Текст книги "The Tudor Conspiracy"

Автор книги: Christopher Gortner

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SOUTHWARK
Chapter Nine

I took a few moments to compose myself. I heard Elizabeth call out to the grooms, “Best get back to your chores before the stable master finds you squandering those coins I gave you. Don’t forget, I want the best fodder, not the cheap hay you give the rest of the court’s beasts. And plenty of blankets at night-my Cantila is a delicate creature bred for sunnier climes than ours. I’ll take it amiss if something should happen to him.”

As the grooms laughed and promised to do as she asked, I had to smile. Even in peril, Elizabeth would think of her horse, Cantila, an expensive Arabian she pampered like a child. She also wisely sowed allegiance where she could: Those grooms would be her willing slaves henceforth, after she’d paid them to gamble and drink during work hours.

The truant grooms tramped into the stables to go about their business. None paid me heed as I brushed straw from my hose and moved to where my Cinnabar was stalled. He snorted at my greeting, nuzzling my cloak for the bits of dried apple I usually carried. I’d forgotten to stop by the kitchens for some, so I apologized as he tossed his head in frustration and I checked his forelock for the wound Peregrine had mentioned. It was healing, a small nick. I could still ride him.

Urian came bounding up to me with an excited bark. I turned to see Peregrine holding the dog’s lead, his gaze bright and hair unkempt. No matter how much he tried, a few hours on his own and he invariably looked as if he’d run into a windstorm.

“Well?” he said eagerly. “Did you see her? What did she say?”

“Never mind that.” I eyed him. “Did you find out anything?”

He nodded, his voice lowering to a whisper. “That horse Toby keeps ready, Courtenay uses it to visit a brothel called the Hawk’s Nest, across the river in Southwark near Bankside Street. He’s smitten with a bawd there, and he’s going again tonight. He paid Toby this morning.”

I nodded grimly, reaching for Cinnabar’s saddle blanket and bridle.

Peregrine’s expression crumpled. “What? Are you not pleased?”

I began to saddle Cinnabar, making an effort to lighten my tone. “You did well, but you’re not to ask anything more. Leave the rest to me.”

He scowled. “I don’t see why. I got the information you needed and-”

I wheeled about and pinched his ear, eliciting a stifled protest. I said softly, “Because I said so.” I released him. He rubbed his ear. “No more working on your own. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” he muttered.

I proceeded to ready Cinnabar. As I took his reins, Urian whined. “She’s fond of this dog,” I said. “Make sure you feed him before you put him in his kennel. I’ll wait outside.”

I led Cinnabar from the stall. During the time I’d been inside the stable block, the temperature had dropped even lower. Snow had started to fall again. The wind nipped at my cheeks like teeth. Shivering, I walked Cinnabar around the courtyard to warm him, huddled in my cloak, my hood yanked up as far over my head as it could be. I desperately needed a new cap.

Peregrine emerged from the stables. I swung him into the saddle and mounted. “Let’s go find this Hawk’s Nest,” I said.

* * *

With Peregrine’s arms clasped about my waist, I turned Cinnabar past the parklands bordering the palace, bringing him to a slow canter as we left behind Whitehall’s labyrinthine expanse. Barren trees bowed under the hush of new snow; I reveled in the sight of open land, its white tranquility reminding me of Hatfield.

Cecil had been wrong. Flair or not, being an intelligencer would never be my choice.

Taking Grace Church Street, we plunged into the city clustered by the Thames. The calcified spine of London Bridge reared into view, perched on its twenty vast stone piers. I’d never been on the bridge before and marveled that it could hold so much on its back. Below us, the glazed river was devoid of its habitual water traffic, the ice already so dense in the shallows that children were skating across it, using pieces of bone for their blades. I saw a skinny dog romping after them, couples roaming the serrated white shore hand in hand, and vendors hawking hot pies-an unexpectedly festive sight that brightened my mood.

At the northern gatehouse, crowds lined up to pay their toll and visit the hundreds of shops perched on either side of the bridge’s span like teetering birds, the air clogged with the raucous shouts of peddlers and others going about their business. I maneuvered Cinnabar with a tight rein; he was not used to the near-deafening noise or masses of people. Mule– and ox-drawn carts laden with goods added to the clamor as they rumbled across with utter disregard for pedestrians. The bridge was the only way to transport merchandise across the river in winter, and the stink of animal ordure permeated the air.

I gazed up in awe as we passed under a gilded palatial structure that clambered several stories into the sky, its jutting balconies festooned with banners.

“Some people live and die without ever leaving the bridge,” Peregrine said in my ear. “It’s considered the safest place in the city after the palace, because the gates close at curfew and it has everything the people need, except for ale and beer. No cellars for it.”

“Curfew?” I frowned. “That’s inconvenient. How will I get across the bridge tonight? I’m not a nobleman who can flash his credentials whenever he needs to bypass something.”

“You could always walk. The river should be frozen through by nightfall, and…” His voice faded as I glanced over my shoulder at him in disbelief.

“That’s right,” he muttered. “I forgot you’re like a cat when it comes to water. But it would be safe, not to mention faster. You’ll see. It’s going to take an hour just to get across.”

I didn’t believe him at first, but as we progressed, I began to see that while there might not be official taverns, plenty of makeshift stalls offered beverages and food, inviting passersby to stop and peruse, sending those behind them into paroxysms of angry curses. Navigating the congested route between the edifices was like moving through a maze, for while the narrow central road was divided into designated lanes-one north and one south-nobody paid the directions any mind, sauntering to and fro whenever a shop display caught their fancy, ducking around and sometimes outright defying the passage of oncoming carts and wagons and horse riders with oblivious determination.

To Peregrine’s glee, I kept ducking my head to avoid the painted signs in the shape of goods that hung overhead, proclaiming that shop’s particular trade. The light grew dim. The top levels of many of the bridge’s structures connected to each other across the road by soaring passageways, forming a web of vaults. Occasionally I glimpsed open space between the buildings, offering spectacular views of the partially frozen river and spires of London, but I didn’t tarry, much as I might have liked to. I wanted to survive the crossing without trampling over some hapless pedestrian.

By the time we passed over the massive drawbridge at the southern end, I was breathless and Cinnabar quivered with distress. As we rode from under the fortified gatehouse, I glanced upward to its top; the tar-boiled heads of traitors were impaled there on spikes. A shiver went through me as I wondered if the Duke of Northumberland’s head was among them.

I had started turning Cinnabar toward the din of Southwark when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a swish of telltale black. I reined in sharply, swiveling in my saddle to stare into the crowd. Peregrine clutched at my waist, my sudden movements nearly unseating him. “What is it?” he whispered.

“Ssh.” I reached for my sword. A large, dark-clad figure was blending with the people emerging under the gatehouse; I was certain it was none other than Courtenay’s man. As if he felt my stare, he went still. His cowl cast a deep shadow over his face, but I felt him meet my eyes before he wheeled about to disappear into the throngs going north onto the bridge.

I let out my breath. “We’re being followed. No. Don’t look.”

“We are?” Peregrine’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Is he still…?”

“No, he saw me watching and turned around. But he must know what we’re doing; he serves Courtenay. How far do you think it is to the brothel?”

“I don’t know. It must be in the district.” He paused. “Why didn’t he come after us?”

“Perhaps he thinks it would be hard to kill anyone here, with so many witnesses,” I said, though in fact the bridge offered a perfect spot for murder, if you were skilled enough. In all that bustle and commotion, a well-aimed knife could slice a victim open from sternum to gut and the body wouldn’t be found until someone stumbled over it.

Anger surged at my own ineptness. I should have known Courtenay would have me tracked; he might have been lurking unseen near the stable block, seen Elizabeth emerge, and guessed we had met. That didn’t trouble me for now; the princess now knew to keep her distance from Courtenay. My own safety was another matter altogether.

“Let’s see how eager he is,” I said. “We’ll wet our throats in that tavern and wait.”

Tethering Cinnabar outside, I hired an ostler to watch him, and we entered a seedy establishment smelling of dank and alcohol, a convenient locale for passengers coming off or onto the bridge. After ordering two tankards of watered ale and a greasy pie from the hutch, I decided to try my luck and ask the server if he knew where the Hawk’s Nest was. The man was an ugly piece of work, one eye covered in milky film, greasy strands of hair plastered to a skull like a rodent’s; as he peered warily at me through his one good but bloodshot eye, I saw a louse skitter across his brow.

“Hawk’s Nest?” he repeated. “Ye’re that type, are ye?”

“Type?” I frowned. “I’m not sure I understand. I’m looking for-”

He cut me off with a leer that showed rotting gums. His breath alone could have felled an ox. “I know what ye look for,” he leered. “Pretty boy-arse. Go into the district and find Dead Man’s Lane. The Nest is nearby. Though it don’t accept just anyone, I warn ye. Best be up to waitin’, too, ’cause it’s closed till dusk.” He cackled at his own joke. “Up to waitin’, now isn’t that a riot? All ye fancy men are up to waitin’, I wager.”

I smiled through my gritted teeth. “Thank you.” I went to the rickety table where Peregrine sat staring at me over his tankard as if he were about to bolt at any moment.

“Do you know what kind of place the Hawk’s Nest is?” I growled.

He shook his head, too quickly.

“Are you sure?”

He shook his head again, this time with less assertion.

“Boy bum.” I leaned to him. “It’s a quean’s custom house, isn’t it?”

Peregrine said nervously, “Is that what you heard? Imagine that.”

“Yes, imagine it. I also heard it doesn’t allow everyone in. What does that mean?”

“It must be private. You’ll probably need a password-” He avoided the swipe I aimed at his ear. “Would it have mattered if I told you before tonight?” he protested as I glowered at him. “You still have to get inside, no matter what!”

“I wish I didn’t.” I downed my tankard in a gulp. “And why a password? I thought the whole point of running a brothel was to attract as much custom as possible.”

“Well,” said Peregrine, “if their custom is, shall we say, not the usual kind, you’d have to be careful, right? You don’t want the wrong sort getting in.”

He had a point. Buggery was a crime in England, punishable by imprisonment, fines, even death, though I’d never heard of any man being executed for it. Then again, I didn’t have experience. The most I’d gleaned was stories in my boyhood, lurid anecdotes about monks, one of the reasons cited for the closure of the abbeys. The way I looked at it, if the act was consensual, why should I care what anyone chose to do in private? There was more than enough evil in the world for it to rank as a minor vice, if that. Still, I’d never considered I might actually have to visit a place that catered to the predilection.

As if he could read my mind, Peregrine added, “You don’t have to doanything, just get yourself through the door. It probably won’t hurt to look the part, though.”

“Great. And here I thought mastering the sword was my biggest challenge. Anything else you forgot to tell me? Best do it now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

He burst out laughing, his eyes gleaming as I dug into my pie with a decided ill humor. After we ate, we went outside. As I untied Cinnabar and paid the ostler, I gauged our environs. Courtenay’s man could be hiding anywhere; there were still masses of people traveling over the bridge, but the cold was deepening to a bone-sapping chill as the sun started to ebb and I figured we might as well locate the damn brothel so I could return later without undue complications. The last thing I wanted was to lose myself in the crime-infested warren of baiting pits, whorehouses, and cheap inns and taverns of Southwark.

I clicked my tongue at Cinnabar, urging him to quicken his pace as we rode into the coiled heart of the district. I had never beheld such squalor. There was filth everywhere, festering in piles; skeletal dogs skulked past, every rib showing, and children dressed in rags, with open sores on their feet, sat listless in the frozen mud of the lanes while their mothers entertained custom inside seedy lean-tos fit only for rats-a significant quantity of which tripped over the rooftops and through the gutters, bold as day.

“This can’t be right,” I said. “Courtenay would never set foot here.” I pulled out a coin, waving it. Five children immediately bounded to us, grubby hands extended, all eyes and knees and filthy hair. “Which way to Dead Man’s Lane?” I asked, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease when one of the boys pointed to one side, toward the river, and then caught the coin I pitched in midair. I saw feral cunning on the other children’s faces and set my hand on my sword hilt, returning their stares. They retreated, like a pack of animals.

We rode down a rutted path that barely qualified as a lane, past a series of slightly less sordid establishments, and came up before a two-story, timber-framed building. I thought at first it must be a guesthouse until I saw the sign swinging above its stout oak door, depicting a bird of prey, crudely drawn wings stretched over a circle of twigs: THE HAWK’S NEST.

There were no lower windows or visible places to gain a foothold up to a narrow catwalk of a ledge that ran parallel under high upper windows, all of which were shuttered. Indeed, nothing about the place indicated easy access or a welcoming air. It was more a fortress than a den of illicit pleasure.

“Locked tight as a virgin’s knees,” I remarked, and Peregrine laughed. “How will we get inside?” I took another moment to memorize the house and its location before I surveyed our surroundings. I waited. After a few minutes, I turned Cinnabar around.

“We?” I said in response to Peregrine’s question. “There is no ‘we’ tonight. You’ve had quite enough adventure for one day.”

He sulked as we rode back to the bridge. Crossing north proved less arduous, the crowds thinning as dusk draped a cinder shroud over the horizon. Moving slowly through the waning populace, as shop vendors bolted their doors for the night, I kept my poniard unsheathed. I made a brief stop at a shop to purchase a new dark wool cap, lingering over the wares, but did not catch sight of Courtenay’s man. His absence proved disquieting. It wasn’t like a henchman to give up easily. He’d had plenty of opportunity to follow and engage, if he were so inclined, but he hadn’t. Why?

The only reason I could think of did not ease my apprehension. Maybe he’d been paid to watch and report back.

If so, that could mean Courtenay wantedme to find him.

* * *

After seeing to Cinnabar’s water and feed, we hurried into the palace. My fingers were so numb with cold by the time we reached my chamber, I could barely pull out the key from my doublet and unlock the door.

I went still. The room had been ransacked, the coffer flung open, my saddlebag overturned on the floor, its contents scattered, my cot pulled from the wall and upended. I released my sword, holding Peregrine back. “So much for giving up,” I said. “While we were investigating the brothel, it looks like our friend came back to investigate me.”

“What could he have wanted?” Peregrine slipped in front of me, gingerly stepping over the debris. “Doesn’t look as if he stole anything; he didn’t even take your fake chain. See? It’s over there by the coffer.”

“I don’t know what he wanted,” I said, but as I reached down for my bag I had the sudden thought that this overt display of theft seemed staged-a deliberate act intended to instill fear in me.

The skin of my nape crawled.

Peregrine started to pick up my chain. All of a sudden, he paused. He straightened up, a folded square of parchment in his hands. “What’s this?” he asked, and before I could stop him he cracked apart the gray wax seal.

“You cannot save her,” he read aloud. He looked at me, bewildered.

I lunged.

He recoiled instinctively, the note dropping from his hand. He gazed at me, his eyes widening. “It-it burns,” he gasped. “My fingertips … they’re burning…”

I took one look at the note, at the jagged edges of the broken seal. I tasted bile in my throat. Kicking the note aside, I seized Peregrine’s hands. Welts were seared into his flesh, like burns.

Poison. The seal on the parchment had been poisoned.

He let out a startled cry and staggered against me. I dragged him to the nearby pitcher, overturning the water on his hands, rubbing them frantically against my doublet. His face drained white; blood-flecked foam bubbled from his lips. He clutched at me, his legs buckling.

The room swirled about me as I held him upright. He started to thrash, the greasy contents of our afternoon meal spewing from his mouth. As his eyes rolled back in his head, I hauled him up into my arms and flung open the chamber door, scrambling down the staircase, through the freezing courtyards, and into the torch-lit gallery. I couldn’t hear anything except my own voice-like the cry of a wounded animal.

A group of figures paused at the gallery’s end; as I staggered toward them, Peregrine draped in my arms, I heard urgent voices. A tall, thin man in black strode to me.

“My squire,” I said haltingly, gasping. “He-he’s been poisoned. Please … help me.”

The man came to a halt, his hawkish bearded face closing like a trap. He was a Spaniard from the Hapsburg delegation; I recognized him from the night in the hall, one of the exalted lords who’d stood by the queen and frowned at everything. Behind him I saw the others staring. No one moved. Then, through a haze of despair, I caught sight of a familiar face, although it wasn’t until she hastened forth that I recognized Sybilla. The Spaniard detained her. “ Dice que han envenenado al joven. No le toques.”

She shook his hand aside, moving to me. “I know some herbal lore,” she said. “I can help him until we fetch a physician. Quickly, bring him to-”

Peregrine started thrashing again. As I tightened my grip, liquid seeped from his mouth, dark and putrid, staining his parched lips. Sybilla whirled about, her voice shredding, and the tall Spaniard barked at his companions. From among them, someone broke free, a slight figure I watched through a daze as she bolted down the opposite end of the gallery to the hall, her hood flying off to expose blond tresses, her frantic cry echoing as her little black dog bounded behind her, barking in excitement.

I crumbled to my knees. Clutching Peregrine, I rocked back and forth, over and over, whispering, “No, please God, no, not this, not him…”

Sybilla sank in a pool of skirts at my side. I felt her hand on my shoulder as Peregrine jerked, weakly. His eyes opened wide. He looked at me. He was struggling to speak, but the liquid welled up again, thick and vile.

I heard a terrifying rattle in his throat.

His eyelids fluttered and closed.

He went still.

Chapter Ten

I couldn’t move. I held him to my chest and felt my world disintegrate as the others arrived: Rochester with a napkin still tucked in his collar; two guards and several inquisitive courtiers come to see what all the fuss was about. Jane Dormer, who had run to alert Rochester in the hall, peered in anxious concern from behind them. When she saw Peregrine, she gave a cry of dismay and started weeping.

“Blessed saints, what is it?” Rochester bent to me. “Is the boy…?”

“He’s dead,” I whispered. As I said the words, a chasm cracked open inside me, an awful endless void that threatened to pull me into its swirling vortex forever.

“Dead?” he echoed, and I nodded dully. I wanted to bellow at the immobile Spaniard with his aristocratic expression of distaste, at the others who had stood there gaping, watching from afar as an innocent perished in my arms, but I could not utter a sound.

Peregrine was gone. Nothing I did could bring him back.

“But how?” Rochester’s voice quavered. “Did he eat something tainted? Drink something? What happened to him?” He was looking around indignantly at the company, as though they were keeping the answer from him.

I heard Sybilla Darrier say quietly, “It doesn’t matter now, does it? The child’s body must be attended. Perhaps you can assist, my lord? Master Beecham has just suffered a terrible shock. He’s clearly in no position to contend with this.”

“Yes, yes.” Rochester turned back to me. “I’m so sorry. I really have no idea what to say. I’m quite concerned that someone could have died thus in the palace. An inquest must be done. I’ll notify Her Majesty and-”

“My lord,” interrupted Sybilla. Her voice was calm, steady, but something in it, an indefinable hardness, brought Rochester to a halt. “I think it’s best if you take charge of the boy while I see Master Beecham to his room, yes? These other details can be attended to once he gets his bearings.”

Rochester fumbled at his collar, fingering his food-stained napkin. “Yes,” he muttered. He snapped his hand at the guards, who stepped forth to take Peregrine from me.

I resisted for a moment. I clung to him as if he were the last upright thing in the crumbling edifice of my existence, and then I let them take him from me, his head dangling, his curls plastered with sweat. As they carried him away, I went numb.

Sybilla’s hand felt cool as it enclosed mine. “Come,” she said, and I followed her, still without speaking, moving as if through an impenetrable fog.

In the courtyard by the staircase, she paused, looking at me. “Which way?” she asked. I led her up the staircase, to my open door. I swayed. Her hand rested at the small of my back, steadying me. All of a sudden I could smell Peregrine’s death all over me.

“I don’t know if I can…” I whispered.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “If need be, we’ll ask Rochester to put you in another room.”

My eyes couldn’t focus. I had to blink several times before I took in the chaos. None of it seemed real to me, as if I’d plunged into a nightmare from which there could be no escape.

“Let me go first.” As Sybilla stepped inside, I caught sight of the note crumpled in a corner where I’d kicked it in my frantic attempt to save him.

“Don’t,” I said. “That seal on the paper-it’s poisoned.”

She blanched. “Did your squire … did he touch it…?”

In response, I bent to the floor and retrieved my fallen gauntlets. Pulling them on, I took the note by its corner and went to the guttering tallow light. I looked at the message.

You cannot save her.

“This was meant for me.” My voice sounded hollow, as if it came from someone else. “He found it, but it’s me they wanted to kill.”

Sybilla stood immobile. “Who are they? Why would anyone want to kill you?”

I swallowed. “I cannot tell you.” I held the note over the tallow flame and watched it catch fire. A bluish flame curled upward, blackening the paper, devouring it. Before the flame touched my gloved fingers, I dropped the note and ground it into the floorboards with my heel, leaving a charred smear.

“They won’t get away with it.” I looked up to meet her gaze. “I will track them down if it takes the rest of my life, and I will make them pay for what they’ve done.”

She took a step to me. “Where are you going? No, wait-” She brought up a hand against my chest, stopping me. “You can’t. You’re covered in … Come, let me help you.”

She did not wait for my answer, taking the pitcher and departing. I began to right my belongings, my movements methodical, precise, the grieving rage burning behind my eyes. By the time I got the room in order, she had returned with the pitcher.

“Bathing water,” she said, pouring it into the basin. “It’s cold, but it will do. And you need fresh clothes-a new shirt, hose, linen. You can’t go anywhere in that state.”

I pointed to the articles I’d arranged on my cot. As she regarded my rumpled court doublet and only extra pair of hose, she said softly, “Let me help you. Tell me what you mean to do.”

“I told you, it’s not safe.” Turning from her, I stripped off my soiled doublet and shirt. Using a cloth dipped in the basin, I briskly washed my torso. I didn’t care that she stood a few paces away, watching. When she came to me and took the cloth to bathe my shoulders and back, I did not resist. She wrung the cloth out and turned me around to face her, cleansing my forehead, cheeks, and clotted beard. We were so close I could smell her intoxicating scent of lilies like an oasis in a desert. In the gloom, the blues of her eyes took on a near-turquoise hue, shaded by thick dusky lashes, as if she’d dipped them in soot.

“I know you are not who you seem,” she said. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.” Her hand slid the cloth downward, over my throat, past my collarbones to my chest. She was so close I could feel the heat of her breath on my skin. “Let me help you.”

My hand came up, catching her wrist. “If you want to help me,” I said, “we can talk later. But now, my lady, I fear I have an urgent appointment I must keep.”

Her mouth parted, showing a hint of teeth. Then she dropped the washcloth in the basin and wiped her hands on her skirts. The moisture left damp stains on the silk.

“You mustn’t let rage overcome your reason,” she said. “Many a man has failed because he let his emotion get the better of him. Revenge is only satisfying if it is wielded with the full understanding of the havoc it will wreak.”

I smiled coldly. “I’ll take that into account, my lady.”

As she turned to the door, I said, “Mistress Darrier,” and she paused. “See that he is cared for.” My voice caught. “See that he is veiled properly until I can say good-bye. Promise me. He-he was my friend. He did not deserve such a fate.”

“No one does,” she said, and she clicked the door shut as she left. I went to my mirror, took out my razor, and worked on my beard until it was trimmed close to my face. Then I buckled on my sword, thrust my poniard into my belt, and flung on my cloak.

A black flame smoldered in my heart.

Havoc or not, I would have my revenge.