In Defense of the Queen

by Michelle Diener

  Parker felt the first stir of warmth for the man. “You and Wolsey do not see eye to eye?”

  De la Sauch looked as if he regretted his honesty, but shook his head.

  “Is Jan Heyman an Imperial spy?” Parker slipped the question in easily, and de la Sauch paused and then stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “Is he? You seem to know more of my business than I do, sir.”

  “Yes. He is. He is reporting to de Praet, and recently to a former French spy living in London, who has been turned to the Imperial cause, I assume because de Praet is paying him well. There is a third man, Jules, although I think his role is more that of henchman than true spy.”

  De la Sauch closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. “I am not the man for this job.”

  “Too bad.” Parker’s harsh tone had de la Sauch open-eyed and braced in his chair. “You are the one in place and I am telling you that de Praet’s man has lied to Wolsey, fed him a story so he would imprison one of your fellow countrywomen in order to stop her talking.”

  “Her?” De la Sauch was truly alert now. “A woman?”

  “My betrothed.” Parker stood, paced to the window. “Her name is Susanna Horenbout, and—”

  “I know Susanna Horenbout.” De la Sauch surged to his feet, as well. “I know her father well. He painted a portrait of my family, it is right there.” He pointed to a small picture, one of the ones that had reminded Parker of Susanna a little earlier, with a deep, deep blue sky, a beautiful house on a river in the background. In the foreground stood de la Sauch and his wife and three children, their clothes, their expressions, were exquisitely rendered.

  Parker stepped up to it again. “She has his talent.”

  “So I’ve heard.” De la Sauch’s tone was calmer, warmer. “She is here in London?”

  “Her father received a commission from the King for a painter from his atelier, and he sent her.”

  “And since coming to London she has been betrothed to you?” De la Sauch sounded uncertain.

  “She has.” His words were fierce. Defensive.

  “De Praet would not have had anything to do with getting her into trouble. That I can promise you. If his agent has acted to endanger her, it would have been on the agent’s own authority, not de Praet’s, and I’m convinced de Praet will be quick to reverse what has been done.”

  “Any letter from him may be too late, but I would have you reach him and tell him every moment counts.” Parker swung around. “Though how can you be so certain de Praet will do whatever he can to have Susanna cleared?”

  “De Praet was mayor of Ghent for years before he became Imperial ambassador to England. He is a close friend of the Horenbouts.”

  Parker folded his arms across his chest and stared at de la Sauch, shock reverberating through him.

  Now he knew to whom Lucas must have sent the note Renard had spoken of. Not to a minor agent, but the spymaster himself. De Praet.

  Renard had implied it, but now he had proof. Lucas Horenbout was an Imperial spy.

  * * *

  Susanna stood in the sun, on the edge of Tower Green, lifting her shoulders and releasing the ache of too many hours bent over her desk.

  She had spent her second night in the Tower hunched over the portrait of Henry Fitzroy, until her eyes burned and her hands were too unsteady to continue.

  All the while, hanging like a chain around her neck, stifling her with every movement, was the certainty Wolsey had not given up.

  He would try again and again, until he had her.

  She eyed the White Tower. It sat, squat and implacable, a declaration of strength and might. The sun winked off the glass of the arched windows and she shivered at the thought of who might be behind them, staring down at her. Plotting to drag her within, to the bowels of the beast.

  “A word, my lady.” A soft call broke through her thoughts. A woman, covered with a cape and wrapped against the cool, brisk wind that was blowing, even though it had just turned June, stood near the entrance to the Lieutenant’s Lodgings.

  Harry stepped from the shadows by the door, and the woman started when she noticed him.

  There was something familiar about her, and Susanna walked towards her with a frown.

  She was holding a covered basket uncomfortably, as if she had never had cause to carry one before, and her eyes darted, low and frightened, as if she had no right to be there and was waiting for someone to call the alarm.

  “Lady Courtenay.” Susanna breathed the words softly as she reached Gertrude, and the Queen’s confidant snapped her head up at last.

  “Do not say my name.” Gertrude spoke between gritted teeth. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

  “Not my chambers. Unless you have good reason to be here if someone comes knocking?”

  Gertrude shook her head.

  “Let us walk then.” She held out her arm, and Gertrude took it.

  Harry took up position just behind them and Susanna glanced quickly back at him.

  There was a suppressed excitement in his face, in the way he moved, but she did not think Gertrude was coming with a way out. The Queen had been helpless against Kilburne and his men. She would be even more helpless in the face of the King and Wolsey.

  “You have news from the Queen?”

  Gertrude nodded. “She thanks you, truly, for the risk you took in telling her what her nephew plans. She has written to him, begging him to keep his word in the betrothal. If he does marry Isabella instead of Mary . . .” Gertrude stopped and set the basket on the ground, opening and closing her hand, her fingers white from the weight of it.

  “The King already blames her for no sons. His only compensation would have been his daughter married to the Holy Roman Emperor. He could see his grandchildren the rulers of England and the whole of Europe, and the thought of it soothed the disappointment of a lack of a male heir. But if that is taken away . . .” Gertrude fell silent.

  “Then neither his wife nor his daughter are very useful to him, any more.” Susanna looked at Gertrude as she spoke, and the lady dipped her head.

  “As you say,” she whispered. “With the Queen’s health as it is . . . she will not bear another child.”

  “And the King is left with only a bastard son and a daughter.”

  “Yes.” Gertrude looked down at the basket as if it held a snake.

  “He must feel the wolves breathing down his neck.” Susanna angled herself against the breeze, wrapped her cloak tighter against its chill, over-familiar fingers.

  “He could have fended them off, with Mary married to Charles, but if Charles truly intends to renege . . .” Gertrude lifted a hand to her temple and rubbed. “I fear for the Queen. Wolsey already has more spies than we can guess at in her Chambers. I cannot trust anyone there, now. Not a single one.”

  “And if the Queen cannot persuade Charles to keep his word and marry the princess?”

  Gertrude looked up, and Susanna saw her eyes were ringed with shadows. “Then Wolsey will help the King put Henry Fitzroy forward as regent-in-waiting.”

  “The nobles won’t like that. Some would think they have better claim to the throne than the King’s bastard son.” Susanna wondered where this would lead. Henry’s court seemed always to be balanced on the knife’s edge of war. With each other, with France. She tired of it.

  “I care nothing for the King and his problems.” Gertrude spoke fiercely, and at last there was a fire in her voice. “I care only for the Queen, and what this would mean for her.” She looked around her, at the towers and walls that closed them in, and shuddered.

  “I hope to God I never end up in this cursed place. It weighs me down, just to be within the walls.”

  “Thank you for coming to give me word.” Susanna touched her shoulder in a soothing gesture.

  “I am here under the pretence of fetching some things from the Queen’s Chambers in the White Tower.” Gertrude eyed the massive building with trepidation. “I had better be about my business.”

>   “Wait.” Susanna’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “Does the Queen see a way out for me?”

  Gertrude pulled back. Shook her head. “She will try. You have my assurance on that. But the winds are changing, and the Queen fears . . .”

  “Fears what?” Her whispered words were ripped away by the breeze.

  “That the King has no more use for her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘If a man,’ says he [Plato], ‘were to see a great company run out every day into the rain and take delight in being wet—if he knew that it would be to no purpose for him to go and persuade them to return to their houses in order to avoid the storm, and that all that could be expected by his going to speak to them would be that he himself should be as wet as they, it would be best for him to keep within doors, and, since he had not influence enough to correct other people’s folly, to take care to preserve himself.’

  Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

  Parker found himself staring up at the redbrick walls of Bridewell. He couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking of for the last few minutes.

  He ran his hands over his head, shrugged his shoulders. After seeing de la Sauch late yesterday, he’d come here, only to find the King away, no doubt tucked somewhere warm and private with the giggling Lady Alice.

  Or perhaps someone else.

  He had gone home to sleep, but it had been impossible. The empty side of the bed, where Susanna usually lay, had refused to let him.

  He’d longed to smash into Lucas’s room, and demand answers, but Maggie, leaving just as he arrived home, had forbidden him from rousing the artist. He’d gone back into a deep sleep and she thought it dangerous to wake him.

  Parker wondered if Horenbout had willed himself back into a senseless state, so he did not have to face what he had done.

  No matter. He would have to wake sometime. And he would account for his actions.

  “You do not look your best, Parker.” The cool amusement in Norfolk’s voice sliced through his reverie like a poison-tipped dagger, and he straightened.

  Norfolk stood just beside him, dressed in ermine and velvet against the unseasonably cool day.

  “I believe you are right.” Parker smiled.

  Disconcerted by his reply, Norfolk narrowed his eyes. “I hear your little Flemish artist is in some trouble.” His voice was half-baked bread soaked in bacon fat—oily and sickening.

  “I’m surprised you’re so delighted, as it is Wolsey who put her there.” Parker began walking towards the main doors of the palace.

  “Anything that would cause you pain or trouble delights me.” Norfolk stepped in with him, although he was considerably shorter than Parker and had to scurry to keep up.

  As if sensing the disadvantage of this, Norfolk stopped, and Parker continued on without him.

  “Parker.”

  Norfolk’s call stopped him. There was an urgency about it. Parker turned and raised a brow.

  Norfolk glanced sidelong, making sure they were far enough away from the crowds going about their business for privacy. “What is this arrest about? What is Wolsey plotting?”

  “What do you care, Norfolk? It is indeed causing me trouble and pain. According to you, that is enough.”

  Norfolk pressed his thin lips together, making them disappear completely. “I will offer you aid to free your lady, if you tell me.”

  Parker said nothing, and as the seconds stretched out, Norfolk began to fidget. “You do not believe me.”

  Parker held out his hands, palms up, his shoulders raised a little. What did Norfolk expect?

  “I see you are perhaps not as devoted to your betrothed as everyone seems to think, that you would not even consider an offer to save her-no matter who it comes from.” Norfolk’s lip curled up. “It makes me wonder why you play the lovesick fool.”

  Parker allowed himself a small, tight smile to hide the fury that boiled and leapt within him. “How can you help save her if you are coming to me to find out why she’s imprisoned in the first place? If your offer of help is merely a word in the King’s ear, we both know whose word counts for more in that quarter.”

  Norfolk drew back as if struck. “Very well. I have resources enough to discover this plot for myself. I had hoped not to go to the trouble, but as you do not trust my word as a nobleman, so be it.”

  Parker could not help it. He let out a laugh. “Your word as a nobleman?”

  Norfolk gave him the cold-fish stare of a pike, and turned on his heel. Stalked towards the gates out of Bridewell.

  Parker watched him go.

  It was not that he resented Norfolk’s attempt to weasel information when he was at his lowest. He would expect nothing less from the turd. It was the temptation to risk giving him what he wanted in return for whatever crumbs of aid, if any, he would throw towards saving Susanna.

  His lips had wanted to form the words, his throat had held them just out of his mouth, while he struggled with himself.

  He was so used to walking the tightrope of pleasing his king and keeping the balance at court and beyond.

  He turned back to the doors.

  Enough.

  He had had his fill of the fine, wire-tight tangle, now. He cared only to get Susanna free, even if he had to hack with a sharp knife to do it.

  If he started a war or a diplomatic storm in the process, so be it.

  * * *

  The King, dressed in loose clothing, was choosing a blunted practice longsword in the inner courtyard.

  Around him, Parker saw the usual cronies. Bryan, Carew, Boleyn and others. Thomas Wyatt sat to one side, slightly apart from the crowd.

  He lifted his head when he felt Parker’s eyes on him, and gave a brief dip of his head.

  Will Somers stood near the door, watching the antics of the courtiers as they chose swords and challenged and insulted each other with a quiet concentration.

  He turned as Parker stepped into the room, and his long, expressive face broke into a smile. He winked.

  Parker raised a hand in response. He wanted to talk to Somers but could not risk missing an opportunity to address the King. He began weaving through the men, towards where Henry stood.

  Henry caught sight of him, and something flashed in his eyes. Shame, or perhaps embarrassment.

  The back of Parker’s neck went hot at the sudden fear something had been done to Susanna. He had yet to hear from Eric or Harry, but that meant nothing.

  He closed the distance even faster than before.

  “Your Majesty.” He bowed and when he looked up, Henry was tossing his longsword lightly in the air, finding the balance.

  “You are just in time, Parker. It has been too long since we had a turn at bouting.” Henry’s eyes were steel-blue, they brooked no argument.

  Parker bowed again and turned, undoing the buttons down the front of his doublet as he walked toward the array of longswords. He shrugged the snug-fitting garment off and was surprised to find Will Somers before him, hand out, to take it.

  He nodded his thanks, turning his attention to the practice longswords hanging in a row before him.

  He found one with a double fuller blade, and lifted it out. The balance was beautiful. He tucked it under his arm and looked for someone to lend him their gloves. Bryan already had his off, and tossed them to Parker. A recompense, perhaps, for his lack of support the day before.

  When he had them on, he swung the sword in an arc, and turned.

  The men had moved back, leaving an open corridor with the King at one end. Carew looked as if he wished to be in Parker’s place, but most were simply intrigued. They knew about Susanna, knew there was more to this than sport.

  “What rules?” Parker ignored the courtiers, and spoke directly to the King.

  “Low Countries.” Henry smiled. Moved deeper into the courtyard, where they would have room to move. “I am King, you are Champion.”

  Parker nodded his acceptance. Each free play bout had a King and a Champion in Low Cou
ntries rules, with the King having the advantage.

  Henry had claimed that advantage, as was his right.

  They squared up, and lifted the swords, double-handed, before them. Parker bent at the knees, sinking low, as Bryan called the start.

  He had not bouted with the King for nearly a year, and in that time, had only ever drawn his sword in earnest. Free play felt alien to him, after so long.

  He fell into an easy rhythm, binding and winding against Henry, warming up, as they displaced each other’s strikes but stayed back, giving each other room. He had to remind himself the Low Countries rules allowed only two-handed grips, no one-handed technique or half-sword, and he began to find a pleasure in the challenge of winning under their restrictions.

  He usually fought with none.

  The courtyard went silent, as they all recognized a turning point in the play.

  Parker started to circle, twisting the sword right, and struck underhanded with the inner flat, for a hit under the arm.

  Henry caught it, pushing it aside, and closed in, letting his blade slide down Parker’s to the hilt.

  They were as close as lovers, breathing hard after their warm-up, eye to eye.

  Parker heaved, and leapt back, disengaging the hilts.

  Henry stumbled back a step and righted himself, but Parker was already winding left for a neck blow, forcing Henry into an upward counterstrike.

  This time it was Parker who closed in, sliding his blade down to Henry’s hilt.

  “There is a fire in you today.” Henry spoke in short gasps, a little winded, but still strong.

  Parker was close enough to see every drop of sweat on his forehead.

  “I find I have a lot to be angry about.”

  Henry heaved him off, and they struck together, the flat edges slamming against each other with a high-pitched ring.

  Parker felt the vibration in the ache of his wrists, and from the way he winced, Henry felt them, too. His sword slipped a little in his grasp.

  Henry’s lips drew back in a snarl and he let the momentum of the slip carry the sword in an arc downward, with a chop to Parker’s side.