It brought a lump to my throat as we proceeded into the chapel. The scent of incense lay thick in the enclosed air, and while this private place of worship was not large, a deep sense of intimacy pervaded it. Frail winter light pierced the jeweled stained-glass windows set high in the stone walls, gilding the painted columns of the transept and carved angels entwined above the purple-velvet-draped altar.
I’d never heard a Catholic service before, but as I took my place in the pew and the priest began to recite the litany, the rhythmic cadence of his Latin brought me unexpected peace. I allowed myself to release the fury and sorrow for a few moments and pay homage to the boy I would always remember, my intrepid friend and companion whom I’d not valued as much as I should.
“God in heaven,” said the priest, “those who die will live in your divine presence. We lift our prayers to you and your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, who died for our sins and now lives in eternity. May the souls of our beloved departed ones rejoice in your kingdom, where tears are wiped away and your praises are sung forever and ever. Amen.”
I made the sign of the cross, startled by my instinctual memory of the act. Mistress Alice had taught me in my childhood; she had remained steadfast to the vanquished Roman practices of old, but it had been years since I had performed it. Though it was ingrained into the very weft of our world, the root of hatred and disorder, I’d rarely had the luxury of considering my place in the afterlife; I’d been too busy trying to protect my hide in this one. Still, as the queen rose from her pew and I marked the genuine devotion on her face, I envied her ability to seek solace in dusty, time-honored rituals. No matter how much faith I lacked, I would never forget what she had done for me this day.
Outside the chapel, I bowed again over her hand. “May your squire find swift passage through purgatory into the kingdom of heaven,” Mary murmured and she returned with her ladies to her rooms. I stared after her for a long moment and was about to walk away when the apartment door reopened. Sybilla emerged. She quickly shut the door behind her, with a furtiveness that made me think she was slipping out unseen.
“Shall we walk?” she asked.
We moved into a gallery, where the chill seeping through the walls was smothered by ornamental tapestries, smoke-darkened paintings, and wrought-iron sconces festooned in melted cascades of wax. The evening tapers, now burned to nubs, were being collected by servants to be melted and recast, candles being one of the court’s largest expenses. Icy sunlight filtered through window bays overlooking the gardens; beyond the mullioned panes arched a brilliant cloudless sky—one of those astonishing skies that turned the winter-bound landscape into a glittering wonder and almost made you forget the long, bitter months yet to come.
At length, Sybilla broke the quiet. “Did you keep your appointment?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Although it did not go quite as I expected.”
“Few things do.” I met her violet-blue eyes. Her brow creased. “You seem perturbed. Did you discover something that troubles you?”
Now that we were alone together, I recalled how she had touched me in my chamber moments after Peregrine had died in my arms, how she had been concerned for me and offered to help. I’d just discovered that Rochester was more than he appeared; that while he loved and cared for the queen, he evidently didn’t wish to see Elizabeth fall to Renard’s wiles.
Might this enigmatic woman also be of value to me?
“I want to thank you for your assistance yesterday,” I said. “It was very kind, considering I am a stranger to you.” As I spoke, I could trace the stroke of her hand with the cloth over my bare skin, her throaty whisper: Tell me who you are …
“There’s no need to thank me. I know what it is like to lose someone.” She came to a halt before an alcove. “And I hope we’re not strangers anymore. Indeed, I know far less of you than you do of me. No doubt you’ve already been apprised of my own misfortunes.”
“No,” I said, surprised. “I assure you, I have not.”
“But Renard hired you. Surely he made some mention of me?”
“He did, but he didn’t say anything … Well, he did say one thing. He told me you were spoken for. I assumed he meant to warn me away.”
“Did you?” She gave a taut smile and sat on the window seat. As I perched beside her, she arranged her skirts. “Simon Renard is my benefactor,” she said. “He took pity on my mother, sister, and me after we left England.” She lifted her gaze to me. The impact was almost visceral; I’d never met any woman except Elizabeth who had such intense purpose in her expression. “My father and three brothers were executed for participating in the Pilgrimage of Grace. The king placed our family under attainder of treason.”
I knew about the Pilgrimage of Grace. It started in Yorkshire as an initial demonstration to challenge King Henry’s supremacy over the Church and his confiscation of its benefices. Anne Boleyn was dead and Henry had wed Jane Seymour, but it hadn’t stopped his and Lord Cromwell’s drive to accumulate ecclesiastic wealth. Henry placated the Yorkshire dissenters by promising to hear their grievances. Once he fulfilled his promise, he had Cromwell dispatch an army against them.
Over two hundred men and women in Yorkshire had died by the king’s command.
“I was just a child,” said Sybilla, “but I learned firsthand what defiance can bring. The king did not impose punishment directly on us because we were women, but the result was still the same. His attainder left us penniless, without hope of a future. So my mother took us abroad, first to France and later to Spain.”
I recalled Jane Dormer’s spiteful words the night of the feast: And you, my lady, should be more careful, given your family’s history …
“Is that where you met Renard?” I asked. “He mentioned that he’d served as ambassador to the French court.”
“Yes. He saw us settled in Spain.” She paused, as if the memory pained her. “We had nothing to commend us, but he had heard of my father and brother’s actions. Those who died in York were declared traitors here, but abroad, in Catholic courts, they were revered as martyrs. Renard found my mother a post in the Spanish Hapsburg court as lady-in-waiting to the empress; my sister and I became his wards. When the empress died a few years later, we attended Charles’s daughters, the infantas. It was at Renard’s behest that I came here to serve Her Majesty.”
“I see.” I did not betray my curiosity. She was Renard’s ward: It explained his covetousness of her. Why, though, was she confiding in me?
I decided to opt for the direct approach. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully before she leaned close. Her distinctive perfume flooded my senses. “I told you, I want to help you.”
I sat still. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Oh,” she said softly, “I think you do. You were almost poisoned because of it. You must have considered by now that the man who left that note in your room is the same one who hired you. After all, Renard’s ultimate goal is to—” She suddenly drew back as a burst of laughter preceded a group of courtiers entering the gallery.
In their midst, her hood crumpled about her shoulders, her hair like damp flame, walked Elizabeth.
Urian tugged on the lead in her hand. Her laughter rang out, high and effervescent. As she neared us, she twirled about to wag her finger at a tall man in dark damask, wearing a large feathered cap. “Enough of that, my lord. I vow, one day you’ll go too far. Do you think me a hive to take in your honeyed words?”
It was then that I realized the man bore his arm in a black silk sling.
Edward Courtenay.
Disbelief kept me frozen to my seat. He did not look much worse for the arm-twisting I’d given him; that ridiculous sling seemed donned almost as an accessory as he made a move toward Elizabeth with his free hand and she tossed her head, dancing away. The others accompanying them were also young and privileged, strutting with costumed elegance. Elizabeth’s ladies trailed behind, looking less enthusi
astic.
Sybilla started to her feet. “Get up!” she hissed at me. As I rose, I bit back my fury. Gossip could spread faster than lice at court, but surely Elizabeth didn’t yet know about Peregrine. She wouldn’t be laughing and sauntering with Courtenay if she did. Nevertheless, I tasted iron in the back of my throat. Even if she didn’t know, how could she continue to indulge Courtenay? Did she deliberately invoke disaster?
She acted as if she hadn’t seen us like statues in the alcove, until Urian barked in joyous recognition and tore the lead from her hand, leaping toward me.
Elizabeth stopped. She turned to us. As I grappled with the dog, I murmured, “Your Grace,” and at my side Sybilla dropped into a curtsy.
Courtenay strode up, saw me petting Urian, and swerved angrily to Elizabeth to hiss, “Is that him?” She gave a terse nod. Caressing the dog’s chilled silvery fur, I braved a look at her. Her eyes had gone cold; I knew that look. She was warning me not to say a word.
“Fancy that,” guffawed Courtenay. “So the dirty cur did not lie. But really, cousin Bess, you must choose your dogs more carefully next time. This one’s a rogue.”
Only her quick, probing glance at Sybilla betrayed Elizabeth’s anxiety. I suddenly understood. Courtenay must have questioned her about me, demanding to know if I was her hireling before complying with my request. The man was bold; I had to give him that. I’d held a knife to his throat, nearly broken his arm, and threatened to report everything I knew if he didn’t do as I bid, and still he’d taken the chance.
Now Elizabeth was doing what she must to protect me.
She yanked at the lead—“Urian, come!”—and proceeded down the gallery.
Courtenay turned to me with a sneer. “Fancy that. I had a mind to have you cut into pieces so small not even your mother would recognize you. Now it seems I must play along. Tomorrow at the stable gate, at the stroke of one.” He cast an appraising look at Sybilla. “My lady Darrier,” he purred, “if I were you, I’d be more circumspect in choosing those with whom I idle away my time. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re consorting with the enemy, now would we?”
He clucked his tongue in mock reproof before he strode after Elizabeth. As the princess’s ladies moved past us, I caught sight of her favored matron, Blanche Parry, among them. She looked haggard.
My hands curled into fists. I almost forgot Sybilla was at my side until I heard her say, “She’s as reckless as her mother Anne Boleyn ever was, and as heedless of danger. But if she continues to play this game, no amount of courage can save her. The earl is without scruple; he will lead her straight to disaster.”
I drew in a shallow breath, mastering my emotion. I realized I, too, could be in acute peril now, seeing as I’d just been unmasked by the earl, callously revealed as Elizabeth’s secret agent before a woman I hardly knew—a woman who, by her own admission, was beholden to Renard for her living.
“Why do you say that?” I looked at her. “Do you know the earl personally? He spoke as if you did.”
She smiled. “I know of him; who at court does not? He was rather vociferous about his aspirations, declaring to all who cared to listen that he considered himself the most suitable candidate to wed the queen, encouraged by his ally on the council, Bishop Gardiner. I also know, though it’s far less public, that Mary was amenable to the possibility until the Hapsburg delegation arrived. Then she rejected Courtenay outright. He’s not apt to forgive the insult; I think he uses Princess Elizabeth to instill such fear of an uprising in her sister’s name that Mary will return her consideration to him.”
There was no avoiding her intimation now. She had divulged too much knowledge of matters that she should know nothing about.
“You are well informed,” I said. “I understand now why you thought Renard might have told me about you. He’s using you to spy on the queen, isn’t he?”
She did not flinch, didn’t even try to feign protest. “I’m not proud of it, but yes, I spy for him.” She paused, meeting my stare. “The fact that he didn’t tell you about me means more than you think. He must not trust you. Indeed, I believe he is the one who wants you dead.”
I remembered the words on the paper: You cannot save her. Had it been Renard’s message? Had he decided to hire me because the queen had ordered it, only to then do away with me? If so, then he probably suspected that I was, in fact, Elizabeth’s man.
“I have no doubt someone wants me dead,” I replied. “But at the moment, I’m more interested in why you are warning me against the very man you work for.”
Though her tone didn’t change, the tightening of her mouth betrayed a carefully contained vehemence. “Because I detest him. Since I was a child, I’ve been bound to his will. He made me spy for him at the Hapsburg court from the moment I shed my first blood; you have no idea what he’s capable of. He’ll ingratiate himself with the emperor at any cost, which is why he fears Courtenay. The earl would be a more popular choice for the queen’s husband than any foreign prince, and if enough pressure is brought to bear, Mary could decide the same. Should that occur, Renard will lose the emperor’s favor and be condemned to a lifetime of menial labor as an ambassador. Hence his order that I report everything I hear and see in the queen’s apartments.”
Her revelations sickened me, but I was not surprised. It was all part of Renard’s drive to incriminate the earl—a rival for Mary’s hand—as well as his seemingly preternatural influence over the queen herself. The royal apartments were her refuge; only there could she feel at ease. No doubt she’d discussed in the privacy of those rooms her fears concerning Philip, as well as her misgivings about Elizabeth and Courtenay.
Renard knew it all. Through Sybilla, he had bored his way into Mary’s heart.
“I appreciate your candor,” I said at length, “and I assure you, your confidences are safe with me. But if what you say is true, you mustn’t risk yourself for my sake.”
She gave a brief laugh. “You flatter me if you think I am that selfless. Renard spoke the truth when he told you I was spoken for. He would wed me to the Duke of Feria, that same grandee who watched your squire die in your arms. I’m to be sent to Spain to live out my days as Feria’s wife—unless I act. I still have time, you see; my marriage is contingent on Renard fulfilling all of the emperor’s demands. Only then will Feria consent to take me as his bride. I do not intend to waste whatever time I have left.”
Dread coiled about me. “What demands must Renard fulfill?”
“You already know. His Imperial Majesty doesn’t much care for his son to marry an older queen with a younger, heretic sister as her heir—not if said sister will wreck his plans for England if the queen dies without a child. Renard must do more than put Philip in Mary’s bed; he must ensure that Elizabeth does not survive it.”
I did not reply at first. I gauged her in silence, aware that she could be trying to mislead me, luring me into compliance so she could betray me to Renard. I found only a stark candor in her eyes, almost as if she were indifferent to the devastating truths she had just confessed. I knew she wasn’t. Under her elegant facade smoldered an ardor for vengeance more than capable of destroying anyone who came between her and her freedom. Ardor like hers could be a potent weapon.
“It seems you know everyone’s secrets,” I finally said.
“Not everyone’s,” she replied, “but I do know Renard’s. I understand how he operates. I will use whatever I can against him. I want him ruined. I want him chained to some backwater post for the rest of his days. I’ll not be beholden to him or any man again, not if I can avoid it.”
My wariness thawed into admiration. She might be a stranger to me in many respects, but I understood her, for I had felt the same helplessness myself. Ever since I’d been old enough to realize the world had no empathy for the powerless, I’d also fought to survive, just as Sybilla did. She sought freedom after years of living under Renard’s heel, as I’d once lived under Robert Dudley’s. Renard was cruel, calculating, and ruthless—like th
e man I’d served. He believed he deserved better and was willing to do anything to achieve it.
I felt the collapse of my brittle defense. As if she sensed it, Sybilla bridged the space between us with a single step. This time, I couldn’t evade her touch, even as a fleeting image of Kate went through me. I was riveted by Sybilla’s gaze, by the heat of her proximity …
“Don’t you see?” she asked. “I must be free of him. You seek to protect the princess, and I seek to save myself, so let us work together. Let me help you find the proof you need.”
“No,” I said haltingly. I tried to step back. “I cannot ask this of—”
“You did not ask.” She leaned to me and quenched my breath. Her lips were like scorched velvet; as they grazed mine, desire exploded in me, hot and fierce.
Without another word, she turned away and went back down the gallery, the hem of her black gown swirling about her feet. In minutes she’d rounded the corner and vanished, yet as I stood motionless, I felt as if she were still before me, as if she had branded her very presence onto my skin, and I had already began to surrender to the unthinkable.
* * *
I returned to my room, my mind in a whirlwind. Grabbing my cloak and cap, I went to the stables, saddled Cinnabar, and cantered from the palace. I kept seeing Sybilla in my head; I had to fight back the memory of what I had felt with her. I couldn’t lose my self-control. Not now. Not with so much at stake. It was a momentary failing: I was grieving Peregrine and suffering the effects of living under prolonged tension at court. I was flesh and bone, beset by the frailties of any man; it did not mean I was faithless. I wouldn’t lie to myself by denying my attraction to Sybilla, but I would never betray Kate, nor take advantage of a woman so clearly entrapped by her circumstances.
Still, I found myself riding through London in a haze, besieged by my own inner tumult, almost passing the church of All Hallows. I reined Cinnabar to an abrupt halt, causing him to snort in displeasure at my sharp pull on his mouth.
The Tudor Conspiracy Page 14
