When she saw me, she turned on her heel. I followed, keeping my distance until we were in the empty corridor leading to the princess’s apartments. Without looking at me, Mistress Parry said, “She’s been granted leave to retire to Ashridge.” Her voice quavered. “Thank God, we are finally delivered from this nest of papists.”
Relief washed over me. “And the earl, has he been arrested?”
She shook her head. “The warrant has been issued. But no one knows where he is.”
“Then I cannot leave yet. Her Grace knows why. Tell her I’ll come to her as soon as I’m able.”
She nodded. “God keep you,” she said, and she continued to the apartments as fast as her legs could carry her.
* * *
Afternoon faded into premature dusk. Standing wrapped in my cloak in a shadowed recess of the courtyard, I watched Elizabeth bid farewell to the queen.
Snowflakes drifted down over the braided manes of the stamping horses, on harried pages loading the last of the coffers and chests into the wagon, and on the princess’s red-gold tresses, coiled at her nape in a net, her slender figure enveloped in black velvet.
Not many had turned out to see her departure, though I could glimpse semiconcealed figures converging at the surrounding gallery windows, courtiers observing from the safety of their perches, waiting with bated breath for the queen’s last-minute order for Elizabeth to return to her rooms, from which she’d emerge for the short trip to the Tower.
Mary stepped from among her ladies, the wind catching at her violet mantle. A jeweled rosary hung from her waist. She faced her sister as she might a combatant.
Elizabeth dropped practically to her knees, head bowed. She’d come to court as the queen’s cherished heir and sister; in less than six months she was leaving under a pall of hatred and suspicion. My heart went out to her as the queen extended her hand with its signet ring. There was no affection in the gesture, no sign of forgiveness or largesse; Mary was as remote as the clock tower looming above us.
In the silence broken only by the wind and sifting thaw of snow, with the queen’s little hand trapped in hers, Elizabeth lifted her voice and said, loudly enough for everyone present to hear, “I depart from Your Majesty’s presence with a heavy heart, though circumstances and my own delicate health require it. Yet I declare myself your most loyal subject, who loves you more than anyone. I beseech you not to believe those who spread evil reports about me without doing me the honor of letting me prove to you in person the malicious nature of such slanders, for on you alone do I depend for my honor.”
It was a perfect speech, stamped with Elizabeth’s signature flair for rhetoric. Mary reacted accordingly, her thin white lips seeming to disappear into the pressed crevice of her mouth. I held my own breath as everyone waited. Elizabeth glanced warily past her sister to Renard, who stood steps from the queen. Though his cap shaded his face, his eyes must have been directed at her with single-minded fervor. If he had had his way, this moment would have gone very differently.
Mary withdrew her hand. Something intangible, fleeting in its poignancy, moved across her face. Her attempt to smile came out as a bloodless grimace; she impulsively reached out without warning and clasped Elizabeth’s hand again, as if in regret.
Then she called to her women.
Lady Clarencieux stepped forth, bearing what looked like a small animal. As the princess unraveled it, a length of lustrous sable flooded her arms—a cloak with inset sleeves and hood, fashioned of supple velvet and the exquisite Russian fur.
“It is cold in Hertfordshire,” Mary said, “and, as you say, your health is delicate. We would not wish for you to take ill for lack of proper care.”
Elizabeth started to speak, her gaze bright with unshed tears; before she could, the queen motioned again, and a friar in a Franciscan habit and cape, the knotted cord of his order about his waist, appeared. At the sight of him, Elizabeth’s eyes dimmed.
“You assured us that you wished to become better acquainted with the ways of our true faith,” Mary said. “This friar will go with you to Ashridge to instruct you. He brings with him the articles of our true faith, so you may see them every day and learn their solace. We pray that you’ll soon realize that only by casting aside the heretic teachings of your youth can you prove this loyalty you so ardently declare.”
She took a step back. The sable overflowed in Elizabeth’s arms. Turning to Mistress Parry, she relieved herself of it and curtsied again before moving to her litter. She had a large entourage that included her women, an escort of men-at-arms, her Arabian jennet, Cantila, and Urian.
“We choose to believe you for now,” Mary called out, freezing her in midstep. “Live quietly at Ashridge with no further upset, and we’ll take note of your sincerity.”
Elizabeth paused, casting her gaze over the assembly. Though she couldn’t have seen me among the multitude, I hoped that somehow she felt my presence.
To the crack of whips and clangor of hooves, the procession rode out under the palace archway. The crowd dispersed, the courtiers rushing to join the watchers in the galleries, to examine and dissect, to again place bets on Elizabeth’s chances.
Shrouded in my cloak, I blended with them.
The time had come to embark on my own desperate gambit.
SOUTHWARK
Chapter Eighteen
I crossed the frosted gardens and tiltyard to the stables. Cinnabar whickered from his stall, happy to see me; I tarried a few moments, reassuring him. I did not want to risk riding over the bridge again or make myself too visible a target on horseback. If Renard was going to have me followed, this time let the chase be on foot.
After paying Toby a generous bribe, I gave him instructions as to what to do with Cinnabar if I did not return. “Send him to Ashridge, as a gift to Her Grace, Princess Elizabeth. She will reward you.” As I left the stables, Cinnabar neighed, and I fought off a pang of fear. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him or anyone I loved again.
Slipping into the frigid night, I headed for the river. Close to the water steps I suddenly heard someone behind me. I ducked into the nearest doorway, unsheathing my sword. The footsteps grew closer, an odd dragging sound that rasped in my ears. As I gripped my sword, ready to lunge, a beggar limped past the doorway, muttering to herself, her misshapen feet swathed in rags. She did not notice me lurking only inches away, my length of blade bared. Warily, I searched the environs and continued onward.
The ice in the Thames had begun to break apart, the tepid warmth of the past few days heaving it up in slabs. The river was still dangerous to navigate, but I reasoned that with so many boatmen facing starvation without their trade, a few must have returned to work by now. I located one by the water steps, rubbing gnarled hands together to stave off the chill.
He avidly pocketed my coin, and I cautiously stepped into his rickety skiff. Seated on the exposed bench, I repressed my lifelong fear of dark water as the skiff bumped into the river. Ice clunked against the sides; the wherry man maneuvered past it, pushing larger pieces aside with his oar. I couldn’t help but think that if one of those sharp fragments struck the hull, we’d sink like stone.
We made it across without incident, though I was frozen to my toes from the wind. After paying the wherry man extra to wait, I raced through the winding, filth-strewn streets to the Hawk’s Nest.
Its facade was shuttered against the inhospitable night. Looking at it, I felt as though a lifetime had passed since I’d first come to this place. I rapped on the door, thinking for no apparent reason that Scarcliff might be here.
“The earl’s man,” I said to the leering doorman, dumping the last of my pouch’s contents into his meaty paw. “Is he here?”
“Who?” He pocketed my coin. “No idea what you’re bleatin’ about, pretty man.”
They must have killed him on the road, dumped him somewhere he wouldn’t be found until dogs or kites unearthed his bones. Though he had done nothing to warrant my pity, I felt it anyway. No man deserved su
ch an end.
I was moving purposefully forward when the doorman grasped me by the sleeve. “Not so fast. I still need the fee and yer weapon.”
My answer was to whirl about and slam my poniard’s hilt into his face. Blood spewed from his nose. I hit him again, then again, in the groin. He groaned and dropped to the floor, cupping his parts. “Bastard,” I heard him gasp. “You miserable arse-lickin’—”
I clubbed him again, silencing him. As I strode into the brothel, I hoped I hadn’t killed him.
The main room was practically deserted. Only a few masked customers sat drinking or playing dice, attended by desultory boys who didn’t even bother to sway their hips. Glancing at the booth near the staircase, where Scarcliff had his post, I found it empty.
Once up the staircase, I paused, listening for telltale sounds of customer entertainment. A few cats slinked into the shadows, but I heard nothing coming from behind the doors. Had news from the palace spread this far, so quickly?
I didn’t bother to knock on Courtenay’s door, kicking it open with my boot. He sat alone at the table, decanter and goblet before him. He looked up, startled; when he saw me, he scowled. “You faithless cur. You betrayed me.”
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it with my arms crossed. Though I wanted to grab him by his shirt and shake him until he spilled his guts, I needed his cooperation, preferably without duress.
“Actually,” I said, “I believe we’ve been both betrayed. Mistress Sybilla Darrier; she was the woman you’d been meeting here, wasn’t she?”
He reached for the decanter. I strode across the room, swiping it from his grasp. “Drink yourself to death for all I care, but not before you tell me what I need to know.”
Up close, I saw his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in shadow. He was also halfway drunk by the looks of it, which wasn’t going to make this any easier.
“The queen has issued a warrant for your arrest,” I informed him. “They’re searching for you as we speak.”
He blanched. Staggering from his chair, he thrust his chin at me, his breath foul with wine. “Yes, and why is that? Because you lied! You promised to see me safe. You said, if I helped you, you’d not set their dogs on me. But you gave them those letters. Why should I trust anything you say now?”
“Because we’ve both been played false,” I said. “She planned this. She stole Dudley’s letters, only I didn’t know it was her at the time. Then she brought them back, claiming she’d taken them from Renard. I had to give the queen something before Renard moved against the princess. It was your head or hers. That is what I believed.”
The anger in his eyes faded. “She—she planned it?” he whispered.
I met his bewildered stare. “She made me believe she was helping me. But now I know she had something different in mind.” I leaned to him. “She has another master. I must know where she is.”
I was hoping for a revelation, but he turned away blindly, swaying. “She told me Renard had used her cruelly,” he said, as if the act of admitting her duplicity aloud would somehow make it less true. “She said she was English, that she supported our cause. I believed her. She was so beautiful, so convincing … I told her everything about the conspiracy and Dudley’s letters.”
“About me,” I said.
He nodded miserably. “She came to see me that same night. She must have seen you leaving the brothel. She asked who you were. I told her that you claimed to be working for Elizabeth and threatened me, so I had to help you get into the Tower. Later, when I saw you with her in the palace, I thought she would persuade you to see our point of view.” He came to a halt, his eyes widening as he recognized the full import of his credulity. “God help me, she lied. She used me to her own ends. What am I going to do now?”
“Tell me where she is. You can still escape. But she has Elizabeth’s letter; I have to get it back.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks. “They’ll torture me, won’t they? Break me on the rack, in the Little Ease. They’ll tear me apart with hooks; burn me with brands and whip my flesh from my bones, but nothing they do can stop it. The others will come. They will rise up against the queen. And Sybilla knows; she knows everything.”
I felt as if a pit had cracked under my feet. “Others? What others?”
He went silent, his jaw clenching. Then he said, “The nobles Dudley wrote to—they’re only the half of it. He didn’t trust anyone, not entirely, so he had me recruit others.”
“Who? When will they act?”
“When the queen’s betrothal is announced,” he muttered, lowering his gaze to his feet, “that will be their sign. Thomas Wyatt in Kent, he’s rallied his supporters; he plans to join with the Duke of Suffolk’s retainers to march on London.”
The Duke of Suffolk: Jane Grey’s father. God help her, Mary would kill her for it. She would end up paying for these men’s treachery. I couldn’t take any more. Seizing Courtenay by his chemise, I lifted him off the floor, ramming him against the wall. He moaned; glancing down, I saw his hose darken under his codpiece, the seep of piss trickling down his thigh.
“You fool,” I hissed. “Do you realize what you and Dudley have done? Elizabeth could die because of you! So could her cousin Jane Grey. Sybilla sought information for someone else, and now, because of you, she has all the information she needs.”
His eyes bulged. “I—I never meant to harm Elizabeth,” he gasped. “I swear it.”
My fist closed about his chemise, twisting the cloth, cutting off his very breath. “I need to find Sybilla. Now.”
“On the Strand.” His voice broke. “In the old Dudley manor. She’s there.”
As I let him loose, his knees buckled underneath him. He slid down the wall, crumpling at my feet. I took a deliberate step back. Much as I wanted to feel compassion for him, all I felt was disgust. His pride and foolish ambition had cost him everything. He’d brought England to the brink of disaster because of it.
He slumped in a heap. It was then that I discerned a cacophony downstairs—terrified shrieks, the smash of cutlery and overturned furniture, and the stamp of booted feet punctuated by authoritative shouts. The queen’s men were here.
Courtenay keened. I whirled about. There was nowhere to go, nowhere except—
I threw open the casement window and reached out my hand to him. “Come.”
He cringed. “No. I—I can’t. I’m … I’m afraid of heights.”
I wasn’t about to plead. Climbing onto the casement edge, I saw below me the stable yard and ramshackle stalls for horses. The commotion inside the brothel had roused an emaciated dog tied to a stump in the yard. It was barking, straining at its tether.
I looked to the left. Directly beyond the brothel lay a smaller dwelling, with a thatched roof that didn’t appear too steep; to my right, a direct fall into the street. I stepped onto the outer ledge, balancing precariously. My breath came fast. I made myself take a deep breath. I wasn’t fond of heights either, come to think of it.
Feeling with my foot past the ledge, I encountered a peeling beam that ran the length of the building, no wider than my hand. For a second, I froze. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t skitter along the ledge like some damn cat—
Shouts boomed in the corridor. I glanced over my shoulder. Courtenay sat huddled in the corner, petrified. I couldn’t wait anymore.
Step by step, I moved onto the ledge without looking down, gripping the outer wall, my hands splayed against moldering daub, my heels scraping icicles. In the room behind me, I heard Courtenay begin to pray, “Sweet Jesus, save me. Jesu, hear my plea,” and the splintering of doors in the passageway being kicked in.
I crept onward. The dog was baying now.
An enormous crash came from the room. Courtenay let out a horrible wail.
They had found him.
I kept moving to the building’s edge, assaulted by a vivid memory of the last time I’d found myself fleeing through a window in the dead of night …
I quickened my pace,
just a little more to go.
The thatched rooftop was much farther down than I’d thought, slick with melted snow. I wondered if it would hold me or if I’d end up crashing through it.
“Someone’s out the window!” a voice cried from behind me.
Unbuckling my sword in its scabbard, I tossed it into the street.
“You!” yelled the guard at the window. “Halt, by Her Majesty’s command!”
I closed my eyes.
I leapt.
The fall felt eternal. Icy air whistled in my ears. Everything slowed to a crawl so that I had a dazzling, fleeting glimpse of the torch-lit maze of Southwark and heard the incredulous dismay of the guards leaning out the brothel window, watching me plummet to what they surely believed was my death.
I hit the thatch. Winter had frozen the bundled layers to mortarlike hardness. I tucked my knees, covering my head as I slid off the side. Sodden snow cushioned my fall; it was shorter in any event, a brief tumble, and then I sprawled on the ground.
Scrambling to my feet, too pummeled at this point to feel any pain, I grabbed up my sword. The stable-yard dog was yowling; any moment, the guards would come for me.
I ran as fast as I could into the labyrinth of clustered hovels and snaking back alleys. The guards’ first priority would be to arrest Courtenay; with any luck, they’d assume I was a frightened boy-whore who’d made an intrepid escape and, after a cursory search of the vicinity, get on with the business at hand. Crouching in a recessed doorway to catch my breath, I listened for sounds of pursuit. Nothing.
I thought it unlikely the boatman would still be waiting, but there he was, right where I’d left him. He tucked a leather flask into his pocket. “Did you see ’em?” he lisped eagerly, through a paucity of teeth. “Queen’s men, they were, searchin’ for traitors. Heads on spikes—we’ll be seein’ heads on spikes come sunrise.”
I muttered agreement as the inebriated sod angled the boat into the river, catching the current and swirling us round in a nauseating circle before he managed to direct us toward the city.
The Tudor Conspiracy Page 21
