The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 53

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Rochester looked perplexed. “The official announcement will be made at Hampton Court, if you must know, though such matters have a way of leaking out. The earl is in the Tower; he was questioned at length and gave us names. Warrants are being issued for the other conspirators, though most, if not all, must have heard by now of the earl’s arrest. If they’re wise, they’ll be fleeing the country as we speak.” His voice lowered. “The earl did not mention the princess. He insisted over and over that she knew nothing.”

I exhaled in relief. Despicable as he was, at least Courtenay had retained one last shred of honor. “You mustn’t wait for the scouts,” I told Rochester. “The uprising is real; it’s being led by Wyatt of Kent. Those letters I delivered were only half the story. Wyatt plans to join with Suffolk’s retainers. Whatever she does, Her Majesty mustn’t tarry.” I paused, seeing him turn pale. “Tell her for me. Tell her I did as she bade and uncovered this last detail of the conspiracy. But I must take my leave. Thank you, my lord, for everything you’ve done, for me and Her Grace. Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”

He flinched. “You must go to her,” he whispered, “before they do. If this is true, if there is a rebellion upon us, I fear she’ll have even greater need of you than ever before.”

“I will do what I can,” I said. “I promise.”

At Bishopsgate, Scarcliff drew to a halt. “This is as far as I go.”

“What?” I stared at him. “You can’t stay here. I have questions only you-”

He cut me off with a sigh. “I know. I owe you answers, but it will have to wait. London is my home; these thieves and whores and beggars, dregs no one ever gives a second thought to-they helped me when no one else would. If there’s to be fighting in the streets, I must be here. Besides,” he added, “there’s my dog. I’m not leaving him.”

I almost laughed. “The steward I knew never cared much for anything save duty.”

“A dog can change a man.” He turned somber. “Go now. Warn your princess. I will find you. Or if you return to the city first, come find me. If I’m still alive, I’ll be at the Griffin. See that you cure that arm. You don’t want to end up maimed, like me.”

Without another word, he turned his horse about and rode back into the city.

I watched him vanish, wondering if I’d see him again. I wanted to call him back, to demand a full accounting of his actions, the reason he’d assisted me and the reason he had vanished, all those months ago. No, he was right: It must wait. He had his path to follow, and I had mine. For now, they led in opposite directions.

I rode resolutely out of London.

* * *

It was a long ride, through a bleak landscape I barely registered, so weary I could have slept upright on my horse, though I did not.

In my mind, I kept seeing Sybilla balanced on that parapet, the curious look on her face before she soared to her death. I remembered her radiant smile, her breathtaking beauty, when she’d first approached me in the queen’s chamber; her walk with me in the gallery and her solicitude when Peregrine died, and our searing, urgent communion in the darkness of my room.

Even now, knowing she was gone, knowing I needn’t ever confess my transgression to Kate, my feelings were disturbing. Sybilla had deceived and manipulated everyone around her, connived to destroy everything I cared about. Peregrine was dead because of her; I should rejoice in her end, knowing her master, Philip of Spain, had nothing to wield against Elizabeth when he arrived. Without the letter, he’d be even more ardent in her defense, for only by saving her could he hope to earn her gratitude.

Yet as I rode through intermittent snow flurries, my head tucked to my chest as Cinnabar moved purposefully forward, I couldn’t deny that despite everything she had done, despite the fact that never had I met another woman like her, and prayed I might never again, Sybilla had transformed me. She had roused something in me-a near-feral recognition of my own self.

You do not owe me anything.

She was mistaken. I owed her the knowledge that I understood. Like her, I had known the desperation of a fractured childhood, the helplessness of being prey to the callous whims of others. I, too, had burned with the fervent desire to prove my worth. She was my reflection, the dark twin of my soul. Only what I had sought to vanquish, to capture and tame by serving Elizabeth, she had embraced, honed to a lethal edge like the very blade she had brandished.

She was the person I might have been, had my fate not taken a different turn.

* * *

I reached Ashridge by nightfall.

Newly fallen snow draped over the Hertfordshire countryside. As I clattered into the courtyard, a groom came running out to assist me. I unhooked my saddlebag and dragged myself into the manor.

Mistress Parry greeted me from the torch-lit hall with a frightened gasp. “Sweet mercy, look at you!” Only then did I realize how I must present, covered in mud and mire from the road and crawling through gaps in stone walls and tunnels; my cloak bedraggled, my tunic torn, my arm blood-caked and my entire person stinking of sweat and horse.

“It’s been a long day,” I said, removing the cylinder with Elizabeth’s letter and divesting myself of cloak and scabbard. She took them from me. “Where is Her Grace?”

“She’s gone to her chamber to rest.” Mistress Parry’s voice quavered as she eyed the cylinder in my hand. “What is the news from London? Is she … are we still in danger?”

“I fear so. I’ve done all I can. But we should prepare; it is likely the queen will send men to question her. I must talk with her first.”

She clutched my belongings as I turned to the staircase. “Should I send to Hatfield for Mistress Ashley and Mistress Stafford?” she suddenly asked.

I froze. Then I nodded. “Yes,” I said, “I think you should.” I continued up the stairs.

When Kate arrived, I would tell her everything.

* * *

The princess’s bedchamber door was ajar; I knocked to announce my presence and entered. The room was small, wainscoted in linen-fold paneling and warmed by a fire burning in a recessed hearth. Strewn about were her open coffers and traveling chests. From what I could see, she’d unpacked her books and a few scattered articles of clothing.

She looked up. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, a lit candle by her side, an open book in her lap. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, a red-gold sheen blending with the scarlet of her robe. She looked so young, so vulnerable, without the accoutrements of her court regalia: a mere girl. Not a princess at all.

A knot filled my throat.

I extended the cylinder I’d carried close to my heart the entire ride.

“You are a man of your word,” she said. She set it unopened on the table next to her candle. “Is it done?”

“No. But there is no evidence against you.”

She did not reach for the cylinder, did not react in any way as though she were interested in its contents, as I relayed what I had found out, about Sybilla and Philip of Spain and their plot to hold her hostage to the prince. She did not interrupt or ask a single question. She sat so still when I was done that she might have turned to stone, had it not been for the rapid rise and fall of her breast.

“I had no idea he considered me such a prize,” she said at length. “I find cold comfort, considering it’ll be yet another reason for Mary to despise me.”

“She doesn’t know-” I began, and the room keeled around me. My knees gave way; I almost fell as I reached for the nearest chair.

“You are wounded,” said Elizabeth. “You must sit.”

As I sank onto the chair, weak as a newborn foal, she went to one of her chests and extracted a painted casket. She pointed at my arm. “Let me see.”

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