The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 59

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Pain slashed through me. Jane and Guilford had been pawns in other’s designs; now, both were dead. Yet Robert Dudley lived. The man I had come to loathe and mistrust more than any other on this earth, who’d been behind the entire conspiracy, who had, by his very actions, compelled Elizabeth and me into this impasse-he was still alive.

So much for justice, I should have killed him when I had the chance.

“God assoil them,” I murmured. “I pray Lady Jane did not suffer.”

“It curdled my blood,” Rochester said. “The poor lass couldn’t find the block after they blindfolded her. She groped her way to it, begging those around her for help. I tell you, I’ll never forget it, not as long as I live.” He turned from me, wiping his sleeve across his face. “You must go. I cannot help you. It is over. Now every man must shift for himself.”

“You do not believe that. You never believed that. You’re one of the good men, remember? You must do as your heart dictates or you’ll regret it the rest of your days. You’ll always wonder, if you’d done as I asked, could you have saved the princess?”

He went still, his back to me, his shoulders hunched about his ears.

“Are you willing to let that devil Renard take her down?” I added. “Because I am not. I’ll see him in hell first.”

“Hell,” said Rochester, “is where you’ll undoubtedly end up. And I’ll be there with you.” He lumbered to his desk, yanked a ring of keys from its top, and took up one of the candles. Cupping the flame with his hand, he turned to me. “I can’t very well parade you about court. You’re a wanted man. I’ll not risk my life for you. I have a wife and children. I need to keep my head on my shoulders.” He jangled the keys, turning to the wainscoting. With a press of his hand on a decorative panel, he swung it open, revealing a narrow opening. “This passage leads to her apartments. I’ll see you inside, but I warn you, that is as far as I go. After that, you are on your own.”

“Fair enough.” I ducked down, squeezing through the opening. The passage must be part of the older, underlying structure of the palace-a stone tunnel that scarcely accommodated Rochester’s bulk, dark as a wolf’s mouth, so that his candle cast a mere feeble circle of light.

I made myself take steady breaths. After deep water, there was nothing I liked less than enclosed spaces. I felt as if I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, my palms turning slick with sweat. The passage seemed to go on forever, a purgatory. Just as I feared I might have to turn back, Rochester rounded a corner, fumbling at his keys. He unlocked a mold-stained door and pushed it open on surprisingly well oiled hinges; as I gratefully stepped from the tunnel, I found myself in the royal chapel, close to the altar.

“Convenient,” I remarked, trying to make light of the matter, even as sweat dripped from under my cap. “In case one is late for worship.”

“An escape route,” he said. “It’s a secret passed down among a select few who serve the royal person, from the old days, when Cromwell sowed terror in every heart. Times past, this chapel used to be part of the monastery of York. This part of the palace is full of tunnels, some supposedly leading to the river.” He sniffed. “The good friars must have liked a little contraband together with their communion wafers.”

I took in the beatific silence of this jewel-box place, where I’d last heard the requiem mass for Peregrine. The stained-glass windows emitted a peculiar muted glow, catching the reflection of the outside torches and a hint of moon. As I inhaled the frigid smell of marble and fragrant wood impregnated by incense, I was struck again by how familiar, how intimate, it felt to me, as if I had been a Catholic once.

“You stay here.” Rochester blew out the candle. “Renard has spies watching every nook and cranny; if it’s not safe, we go back the way we came. No argument.”

As he started to move down the aisle, I said, “Wait,” and handed him the princess’s letter.

He recoiled. “I’m not getting any more involved than I already am. If she agrees to see you, you can give it to her yourself.”

I removed the jeweled leaf from my doublet, enfolded in a scrap of cloth I’d torn from the hem of my shirt before leaving Ashridge. “Then show her this.”

“What is it?” He eyed me suspiciously. “A bribe? She’ll not like it, I assure you.”

“Just show it to her. Once she sees it, she will receive me.”

He snorted. “Yes, trust and a groat will get me a tankard at Satan’s table.” But he pocketed the leaf and went on, grumbling under his breath.

I had to smile. If I ever needed a friend at my side, I’d want Lord Rochester.

* * *

I sat upon a pew and waited, the silence draping over me like velvet. I hadn’t realized until this moment how frenetic my life had been, how driven; my entire existence, my every waking hour, had been subsumed by the struggle to safeguard Elizabeth. Now, in the solitude of this chapel, where by all rights I should not be, I suddenly felt the weight of the change that these past days had wrought in me.

I had crossed an invisible threshold. Come what may, I would never be the man I had been. Alone, without any more reason for pretense, I had to finally acknowledge that after all my denials, my painstaking efforts to lead a normal life, I had been deluding myself. I thought to escape the secret of my past, bury it deep within, and be a man like any other. I’d wanted so earnestly to believe it, I convinced myself that if only I married Kate and created a new existence with her, a refuge that was ours alone, where nothing and no one could touch us, I would find peace.

I had been wrong. Peace, it seemed, was not my destiny.

You have a flair for this work … You are a born intelligencer.

Cecil had been right. He had known all along what I had refused to see: I was fated for a different, far more dangerous path than the one I envisioned.

The susurration of skirts brought me to my feet. Turning to the chapel doorway, I saw Lady Clarencieux coming toward me. Her face was cold.

“Some would say you’re too bold for your own good,” she said without preamble. “Others would claim you’re merely a man bent on finding his own death.”

I inclined my head. “And others, that they are one and the same.”

“For your sake, we pray not.” She beckoned. “I don’t know what Rochester said to her, but after an entire day in which she’s not let any of us near her, she agrees to see you.”

I followed her into the royal apartments. The queen’s other women had retired; though a fire burned in the large fireplace, and candles flickered high in sconces on the walls, there was no one else present.

The door to the study was closed. Lady Clarencieux started toward it, then came to an abrupt halt. “You mustn’t think that because of your past endeavors on her behalf, she is inclined to mercy. Don Renard has been at her every hour since the revolt, assiduous in his advice, particularly concerning you. If you do this, you may regret it.”

“I understand,” I said. “But there are truths she must know.”

“Must she? Sometimes, it’s best to let the lie stand.” She met my eyes before she knocked on the door. There was no reply. She moved aside anyway. “She’s waiting for you.”

My throat knotted as I turned the door latch and stepped inside.

The study was almost as dark as the tunnel I’d just traversed. I had to blink to adjust my vision, and then it swam into muted focus-the gilded desk, heaped with books and stacks of paper; the table where she met with her council; the upholstered chairs and large, mullioned bay of the far wall, its drapery drawn, turning the room into a cocoon that smelled of old smoke. A lone candle melted in a golden candelabrum.

I stood still, my heart banging against my ribs. I did not see her anywhere.

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