The Tudor Conspiracy

by C. W. Gortner

  A riot of choked giggles ensued from the other women. Jane Dormer turned bright red. With another shy smile at me, she returned to her seat. Though I didn’t know most of the women staring in open curiosity at me, I noted at once that Elizabeth wasn’t among them. Then I caught Lady Clarencieux’s quick gesture at one of the matrons, who hastened to yank a linen sheet down over a large portrait propped in the corner. Before it was covered, I caught a glimpse of the image on the canvas—a fair, bearded man with a jutting chin and fine legs in white hose.

  “Master Beecham, I am here.”

  I turned to where the queen stood before a looking glass. She peered at me in the reflection, her head swathed in a turbanlike confection.

  I bowed low. “Majesty, I am honored you could receive me at such short notice.”

  The queen’s lips pursed. She surveyed me from head to toe before she broke into a terse smile that revealed tarnished teeth. “Why, it is you. I wasn’t sure at first.”

  Mary Tudor was not beautiful. Whatever physical appeal she’d once possessed had been spoiled by years of bitter antagonism, so that she looked older than her thirty-seven years, her close-set hazel eyes pleated by wrinkles and her sunken cheeks betraying a premature loss of teeth. Poor eyesight had carved a furrow between her near-invisible brows, and she was gaunt, her figure almost childlike in her rigid, gem-encrusted finery. What she lacked in beauty, however, she made up for with a regal presence and a generosity of heart that had engendered loyalty in many of those who served her.

  “Someone, pray take this off me,” she griped. Lady Clarencieux hastened to remove the turban. The queen’s lank red-gold hair, liberally threaded with white, fell to her shoulders. With a sigh, she passed a ringed hand over her unkempt tresses before she peered at me again. “Something is different. I find you quite changed.”

  “Perhaps the beard, Your Majesty?” I suggested.

  “No, you had a beard last time, though it wasn’t as fancy.” She startled me with her recollection. Feeling every woman’s eyes in the room on me, I said gently, “I have grown out my hair and put on some weight, Your Majesty.”

  She brightened. “Yes, that’s it. You’re heavier.” She looked inordinately pleased she’d deduced the change. Then, as if a cloud had passed over the sun, her expression darkened. If I was heavier, I could almost hear her think, where had I been? In whose pay? Under whose roof?

  Her next words were barbed. “Perhaps we’d have recognized you earlier if you had deigned to attend us at court before today. We seem to recall issuing an invitation when we were still in Framlingham, offering you a post in our service.”

  “Yes, Majesty, I beg your pardon for my untimely delay. I thought it best to absent myself from court for a time.” I lowered my voice and took a step closer, seeing her draw in a breath at my intimate tone. “I feared there might be some here who would not appreciate my having betrayed their trust. Though I would gladly put myself in jeopardy again for your cause, I had no desire to risk my life unnecessarily.”

  She went quiet, looking at me, before she took a small step back, restoring the proper distance between us. “We understand. And we assure you, you are completely safe. We’ve not forgotten how you rendered us valuable service.” She held out her right hand to me, adorned with her coronation ring. As I leaned over to kiss it, I let out a sigh under my breath. Cecil had been right: I still had her trust.

  Then I heard her say, “Though you should remember in the future, we do not like our invitations being ignored. Your former master learned that lesson the hard way.”

  A chill crept up my spine. I righted myself. She clapped her hands, eliciting another round of barking. As the ladies dug through the piles, Mary said to me, “We should discuss the reason for your visit. Rochester tells me you’ve come to seek employment?”

  “If I may be so bold,” I said. Lady Clarencieux handed her a bolt of canary yellow satin. I glanced to the window seat where young Mistress Dormer sat, caressing her dog. She blushed when I winked at her.

  Mary held the yellow fabric to her chin. “Well? What do you think?”

  I started. The queen tapped her foot. I caught Lady Clarencieux’s amused regard. Was the queen offering me a post in her wardrobe? “It’s … rather bright,” I said helplessly.

  “At last, someone who speaks the truth, Majesty,” said a rough-silk voice, and a woman unlike any I had ever seen stepped forth.

  She must have been sitting, hidden, in one of the window bays, for I would have noticed her. I couldn’t have done otherwise; she was the kind of a woman I could not help but notice. She wasn’t beautiful in the popular sense. Her figure was too slim, despite the shapeliness of her breast and hips, and her features too distinctive in their chiseled perfection. Her luminous skin enhanced deep-set eyes of startling violet-blue, a thin nose, and angular cheekbones that gave her face an almost feline cast. The overall effect of aristocratic frigidity was softened by her seductive, full-lipped mouth, which hinted of voluptuous promise just simmering under her surface. Hair the color of autumn gold was coiled into an elaborate coiffure under her small pearl-edged cap, showing off her fashionably plucked brow. As she glided to the queen’s side I noted her elegance of movement, as well as her distinctive cap sleeves and stiff triangular skirts. She wore a fashion that set her apart from the other ladies present.

  Mary groaned and let the sample drop at her feet. “What, then?” she asked. “It’s been hours already and I’m weary of all this.” She waved her hand at the mess in the room.

  The woman turned to me. I heard a hint of challenge in her voice. “Perhaps we can impose on Your Majesty’s friend for a suggestion? He is a man, yes?”

  The queen frowned. “I hardly think Master Beecham is in a position to…” Her voice faded as I moved assuredly to a nearby table heaped with samples. I scrutinized them, lifting and discarded several before I settled on a plum velvet shot with gold.

  “This one,” I said.

  Mary took it from me. As she held it up to her face, the ladies oohed in chorus. It was, thankfully, a perfect choice, the rich purple hue distracting from Mary’s wan skin while lending her faded hair luster. It didn’t hurt that it was also the preferred color of royalty. When in doubt with a queen, always choose purple.

  “All this time and all we needed, it seems, was a man.” The woman laughed—a delicious throaty laugh that issued from low in her chest. She extended her hand to me. “Allow me to present myself. I am Mistress Sybilla Darrier.”

  I leaned over her extended fingers, detecting a unique scent. “A pleasure, my lady,” I said. “Have you been in France? You smell of lilies.”

  Sybilla’s eyes widened.

  Mary said, “I see you are as perceptive as ever, Master Beecham. Indeed, Mistress Darrier has recently returned to England after many years abroad.”

  I assumed as much. Besides the unusual scent, it explained her distinctive apparel.

  “She hails from Lincolnshire,” added Mary, turning again to the looking glass to assess the sample against her complexion. “Master Beecham, weren’t you also born there?”

  I went still. She had not forgotten a thing about me, it seemed.

  “Indeed.” I smiled to hide my consternation. “But as Your Majesty may recall, I left following my parents’ deaths. The Sweat,” I added, with a sad shake of my head in Sybilla’s direction. “I was left an orphan while still a child.”

  “How terrible,” she murmured. If I’d hoped to gain a revelation from her in return, I was disappointed, but I thought I caught a flash of interest in her eyes. My alias was one Cecil had assigned me, the persona of the sole surviving son of a client family of his. The real Daniel Beecham, like the rest of his kin, was dead. The family had been minor gentry, unlikely to have mingled with someone of Sybilla’s evident rank, but I couldn’t be too cautious. I didn’t want this woman to see me as a fellow shire man, well versed in the area.

  Then she said softly, “It has been many years since I, too, lef
t Lincolnshire. I scarcely remember it.”

  She had indeed left quite young, as she appeared to be in her early twenties, not much older than me. I was relieved.

  “And how do you find England,” I asked, “after so long an absence?”

  Her eyes met mine—piercing, like a cat’s. “I hardly know. I am still a stranger here.”

  At that moment Rochester called from behind the room’s curtain, “Majesty, His Excellency Simon Renard requests audience.”

  Sybilla cast another enigmatic smile at me before she curtsied and returned to the ladies. As she sat beside Mistress Dormer, I saw the girl clutch her spaniel closer. Sybilla reached out to caress the dog’s ears. It did not snarl at her.

  “Ah, Don Renard!” Mary beamed as a trim man in somber black came into the room. “Am I late for our appointment?”

  “Majestad.” The Emperor Charles V’s envoy, Simon Renard, raised her hand to his lips. “If you are not ready for me, then it is I who must be early.”

  As I saw Mary smile, I took a moment to gauge the ambassador. He had the effortless carriage of a career court official, with everything about him—from his perfect spade-shaped beard to his polished shoes and manicured doublet of expensive black velvet—denoting a man accustomed to moving in circles of high power. He was of moderate height, unimpressive physically, but his small brown eyes were discerning in his modestly handsome face, and I noticed how he scanned the room with expert dissimulation, taking note of each of its occupants, including me.

  This was a man who might appear at ease but was always on his guard.

  Mary pouted. “I’ve been looking at samples all morning and having quite a time of it. I do so want to look my best when the time comes. What do you think of this?” She thrust the plum velvet sample at him. “Master Beecham says it suits, and my ladies seem to agree. But will His Highness like it?”

  Half-glancing at the cloth, Renard froze. Mary seemed utterly unaware of what she’d just said aloud, but as the ambassador shifted his hooded gaze to me, I understood. The portrait in the corner that the queen’s lady had hastily covered: It was of Philip, the emperor’s son, and this preoccupation about her apparel—it must have something do with the prince as well. Was Mary seeking the right hue for her wedding attire?

  “Any shade would suit Your Majesty, though I find this one a bit dark.” Renard straightened his shoulders. “You say this … gentleman here selected it for you?” He turned to me. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Mary blinked in evident disappointment that he hadn’t endorsed my choice, obliging her to return to the tedium of looking through more samples. She barely hid her dejection as she said, “Don Renard, this is Daniel Beecham. You recall my mentioning him to you before? He’s the one Cecil sent with the warning that Robert Dudley was coming after me. Because of his message, I was able to escape to Framlingham Castle, gather my troops, and defeat Northumberland.”

  “Ah, yes.” The ambassador’s practiced smile did not touch his eyes. “So, this is the mysterious Master Beecham. I understand you undertook significant risk to assist Her Majesty in her time of need.” He paused. “Do you still work for Secretary Cecil?”

  Mary’s terse look indicated she was as interested as Renard in my answer.

  I shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. “I left his employ some time ago. Given his reduced circumstances, he could no longer afford my services.”

  “I see.” Renard’s stare bored at me. “And these services consisted of…?”

  I paused, glancing at the queen. As far as I was concerned, what had gone between us remained confidential. I had no idea how much she had told Renard.

  “If Her Majesty would grant me leave, I’d be happy to elaborate,” I said. “Though given our present company, I fear it would make for tedious conversation.”

  “I doubt that,” said Renard sharply, but Mary let out a guffaw.

  “Now, now, Don Renard,” she chided. “Not everyone from the past is a potential enemy. Master Beecham may have served the duke’s secretary, but so did many others, and with far less integrity, I might add. I have assured him he’s welcome here.” She went silent, her brow creasing. “Perhaps we might find him a position on your staff? You, of all men, are best positioned to appreciate his talents.”

  Renard’s smile vanished. The opportunity was too perfect to pass up.

  “I do have experience working for men of distinction, Excellency,” I offered, “and I am literate in several languages, including Spanish.”

  I was, too, at least partially. I could only hope he’d not put me to the test.

  “Is that so?” The ambassador’s tone was icy. “As impressive as it sounds, I regret to say I’ve no need for another English clerk at this time.”

  No, I thought, clerks, especially English ones, tend to gossip; and it would not do for there to be more speculation concerning his dealings to betroth Mary to Philip.

  “Begging Your Excellency’s pardon, but I do not seek a post as a clerk. Unlike most men, I prefer to work outside confined spaces. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement?”

  Renard regarded me with slitted eyes. He’d not expected me to press my suit so boldly.

  Mary said, “Indeed. And I owe him a debt I wish to repay.” Her insinuation was not lost on Renard. While he’d clearly rather see me cleaning cesspits, he could not gainsay the queen. He inclined his head to her. “I am your devoted servant.”

  “Good. I’ll leave you to settle it.” Mary motioned to her women. “Now, I must change for the council meeting. Don Renard, wait for me. We’ve business to discuss beforehand. Master Beecham,” she said, as I bowed once more, “it’s been a pleasure. I hope we’ll have the chance to meet again. You must let me know how you get on in your new post.”

  Without awaiting my response, she swept through an opposite doorway, her women behind her, the little fleet of dogs yipping at their heels.

  All of a sudden, I was alone with the ambassador.

  “It seems you’ve more talents than I supposed,” Renard remarked.

  “And I hope to employ them all in Your Excellency’s service,” I replied.

  “We’ll see about that. Shall we say tomorrow, at around nine?” It was not a request. As I lowered my head, he abruptly crossed the space between us to seize my hand. He had an unexpectedly strong grip, more suited to a sportsman than one who made a living with his quill. “No need for that,” he said. “We’re just ordinary men who wish to serve, yes?”

  I stepped back. His cordial words were anything but. He’d been maneuvered into a position of compliance, and he didn’t like it. But I had achieved my aim. I now had the chance to infiltrate his office and discover his plans.

  “Rochester can give you directions,” he added, moving to the queen’s sideboard. He poured himself a goblet from the wrought-silver decanter. He did not offer me one.

  It was a dismissal. I had already turned to leave when a voice said, “Master Beecham?”

  I looked over my shoulder. Sybilla stood in the doorway of the queen’s private chambers, a folded paper in her hands. “Her Majesty is holding a banquet tonight for the Hapsburg delegation and hopes you can join us.” She gave me the paper, stamped with the royal seal. “This invitation from her will secure you a seat,” she explained.

  As I took the note, I felt her fingertips graze mine.

  Renard drew in an audible hiss of breath.

  “Until tonight,” murmured Sybilla, and she retreated.

  I did not realize I was still looking at the empty doorway through which she’d disappeared until the ambassador said coldly, “Are you also in the market for a noble-born wife, Master Beecham?”

  I turned to him. “Alas, I cannot afford the privilege quite yet. But should my circumstances change…” I let my insinuation linger, gratified to see his eyes darken as he stared at me over his goblet.

  “I suggest you look elsewhere,” he snapped. “Mistress Darrier is already spoken for.”

>   Though I didn’t look at him again, I felt his stare follow me as I left the room, like the tip of a dagger poised between my shoulder blades.

  It did not escape me that he had issued a warning.

  Chapter Five

  Rochester gave me directions to Renard’s office—a series of turns and passages I hoped I’d remember—along with his effusive congratulations. “Well done! Don Renard is a fine man to work for, upright and devoted to Her Majesty’s interests. You’d be hard-pressed to find a better post at court.” He winked. “Or, I’ll wager, one better suited to make your fortune. I hear these Hapsburg officials piss ducats.”

  Amused, I thanked him again for his kindness and took the staircase to the painting-hung gallery. Outside the mullioned bays, I saw the snow had stopped. A wan sun struggled to cast off winter’s pall, shedding anemic light into the courtyards.

  I ruminated on what I had learned thus far. I had seen a portrait of Philip of Spain in Mary’s private rooms, a sure sign that she was seriously considering, if she had not already accepted, the Hapsburg offer of marriage. Elizabeth’s absence from the queen’s chambers was telling, too, suggesting a possible rift between the queen and her sister. Elizabeth went riding every morning with Courtenay; if he was supporting an anti-Hapsburg faction, might she be utilizing her friendship with him to indicate her own disfavor with a Spanish union for the queen? It would be typical of her: By not saying anything out loud, she was in fact stating her position quite clearly.

  I turned my thoughts to Renard. He had no reason to trust me, a stranger who had arrived at court with nothing save my past actions on the queen’s behalf to commend me. I had added to his suspicions by showing influence with Mary and coercing him to offer me a post. What awaited me tomorrow at our meeting?

  I also wondered about Sybilla, an Englishwoman raised abroad, newly returned to England, and, according to Renard, “spoken for.” I wasn’t the most experienced when it came to women, but I knew jealousy when I heard it, and the ambassador spoke like a covetous man. Yet Sybilla had engaged me on purpose with her subtle flirtations, and she had done it before him. Why? What connection, if any, did she have with Renard?