The Tudor Conspiracy

by C. W. Gortner

  “More trickery!” Renard lunged to snatch the tube from my hand.

  Holding it aloft from him, I said to the queen, “This is evidence of a conspiracy against Your Majesty—evidence Don Renard himself hired me to obtain.”

  Renard came to a halt, his face draining to a chalky hue. Mary regarded him for a lengthy moment before she held out her hand. She took the tube from me, turning to her cluttered desk to unfold it, perusing and discarding each letter in utter silence, until she’d let all eight fall from her ringed fingers to the blotter and had gone rigid, her gaze fixed on me. When she spoke, her voice was calm, which only increased my admiration for her.

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “I have been most diligent in my task.” I paused, despising the fact that I had to protect Dudley and sacrifice the earl in his stead, even if it was for Elizabeth’s sake. “I believe those letters prove my lord of Devon has been led into a rebellious plot aimed at forcing you to accede to his demands or suffer the consequences.”

  Her jaw tightened. “So it appears. Yet you said this matter concerned my sister. How?”

  “When he hired me, Don Renard expressed belief that she, too, was involved,” I replied. “I have found no evidence of it.”

  Mary swerved to Renard, her voice sharp. “You assured me otherwise.”

  “Your Majesty, I am as taken aback as you are,” he replied. I almost envied his self-control. He seemed impervious, though his future hung in the balance. I wished I could tell Mary what kind of man he truly was—what he had done to Sybilla Darrier and her mother; what he might yet try to do to Elizabeth—but I, too, had secrets to hide. I could not risk being exposed as Elizabeth’s agent until I was sure the princess was safe.

  Sarcasm tinged Mary’s tone. “I find that hard to believe, Don Renard, considering all your spies and expense. I cannot count the number of times I myself have provided funds for your endeavors through my own privy purse, so intent were on you on this theory of my sister and Courtenay’s falsehood. Yet now you’d have me believe you had no idea that the earl was plotting to betray me with these other lords, many of whom I’ve received with honor at this court and forgiven past grievances?”

  To my satisfaction, the ambassador was starting to look panicked. “Your Majesty must forgive me,” he said warily, “but compelling as this so-called evidence may seem, we cannot yet be sure it offers proof of anything. We must verify the letters’ authenticity. And even if they prove real, this rebellion must be disorganized at best, seeing as I indeed gleaned no rumor of it. Perhaps the earl has managed to rally a handful of malcontents, but it’s hardly cause for—”

  “Hardly cause!” Mary exclaimed. “It is treason, señor, treason of the highest order. And they shall pay for it, make no mistake. I will see every last one of them in the Tower.”

  Renard pursed his lips. In that chilling moment, I divined his ploy. He would dismiss the very proof before his eyes, delay even Courtenay’s arrest if he could, if it meant Elizabeth might still be taken. A rebellion offered possibilities; something might yet be found to prove her involvement.

  Mary was staring at him in astonishment, recognizing his diffidence, though she didn’t understand the reason behind it. “I can hardly believe my ears! Time and time again you warned me of treachery in our midst, yet now you disregard the very man we hired to uncover it? Disorganized or not, it is still a planned uprising by nobles of this realm—subjects all, who’d dare arm themselves against me. They must be apprehended, an end put to their schemes.” She suddenly faltered, reaching for the back of a chair. “God save us, should the emperor learn of it, he’ll refuse to let Philip come here, for fear of his very life!”

  As Renard’s face turned thunderous at this, her open admission before me of her plan to wed the Spanish prince, I despised him even more. Despite what I knew of her religious intolerance, of her antipathy for Elizabeth and cherished dream of returning England to Rome, I couldn’t find it in myself to dislike her. Mary Tudor wasn’t a cruel woman, only a deeply misguided one. Renard was the serpent. Just as he’d assiduously worked toward Elizabeth’s downfall, so had he preyed on Mary’s innate lack of guile, stirring up the torments of the past and undermining her fragile confidence.

  My sentiments had no place here, though. Only with the queen focused on Courtenay and his accomplices could I hope to fulfill my mission.

  “We could question the earl,” suggested Renard, as if the option had just occurred to him. “If it is your command, we can arrest him and obtain the information we need. This plot cannot have gone so far that we cannot stop it before we announce the betrothal at Hampton Court. By the time word reaches the emperor, it will be over. Your Majesty will have asserted your might, the conspirators will have been imprisoned, and neither the emperor nor Prince Philip will have anything to fear.”

  Mary released her grip on the chair. “Then do so. Have the warrant prepared this very hour; I will sign it before the council.”

  Renard bowed, curtly motioning to me to accompany him.

  Mary said, “No. Master Beecham stays. I would have a word with him. Alone.”

  I couldn’t have hoped for more. Renard knew it. For a telling fraction of a second, his gaze met mine in fury before he stalked out, closing the door on the anxious women in the antechamber, all of whom must have heard the queen’s outcry, if not her actual words.

  Mary dropped onto her chair. She didn’t speak, regarding me with an opaque intensity that seeped under my skin. “Why do you defend my sister so unremittingly?” she finally asked. “Don Renard has been convinced from the start that she’s had a hand in a plot against my person, indeed that she despises me and seeks my throne. He has many more years of intelligent judgment in such matters than you.”

  I cleared my throat, realizing I stood on a knife’s edge. “I only did as I was bade, Majesty. Don Renard hired me to investigate both the earl and the Lady Elizabeth, and I found no evidence of her participation. She is innocent of any wrongdoing, though the ambassador may claim otherwise.”

  “Innocent, you say? Then I fear you do not know my sister at all. Elizabeth has never been innocent. From the day she entered this world, she has been steeped in sin.”

  Dread iced my veins. “I assure you, there is nothing to indicate she ever plotted—”

  Her acrid laughter cut me off. “No, there isn’t, is there? And there never will be.” She stood. “Despite Renard’s dedication, his copious bribes of my courtiers and payments to spies, riffraff, and the like, she has eluded him. She’s too clever, like the viper you do not see until it bites. But she is not innocent. With or without evidence, I know it here, in my heart. I only need to take one look at her to know what it is she desires.”

  She turned to the window, her voice low, as though she spoke to herself. “I’ve watched her, day after day, ever since she came to my court. Flaunting her youth and witch’s beauty, whispering, always whispering; luring others to do her deeds like her mother before her. Elizabeth wants me to suffer. She wants me to know that no matter what, I will never have peace. Without marriage, I cannot bear a child to supplant her in the succession; without a husband, I will die a virgin. That is what she desires. She lives for the hour when she can take my crown and call it her own.”

  When she turned back to me, I saw in her pale gray eyes the flickering ember of something horrible, unstoppable. Those eyes probed at me, seeking a flaw in the very texture of my face, so she might confirm the relentless hatred that had begun to consume her. “Who’s to say she did not know of Courtenay’s plot?” she asked in a dead-quiet voice. “Who’s to say she knew and gave her consent, knowing my ruin would be her gain? She might have kept herself apart from the planning, knowing the risk her involvement would entail, but it would not stop her—no, not her, not the daughter of Anne Boleyn.”

  I stood silent, my throat dry as bone. In her expression and words, Mary revealed she had gone beyond reconciliation. Even if Elizabeth managed to escape with her
life, there was no denying that she had lost her sister forever. Henceforth, they would be at odds until one of them breathed no more. Cecil’s prediction had come true: They were destined to be mortal enemies.

  Mary returned to her desk, composed again, resigned to what came next. “I want to believe you,” she said, “and without proof of her guilt, I can do nothing else. But for now I do not want her near me; wherever I am, she must be elsewhere. Before she departs, however, I will look her in the eye. I will ask her to her face if she knew anything about”—she swept her hand over the letters—“this vile business. Go now. Bring her to me. Tell her the queen of England would see her.”

  I bowed and had started to retreat to the doors when she added, “You will continue to investigate every detail of this conspiracy. Courtenay may not confess to everything or he may not know. He was never a clever man; he couldn’t have organized this alone. And I expect loyalty, Master Beecham. If you think to conceal anything from me, if you dare try to protect anyone to my detriment, remember that yours is the life which will be forfeit.”

  “Majesty,” I murmured, and I left her.

  * * *

  I strode through the officials crowded outside the queen’s apartments. In less than an hour, the gallery had filled to capacity, and all eyes marked me as I passed, gauging my importance now that I’d been closeted alone with the queen. I did not spot Renard; he must have gone to prepare Courtenay’s arrest. I did see Rochester among those present, talking to an anxious-looking man in a bishop’s robe, who I assumed was Courtenay’s patron, Gardiner. I made to pause, catching Rochester’s troubled glance.

  He turned away pointedly, as if he did not recognize me.

  I could hardly blame him. I moved onward, down the staircase into the lower gallery, where courtiers had converged to speculate. Already word had leaked out that something of importance had happened. By early afternoon at the latest, all Whitehall would be buzzing with news of the earl’s fall.

  I had a sudden pang as I thought of Courtenay. He would surely die for this; after having survived years of imprisonment in the Tower, his own actions had led him to the scaffold. Though he wasn’t a pleasant man, nor, as the queen had surmised, a particularly clever one, I was relieved I could still feel pity for him, and angry regret that I’d had to expose his dealings, despite my promise to him. For all his misdeeds, he didn’t deserve this.

  Dudley did.

  Then I came to a halt. I did not know where Elizabeth lodged. Raking a hand through my matted hair, I saw courtiers staring at me in unabashed disgust. All of a sudden, I was aware of my unkempt person. Must I approach one of these mincing peacocks to ask—

  “Master Beecham! Master Beecham, wait a moment!”

  I turned to see Mistress Dormer hastening down the staircase, holding up fistfuls of her skirts, exposing thin ankles in gray hose. “Her Majesty asked me to accompany you,” she explained, breathless. “The rooms you seek are a distance away, and she thought you’d need help finding them, seeing as you’ve not been there before.”

  I smiled faintly in gratitude. With a toss of her pretty head, Jane Dormer led me past the courtiers, who immediately leaned to each other to whisper.

  “Where did you leave Blackie?” I asked, hoping to distract her from uncomfortable questions concerning my meeting with the queen.

  “With Lady Clarencieux. He’ll have to learn sometime that I can’t be with him every minute. Though I’m quite fond of him now, I never wanted a dog. He was a gift—or so Mistress Darrier claimed.” Jane grimaced. “As if that could excuse what she did.”

  Just as I’d been on the night of my arrival, I was struck by the spite in her voice. Though she seemed an otherwise unassuming girl, where Sybilla was concerned Jane Dormer was all claw.

  “I did not see Mistress Darrier this morning,” I remarked.

  “No, you did not. Because Mistress Darrier comes and goes as she pleases.” The silence turned taut before Jane added pointedly, “You’d be wise to stay far from her.”

  “Oh?” I kept my expression neutral, even as I took in the twist of her mouth, the slit-eyed jealousy that was too mature for someone of her age. Beautiful women often incited competition among their peers, I knew, but Jane Dormer was little more than a child. “What exactly has Mistress Darrier done to have provoked such dislike in you? She gave you that dog, which seems to me a kind gesture—”

  “Does it?” she snapped. “Do you think it a fair exchange for stealing my betrothed?”

  I almost stopped walking. “Your betrothed?” I echoed.

  She glared. “Yes. You cannot know, naturally, having just arrived at court, but Her Majesty had arranged for me to wed the Duke of Feria. I was to be his bride and return with him to Spain, had Mistress Darrier not decided she wanted Feria for herself. Or rather, that toad Renard decided it for her.”

  A chill overcame me. “Perhaps she has no wish to wed Feria, then.”

  “No wish?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Women like her have every wish. Feria will make her a duchess, which is quite a step up from being the ambassador’s whore.”

  An invisible noose coiled about my throat. “That’s a strong accusation. I understood that he was her patron and moreover that she is of noble blood. Her father and brothers perished defending the Church during the Pilgrimage of Grace.”

  Jane sniffed. “Is that what she told you? I suppose it does carry a ring of truth, if you don’t know the real story. But most do not, and those who do don’t care to recall otherwise, given her proximity to Renard. But Lady Clarencieux certainly does; she remembers when Master Darrier, Sybilla’s father, was one of those up-and-coming men who got rich under Lord Cromwell—a lawyer, like Cromwell himself, who inventoried the monasteries once they’d been slated for closure. He made his fortune pillaging like a pirate, building his estate with gold he never reported to the treasury. When Cromwell fell, so did Darrier. He was executed, yes, but not for defending our Church. He was drawn and quartered like a common criminal because he had stolen from the king.”

  I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. I saw Sybilla in my mind, her heavy tresses of hair draping over me, her body writhing …

  “And her brothers?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows if they even exist? If they do, they did not die in York, I can assure you. Of everything Mistress Darrier says, the only verifiable truth is that she, her mother, and her sister fled England to escape the king’s wrath, no doubt with some of the Darrier wealth stashed in their underlinens. After all, they had to have something, to gain entrance to the Hapsburg court. Empresses don’t take on paupers to be ladies-in-waiting.”

  I couldn’t move another step, coming to an appalled halt. Sybilla had lied to me. She had deliberately misrepresented her situation. What I didn’t understand yet was why.

  “She was actually telling Feria that same tragic tale when you came into the gallery with your dying squire,” Jane went on, oblivious to my discomfort. “I tell you, she was not convincing and not pleased by your interruption. Oh, I’ll give her this much: She’s a fine feast for the eye, if you care for her sort, but Feria will regret having agreed to Renard’s terms. A woman like her—all she can bring a man in the end is perdition.”

  I had to restrain myself from grabbing hold of her, bombarding her with questions she’d have no answers for.

  “Do I offend?” Jane asked, taking note of my silence. “I merely thought you should be forewarned. She’s not who you think she is. She is hardly a respectable person. To steal another woman’s betrothed and give a dog as consolation is not a respectable thing to do.”

  She’d reverted to being a wronged adolescent, railing against the wiles of an older, more experienced woman. I gave her a vague nod, my mind awhirl. “Yes,” I murmured. “I agree it is not respectable. I appreciate your candor. You’ve been very kind to me.”

  “I like you. I think it a pity you’ve nothing to commend you save the queen’s favor.”

  I cleare
d my throat, turning my attention to the gallery we entered, the carved wainscoting and elaborate plaster decorations edging a coffered ceiling marred by damp stains. “I’ve never seen this part of the palace,” I said, as I tried to get my mind around what she had told me, trying to fit the fragments into some cohesive design. Why would Sybilla mislead me? Had she hoped to incite my pity, perhaps? It could be that she still sought to escape Renard’s hold on her; nothing Jane Dormer said had negated that. Maybe she thought the truth less compelling than a fabricated past, guaranteed to evoke sympathy in a man like me.

  Jane said, “This part of Whitehall is rarely used.” She paused. “Lady Elizabeth insisted on staying here, I’m told. Apparently the apartments used to be hers when her father was alive and she came to visit him at court.”

  Remote and empty, without the ubiquitous legions of courtiers or servants, the gallery before me offered a spectacular view of the river but little else. The cold was palpable as we came before a sturdy door adorned with faded gilt. There were no guards; as I rapped on the wood panel, the sound echoed. Scuffling on the door’s other side preceded its tentative opening and a tremulous “Yes? Who is it?”

  I recognized Blanche Parry. “Master Beecham. I bring word for the Lady Elizabeth.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. Blanche didn’t know my alias, I suddenly thought, and as I heard her urgent inquiry of someone nearby, I turned to Jane. “Please inform Her Majesty that I’ll escort Her Grace back as soon as she’s ready.”

  She pouted. I recalled how she’d suggested that Elizabeth would do better to submit to the queen and realized she’d been looking forward to witnessing the princess’s humiliation. It saddened me that a girl with so much to live for had already imbibed the venom of the court, where reveling in another’s disgrace was a coveted pastime.

  “Very well,” she said unconvincingly, and she walked away, glancing over her shoulder as I waited for the door to be unbolted. When she was far enough away that she couldn’t possibly overhear, I said, “Mistress Parry, it’s Brendan. Open up.”