The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 49

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I ran as fast as I could into the labyrinth of clustered hovels and snaking back alleys. The guards’ first priority would be to arrest Courtenay; with any luck, they’d assume I was a frightened boy-whore who’d made an intrepid escape and, after a cursory search of the vicinity, get on with the business at hand. Crouching in a recessed doorway to catch my breath, I listened for sounds of pursuit. Nothing.

I thought it unlikely the boatman would still be waiting, but there he was, right where I’d left him. He tucked a leather flask into his pocket. “Did you see ’em?” he lisped eagerly, through a paucity of teeth. “Queen’s men, they were, searchin’ for traitors. Heads on spikes-we’ll be seein’ heads on spikes come sunrise.”

I muttered agreement as the inebriated sod angled the boat into the river, catching the current and swirling us round in a nauseating circle before he managed to direct us toward the city.

As the boat neared the steps, I unsheathed my sword. A dark shape stood on the quay, etched against inky night-large and cloaked, with a cowl over its head. Nearby was a massive gray destrier I recognized at once.

I half-rose off the bench, ignoring the boatman’s shout that I’d tip the skiff, riveted to that figure as he grasped the rope tossed by the boatman and yanked the boat against the steps. From under his cowl, Scarcliff growled, “Put the blade down, lad. I don’t bite.” He tossed a coin at the boatman, who cackled in glee.

I hesitated. He was alive. He had been following me. Could he be trusted, though?

As if he read my doubt on my face, he shook back his cowl, revealing his ravaged countenance. “In case you’re wondering, I’m a free man; I decide who I serve. I don’t fancy serving a traitor.”

“So you’ve come to help me out of the kindness of your heart?” I retorted, but much as I disliked it, I had to rely on him. The Strand was a distance away, and he had a horse, which meant I could gain time.

I thrust my sword into its scabbard. Scarcliff grunted, watching me approach his destrier. The horse stood nearly fourteen hands tall, with a thick neck and huge head, but when it whickered, nosing me gently, I took it as a good sign. A man who could keep a creature like this so even-tempered couldn’t be all bad.

I had started to reach for the saddle pommel to haul myself up when Scarcliff said, “Cerberus is all I have that’s worth anything. I expect to be compensated.”

I swung into the saddle. “My horse is at Whitehall. Tell the groom Toby you’ve come to take him to Ashridge. He’s yours until I return. Meet me at the Griffin.”

Then I kicked my heels into his horse and galloped off.

I told her what I knew-about the letters, the conspiracy …

Courtenay’s revelations tumbled in my mind as I rode at breakneck pace through the night-shrouded city. Sybilla knew about me; he had told her I was helping Elizabeth. She’d orchestrated our friendship so she could betray Courtenay to the queen with those letters and trounce Renard, but what did she want, ultimately? If she’d known the letters only exposed half of the plot, what did she achieve by hiding Elizabeth’s letter? She was playing a mysterious game, and I had the sinking feeling that it wasn’t to my benefit.

I couldn’t stop to consider that while I raced to find her, Wyatt’s rebels were arming themselves. As soon as the betrothal was announced, Courtenay had said, they would act. The betrothal wouldn’t be officially declared until the queen went to Hampton Court, so I reasoned there was still time to stop Sybilla and report the rest of what I had discovered to the queen. If Wyatt joined with Suffolk as planned, Jane Grey could die for it. Months ago, her father had helped Northumberland put Lady Jane on Mary’s throne, against Jane’s will. The queen had promised her clemency, but Renard would cite Suffolk’s treason as reason for her execution. If Jane, who shared Tudor blood, died, how long would it take before Renard convinced the queen to turn her wrath on Elizabeth?

I kicked the gray again. Skirting the city wall, I passed decrepit Ludgate and rode up the hill onto the graveled road of the Strand, which ran parallel with the Thames and was fronted by the nobility’s riverside manors. It was another world here, where the misery and filth of London dissipated into affluence. Even the air smelled fresher than inside the city walls, with only a slight acrid tang wafting from the river. Copses of skeletal trees pocketed the road; I imagined leafy foliage at the height of summer, shading ladies out for evening strolls with their children and servants.

A flock of indignant swans scattered from the road. Each manor I passed resembled the next-ornate bastions of brick and timber framing, with expensive window bays and elegant chimneys in the new fashion, made to funnel smoke directly out of hearths. All were enclosed by high walls and protected by gates; each must have its own quay. No one of means rode through London if they could take to the river in a private barge.

Then I came up to a gate and reined Cerberus to a halt.

Silence pressed in around me.

I’d never been here before, though I had served the Dudley family. Still, I couldn’t have mistaken the house. It exuded disgrace, clumps of dead vines festooning the gate, the courtyard beyond desolate. Above the doorway, stained by lichen and bird droppings, hung the Dudley badge: the bear and ragged staff. As I stared at it, a flood of memories threatened to engulf me. I’d seen that badge all my life, carved in wainscoting and window lintels, sewn into uniforms and cloaks. I’d worn it myself during my brief tenure as Robert’s squire. It had been a symbol of pride and power; now it was the meaningless icon of a fallen dynasty.

I dismounted, tethering Cerberus to an iron rung in the wall. Well exercised, he began to munch on brittle weeds while I circled the front of the manor, seeking access. The gate was bolted, too high to scale. The walls looked equally insurmountable. However, at the edge of the surrounding wall abutting the river, I located a small gap where the stone had caved in from damp and neglect.

I crouched down to peer through the gap. It offered a circumscribed view of what must have once been a lavish garden, now barren. A parched lawn led to a set of water steps; a canopied barge bobbed there, anchored to the pier.

Scraping at the mortar with my poniard, I managed to widen the gap. Lying flat on my belly, my cloak over my head so it would not tangle between my legs, I crawled through, scraping against cold, stony ground.

Tension built in me as I stood. The manor was a short distance away-an ostentatious hulk, its windows dark. I crossed the flagstone terrace to a back door. I tried the latch, expecting to find it locked. It wasn’t. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and nearly tripped over something in the hallway. With one glance at the sprawled corpse, I recognized Renard’s henchman. A pool of blood about his midsection attested to a recent and very precise sword thrust. He’d taken it as he came in, no doubt sent by Renard to find Sybilla. I suddenly remembered her telling me Renard rented a manor on the Strand for a mistress, only in the turmoil of the past twenty-four hours I had failed to recall it.

She had lured me here. Just as she’d waited for Renard’s man to arrive, she was no doubt waiting for me.

Easing around the corpse, I proceeded warily into the manor. It was a ghost house, its vast emptiness returning the echo of my footsteps. The walls were bare.

When I caught sight of light flickering ahead, I gripped my sword. I half-anticipated Sybilla leaping from the shadows, but as I slowly approached I realized that the light was coming from a room, where a lantern sat on a side table before a reflective window.

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