The Tudor Conspiracy

THE TOWER
Chapter Fourteen

Courtenay’s manservant was waiting outside the postern gate when I rode out on Cinnabar at the stroke of one-a hulking figure seated on an enormous gray destrier, his black cloak enveloping him, its cowl drawn over his head to hide his ravaged face.

“Right on time,” he said gruffly before he swerved onto the road that led to the Tower. Ice-hardened snow crunched under our horses’ hooves. The day was clear, though a bracing wind made me glad of my layers of doublet and cloak, my scarf pulled up about my nose and mouth, and my cap shoved down about my ears.

I noted equal discomfort on the scowling faces of passing Londoners, the goodwives, merchants, and other citizens trudging over makeshift planks sunk in mires of slush, while vagabonds and beggars skulked, shivering, in doorways. I looked away from a cadaver, stripped naked and tossed on a midden, its limbs frozen solid, only to catch sight of a mange-ridden bitch herding four skeletal pups out of the way of an approaching cart. As the carter flayed his whip, the bitch yelped, grabbing two of the pups in her jaws and leaving the others to race into a nearby rookery of ramshackle edifices. I yanked Cinnabar aside to avoid trampling the cowering pups and was relieved when I looked over my shoulder and saw them darting, unharmed, after their mother.

“Lucky curs.” The manservant swiveled his head in my direction. “By all accounts, they should be in somebody’s stew pot by now.”

I stared stonily at him. I had no doubt he’d have eaten those pups, too, straight out of the pot. I could see why Courtenay had hired him; with this beast at his side, the earl could prowl the most unsavory places in London and not fear for his life.

Though it was not the earl’s life I was most concerned about.

Not forty-eight hours ago, this man had stalked me. I’d threatened him in the brothel and was blackmailing his master. Now we rode through the city, and while he’d kept his distance thus far, I was fully aware he might yet turn on me. Courtenay could have ordered him to make sure I never reached my destination.

He surprised me by grunting, “My name’s Scarcliff. Hope you brought coin.”

I nodded, resisting an urge to laugh. That was his name? I almost pitied the ugly oaf.

As if he read my thoughts, he gave me a disparaging grimace, his front teeth blackened and jagged. “You needn’t worry. I have my orders. But you’ll need to pay the yeomen at the gate and guards inside.” He gestured to his saddlebag. “You’ll take this in with you. Those who pay enough are allowed certain privileges, and the Dudleys get fresh linens every week, courtesy of his lordship. You’ll deliver the bag to their quarters. I’ll wait till the gates close at dusk. If you don’t return by then, I’ll see your horse back to the stables, but you’re on your own.”

His speech was less slurred than it had been at the brothel, no doubt because he was sober, but he still sounded as if he spat out pebbles instead of words. Nevertheless, I was slightly comforted that he did not harbor murderous intent. Of course, he might not need to. I was about to walk voluntarily into the most notorious and well-guarded prison in the realm, where countless men vanished, never to be seen again. If I didn’t get out in time, it might do the job just as well as a blade between my ribs.

We approached the main causeway over the Tower moat. The Tower loomed before me, an enormous, forbidding sight, the domed turrets of its keep thrusting like the calcified fingers of a moribund giant from a surrounding warren of gatehouses, lesser towers, and impregnable walls.

My skin crawled. I’d never thought to set foot in this dreadful place again.

“I’d take off the scarf if I were you. Yeomen don’t like visitors who hide their faces.” As he spoke, Scarcliff shrugged back his own cowl, exposing his hideous, one-eyed visage. Seeing the destruction in daylight, I thought he must have survived some awful fiery battle.

I tore my gaze from him, unraveling the ice-flecked wool from my face. My cheeks were numb from the biting wind blowing off the river, though here the Thames ran deeper and had even started to thaw in parts, with chunks of broken ice bobbing in the dark water.

Various persons stood in line outside the gate, waiting to enter, their subdued chatter punctuated by an occasional mournful roar drifting from inside the crenellated barbican.

“Henry’s old lions,” said Scarcliff. “They don’t much like being caged.”

I shuddered. I couldn’t imagine keeping a wild creature behind bars, though far worse happened every day in this city. I braced myself as we drew our horses to a halt. Scarcliff dismounted, trudged over the drawbridge with his lopsided gait, ignoring the startled glances in his direction from those in line. He reached the warder yeoman guarding the entrance. Two others checked the credentials of those seeking entrance; the warder appeared to recognize Scarcliff, heeding him attentively before giving a curt nod.

Scarcliff came back to me and unhooked the saddlebag. “You’re the earl’s man now, remember, so best act like it. The Dudleys are in the Beauchamp Tower off the inner ward. They like to take their exercise on the leads around this hour, but Lord Robert will be advised he has a visitor. I’ll wait at the Griffin Tavern on Tower Street. Remember, I leave at dusk when the gates close-with or without you.”

I clicked my tongue reassuringly as Scarcliff took my reins. I found it curious that while usually wary of strangers, Cinnabar did not seem averse to letting this particular stranger handle him. Then I hoisted the bag on my shoulder and moved to the portcullis, assaulted by a vivid memory of the last time I had seen it, slamming down like a fanged mouth on a crowd of frantic men. The Dudley steward Shelton had disappeared here that night, struggling in the crush, as guards galloped toward him, swinging maces and pikes …

I forced aside my ruminations, opening the bag for the yeoman to inspect. The scent of lavender rose from the wrapped parcel of linens. The yeoman stared at me. I thought he was going to question me before I remembered. As I fished coins from the purse at my belt, he said, “Through the Bell Tower and to your left into the ward.” He let me pass. Behind me the waiting queue raised angry protest at my preferential treatment.

My boot heels struck hollow echoes upon the flagstones. Sentinels dressed in green uniforms sporting Tudor-rose badges, black-clad secretaries, and other official-looking persons moved around me, carving purposeful paths to various assignations. I recalled that the Tower was more than just a prison; within these walls were an armory, a treasury, a menagerie, and royal apartments. Like every royal fortress, it was governed by a strict bureaucracy, much like Whitehall itself, but as I passed the water gate through which the condemned entered by the river, I felt the walls close in on me, as if I were a rat in a maze.

I hurried up a flight of stairs to the inner ward. The massive White Keep stood to my right. Before me lay a cobblestone space hemmed in by towers and walls but open to the sky and festooned with stalls-an improvised marketplace where guild tradesmen took orders and vendors plied food, the air warmed by the odor of cooking fires. Livestock lowed in pens; everyone went about their business with brisk efficiency, circumventing an empty scaffold situated paces from the chapel, a grim reminder of the Tower’s ultimate purpose.

I stopped in my tracks. Elizabeth’s mother had died on that spot. Though there was no block, no hay to soak up the blood, in my imagination I saw it all, flashing in a tableau before me-Anne Boleyn’s slim figure as she was blindfolded, the slow drop to her knees, and the swift, inescapable arc of the French executioner’s sword …

Tearing my eyes away, I hastened to the Beauchamp Tower.

The guard at the entrance regarded me with the slovenly indifference of someone who needn’t do much to earn his wage. His potbelly hung over his wide, studded belt as he slumped on a stool, a halberd propped against the wall. On the rickety table before him were the ruins of a meat pie and an open ledger. Inking a pruned quill, he said in a toneless mumble, “Name. Occupation. Purpose.”

Name. I hadn’t thought of a name.

“Are ye daft?” He glared at me. “Name. Occupation. Purpose.”

“Beecham,” I said quickly, for it hardly mattered if I used another alias. “Body servant to his lordship, Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. By my lord’s command, I bring linens for the prisoners.”

“Oh. More linens, eh?” The guard snorted as he scrawled my information in the ledger. “Them Dudleys have the devil’s own luck. We’ve got a hundred poor bastards rottin’ underground and in the Ease, eaten by rats and drinking their own piss, but this lot dine like kings on the earl’s purse, no matter that their father took the ax.” He rummaged cursorily through the saddlebag, his fingers oily with pie grease. I suspected he did it on purpose, to soil the linens. He pushed the bag to me. “Their quarters are up the staircase,” he said, but he didn’t move out of my way until I doled out the requisite bribe.

As I climbed the stairs, the hilt of my hidden poniard dug into my calf. The Dudleys certainly enjoyed both privileges and risks, if this was all it took to get inside their quarters. I might have been a paid assassin, for all the guard knew. No wonder Courtenay found it easy to smuggle in books and letters. I could have carried a dozen on my person alone.

I also might have entered the hall in a manor, I thought, as I walked through a door on the landing into a vaulted room. The walls were adorned with thick, albeit faded, wool tapestries; there were carpets underfoot instead of the ubiquitous lousy rushes, and a fire crackled in the recessed hearth, staving off the chill. A low archway to the left led to sleeping chambers and a garderobe. Several chipped, high-backed chairs, stools, a reading lectern, and a long central table added to the illusion of domestic comfort, while a large mullioned embrasure admitted dusty light. Piles of books on the floor and a furry indent on a cushion by the hearth indicated the Dudleys had the means to keep boredom at bay; evidently it paid to be born on the right side of the blanket, even if one’s family had a tendency to end up with their heads on spikes.

The room was empty. Unclasping my cloak, I draped it across a chair and set the bag on the table, eyeing the pile of books. I resisted the urge to search them for the one Elizabeth had given Courtenay. By now, her letter must have been taken.

I paced to the embrasure. Below me on a protected rampart, stretching between this tower and the next, moved a group of cloaked figures. I went still, recognizing Guilford Dudley’s fair mop and the ginger coloring of his shorter and far less amiable brother Henry. Behind them trailed muscular Ambrose and the eldest of the Dudley brood, John, who bore the closest resemblance to their late father. Only Robert was missing, but I scarcely marked his absence, riveted by the unexpected sight of a slim female figure, her hood slipping from her head to reveal coiled gold-red tresses plaited about her head, a shade paler than her cousin Elizabeth’s.

Lady Jane Grey, Guilford’s wife, was with the four brothers.

John stumbled. As Jane put her hand to his back to steady him, a nearby servant holding a terrier on leash hurried to them. John leaned on the servant gratefully while Jane took the dog. Of the five boys, I knew John Dudley the least. The firstborn, he’d been educated at court, far from the castle where I’d been raised. I’d therefore rarely seen him and now recalled overhearing he was prone to fever, his lungs weakened from a bout of-

“Who are you?”

I spun around. Standing in the doorway was Lord Robert.

“Don’t you recognize me, my lord?” I cast back my hood. “It hasn’t been that long.”

He paused, staring. Then he let out a hiss through his teeth, “Prescott!” and kicked the door shut behind him. He took a step toward me. The sight of him-taller than I recalled and much leaner, his raven-wing’s hair shorn to his skull, accentuating the striking Dudley cheekbones and liquid black eyes-plunged me into the past, when I’d been an insignificant squire, unaware of my royal blood, dependent on him for my very survival.

“Well, well.” He put a hand on his hip, eyeing me. “Imagine my surprise when I was told I had a visitor.” His voice was tauntingly familiar, as if we’d only seen each other a few hours ago. “I’ve wondered what became of you and what it would be like to see you walk in here like a dog returning to its own vomit. But I never thought you’d actually do it. I never thought you’d be that stupid. Oh, and the guard downstairs? He isn’t going to lift a finger to help you, so don’t think of yelling. Whatever you paid him, I offered double.”

I didn’t doubt it. I refused to react to his threat, even as my heart started to pound. I pointed to the bag on the table. “I brought your linens.”

“I see. Is that who you work for now? Are you Courtenay’s latest bum-boy? You certainly move fast. They only let him out of here two months ago. Were you loitering outside the gates, waiting for the first pair of noble boots to lick?”

My anxiety faded. I should savor this moment. The wheel of fate had turned. Once, I’d been the defenseless one and he had all the power to strike against me at will, but I’d done him one better. I had won. It was time he knew it.

“I serve Princess Elizabeth now. I’m here to collect something of hers.”

His lip curled, as if it meant little to him, but I sensed the violence lurking in his broad shoulders. If he decided to charge me, I’d have a time of it. He might look underfed, a shadow of the gorgeous favored son he’d once been, but he had the strength of a lifetime of privilege to draw upon, honed by years of horsemanship, archery, jousting, swordplay, and other costly recreations only the rich could afford. He’d always been gifted, both in his beauty and prowess. Six long months spent in this cage must have stoked his temper to a fiery pitch. After all the luxury and expectation, the aspirations of grandeur when his father ruled the realm, Robert Dudley had become a cornered man.

Cornered men were always dangerous.

His smile sliced across his lips. “So, you serve Elizabeth now. When did this occur, exactly? Before or after you betrayed me?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me. I should never have trusted you. I should have known a runt like you would have no concept of loyalty.” He swerved to the sideboard and reached for a tarnished decanter. As he poured wine into a goblet, he kept his back to me. If he thought to lull me into lowering my guard, it wasn’t going to work. I knew him too well.

“Let me get this clear.” He turned around with a frown, as if I had presented a particularly vexing issue. “You work for her and she sent you here, to me? I find that odd, considering the last time she and I spoke she insulted me to my face. What were her words again?” He stared at me. “Surely you must remember. Though I didn’t see you at the time, like the snake you are I’m sure you were hiding somewhere in the brush.”

“I believe she said she’d rather die than let a lowborn Dudley rut in her bed,” I replied, and I braced my entire body for his charge.

His face hardened, so that the bone structure under his taut skin seemed to show. “So, you were there. I’m impressed. You played me like a courtier. Just look”-he flung out his arm, sloshing wine from his goblet-“you’re now free to hire yourself out to whomever you please, while I’m locked up waiting for the same ax that killed my father.” His voice darkened. “And all because my family took pity on you, rather than throwing you down a well like you deserved.”

“Are you blaming me for this?” I arched my brow. “Because if so, you do yourself a disservice. I didn’t put you or your brothers in here. You did all that on your own.”

His goblet froze halfway to his mouth. I had struck at his core; he could not refute that, more than greed or ambition, the Dudley belief in their infallibility had been their ruin.

“You speak the truth,” he said at length, his voice dead quiet. “It’s not as if you did anything but seek your advantage. Elizabeth always did have a weakness for subservience; she likes nothing better than to be fawned upon.” He drank. “You said you came for something of hers. What is it?” He held up a hand. “No. Don’t tell me.” He smiled. “A letter.”

The contempt in his tone enraged me. I had to stop myself from being the one who lunged first. “Because of that letter, she’s in grave danger. Ambassador Renard seeks evidence against her. He suspects her and Courtenay of plotting against the queen. Your own head also stands to roll if you don’t help me. I know very well that you’re behind it.”

“Oh? I fail to see how I can be suspect. Am I not a prisoner already?”

“Condemned men have the least to lose. Courtenay also told me everything.” I watched his feigned indifference slip from his face like a poorly fitted mask. “I know about the other letters you’ve sent, to men throughout the kingdom. You made a mistake with Courtenay. He may cut a fine enough figure, but he’s hardly heroic. How long do you think he’ll hold out when Renard convinces the queen to order his arrest, as he will? I rather think the earl will take one look at the rack and spill his guts. And once he tells Renard what he wants to hear, they’ll come here-for you.”

The visible protruding of Robert’s jaw muscles assured me I’d finally hit my target.

“But they’ll need proof,” I added. “The queen isn’t given to signing death warrants without it. Give it to me and they’ll never find it.”

“You expect me to take your word for it,” he snarled, “after what you’ve done? You betrayed my family!”

“If you don’t, Renard will hire someone else. And if his next agent gets as far as I have, you won’t survive.” I returned his implacable stare. “Give me all your letters and they’ll find nothing. No evidence. What can they accuse you of? Only the earl risks arrest.”

He considered for a long moment. Then he raised his hands and began to clap slowly, in mocking applause. “Congratulations! You’ve become a man. But you’ve neglected to consider one thing.” He showed me his teeth. “What if your precious Elizabeth isn’t quite as innocent as you think? What if you seek to spare her from the very thing she herself helped set in motion?”

My hands coiled at my sides. “Speak plainly for once.”

He chuckled. “I will. It would be my pleasure. Ambassador Renard is right about this much: There is a plot against the queen. It’s the only way to save us from this infernal Spanish prince and Mary’s deluded belief in her duty to return us all to popery and superstition. At the appointed date and time, men I have sent letters to will muster their armies; they will rise up to declare Queen Mary unfit to rule. She’ll be given a choice: If she renounces her throne willingly, her life will be spared. Elizabeth insisted on it; she thinks that faced with an uprising, her sister will heed reason.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But we both know that Mary can’t heed reason, don’t we? We know she’ll fight to the death, as she did against my father. And thus, death she will have, by my word. Her head will join my father’s on the bridge, and then, my faithless friend, I will have my revenge.”

I didn’t speak. I stood silent and let his words absorb into me, like painful ink. It was difficult to hear but not a shock: Elizabeth had never been one to back down from a fight, and Mary had threatened her. The queen had even, according to Renard, questioned her legitimacy. She may have misled me as to her full involvement, but she didn’t realize how far Dudley had preyed on her fears for his own twisted ends, not when she found herself in the midst of her own battle for her right to succeed. It was why she’d written to Dudley; why she risked her safety and Mary’s eroding trust; why she indulged Courtenay even after she’d been warned. She thought she could still compel her sister to accept the sacrifice that being queen entailed, to turn away from her Hapsburg marriage for the good of her people.

She didn’t know Mary at all, and regardless of her reasons, she had committed treason. It could cost her, and me, our lives. Not that I was going to let it stop me. I had my own fight to wage: my avenging of Peregrine, who had perished by Renard’s hand.

I had to destroy the ambassador, come what may.

“Your life or death makes no difference to me,” I said to Robert. I took a step toward him, my hand extended. “I want those letters, and you’re going to give them to me.”

He laughed. “I think not. Elizabeth didn’t tell you the truth because, much as she may delight in sending you where you don’t belong, in the end she understands that when a man has no lineage it’s a stain that marks him for life. She knows you’re just a nameless bastard who can’t be trusted.” He crossed his arms at his chest. “Now get back to whatever hole you crawled out of, Prescott, before I change my mind and make sure you regret coming here.”

I didn’t anticipate my reaction to these words. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t said worse, but as if all the memories of my tormented childhood surged up inside me, a violent wave that reduced my entire existence to this one moment, I lowered my head and rushed at him with all my strength, throwing him against the sideboard.

I heard a metallic crash as the decanter went flying. Then he let out a savage yell and started pounding me. I held fast to his waist, dragging him down onto the floor and swiping the poniard from my boot. As he tried to wrap his hands about my neck, I straddled him in one swift move and angled the blade at his throat.

“Last time,” I said. “Give me the letters. Or would you rather bleed?”

“Bleed!” he hissed, and he twisted with brutal strength, bringing up his knees and ramming them into my groin. Stars exploded in my head. I lost my grip. I hit him as hard as I could in his face; he hit back, and then we were struggling, tumbling across the rug, fists ramming and fingers gouging as he sought to wrest the knife away or drive it into me. I felt nothing-no pain, no fear, not even when he slammed a fist into my temple and the world went dark. With a ferocious bellow I didn’t recognize as my own, I started beating him, over and over, using my poniard hilt, hearing flesh give and bone crack.

Then my hands were about his throat; he flailed under me as I shut off his wind like a vise. He started to choke. My rage-that boundless, consuming rage, which I had kept tethered deep inside like some beast, fed on years of suffering, of doubt and yearning and helplessness-devoured all caution, all pity.

All reason.

“Stop! Please!”

A girl’s frantic wail and the frenzied barking of a terrier barely penetrated my consciousness. A pounding sound echoed; Robert was kicking, his heels banging spasmodically against the floorboards as he fought for air. As I looked over my shoulder, past the blood seeping down my face, I saw figures rush into the room, coming toward me.

I thrust my blade at Robert’s throat. “Any closer and I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”

His brothers slid to a halt. John was in the lead, ashen dismay spreading across his face as he took in our sprawled position, the contents from the sideboard spilled across the floor, the overturned chairs and stools strewn in our wake.

Guilford was the first to recognize me. He cried, “It’s the foundling!” and Henry Dudley spat, “Whoreson. Let the dog loose on him. Then I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”

“You will do no such thing!” rang out a wavering voice; it came from the same girl who’d cried out at us to stop. As I tightened my hold on Robert, I stared through the ebbing haze of my anger to where Jane Grey stood as if petrified on the threshold.

She was looking at me in disbelief. “What … what are you doing here?”

“He’s plotting treason,” I told her. “You’re in here because his father forced you to assume the queen’s throne, and now he would send you all to the scaffold.”

She lifted a hand to her chest, as though she lacked for breath. She said haltingly to John, “I believe he speaks the truth. I know him.”

“So do we!” retorted Guilford. “We reared the worthless shit in our house and then he turned coat and betrayed us-”

I pushed the tip of my blade harder against Robert’s neck. He let out a strangled cry. “He has letters to prove it,” I said. “I want them. Now. Or he dies.”

John Dudley shifted his gaze to Robert. I could see he was unwell, his face sunken and complexion sallow, like an invalid’s. His voice was slow, measured, as if it cost him to formulate words. “Letters? Is this true, Robert?”

Robert tried to raise protest; I cut him off. “It’s true, though he’ll lie to his last breath if he can. Where are they? Where are the letters?”

John looked bewildered. “I don’t-” Jane had already moved past him, evading her husband, Guilford, who stood clenching and unclenching his fists. Henry ripped the dog’s lead from him and unleashed the terrier; it bounded at me, baring its teeth.

“Sirius, sit!” Jane snapped. The dog went to its haunches at once, a low growl in its throat as she proceeded to the hearth, groping under the lip of the chimney. She extracted a cylindrical oil-skin tube, which she held pensively before she turned around.

Guilford gasped. “How did you know?”

She gave him a bitter smile. “Do you still think me a complete fool? I’ve been coming here every week to walk and dine with you; I have eyes. I saw books arrive. I saw others leave. I counted them every day. I even tried to read one. But they are useless. The pages have been cut out.” She kicked with her diminutive foot at the pile of books near the dog’s cushion by the hearth, toppling them. “Your brother Robert would see us dead to satisfy his ambition. Even now, he refuses to recognize that our fate has always lain in God’s hands.”

“A pox on God!” snarled Henry Dudley. “And a pox on you, too, you righteous Grey bitch!” He started to lunge at Jane. John stepped in front of her with his hand held up.

“No.” Though he was frail, in his voice reverberated an echo of that unquestionable authority his father had once commanded. “That is enough.” He looked at me. “Let Robert go. You have my word you will not be harmed.”

I hesitated. A room full of Dudleys and one exit: It was my worst nightmare come to life, but it was a risk I had to take. I released Robert, rising quickly to my feet and stepping away. He drew in gulps of air, his face a mass of contusions, his lip split and bleeding. I still couldn’t feel anything, but I knew I would later. I must look almost as bad as he did.

“You can’t let him leave,” Henry was saying. “He knows everything now. He’ll tell the queen. The bastard foundling will be the one who sends us all to the scaffold!”

John glared at him before he turned to me. “You once served our family. But you deceived us and, according to Robert, helped the queen put us in here. Will you now send us all to our deaths?”

I shook my head, trying not to look at Jane’s thin figure behind him, the tube in her hands. “I want only to help my mistress, Princess Elizabeth.”

Robert croaked from behind me, “Don’t believe him. He’s a liar. He wants revenge. Give him those letters and he will use them against us. He’ll take us down, every last one.”

John hesitated. All of a sudden, fear seized me. I might not make it out of here alive.

“I promise on my own life,” I said to John. “I will not use the letters against you.” I clutched my knife tighter, sensing his brothers watching, waiting for his word to tear into me like hungry wolves.

Then John stepped aside. “Give him the letters.”

Jane held out the tube. As I took it, I saw the stoic resignation in her blue-gray eyes. I had to resist the urge to clasp her to me, to gather her up and take her far from this awful place. She was so short she barely reached my chin, fragile as a child; the toll of her confinement showed in the hollows of her cheeks and in her shadowed, haunted gaze.

“I believe you to be a man of honor,” she said. “I trust you’ll honor your word.”

“My lady,” I whispered. “I would rather die than see you harmed.” I bent over her hand. Then I tucked the tube into the saddlebag, grabbed it and my cloak off the table, and started for the door.

“Prescott!”

I paused, glancing over my shoulder. Robert had staggered to his feet with John’s help. Leaning on his older brother’s thin shoulder, he flung his words at me like a gauntlet.

“It’s not over,” he said. “Nothing you say or do can stop it. You may have won this day, but in the end I’ll triumph. I will restore my name if it’s the last thing I do. And remember this: On the day Elizabeth takes her throne, I will be at her side. I will be the one she turns to, in all things. And then, Prescott-then you’ll regret this day. Her hour of glory will be your doom.”

I didn’t answer. I did not give him the satisfaction. I turned and walked out and left him there in his prison, where, if there was any justice left in the world, he would remain for the rest of his days.

It was the only way Elizabeth would ever be safe from him.