The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 29

• Предыдущая
• 29/65
• Следующая

“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 London, 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.

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?”

• Предыдущая
• 29/65
• Следующая