The Tudor Conspiracy

Chapter Sixteen

The cold finally encouraged me to attempt to stand-that and Cinnabar’s concerned nuzzling. Drawing in a deep lungful of air, I hoisted myself as best as I could to my feet. The side of my temple where the branch had struck me throbbed; I could only imagine the sight I’d present when I finally made it to my room. I was having difficulty accepting I was still alive.

I went to my sword, lay down at an awkward angle, and maneuvered my bound wrists as best as I could against the edge of the blade. As I sawed back and forth clumsily-the tops of my palms rubbing on the blade with a sharp sting, I prayed I’d not end up shredding my hands or slicing open a vein-I considered my position. Clearly the swordsman had been hired to steal the letters; he had known what I carried. If he was Renard’s man-and it seemed the likely explanation-then I must owe my life to the ambassador. Renard had what he sought; he had also neutralized my attempt to safeguard Elizabeth. My death could come later, after he’d sent the evidence to the queen and his prey to the Tower. I was not important. He could afford to dispense with me at his leisure.

When I felt a sudden loosening of the knot, I shifted away. With all my strength, I strained to pull my wrists apart. The leather cord frayed; with a gasp of painful relief, I slid one hand free. Unraveling the cord from my wrists, my skin smarting and bloodied, I picked up my sword and trudged to Cinnabar. Limping, I led him to a tree stump, where I balanced unsteadily to clamber onto my saddle. Cinnabar waited patiently; when he sensed I was seated, he ambled toward the road.

I searched the environs cautiously, though I already knew Scarcliff would not appear. He’d not come to my rescue. He must have bolted away the moment he realized who the men were after; there was no point in risking his life. By now he’d be back in the Griffin, slurping from his tankard and petting his ugly dog. He wasn’t one to waste sentiment on circumstances beyond his control. As he had told me, he had his orders.

The palace appeared like a mirage out of the night. As we neared the postern gate, Cinnabar quickened his pace, eager for his well-earned rubdown and oats. I slid off him in the darkened stable yard. I’d barely started to unbuckle his harness when a groom hurried out of the shadows by the stalls.

My heart stopped. He reminded me of Peregrine. Then he paused, staring at me, and I saw he was an older boy, pimply and angular, with a thatch of unwashed hair. “Are you Peregrine’s master?” he asked, hesitantly.

I replied hoarsely, “I am. You must be his friend, Toby.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry about Peregrine. All the lads here are. He was nice. He gave us extra money and told us he was a friend of the princess. If we can do anything for you…?”

”You can.” I rummaged in my pouch, handing him a coin. “Please see that my horse is well attended. We’ve had a rough night.”

He eagerly went to work, relieving Cinnabar of saddle, harness, and bridle while I took stock of myself. I was covered in muck, my cloak rumpled and torn from my fall. God only knew what the rest of me looked like. I couldn’t walk into the palace in this state without attracting attention. I asked Toby for a pail of water. I washed up as best as I could, and once I saw Cinnabar to his stall, I stole through the back passageways to my room.

Undressing was a torment. As I peeled away the soiled layers, I clenched my teeth and reopened my cut lip. My chemise in particular proved torturous, the linen having mixed with my sweat to adhere to my contusions, like a hair shirt dipped in salt. Naked save for my sagging hose, I surveyed my shockingly bruised torso before I took up my small hand mirror. Catching one look at my face in the tallow light, I set the glass aside. No use dwelling on it. As terrible as it looked, as Scarcliff had said, I would heal.

The water in my basin was icy; I gasped as I carefully used a rag to wash away the worst of the filth and blood from my body. Despair lurked at the edges of my awareness. I’d have given anything to see Peregrine again, to hear him whistle in amazement and comment about how I couldn’t go anywhere alone because I always ended up falling into a river or chased by ruffians. Blinking back tears-salt on my face was the last thing I needed-I went to the coffer and poured with a trembling hand from the decanter. I gulped the entire draft down, not caring that the beer was a day old and already souring.

As the drink hit my stomach, I sat on the bed.

Failure crashed over me.

I had lost the letters, and time was running out. Renard had sent his men to ambush me; he knew that without evidence, there was nothing I could do to stop him, short of murder. This possibility took root in my mind, even as I told myself that if his death were ever traced to me, I, too, would die. Somehow, though, my own life no longer mattered. I longed to see Renard’s expression as he took his last breath; I wanted him to know that I was also capable of doing whatever was required. His henchman had not let me live tonight out of mercy; Renard had me spared because my demise was of no account for the moment. If he’d had his way, I’d be dead already. He’d come for me eventually, unless I got to him first.

I mapped out scenarios. I was scheduled to report to him tomorrow; I could meet him in his office and do it there, behind closed doors, but I’d have to contend with his secretaries afterward. It might be better to hide in the vicinity and catch Renard unaware as he made his way to the office, take him down in one of the remote courtyards, and make it look like a random assault, a botched robbery, as I had thought he’d have his men do to me on the road. However I did it, I had to act soon.

I had to kill him before he presented those letters to the queen.

Urgency brought me staggering to my feet. The room swam. I paused, choking back bile as I shrugged on my doublet, pulled on my boots, and, with my sword dangling at my belt, lurched to the door. I felt like I was moving underwater. I faintly acknowledged that in my current state I’d probably never make it down the stairs, let alone traverse the palace to his office in the dead of the night. I couldn’t begin to think of how I’d actually wield my poniard with enough force to kill him, but I grasped the door latch anyway, determined to try.

I yanked the door open. Standing outside was a cloaked silhouette. I struggled backward, lifting the sword up. The figure resolved itself from the inky shadows; a warning hand came up, to silence my outburst. “Ssh! Don’t shout.”

I smelled lilies. I could only stare. In the guttering tallow glow, her eyes were huge, her face framed by a cascade of dark blond hair that caught the light like cloth of gold. She pulled back her hood; it crumpled softly about her shoulders. As she turned to close the door, the cloak parted to reveal her slim form, clad in a simple, high-necked black gown.

“What-what are you doing here?” I said in a hoarse whisper.

“Looking for you.” Sybilla regarded me with a worried frown. “I knew something must have happened. I waited for hours, watching the staircase to your room.”

“You-you waited?”

“Yes. I wanted to tell you something. Renard was with the queen all afternoon; they dined together in her apartments. As Lady Clarencieux and I served them, I overheard Renard telling her that you couldn’t be trusted. She was not pleased; she said you’d yet to prove yourself either way. But he replied that he would soon deliver evidence to the contrary. So, as soon as I could, I came to find you. I waited in the gallery in an alcove, hidden from view; by nightfall, I started to fear the worst.”

I stood immobile, as if cast in stone, my sword still clutched in my fist. “And did Renard … did he deliver this evidence?” The calm in my voice surprised me.

“No. I was returning to the queen’s apartments when I happened to look out into the courtyard and saw two men hurrying toward his office. I recognized them; he employs them to fulfill whatever illicit deeds he needs doing. I also knew Renard wasn’t in his office; after he left the queen, he went out. He rents a manor on the Strand he doesn’t live in, but he visits often, so he must keep a mistress there. I followed the men. They gave Renard’s secretary-the morose one, who never seems to sleep-a tube, like those used by couriers. They also told him they’d left the traitor hurt but alive, as ordered. The secretary promised to deliver the tube. I saw it all from the corridor. The door was wide open.”

I could barely breathe, my entire being focused on her.

“Are you the traitor they were talking about?” she asked.

I nodded. “They took that tube from me. One of them, the slim one-he could have easily killed me. I see I was right in assuming Renard was behind it.”

Her expression hardened. “He made a serious mistake with that poisoned note; he can’t take another chance that something will go wrong.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out the oilskin tube. “Is this it?”

My heart started to pound. I couldn’t believe it. As I gazed at the seemingly innocuous object in her hand, stained with soot from the chimney and countless smudged fingers, I had to resist the urge to pounce on it.

Sybilla’s gaze turned cold. “Do you still not trust me?”

“I’m not sure.” I met her eyes. “This is almost too convenient.”

“I see.” Her smile cut across her mouth. “Do you think I’m deceiving you?”

“I didn’t mean that-”

“Yes. You did.” She made as if to leave; before I knew what I was doing, I gripped her by the wrist. It was thin but not frail; she possessed covert strength.

She went still. “Pray, unhand me.”

I did. She didn’t touch her wrist. “I told you, I would do whatever is necessary. If Renard wins, I’ll be in his debt forever, like my mother before me.”

I suddenly understood. “Your mother, she was Renard’s…?”

Sybilla’s smile was bitter. “She didn’t sell herself in a brothel, but the result is the same. When we left England, we were penniless; she had nothing to offer save her services. Renard made it clear those services would be his price for a position at the Hapsburg court and the opportunity to give us, her daughters, a future. My mother had no choice. But I do. So does my sister.” She tossed the tube on the cot. “Is this enough to stop him?”

“Bring me the light,” I replied, setting my sword aside. Once she fetched the tallow and set it by the bed, she shrugged off her cloak to wait as I untied the tube’s cord. It unfolded into two compartments, a sturdy folder made to protect its contents and withstand the rigors of travel. Within the compartments were papers. My hands trembled as I removed them; I saw at once they were letters-eight, to be precise. I didn’t recognize Elizabeth’s handwriting on any of them, however. None appeared to be hers.

I read each one. When I was done, I sat in utter silence.

There was enough evidence here to send Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, straight to the block. These letters were the responses of various important noblemen to the correspondence the earl had seen delivered in Dudley’s name, though I had to wonder if Courtenay actually understood the extent of his own complicity. He’d told me that he had never read what he so carelessly delivered; seeing these letters now, I was inclined to believe him. In his penurious greed and thwarted pride, Courtenay had unwittingly let himself be named the figurehead for a coordinated revolt ranging from the southwest of England to the Marches, aimed at forcing the queen to retain the Protestant faith and marry the earl, or forfeit her throne. Munitions had been stockpiled in manors, routes selected for the march on London. Each nobleman’s responsibility in the rebellion had been clearly outlined, as had that of their coconspirators. The danger to Elizabeth was not explicit, but rather inferred; it stood to reason that if Mary denied the rebels’ demands, as she would, Elizabeth would succeed her, with Courtenay as her consort.

I knew differently, though. I knew Dudley believed that Elizabeth would marry him instead, once he handed her the throne. He was using Courtenay as his pawn; that was why he’d taken such caution, why he wasn’t mentioned anywhere. His role as the conspiracy’s mastermind must remain invisible.

But why was Elizabeth’s letter, which she’d entrusted to Courtenay, not here?

I had a sudden recollection of Jane Grey tumbling the pile of the books by the hearth-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 are cut out-and Robert calling after me, Nothing you say or do can stop it … In the end I’ll triumph. I will restore my name if it’s the last thing I do.

I clenched my jaw. I now understood why Dudley had cajoled Courtenay to gain the princess’s trust: Her letter was his insurance. He still had it, hidden elsewhere. Dudley anticipated interference, even betrayal, by someone dedicated to Elizabeth, who would realize the danger he posed to her. If anyone tried to expose him, he could in turn threaten to reveal the princess’s letter as proof that she was his accomplice.

Sybilla’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Can I assume by your lack of speech that those letters are the weapon you need?”

I looked up. “Yes,” I said. I went silent for a moment. “How did you manage it?”

“With my wits, of course; it wasn’t hard. I simply waited for his secretary to go to the courtyard to empty his bladder. The man was fit to burst. I saw a cup on the desk and two empty jugs. He must have been holed up drinking all day, as Renard insists someone must attend to his office at all hours. But he’ll know by now that the tube is missing. He’ll tear the office apart looking for it. It’s likely he’ll abandon his post and disappear once he realizes it was stolen.” I heard a catch in her voice. “If Renard finds out I am to blame, he’ll see me dead.”

“You needn’t fear him.” I inserted the letters back in the folder’s compartments, rolled it back into its tubular shape, and retied the cord. “When I show these to the queen, he’ll have his hands full. He won’t dare do anything to you or anyone else. He’ll be too busy trying to explain how so much could have gone on under his nose without him being the wiser; how, despite all his resources, he had no inkling a conspiracy of this magnitude was brewing.”

“He’ll realize you were someone he didn’t expect,” she said softly.

I leaned against the wall. “Oh, he expected me, just not that I’d get this far. Despite the queen’s stated trust in my abilities, he must have suspected from the start. So when Her Majesty ordered me to investigate his allegations concerning Elizabeth and Courtenay, he realized he had to eliminate the risk. He wasn’t about to let anyone get in his way of entrapping the princess, which is why he left that poisoned note. Now he’ll have to scramble to exculpate himself. You’ll soon be free of him forever.”

She gnawed at her lip, her hands twining in her lap. Her tears were so unexpected that as she lowered her head to choke back a sob, at first I didn’t know what to do. Then I tentatively reached for her. Rising from the stool, she came into my arms.

“I’m so afraid,” she whispered. “I’ve been afraid of him my entire life.”

I caressed her hair, closing my eyes, trying to push back the heat she aroused in me. I acted as if I were comforting a disconsolate child, even as I felt her hands, so slim, so warm, reach upward to clasp at my shoulders like supple vines.

I made to pull away. “No,” I murmured. “I cannot.”

She lifted her face to me. In her eyes I saw oceans.

“I can,” she said. She crushed her lips to mine. I let out a gasp. She whispered, “Does it hurt?” and grazed the broken cut on my lip with her fingertip, whipping desire through me. I heard myself moan; that one weak sound brought down whatever crumbling remnant was left of my resistance. I seized her closer, raveling my hands in her lush mane, and I no longer felt my bruises, the pain vanishing in the whirlpool of our mouths and the swift current of her touch as she yanked at my clothes, pulling down my hose to grasp at my hardness.

“I want to know something other than fear,” I heard her say. “I want to feel desire, if only this once.” She stepped back and unlaced the sides of her gown. I watched her with my heart in my throat, knowing in some dark recess of my soul that if I did this, I would never forget or escape it. I would live with the remorse for the rest of my days, with the betrayal of Kate, the woman I loved, who waited for me in Hatfield, unaware.

Then, as the dark velvet pooled at Sybilla’s feet and I beheld the flawless breadth of her skin, her rose-tipped breasts arched high on her chest, her ribs woven like lyre strings under her pallor, and her lean belly, curving to the gilded shadow between her legs, I could think no more. Gathering her in my arms, I lowered her to the floor upon our cloaks and pushed inside her roughly, almost with anger, feeling myself engorge even more as I coaxed her pleasure from her, until she was bucking up her hips to meet my stride.

It seemed as though we merged forever, then my seed gushed forth with breath-shattering suddenness. I did not have time to pull out. She clenched herself about me, making me cry out, heedless, as she shuddered.

I collapsed beside her, our heat subsiding like smoke from a doused fire.

My heartbeat slowed. As I looked at her profile and started to reach out to wipe the damp hair from her face, she said abruptly, “No. You do not owe me anything.”

She rose to her feet, reaching for her discarded gown. I did not speak; I couldn’t find the right words as I, too, stood and watched her in silence as she laced her dress. Now that it was over and I’d satiated my recklessness, I could take no satisfaction in it.

She bent to my discarded clothing and retrieved my sword. She gave it to me.

“If those letters don’t work,” she said, “use it.”

Our eyes met for a moment. Then she turned and left without another word.