The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 27
- Предыдущая
- 27/65
- Следующая
“What do you want?” he snarled in a raw voice. His speech was slurred, but not in the way men garbled when they were drunk. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t need to. I had no doubt this man had seen battle. He could be on his feet, with a dagger in my gut, before I had time to blink. Still, as I recalled the note he’d left in my room, and what it had done, I had to stop myself from lunging at him to carve out his rancid, black heart.
Yet he didn’t appear to recognize me. With the mask covering my face, I could be anyone. I cocked my hip, affecting a playful tone. “I’m told you’re the earl’s man. I was hoping he might like company tonight?”
He didn’t glance at me again, raising his goblet to slurp its contents. I could see why his enunciation was strange; his upper lip was gone, his mouth misshapen as if it had been spliced and put clumsily back together. He must have lost most of his teeth, too, I thought, as a trickle of ale dribbled into his beard.
“His lordship’s not interested,” he said. “Find some other custom, drudge.”
Excellent. He’d taken the ruse. He thought I was one of the whores.
I said, “I’m very accomplished.”
“Bah.” He flicked his gloved hand toward the general vicinity of the room. “Save your tricks for someone who cares. The earl only likes them hairless as skinned squirrels.” He let out a chortle, amused by his own joke. Again I controlled the urge to kill him and be done with it. He was only the messenger; he hadn’t placed the order.
“Pity.” I let out an exaggerated sigh, bending down as if to adjust my boot before I pivoted toward the staircase. As I’d hoped, he was quick as a lion, on his feet and yanking me about. “Not so fast, catamite. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Then he paused. “Is that a needle you’ve got in my gut? If so, I warn you I’ve a much bigger one and a mind to slit you open with it like a spring calf.”
I stared into his eye. “Perhaps I’ll slit you first.” I pushed on the knife. “Don’t think I won’t.” When I saw the sudden change in his expression as he realized who I was, I added, “Or we can go about our business as gentlemen and you can tell me where he is.”
He could have yelled. Instead he said, amused, “Is that the way it is? Well, then, go ahead. I’ll be here when you come down.” He pointed up the stairs. “Last door to the left. Watch out for cats.” He guffawed, turning back to his tankard.
I started up the creaking stairs, my knife in my hand. The ceiling sloped low. I hated enclosed spaces almost as much as I did deep water. When I reached the landing I glanced over my shoulder. He was no longer at the table. He wouldn’t go far, though. He would be waiting for me, like a monster in a nightmare.
Yanking off the mask, I stuffed it in my breeches pocket. The passage before me was cramped and poorly lit, punctuated by narrow doors that couldn’t be very thick, judging by the moans and slapping of skin I could hear from the rooms beyond. The air was fetid, a sour mixture of old rushes, cat piss, and sex.
I took a step forward. Something streaked past me in a dark blur down the passageway. A cat. As I eased past the doors, my eyes adjusting to the gloom, I began to see other cats, nestled by the walls, hissing or watching me with opaque eyes. The ceiling seemed to lower over me; I actually tiptoed past the animals as if they might attack.
By the time I reached the last door on the left, I was dripping sweat; it was hot as Hades from the rising heat of the hearth downstairs and God only knew how many illegal charcoal braziers in the rooms. The entire building was a firetrap; it explained why cats converged here, though I couldn’t possibly imagine why anyone would keep so many indoors, except to keep the rats out.
Raking a hand through my damp hair, I put my ear to the door. I heard nothing within. I tried the latch. I was starting to turn it when the door flung open-“I’ve been waiting for hours!”-and the earl grabbed hold of me, trying to embrace me.
I threw him aside. Courtenay’s eyes snapped wide. Slamming the door shut, he whirled to me. His chemise was unlaced, revealing a slim white chest; his features were twisted with rage and flushed with what I assumed was a liberal intake of wine. He started to come at me, his teeth bared, then stopped short when he saw my drawn poniard.
His eyes narrowed. “Who in bloody hell are you?”
Now that I was face-to-face with the earl of Devon, the man who I knew was plotting against the queen, and who I believed had tried to poison me and instead taken Peregrine’s life, my desire for vengeance knotted like barbed iron about my heart. I took a moment to gauge him. He exuded the well-fed gloss of a noble, though I noted that without the extravagant padding of his finery, the effects of years of confinement in the Tower showed. Under his loose chemise and breeches, he was slender as an adolescent, his long-limbed body seemingly devoid of discernible musculature; despite his arrogant carriage, if it came down to a fight I had a feeling he’d have less physical strength than I.
“So you do recognize me,” I said through my teeth.
He smiled coldly. “You’re that no-name mongrel Renard has sent sniffing after me. You’ve a good nose, too, to have found me here. Pity you shan’t be telling him about it.”
“Oh? Are you going to try to kill me again?”
He let out a bray of laughter-until I stepped toward him and he saw the intent in my eyes. He went still as I said, “That surprise you left for me in my rooms killed my squire instead. He was just a lad. I will see you pay for it.”
He blanched, glancing downward to the blade I aimed at him. “I assure you,” he said slowly, “I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”
In the silent wake of his words, I searched his eyes. Unless he was the best actor I’d come across, he seemed genuinely baffled by my accusation. My rage faltered. Had I made a mistake? Was he telling me the truth?
“Let me refresh your memory. You ordered me silenced the other night because I saw you meeting with the princess. You sent your manservant after me.” He drew in a sharp breath as I stepped closer to him. The door was at his back; in order to get out he’d have to turn around to open it. “But he failed to catch me that night,” I continued, “so you had him follow me. I saw him on the bridge; he didn’t make himself inconspicuous. Though when he realized I’d seen him, he disappeared. Then I returned to the palace to find your note. Are you remembering any of this now? Because if you aren’t, I suggest you start. Your life depends on it.”
“Who are you to threaten me, you knave!” To my disconcertion, he reacted as any noble confronted by an inferior would. Heedless of my knife, he took a furious step at me, though he made the mistake of glancing at his discarded doublet on the bed. If he had a weapon, it was there. He’d have to come through me to get it. I gave him time to consider his options, even as I began to consider the possibility that his display of outrage was sincere. Not only would a guilty man have shown more caution, there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest any surprise that I was still alive.
If it had not been Courtenay, who had tried to poison me?
I shook my contemplations aside, lowering my blade. Courtenay’s expression shifted; with a lift of his brow, he pointed to a flagon on the side table. “May I? I’m parched.”
I nodded, watching him move to the table and fill a goblet. He eyed me over its rim. “I am sorry to hear about your … squire, was it?” He took a sip. “But seeing as I had nothing to do with his death and you’re still here, you must have another purpose in mind. Could it be blackmail, perhaps?”
“Now that you mention it,” I said coldly.
“Then you’re wasting your time. Contrary to how it appears, just because you found me in this disreputable establishment doesn’t mean I swive boys.” He gave me a languid smile. “But I know plenty of men at court who do. Shall I give you their names?”
- Предыдущая
- 27/65
- Следующая
