Текст книги "The Tudor Conspiracy"

Автор книги: Christopher Gortner

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My hands curled into fists. I almost forgot Sybilla was at my side until I heard her say, “She’s as reckless as her mother Anne Boleyn ever was, and as heedless of danger. But if she continues to play this game, no amount of courage can save her. The earl is without scruple; he will lead her straight to disaster.”

I drew in a shallow breath, mastering my emotion. I realized I, too, could be in acute peril now, seeing as I’d just been unmasked by the earl, callously revealed as Elizabeth’s secret agent before a woman I hardly knew-a woman who, by her own admission, was beholden to Renard for her living.

“Why do you say that?” I looked at her. “Do you know the earl personally? He spoke as if you did.”

She smiled. “I know ofhim; who at court does not? He was rather vociferous about his aspirations, declaring to all who cared to listen that he considered himself the most suitable candidate to wed the queen, encouraged by his ally on the council, Bishop Gardiner. I also know, though it’s far less public, that Mary was amenable to the possibility until the Hapsburg delegation arrived. Then she rejected Courtenay outright. He’s not apt to forgive the insult; I think he uses Princess Elizabeth to instill such fear of an uprising in her sister’s name that Mary will return her consideration to him.”

There was no avoiding her intimation now. She had divulged too much knowledge of matters that she should know nothing about.

“You are well informed,” I said. “I understand now why you thought Renard might have told me about you. He’s using you to spy on the queen, isn’t he?”

She did not flinch, didn’t even try to feign protest. “I’m not proud of it, but yes, I spy for him.” She paused, meeting my stare. “The fact that he didn’t tell you about me means more than you think. He must not trust you. Indeed, I believe he is the one who wants you dead.”

I remembered the words on the paper: You cannot save her. Had it been Renard’s message? Had he decided to hire me because the queen had ordered it, only to then do away with me? If so, then he probably suspected that I was, in fact, Elizabeth’s man.

“I have no doubt someone wants me dead,” I replied. “But at the moment, I’m more interested in why you are warning me against the very man you work for.”

Though her tone didn’t change, the tightening of her mouth betrayed a carefully contained vehemence. “Because I detest him. Since I was a child, I’ve been bound to his will. He made me spy for him at the Hapsburg court from the moment I shed my first blood; you have no idea what he’s capable of. He’ll ingratiate himself with the emperor at any cost, which is why he fears Courtenay. The earl would be a more popular choice for the queen’s husband than any foreign prince, and if enough pressure is brought to bear, Mary could decide the same. Should that occur, Renard will lose the emperor’s favor and be condemned to a lifetime of menial labor as an ambassador. Hence his order that I report everything I hear and see in the queen’s apartments.”

Her revelations sickened me, but I was not surprised. It was all part of Renard’s drive to incriminate the earl-a rival for Mary’s hand-as well as his seemingly preternatural influence over the queen herself. The royal apartments were her refuge; only there could she feel at ease. No doubt she’d discussed in the privacy of those rooms her fears concerning Philip, as well as her misgivings about Elizabeth and Courtenay.

Renard knew it all. Through Sybilla, he had bored his way into Mary’s heart.

“I appreciate your candor,” I said at length, “and I assure you, your confidences are safe with me. But if what you say is true, you mustn’t risk yourself for my sake.”

She gave a brief laugh. “You flatter me if you think I am that selfless. Renard spoke the truth when he told you I was spoken for. He would wed me to the Duke of Feria, that same grandee who watched your squire die in your arms. I’m to be sent to Spain to live out my days as Feria’s wife-unless I act. I still have time, you see; my marriage is contingent on Renard fulfilling allof the emperor’s demands. Only then will Feria consent to take me as his bride. I do not intend to waste whatever time I have left.”

Dread coiled about me. “What demands must Renard fulfill?”

“You already know. His Imperial Majesty doesn’t much care for his son to marry an older queen with a younger, heretic sister as her heir-not if said sister will wreck his plans for England if the queen dies without a child. Renard must do more than put Philip in Mary’s bed; he must ensure that Elizabeth does not survive it.”

I did not reply at first. I gauged her in silence, aware that she could be trying to mislead me, luring me into compliance so she could betray me to Renard. I found only a stark candor in her eyes, almost as if she were indifferent to the devastating truths she had just confessed. I knew she wasn’t. Under her elegant facade smoldered an ardor for vengeance more than capable of destroying anyone who came between her and her freedom. Ardor like hers could be a potent weapon.

“It seems you know everyone’s secrets,” I finally said.

“Not everyone’s,” she replied, “but I do know Renard’s. I understand how he operates. I will use whatever I can against him. I want him ruined. I want him chained to some backwater post for the rest of his days. I’ll not be beholden to him or any man again, not if I can avoid it.”

My wariness thawed into admiration. She might be a stranger to me in many respects, but I understood her, for I had felt the same helplessness myself. Ever since I’d been old enough to realize the world had no empathy for the powerless, I’d also fought to survive, just as Sybilla did. She sought freedom after years of living under Renard’s heel, as I’d once lived under Robert Dudley’s. Renard was cruel, calculating, and ruthless-like the man I’d served. He believed he deserved better and was willing to do anything to achieve it.

I felt the collapse of my brittle defense. As if she sensed it, Sybilla bridged the space between us with a single step. This time, I couldn’t evade her touch, even as a fleeting image of Kate went through me. I was riveted by Sybilla’s gaze, by the heat of her proximity …

“Don’t you see?” she asked. “I must be free of him. You seek to protect the princess, and I seek to save myself, so let us work together. Let me help you find the proof you need.”

“No,” I said haltingly. I tried to step back. “I cannot ask this of-”

“You did not ask.” She leaned to me and quenched my breath. Her lips were like scorched velvet; as they grazed mine, desire exploded in me, hot and fierce.

Without another word, she turned away and went back down the gallery, the hem of her black gown swirling about her feet. In minutes she’d rounded the corner and vanished, yet as I stood motionless, I felt as if she were still before me, as if she had branded her very presence onto my skin, and I had already began to surrender to the unthinkable.

* * *

I returned to my room, my mind in a whirlwind. Grabbing my cloak and cap, I went to the stables, saddled Cinnabar, and cantered from the palace. I kept seeing Sybilla in my head; I had to fight back the memory of what I had felt with her. I couldn’t lose my self-control. Not now. Not with so much at stake. It was a momentary failing: I was grieving Peregrine and suffering the effects of living under prolonged tension at court. I was flesh and bone, beset by the frailties of any man; it did not mean I was faithless. I wouldn’t lie to myself by denying my attraction to Sybilla, but I would never betray Kate, nor take advantage of a woman so clearly entrapped by her circumstances.

Still, I found myself riding through London in a haze, besieged by my own inner tumult, almost passing the church of All Hallows. I reined Cinnabar to an abrupt halt, causing him to snort in displeasure at my sharp pull on his mouth.

I could not think of it now. I had to focus on the heart-crushing task ahead.

Constructed of lichen-weathered stone, with its great turreted spire, the church was well appointed. It also offered an unsettling view of the nearby Tower. I stared toward that hulking fortress, like a closed fist behind its curtain wall, and wondered which of those tiny arrow slits marked the Dudleys’ cell.

I would soon find out, I thought with a shudder, and I turned away to enter the cavernous church through a narrow doorway. I did not expect what I found. All Hallows was a burial place for those executed in the Tower; Sir Thomas More, martyr to King Henry’s break with Rome, lay here. The echo of past cruelties permeated its ancient walls, but so did astonishing beauty, manifest in its painted archways, gilded statues, and glorious stained-glass windows. The glory of the Roman faith had never been fully erased here, and when I explained to the rotund priest who hastened to greet me why I’d come, he murmured platitudes and led me down worn stone steps into an icy crypt.

As I beheld the small wood coffin on its chipped dais, a lump filled my throat.

“Her Majesty paid for everything,” the priest said with evident pride. “Though I understand the boy had no rank to commend him, she’s insisted he be put to rest here until the ground thaws. A plot is set aside for him in the churchyard, away from the pit where common traitors go, all at her expense. She’s been most generous to pay such honor to-”

I lifted my hand. “Please. Might I have a moment alone?”

With an offended pout, he nodded and retreated.

I stared upon Peregrine’s waxen face, the only visible part of his body in its winding sheet. I had never seen him so still; as I reached out a trembling hand to touch the lifeless curls on his brow, I half-expected him to laugh and sit up. The faint tang of the herbs with which his body had been washed was the only sign of life in this place of stone. As I finally took it in and let myself accept that Peregrine was truly gone, a choked sob escaped me.

I stood over him for what seemed an eternity before I heard the priest shuffle in. He cleared his throat with begrudging respect. “The hour grows late; I must close my doors soon. If there is nothing more, the coffin will be sealed shut and left here till spring.”

I nodded and made myself step aside, thinking I should have brought something to put in with him, some memento for him to have in the dark.

“Good-bye, sweet friend,” I whispered. “I will avenge you.”

Dusk hung over the city. I rode in silence back to Whitehall, stabled Cinnabar, and paid the groom extra to watch over him and Peregrine’s horse. I tarried a while, trying to take comfort in the animals’ tacit company, the horses sniffing at me as they sensed the bottomless well that had opened inside me.

That night, I could not sleep. I sat cross-legged on the floor of my room as the tallow guttered low in its oil, honing my sword with my whetstone until my fingers bled and every muscle ached, but I found no reprieve in the punishment of my body.

I could no longer control the stranger I was becoming.

THE TOWER
Chapter Fourteen

Courtenay’s manservant was waiting outside the postern gate when I rode out on Cinnabar at the stroke of one-a hulking figure seated on an enormous gray destrier, his black cloak enveloping him, its cowl drawn over his head to hide his ravaged face.

“Right on time,” he said gruffly before he swerved onto the road that led to the Tower. Ice-hardened snow crunched under our horses’ hooves. The day was clear, though a bracing wind made me glad of my layers of doublet and cloak, my scarf pulled up about my nose and mouth, and my cap shoved down about my ears.

I noted equal discomfort on the scowling faces of passing Londoners, the goodwives, merchants, and other citizens trudging over makeshift planks sunk in mires of slush, while vagabonds and beggars skulked, shivering, in doorways. I looked away from a cadaver, stripped naked and tossed on a midden, its limbs frozen solid, only to catch sight of a mange-ridden bitch herding four skeletal pups out of the way of an approaching cart. As the carter flayed his whip, the bitch yelped, grabbing two of the pups in her jaws and leaving the others to race into a nearby rookery of ramshackle edifices. I yanked Cinnabar aside to avoid trampling the cowering pups and was relieved when I looked over my shoulder and saw them darting, unharmed, after their mother.

“Lucky curs.” The manservant swiveled his head in my direction. “By all accounts, they should be in somebody’s stew pot by now.”

I stared stonily at him. I had no doubt he’d have eaten those pups, too, straight out of the pot. I could see why Courtenay had hired him; with this beast at his side, the earl could prowl the most unsavory places in London and not fear for his life.

Though it was not the earl’s life I was most concerned about.

Not forty-eight hours ago, this man had stalked me. I’d threatened him in the brothel and was blackmailing his master. Now we rode through the city, and while he’d kept his distance thus far, I was fully aware he might yet turn on me. Courtenay could have ordered him to make sure I never reached my destination.

He surprised me by grunting, “My name’s Scarcliff. Hope you brought coin.”

I nodded, resisting an urge to laugh. Thatwas his name? I almost pitied the ugly oaf.

As if he read my thoughts, he gave me a disparaging grimace, his front teeth blackened and jagged. “You needn’t worry. I have my orders. But you’ll need to pay the yeomen at the gate and guards inside.” He gestured to his saddlebag. “You’ll take this in with you. Those who pay enough are allowed certain privileges, and the Dudleys get fresh linens every week, courtesy of his lordship. You’ll deliver the bag to their quarters. I’ll wait till the gates close at dusk. If you don’t return by then, I’ll see your horse back to the stables, but you’re on your own.”

His speech was less slurred than it had been at the brothel, no doubt because he was sober, but he still sounded as if he spat out pebbles instead of words. Nevertheless, I was slightly comforted that he did not harbor murderous intent. Of course, he might not need to. I was about to walk voluntarily into the most notorious and well-guarded prison in the realm, where countless men vanished, never to be seen again. If I didn’t get out in time, it might do the job just as well as a blade between my ribs.

We approached the main causeway over the Tower moat. The Tower loomed before me, an enormous, forbidding sight, the domed turrets of its keep thrusting like the calcified fingers of a moribund giant from a surrounding warren of gatehouses, lesser towers, and impregnable walls.

My skin crawled. I’d never thought to set foot in this dreadful place again.

“I’d take off the scarf if I were you. Yeomen don’t like visitors who hide their faces.” As he spoke, Scarcliff shrugged back his own cowl, exposing his hideous, one-eyed visage. Seeing the destruction in daylight, I thought he must have survived some awful fiery battle.

I tore my gaze from him, unraveling the ice-flecked wool from my face. My cheeks were numb from the biting wind blowing off the river, though here the Thames ran deeper and had even started to thaw in parts, with chunks of broken ice bobbing in the dark water.

Various persons stood in line outside the gate, waiting to enter, their subdued chatter punctuated by an occasional mournful roar drifting from inside the crenellated barbican.

“Henry’s old lions,” said Scarcliff. “They don’t much like being caged.”

I shuddered. I couldn’t imagine keeping a wild creature behind bars, though far worse happened every day in this city. I braced myself as we drew our horses to a halt. Scarcliff dismounted, trudged over the drawbridge with his lopsided gait, ignoring the startled glances in his direction from those in line. He reached the warder yeoman guarding the entrance. Two others checked the credentials of those seeking entrance; the warder appeared to recognize Scarcliff, heeding him attentively before giving a curt nod.

Scarcliff came back to me and unhooked the saddlebag. “You’re the earl’s man now, remember, so best act like it. The Dudleys are in the Beauchamp Tower off the inner ward. They like to take their exercise on the leads around this hour, but Lord Robert will be advised he has a visitor. I’ll wait at the Griffin Tavern on Tower Street. Remember, I leave at dusk when the gates close-with or without you.”

I clicked my tongue reassuringly as Scarcliff took my reins. I found it curious that while usually wary of strangers, Cinnabar did not seem averse to letting this particular stranger handle him. Then I hoisted the bag on my shoulder and moved to the portcullis, assaulted by a vivid memory of the last time I had seen it, slamming down like a fanged mouth on a crowd of frantic men. The Dudley steward Shelton had disappeared here that night, struggling in the crush, as guards galloped toward him, swinging maces and pikes …

I forced aside my ruminations, opening the bag for the yeoman to inspect. The scent of lavender rose from the wrapped parcel of linens. The yeoman stared at me. I thought he was going to question me before I remembered. As I fished coins from the purse at my belt, he said, “Through the Bell Tower and to your left into the ward.” He let me pass. Behind me the waiting queue raised angry protest at my preferential treatment.

My boot heels struck hollow echoes upon the flagstones. Sentinels dressed in green uniforms sporting Tudor-rose badges, black-clad secretaries, and other official-looking persons moved around me, carving purposeful paths to various assignations. I recalled that the Tower was more than just a prison; within these walls were an armory, a treasury, a menagerie, and royal apartments. Like every royal fortress, it was governed by a strict bureaucracy, much like Whitehall itself, but as I passed the water gate through which the condemned entered by the river, I felt the walls close in on me, as if I were a rat in a maze.

I hurried up a flight of stairs to the inner ward. The massive White Keep stood to my right. Before me lay a cobblestone space hemmed in by towers and walls but open to the sky and festooned with stalls-an improvised marketplace where guild tradesmen took orders and vendors plied food, the air warmed by the odor of cooking fires. Livestock lowed in pens; everyone went about their business with brisk efficiency, circumventing an empty scaffold situated paces from the chapel, a grim reminder of the Tower’s ultimate purpose.

I stopped in my tracks. Elizabeth’s mother had died on that spot. Though there was no block, no hay to soak up the blood, in my imagination I saw it all, flashing in a tableau before me-Anne Boleyn’s slim figure as she was blindfolded, the slow drop to her knees, and the swift, inescapable arc of the French executioner’s sword …

Tearing my eyes away, I hastened to the Beauchamp Tower.

The guard at the entrance regarded me with the slovenly indifference of someone who needn’t do much to earn his wage. His potbelly hung over his wide, studded belt as he slumped on a stool, a halberd propped against the wall. On the rickety table before him were the ruins of a meat pie and an open ledger. Inking a pruned quill, he said in a toneless mumble, “Name. Occupation. Purpose.”

Name. I hadn’t thought of a name.

“Are ye daft?” He glared at me. “Name. Occupation. Purpose.”

“Beecham,” I said quickly, for it hardly mattered if I used another alias. “Body servant to his lordship, Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. By my lord’s command, I bring linens for the prisoners.”

“Oh. More linens, eh?” The guard snorted as he scrawled my information in the ledger. “Them Dudleys have the devil’s own luck. We’ve got a hundred poor bastards rottin’ underground and in the Ease, eaten by rats and drinking their own piss, but this lot dine like kings on the earl’s purse, no matter that their father took the ax.” He rummaged cursorily through the saddlebag, his fingers oily with pie grease. I suspected he did it on purpose, to soil the linens. He pushed the bag to me. “Their quarters are up the staircase,” he said, but he didn’t move out of my way until I doled out the requisite bribe.

As I climbed the stairs, the hilt of my hidden poniard dug into my calf. The Dudleys certainly enjoyed both privileges and risks, if this was all it took to get inside their quarters. I might have been a paid assassin, for all the guard knew. No wonder Courtenay found it easy to smuggle in books and letters. I could have carried a dozen on my person alone.

I also might have entered the hall in a manor, I thought, as I walked through a door on the landing into a vaulted room. The walls were adorned with thick, albeit faded, wool tapestries; there were carpets underfoot instead of the ubiquitous lousy rushes, and a fire crackled in the recessed hearth, staving off the chill. A low archway to the left led to sleeping chambers and a garderobe. Several chipped, high-backed chairs, stools, a reading lectern, and a long central table added to the illusion of domestic comfort, while a large mullioned embrasure admitted dusty light. Piles of books on the floor and a furry indent on a cushion by the hearth indicated the Dudleys had the means to keep boredom at bay; evidently it paid to be born on the right side of the blanket, even if one’s family had a tendency to end up with their heads on spikes.

The room was empty. Unclasping my cloak, I draped it across a chair and set the bag on the table, eyeing the pile of books. I resisted the urge to search them for the one Elizabeth had given Courtenay. By now, her letter must have been taken.

I paced to the embrasure. Below me on a protected rampart, stretching between this tower and the next, moved a group of cloaked figures. I went still, recognizing Guilford Dudley’s fair mop and the ginger coloring of his shorter and far less amiable brother Henry. Behind them trailed muscular Ambrose and the eldest of the Dudley brood, John, who bore the closest resemblance to their late father. Only Robert was missing, but I scarcely marked his absence, riveted by the unexpected sight of a slim female figure, her hood slipping from her head to reveal coiled gold-red tresses plaited about her head, a shade paler than her cousin Elizabeth’s.

Lady Jane Grey, Guilford’s wife, was with the four brothers.

John stumbled. As Jane put her hand to his back to steady him, a nearby servant holding a terrier on leash hurried to them. John leaned on the servant gratefully while Jane took the dog. Of the five boys, I knew John Dudley the least. The firstborn, he’d been educated at court, far from the castle where I’d been raised. I’d therefore rarely seen him and now recalled overhearing he was prone to fever, his lungs weakened from a bout of-

“Who are you?”

I spun around. Standing in the doorway was Lord Robert.

“Don’t you recognize me, my lord?” I cast back my hood. “It hasn’t been that long.”

He paused, staring. Then he let out a hiss through his teeth, “Prescott!” and kicked the door shut behind him. He took a step toward me. The sight of him-taller than I recalled and much leaner, his raven-wing’s hair shorn to his skull, accentuating the striking Dudley cheekbones and liquid black eyes-plunged me into the past, when I’d been an insignificant squire, unaware of my royal blood, dependent on him for my very survival.

“Well, well.” He put a hand on his hip, eyeing me. “Imagine my surprise when I was told I had a visitor.” His voice was tauntingly familiar, as if we’d only seen each other a few hours ago. “I’ve wondered what became of you and what it would be like to see you walk in here like a dog returning to its own vomit. But I never thought you’d actually do it. I never thought you’d be that stupid. Oh, and the guard downstairs? He isn’t going to lift a finger to help you, so don’t think of yelling. Whatever you paid him, I offered double.”

I didn’t doubt it. I refused to react to his threat, even as my heart started to pound. I pointed to the bag on the table. “I brought your linens.”

“I see. Is that who you work for now? Are you Courtenay’s latest bum-boy? You certainly move fast. They only let him out of here two months ago. Were you loitering outside the gates, waiting for the first pair of noble boots to lick?”

My anxiety faded. I should savor this moment. The wheel of fate had turned. Once, I’d been the defenseless one and he had all the power to strike against me at will, but I’d done him one better. I had won. It was time he knew it.

“I serve Princess Elizabeth now. I’m here to collect something of hers.”

His lip curled, as if it meant little to him, but I sensed the violence lurking in his broad shoulders. If he decided to charge me, I’d have a time of it. He might look underfed, a shadow of the gorgeous favored son he’d once been, but he had the strength of a lifetime of privilege to draw upon, honed by years of horsemanship, archery, jousting, swordplay, and other costly recreations only the rich could afford. He’d always been gifted, both in his beauty and prowess. Six long months spent in this cage must have stoked his temper to a fiery pitch. After all the luxury and expectation, the aspirations of grandeur when his father ruled the realm, Robert Dudley had become a cornered man.

Cornered men were always dangerous.

His smile sliced across his lips. “So, you serve Elizabeth now. When did this occur, exactly? Before or after you betrayed me?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me. I should never have trusted you. I should have known a runt like you would have no concept of loyalty.” He swerved to the sideboard and reached for a tarnished decanter. As he poured wine into a goblet, he kept his back to me. If he thought to lull me into lowering my guard, it wasn’t going to work. I knew him too well.

“Let me get this clear.” He turned around with a frown, as if I had presented a particularly vexing issue. “You work for her and she sent you here, to me? I find that odd, considering the last time she and I spoke she insulted me to my face. What were her words again?” He stared at me. “Surely you must remember. Though I didn’t see you at the time, like the snake you are I’m sure you were hiding somewhere in the brush.”

“I believe she said she’d rather die than let a lowborn Dudley rut in her bed,” I replied, and I braced my entire body for his charge.

His face hardened, so that the bone structure under his taut skin seemed to show. “So, you werethere. I’m impressed. You played me like a courtier. Just look”-he flung out his arm, sloshing wine from his goblet-“you’re now free to hire yourself out to whomever you please, while I’m locked up waiting for the same ax that killed my father.” His voice darkened. “And all because my family took pity on you, rather than throwing you down a well like you deserved.”

“Are you blaming me for this?” I arched my brow. “Because if so, you do yourself a disservice. I didn’t put you or your brothers in here. You did all that on your own.”

His goblet froze halfway to his mouth. I had struck at his core; he could not refute that, more than greed or ambition, the Dudley belief in their infallibility had been their ruin.

“You speak the truth,” he said at length, his voice dead quiet. “It’s not as if you did anything but seek your advantage. Elizabeth always did have a weakness for subservience; she likes nothing better than to be fawned upon.” He drank. “You said you came for something of hers. What is it?” He held up a hand. “No. Don’t tell me.” He smiled. “A letter.”

The contempt in his tone enraged me. I had to stop myself from being the one who lunged first. “Because of that letter, she’s in grave danger. Ambassador Renard seeks evidence against her. He suspects her and Courtenay of plotting against the queen. Your own head also stands to roll if you don’t help me. I know very well that you’re behind it.”

“Oh? I fail to see how I can be suspect. Am I not a prisoner already?”

“Condemned men have the least to lose. Courtenay also told me everything.” I watched his feigned indifference slip from his face like a poorly fitted mask. “I know about the other letters you’ve sent, to men throughout the kingdom. You made a mistake with Courtenay. He may cut a fine enough figure, but he’s hardly heroic. How long do you think he’ll hold out when Renard convinces the queen to order his arrest, as he will? I rather think the earl will take one look at the rack and spill his guts. And once he tells Renard what he wants to hear, they’ll come here-for you.”

The visible protruding of Robert’s jaw muscles assured me I’d finally hit my target.

“But they’ll need proof,” I added. “The queen isn’t given to signing death warrants without it. Give it to me and they’ll never find it.”

“You expect me to take your word for it,” he snarled, “after what you’ve done? You betrayed my family!”

“If you don’t, Renard will hire someone else. And if his next agent gets as far as I have, you won’t survive.” I returned his implacable stare. “Give me all your letters and they’ll find nothing. No evidence. What can they accuse you of? Only the earl risks arrest.”

He considered for a long moment. Then he raised his hands and began to clap slowly, in mocking applause. “Congratulations! You’ve become a man. But you’ve neglected to consider one thing.” He showed me his teeth. “What if your precious Elizabeth isn’t quite as innocent as you think? What if you seek to spare her from the very thing she herself helped set in motion?”

My hands coiled at my sides. “Speak plainly for once.”

He chuckled. “I will. It would be my pleasure. Ambassador Renard is right about this much: There is a plot against the queen. It’s the only way to save us from this infernal Spanish prince and Mary’s deluded belief in her duty to return us all to popery and superstition. At the appointed date and time, men I have sent letters to will muster their armies; they will rise up to declare Queen Mary unfit to rule. She’ll be given a choice: If she renounces her throne willingly, her life will be spared. Elizabeth insisted on it; she thinks that faced with an uprising, her sister will heed reason.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But we both know that Mary can’t heed reason, don’t we? We know she’ll fight to the death, as she did against my father. And thus, death she will have, by my word. Her head will join my father’s on the bridge, and then, my faithless friend, I willhave my revenge.”