The Tudor Conspiracy

SOUTHWARK
Chapter Nine

I took a few moments to compose myself. I heard Elizabeth call out to the grooms, “Best get back to your chores before the stable master finds you squandering those coins I gave you. Don’t forget, I want the best fodder, not the cheap hay you give the rest of the court’s beasts. And plenty of blankets at night-my Cantila is a delicate creature bred for sunnier climes than ours. I’ll take it amiss if something should happen to him.”

As the grooms laughed and promised to do as she asked, I had to smile. Even in peril, Elizabeth would think of her horse, Cantila, an expensive Arabian she pampered like a child. She also wisely sowed allegiance where she could: Those grooms would be her willing slaves henceforth, after she’d paid them to gamble and drink during work hours.

The truant grooms tramped into the stables to go about their business. None paid me heed as I brushed straw from my hose and moved to where my Cinnabar was stalled. He snorted at my greeting, nuzzling my cloak for the bits of dried apple I usually carried. I’d forgotten to stop by the kitchens for some, so I apologized as he tossed his head in frustration and I checked his forelock for the wound Peregrine had mentioned. It was healing, a small nick. I could still ride him.

Urian came bounding up to me with an excited bark. I turned to see Peregrine holding the dog’s lead, his gaze bright and hair unkempt. No matter how much he tried, a few hours on his own and he invariably looked as if he’d run into a windstorm.

“Well?” he said eagerly. “Did you see her? What did she say?”

“Never mind that.” I eyed him. “Did you find out anything?”

He nodded, his voice lowering to a whisper. “That horse Toby keeps ready, Courtenay uses it to visit a brothel called the Hawk’s Nest, across the river in Southwark near Bankside Street. He’s smitten with a bawd there, and he’s going again tonight. He paid Toby this morning.”

I nodded grimly, reaching for Cinnabar’s saddle blanket and bridle.

Peregrine’s expression crumpled. “What? Are you not pleased?”

I began to saddle Cinnabar, making an effort to lighten my tone. “You did well, but you’re not to ask anything more. Leave the rest to me.”

He scowled. “I don’t see why. I got the information you needed and-”

I wheeled about and pinched his ear, eliciting a stifled protest. I said softly, “Because I said so.” I released him. He rubbed his ear. “No more working on your own. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” he muttered.

I proceeded to ready Cinnabar. As I took his reins, Urian whined. “She’s fond of this dog,” I said. “Make sure you feed him before you put him in his kennel. I’ll wait outside.”

I led Cinnabar from the stall. During the time I’d been inside the stable block, the temperature had dropped even lower. Snow had started to fall again. The wind nipped at my cheeks like teeth. Shivering, I walked Cinnabar around the courtyard to warm him, huddled in my cloak, my hood yanked up as far over my head as it could be. I desperately needed a new cap.

Peregrine emerged from the stables. I swung him into the saddle and mounted. “Let’s go find this Hawk’s Nest,” I said.

* * *

With Peregrine’s arms clasped about my waist, I turned Cinnabar past the parklands bordering the palace, bringing him to a slow canter as we left behind Whitehall’s labyrinthine expanse. Barren trees bowed under the hush of new snow; I reveled in the sight of open land, its white tranquility reminding me of Hatfield.

Cecil had been wrong. Flair or not, being an intelligencer would never be my choice.

Taking Grace Church Street, we plunged into the city clustered by the Thames. The calcified spine of London Bridge reared into view, perched on its twenty vast stone piers. I’d never been on the bridge before and marveled that it could hold so much on its back. Below us, the glazed river was devoid of its habitual water traffic, the ice already so dense in the shallows that children were skating across it, using pieces of bone for their blades. I saw a skinny dog romping after them, couples roaming the serrated white shore hand in hand, and vendors hawking hot pies-an unexpectedly festive sight that brightened my mood.

At the northern gatehouse, crowds lined up to pay their toll and visit the hundreds of shops perched on either side of the bridge’s span like teetering birds, the air clogged with the raucous shouts of peddlers and others going about their business. I maneuvered Cinnabar with a tight rein; he was not used to the near-deafening noise or masses of people. Mule- and ox-drawn carts laden with goods added to the clamor as they rumbled across with utter disregard for pedestrians. The bridge was the only way to transport merchandise across the river in winter, and the stink of animal ordure permeated the air.

I gazed up in awe as we passed under a gilded palatial structure that clambered several stories into the sky, its jutting balconies festooned with banners.

“Some people live and die without ever leaving the bridge,” Peregrine said in my ear. “It’s considered the safest place in the city after the palace, because the gates close at curfew and it has everything the people need, except for ale and beer. No cellars for it.”

“Curfew?” I frowned. “That’s inconvenient. How will I get across the bridge tonight? I’m not a nobleman who can flash his credentials whenever he needs to bypass something.”

“You could always walk. The river should be frozen through by nightfall, and…” His voice faded as I glanced over my shoulder at him in disbelief.

“That’s right,” he muttered. “I forgot you’re like a cat when it comes to water. But it would be safe, not to mention faster. You’ll see. It’s going to take an hour just to get across.”

I didn’t believe him at first, but as we progressed, I began to see that while there might not be official taverns, plenty of makeshift stalls offered beverages and food, inviting passersby to stop and peruse, sending those behind them into paroxysms of angry curses. Navigating the congested route between the edifices was like moving through a maze, for while the narrow central road was divided into designated lanes-one north and one south-nobody paid the directions any mind, sauntering to and fro whenever a shop display caught their fancy, ducking around and sometimes outright defying the passage of oncoming carts and wagons and horse riders with oblivious determination.

To Peregrine’s glee, I kept ducking my head to avoid the painted signs in the shape of goods that hung overhead, proclaiming that shop’s particular trade. The light grew dim. The top levels of many of the bridge’s structures connected to each other across the road by soaring passageways, forming a web of vaults. Occasionally I glimpsed open space between the buildings, offering spectacular views of the partially frozen river and spires of London, but I didn’t tarry, much as I might have liked to. I wanted to survive the crossing without trampling over some hapless pedestrian.

By the time we passed over the massive drawbridge at the southern end, I was breathless and Cinnabar quivered with distress. As we rode from under the fortified gatehouse, I glanced upward to its top; the tar-boiled heads of traitors were impaled there on spikes. A shiver went through me as I wondered if the Duke of Northumberland’s head was among them.

I had started turning Cinnabar toward the din of Southwark when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a swish of telltale black. I reined in sharply, swiveling in my saddle to stare into the crowd. Peregrine clutched at my waist, my sudden movements nearly unseating him. “What is it?” he whispered.

“Ssh.” I reached for my sword. A large, dark-clad figure was blending with the people emerging under the gatehouse; I was certain it was none other than Courtenay’s man. As if he felt my stare, he went still. His cowl cast a deep shadow over his face, but I felt him meet my eyes before he wheeled about to disappear into the throngs going north onto the bridge.

I let out my breath. “We’re being followed. No. Don’t look.”

“We are?” Peregrine’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Is he still…?”

“No, he saw me watching and turned around. But he must know what we’re doing; he serves Courtenay. How far do you think it is to the brothel?”

“I don’t know. It must be in the district.” He paused. “Why didn’t he come after us?”

“Perhaps he thinks it would be hard to kill anyone here, with so many witnesses,” I said, though in fact the bridge offered a perfect spot for murder, if you were skilled enough. In all that bustle and commotion, a well-aimed knife could slice a victim open from sternum to gut and the body wouldn’t be found until someone stumbled over it.

Anger surged at my own ineptness. I should have known Courtenay would have me tracked; he might have been lurking unseen near the stable block, seen Elizabeth emerge, and guessed we had met. That didn’t trouble me for now; the princess now knew to keep her distance from Courtenay. My own safety was another matter altogether.

“Let’s see how eager he is,” I said. “We’ll wet our throats in that tavern and wait.”

Tethering Cinnabar outside, I hired an ostler to watch him, and we entered a seedy establishment smelling of dank and alcohol, a convenient locale for passengers coming off or onto the bridge. After ordering two tankards of watered ale and a greasy pie from the hutch, I decided to try my luck and ask the server if he knew where the Hawk’s Nest was. The man was an ugly piece of work, one eye covered in milky film, greasy strands of hair plastered to a skull like a rodent’s; as he peered warily at me through his one good but bloodshot eye, I saw a louse skitter across his brow.

“Hawk’s Nest?” he repeated. “Ye’re that type, are ye?”

“Type?” I frowned. “I’m not sure I understand. I’m looking for-”

He cut me off with a leer that showed rotting gums. His breath alone could have felled an ox. “I know what ye look for,” he leered. “Pretty boy-arse. Go into the district and find Dead Man’s Lane. The Nest is nearby. Though it don’t accept just anyone, I warn ye. Best be up to waitin’, too, ’cause it’s closed till dusk.” He cackled at his own joke. “Up to waitin’, now isn’t that a riot? All ye fancy men are up to waitin’, I wager.”

I smiled through my gritted teeth. “Thank you.” I went to the rickety table where Peregrine sat staring at me over his tankard as if he were about to bolt at any moment.

“Do you know what kind of place the Hawk’s Nest is?” I growled.

He shook his head, too quickly.

“Are you sure?”

He shook his head again, this time with less assertion.

“Boy bum.” I leaned to him. “It’s a quean’s custom house, isn’t it?”

Peregrine said nervously, “Is that what you heard? Imagine that.”

“Yes, imagine it. I also heard it doesn’t allow everyone in. What does that mean?”

“It must be private. You’ll probably need a password-” He avoided the swipe I aimed at his ear. “Would it have mattered if I told you before tonight?” he protested as I glowered at him. “You still have to get inside, no matter what!”

“I wish I didn’t.” I downed my tankard in a gulp. “And why a password? I thought the whole point of running a brothel was to attract as much custom as possible.”

“Well,” said Peregrine, “if their custom is, shall we say, not the usual kind, you’d have to be careful, right? You don’t want the wrong sort getting in.”

He had a point. Buggery was a crime in England, punishable by imprisonment, fines, even death, though I’d never heard of any man being executed for it. Then again, I didn’t have experience. The most I’d gleaned was stories in my boyhood, lurid anecdotes about monks, one of the reasons cited for the closure of the abbeys. The way I looked at it, if the act was consensual, why should I care what anyone chose to do in private? There was more than enough evil in the world for it to rank as a minor vice, if that. Still, I’d never considered I might actually have to visit a place that catered to the predilection.

As if he could read my mind, Peregrine added, “You don’t have to do anything, just get yourself through the door. It probably won’t hurt to look the part, though.”

“Great. And here I thought mastering the sword was my biggest challenge. Anything else you forgot to tell me? Best do it now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

He burst out laughing, his eyes gleaming as I dug into my pie with a decided ill humor. After we ate, we went outside. As I untied Cinnabar and paid the ostler, I gauged our environs. Courtenay’s man could be hiding anywhere; there were still masses of people traveling over the bridge, but the cold was deepening to a bone-sapping chill as the sun started to ebb and I figured we might as well locate the damn brothel so I could return later without undue complications. The last thing I wanted was to lose myself in the crime-infested warren of baiting pits, whorehouses, and cheap inns and taverns of Southwark.

I clicked my tongue at Cinnabar, urging him to quicken his pace as we rode into the coiled heart of the district. I had never beheld such squalor. There was filth everywhere, festering in piles; skeletal dogs skulked past, every rib showing, and children dressed in rags, with open sores on their feet, sat listless in the frozen mud of the lanes while their mothers entertained custom inside seedy lean-tos fit only for rats-a significant quantity of which tripped over the rooftops and through the gutters, bold as day.

“This can’t be right,” I said. “Courtenay would never set foot here.” I pulled out a coin, waving it. Five children immediately bounded to us, grubby hands extended, all eyes and knees and filthy hair. “Which way to Dead Man’s Lane?” I asked, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease when one of the boys pointed to one side, toward the river, and then caught the coin I pitched in midair. I saw feral cunning on the other children’s faces and set my hand on my sword hilt, returning their stares. They retreated, like a pack of animals.

We rode down a rutted path that barely qualified as a lane, past a series of slightly less sordid establishments, and came up before a two-story, timber-framed building. I thought at first it must be a guesthouse until I saw the sign swinging above its stout oak door, depicting a bird of prey, crudely drawn wings stretched over a circle of twigs: THE HAWK’S NEST.

There were no lower windows or visible places to gain a foothold up to a narrow catwalk of a ledge that ran parallel under high upper windows, all of which were shuttered. Indeed, nothing about the place indicated easy access or a welcoming air. It was more a fortress than a den of illicit pleasure.

“Locked tight as a virgin’s knees,” I remarked, and Peregrine laughed. “How will we get inside?” I took another moment to memorize the house and its location before I surveyed our surroundings. I waited. After a few minutes, I turned Cinnabar around.

“We?” I said in response to Peregrine’s question. “There is no ‘we’ tonight. You’ve had quite enough adventure for one day.”

He sulked as we rode back to the bridge. Crossing north proved less arduous, the crowds thinning as dusk draped a cinder shroud over the horizon. Moving slowly through the waning populace, as shop vendors bolted their doors for the night, I kept my poniard unsheathed. I made a brief stop at a shop to purchase a new dark wool cap, lingering over the wares, but did not catch sight of Courtenay’s man. His absence proved disquieting. It wasn’t like a henchman to give up easily. He’d had plenty of opportunity to follow and engage, if he were so inclined, but he hadn’t. Why?

The only reason I could think of did not ease my apprehension. Maybe he’d been paid to watch and report back.

If so, that could mean Courtenay wanted me to find him.

* * *

After seeing to Cinnabar’s water and feed, we hurried into the palace. My fingers were so numb with cold by the time we reached my chamber, I could barely pull out the key from my doublet and unlock the door.

I went still. The room had been ransacked, the coffer flung open, my saddlebag overturned on the floor, its contents scattered, my cot pulled from the wall and upended. I released my sword, holding Peregrine back. “So much for giving up,” I said. “While we were investigating the brothel, it looks like our friend came back to investigate me.”

“What could he have wanted?” Peregrine slipped in front of me, gingerly stepping over the debris. “Doesn’t look as if he stole anything; he didn’t even take your fake chain. See? It’s over there by the coffer.”

“I don’t know what he wanted,” I said, but as I reached down for my bag I had the sudden thought that this overt display of theft seemed staged-a deliberate act intended to instill fear in me.

The skin of my nape crawled.

Peregrine started to pick up my chain. All of a sudden, he paused. He straightened up, a folded square of parchment in his hands. “What’s this?” he asked, and before I could stop him he cracked apart the gray wax seal.

“You cannot save her,” he read aloud. He looked at me, bewildered.

I lunged.

He recoiled instinctively, the note dropping from his hand. He gazed at me, his eyes widening. “It-it burns,” he gasped. “My fingertips … they’re burning…”

I took one look at the note, at the jagged edges of the broken seal. I tasted bile in my throat. Kicking the note aside, I seized Peregrine’s hands. Welts were seared into his flesh, like burns.

Poison. The seal on the parchment had been poisoned.

He let out a startled cry and staggered against me. I dragged him to the nearby pitcher, overturning the water on his hands, rubbing them frantically against my doublet. His face drained white; blood-flecked foam bubbled from his lips. He clutched at me, his legs buckling.

The room swirled about me as I held him upright. He started to thrash, the greasy contents of our afternoon meal spewing from his mouth. As his eyes rolled back in his head, I hauled him up into my arms and flung open the chamber door, scrambling down the staircase, through the freezing courtyards, and into the torch-lit gallery. I couldn’t hear anything except my own voice-like the cry of a wounded animal.

A group of figures paused at the gallery’s end; as I staggered toward them, Peregrine draped in my arms, I heard urgent voices. A tall, thin man in black strode to me.

“My squire,” I said haltingly, gasping. “He-he’s been poisoned. Please … help me.”

The man came to a halt, his hawkish bearded face closing like a trap. He was a Spaniard from the Hapsburg delegation; I recognized him from the night in the hall, one of the exalted lords who’d stood by the queen and frowned at everything. Behind him I saw the others staring. No one moved. Then, through a haze of despair, I caught sight of a familiar face, although it wasn’t until she hastened forth that I recognized Sybilla. The Spaniard detained her. “Dice que han envenenado al joven. No le toques.”

She shook his hand aside, moving to me. “I know some herbal lore,” she said. “I can help him until we fetch a physician. Quickly, bring him to-”

Peregrine started thrashing again. As I tightened my grip, liquid seeped from his mouth, dark and putrid, staining his parched lips. Sybilla whirled about, her voice shredding, and the tall Spaniard barked at his companions. From among them, someone broke free, a slight figure I watched through a daze as she bolted down the opposite end of the gallery to the hall, her hood flying off to expose blond tresses, her frantic cry echoing as her little black dog bounded behind her, barking in excitement.

I crumbled to my knees. Clutching Peregrine, I rocked back and forth, over and over, whispering, “No, please God, no, not this, not him…”

Sybilla sank in a pool of skirts at my side. I felt her hand on my shoulder as Peregrine jerked, weakly. His eyes opened wide. He looked at me. He was struggling to speak, but the liquid welled up again, thick and vile.

I heard a terrifying rattle in his throat.

His eyelids fluttered and closed.

He went still.