The Tudor Conspiracy

WHITEHALL
Chapter Twenty-one

To the crack of whips, gusts of wind lifting snow in whirlwinds off the road, we departed Ashridge. A storm had rolled in; though the actual snowfall was light, the wind cut through our wool cloaks like teeth. Mistress Parry had tried in vain to gain us another day, cajoling Lord Howard that should anything befall the princess under such inclement weather it would be on his head. He remained adamant. Elizabeth had been pronounced fit to travel; barring a catastrophe, he’d rather risk the weather than the queen’s wrath.

I’d scarcely caught a glimpse of Elizabeth when they brought her from her rooms, swathed in furs, her swollen face averted as they set her inside the cushioned litter. Guards surrounded her. The litter curtains were drawn. There wasn’t a moment to exchange a word with her, and even if there had been I was relegated to the vanguard with the carts and servants, while Mistress Ashley, Blanche Parry, and Kate rode beside her.

We proceeded in slow stages. The litter jostled on the pitted road, and Elizabeth called for several stops along the way, complaining of discomfort and forcing Lord Howard to attend her. She prolonged the inevitable, determined to extend what should have been a daylong trip into as much time as she could. By dusk, with London still hours away, Howard had no choice but to order a halt. We would spend the night in a nearby manor, where the owners, apprised without warning of our arrival, arranged accommodations as best they could, giving up their own bedchamber for the princess.

The next morning, we took to the road at first light. This time, Elizabeth’s litter curtains remained closed the entire way, and she did not raise a single protest. Lord Howard rode flinty-eyed beside her, her ladies behind him. From my position in the back, I strained to see Kate. She’d taken my advice to heart; not once did she turn to look at me.

Under a sunset that smeared crimson across the lead sky, we reached the city gates.

Everything was transformed, the poisonous suspicion of the past weeks having burst open to reveal its rotten fruit. On the gates hung the torn limbs of Wyatt’s rebels. Their blood dripped onto the road, where dogs snarled at each other and lapped the congealed pools. Gibbets loomed like specters at every corner, adorned with gutted naked bodies, stiff and blackening. It was the expected punishment for treason, but as the smell of death invaded my senses, the impact of what we faced threatened to overwhelm me.

This time, I feared the queen would take all our heads.

Houses and businesses were closed tight, doors bolted and shutters drawn, though it was not yet dark. Only a few people roamed the streets, and as soon as they spotted our procession, hemmed by men-at-arms, they dashed indoors, furtive as mice. Yet as word somehow spread that it was none other than Princess Elizabeth making her entrance, a small, brave crowd gathered along the road to Whitehall-a sea of silent stares, their stunned expressions bearing testament to the unexpected violence that had swept through their city. I saw Howard tighten his grip on his reins, looking pointedly at the princess’s litter, as if he expected an eruption.

All of a sudden, the curtains whisked back. Elizabeth revealed herself reclining on her bolster, her drawn features offset by a high-necked white gown. Her hair was unbound. In breathtaking symbolism, she wore a necklace of dark square-cut rubies about her throat. As she returned the crowd’s stares with her impassive dark eyes, several women curtsied and one lone man called out, “God save Your Grace!”

Howard motioned to the guards. Before they surrounded the litter, impeding the view, Elizabeth shot him an amused look. Despite her fear, she had not lost her bite.

Kate finally dared a look at me as Whitehall appeared before us, protected by cordons of sentries, less a palace now than a fortress. Her gaze was questioning; though she rode only paces away, it felt as though an impassable chasm separated us.

We passed under the main archway. Elizabeth sat upright, stiffening as she looked ahead. The procession passed a knot of officials, watching warily from behind guards. We did not stop. We continued on, through a stout gateway, into an enclosed courtyard where yeomen with halberds, dressed in the green-and-white Tudor livery, waited.

Howard dismounted and assisted Elizabeth from her litter. As she yanked her furs about her, the guards’ perfunctory bows brought an angry crease to her brow. “Is this to be my reception?” she demanded. “Where shall I lodge, pray tell? In a dungeon?”

“Your Grace will lodge in specially appointed apartments selected for you,” Howard replied. “These yeomen are here to escort you. You’re allowed the services of your three women; all others of your household are dismissed.”

“Dismissed?” Her voice frayed. “Surely you can’t mean to deprive me of these people on whom I depend?” Howard did not answer. Lifting her chin, Elizabeth said loudly, “I demand to see my sister the queen! I demand audience with Her Majesty, who cannot-”

The yeomen shifted to her. Taking in their stance, she went still. Mistress Ashley and Blanche Parry hastened to her; all of a sudden, the understanding that she was truly at Mary’s mercy must have struck her, for she pivoted back to Howard. “I beg you, my lord, if only for the family ties between us.” She set a gloved hand on his sleeve. “At least permit me the services of my squire. My travel chest is heavy. He must carry it for me.”

It was an ineffectual excuse, concocted of sheer desperation; Howard must have realized it. Any one of those brawny yeomen could see to her traveling chest, but he looked as if he were actually considering it. His gaze lifted to where I stood by Cinnabar. Kate had also gone immobile by her mare, hooded and cloaked, as if uncertain what to do.

“No men,” Howard intoned. “My orders are clear. Only Your Grace’s women.”

“Please, my lord,” Elizabeth implored. “He’s but a servant. What harm can he do?”

“Plenty,” said Howard curtly, “if he’s the same man I think he is.”

He knew who I was. He had known all along. Could he actually be abetting me?

I dropped the reins and went to him. “My lord,” I said, “Her Grace is ill. Surely she merits this consideration.” My voice lowered. “It could be that one day she will find herself in a better position to reward your compassion.”

His mouth worked. As I surmised, Lord William Howard was no sycophant. He had defended London, putting himself in harm’s way to protect the throne. He had his honor to uphold. My appeal must have stirred his already conflicted conscience, for he nodded once, tersely. “He may assist. But after that, he must depart. I cannot,” he added, a hint of apology in his tone, “gainsay the queen. If I earn her reproof, how can I be a friend to Your Grace?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Thank you, my lord.” She drew herself erect. The yeomen closed in around her. She walked into the palace, Kate, Ashley, and Parry behind. Lifting the brass-banded leather chest from the cart, I caught Howard’s gaze.

His impervious mask had slipped, revealing a troubled countenance.

“Whatever you plan,” he muttered, “you’d best act fast.”

* * *

I hurried after Elizabeth. The passage was clammy, the vaulted stone ceiling low above our heads. We were brought to closed chambers without any windows, furnished with only the essentials. It was freezing; there were no braziers. Stepping back through the antechamber without a word, the yeomen bowed and shut the door on us.

Mistress Parry gaped in dismay. Ashley stomped her foot. “This is an outrage! Does Her Majesty mean to murder us by ague?”

Elizabeth sank wearily onto a stool, as if her bones had turned to water.

I deposited the chest on the floor. “Your letter,” I said. “I’ll take it to someone who doesn’t want to see you imprisoned any more than Howard does.”

She regarded me blankly. “Letter?”

“Yes, your letter to the queen. The one I asked you to write. Please, Your Grace. We must hurry. There is little time.”

Mistress Parry intervened. “I–I didn’t believe you. And we had no means. They confiscated the ink, quills, and paper from her chamber at Ashridge. She couldn’t write anything, so I … I didn’t give her your message.”

As Elizabeth whipped her stare to Parry, Kate knelt to rummage in her tapestry bag. She pulled out a sheaf of paper, a sharpened quill, and a small bottle of ink. Turning to the table, Elizabeth removed the stopper from the ink and dipped the quill. She paused, her hand poised over the paper. She looked at me. Then she leaned forward and started writing, her quill scratching furiously in the silence.

Kate watched me. I found it difficult to meet her eyes, to see the fear in them and know it was because I had failed to keep us safe. There was still time, though; if I could reach the queen and convince her, I might yet be able to avert the worst.

Elizabeth turned the page over, her tongue showing through her clenched teeth. Then she stopped writing as abruptly as she’d begun, perusing the page. She appeared to be deliberating, looking over her words for errors. Satisfied, she inked her quill again and slashed diagonal lines through the space at the bottom of the page before she signed it.

“Sand,” she said. Kate searched her bag again. “I didn’t bring any,” she said. She cursed. “We were in such a rush when the news came that we-we-” As I saw her falter, overwhelmed by the emotion she had held in check, Elizabeth pulled her close.

“Not you,” she murmured. “Not my brave Kate. Don’t you dare. If you start crying, then so shall I, and we both know all the tears in the world will not avail us.”

Over Kate’s head, Elizabeth lifted her gaze to me. She couldn’t know that I had betrayed Kate and taken another woman to my bed, but in that moment it was though she saw into the darkest part of me. In her regard I found the acceptance that I had denied myself, the understanding that she, too, had been prey to illicit desire. Yet her gaze also warned that those we loved must not suffer for it. There was no reason they should know how far we had trespassed.

“I must go.” My voice was raw. Kate turned from the princess, a trembling hand at her mouth. I made myself return her frightened look, putting my hand on my chest over the inner pocket of my doublet, where I had hidden the jeweled leaf.

“The tide will soon turn,” I told Elizabeth as she blew on the letter, drying the ink as best she could before folding it. I took it from her, stashed it in my cloak. “They can’t take you by barge to the Tower then. Do whatever it takes to ensure you stay here overnight.”

She nodded. “I will. God be with you, my friend.”

Bowing low, I walked out, feeling Kate’s gaze on me. I did not look back.

I did not deserve her, not anymore.

Nevertheless, I’d lay down my life to keep her and Elizabeth from further harm.

* * *

The palace was dark, torches sputtering on its facade scarcely illuminating the heavy winter night. Huddled in my cloak, I hurried along the courtyard, keeping to the pockets of shadow by the walls. Elizabeth’s arrival could not have gone unnoticed. I had to evade detection for as long as I could.

Taking a side staircase to a gallery, I paused, looking about. The offices I sought must be near the queen’s apartments. A discreet inquiry of a passing page set me in the right direction. I encountered more sentries than I’d seen in the palace before, but none displayed interest in me. I walked with purpose, adopting the gait of a menial with an important task to complete. Courtiers idled in alcoves, with a distinct lack of merriment. I assumed anyone with the means had fled London for the relative safety of the countryside, but I still saw evidence that the oiled machinery of the court remained in full motion, with secretaries and pages hurrying to assignations, bearing satchels and portfolios. No doubt the council would be up all night, debating a strategy for contending with the queen’s sister.

I found Rochester directing a clerk as he hovered over a desk heaped with ledgers.

“My apologies if I disturb,” I said from the threshold.

He looked up sharply, glowering at the interruption. He appeared exhausted, his habitual florid color drained. The events of the past days must have tired him beyond measure, leaving little time for wine or food, and less for sleep. When I tilted my hood back far enough for the candlelight to reveal my face, he barked at his clerk-“Go! Fetch those papers from the archives!”-and pretended to examine the open ledger before him as the clerk sidled out, with a glance at me. As soon as he was gone, Rochester breathed, “By the saints, are you insane? You’re no longer welcome here. If they find out you’ve returned, you’ll be arrested and thrown into a cell to rot.”

I closed the door. The room was stifling from a lit brazier in the corner. “I must speak to her.”

“Her?” he echoed, and then, as he realized my intent, he shook his head. “Out of the question. She will not see you. She refuses to see anyone, but she’ll especially refuse you.”

I removed the folded letter from my cloak. “I must deliver this to her. The princess’s life depends on it. You care about Elizabeth, too. I know you don’t want to see Renard win.”

He swallowed. “What-what do you mean by that?”

“You know. Just as you knew from the moment I arrived why I had come. You were expecting me. You knew Cecil would send someone because you had warned him.”

His aghast expression confirmed it: The anonymous informant at court was none other than Rochester, the queen’s trusted comptroller. The warnings of the peril Elizabeth faced from Renard and the impending betrothal to Prince Philip-they had come from him. It must have tormented his conscience. He loved the queen; he’d stayed at Mary’s side in her darkest hours, when Northumberland had the kingdom in his grip and no one believed she’d win the throne. Still, like many who served her, he also must believe she was about to commit a terrible mistake. English to his core, he couldn’t stomach the thought of a foreign power coming upon these shores or the terror that would follow in its wake.

“I am Her Majesty’s loyal servant,” he quavered. “You cannot prove anything against me. And if you try, I’ll deny it. All of it.”

“You don’t understand. I do not seek to-”

He came at me, seizing my wrist. “It is you who do not understand. Nothing can save her now. It is over. Finished. We have lost.” His voice shook. “The queen will not be dissuaded. She had Lady Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley executed today. I was there; I had to bear official witness to their deaths.”

Pain slashed through me. Jane and Guilford had been pawns in other’s designs; now, both were dead. Yet Robert Dudley lived. The man I had come to loathe and mistrust more than any other on this earth, who’d been behind the entire conspiracy, who had, by his very actions, compelled Elizabeth and me into this impasse-he was still alive.

So much for justice, I should have killed him when I had the chance.

“God assoil them,” I murmured. “I pray Lady Jane did not suffer.”

“It curdled my blood,” Rochester said. “The poor lass couldn’t find the block after they blindfolded her. She groped her way to it, begging those around her for help. I tell you, I’ll never forget it, not as long as I live.” He turned from me, wiping his sleeve across his face. “You must go. I cannot help you. It is over. Now every man must shift for himself.”

“You do not believe that. You never believed that. You’re one of the good men, remember? You must do as your heart dictates or you’ll regret it the rest of your days. You’ll always wonder, if you’d done as I asked, could you have saved the princess?”

He went still, his back to me, his shoulders hunched about his ears.

“Are you willing to let that devil Renard take her down?” I added. “Because I am not. I’ll see him in hell first.”

“Hell,” said Rochester, “is where you’ll undoubtedly end up. And I’ll be there with you.” He lumbered to his desk, yanked a ring of keys from its top, and took up one of the candles. Cupping the flame with his hand, he turned to me. “I can’t very well parade you about court. You’re a wanted man. I’ll not risk my life for you. I have a wife and children. I need to keep my head on my shoulders.” He jangled the keys, turning to the wainscoting. With a press of his hand on a decorative panel, he swung it open, revealing a narrow opening. “This passage leads to her apartments. I’ll see you inside, but I warn you, that is as far as I go. After that, you are on your own.”

“Fair enough.” I ducked down, squeezing through the opening. The passage must be part of the older, underlying structure of the palace-a stone tunnel that scarcely accommodated Rochester’s bulk, dark as a wolf’s mouth, so that his candle cast a mere feeble circle of light.

I made myself take steady breaths. After deep water, there was nothing I liked less than enclosed spaces. I felt as if I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, my palms turning slick with sweat. The passage seemed to go on forever, a purgatory. Just as I feared I might have to turn back, Rochester rounded a corner, fumbling at his keys. He unlocked a mold-stained door and pushed it open on surprisingly well oiled hinges; as I gratefully stepped from the tunnel, I found myself in the royal chapel, close to the altar.

“Convenient,” I remarked, trying to make light of the matter, even as sweat dripped from under my cap. “In case one is late for worship.”

“An escape route,” he said. “It’s a secret passed down among a select few who serve the royal person, from the old days, when Cromwell sowed terror in every heart. Times past, this chapel used to be part of the monastery of York. This part of the palace is full of tunnels, some supposedly leading to the river.” He sniffed. “The good friars must have liked a little contraband together with their communion wafers.”

I took in the beatific silence of this jewel-box place, where I’d last heard the requiem mass for Peregrine. The stained-glass windows emitted a peculiar muted glow, catching the reflection of the outside torches and a hint of moon. As I inhaled the frigid smell of marble and fragrant wood impregnated by incense, I was struck again by how familiar, how intimate, it felt to me, as if I had been a Catholic once.

“You stay here.” Rochester blew out the candle. “Renard has spies watching every nook and cranny; if it’s not safe, we go back the way we came. No argument.”

As he started to move down the aisle, I said, “Wait,” and handed him the princess’s letter.

He recoiled. “I’m not getting any more involved than I already am. If she agrees to see you, you can give it to her yourself.”

I removed the jeweled leaf from my doublet, enfolded in a scrap of cloth I’d torn from the hem of my shirt before leaving Ashridge. “Then show her this.”

“What is it?” He eyed me suspiciously. “A bribe? She’ll not like it, I assure you.”

“Just show it to her. Once she sees it, she will receive me.”

He snorted. “Yes, trust and a groat will get me a tankard at Satan’s table.” But he pocketed the leaf and went on, grumbling under his breath.

I had to smile. If I ever needed a friend at my side, I’d want Lord Rochester.

* * *

I sat upon a pew and waited, the silence draping over me like velvet. I hadn’t realized until this moment how frenetic my life had been, how driven; my entire existence, my every waking hour, had been subsumed by the struggle to safeguard Elizabeth. Now, in the solitude of this chapel, where by all rights I should not be, I suddenly felt the weight of the change that these past days had wrought in me.

I had crossed an invisible threshold. Come what may, I would never be the man I had been. Alone, without any more reason for pretense, I had to finally acknowledge that after all my denials, my painstaking efforts to lead a normal life, I had been deluding myself. I thought to escape the secret of my past, bury it deep within, and be a man like any other. I’d wanted so earnestly to believe it, I convinced myself that if only I married Kate and created a new existence with her, a refuge that was ours alone, where nothing and no one could touch us, I would find peace.

I had been wrong. Peace, it seemed, was not my destiny.

You have a flair for this work … You are a born intelligencer.

Cecil had been right. He had known all along what I had refused to see: I was fated for a different, far more dangerous path than the one I envisioned.

The susurration of skirts brought me to my feet. Turning to the chapel doorway, I saw Lady Clarencieux coming toward me. Her face was cold.

“Some would say you’re too bold for your own good,” she said without preamble. “Others would claim you’re merely a man bent on finding his own death.”

I inclined my head. “And others, that they are one and the same.”

“For your sake, we pray not.” She beckoned. “I don’t know what Rochester said to her, but after an entire day in which she’s not let any of us near her, she agrees to see you.”