in another place. “Go on.”
He started, and flashed her a rueful look. “That night I was skulking around one of the taverns, hoping for some food from the kitchens, and I saw him returning to his ship. As he walked into the deep shadow of a warehouse, he was set upon by two men.”
Parker sat straighter. “I was torn. It was two against one, yet I had no liking for the man. I went forward with no clear idea what action I would take. Suddenly two other men leaped into the fray, on the mercenary’s side. It seemed to me they must have been following him on his orders, in case he was set upon. It was a deeper game than I’d first thought.”
“What happened?” Susanna realized she’d lowered her voice.
“I continued to approach, though my instincts told me to walk away. I heard a shout from one of the two who had first set upon the Frenchman, and it was as if my blood turned to winter rain.”
He shook his head, and it seemed to Susanna he was reliving his disbelief at another’s stupidity. “It was a particular battle cry often used at the royal jousting tournaments, and in the days when my father was alive I had been to more than a few. I knew immediately whose call it was.”
“Whose?” Susanna asked.
“The King’s. The King of England and a courtier were attacking the Frenchman on the docks.”
Susanna gasped. “Why would he be so bold?”
“So careless, you mean?” Parker raised his eyebrows. “He often went out in disguise to mingle with the commoners, I discovered afterward. But this time it was in deadly earnest. He’d been approached by the Frenchman at court as he went out to hunt earlier that day, and it was clear the mercenary had a letter Henry could not allow to be made public. He decided to get it back himself, with only Brandon at his side, to keep all knowledge of it secret from others at court.”
“What did you do?” Susanna asked.
“What could I do?” Parker sounded resigned. “I leaped in on the King’s behalf, although I had no weapon but the knife I always carried.” He smiled faintly. “The King and Brandon were pleased to have me, as they were used to courtly games of mock battle and set rules of engagement—not the street fighting of a mercenary and his dockhand helpers.
“With my help, the King managed to take the Frenchman down and cut his purse from his belt. As soon as he had it in hand, Brandon grabbed him, and both the King and I noticed then what only Brandon had seen: that a crowd had drifted over from the taverns to watch the fight.”
Again, Parker shook his head. “The King was in even graver danger. Danger of his life, and danger of discovery. Brandon urged him away, and they ran off.”
“Leaving you to face the crowd?” Shock made her voice tremble.
“It was my duty to keep the men the Frenchman had hired away from the King. And it helped that they were uncertain what to do—their paymaster was dead or injured, and some of the fight had gone out of them. They carried on because they thought they could take me and win. But I had a stroke of fortune. One of the men in the crowd recognized me and called out my name. Thinking the balance of numbers was about to turn against them, they ran off.”
“Were you hurt?”
“A cut on my arm, some bruises.” Parker waved the question off as of no concern. “I knelt at the Frenchman’s side, and could feel there was faint life in him. He was bleeding and unconscious. I checked his coat and his shirt to see if there was any way to identify him, and deep inside his cloak, cleverly hidden in the lining, was a deep pocket with a letter in it.”
“The letter the King was looking for?”
“Aye.” Parker steepled his fingers. “The mercenary had taken the letter out of his pouch when he’d approached the King earlier, but must have decided it wasn’t safe enough there.”
“So now you had the letter.” Susanna wondered what the King had done when he’d realized the letter was not in the pouch he’d risked his life and reputation to get.
“I had the letter,” Parker agreed. “And from what I could see, that was as good as having a price on my head.”
14
The Chiefe Conditions and Qualities in a Courtier: To play upon the Vyole, and all other instruments with freates.
Of the Chief Conditions and Qualityes in a Waytyng Gentylwoman: To be seene in the most necessarie languages.
What was written in that letter?” Susanna hugged her arms close to stop herself trembling. Parker hesitated, as if he truly believed he should not tell her this.
“The year before old King Henry died, he locked our present King away for many months. The Prince was not allowed to speak unless spoken to. He took his lessons mostly from his father, and did not speak to any tutors brought in. They lectured him, and he listened in silence. He could speak to no other courtiers, and if he wished to go outside, he had to leave by a side door into the park. He took all his meals in his room, and on one occasion the King almost killed him, beating him until his courtiers intervened.”
“What happened?” Susanna realized she was leaning forward, her body tense.
“No one knew. Some said that with his oldest son dead, the King was taking pains to protect his only remaining heir. Some said he was keeping the prince close, and teaching him the ways of kingship.”
“But the truth of it was …?”
“The truth of it was that the prince had become obsessed with Cesare Borgia. Borgia had just been killed in battle in Navarre, fighting against the French King at his brother-in-law’s side. His story was one of daring, courage, and bravery. He was larger than life, irresistible to the young Prince.”
“What harm was there in that?”
Parker sighed, rubbed his forehead. “There would have been none, had the Prince not decided he would like a similar life. He was close to his brother Arthur’s widow, now our Queen, and he wrote to her father, Ferdinand of Spain, asking for a small army and a cause to fight against the French on the Continent.”
Susanna gasped at the implications. “He did not ask his father’s permission?”
“Nay. You can only imagine what the King would have said to that. The Prince planned to sneak away with the help of his closest friend, Charles Brandon, now Duke of Suffolk.”
There was a creak at the door, and Parker was on his feet, knife in hand, before Susanna had even turned to look.
It was Peter Jack.
“Wait a moment in the kitchen, please. I will call you when we are ready.” Parker relaxed his stance but remained standing as Peter Jack limped away down the passage. It was a testament to the story’s grip that neither had heard his approach.
“A messenger handed Henry’s missive to the old King before it was sent, and his rage was boundless. He came to blows with the Prince. He believed that Ferdinand would have taken the Prince’s defiance and poor sense as a mark against the whole royal family. He put the Prince under constant watch.”
“How did you discover all this?”
“It so happened there was another missive—one that was never intercepted. The Prince had sent it to Borgia’s brother-in-law, D’Albret, declaring his admiration for Borgia and his contempt for the Pope, the French King, a
nd even the Spanish, who had imprisoned Borgia for two years before he escaped.”
“The letter was truly insulting?” Susanna was finally beginning to see the reason for the desperation behind the attacks. The Pope, the French King, and the Spanish King were powerful people to insult.
“All three had stuck a knife in Borgia’s back.” Parker spoke not with contempt, exactly, but with an edge to his tone. She knew that, even as a young man, he would not have idolized anyone to the extent that Henry had idolized Borgia. Parker lived by his own rules; while she was sure he held some men in respect, he would never follow their path. He would always forge his own.
Parker turned from the door and paced toward the fire. “Somehow, that letter fell out of D’Albret’s hands and into those of a Frenchman who found passage to London as a sailor.”
“The mercenary?”
“Aye. After I found the letter, I went to find Maggie to see to the Frenchman’s wounds. When we returned, he had bled to death.”
“What did he want for the letter? Money?”
“I can only assume he thought it would make him his fortune.”
“And now you held something you could not keep.” Susanna wondered what she would have done in Parker’s place. Destroyed it, most likely.
Parker returned to his chair, his body turned toward her.
“I begged a favor. Since my father’s death, it had been a point of pride for my brother and me not to beg for help. But my father’s family had land and was well-regarded, and my father had studied with some who were in elevated positions. I called on one of them, and convinced him to get me before the King.”
“Did he recognize you? From the night you helped him?”
Parker shook his head, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “But when I mentioned the fight, I suddenly had his full attention and the private audience I’d requested. I presented him with the letter and told him all I knew. Threw myself on his mercy.”
Susanna recalled the King’s cold eyes when he’d realized she knew something dangerous to him, and shivered. “What did he do?”
Parker took her hand, as if reading her mind. “He was grateful. And for some reason, he saw something in me. He liked the way I’d fought. Liked that I’d joined him in the fray unasked. Either that, or he had a mind to keep his potential enemies close.” Parker gave a laugh. “He offered me a position within the Privy Chamber. He said my coming to him with the letter and offering it up with no request for a boon spoke to my character.”
Parker’s eyes looked past her out the darkening window, his hold on her hand firm. “I think he must have ordered someone to look into my background, because shortly thereafter I learned that my father’s older brother and all his family had died of the sweating sickness, and as my father’s eldest son, I was the heir.”
“You did not know of your uncle’s death?” Susanna felt a frisson of shock.
“He was not overpleased when my mother appealed to him for help upon my father’s death, and my brother and I resolved to make a living without him. Once allied to the King, overnight I found myself with land holdings in Fulham, and soon after that I inherited a distant cousin’s property in Hertfordshire.”
“And your brother?” Susanna was intrigued. She had not thought Parker had any family.
“He and his wife and my mother live on my estates in Hertfordshire. My brother manages the property for me.” His thumb began to stroke the top of her hand, back and forth.
Susanna relaxed into her chair. Parker could excite her with nothing more than a look, but this gentle stroking was calming. Soothing and protective. “These attacks on us are to stop us from talking of the letter?”
“I don’t know.” Parker’s eyes glittered with frustration. “There is more than one plot in play here. The letter is one, de la Pole’s connivance against the King another. Both contain more treachery than I can believe.” He rubbed his brow. “It could be that Brandon wishes to silence us, because he spoke out of turn to Harvey or to one of Harvey’s informants. With either plot, disloyalty to the King takes on a new significance.”
Parker released her hand, rose, and walked to the door. “The real mystery is the letter itself. I saw it destroyed with my own eyes by the King, the afternoon I gave it to him. He threw it in the fire.” Parker lifted his money purse, his mouth a grim line. “And yet, despite the evidence of my own eyes, once more I find it in my possession.”
May I see it?”
Susanna held out her hand, and Parker hesitated. Wasn’t he risking her enough as it was, just telling her his secrets?
“I am an illuminator, Parker. Paper, letters, books—they are my lifeblood.” Her hand held steady, and he dropped the letter into her palm.
He paced, agitated, as she smoothed it open, then looked at it for what felt like long minutes.
“This is not the original letter, I think.” Susanna flicked a finger against the paper.
“It was long ago that I read it, but the wording sounds the same.” Parker came to stand at her shoulder, looking more closely at the paper.
“This is a draft, perhaps. The wording is uncertain; mistakes have been made.” Susanna pointed to two words that had been heavily blotted out, and the lines scored through others. “There is no seal on this either.” She rubbed the paper between finger and thumb. “The paper is high-quality, but perhaps the King never uses less expensive paper for his drafts?”
Parker laughed. “No. Probably not.” He thought the implications through for a moment, and felt a slight easing of the tension that had gripped him since Mistress Harvey had handed him the letter.
“What is it?”
It startled him that she could feel the change in him without his saying a word.
“This means Brandon might not be behind this after all. A clerk, a page boy, anyone could have stolen the draft. It widens our list of suspects.”
A huge weight lifted from him. Pointing a finger at Brandon would have tested his friendship and service to the King to its limits.
Susanna turned her head to look up at him, and he was struck dumb for a moment. In the fire’s glow, she was all hazel eyes and cream skin, the luster of her hair and the clarity of her gaze almost shocking in their purity. “This is a good thing?”
He barely registered her question, until he saw the thin, dark line where Gripper’s knife had cut under her chin. It focused him despite the heat of her body, inches from his own.
“This is the best news possible.” Had he falsely accused Brandon, he would have been buried alive.
Susanna leaned into him, giving support, not taking it. His arms began to lift to draw her closer, then froze as he saw Peter Jack in the doorway, a cheeky grin on his bruised face.
“Are ye ready for me?”
Despite himself, Parker grinned back. He’d like to close that door and forget everything in Susanna’s touch and heat. But that luxury would have to wait.
“Aye. Sit yourself down.” He stepped back and pulled his chair closer to the fire for Peter Jack. “We need to call in our troops.”
Peter Jack sat, wincing like an old man.
“Troops?” Susanna looked between them, curious.
“My lads,” Peter Jack explained. “We put them to work.”
“I sent one to keep an eye on the archer we left at Black-friars,” Parker said. “One is watching Father Haden’s, and the rest have become my eyes and ears on the street.”
“When did you do all this?” Susanna sounded stunned.
“Yesterday morning, before you were attacked in the yard,” Peter Jack answered. “Before the war really got going.”
“A lifetime ago.” Susanna sank back into her chair.
“Aye. Feels like it to me too.” Peter Jack stretched thin legs out toward the leaping flames.
“Get used to it.” Parker made sure they were both looking at him before he continued. “Things are going to get worse.”
15
The Chiefe Conditions and Qu
alities in a Courtier: To speake alwaies of matters likely, least he be counted a lyer in reporting of wonders and straunge miracles.
Of the Chief Conditions and Qualityes in a Waytyng Gentylwoman: To take the lovynge communication of a sober Gentylman in an other signifycatyon, seeking to straye from that pourpose.
A more ragtag, tattered unit he had never seen. The boys were painfully thin and feral, and their clothes were filthy. They needed to be one level up, Parker thought. Apprentices or messengers. They must become part of the crowd of rascal boys who plagued the palace.
They stood huddled in his courtyard, shivering, and he remembered just how sharply the damp winter air could bite through a rough wool vest.
“Come with me,” he told them, and saw the collective look of surprise as they realized he meant them to follow him indoors.
That was the difference between them and the boy he had been. He had been used to entering fine houses. And he now owned some of the ones he’d visited. These boys had only ever known the gutter.
“We’re none too clean, sir.” The boy who spoke was Harry, the de facto leader of the group now that Peter Jack had moved on to greener pastures.
“That is why you need to come inside. You need a wash and better clothes if you’re to be of any use to me.”
Parker continued up the back steps, aware of the horrified silence behind him.
“Wash?” It was one of the younger ones. If Parker was any judge, the only water he’d ever had on him was from standing in the rain.
“And eat.”
Parker waited a beat, heard them start up the stairs after him.
In the kitchen, his strange new family was at the table. Somehow Susanna had united them, unlikely though they were.
She stood as he entered, and took in the six ragamuffins behind him.
There was a shout of joy from Eric, and he leaped from his chair to wrestle with the lads as they crowded in. He looked completely recovered.
In a Treacherous Court Page 9
