The Tudor Conspiracy

Chapter Twenty-two

I followed her into the royal apartments. The queen’s other women had retired; though a fire burned in the large fireplace, and candles flickered high in sconces on the walls, there was no one else present.

The door to the study was closed. Lady Clarencieux started toward it, then came to an abrupt halt. “You mustn’t think that because of your past endeavors on her behalf, she is inclined to mercy. Don Renard has been at her every hour since the revolt, assiduous in his advice, particularly concerning you. If you do this, you may regret it.”

“I understand,” I said. “But there are truths she must know.”

“Must she? Sometimes, it’s best to let the lie stand.” She met my eyes before she knocked on the door. There was no reply. She moved aside anyway. “She’s waiting for you.”

My throat knotted as I turned the door latch and stepped inside.

The study was almost as dark as the tunnel I’d just traversed. I had to blink to adjust my vision, and then it swam into muted focus-the gilded desk, heaped with books and stacks of paper; the table where she met with her council; the upholstered chairs and large, mullioned bay of the far wall, its drapery drawn, turning the room into a cocoon that smelled of old smoke. A lone candle melted in a golden candelabrum.

I stood still, my heart banging against my ribs. I did not see her anywhere.

Her voice came at me from the shadows. “You dare show yourself to me?”

“Majesty.” I dropped to one knee. A figure in the corner by the desk drew upright from its crouch. Laughter, brief and harsh, came at me. “Rather late for humility, is it not?”

I looked up. Mary Tudor’s hair was unraveled about her face, its sandy white strands coiling to her shoulders. She wore the same purple gown I’d seen her in when she saw Elizabeth off to Ashridge, but it was crumpled now, misshapen somehow, as if she’d torn at it; the bodice gaped at her breast, revealing collarbones incised under her skin. Her fingers were bare; she appeared to have something coiled in one hand, but it was her face-her stark, hollowed face, in which her eyes burned like embers-that riveted me.

I could not look away. I could barely draw a breath.

She had also crossed a threshold, but whereas my passage would in time bring me to acceptance, for her there was only heartache and fear ahead.

“Majesty,” I began, “I came to you because I know that you-”

“No.” She flung up her hand. “I will not hear it. You always bring disaster.”

Had Rochester failed to show her the leaf? I started to reach to my cloak, to remove Elizabeth’s letter, when she opened her palm and revealed what she held-my ruby-tipped gold leaf, hanging from its chain.

“Where did you get this?” Her eyes bore into me. “How can you have it?”

The room swayed. For an instant, I saw and heard nothing. Then I said in a quiet voice, “It belonged to my mother.”

“You have the effrontery to call a princess of my blood your mother?”

I felt as if I fled outside myself, watching from a safe distance as the world collapsed.

“Why would I lie?” I asked, and she moved so quickly, I did not have time to react. Her hand whipped out, striking me. The leaf cut into my cheek; I felt it draw blood.

“Who are you?”

Her rage spread a dark pool around us. I half-expected Lady Clarencieux to come rushing in, but as the hush returned, fraught with splintered echoes, I said, “I want you to know the truth. Your aunt Mary of Suffolk, sister of your father, King Henry-she gave birth to me. She had a gold artichoke, a gift from the French king upon her marriage to your father’s friend, Brandon. Before her death, she ordered that artichoke broken apart, its leaves given to four women. You were one. You have a leaf just like it.”

I could hear her breath coming in stifled pants through her teeth.

“The Suffolk steward who brought it to you,” I went on, “later took up service in the Dudley household.” I paused. “He did it for me. His name was Archie Shelton. He watched over me. He tried to keep the secret of my birth hidden, but he failed. Finally, during Northumberland’s bid to steal your throne, I discovered it.”

“Your secret?” Mary’s voice trembled. “You come to me with this-this monstrous fabrication, this monumental lie, after what you’ve done? You don’t want me to know the truth. You seek only to save my sister, whom you’ve protected all this time.”

“Yes.” I did not take my eyes from her. “But I never ceased to protect you as well. Trust this, even if you believe nothing else. I would never betray my own blood.”

Her jaw clenched, the struggle against some terrible emotion distorting her features. I had the premonition it wouldn’t be long before she lost her struggle, before the demon Renard had cultivated and unleashed, which had driven her to take Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley’s lives, consumed her.

“What else?” she asked. “Best tell me now before I decide your fate.”

“That is all I know, except that I … I do not believe I am legitimate. I think that is the reason my mother ordered me hidden away.” My voice fractured as I fought against a dread I’d never admitted aloud. “I must have been a shame to her.”

“In other words, you are a bastard.” Her face set like stone. “Does Elizabeth know?”

“No. But she gave me refuge when I had nowhere else to turn.”

She lifted her chin. “If she so cares for you, why did you not tell her?”

“I only have that jewel. Your Majesty has the other one. I saw no reason.”

“Oh? Surely you must be aware that some claim Elizabeth is a bastard as well, yet she is considered my heir. Who’s to say you’d not be granted the same, if you chose it?”

I had made a grave mistake. It would cost me my life. I should never have told her. By breaking my own vow, I had unleashed the unthinkable.

“I swear to you on my life,” I said, “I only tell you this now because your sister’s life is at stake. She, too, shares our blood. I thought that if I revealed my true self to you, you would see I have no desire other than to serve my queen and my princess.”

“No desire?” she retorted. “Or no proof?”

Even as my breath froze in my lungs, the intransigence in her expression faded. All of a sudden, she became the woman I had first met, the valiant queen who had not let years of bitter antagonism destroy her. Somewhere in her heart, she understood. Like me, she knew what it meant to doubt who she was.

She twined the chain of my leaf around her fingers. “This means nothing. It’s a fragment of a forgotten past, which you could have stolen to support your preposterous story.” She paused. “But should you ever choose to act differently, you should know that I will not tolerate it. I will see you dead.” She thrust the leaf into her skirt pocket and extended her hand. “Now, give me this letter Rochester told me you bring.”

I reached into my doublet. She took the paper and turned to the desk.

I remained on my knee.

Unfolding the paper, she read in silence. She stood without moving for a long moment, holding the letter limply, before she let it drift from her hand to the floor. “Is it true?” she asked. “Does she revere me above all else? Or is she as much of a deceiver as you?” She looked over her shoulder at me. “I suspect not even you can say. After all, she’s had far more experience.”

“Majesty, she is innocent. I came to court to help her, yes, but I also investigated the conspiracy as ordered. And there is more you must know, about Don Renard and-”

She lifted her hand again, cutting me off. “Renard has told me already. I know all about Mistress Darrier and her scheme. Even if he hadn’t, I’ve had spies in my household since I was old enough to walk. I knew what kind of woman she was. I’m glad she paid the price for her treachery.” Her smile was cold. “The Duke of Feria may now wed my Jane Dormer, as I first planned. And lest you doubt, I do intend to show clemency to my allegedly loyal sister. Enough blood has been shed-for the moment.”

I exhaled. I was on the brink of allowing myself to believe I had succeeded when she said, “But she still goes to the Tower tomorrow. Evidently she cannot be left to her own devices. At least in the Tower, she’ll be safe from these malcontents who foment rebellion in her name. Once my husband, Prince Philip, arrives, together he and I will decide what is to be done with her. I will follow his advice.”

His advice …

I already knew what Prince Philip would say; unlike her, I knew exactly what he desired. Even so, I could venture no further. She would not kill Elizabeth. For now, it had to be enough. “Your Majesty is most merciful,” I said, bowing my head.

“Yes,” she replied, “so they say. Any other would have taken her head by now, but I must answer to God. I will not soil my hands with her blood without cause. As for you, while your tale is remarkable, I do not believe it. No princess would bear a bastard. You are mistaken; you have been misguided by others. Still, I spare your life because of past services, which, as you claim, you performed of your own free will. But you are henceforth banished from this court. I never want to see or hear of you again. Now you may go.”

“Majesty.” I stood and turned to the door. She spoke again, her tone rigid with devastating power. “Remember this, whoever you are: To me you no longer exist. You’ve achieved your aim. You are now truly a man without a past. See that you stay that way.”

I turned to take one final look at her, erect with her head held high, every inch a queen despite her dishevelment. I bowed, with reverence, and I walked out.

Lady Clarencieux rose from her post by the fire. I saw relief wash over her face as I reached out and took her hand in mine.

“Watch over her,” I said. “She’ll need more care than she knows.”

“I will care for her with my life.” She left her hand in mine for a moment before she withdrew it. “Be safe, Master Beecham.” She turned to the door of the chapel. She did not need to explain; a man who did not exist could no longer pass through Whitehall.

As the door closed behind me, I heard her say, “At the fork in the tunnel, turn right. It will bring you to the river.”

* * *

Rochester had absconded, as I expected. As he’d said, he had a family to protect. He had left the chapel’s secret door unlocked, but I knew the way back to his study was barred. Inhaling deep, I slipped on my gloves and entered the stone tunnel. This time, I had no light. I could scarcely see two feet in front of me, my heels crunching on rubble, the chatter and scamper of rats sending shivers through me. The farther I went into that airless darkness, the more I smelled the acrid tang of the river. I quickened my step, stumbling as I neared what appeared to be the fork.

The left tunnel stretched into nothingness; the right glimmered with faint light. Gripping my sword at my hip, I advanced carefully. More debris crunched underfoot; the moldering walls were slimy to the touch even through my gauntlets. I was so focused on reaching that distant pinprick of light that seemed to beckon like a mirage that at first, I thought I must be imagining the other scent wafting toward me-an insidious perfume, which clung to the air as if its wearer had just passed through.

I froze. Lilies.

A footstep came behind me. I whirled about, yanking at my blade.

No one was there.

I started to tremble. No, it couldn’t be. It was impossible. I had seen her leap off the bridge. She had plunged to her death.

The perfume was everywhere now, swirling like a tenacious invisible mist until all I could smell was her. Inside my skin and out. Everywhere.

“Show yourself!” I cried, my voice reverberating wildly. I heard another footstep, the crush of powdered stone under a heel. I bolted forth, dashing toward that sound, my blade swinging before me as I kicked rats aside, my inchoate howl exploding from my lips.

I reached the fork. The tunnel that led to Rochester’s office lay directly before me, the one to the chapel to my left. As I stood there breathless, terror erupting through my very pores, a door clicked open, and then there was the distinct clack of heeled footsteps.

Someone had entered the chapel.

God help me, she was alive. Sybilla still lived.

Muted voices in the chapel reached me: a murmur, a barked order, and then the singing of metal being drawn. I didn’t wait to see the guards come charging through that door. Spinning back around, I raced the way I had come, careening like a drunkard in a labyrinth, my heart in my throat. The tunnel grew tighter, pitching to a slope. The ceiling lowered, so that I had to duck my head lest I scrape it, scrabbling into a rivulet that grew steadily deeper, until it reached to my waist and I was sloshing through it. The water was so cold it cramped my bowels. Light began to widen around me. I couldn’t feel my own legs as I struggled through that fetid pool, almost wailing in fury when I saw the curved grate directly before me, set low in an impassable stone wall.

A sluice gate: I was in a sewer that carried waste from the palace.

Behind me, clamor approached. I heard the men splashing, coming closer. Sheathing my sword, I unhooked my cloak and threw it aside. With a whispered prayer, I shut my eyes and plunged underwater, groping at the underside of the gate, seeking an opening. If it went all the way down, I was doomed. Just as I began to despair, as my lungs screamed for air and I fought the impulse to open my mouth and let myself drown in the shit-filled bog, my hand encountered a serrated edge. Grabbing hold of it, I propelled myself under the gate, clawing with my hands across the putrid bottom. I felt a sharp tug at my shoulder, something snagging my doublet. I kicked hard, knowing whoever was behind me would see my floating cloak and know where I’d gone. The alarm would be sounded; guards would be sent from the palace. The queen would not protect me again if I were found.

With a talonlike scrape down my shoulder, I tore free of the grate and swam upward. The water carried me, tumbling, down an incline. I grappled with debris, clutching at anything I could, and then I was tumbling headlong into the conduit that spilled into the river, the sky wheeling above, scattered with stars, the moon remote in its cradle of cloud.

The sounds of pursuit faded; the far shore of Southwark winked with random torchlight. Dragging myself out of the conduit, I took a moment to catch my breath.

Then I scrambled to my feet and ran as fast as I could into the city.

* * *

I dragged myself toward the dockyards, sodden and shivering. Remembering Cinnabar in the stables, as well as Elizabeth’s mount, Cantila, and Urian, I thought I’d have to find a way to retrieve them. I didn’t dare return to the palace now, though. I had to find shelter in the only place I had left-in the crowded streets near the Tower.

I stumbled past evidence of Wyatt’s aborted revolt: broken barricades, trampled standards, a bloodstained armband submerged in slush. Every house, shop, tavern, and inn was shut; when I reached the Griffin, I banged on the door with my bruised knuckles.

“Please, please answer,” I whispered through chattering teeth. “Please, be here.”

It seemed an eternity before a pair of shutters in an upper-story window flung open. “Who’s there?” demanded a woman’s voice. I craned my gaze to where she leaned out, a nightcap askew on her head, a work-roughened hand gripping the sill.

“Scarcliff,” I said, and as she tilted her head, I repeated, louder, “Scarcliff! Is he here?”

She glared. “No one by that name here. Get from my door, beggar, or I’ve a mind to toss my chamber pot on you. Get, I say!”

“No, you don’t understand…” My protest faded. I was fairly certain I addressed the buxom Nan, who served me the night I had met Scarcliff here. She must be the owner or his wife; proprietors usually dwelled above their place of business, as a safeguard against break-ins and theft. “Shelton,” I suddenly thought to say. “I’m looking for Archie Shelton.”

She hesitated. Then she vanished, banging the shutters behind her.

I groaned. I couldn’t take another step. My clothes were lined in icicles; I could feel a stinging pain where the sluice gate had cut me. My knees wavered; just as I decided to drop on this threshold, as good a place as any to die, the bolt behind the door slid back and the woman was standing on the threshold, clutching a shawl to her plump shoulders.

Behind her, barrel-chested and clad only in his braies, was Scarcliff.

“I thought you might be here,” I said, and he caught me in his arms as I collapsed.