The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 21

• Предыдущая
• 21/65
• Следующая

“Not that I need to answer you,” she said with a hint of asperity, “but I gave him a book. It’s hardly evidence of anything.” She paused, her voice turning grave. “I warn you now: You, too, could be in grave danger if you persist in this pursuit. I’ll not have you risk yourself for my sake, not this time. Regardless of your loyalty, this is not your fight.”

“Let me decide that on my own,” I said. As she drew in a sharp gasp, I did something I had never done before: I took her hand. Her bare fingers were cold, and as she felt my touch, her expression faltered. I knew how difficult this was for her. She was daring, secure in her right to act as she saw fit. Few ever glimpsed the vulnerability she hid within.

“Who was that book for?” I asked softly, though I already knew.

She withdrew her hands. “For Robert.” She lifted her chin, as if to preempt my outburst, and I recalled that volatile passion between her and Dudley, as inexplicable to me as it was terrifying. Their desire defied everything I thought I knew about Elizabeth, like a reckless tide that swept caution aside, though not, God willing, her instinct for self-preservation.

I appealed to this quality in her now. “Have you forgotten how Robert and his father did everything possible to force you, and your sister, into an impasse? They tried to set Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley on the throne. Had they succeeded, your sister would be dead or imprisoned; you’d have been obliged to do as they saw fit. Robert does not deserve your care for him. Were the situation reversed, I doubt he’d do the same for you.”

Her eyes sparked. “You seem to forget that I know what Robert really desired.”

“No, I remember all too well. He wanted to marry you and share your crown.” We locked eyes. “But now, he and his brothers are condemned. Should Renard discover you’ve been communicating with Dudley, a traitor, he will use it against you.”

Sudden pallor tightened her features. “It’s more than a book,” she said. “I put a letter inside it. Courtenay has a way to smuggle it into the Tower. He told me it was safe.”

I felt as if my insides had turned to liquid. “A letter?”

“Yes,” she said. “If my sister weds Philip of Spain, she will destroy everything-our faith, our future, our very lives. Robert must be forewarned. The betrothal could be his death warrant; Philip will demand it of her. He will demand that she execute every traitor in the Tower before he sets foot on these shores.”

I found it difficult to draw a full breath. It was more than Cecil had feared, more than Renard could have hoped for: a letter from Elizabeth herself, to none other than Robert Dudley, a convicted traitor. I did not want to ask the question that burned on my lips; I did not want to confront some terrible truth about this woman I served. Yet I had to be sure. I had to know how far Elizabeth was willing to go before I committed myself.

“Do you know what Dudley and Courtenay plan?” I asked. “Tell me now, or so help me, I’ll leave court this very hour. I cannot serve you if you will not place your trust in me.”

I saw her teeth cut at her lower lip, hesitating. I turned on my heel and set off for the stable entranceway. I meant it. I would not be manipulated, not even by her.

“Brendan, wait.” The unexpected tremor in her voice stopped me. I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t know anything else,” she said. “I swear it to you.”

I heard Cecil in my mind, We can guide her to her destiny-you and I. But first, we must keep her alive, and I had a vivid recollection of the queen in her fabric-strewn chamber, the complicit laughter of her women, that portrait half-covered by a sheet in the corner. In that moment, I faced a terrible choice. I could turn away now and disappear the way I had come. I could return to the life I’d left behind. I felt a sudden longing for that uncomplicated existence, where Kate and I could wed and have children; where I needn’t watch for shadows at every corner; where there were no covert plans or lies within lies.

A simple life, without the burden of protecting Elizabeth.

Yet even as I imagined it, I knew I deluded myself. My choice had been made. I’d made it the hour I agreed to serve her. I’d done it willingly, knowing the price I might pay.

Elizabeth and I shared the same blood. My fate was now bound to hers.

“We still have time,” I said, and she gave me a startled look. “To get your letter back,” I explained, “and discover what Dudley and Courtenay plot before it is too late. Renard wants evidence; if I can, I will give it to him.”

She took in my somber expression. “But it would mean their deaths…”

“It could mean yours if I do not,” I replied. “You must survive this. Do nothing more, Your Grace; say nothing more. Let me retrieve your letter and do whatever is required, even if it means betraying Dudley and Courtenay.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “No. I cannot. There must be another way.”

“There isn’t. Your letter could be your death. You cannot rule from the grave.”

Her conflict played upon her face, a tangled web of emotions that had no doubt haunted her since she arrived at court and realized the path her sister would take-a path that led to the abolishment of her faith and her right to be queen. She’d fought to save herself and those she loved; now she had to confront her own thorn-laden choice.

“It’s the only way,” I said. “You or Dudley. You cannot save both.”

“Let me think!” She held up her hand, turning away. From outside the sound of voices reached us, along with the clack of wood pattens on cobblestone. As the grooms catcalled and women returned pert replies, Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. She turned back to me, her eyes remote.

“So be it,” she said quietly. “Do what you must.”

The women were almost at the doorway; we had no more time. I shifted into the nearest stall. As I dropped to my knees beside a startled mare, yanking my cloak about me to blend with the shadows, I heard Elizabeth say with staccato impatience, “Where have you been? I nearly froze to death here waiting for you. God’s teeth, how long does it take to fetch a muff and gloves?” I heard the women’s murmured apologies, followed by hurried footsteps as they walked out after the princess.

I let out a shuddering breath. Elizabeth had put herself in harm’s way to save Dudley and her future right to be queen.

As I had suspected, however, when it came to choosing between them, she came first.

I took a few moments to compose myself. I heard Elizabeth call out to the grooms, “Best get back to your chores before the stable master finds you squandering those coins I gave you. Don’t forget, I want the best fodder, not the cheap hay you give the rest of the court’s beasts. And plenty of blankets at night-my Cantila is a delicate creature bred for sunnier climes than ours. I’ll take it amiss if something should happen to him.”

As the grooms laughed and promised to do as she asked, I had to smile. Even in peril, Elizabeth would think of her horse, Cantila, an expensive Arabian she pampered like a child. She also wisely sowed allegiance where she could: Those grooms would be her willing slaves henceforth, after she’d paid them to gamble and drink during work hours.

The truant grooms tramped into the stables to go about their business. None paid me heed as I brushed straw from my hose and moved to where my Cinnabar was stalled. He snorted at my greeting, nuzzling my cloak for the bits of dried apple I usually carried. I’d forgotten to stop by the kitchens for some, so I apologized as he tossed his head in frustration and I checked his forelock for the wound Peregrine had mentioned. It was healing, a small nick. I could still ride him.

Urian came bounding up to me with an excited bark. I turned to see Peregrine holding the dog’s lead, his gaze bright and hair unkempt. No matter how much he tried, a few hours on his own and he invariably looked as if he’d run into a windstorm.

• Предыдущая
• 21/65
• Следующая