The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 40
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I mapped out scenarios. I was scheduled to report to him tomorrow; I could meet him in his office and do it there, behind closed doors, but I’d have to contend with his secretaries afterward. It might be better to hide in the vicinity and catch Renard unaware as he made his way to the office, take him down in one of the remote courtyards, and make it look like a random assault, a botched robbery, as I had thought he’d have his men do to me on the road. However I did it, I had to act soon.
I had to kill him before he presented those letters to the queen.
Urgency brought me staggering to my feet. The room swam. I paused, choking back bile as I shrugged on my doublet, pulled on my boots, and, with my sword dangling at my belt, lurched to the door. I felt like I was moving underwater. I faintly acknowledged that in my current state I’d probably never make it down the stairs, let alone traverse the palace to his office in the dead of the night. I couldn’t begin to think of how I’d actually wield my poniard with enough force to kill him, but I grasped the door latch anyway, determined to try.
I yanked the door open. Standing outside was a cloaked silhouette. I struggled backward, lifting the sword up. The figure resolved itself from the inky shadows; a warning hand came up, to silence my outburst. “Ssh! Don’t shout.”
I smelled lilies. I could only stare. In the guttering tallow glow, her eyes were huge, her face framed by a cascade of dark blond hair that caught the light like cloth of gold. She pulled back her hood; it crumpled softly about her shoulders. As she turned to close the door, the cloak parted to reveal her slim form, clad in a simple, high-necked black gown.
“What-what are you doing here?” I said in a hoarse whisper.
“Looking for you.” Sybilla regarded me with a worried frown. “I knew something must have happened. I waited for hours, watching the staircase to your room.”
“You-you waited?”
“Yes. I wanted to tell you something. Renard was with the queen all afternoon; they dined together in her apartments. As Lady Clarencieux and I served them, I overheard Renard telling her that you couldn’t be trusted. She was not pleased; she said you’d yet to prove yourself either way. But he replied that he would soon deliver evidence to the contrary. So, as soon as I could, I came to find you. I waited in the gallery in an alcove, hidden from view; by nightfall, I started to fear the worst.”
I stood immobile, as if cast in stone, my sword still clutched in my fist. “And did Renard … did he deliver this evidence?” The calm in my voice surprised me.
“No. I was returning to the queen’s apartments when I happened to look out into the courtyard and saw two men hurrying toward his office. I recognized them; he employs them to fulfill whatever illicit deeds he needs doing. I also knew Renard wasn’t in his office; after he left the queen, he went out. He rents a manor on the Strand he doesn’t live in, but he visits often, so he must keep a mistress there. I followed the men. They gave Renard’s secretary-the morose one, who never seems to sleep-a tube, like those used by couriers. They also told him they’d left the traitor hurt but alive, as ordered. The secretary promised to deliver the tube. I saw it all from the corridor. The door was wide open.”
I could barely breathe, my entire being focused on her.
“Are you the traitor they were talking about?” she asked.
I nodded. “They took that tube from me. One of them, the slim one-he could have easily killed me. I see I was right in assuming Renard was behind it.”
Her expression hardened. “He made a serious mistake with that poisoned note; he can’t take another chance that something will go wrong.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out the oilskin tube. “Is this it?”
My heart started to pound. I couldn’t believe it. As I gazed at the seemingly innocuous object in her hand, stained with soot from the chimney and countless smudged fingers, I had to resist the urge to pounce on it.
Sybilla’s gaze turned cold. “Do you still not trust me?”
“I’m not sure.” I met her eyes. “This is almost too convenient.”
“I see.” Her smile cut across her mouth. “Do you think I’m deceiving you?”
“I didn’t mean that-”
“Yes. You did.” She made as if to leave; before I knew what I was doing, I gripped her by the wrist. It was thin but not frail; she possessed covert strength.
She went still. “Pray, unhand me.”
I did. She didn’t touch her wrist. “I told you, I would do whatever is necessary. If Renard wins, I’ll be in his debt forever, like my mother before me.”
I suddenly understood. “Your mother, she was Renard’s…?”
Sybilla’s smile was bitter. “She didn’t sell herself in a brothel, but the result is the same. When we left England, we were penniless; she had nothing to offer save her services. Renard made it clear those services would be his price for a position at the Hapsburg court and the opportunity to give us, her daughters, a future. My mother had no choice. But I do. So does my sister.” She tossed the tube on the cot. “Is this enough to stop him?”
“Bring me the light,” I replied, setting my sword aside. Once she fetched the tallow and set it by the bed, she shrugged off her cloak to wait as I untied the tube’s cord. It unfolded into two compartments, a sturdy folder made to protect its contents and withstand the rigors of travel. Within the compartments were papers. My hands trembled as I removed them; I saw at once they were letters-eight, to be precise. I didn’t recognize Elizabeth’s handwriting on any of them, however. None appeared to be hers.
I read each one. When I was done, I sat in utter silence.
There was enough evidence here to send Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, straight to the block. These letters were the responses of various important noblemen to the correspondence the earl had seen delivered in Dudley’s name, though I had to wonder if Courtenay actually understood the extent of his own complicity. He’d told me that he had never read what he so carelessly delivered; seeing these letters now, I was inclined to believe him. In his penurious greed and thwarted pride, Courtenay had unwittingly let himself be named the figurehead for a coordinated revolt ranging from the southwest of England to the Marches, aimed at forcing the queen to retain the Protestant faith and marry the earl, or forfeit her throne. Munitions had been stockpiled in manors, routes selected for the march on London. Each nobleman’s responsibility in the rebellion had been clearly outlined, as had that of their coconspirators. The danger to Elizabeth was not explicit, but rather inferred; it stood to reason that if Mary denied the rebels’ demands, as she would, Elizabeth would succeed her, with Courtenay as her consort.
I knew differently, though. I knew Dudley believed that Elizabeth would marry him instead, once he handed her the throne. He was using Courtenay as his pawn; that was why he’d taken such caution, why he wasn’t mentioned anywhere. His role as the conspiracy’s mastermind must remain invisible.
But why was Elizabeth’s letter, which she’d entrusted to Courtenay, not here?
I had a sudden recollection of Jane Grey tumbling the pile of the books by the hearth-I saw books arrive. I saw others leave. I counted them every day. I even tried to read one. But they are useless. The pages are cut out-and Robert calling after me, Nothing you say or do can stop it … In the end I’ll triumph. I will restore my name if it’s the last thing I do.
I clenched my jaw. I now understood why Dudley had cajoled Courtenay to gain the princess’s trust: Her letter was his insurance. He still had it, hidden elsewhere. Dudley anticipated interference, even betrayal, by someone dedicated to Elizabeth, who would realize the danger he posed to her. If anyone tried to expose him, he could in turn threaten to reveal the princess’s letter as proof that she was his accomplice.
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