The Tudor Vendetta Page 22

  “My lady,” I urged, “now is no time for secrecy. Enough we have had already. Has Philip of Spain submitted a proposal of marriage?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “He has, but I … I did not accept. I told his envoy Feria that I must consider it, that it is too early for such preoccupations.”

  I nodded. “As Philip expected you would. Yet to counter the French and keep his grip on England, in the end he must have you. Yet now he knows you will eventually refuse, so he must find a way to force your hand. What if he had a secret to wield, something so powerful, so damning, it could destroy you? You are vulnerable; he could threaten you with your own past so you must choose between him or defend yourself at a time when your realm is weak, your rule opposed by papists who see you as a bastard queen. Elizabeth, what if he had your son?”

  “Dear God.” She went ashen. “He could dethrone me before my reign has begun.”

  “Precisely. This is Philip’s doing. He kept this agent Godwin here to do his bidding. Raff is in peril; Godwin will take him to Spain. You must send word at once to every port, forbidding the departure of any ships bound for the continent. And,” I added, “I must be set free.”

  Her mouth quivered. For a paralyzing moment, I thought she would refuse. She had me captive, a grown man of her Tudor blood destined for the block. She could eliminate the threat I posed to her throne, while the son she’d hidden away remained a secret only a handful of her loyal intimates knew about. Despite all his power, Philip of Spain had no proof; he could never establish that Raff was truly hers. She might survive the storm Philip prepared to unleash; she would never see Raff again, but she still might rule. Only her love for Raff could sway her and I was not certain it would be enough.

  She squared her thin shoulders. “Kate! Come at once. Bring his weapons.”

  Running into the bedchamber, I seized my cloak. When I returned to Elizabeth, she had drawn up her hood. Kate was at her side; her hand briefly touched mine as she gave me my belt with my sword. “I need coin,” I said and she fumbled for the purse at her waist. “It’s not much,” she said.

  I pocketed it. “It must suffice.” I longed to embrace her. “Take the queen back to Whitehall. Do not leave her for a moment. Shut her up in her rooms and wait until I send word.”

  “I am still here,” said Elizabeth, with a hint of aspersion.

  “No, you are not,” I replied, turning to her. “You were never here. I am still imprisoned and thus I must remain until I see this matter through. Raff and your realm depend on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The night fell upon me with snow-flecked wings as I left the Tower and raced toward Dead Man’s Lane. Elizabeth and Kate had taken to the river in her private barge to return to Whitehall. Before they left me outside the gate, Kate implored me to stay safe. I would have cherished the moment, as the barge pulled from the quay into the rising tide and I saw how she kept her eyes on me, saying without any words that she had never ceased to love me.

  But I could not cherish the memory of her eyes locked on mine, not yet. Something had happened to Shelton and I prayed as I plunged into the warren of slush-filled streets that he had managed to make his way to Nan. I did not expect to find Raff there; yet as I reached the Griffin and banged on the door, staring up to the shuttered window on the second story where they kept their lodgings, I hoped I was wrong. Shelton still had formidable strength; despite his physical shortcomings, he would have fought for the boy. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he had slain Renard’s hireling and had brought Raff here to hide until I could come for him.

  The door was unbolted from within. I pushed my way inside. The main room was shuttered, stools stacked on the tables. As I heard a scuffle behind me and spun about with my sword unsheathed, Thom flattened himself at the wall. His hands came up to ward off my blow.

  I lowered my sword. “Where are they? Quick, lad, there’s no time.”

  “Upstairs,” he gulped. “The master … he is gravely wounded. He—”

  I did not tarry for his explanation and pounded up the staircase. I took it all in at once: the tallow lamp burning on the table, illuminating the small tidy room, and the cushioned settle upon which Shelton lay, his massive scarred chest exposed, his face pale and eye closed, as Nan looked up at me, her hands hovering above the blood-soaked bandage wrapped about his midriff. His loyal dog, Crum, lay at his feet.

  “You promised,” she said, as though she had been chanting recriminations in anticipation of my arrival. “You promised you wouldn’t let him come to any harm. Look at him now.” She paused then, regarding me. “Though you don’t look to have fared any better,” she muttered, referring to my swollen lip, blackened eye, and overall dishevelment.

  Her voice caused Shelton to crack open his eye. He did not appear to recognize me at first, but as I neared the settle, he croaked in a near-inaudible voice, “Don’t let her nag you. My Nan frets too much. As I told her, I am not dead yet.”

  I sank beside him. “What happened?”

  He shook his head slightly. “I never saw it coming. He struck me so fast. We were on the road. The boy and I were so tired, he fell asleep against me … I was pulling the blanket over him when that villain rode out of nowhere. His steel was in me before I could react.” His face contorted. “I tried, lad, but I was in such pain … I fell from Cerberus and the boy, he started to tumble with me. The rogue snatched him from my hands. It was over in an instant.”

  “He rode all the way here like this,” added Nan. “Rode to our very door on that horse of his, bleeding and with every stray cur in the city lapping at his heels. He wanted me to go to the palace, to beg audience with the queen.” She glared. “As if she or any of her noble lords would heed the likes of me; they’d have tossed me in the Fleet, and then where would he be, eh, his stomach putrid from the wound and only little Thom downstairs to call for his winding sheet.”

  “You did the right thing,” I said, without looking away from Shelton. “They never would have listened.” I searched his face. “Did you see who it was?”

  He closed his eye. “It was too dark…” He paused. “But as he rode off, he said something to me. He said, ‘If you want to save the boy, you must meet him on the bridge.’”

  I went still. Then, without warning, rage surged in me. I had been right from the start.

  “You must rest.” I touched Shelton’s hand. His fingers clutched mine. “He is alive,” he said. “As they rode away, I could hear the boy sobbing. He was scared but he was alive.”

  “Do not worry, I will find him.” I rose from my haunches. As I swerved to return downstairs, already intent on my next move, Nan grasped me by my arm. “If something should happen to you, it will surely kill him. Whatever you do, remember he lives for you. He’s only held out this long because you mean everything to him.”

  I leaned to her, kissed her flushed cheek. “I don’t intend to die any more than he does. Just make sure he keeps waiting for me until I get back.”

  As I stepped off the bottom rung of the stairs into the tavern, a cloaked figure seated with its back to me rose and turned. I saw Thom squatting in a corner, his eyes huge.

  “It would appear we are destined to be together through fair or foul,” Dudley drawled. He wore a fitted leather doublet, padded breeches tucked into thigh-high riding boots, a sword hanging in an ornamented scabbard at his side, and fringed gauntlets on his hands, as though he were about to embark on a court progress.

  “Remove yourself.” I made to stride past him when he blocked my passage.

  “The queen has commanded it,” he said. “She has ordered me to protect you.”

  “I don’t need your protection. What I do, I must do alone.”

  He chuckled. Not in an overtly insulting manner, which in and of itself was surprising enough, but it was his next words that prevented my lunge at his throat: “She says I am to accord you the respect I would grant her own person.” He spoke as if he were yanking his words out from between his teeth. “She
must favor you, indeed. She would not have you undertake this venture unguarded. If you do not allow me to accompany you, then I am to trail behind you like a lackey. It seems that now, Prescott, I must serve you.”

  “You do not understand,” I said. “If we are seen, it could threaten the very life of—” I stopped myself in time, but he leaned close to me in a repulsive gesture of confidence.

  “Her changeling?” he said. “Do not look so aghast. I have known about him for quite some time. She once asked me to sell off some of my lands to help her gather coin for his upkeep. She confides in me. As I told you once before, she loves me as much as I love her.”

  “But you love yourself still more.” I moved around him. “Accompany me if you must, but you must do exactly as I say.”

  Outside, I found his horse and my Cinnabar tethered, guarded by a burly yeoman of the guard. I had an impulse to declare that we might as well gather up the royal pennants and trumpets in parade but I curbed my tongue. “Ride ahead,” I instructed Dudley. “Take your guard with you and make as if to cross the bridge to Southwark. Only someone with your credentials can persuade the sentries to unlock the gate. I will follow once the gate is open.”

  With a scowl, Dudley motioned to the guard and began to ride to the bridge. I waited until they had distanced themselves before I called for Thom, who came out running.

  “Take care of my horse.” Handing over Cinnabar’s reins, I dashed into the shadows of Dead Man’s Lane, racing toward the reunion that had long awaited me.

  * * *

  If you want to save the boy, you must meet him on the bridge.

  The last time I had been on London Bridge, I was chasing the woman who betrayed me. It had been crowded that evening, groups of travelers, ox-driven wagons, livestock, and men on horseback waiting in line to embark upon the narrow roadway threading between the clustered shops and other establishments. Tonight it was quiet, a halo of torchlight and candles winking in windows over it. Many of the bridge’s residents never left—lusting, toiling, brawling, and dying on that stone span connecting London with bawdy Southwark. I could discern faint voices drifting in the chill air: a sing-along from one of the illicit drinking holes that thrived after hours, though the law forbade the sale of alcohol on the bridge, the risk of a drunkenly fueled conflagration being far too great.

  Pausing near a landing quay to gaze toward that overladen structure silhouetted against the midnight sky, the river’s swelling tide barreling with deadly force through its twenty close-set piers that made crossing under it an often lethal enterprise, I wondered if I was going straight to my death. I took a moment to breathe, pushing aside my lifelong aversion of deep water to imagine Dudley’s reaction when I failed to join him at the gate. Let him loiter there keeping the sentries occupied while I embarked on this far more dangerous route.

  I whistled. Within seconds, one of the boatmen who plied the Thames for a living neared the water steps. “Going to Southwark, are ye?” he asked. He was a shrunken, hunched figure, clothed in bits of rags and frost-eaten wool, his gnarled hands, swollen from gripping an oar, tucked into mittens with the tips cut off. “Best hurry. The tide will not wait.”

  I dangled Kate’s pouch. “Can you get me to the bridge? If you can, all this is yours.”

  His filmy eyes fixed on the purse, even as he cackled. “Too late for that. No one can shoot the bridge at this hour. You must wait. Why not spend some of your coin in Southwark? Plenty of pretty lasses there to entertain a fine gentleman—and lads, too, if that’s to your taste. Then I’ll fetch you tomorrow and we can go to the bridge.”

  “It must be tonight. Can you do it?”

  He stuck out his lower lip, considering. “You set me on a fool’s errand,” he muttered.

  “Indeed.” Handing him the pouch, I clambered into his boat. Water sloshed in the curved keel. I lifted my booted feet, resisting the nausea that assailed me as the boatman maneuvered into the swift Thames, separating us from the embankment until we became a speck in a vast churning soup, where fragments of broken branches, garbage, and occasional bloated things bobbed and careened past us. With my hands clutching the edges of the knotty bench, I prepared.

  Godwin had not killed Shelton because he wanted him to impart his message. It gave me no comfort, though it proved I had not been wrong in my initial fears. Whoever Godwin was, he must have a connection to Sybilla. Luring me to the bridge was a deliberate ploy, as the only place where I could search for him was the very house where I last confronted her, engaging in the struggle that resulted in her fall. Only the thought that he had not come after me directly imparted some relief. It betrayed weakness, perhaps because his crippled leg made him no match for me in a sword fight. He had relied on subterfuge in the Vaughan household, winning Lady Philippa to his side even as he pilfered Lord Vaughan’s cipher to read the letters to and from Lady Parry. Nevertheless, despite his cunning, either he had not uncovered Raff’s identity or he had failed to apprehend the boy at the manor. He instead seized Lady Parry, sending the poisoned box upon my arrival at court with the letter inside it, denouncing me in a cipher intended to confound. He had not wanted me arrested, not then; he had known Elizabeth would dispatch me to search for Lady Parry and he was at the ready, hiring those ruffians to impart his cryptic message, the same one he had left under Lady Parry’s saddle for the queen.

  You must pay for the sin.

  It was a masterful gambit, chilling in its tenacity. Even now, he had anticipated that I would find some way to persuade Elizabeth to release me from the Tower.

  What dark end did he seek?

  I had no other answer than vengeance for Sybilla. Godwin had been watching us all along, poisoning Shelton’s ale to goad me. I should never have sent Shelton away with Raff; in my confusion, I had revealed the very secret Godwin had been unable to procure. If my suspicions were correct, he had powerful protection, too, through his master King Philip. Spain’s wealth could secure him safe passage from England. Even if Elizabeth’s orders to halt the ships reached her ports in time, a man like Godwin would have other means of escape.

  I had to find him first.

  I looked ahead as the bridge came closer, deafened by the roar of the river gushing through its silted and debris-laden piers. Somehow, I had to access it without using the gateways, locate the house without him realizing I approached. It was crucial that I not provide any more advance warning, for he already knew I would accept his invitation.

  The boatman paddled to one side, evading the river’s pull. “I won’t go any closer,” he yelled over his shoulder at me. “The tide will swamp my boat.”

  We had neared the sterling at the base of one of the massive piers. Unsteadily, I unlocked my grip on my seat to peer over the boat’s side and gauge the distance. It was not too far to swim, were I not burdened by weapons. I espied moss-licked stairs carved into the side of the pier, leading up to the bridge and some type of opening. Residents must use those stairs to come down and fish at low tide; bundles of nets lay heaped on the sterling itself. Yes, that was a way in, but the more I contemplated it, the more I realized I would be mad to attempt it.

  I would have to access the bridge from the Southwark gate, even if I had already given away my purse and had nothing to bribe the sentries. Turning about, I saw the boatman was trying to say something. He lifted his voice—“Sit your arse down!”—but as I started to move back to the bench, the boat pitched with violent suddenness in an unexpected surge of the tide.

  With a horrified cry, I lost my balance, pitching backward into the water.

  It was a dark cauldron. All my air evaporated from me in a gasp; as I gulped in brackish salt of the sea and accompanying filth tossed into the Thames every hour of every day, I flailed, kicking frantically. As I surfaced, panting, my clothing and weaponry weighing like armor, I saw the boatman rowing furiously away. He was not going to risk himself by trying to save me, not after I had paid him and fallen in because of my own clumsiness.

  Besid
es, there was no way for him to save me. The river already propelled me toward the pier. I fought against it with every muscle, knowing that if this relentless torrent yanked me under, I was doomed. There was no shore nearby to swim to, only steep embankments flooded by the influx of the tide. I would drown.

  My only hope was to reach the bridge and somehow get myself out. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain afloat. The cold water stole through me; if I continued to thrash, I would exhaust my strength. Unclasping my cloak, I let it sink below me. I told myself to loosen my limbs, keep my head above water, and let the tide bring me close. Yet as it did, alarm fired my veins, for the sterling appeared enormous, built to withstand the river and protect the piers.

  Still, I made a move toward it. Better to risk death by bashing against it than end up sucked under the bridge. I felt something tangle about my calves; as I reached down, submerging my head, my fingers strained, snagging on a net. I flung my head up, blinking water from my eyes. The bridge filled my entire being. I looked further to where the waterline lapped. There: a rusted hook attached to the net and embedded in the sterling. Breathing fast to quicken my blood, as Walsingham had taught me during those excruciating exercises in Brussels, I yanked on the net and employed it to drag myself closer.

  The river pummeled me. I concentrated only on paddling forward, grasping section by section of net, until I was reaching out with one trembling hand to take the hook. Sharp pain sliced my palm. I cursed, swallowing more water, coughing and sputtering as I tightened my grip and with my other hand withdrew my poniard from its soaked sheath at my belt to slash the net enveloping my legs. I might cut myself, too, but every moment I tarried was one less I had to live.

  Grasping the hook, I scrabbled up the sterling’s tiered side, my sodden boots slipping and catching on its roughened edge. There was a terrifying moment when I faltered and started to fall backward. With shoulder-searing effort, I heaved and collapsed, faceup, pooled in water, my belt with the sword in its scabbard snarled about my waist, digging into my ribs.