The Tudor Conspiracy Page 13

  I’d had enough of men like him.

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me a cur. And I happen to like dogs,” I said, and I slammed his rib cage with a backward jab of my elbow while simultaneously heaving up my back to knock him askew. Pivoting on my knees, I grasped him by the arm and wrenched it down, forcing his blade away from me. To my unpleasant surprise, he proved stronger than he looked, though I had caught him unawares. As he grappled with the sudden reversal in our positions, I yanked him to his feet with his arm up behind him, forcing him to release his dagger, which clattered at my feet.

  “I can break it,” I said in his ear, and I wrenched his arm higher. He cried out. I kicked his ankles apart, steadying his stance. “Or we can come to an arrangement. Your choice.”

  I yanked again. As I did, I pawed at the floor with my foot, dragging my poniard to me. I would have to release him in order to grab it, and I knew the moment I did he’d seize the advantage. Counting to four under my breath, I let him loose and leapt for the poniard, rearing up with it, slashing the air to stave him off. He backed away, cradling his wrist; he didn’t even try to go for the other dagger. Apparently I’d inflicted damage.

  He grimaced and jerked his chin at the side table. “I—I need wine. My arm hurts.”

  “This time,” I said, “let me pour it.” I yanked his doublet off the bed and threw it into a corner. Then I motioned him to sit on a stool by the bed, keeping my gaze on him as I poured from the flagon. He took the goblet gingerly, his wrist already starting to swell. In an hour at most, he’d be in severe discomfort.

  “You’ll need to get that treated,” I told him. “Ice is best. Lucky for you, there’s plenty of it.” I paused. “Tell me about your friendship with Robert Dudley.” I went tense, anticipating his reaction; all I received in return was a scowl.

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “I’d reconsider if I were you. I overheard you, remember, in the passageway with the princess? I know you’re working with Dudley. I also know the queen rejected your suit to marry her, which gives you plenty of motivation. What I want to know is what you plan.”

  Panic flashed across his face. “You’re mad. We’re not planning anything.”

  “No? Then perhaps you can explain why you’re scheduled to deliver a book to Dudley with a letter from Princess Elizabeth hidden inside it?”

  He couldn’t contain his startled gasp. “How—how do you know about that?”

  “She told me. Oh, and she wants her letter back. In fact, she insists on it.”

  He recoiled, even as his tone turned belligerent. “She insists, does she? She thinks she can change her mind and I’ll get her letter back from Dudley, easy as that?”

  I went still. “What do you mean by that?”

  He gave me a malicious smile. “I mean it was delivered today. Dudley’s been waiting for it, and he isn’t going to change his course just because she’s had a pang of regret. He knows what is coming. He knows the moment the queen announces her betrothal to Philip of Spain it’ll be the end for him and his brothers. Renard will demand the head of every traitor in the Tower as a wedding gift.”

  I went cold. “Why would he need a letter from her? What is he planning?

  Courtenay shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I merely deliver—” I lunged, leveling my blade under his chin with one hand as I kicked his legs apart and grabbed hold of his injured wrist with the other. I twisted hard enough to wring out an agonized cry.

  “If you think that hurts,” I said, “just imagine what the rack must feel like. You’re already marked, my lord, though you don’t know it. Though I secretly work for the princess, Don Renard hired me not a day ago to find evidence that would put you back in the Tower. And in my current mood, I’m thinking I just might oblige him.”

  His eyes bulged. “Renard? He … he’s marked me?”

  “He believes you’re behind a plot against the queen. But we know better, don’t we? We know your friend Dudley is the real mastermind. So, my lord, help me and I’ll help you.”

  His breathing turned shallow. Sweat beaded his ashen brow. He looked frantically past me to the door, as if he awaited some impromptu rescue. I was surprised myself that his beast of a manservant hadn’t barged in by now, if only to see if his master was still alive. Evidently Edward Courtenay didn’t inspire much in the way of loyalty.

  I tightened my grip on his wrist. “I don’t have all night.”

  “I already told you,” he gasped through his teeth. “I don’t know anything—”

  I twisted again; this time, he let out a piercing scream.

  “Last time: What does Dudley plan?”

  “No. God, please. Stop. I swear, I don’t know.” He was panting, his legs thrashing between mine. “He doesn’t confide in me. I just do as he asks.”

  “What does he ask?”

  “To gain Elizabeth’s confidence, that is all.”

  I eyed him. “You’re lying.”

  “No. Don’t!” Though I had his wrist and he was a mere half inch from being impaled under his chin by my knife, the pain must have grown bad enough for him to actually fling himself backward off the stool and go crashing to the floor. I had to let go and leap aside to avoid being tangled in his fall, looking down at him as he cowered at my feet. When he spoke, his tone was anything but repentant.

  “You fool,” he said. “Kill me if you want to, but I can’t tell you anything more. Only Dudley knows what he’s about. I just convey his letters!”

  The undeniable desperation in his avowal gave me pause. I didn’t trust him, not for a second. He could be lying through his teeth; he probably was, but he was my sole conduit to Dudley, and unless I was prepared to torture him, I had to strike a pact.

  “Get up,” I said.

  He staggered to his feet, his wrist hanging at an odd angle.

  “Tell me about these letters. I assume you meant you both send and receive them? How many are there? Who does Dudley write to? Who writes back?”

  He swayed where he stood, his cheeks sucked in. He was colorless. I feared he might actually faint. “Not many,” he managed to utter, a pinch in his voice. “Six or seven, back and forth, I think. I don’t remember. We hide them in different things; my manservant, he delivers and retrieves the parcels. All the letters were sealed. No addresses, just the names of shires written on them. I didn’t read any. I just did as he bade and waited here on the nights specified for the couriers to pick them up.”

  He hadn’t read Dudley’s letters? If he was telling the truth, I couldn’t decide whether he was the biggest idiot I had ever met or the most naive.

  “Which shires?” I asked tersely. “Think: Where did the letters go?”

  His breathing was labored; the pain must be excruciating by now. “There was one for Sussex. Another for Surrey. Also Oxfordshire and Berkshire, I think. Suffolk, too. He arranged everything beforehand; I didn’t ask questions. Why would I? The couriers paid me. I sent half the coin to Dudley and kept the other half. Living at court isn’t cheap; my allowance from the queen barely covers my expenses.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. “I can imagine. So you have no idea who those letters went to, but if Dudley arranged the delivery without you, he must have someone else working for him, to alert his recipients that the letters were waiting with you. Who?”

  Courtenay let out a moan and staggered to the bed. He sat, grimacing. “How would I know? Do you think he lacks for eager menials? Any lowly guard or urchin who cleans out the bilge pits in the Tower will oblige a noble prisoner if he pays enough.”

  I turned it all over in my mind, like the pieces of a disjointed jigsaw. Robert Dudley was not only receiving letters but sending letters out, to parties invested enough to ensure the earl’s silence through bribes. Those payments Courtenay sent must also furnish Dudley with the means to pay whoever he used to advance word to his conspirators. Not that any of this made me feel reassured. All those shires Courtenay had mentioned surrounded Lo
ndon, from north to south; Dudley must be hatching a conspiracy. From the sound of it, it was something big.

  But what? How did Elizabeth fit into it?

  “I must speak to him,” I said abruptly.

  He gaped. “Are you mad? You’re nobody to him! Why would he tell you anything?”

  “I’m not as much of a nobody as you might think,” I replied, and he flinched. “You’re going to get me inside the Tower. Or would you rather I reported what you just told me?”

  “No.” He took a step to me. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you. Only I can’t do it overnight. My manservant … he knows the right warders to bribe. He has to arrange it.”

  “You have twenty-four hours. Your man should be able to find me.” I paused for a moment to let my words sink in. “If you even think of betraying me, believe me when I say Renard will get everything he needs. Do we understand each other, my lord?”

  I turned to the door. He called out in a wavering voice, “Remember what you promised! If I do this, you’ll not let Renard set his dogs on me.”

  I glanced at him. “Use ice. And refrain from riding for at least a week, lest that arm stiffens and you lose its use. I’ll send your manservant up to assist you.”

  Wrenching open the door as he collapsed on the bed, I walked out.

  * * *

  His henchman waited at the bottom of the stairs. The common room was crowded now, a multitude of masked men in various stages of undress, dancing and kissing and cornering each other in the smoky shadows.

  “That took longer than I thought,” he remarked. He glanced at the bloodstains on my collar. “He must like you. He only cuts his favorites.”

  “You should attend to him,” I retorted, and I strode past him, out of the common room. Retrieving my sword and cloak from the doorman, who gave me another knowing leer, I evaded his grab for my codpiece and plunged into the night.

  Light snow was falling. I drew in drafts of the cold air, as if I could rinse the filth of the encounter with the earl from my person. As I trod back over the frozen river, whose surface felt decidedly less solid to me, I realized I was being followed and put my hand on my sword. However, as before on the bridge, Courtenay’s manservant seemed content to remain a distance behind, making more noise on the ice-hardened snow than a professional should. As soon as I reached the shore, I whirled about with my sword in hand.

  Swirling snow filled the empty, icy expanse I had just traversed.

  I tossed the stolen mantle in King’s Street and hastened, shivering, to the palace. Climbing the icy staircase to my room, I went still, a knot clogging my throat.

  Then I forced myself to unlock the door.

  Everything appeared the same as I had left it. Then, as I stepped inside and lit the tallow, I realized Sybilla had been here; she had returned to tidy my scattered belongings, setting the coffer and stool upright and folding Peregrine’s cloak carefully on my cot.

  My knees gave way underneath me. Sinking to the floor, I dragged the cloak from the bed, and, burying my face in folds that still smelled faintly of him, I wept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I awoke with a profound sense of loss and, more prosaically, a rumble in my stomach. Belatedly, I recalled that I’d not eaten so much as a crumb of bread since that greasy meal in the tavern off the bridge.

  I padded in my hose to the basin, cracked the layer of thin ice, and splashed water on my face. Catching my reflection in my hand mirror, I went still. My newly trimmed beard could not disguise my haggard appearance. There were dark smudges under my red-rimmed eyes; my skin was the hue of old parchment. I looked as if I’d aged years.

  I turned to my bed. I had fallen asleep, clutching Peregrine’s cloak. Now I had to fold it and put it aside, resisting my sorrow as I sniffed it and realized it was already losing his smell. I tucked it into the coffer, biting the inside of my mouth to stop my tears as I fished around for fresh hose and shirt. I’d brought few clothes in my stubborn refusal to admit I might be at court longer than I wanted to. Now I’d have to launder my soiled linens and—

  Kate.

  I rocked back on my heels. So much had happened in so short a time, I’d not spared her a thought. What she was doing at this moment? Had she already been to the stables to see to the horses? Or gone to tend her winter herb garden, which she protected as tenderly as she would its eventual spring shoots? If I shut my eyes, I could see her wrapped in her mantle, reaching a gloved hand down toward the frosted earth …

  She must be told. She loved Peregrine. Somehow, I had to get word to her.

  Drawing out my writing utensils, I composed a letter with the simple but painstaking cipher Cecil had devised for me. Employing the manual on basic animal husbandry that I’d brought in my bag, the cipher consisted of the first and third letters of each line of the manual’s odd-numbered pages. My note could only be read by someone with a matching book; in this case, Cecil himself. Once I was finished, I folded the paper. I had no seal.

  A knock came at the door. I leapt for my sword, unsheathing it. Then I heard Rochester say, “Master Beecham? Are you awake?”

  I set my sword aside. He stood outside, a pile of folded clothing in his arms. He gave me a forlorn smile. “Mistress Darrier mentioned you might have need of fresh clothes after…” He swallowed. “I trust these will fit. Her Majesty wishes you to join her in the chapel after you break your fast.” He shook his head. “Such a terrible affair. She was most upset when I told her. She wants the matter looked into thoroughly. That a mere boy could have—”

  “Her Majesty is too kind,” I interrupted gently, “but there is no need for an inquest. Peregrine and I took our midday meal on the bridge yesterday. He must have eaten something tainted. He complained of stomach pains on the ride back.”

  “Ah.” Though Rochester did his best to conceal it, I could see his relief. He had enough to contend with at court without a possible murder to investigate. “That is indeed unfortunate. It’s never safe to eat at the stalls. The meat: You never know where it came from. Cats, dogs, rats—in times of need, people will cook anything. Poor lad.”

  I nodded. I needed him to go. I wasn’t sure I could maintain my composure if he kept talking. “Shall I get dressed?” I suggested.

  He nodded hastily. “I’ll await you in the privy gallery.”

  As soon as he left, I pressed my knuckles to my temples, staving off a wave of utter despair. Unraveling the bundle of clothing, I found a plain but well-cut wool doublet, breeches, hose, and underlinens.

  I washed thoroughly before I dressed and ran a comb through my tangled hair. I needed to see a barber, too. After rubbing the crust of snow and dirt from my boots, I slipped my letter to Kate into my doublet and went to the gallery. Rochester brought me to a side chamber to partake of bread, cheese, beer, and dried fruit. I was grateful he didn’t mention Peregrine again, filling the awkward silence between us instead with chat of the weather and the rarity of the Thames freezing over, until the hour came to join the queen.

  It was a long trajectory, through an upper loggia overlooking the barren gardens and several galleries where courtiers congregated to pass the time. As we walked, I asked Rochester about the Spaniard I’d encountered the previous day.

  His mouth pursed. “That would be the Duke of Feria. He’s a trusted noble and confidant of—” He stopped himself. “A hard man,” he muttered, “as all these Spaniards are apt to be. I understand he wasn’t helpful to you.”

  “He was taken aback.” I realized Rochester had almost admitted aloud that Feria was a confidant of Prince Philip. “I’m not sure how I’d have reacted in his place.”

  “A sight better than he did, I’m sure,” said Rochester. “Mistress Dormer was the one who fetched me from the hall, scared out of her wits, while he stood there as if…” He sighed. “I suppose there’s no use stirring up what we can do nothing about.”

  “You’re a good man,” I said.

  “Somebody has to be” was his reply. “I fear there are too
few of us these days.”

  I debated for a moment. I had a sudden suspicion about Rochester that I needed to confirm. It was a calculated risk but worth the attempt. He could always refuse.

  “I have a missive I must send.” I removed the letter from my doublet. “A friend of mine should be told of my squire’s passing. Could I impose on you to…?”

  He came to a halt. “I suppose you’ll want it sealed and sent by courier?”

  “If possible. Can you see it delivered to Theobalds House in Hertfordshire?” I did not elaborate; as color crept into his fleshy cheeks, I knew without a word spoken that he had recognized the name of Cecil’s manor. I almost smiled, despite the circumstances.

  Rochester looked at me. Still without speaking, he took the missive and tucked it into the large pouch at his belt. “Just this once,” he said, turning to resume our walk. “I ask that you keep it between us. I’m not authorized to use our couriers without leave.”

  “I’m very grateful,” I said softly.

  In the spacious chamber where I’d selected plum velvet for Mary, the queen and her women sat before the hearth. I bowed on the threshold; the queen rose and came to me. She wore black, her high peaked collar framing her drawn features; she looked tired as she took my hands in hers in a maternal gesture and said, “I am deeply grieved by your loss, Master Beecham. No child should ever die thus.” Her voice wavered. “No child should die.”

  “Majesty,” I murmured. “I am deeply honored.” As I spoke, I lifted my gaze to see Lady Clarencieux and young Jane Dormer in the background. They, too, were in black and regarded me sadly. Standing apart, the alabaster hue of her skin in striking contrast to her dark gown, was Sybilla. She inclined her head, as though we had only just met.

  Mary said, “I’ve ordered that your squire be interred in All Hallows Church. His body is there; you may go and pay him your final respects later, if you wish. The burial is scheduled for the afternoon. This private mass is for us.”

  I recognized this singular privilege. Royalty never attended funerals, much less those of commoners; Mary’s decision to hear a mass in honor of Peregrine was exceptional, a display both of the esteem in which she held me and of her innate kindness.