In Defense of the Queen

by Michelle Diener

  Harry winced. “Your brother untied him.”

  Susanna gaped. “Why did he do that? Heyman knows something . . .”

  They all contemplated that for a moment.

  “Did your brother not start this?” Harry flung out an arm. “Isn’t he the reason you’re here?”

  Susanna noticed the bruise on his face was settling into a deep greenish-yellow. Her brother was the cause of that, too.

  “I can’t believe Lucas wishes me this much ill.” She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to fight back the dread that hung on her like the weights on the drawbridge just over the wall from where she stood. “He has been jealous of me. He is jealous of the position I hold with the King. But deliberately having me arrested, and possibly tortured? I can’t believe it.”

  “Cannot or will not?” Eric kicked his legs as he sat on the bench beside the still cold fireplace.

  Susanna closed her eyes. Thought. “Cannot.” She realized she spoke with certainty, and the weights eased a little. “Lucas would not try to harm me like this deliberately.”

  “So, perhaps he never meant you to end up in the Tower, but he had a hand in it.” Harry’s mouth was still as grim as it had been downstairs in Kilburne’s rooms. “And letting Heyman go, that says he knows more than he’s letting on.”

  He was right. Susanna rubbed her head. “If Lucas untied Heyman, he must be awake and at least better than he was.”

  “One more person to watch.” Eric spoke in a clear imitation of Parker, wry, with an edge of bite.

  Despite herself, Susanna smiled. She noticed a small wooden box resting on the chest Harry and one of Kilburne’s men had brought up, and bent to pick it up.

  She slid open the lid, and saw the writs. “The King has sent more illuminations for me to work on while I’m here?”

  Harry nodded, his face unreadable. Then he dug in her satchel, which he’d brought her from the Queen’s Chambers, and held out the King’s writ Kilburne had waved at Harris earlier. “You are also to paint his son.”

  The writ had saved her from the dungeon, and she took it from Harry carefully. “Why did Kilburne give it to you?”

  Harry grinned. “He didn’t. When we collected your things from his rooms, I saw it on his desk and thought it better in our hands than in anyone else’s.”

  Susanna regarded him a long moment, and started to laugh.

  She fought against it, but as some point, the laughter gave way to sobs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  if ill opinions cannot be quite rooted out, and you cannot cure some received vice according to your wishes, you must not, therefore, abandon the commonwealth, for the same reasons as you should not forsake the ship in a storm because you cannot command the winds.

  Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

  The man Parker was sure was a French spy walked down Fleet Street, unconcerned and relaxed.

  Parker watched as he stopped and bought apples at a stall, and was close enough behind him to hear him crunch into one of them. His hand came up and wiped away the juice that spilled out onto his chin with his sleeve.

  He’d sauntered out of Wolsey’s London residence less than half an hour after entering. The boys in Harry’s gang who he’d set to watch Wolsey’s house had managed to call Parker before he missed him.

  No one knew better than Parker there was no French embassy in London at present—he’d had some part in the French ambassador’s hasty departure from England some months ago.

  But the French would have left their spies in place. To report on the movements and mood of the English King.

  And Wolsey would be sure to keep an eye on those spies, and encourage a rapport with them. The Cardinal traded on and used information better than anyone, after all, and between the Emperor Charles and King Frances I, Parker knew Wolsey much prefered the French king.

  The spy slowed on the street, and Parker slowed with him, stepping into the shadow of a deep balcony over the front of a baker’s shop.

  The man was not lost, he’d sensed something, and Parker felt the tiny prick of a thousand grasshoppers’ legs on the back of his neck.

  The Frenchman started walking again, as if he had his bearings once more, but in a swift motion bent as if to adjust a buckle on his shoe and looked behind him.

  The look on his face said more than words he was shocked at what he saw. Very slowly, his hand went slack and his half-eaten apple fell into the dust.

  Parker’s gaze flicked from his target to down the street. For the Frenchman’s eyes had not gone to him, they had gone a little further back than where Parker stood, to the right.

  And Parker froze as well.

  His chest was in a vice of shock, squeezed hard. He forced himself to draw breath, to look again to make sure.

  Stock still, watching the French spy with no attempt to hide, was Jean.

  The French assassin.

  The man who was back to settle a score.

  He’d been following Parker while Parker had been following the French spy.

  It burned in his throat, like the stink of the leather curers’ foul mix, that he had not realized it.

  But Jean showed no sign he saw Parker standing just a street width away. His entire focus was on the man who’d been to visit Wolsey.

  And while Parker would have thought the two would be natural allies, there was a fear, a panic, in the Frenchman’s face as he stood waiting for Jean to make a move, that gave lie to that assumption.

  Then, without warning, the Frenchman turned and ran. Blindly, as if he were blinkered and under attack from all sides. He weaved and jerked, to make himself a hard target to hit.

  Parker looked back at Jean, and was not surprised to see the assassin had his crossbow raised.

  The people around him in the street began to notice the drama unfolding, and there were shrieks and yells when they caught sight of Jean’s weapon.

  Parker swore. He wanted to speak to the spy, but he would have to catch him now, and there was no way he would run after the man and present his back to Jean as a gifted sacrifice.

  He had no doubt the assassin would shoot him without a second thought.

  But Jean had lowered his bow and clipped it back on his belt as the crowd grew more hysterical. He started after the Frenchman, and Parker stepped into his wake.

  He had only gone a few feet when Jean looked over his shoulder and caught his gaze.

  There was a smile on the assassin’s face.

  * * *

  Simon could not keep still. He paced the room, stopping every now and then to throw a log on the fire Eric and Harry had started in the hearth.

  It was distracting.

  “You’ll go through all my wood if you keep that up.”

  Susanna tried to ease the irritation out of her tone.

  Simon jerked at the sound of her voice and bumped his head on the mantelpiece above the fireplace as he straightened.

  He swore and rubbed his head, ill-tempered. “That writ is urgent.”

  Susanna leant back in her chair. “Then the King should not have had me dragged to the Tower. I would have been done with it by now if I were at home.” She smiled sweetly. “Especially if there had been a list amongst the papers he sent me to say which one I should start with.”

  She picked up her brush as if she had all the time in the world. “He could always send it off without illumination.”

  “You know he won’t. He loves to send writs and letters that have been worked. You’ve spoiled him for plain letters, now.”

  Susanna shrugged. Contemplated the mussel shell holding yellow ochre. She needed to mix more.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His words were so soft, spoken so close to her ear, she dropped her brush and had to grab it before it rolled onto the writ and ruined her work.

  She turned in her chair, and saw he was kneeling beside her, had ripped off the mask of impatience he’d worn, so hard and inflexible, to reveal nothing short of anguish.

>   The hard knot of tarred rope that had been looped around her chest since he’d turned away from her last night loosened and fell away. She breathed easy for the first time since Simon had entered the room, all glittering eyes and stiff limbs.

  She’d sent Harry and Eric out to find dinner—their hostility to Simon had made her feel worse. They’d once been friends, and her brother’s ill-wind had blown through even that.

  “You know I forgive you.” As always, when emotion gripped her especially hard, her English faltered, and her words were thick with Flemish intonations.

  He bent his head. “I found someone. Someone I want to marry.”

  “Ah.” She suddenly understood. “She works for the King’s Household?”

  He shook his head. “You know you are the exception, there are hardly any women working for the King.” He remained on his knees, but his head lifted, at last. “She lives near my mother.”

  “What will happen to Parker if Wolsey succeeds in this, Simon? What will happen to you?”

  “Parker will suffer. There is no possibility of anyone believing he knew nothing if you are found guilty.” At last he got to his feet. “For me?” He shrugged. “They know I am a confidant of Parker’s, but I am low enough down the ladder, I may be beneath notice.”

  “You did not want to leave it to chance.”

  He looked back at her, and his eyes were still anguished. “I did not.” He turned away. Fed yet another log into the flames. “I was thinking of myself. Of a life I might not have if the Court’s eyes swung my way.”

  Susanna stood, and looked out over Tower Green to the White Tower.

  “Even though I know Wolsey isn’t there, I feel that he is. Lurking in that dungeon like a spider, waiting to drag me down.” She shivered. “He cannot succeed in this. I can’t let him. Not for me, although I don’t want to find out what he has planned for me in there, but for everyone. You, Parker, the boys.”

  “You know you have my eyes and ears at court. If I hear anything that might help you, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

  Susanna placed her hands on the windowsill and pressed her face against the glass. “I thank you for it. I will need all the help I can get.”

  “We don’t just need your eyes and ears.” Harry’s voice came from the doorway, and Susanna turned to see him eyeing Simon with a little more warmth than he had before, his arms bunching under the weight of the tray he carried. “You’re the King’s carter. Your cart can go anywhere?”

  Simon nodded, slowly.

  “If we have no choice but to flee, will you get us out?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  for one is never to offer propositions or advice that we are certain will not be entertained. Discourses so much out of the road could not avail anything, nor have any effect on men whose minds were prepossessed with different sentiments.

  Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

  Parker almost stumbled as Jean looked back. The look that passed between them was as intense as a flash of lightning in a dark sky.

  Jean had an air of calm purpose about him, and Parker reached within himself to find his own centred calm. He’d been running on panic, on fear, reacting to events. He needed to take back control.

  The spy running before them, a chicken chased by foxes, could not be ripped apart until Parker learned what he knew.

  Jean turned his attention back to his prey. He gathered speed as the crowds thinned away from the main way, eating into the distance between himself and the spy.

  The Frenchman was running at an angle, leading them a twisting path north west. He did not go through the arch of Temple Bar but darted right, up Shire Lane towards Lincolns Inn Fields. Heading for open ground.

  Parker saw Jean unclip his crossbow as he ran, and he surged after them both. If Jean caught the Frenchman in an open field, he was dead.

  Shire Lane ended in a high wall with a gate, and the Frenchman at last saw his folly.

  He looked back, and cried out when he noticed Parker behind Jean. He fumbled for the latch and disappeared through the opening.

  Jean was walking slower now, and Parker thought he was favouring his left side, breathing heavily. There was no panic about his movements, though.

  He would be only too pleased about the prospect of open ground.

  Jean swung the solid wooden gate shut behind him as he went through, a petty mischief that had the smack of a taunt about it, and Parker palmed his knife before he went through the gate after him. What Jean and he would do about each other, he did not know.

  They were two predators circling the same prey and they would have to deal with each other before they could claim their prize.

  The last time they’d met face to face, they had fought to kill. There had been a cold menace in Jean’s eyes then, a suppressed fury—not this unhurried, smiling strangeness.

  It disturbed Parker. He did not know what was going through the assassin’s mind.

  On the other side of the gate was a small lane, a muddy track with a mound of grass growing down the middle. There was no sign of either man, but up ahead, between the last two houses before the fields, Parker saw another open gate.

  He ran, ignoring the puddles and ruts of the ill-kept path.

  There was a cry just up ahead, and Parker burst through the gate into a newly ploughed field.

  The soil underfoot was thick and clotted, some sort of slick clay, and he slid, only just staying on his feet.

  The French spy had not been so lucky. He was lying on his back, churning the earth around him, struggling to gain his feet. Jean approached, bow raised, one steady step at a time. He stopped a little way away and aimed, and the Frenchman thrashed about like a pike on a line.

  “No.” Parker’s shout echoed strangely in the open space. He would have only one chance with Jean, and he did not waste it.

  He ran, his knife ready to throw.

  Jean turned, lifting his bow as he spun. As he took aim, squeezed the trigger, Parker threw himself forward. He hit the slick earth and slid, bringing his legs around and under him, one hand out to steady himself, his other arm back, knife at the ready.

  A bolt shot over his head.

  It made him feel better that Jean was trying to kill him. It made more sense.

  He slammed into Jean, grabbing his legs. The momentum threw the assassin over backwards, but he kept hold of his bow, and Parker had to knock it from his hands.

  At last—at last!—he had his knife to Jean’s throat.

  Parker scrambled round and hauled Jean up, keeping the blade tight against his skin.

  He looked over at the French spy. The man was watching the two of them with his mouth hanging open.

  “What was your business with Wolsey?”

  The man closed his mouth with a snap, and frowned. “Who are you?”

  Parker felt Jean tense under him. The assassin had nothing to lose. He expected Parker to mete out death and he would try to get free.

  He should slit Jean’s throat right now, end his problem, but he could not. He had taken lives before, but always in self-defence. Never calmly, with the intent to kill.

  He tightened his grip on Jean. “Answer the question, or I will let Jean go. He can finish the job of killing you.”

  Jean stilled at his words. Parker wondered what he made of them.

  The Frenchman pulled himself to his knees. Looked between the two men.

  “At a loss for words, Renard? That is unlike you.” Jean spoke with a laconic drawl, his accent thick and tart as a mouthful of French plums.

  “Answer me. Now.” Parker ground the words out, hating that he could only carry out his threat as a last resort. He hoped Renard did not know that. Did not know the dynamic between Jean and himself went far deeper than Parker preventing the assassin from executing a kill. “What did Wolsey want?”

  Renard said nothing, he sat still, grabbing handfuls of mud and squeezing it between his fingers.

  Jean relaxed back into Parker�
�s hold, as if he were at his ease. “Answer, Renard.” He smiled. “Every second you talk, is a second you live, hmm?”

  Renard dropped the mud, a measure of hope lighting his face. “Today, I was there . . .” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “I made him a promise that the proof we have on someone he has imprisoned will soon be in his hands.”

  “And will it soon be in his hands?” Parker tuned out the birds calling to each other in the trees, the soft swish of leaves, the distant shouts and calls of Temple Bar and Fleet Street. Renard had his full concentration.

  Renard shook his head. “We have nothing. We are simply buying time.”

  “And who is ‘we’?”

  Renard frowned at the question, and Jean laughed. “In Renard’s case, it is the Emperor Charles whose orders he follows, even though officially he is pledged to France, n’est pas?”

  “Wolsey knows you’re working for the Emperor?” He felt a grudging respect for the Emperor Charles, swooping in when the French ambassador left London and bribing the remaining French spies to his side. It was a masterstroke.

  Renard shook his head. “He thinks I carry word from France.”

  “And why wouldn’t he? After all, you used to work for the Comte, and Wolsey thinks you still do.” Jean spoke with an edge. If he’d been holding his bow, he would have cocked the hammer.

  So Jean was here to dispose of a French double-agent. Could that be the sole reason for his return? Not a personal vendetta to kill Susanna?

  Parker had not wanted to say Susanna’s name. He didn’t know how Jean would react. But he had no choice now and a glimmer of hope Susanna had never been the assassin’s target. “The person you pretend to have proof of treason for, is it Mistress Horenbout?”

  Jean went very still.

  Renard turned his full attention to Parker, his eyes pleading. “Kill Jean, slit his throat, and I will tell you everything you want to know. Everything.”

  “You will tell me everything right now, or Jean and I will fight over who has the pleasure of killing you.”

  Renard flinched. “It is Susanna Horenbout. We had to stop her passing a message her brother gave her to the English queen. The Emperor needs more time before the English King learns of his new plans.”