The Tudor Conspiracy

by C. W. Gortner

  “There’s Cripplegate.” Peregrine broke into my thoughts. “From there, we can take to the Strand and ride to the palace.”

  I brought myself to attention as we maneuvered our way through the horde pushing into the city before the gates closed for the night. As I paid the toll, I had a vivid memory of the first time I’d come to London. I had had no idea at the time, as I’d gazed in awe at the sprawling walls and the Thames’s distant coil, of the adventure that awaited me. Just like then, I now felt an excited prickle in my belly.

  There were people everywhere, closing up shops and hurrying home from last-minute errands while others, eager for the night, threw open doors to smoke-filled inns and raucous taverns. Already the ravaged doxies were patrolling the darker alleyways, garish in their paint, sidestepping the ubiquitous beggars, thieves, and skulking pickpockets. Emaciated dogs scurried underfoot, scavenging in the conduits that carried sewage to the river. Overhead, timber tenements leaned into each other, upper floors conjoining to form fetid vaults, from which denizens emptied chamber pots into the streets, showering unwary passersby with leavings.

  At first, I didn’t see much change. London appeared as dirty and unpredictable as it had been during the late King Edward’s final days. Yet as we made our way toward King’s Street and the palace, I began to notice graffiti scrawled on walls, declaiming, DEATH TO ALL PAPISTS! and SPANIARDS BE GONE! There were placards strewn on the ground, too, muddied now and illegible but no doubt offering equal dissent. It would appear the common people of London were not happy with the arrival of the Hapsburg delegation.

  Whitehall reared into view. We rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Disgruntled officials trudged past us with cloaks yanked about their shoulders and caps shoved low on their heads. None paid us any mind. The snow was falling faster, whitening the flagstones. Cinnabar stamped his hooves.

  “The horses will need feed and stabling,” I said.

  Peregrine gathered both pairs of reins. I gave him two angels from the purse Cecil had sent. He’d not been parsimonious. I had enough for a comfortable stay, providing I didn’t stay too long. “Wait.” I grasped Peregrine’s wrist. “How will you find me?”

  He scoffed. “I lived here, remember? And I warrant you’ll not be lodged in the royal apartments.”

  “Fine, but don’t tarry. After you see to the horses, come to me straightaway.”

  “Yes, master.” With a mock flourish, he led the horses away.

  Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I went to the nearest entranceway. Three sentries swathed in cloaks and bearing halberds blocked my way. Only after I reiterated that I was here to see Lord Rochester did one of them sneer, “Her Majesty’s comptroller? Now, what would a common oaf like you want with an important lord like him?”

  “Can you please tell him Master Beecham is here?” I asked wearily, using my alias and hoping Rochester would remember me. I was left shivering under the colonnade. It seemed hours had passed when I finally heard a blustering voice exclaim, “By the rood, if it isn’t the very Master Beecham who saved us all from perdition!” and I turned to find Lord Rochester beaming at me.

  I had last seen him in Norfolk, marshaling troops for Mary’s defense as she prepared to fight Northumberland for her throne. He had been robust then; now he looked fat in his too-tight doublet of expensive mulberry velvet, his gold chain of office dangling about his meaty shoulders, his jowls reddened and breath hot with the odor of roast meat and mulled wine.

  He pumped my hand. “Master Beecham! Who would have guessed? I never thought to see you again. After you came to us at Framlingham, you disappeared like a ghost.”

  I forced out a smile. “I regret to say, I had urgent business elsewhere.”

  Rochester chortled. “No doubt, what with all of Northumberland’s men running for cover after the duke’s head rolled. No matter. You’re here now, and I’m glad of it, as will be Her Majesty.” He whisked me past the sentries into the palace. Sensation painfully returned to my hands and feet as we moved through corridors hung with tapestries.

  “How long has it been?” he asked. “Five months? Six? Ah, but so much has happened since then. You may not be aware of it”—he shot a look at me—“but Her Majesty has won the heart of the realm. It’s a new England, Master Beecham, a new England indeed. Oh, but she’ll be pleased to see you. Pleased and relieved. She wondered what happened to you.”

  I was heartened to hear it. I needed her to be pleased.

  He came to a sudden halt. “Best not mention any of the past business, eh? Her Majesty will no doubt show gratitude for your services, but … well”—he coughed uneasily—“I’d not remind her of it. She’d rather forget what Northumberland and his sons nearly did to her.”

  “Naturally, I understand the need for discretion.”

  “Yes, a man in your position would. Are you here for work, then? If so, I daresay you’ll find it. Her Majesty is always in need of able men, and you’re as able as they come.”

  I could only hope Mary would feel the same. Of Elizabeth, I dared not ask. But I did want to know of a friend I’d not heard from in some time. “Is Barnaby Fitzpatrick here?”

  Rochester paused, frowning. Then his broad smile returned. “Ah, you must mean our late king’s companion. No, he’s in Ireland. Her Majesty honored his claim to the baronage of Upper Ossory. He left a few months ago.”

  I did not remark, recalling that Barnaby had feared Mary’s accession because of her staunch Catholicism. Apparently he’d found a way to escape living directly under her rule.

  We entered a gallery. Enormous double doors stood at the far end under a carved archway. As I caught the distant sound of music, my pulse quickened. The great hall lay beyond those doors. Instead of leading me there, however, Rochester steered me in the opposite direction, into another, darker gallery and through a narrow corridor, after which we started up a flight of cramped stairs.

  Rochester panted, his girth taking a toll on his breath. “I’ve put you in one of the smaller rooms on the second floor. The Hapsburg delegation is here, and we’re rather crowded at the moment. We can see later about something better for you, eh?”

  We reached a low-ceilinged hallway punctuated by a series of plain doors. I recognized this section of the palace as well. This was where Robert Dudley and his brothers had lodged when their father the duke held sway. It felt strange to be here again, a free man in service to the princess, when just months before I’d been a Dudley squire with little hope of escaping my lot.

  “Did you bring any servants?” Rochester sifted through keys on an iron ring he produced as if by magic from his voluminous breeches.

  “Yes, one squire. He’s gone to stable our horses.”

  “Oh, fine. The chamber is big enough for you and a squire.” As he unlocked the door before us, I braced myself. Had he actually brought me to the same room? One look inside showed me he had not. While the chamber bore some resemblance to that overturned sty where the Dudley boys had bedded, this room was smaller, almost fully occupied by a utilitarian cot, with a rush mat on the floor, a rickety-looking stool, and a battered chest, on which sat a pewter decanter, a warped candlestick, and two wooden cups. I saw no privy area save for a bucket in a corner. A mean thick-glassed window set high in the wall probably admitted little daylight. Now, tallow flares in oil dishes cast a rancid glow.

  “Hardly luxurious, but at least it’s clean,” said Rochester, “and not damp like the rooms on the lower floor. At this time in the year, you could catch an ague there overnight.”

  “It suits me.” I set my bag on the floor. “I prefer my accommodations simple.”

  “Well, this is about as simple as it gets. You must be hungry. There’ll be some leftovers from tonight’s feast. You can go to the kitchens or have your squire fetch a platter. I’ll see word is sent to him. The stables are also full, and he may have trouble securing stalls. The Spaniards arrived with horses.” He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe it? Horses! Brought all the way from
Spain on ships, as if we didn’t have anything to ride here.”

  “I’ve heard the Spanish breed some of the best horses in the world,” I said. I wasn’t about to be drawn into criticism of foreigners, though I did find it noteworthy that he’d referred to the Hapsburg delegation as “Spaniards.” Recalling the graffiti I’d seen, I added, “The people don’t seem too pleased about their visit, either. I saw placards in the city.”

  “Aye, that would be the apprentices.” He shook his head. “Cheeky lot. Ought to mind their manners, lest Her Majesty claps all of them in the Fleet for their insolence.” He turned solemn. “We had an incident at court not too long ago. Someone tossed a dead dog into the queen’s chapel.” He grimaced. “They’d tonsured the poor animal like a priest and tied a note about its neck calling for death to all Catholics. Since then, she’s ordered the curfew strictly enforced. The apprentices are still posting placards, but they’re wise enough to do it late at night to avoid our patrols. If any gets caught, he’ll lose a hand.”

  I took a few moments to contemplate this. Evidently, the anti-Spanish faction was more overt than Cecil had supposed. I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask. It wasn’t as if the rumor were a secret, given the upset in London. “I’ve heard that Her Majesty is considering taking Philip of Spain as her husband. Could it have anything to do with the protest?”

  Rochester’s expression froze for a moment. Then he harrumphed. “Philip of Spain? Now, where did you hear that? I wouldn’t put too much stock in rumors, if I were you. They’re a dozen a groat these days.” He tugged at his doublet. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll advise Her Majesty and let you know as soon as she has time to see you.”

  I inclined my head. “I am indebted to your kindness.”

  “Oh, not at all! As I said, delighted you’re here.” He left, clicking the door shut behind him. In the silence, I moved to the coffer to touch the decanter.

  It was hot. Lifting the lid, I found it full of mulled wine.

  I had the distinct sense that Rochester had been expecting me.

  After drinking half the jug, I collapsed on the hard bed. Despite the scratchy mattress and my best efforts to stay awake, I soon drifted to sleep. When I awoke hours later, my mouth was dry and the room so dark I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I didn’t recall dousing the tallow lights. As I struggled to get my bearings, I realized I wasn’t alone. There was a warm weight by my feet.

  I reached down. A warm lick on my hand and a soft muzzle told me Elizabeth’s treasured greyhound, Urian, whom she had brought with her from Hatfield, was here. I eased my foot out from under the coarse blanket covering me and nudged Peregrine, who was, as I suspected, curled in his cloak on a reed mat on the floor.

  “You’ll catch your death of cold down there! And you took your time getting here.”

  “I found Urian, didn’t I?” he asked. “I also befriended a groom who told me the princess goes riding in the mornings with her friend. I didn’t know she had friends here.”

  I was suddenly wide awake. “Neither did I. Did this groom say who her friend was?”

  “Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. Apparently he’s her cousin.”

  “Did he say anything else?” I could barely restrain the impulse to bombard him with questions, recalling what Cecil had told me about Courtenay. I concentrated on breathing deep, pretending I was starting to fall back asleep before I muttered, “She’s going to notice her dog is missing.”

  “That would be the point. Urian would only go with someone he trusts.”

  I smiled, crossing my arms behind my head as Elizabeth’s hound settled between my legs. Peregrine’s breathing deepened. The boy could sleep anywhere.

  I now had confirmation of her association with Courtenay, whatever it was, and it didn’t bode well, not if Renard was targeting them. Then I thought of the dead dog tossed into the queen’s chapel, a placard denouncing Catholics knotted about its neck.

  What perilous path did Elizabeth tread?

  WHITEHALL

  Chapter Four

  I woke before dawn. As I hastily washed my face in the basin, after breaking a film of ice on the water, Peregrine lurched to his feet and insisted on attending me, staggering out the door with his hair askew and jug in hand to fetch fresh wash water.

  He poured the jug over my head while I stood in the lumpy basin, the water so cold I was barely able to move my arms to wash myself. “You must find us a brazier, charcoal burner, anything, so long as it holds fire,” I told him through chattering teeth. “I can’t bathe like this every morning. I’ll catch my death of cold!”

  “Yes, master,” he said, then ducked as I swiped at him with my hose. I dressed more quickly than I’d ever done in my life, not caring that I was still damp. As I stashed my poniard in my boot, Urian whined and scratched at the door.

  “He needs to go out,” said Peregrine, who clearly had no intention of repeating my bathing experience, though he’d slept in his clothes and looked a rumpled mess.

  “Fine, take him out,” I said. “While you’re at it, see to our horses. I want them well fed and kept warm. I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. I want to catch a look at this Courtenay. Oh, and if you see Her Grace before I do, try to detain her, but don’t let anyone else see that you actually know each other.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” Peregrine quipped, and, clipping a lead to Urian’s red leather collar, he left.

  I pushed my sword in its scabbard under the bed. Bearing weapons at court, at least visibly, was forbidden. Then I looked about for somewhere to hide my bag. I didn’t have anything that could incriminate me except for a book Cecil and I had agreed to employ as a cipher in case I had need of it. I’d rather not leave it out in plain sight. None of the floorboards proved loose enough to pry up. I’d settled on stuffing the bag in the coffer when a knock came at the door. I found Rochester on the threshold, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “Good morrow to you, Master Beecham. I trust you’re well rested.” He paused, scrutinizing me. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready?” I echoed.

  “Yes. Her Majesty has agreed to see you this morning. In fact, she insists on it.”

  * * *

  Snow drifted outside the gallery windows, turning the courtyards into white-cushioned jewel boxes. Inside the palace, the chill was pervasive, despite the profusion of carpets and tapestries. Linked by numerous long galleries and passageways, with wide upholstered bays that reflected an emphasis on luxury instead of defensiveness, Whitehall remained unfinished. An elephantine undertaking, it had been under construction for years, its warren of ostentatious halls, chambers, servant’s quarters, and official offices coexisting with tarpaulins and scaffolds parked beside unfinished walls, with gaps in the mortar where the wind whistled through.

  My feet were chilled in my boots when we finally reached a gallery adorned with smoke-darkened paintings. Guards parted to allow us access into a world I had never seen before: a series of interconnected wainscoted chambers filled with sumptuous hangings, gold and silver plate and candelabra, and carved chairs big enough to fall asleep in. Dried lavender and rosemary were scattered underfoot on the carpets, so that each of our footsteps crushed the herbs and released a heady scent. Applewood fires crackled in every recessed hearth, heating the air to a summer’s intensity. It was so warm, I suddenly felt sweat start to trickle under the tight fit of my new doublet. The drastic change in temperature was a sure breeding ground for disease, I thought, thinking of Kate’s theory that weather affected our humors.

  I removed my cap. As I dabbed at my brow, a burst of women’s laughter was heard. Rochester motioned to the silver gauze curtain draped across an archway decorated with a lintel of plaster cherubs in midfrolic. He gave me a ribald grin. “You’ll be the fox in the henhouse, but a young buck like you shouldn’t mind the attention.”

  I smiled, adjusting my doublet. In the room beyond, the queen declared in her distinctly gruff voice, “Mist
ress Dormer, will you cease that infernal laughing at once! I can barely hear myself think. Now, is this the right headdress or not? We don’t have all day.”

  Amid more high-pitched mirth, I stepped past the curtain.

  The chamber before me was large, with two full windows overlooking the snowy parkland. It was also in utter disarray, every available surface—tabletops, chairs, sideboards, even parts of the floor—strewn with fabrics of different colors. A pack of small black- or brown-spotted dogs, all with fluffy ears and ornate jeweled collars, emitted high-pitched barks when they saw me. One bold and mostly black one raced over to nip the toe of my boot, to an accompanying explosion of feminine glee. A slim blond girl dressed in a silver satin gown rushed over to scoop up the offending pet. She glanced at me shyly. She had large blue-gray eyes and lovely skin tinged with the easy flush of youth. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice identifying her as the breathy one whom I had heard laughing. “I just got him, and I’m afraid he’s not very well trained. He hates strangers.”

  “What’s his name?” I started to reach out to pet the creature in her arms, but it growled and showed me its teeth.

  “Blackie.” She gave me a timid smile. “I am Jane Dormer.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mistress Dormer.” I had just started to bow when a too-thin but otherwise handsome woman I recognized as the queen’s favorite, Lady Susan Clarencieux, stepped forth. She gave me a welcoming smile; Lady Clarencieux and I had met before, during the time of Northumberland’s coup, when I had helped her and Mary escape Robert Dudley’s pursuit and reach the safety of Framlingham Castle.

  She said to Jane Dormer, “I don’t think this gentleman is here to see you. And you must muzzle that little dog of yours if it’s going to keep nipping everyone it doesn’t know.”