The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 62
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“Smells like the river to me,” Scarcliff rumbled.
“Worse,” I croaked. I cracked open my eyes. “Much worse. You don’t want to know.”
“Aye, I’m sure I don’t.” He sat beside me on a stool, regarding me; they’d stirred up the hearth, and the fire’s warmth slowly seeped into my chilled bones. I found myself staring at his bare chest, muscular as a wrestler’s; he had few visible scars on that expanse of skin, compared to his face.
“Drink more.” He shoved the cup at me. “It’s brandy, imported from Seville, about the only damn thing the Spaniards are good for.”
I resisted the offer, struggling to my elbows. I was in a small parlor, nothing fancy, but clean and neat. His battered dog lay on a reed mat by the fire, its eyes opaque as it watched me with cursory interest. “Do you live here?” I asked him.
“Most of the time; when Nan will have me.”
From the sideboard where she wrung out the cloth in a basin, Nan harrumphed. She tramped back to me and set the cloth on my forehead. “There, now. You stay there and rest. I’ll fetch some hot porridge from the kitchen.” She cast a troubled look at Scarcliff as she left, closing the door behind her. I heard her descend a staircase.
“She worries,” he explained. “She’s always said her biggest fear is that one day we’ll be woken at night by some Dudley hireling come to strangle us in our beds, though I keep telling her it’s not bloody likely. That lot’s got more important things to fret over than whether or not I’m still alive.”
“She knows about you … about all of it?”
He shrugged. “A man can’t be a stranger to everyone. Someone’s got to know who you are.” Seeing as I’d declined the brandy, he drank it down. “Besides, she helped me. She was a doxy in one of those rat-hovels on Bankside, growing long in the tooth; her customers weren’t getting any younger, either. She found me washed on the shore that night I escaped the Tower, my legs all smashed up and my face-well, you can see what they did to my face. She and the other whores in the neighborhood fetched me indoors and tended to me. It took weeks before I could open my eyes or uttered a sound, Nan said. Had it not for that pack of cunnies, I’d have died.”
“And now you two live together?”
“You could say that. After I healed-or healed as much as I ever would-I hired myself out as a strongman for the brothels; Nan and I tucked away every coin we earned. In time, we saved enough to buy this place from an uncle of hers, a drunken lout who barely kept it running. He died on that settle, from liver rot. Miserable bastard he was, but he did Nan a decent turn in the end. At least now, she needn’t sell herself for bread.”
My head reeled, as much from the aftereffects of my recent imbroglio as from the very idea that Archie Shelton, previously steward to the noble Dudley household, now ran a tavern with a former whore.
“Surprised?” His one eye gleamed. “I must admit, I was, too, at first. Didn’t think I’d stay long. But I like it here. I’m thinking of taking up permanent residence and working full-time. After that ugly bit of trouble with the earl, I figure it’s time for old Scarcliff to retire.”
My throat tightened with emotion. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my life.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? You certainly have a penchant for getting into trouble.” He went silent for a spell, staring into the crackling hearth. “Did you do it?” he said at length. “Did you help her?”
I sighed. “She’s going to the Tower, but I have assurance she’ll not be killed.”
Though his ravaged face could barely register an expression, I could tell he was incredulous. “Assurance from whom? The queen?” He snorted. “I’d not put much trust in her if I were you. Not if you’ve seen the dead hanging on every corner and those fresh heads on the bridge. She went to the Guildhall when Wyatt’s men were spotted across the river; she swore up and down she’d never marry without her people’s consent. She got the city all riled up so they’d march to her defense, like they did that time before, against the duke. But she lied. She’ll marry the Hapsburg. Wyatt had the right idea; he just went about it wrong.”
“I see your point,” I said. “But it’s not her word alone I’m counting on.” I drew the blanket closer around me. I was naked under it, the discarded ruins of my clothing sitting in a dripping basket by the fire. The smell of herbs wafted from my shoulder; Nan must have tended the wound. It hurt, though it probably felt worse than it was.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked.
I didn’t. I didn’t want to relive it, not yet. I found myself telling him anyway, my voice remarkably calm as I related what had occurred, everything but what I’d confided to Mary about my secret. When I finished, he sat with his lower lip protruding, as though he were ruminating on a particularly vexing issue. “Are you sure it was her? It’s a long fall off the bridge.”
I considered. “It was very dark in the tunnel. I didn’t see her.”
“Then maybe it was your imagination. Maybe Renard found out you’d snuck into the palace to see the queen and sent someone after you. Or perhaps Rochester told him. It’s the court, lad. Nothing is more important to a courtier than his own hide, and you’ve a lot of secrets to spill.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, reluctantly. “But that scent: Only she wore it. And it was everywhere. As if she’d doused herself in it, because she wanted me to know she was alive.”
He looked doubtful. “In all that muck and mire, you could smell her?” He grunted. “I suppose it’s possible. Hell, anything’s possible. But if she survived that fall without breaking her neck, she’s more experienced than anyone I’ve known. The way she handled her sword, and now this: She’s had training. I’ve never heard of anyone jumping off the bridge in the middle of winter and living to tell the tale.”
I had to agree. Sitting in his cramped parlor above the Griffin, after having nearly drowned in a sewer, I had to doubt my own experience. The tunnel had been suffocating, a nightmarish labyrinth. I must have lost my reason. It seemed utterly improbable that Sybilla could have plunged into the Thames and not died instantly. Mary had told me she had paid the price, but I had not thought to ask if her body had been recovered. I was glad I hadn’t. It was better if I never knew. I had to believe she was dead. I didn’t want to consider what I would do if I found out otherwise. The hunt for her would destroy my existence.
“I must be at the Tower tomorrow,” I said at length. “I have to see it.”
He turned to the door as Nan came trudging back up the stairs.
“Then we will,” he said.
* * *
The next morning, he located old garb for me that had belonged to the dead uncle: a shirt, an itchy doublet that smelled faintly of lavender and more strongly of mold, mended hose, an oversized cap that flapped about my ears, and shoes too big for my feet. The dead uncle had been larger than me, I thought absently as I dressed, glancing at my contused arms, the purpling bruises on my torso, and the aching shoulder wound wrapped in a bandage; that, and I had lost too much weight. Shelton unearthed a worn belt from the clothes press to keep everything more or less in place. My other clothes were ruined. Nan had painstakingly tried to salvage them, but the taint of sewage was ineradicable, and I told her to give up. My boots could be salvaged, with care and loads of fat rubbed into the leather to restore its pliancy, after they dried out. I was most concerned for my sword, but while I slept Shelton had wiped away the moisture and filth and polished it to a bright hue.
We set out to an early morning that felt like spring, the sun breaking through the clouds in brilliant shafts that soaked into the frigid land. As we walked toward the Tower wharf on the west side of the fortress, I heard chirping in a beech tree and looked up, startled. A robin sat on bare twined limbs, where tiny buds were already visible-a welcome reminder that even this winter must pass, although it was hard to think that spring would find Elizabeth, Kate, and Mistresses Ashley and Parry behind prison walls.
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