The Tudor Conspiracy (14 page)

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.

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.

I stalked through London like a specter. The cold congealed my breath, emptying the streets of its habitual vagrants, pickpockets, and vermin. While curfew was supposed to secure the city and protect the citizenry, as I traversed the maze of tenements and taverns downriver from the palace, I knew the gates’ closure only signaled the onset of a different sort of activity, most of it criminal.

But not tonight. Tonight, it was as if London itself mourned my dead squire.

I was heedless of my safety, taking shadowy alleyways as I made my way to the water steps, my hand on my sword. I would have welcomed an assault; I wanted to shed blood, to satiate the rage and disbelief I already knew would haunt me forever.

Soon I was standing at the river’s edge, gazing upon a vast expanse of rippled viridian. The moon was veiled in the overcast sky, but its icy glow wasn’t needed. The frozen Thames emitted its own luminescence, an eerie nimbus that captured tendrils of mist drifting like tattered silk over its motionless surface. On the far bank, I discerned errant firelight.

I spun about, with a stifled gasp. I had heard him so clearly, I expected to find him behind me, grinning, my faithful scamp who had refused to stay put in our room.

No one was there.

Returning my eyes to the embankment, resisting a surge of helpless tears, I gleaned rows of forlorn wherries, all useless now, the boatmen left to fend for themselves as best they could until the river thawed. Peregrine had assured me this way would be safest, faster, and I had no time to waste. As I stood there, though, I was gripped by a horrifying vision of getting halfway across and hearing a spidery crack, looking down to see the ice give way under my feet. I knew the river still flowed under its cold shield; its embrace would be swift, inescapable. I’d plunged into the Thames before. I had no desire to do it again, though death felt like a merciful respite at this moment.

I looked down at my boots. Taking my knife, I lightly scored the soles and took up handfuls of snow, rubbing them into the grooves. It might help stop me from slipping.

I sidled out onto the frosted edge. Fear cut off my breath. I told myself to focus, take slow steps, one foot in front of the next, as if I moved across a newly polished floor. As I progressed, the city disappeared behind me in the mist, but the noise of the south bank ahead did not yet intrude. The clouds parted for a glimpse of the moon; her silver halo dazzled, scattering diamond fragments across the river. With the black sky above me, embroidered with a thousand brilliant stars, and the Thames like a fantastical sea, bewitched in midmotion, I came to a halt. It struck me how cruel the world was; even as a child died in agony, nature could clothe herself with such majestic indifference.

Then I moved forward again, almost losing my balance, slipping and scrambling toward the shore. The cold I’d ceased to feel only moments earlier returned with vicious suddenness. I drew the hood of my cloak further over my head, my feet like blocks of ice in my boots as I clambered up the Southwark bank.

Sidestepping discarded drift nets, I stared at an odd tableau ahead: fire pits tossing sizzling embers into the air and the smell of bacon thick. I could see crowds; as I approached, to my amazement a night fair burgeoned before me.

Divided by meandering narrow dirt lanes were tables under sagging tarps held up by ropes, laden with piles of tarnished platters, pyramids of goblets, threadbare carpets, faded tapestries, splintered knives, and old cloths. In the tarry light of the fire pits, street vendors and alewives circulated offering meat pies, pastries, and other foods while crowds mingled-mostly men, from what I could discern under their layers of clothing, but also some women, bold and strutting, all perusing the displays. The vendors hawked their wares with tireless enthusiasm, though in subdued tones more suited to a graveyard than a market site. It seemed no one wanted to alert the authorities.

I was careful to not draw attention, keeping my head lowered as I blended with the crowd. At first I mistook the jumbled silver pieces on a nearby stall for looted goods, though it struck me that surely such wealth could not have gone unreported, much less unconfiscated. Then I saw an upholstered prayer bench, complete with gilded angels on its carved frontispiece and worn velvet cushion for the knees. I paused. Beside it were heaps of torn book clasps, many of which had chipped enamel iconography, and a wood trough such as pigs might use, filled to the rim with coiled rosaries.

The fair was selling rapine from the monasteries.

The stall owner lumbered up to me-a potbellied, bearded man with pitted skin. He babbled at me in an incomprehensible language; it wasn’t until he was jabbing his finger at my chest and repeating his words that I suddenly understood he spoke English.

“Buy or go,” he said. “You no look here.”

For a moment, I couldn’t move. As I met the man’s yellowed eyes I had an unbidden recollection of a time now gone, a time I had never witnessed but had only heard about, when these holy refuges for the sick, weary, and poor once dominated the realm, until they fell prey to King Henry and his break with Rome.

I felt a sudden rush of heat, a searing desire to grab this man by the scruff of his jerkin and remind him that what he so callously sold as scrap had once been revered by hundreds of monks and nuns, who’d been turned out of their ancestral homes. I knew in some remote part of me that it was my grief and I mustn’t let it get the better of me. I could not indulge a meaningless altercation now, not when my real target lay ahead. Yet even as I fought to stay focused, I wrestled with my compassion for the queen. Mary had clung to her faith against all odds, unaware that what she sought to salvage had already been forsaken.