The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 41

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Sybilla’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Can I assume by your lack of speech that those letters are the weapon you need?”

I looked up. “Yes,” I said. I went silent for a moment. “How did you manage it?”

“With my wits, of course; it wasn’t hard. I simply waited for his secretary to go to the courtyard to empty his bladder. The man was fit to burst. I saw a cup on the desk and two empty jugs. He must have been holed up drinking all day, as Renard insists someone must attend to his office at all hours. But he’ll know by now that the tube is missing. He’ll tear the office apart looking for it. It’s likely he’ll abandon his post and disappear once he realizes it was stolen.” I heard a catch in her voice. “If Renard finds out I am to blame, he’ll see me dead.”

“You needn’t fear him.” I inserted the letters back in the folder’s compartments, rolled it back into its tubular shape, and retied the cord. “When I show these to the queen, he’ll have his hands full. He won’t dare do anything to you or anyone else. He’ll be too busy trying to explain how so much could have gone on under his nose without him being the wiser; how, despite all his resources, he had no inkling a conspiracy of this magnitude was brewing.”

“He’ll realize you were someone he didn’t expect,” she said softly.

I leaned against the wall. “Oh, he expected me, just not that I’d get this far. Despite the queen’s stated trust in my abilities, he must have suspected from the start. So when Her Majesty ordered me to investigate his allegations concerning Elizabeth and Courtenay, he realized he had to eliminate the risk. He wasn’t about to let anyone get in his way of entrapping the princess, which is why he left that poisoned note. Now he’ll have to scramble to exculpate himself. You’ll soon be free of him forever.”

She gnawed at her lip, her hands twining in her lap. Her tears were so unexpected that as she lowered her head to choke back a sob, at first I didn’t know what to do. Then I tentatively reached for her. Rising from the stool, she came into my arms.

“I’m so afraid,” she whispered. “I’ve been afraid of him my entire life.”

I caressed her hair, closing my eyes, trying to push back the heat she aroused in me. I acted as if I were comforting a disconsolate child, even as I felt her hands, so slim, so warm, reach upward to clasp at my shoulders like supple vines.

I made to pull away. “No,” I murmured. “I cannot.”

She lifted her face to me. In her eyes I saw oceans.

“I can,” she said. She crushed her lips to mine. I let out a gasp. She whispered, “Does it hurt?” and grazed the broken cut on my lip with her fingertip, whipping desire through me. I heard myself moan; that one weak sound brought down whatever crumbling remnant was left of my resistance. I seized her closer, raveling my hands in her lush mane, and I no longer felt my bruises, the pain vanishing in the whirlpool of our mouths and the swift current of her touch as she yanked at my clothes, pulling down my hose to grasp at my hardness.

“I want to know something other than fear,” I heard her say. “I want to feel desire, if only this once.” She stepped back and unlaced the sides of her gown. I watched her with my heart in my throat, knowing in some dark recess of my soul that if I did this, I would never forget or escape it. I would live with the remorse for the rest of my days, with the betrayal of Kate, the woman I loved, who waited for me in Hatfield, unaware.

Then, as the dark velvet pooled at Sybilla’s feet and I beheld the flawless breadth of her skin, her rose-tipped breasts arched high on her chest, her ribs woven like lyre strings under her pallor, and her lean belly, curving to the gilded shadow between her legs, I could think no more. Gathering her in my arms, I lowered her to the floor upon our cloaks and pushed inside her roughly, almost with anger, feeling myself engorge even more as I coaxed her pleasure from her, until she was bucking up her hips to meet my stride.

It seemed as though we merged forever, then my seed gushed forth with breath-shattering suddenness. I did not have time to pull out. She clenched herself about me, making me cry out, heedless, as she shuddered.

I collapsed beside her, our heat subsiding like smoke from a doused fire.

My heartbeat slowed. As I looked at her profile and started to reach out to wipe the damp hair from her face, she said abruptly, “No. You do not owe me anything.”

She rose to her feet, reaching for her discarded gown. I did not speak; I couldn’t find the right words as I, too, stood and watched her in silence as she laced her dress. Now that it was over and I’d satiated my recklessness, I could take no satisfaction in it.

She bent to my discarded clothing and retrieved my sword. She gave it to me.

“If those letters don’t work,” she said, “use it.”

Our eyes met for a moment. Then she turned and left without another word.

I could not sleep.

I sat awake in the dark, facing the door, every sense attuned to the sound of any approach, until the window grate high in my wall lightened to a murky hue, indicating dawn had arrived. Then I stood, wincing at the stiff pain in my limbs, and prepared myself. I looked a fright, my eye blackened and half-shut, my lip swollen. Under my chemise, my bruises had ripened to a motley shade of yellow-blue. I did not tarry at my glass, however. I did not care to see guilt staring back at me.

In the long gallery leading to the royal wing, servants were already about their tasks, gathering burned candle stubs, stray goblets, and other objects left by inebriated courtiers from the night before. As I approached the double oak doors of the queen’s apartments, one of the guards standing vigil stepped forth, his pike at the ready.

“Halt! What business do you have here?”

“Pray, inform Her Majesty that Master Beecham must see her,” I said as he eyed me, obviously debating whether to order me away to take my place in the queue with the rest of those who gathered at midday as she made her way to the hall to dine. I added, “Tell her it concerns her betrothal.”

The guard’s eyes snapped wide. Turning to one of the others, he barked an order. I paced to a window and stared into a courtyard where a decorative fountain with a cherub on its tip dripped with melting ice. When the guard brusquely motioned to me, I followed him through the doors into the maze of corridors and chambers of Mary’s private apartments.

She stood waiting for me, wearing a russet velvet gown with a jeweled belt, her hair gathered at her nape in a pearled snood. Her women were nearby, sewing. A quick glance showed Sybilla was not among them. Pulling off my cap, hearing their stifled gasps as they caught sight of my battered face, I bowed. “Forgive my intrusion. I bring news Your Majesty must hear at once.”

“You’ve been brawling,” Mary said coldly, and before I could reply, she stepped aside.

My stomach dropped when I saw Renard seated at the table behind her, a mass of papers strewn before him, quill in hand. His brow arched. “Up so early? I fear it’s hardly the place or time for petty appointments. I suggest you return later today, when you will be heard-”

“No.” Mary interrupted. “He’s here now, and I will hear what he has to say. Judging by his appearance, it must indeed be urgent. Any other man in his state would be abed.”

I returned my gaze to her. She, too, looked as if she could use more time in bed, her skin waxen and eyes ringed by shadows, as if she hadn’t slept in days. I could also tell by the force of her regard that the guard had relayed exactly what I said at the doors, thereby revealing, as intended, that I knew something no one outside her intimate circle should know. She obviously was not pleased with my indiscretion.

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