The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 52
- Предыдущая
- 52/65
- Следующая
She wasn’t in a rush, nor did she appear to show concern that she might be followed. I saw her crack her whip, opening passage. I wondered where she was headed; wherever it was, she clearly wasn’t returning to Whitehall. I glanced over my shoulder. To my relief, Scarcliff was a short distance away; he had left Cerberus in the stalls by the bridge, where grooms minded horses for a fee.
Sybilla abruptly reined to a halt outside a haberdashery. I slid from Cinnabar, watching her dismount through the ebb and flow of the bridge’s denizens. She looped her horse’s reins to a post and went to a door beside the shop, unlocking it. She disappeared inside. I lifted my gaze. The building was like all those cluttering the bridge-squeezed tight between its neighbors, precariously tall, its overhanging balconies festooned with sodden laundry, its peeling exterior pockmarked by small, thick-paned windows.
My blood quickened.
It must be a safe house. She had stashed the letter here. She had come for it.
Scarcliff neared. I motioned for him to see to Cinnabar and crossed the road. The haberdashery wasn’t open; the building looming above me was quiet, even as the sounds of traffic on the bridge rumbled around me.
As at the manor, she had left the door unlocked. It put me on alert; cracking the door ajar, I found an empty parlor and a narrow staircase leading upward into gloom. I heard nothing as I took the stairs, wincing at every creak, knowing she was somewhere above me, perhaps already aware and ready for attack. That she’d shown no awareness of being followed was no solace. I’d underestimated her before. This time, I had to fight to the death.
Stepping onto the landing of the first story, I eased out my sword. There was movement in the room before me. Edging closer, reaching out with my free hand, I threw the door open and braced myself. I glimpsed a cot in a corner, a desk, and a stool; then, from the corner, she came to her feet swiftly, revealing an upended floorboard. Her expression faltered; she looked almost disconcerted to see me. My gaze riveted itself to that dislodged floorboard, seconds before she lunged at me with her sword in hand.
I ducked away, thrusting my blade. She pranced aside. “You should have let the fire take you,” she said through her teeth. “I trained for years with a master in Toledo. After I kill you, I’ll take your blade to him so he can see how far the steel of Spain has traveled.”
I did not respond, saving my strength, concentrating on parrying her strikes and maneuvering her away from that upended board. My arm was aching; I could feel fresh blood welling through the makeshift bandage, but my rage was stronger, all-consuming, so that she was all I saw, all I felt and wanted. My doubt vanished; my sword seemed to anticipate my every move, and her expression hardened when I avoided one of her strikes and grazed her side with my blade, drawing blood and forcing her to pivot away from me to evade a deeper wound. She understood what I was trying to do, and she came at me with demonic fervor, lashing her sword, pushing me out of the room and toward the staircase, where she no doubt intended to put an end to me.
Our blades clashed with a merciless ring. Teetering on the edge of the stairs, I knew I had only moments before she broke through my defenses. I did not think, then; did not hesitate. I whirled about and leapt down the stairs, three at a time. As I hoped, like a wolf with its blood up, intent on fleeing prey, she came after me.
All of a sudden we were in the street, pitched in fierce battle, as passersby scrambled to avoid us. She moved so fast she was like quicksilver, her hair uncoiling from the knot at her nape to stream about her flushed features, so that even then, in that terrible moment as I fought for my very life, she was as beautiful as an avenging angel-and as cruel.
She failed to see Scarcliff. He had shifted Cinnabar to the other side of the street, a few doorways from the house, and hidden in the crowd. He suddenly barreled out toward her, his massive body poised like a ram. As he slammed into her with audible impact, she lost her footing on the uneven paving. Her blade flew from her hand. It was the opening I needed. As she whipped around to Scarcliff, snarling and jerking a knife from her boot, I ran at her with my sword brandished, determined to take her head. I missed by a hair’s breadth, the very air quivering as she crouched and reeled away. For an instant that seemed to last an eternity, our eyes met. I was blocking her return to the house.
Her mouth curved in an icy smile.
She turned and began to run.
“Upstairs!” I yelled at Scarcliff as I bolted after her. “Under the floorboard!”
The congestion on the bridge had thickened; it was nearing midmorning, and hundreds of people were going about their business. She swerved to and fro, dodging shouting carters and angry mercers, her knife clutched in her hand, though it was no match for my sword and she knew it. She was heading for the southern gate; if she managed to escape the bridge and make it into the warren of Bankside, I’d be forced to hunt her down.
Chances were, she’d get me first.
Neither of us anticipated the additional sentries posted at the other end, a precautionary move prompted, no doubt, by Courtenay’s arrest. As the hulking gateway with its massive barbican and spiked crown of rotting heads came into view, Sybilla’s pace flagged. Everyone coming from London, be he a tinker with a shoulder pole or a fur-clad lady in a litter, was being stopped and questioned before they were permitted to pass. I heard snatches of agitated clamor from people standing nearby-“Rebels from Kent, they say, an army of traitors!”-and Sybilla spun around, knowing that those sentries would question her, that perhaps Renard had provided a description of her.
She came to a panting halt, facing me. Every sound and sight about me faded. Even as I started to rush to her, shouting, she leaped up onto a low parapet on the edge of the bridge-one of those rare openings between buildings that gave out onto the river and offered a stunning view of the city’s breadth. She perched on that parapet like a gorgeous bird of prey, the wind catching at her cloak, silhouetting her slender figure, the cluttered spires of London erupting into gold as the sun emerged from its bed of mist.
“No,” I heard myself whisper. I dropped my sword at my feet.
She cocked her head, as if disappointed. Then, to my disbelief and a communal gasp of horror from those watching, she flung out her arms and plunged off the parapet.
In the ensuing silence, something inside me cracked in two. A scream came from a woman nearby, piercing the hush, and then everyone was rushing to the parapet in a gaggle of morbid curiosity, peering down to the ice-clogged river far below.
I stood immobile. Then I picked up my sword and walked away.
Scarcliff was waiting by the house with Cinnabar. He reached into his jerkin, extending the leather cylinder containing Elizabeth’s letter to me. He had Sybilla’s sword in his other hand. “It’s an expensive piece,” he said, “worth saving.”
“Keep it.” I tucked the cylinder into my jerkin. “I have what I came for.” I sheathed my own sword, taking Cinnabar’s reins. We rode quietly back to the north gate. Scarcliff went to fetch Cerberus. As I waited for his return I noticed that the number of guards and officials near the gatehouse had increased; when I saw Rochester among them, his rotund person quivering as he spoke with the sentries, I called out, “My lord!”
He turned around, startled, and bustled over to me.
“What is it?” I asked. “What is happening?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the staring officials. “Word came before dawn of an army coming toward us from Kent. Scouts have been sent to verify. We await their report.”
“But the queen’s betrothal,” I said, “it hasn’t been announced…” Even as I spoke, I cursed my own blindness. I should have realized this, too, was part of Dudley’s plan. He’d led Courtenay to believe the betrothal would be the sign, but it wasn’t. Surprise attack: It was the only chance to catch the queen, and London, unprepared.
- Предыдущая
- 52/65
- Следующая
