The Tudor Conspiracy

Chapter Nineteen

I told her what I knew-about the letters, the conspiracy …

Courtenay’s revelations tumbled in my mind as I rode at breakneck pace through the night-shrouded city. Sybilla knew about me; he had told her I was helping Elizabeth. She’d orchestrated our friendship so she could betray Courtenay to the queen with those letters and trounce Renard, but what did she want, ultimately? If she’d known the letters only exposed half of the plot, what did she achieve by hiding Elizabeth’s letter? She was playing a mysterious game, and I had the sinking feeling that it wasn’t to my benefit.

I couldn’t stop to consider that while I raced to find her, Wyatt’s rebels were arming themselves. As soon as the betrothal was announced, Courtenay had said, they would act. The betrothal wouldn’t be officially declared until the queen went to Hampton Court, so I reasoned there was still time to stop Sybilla and report the rest of what I had discovered to the queen. If Wyatt joined with Suffolk as planned, Jane Grey could die for it. Months ago, her father had helped Northumberland put Lady Jane on Mary’s throne, against Jane’s will. The queen had promised her clemency, but Renard would cite Suffolk’s treason as reason for her execution. If Jane, who shared Tudor blood, died, how long would it take before Renard convinced the queen to turn her wrath on Elizabeth?

I kicked the gray again. Skirting the city wall, I passed decrepit Ludgate and rode up the hill onto the graveled road of the Strand, which ran parallel with the Thames and was fronted by the nobility’s riverside manors. It was another world here, where the misery and filth of London dissipated into affluence. Even the air smelled fresher than inside the city walls, with only a slight acrid tang wafting from the river. Copses of skeletal trees pocketed the road; I imagined leafy foliage at the height of summer, shading ladies out for evening strolls with their children and servants.

A flock of indignant swans scattered from the road. Each manor I passed resembled the next-ornate bastions of brick and timber framing, with expensive window bays and elegant chimneys in the new fashion, made to funnel smoke directly out of hearths. All were enclosed by high walls and protected by gates; each must have its own quay. No one of means rode through London if they could take to the river in a private barge.

Then I came up to a gate and reined Cerberus to a halt.

Silence pressed in around me.

I’d never been here before, though I had served the Dudley family. Still, I couldn’t have mistaken the house. It exuded disgrace, clumps of dead vines festooning the gate, the courtyard beyond desolate. Above the doorway, stained by lichen and bird droppings, hung the Dudley badge: the bear and ragged staff. As I stared at it, a flood of memories threatened to engulf me. I’d seen that badge all my life, carved in wainscoting and window lintels, sewn into uniforms and cloaks. I’d worn it myself during my brief tenure as Robert’s squire. It had been a symbol of pride and power; now it was the meaningless icon of a fallen dynasty.

I dismounted, tethering Cerberus to an iron rung in the wall. Well exercised, he began to munch on brittle weeds while I circled the front of the manor, seeking access. The gate was bolted, too high to scale. The walls looked equally insurmountable. However, at the edge of the surrounding wall abutting the river, I located a small gap where the stone had caved in from damp and neglect.

I crouched down to peer through the gap. It offered a circumscribed view of what must have once been a lavish garden, now barren. A parched lawn led to a set of water steps; a canopied barge bobbed there, anchored to the pier.

Scraping at the mortar with my poniard, I managed to widen the gap. Lying flat on my belly, my cloak over my head so it would not tangle between my legs, I crawled through, scraping against cold, stony ground.

Tension built in me as I stood. The manor was a short distance away-an ostentatious hulk, its windows dark. I crossed the flagstone terrace to a back door. I tried the latch, expecting to find it locked. It wasn’t. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and nearly tripped over something in the hallway. With one glance at the sprawled corpse, I recognized Renard’s henchman. A pool of blood about his midsection attested to a recent and very precise sword thrust. He’d taken it as he came in, no doubt sent by Renard to find Sybilla. I suddenly remembered her telling me Renard rented a manor on the Strand for a mistress, only in the turmoil of the past twenty-four hours I had failed to recall it.

She had lured me here. Just as she’d waited for Renard’s man to arrive, she was no doubt waiting for me.

Easing around the corpse, I proceeded warily into the manor. It was a ghost house, its vast emptiness returning the echo of my footsteps. The walls were bare.

When I caught sight of light flickering ahead, I gripped my sword. I half-anticipated Sybilla leaping from the shadows, but as I slowly approached I realized that the light was coming from a room, where a lantern sat on a side table before a reflective window.

Then I heard her. “You needn’t be afraid. I am alone.”

I stepped through a narrow door. The room before me might have been a private study or small library, perhaps, employed for personal business. The diamond-paned window overlooked the courtyard and front gate. On the floor under the window was a heap of old rushes, swept up with fragments of cloth. The air was dank, its mustiness tinged with an odd greasy smell I couldn’t quite place.

The only furniture was the side table holding the lantern and a chipped oak desk, behind which stood Sybilla. She wore a loose-sleeved black shirt, a fitted leather tunic, and belted breeches: her swordsman garb. The only thing missing was the mask.

She smiled. “You took your time. I did mention Renard rented a manor, did I not? Though I suppose under the circumstances, your forgetfulness can be excused.”

I had to make a conscious effort to resist her eyes-lustrous as moon-drenched violets, alluring as sin. My fist closed about my sword hilt, as though it were a talisman.

“You can put that away.” She spread her arms. “As you can see, I bear no weapon.”

“So you claim,” I replied. “Not that it would stop me. Weapon or not, if you weren’t a woman I’d kill you without hesitation.”

“So my gender finally protects me? Pray, what have I done to merit such hostility?”

I stared at her. “You deceived me from the start. You said you spied on the queen for Renard, but in truth he set you to spy on Courtenay. You seduced the earl, got him to tell you all his secrets, but you didn’t tell Renard what you discovered, about the conspiracy and about me. You knew I’d tracked the earl to that brothel and what I arranged with him. You made me think you were helping me, but all along you prepared a trap. Shall I go on?”

“Please do.” Her eyes glittered. “I find this all … fascinating.”

I took a menacing step toward her. “You left the poisoned note in my room. All this time, you led me to think Renard was the culprit when it was you, all along.”

She reached for a decanter on the desk and poured ale into two goblets. She extended one to me. I ignored it. With a sigh, she set the cup within my reach. “I never intended to kill the boy. I merely sought to warn you away. I didn’t expect you, you see; you were never part of the plan. I was at a loss as to how to contend with you. But I didn’t put enough poison on that seal to do more than sicken you. Your squire must not have weighed much, for it to have worked so quickly. It was an unfortunate accident.”

“Accident?” My voice rose in fury. “He died because of you!”

“I know. I … regret it.” She spoke as though the sentiment were unfamiliar, difficult to enunciate. She was the same woman who had wept in my arms, shown me such concern and taken me inside her, and yet she was not, as if she’d shed her skin to reveal an equally beautiful but far deadlier persona.

“This elaborate deception of yours must have a reason,” I went on. “You do not work for Renard, so whom do you serve?”

“Haven’t you guessed by now? You’ve pieced the rest of it together with remarkable facility.” She trailed her hand over the desk, forcing me to angle my blade to prevent her approach. She stopped at the edge of the desk, a few paces from where I stood. “Renard was always too unyielding,” she said. “And he serves an equally unyielding master. Charles V may be emperor, but he’s shackled to the past, much like Mary herself. He cannot forgive himself for what he did to Mary’s mother, his aunt Catherine of Aragon. He promised to assist Catherine against King Henry’s annulment of their marriage, but Catherine died alone in a remote manor, while Anne Boleyn, the witch-queen, assumed her place. For all his avowals, Charles did nothing.” She paused, looking at me. “His conscience must have plagued him for years. Then Mary took the throne, and he saw a way to redeem himself. He’d wed his son Philip to her; they would return England to the Catholic faith and kill all the heretics, and the past would be put to right. Only one thing stood in his way.”

“Elizabeth,” I breathed.

“Yes. The witch-queen’s daughter. She was dangerous. The heretics would fight for her; she had to be dealt with. The emperor sent Renard here with orders to negotiate the marriage and ensure Elizabeth did not survive it.” She went quiet again, her expression pensive. “As I said, they are unyielding. My master, on the other hand, understands the need for compromise. He sees no reason to dispose of a potential asset.”

“He…?” My skin crawled. She spoke so matter-of-factly, as though these were matters that people discussed every day. Perhaps they did. Perhaps where she came from, conversations about whether or not to destroy a princess were part of daily life.

She tilted back her head, her laughter sultry. “How can it be that you still refuse to see what is right before you? The emperor views the world through eyes that grow old before their time. But Philip of Spain does not. He is still young, virile. He will only sacrifice himself on the altar of his father’s guilt if he can reap the benefit.”

“You-you serve Philip?” I asked in horror. “He is your master?”

“He hired me to be his special agent. He’s known me for years; I grew up in his mother’s court. He also knew I had spied for Renard, and he promised me freedom-a noble marriage and my own household, a dowry for my sister, refuge for my mother. All I had to do was use Renard’s enmity to destroy Courtenay, a rival for Mary’s hand, as well as any others who opposed the Hapsburg alliance. But Philip insisted that he mustn’t be held responsible. Whatever blood is shed must be on Mary’s hands alone.”

“Dear God,” I whispered. “Why…?” Then, with sickening clarity, the final piece of the mystery slid into place. “It’s been about Elizabeth, all this time. Philip wants her.”

She smiled. “Does it surprise you? The prince is a modern man; he doesn’t care about the past. His father is weary. When Charles abdicates, Philip stands to inherit half the empire. Why suffer the older sister’s bed unless he has the assurance that in time, he can have the younger’s? But Elizabeth must be brought to heel; all those who support her heretical leanings must die. And once Mary fails to bear a child and succumbs, as she must, Elizabeth will be his. Through her, he will sire heirs to make all Europe tremble-a Tudor-Hapsburg dynasty to rule the world.”

I felt sick. “You are mad. He is mad. The very idea is monstrous. Elizabeth would never consent to him.”

“Oh,” replied Sybilla, with a lift of her chin, “she will, if she hopes to live. Her letter to Dudley confirms that she knew about the revolt.” Her voice darkened. “The game is over. Not even you can save her.”

I lunged forward, swiping my blade across the desk. I relished her swift inhale as she stepped back warily, her eyes on my sword. “Give it to me. Give me her letter.”

She did not flinch. “Why do you insist on fighting for what is already lost? That letter belongs to Philip now. He owns the knowledge that Elizabeth consented to treason in her own hand. When Wyatt and his men reach London, the queen will order her arrest. Renard will make sure Elizabeth is blamed for everything and see her locked in the Tower. The only one who can save her is the husband Mary desires so fervently she’ll do anything he asks, including spare her treacherous sister. Philip will be Elizabeth’s savior. And in time, Elizabeth will be his.”

“Not if I warn her first.” I raised my blade. She flattened herself against the wall. As she gazed at me, at last I gleaned in her face what I craved.

Fear.

A spasm went through me. I despised her with every part of my being, but the memory of my desire for her still clung to me like chains. She was a woman. I had never killed anyone. I knew her death was necessary if I was to save Elizabeth. The letter had to be hidden somewhere, awaiting Philip’s arrival. Sybilla would never entrust it to another. I might never find it, but if she was dead, neither would anyone else. I could gain Elizabeth valuable time before-

I hesitated too long. With a leap aside, she yanked a blade from within her sleeve and slashed it across my arm. Hot pain and a gush of blood broke my focus. I swerved away from her, flinging up my cloak to thwart her next stab.

Instead, she ran to the doorway.

I spun about. As I lunged toward her with my sword lifted, this time ready to cleave her in two, she kicked the side table holding the lantern. It fell onto the heap under the window and shattered. With terrifying suddenness, the piled rushes and rags burst into a flame, startling me and causing me to fling my hands up. She had doused the heap with tallow oil-that was the odor I had smelled and failed to identify.

“No!” I roared.

Sybilla slammed the door shut. I reached it in time to hear a key turn in the lock. I yanked at the latch, shouting at the top of my lungs, hammering with my sword hilt, oblivious to the spray of blood from my wounded arm.

Then I slowly turned back to the room. My heart capsized in my chest. The flames were leaping up the wall, feeding on the brittle pile and oil like a ravenous beast.

My eyes started to water. Forcing myself to stay calm, I moved as far as I could from the conflagration and scanned the room. There was no other way out except through that window. Sybilla had planned this; she had brought me here for this specific end.

I was going to die.

The smoke thickened, gusting up to the low ceiling like the clouds of an incoming storm. In seconds, it would fill the room and I’d suffocate. I’d lose consciousness; by the time the flames reached me, I wouldn’t feel it. When it was done, when the manor had collapsed in smoldering ruins, there’d be nothing left save my charred bones.

A howl struggled in my throat. I looked about desperately, and my gaze fell on the decanter and untouched goblet. I yanked up my hood, sheathed my sword, and tore my gauntlets from my belt. Grabbing the goblet, I poured ale over my trembling gloved hands. Then I soaked my hood and threw the empty decanter aside. It wasn’t enough; ten pitchers wouldn’t have been enough, but as I turned resolutely to the fire, I knew I had no choice. I could feel the heat through my clothes, as if the flames already licked my flesh …

Hunching my shoulders, I stepped forward. The ground shifted under my feet. I looked down. The floorboards … they were moving …

A dull roar filled my head. I coughed, lurching forward. It was the smoke. I was being strangled by it, deluded into seeing things that weren’t there. If I could just push through that writhing screen of flame to grab hold of the window latch-

I didn’t think I was moving to my death or hear the section of floor creaking open behind me until rough hands grabbed hold of me, pulling me back, yanking me down into a hole. Only then did I realize the piercing sound in my ears was my own scream.

“Get moving, before it all comes down on top of us,” an urgent voice said. I dragged myself after the hulking figure who’d rescued me, my smoke-singed nostrils detecting a faint trace of wet earth. I was in a tunnel under the manor, a secret escape passage. Slimy water sloshed underfoot; it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. Gradually it began to lighten. A hatch above me was thrown back and I was again yanked, coughing and sputtering, into the garden. I lay on my back, gasping for air. In the distance, I glimpsed the river, shimmering like a dragon’s tail in the sullen dawn.

The barge was gone.

I looked up into Scarcliff’s twisted visage. “You’re lucky I saw my horse bucking at his tether,” he said, wrapping his cloak about me. It was soaking wet, foul with river-stink. “A little more time and you’d be roast meat.”

“How-how did you know?” My voice was faint, hoarse.

“I told you. I saw poor Cerberus fit to slip his bridle and all that smoke-”

“No. The passageway. You knew it was there. You’ve been here before.”

He went still. Then he said softly, “Don’t you recognize me, lad?” and I felt as if I’d plunged into an endless void, falling and falling without reaching bottom.

“Shelton,” I whispered. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it until now.

It was there, beneath his ravaged face-the traces of the man I had known, the stern Dudley steward who had helped raise me and had brought me to court. As I met his one eye in recognition, I was swept back to that horrible night in the Tower when I’d pursued him. He’d been trapped in the crush at the portcullis. All those terrified souls, trying to escape the guards coming down on them with halberds and maces-skulls must have been cracked, limbs shattered, bodies scythed like chaff. Someone must have struck him, slashed his face to the bone. The wedged soles on his boots-his legs had been damaged, too. Yet somehow, he’d survived. He had dragged himself to safety and changed his name, his identity. He’d melted into London’s underbelly, hired himself out as a strong-arm for the earl. He must have known who I was the moment he saw me, but he had not breathed a word. Had he intended to stay hidden from me forever, to take his secret with him to his grave? If so, he had betrayed himself to save me.

“I know I owe you an explanation,” he said roughly, “but this isn’t the place. If you want to catch that she-wolf, we’d best get moving. I’ve been tracking her since the ambush on the road. I didn’t dare engage her”-he grimaced-“I’m not the man I was. But I saw her take the barge toward the bridge. The current isn’t strong, however. You still have time.”

I struggled to get up, to get away. He tightened his grip on me. “We need to bind that wound.” He tore a strip from the bottom of his chemise and tied it around my arm, stanching the blood. “It’s not deep. It’ll need curing, but that should suffice for now.”

He let me go. I clambered to my feet, the taste of embers in my mouth. Looking past him to the manor, I saw smoke billowing from the rooftop, an eerie nectarine glow smearing the windows. The fire was spreading. It would consume the entire house.

We trudged into the river, the water coming to our waists as we waded out far enough to bypass the garden wall. Scarcliff had moved the horses away from the manor. As he helped me onto my saddle, Cinnabar pranced sideways, agitated by the scent of fire. My world shrank for a moment. What was I doing? How did I think I was I going to stop Sybilla with a wounded arm and the help of a man I’d believed was dead and barely trusted?

We bolted toward the city.

It was that preternatural hour before morning, when everything is softened by the waning of the night. The city was just awakening, grumbling goodwives still sweeping their doorsteps of refuse as peddlers and hawkers embarked on the trudge to the marketplace at Cheapside with their wares, and pigs and dogs rooted in the conduits for leavings.

We galloped past them, scarcely registering their presence.

There was still time, I kept telling myself. Still time …

The massive gateway leading to the bridge reared into view. Officials in cloaks clustered before it as liveried sentries and armored soldiers roamed the perimeter. People were lining up, herding livestock. I registered a cacophony that must be loud, though to me it sounded less intrusive than my heart’s pounding in my ears.

Still time …

I slid off Cinnabar. “Too many people, and on horseback we’re too visible.”

He gave a grim nod. “I’ll follow you. Be careful.”

As I moved on foot to the gate, leading Cinnabar by the reins, I searched the crowd. Given the hour, most of those waiting to cross the bridge were tradesmen, but as I stepped into the line I suddenly spotted her near the front of the queue, swathed in a cape and with a cap pulled low on her head. She held a gelding by its bridle, the horse stamping nervously as it was jostled by those around it. She must have docked the barge and hired a horse. Under the bandage, my arm throbbed as I lowered my hand to my scabbard. The sentry waved her onward. She mounted and began to steer her horse through the crowd. She couldn’t ride fast; once she was at a safe distance, I hauled myself onto Cinnabar, dodging the multitude of animals, carts, and wagons on the bridge, intent on not losing her.

She wasn’t in a rush, nor did she appear to show concern that she might be followed. I saw her crack her whip, opening passage. I wondered where she was headed; wherever it was, she clearly wasn’t returning to Whitehall. I glanced over my shoulder. To my relief, Scarcliff was a short distance away; he had left Cerberus in the stalls by the bridge, where grooms minded horses for a fee.

Sybilla abruptly reined to a halt outside a haberdashery. I slid from Cinnabar, watching her dismount through the ebb and flow of the bridge’s denizens. She looped her horse’s reins to a post and went to a door beside the shop, unlocking it. She disappeared inside. I lifted my gaze. The building was like all those cluttering the bridge-squeezed tight between its neighbors, precariously tall, its overhanging balconies festooned with sodden laundry, its peeling exterior pockmarked by small, thick-paned windows.

My blood quickened.

It must be a safe house. She had stashed the letter here. She had come for it.

Scarcliff neared. I motioned for him to see to Cinnabar and crossed the road. The haberdashery wasn’t open; the building looming above me was quiet, even as the sounds of traffic on the bridge rumbled around me.

As at the manor, she had left the door unlocked. It put me on alert; cracking the door ajar, I found an empty parlor and a narrow staircase leading upward into gloom. I heard nothing as I took the stairs, wincing at every creak, knowing she was somewhere above me, perhaps already aware and ready for attack. That she’d shown no awareness of being followed was no solace. I’d underestimated her before. This time, I had to fight to the death.

Stepping onto the landing of the first story, I eased out my sword. There was movement in the room before me. Edging closer, reaching out with my free hand, I threw the door open and braced myself. I glimpsed a cot in a corner, a desk, and a stool; then, from the corner, she came to her feet swiftly, revealing an upended floorboard. Her expression faltered; she looked almost disconcerted to see me. My gaze riveted itself to that dislodged floorboard, seconds before she lunged at me with her sword in hand.

I ducked away, thrusting my blade. She pranced aside. “You should have let the fire take you,” she said through her teeth. “I trained for years with a master in Toledo. After I kill you, I’ll take your blade to him so he can see how far the steel of Spain has traveled.”

I did not respond, saving my strength, concentrating on parrying her strikes and maneuvering her away from that upended board. My arm was aching; I could feel fresh blood welling through the makeshift bandage, but my rage was stronger, all-consuming, so that she was all I saw, all I felt and wanted. My doubt vanished; my sword seemed to anticipate my every move, and her expression hardened when I avoided one of her strikes and grazed her side with my blade, drawing blood and forcing her to pivot away from me to evade a deeper wound. She understood what I was trying to do, and she came at me with demonic fervor, lashing her sword, pushing me out of the room and toward the staircase, where she no doubt intended to put an end to me.

Our blades clashed with a merciless ring. Teetering on the edge of the stairs, I knew I had only moments before she broke through my defenses. I did not think, then; did not hesitate. I whirled about and leapt down the stairs, three at a time. As I hoped, like a wolf with its blood up, intent on fleeing prey, she came after me.

All of a sudden we were in the street, pitched in fierce battle, as passersby scrambled to avoid us. She moved so fast she was like quicksilver, her hair uncoiling from the knot at her nape to stream about her flushed features, so that even then, in that terrible moment as I fought for my very life, she was as beautiful as an avenging angel-and as cruel.

She failed to see Scarcliff. He had shifted Cinnabar to the other side of the street, a few doorways from the house, and hidden in the crowd. He suddenly barreled out toward her, his massive body poised like a ram. As he slammed into her with audible impact, she lost her footing on the uneven paving. Her blade flew from her hand. It was the opening I needed. As she whipped around to Scarcliff, snarling and jerking a knife from her boot, I ran at her with my sword brandished, determined to take her head. I missed by a hair’s breadth, the very air quivering as she crouched and reeled away. For an instant that seemed to last an eternity, our eyes met. I was blocking her return to the house.

Her mouth curved in an icy smile.

She turned and began to run.

“Upstairs!” I yelled at Scarcliff as I bolted after her. “Under the floorboard!”

The congestion on the bridge had thickened; it was nearing midmorning, and hundreds of people were going about their business. She swerved to and fro, dodging shouting carters and angry mercers, her knife clutched in her hand, though it was no match for my sword and she knew it. She was heading for the southern gate; if she managed to escape the bridge and make it into the warren of Bankside, I’d be forced to hunt her down.

Chances were, she’d get me first.

Neither of us anticipated the additional sentries posted at the other end, a precautionary move prompted, no doubt, by Courtenay’s arrest. As the hulking gateway with its massive barbican and spiked crown of rotting heads came into view, Sybilla’s pace flagged. Everyone coming from London, be he a tinker with a shoulder pole or a fur-clad lady in a litter, was being stopped and questioned before they were permitted to pass. I heard snatches of agitated clamor from people standing nearby-“Rebels from Kent, they say, an army of traitors!”-and Sybilla spun around, knowing that those sentries would question her, that perhaps Renard had provided a description of her.

She came to a panting halt, facing me. Every sound and sight about me faded. Even as I started to rush to her, shouting, she leaped up onto a low parapet on the edge of the bridge-one of those rare openings between buildings that gave out onto the river and offered a stunning view of the city’s breadth. She perched on that parapet like a gorgeous bird of prey, the wind catching at her cloak, silhouetting her slender figure, the cluttered spires of London erupting into gold as the sun emerged from its bed of mist.

“No,” I heard myself whisper. I dropped my sword at my feet.

She cocked her head, as if disappointed. Then, to my disbelief and a communal gasp of horror from those watching, she flung out her arms and plunged off the parapet.

In the ensuing silence, something inside me cracked in two. A scream came from a woman nearby, piercing the hush, and then everyone was rushing to the parapet in a gaggle of morbid curiosity, peering down to the ice-clogged river far below.

I stood immobile. Then I picked up my sword and walked away.

Scarcliff was waiting by the house with Cinnabar. He reached into his jerkin, extending the leather cylinder containing Elizabeth’s letter to me. He had Sybilla’s sword in his other hand. “It’s an expensive piece,” he said, “worth saving.”

“Keep it.” I tucked the cylinder into my jerkin. “I have what I came for.” I sheathed my own sword, taking Cinnabar’s reins. We rode quietly back to the north gate. Scarcliff went to fetch Cerberus. As I waited for his return I noticed that the number of guards and officials near the gatehouse had increased; when I saw Rochester among them, his rotund person quivering as he spoke with the sentries, I called out, “My lord!”

He turned around, startled, and bustled over to me.

“What is it?” I asked. “What is happening?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the staring officials. “Word came before dawn of an army coming toward us from Kent. Scouts have been sent to verify. We await their report.”

“But the queen’s betrothal,” I said, “it hasn’t been announced…” Even as I spoke, I cursed my own blindness. I should have realized this, too, was part of Dudley’s plan. He’d led Courtenay to believe the betrothal would be the sign, but it wasn’t. Surprise attack: It was the only chance to catch the queen, and London, unprepared.

Rochester looked perplexed. “The official announcement will be made at Hampton Court, if you must know, though such matters have a way of leaking out. The earl is in the Tower; he was questioned at length and gave us names. Warrants are being issued for the other conspirators, though most, if not all, must have heard by now of the earl’s arrest. If they’re wise, they’ll be fleeing the country as we speak.” His voice lowered. “The earl did not mention the princess. He insisted over and over that she knew nothing.”

I exhaled in relief. Despicable as he was, at least Courtenay had retained one last shred of honor. “You mustn’t wait for the scouts,” I told Rochester. “The uprising is real; it’s being led by Wyatt of Kent. Those letters I delivered were only half the story. Wyatt plans to join with Suffolk’s retainers. Whatever she does, Her Majesty mustn’t tarry.” I paused, seeing him turn pale. “Tell her for me. Tell her I did as she bade and uncovered this last detail of the conspiracy. But I must take my leave. Thank you, my lord, for everything you’ve done, for me and Her Grace. Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”

He flinched. “You must go to her,” he whispered, “before they do. If this is true, if there is a rebellion upon us, I fear she’ll have even greater need of you than ever before.”

“I will do what I can,” I said. “I promise.”