The Tudor Conspiracy (2 page)

“I’m so sorry to have worried you and Lady Mildred,” Kate now said. “I’ve wanted to visit, but-” She turned to me, taking my hand in hers. Cecil glanced down with apparent indifference at our clasped fingers, though he could hardly have missed the inference. “Time just got away from us,” Kate went on. “Didn’t it, Brendan?” She smiled at me. “Lately it seems we haven’t enough hours in the day. The house always need so much work.”

“I can imagine it,” Cecil said. “And I don’t wish to be an imposition, though I was hoping to stay for supper. I brought a meat pie and jar of honey. I left them with Mistress Ashley.” He smiled warmly at Kate. “I remembered how you used to love honey from our hives when you were a girl.”

“Oh, how kind of you! Yes, I’ll see to it at once.” Kate glanced again at me; my stomach knotted. It took all I could muster to say dryly, “Indeed. How could we refuse?”

Cecil met my gaze. He hadn’t missed the undertone in my voice. I already knew there was more to his visit than mere worry over Kate’s health.

“A moment, if you will,” I said to him, and I guided Kate a short distance away, leaving Peregrine to glare at Cecil. In a taut voice, I asked her, “What is this about?
Why
is he here? And why didn’t you tell me he was coming?”

“Just heed him,” Kate said. “It’s important.”

I went still. “Is it about…?”

“Yes.” She put a finger to my lips, preempting my eruption. “You can berate me later, but for now I’ll leave you two alone so I can see to supper. Try not to hit him, yes?” She turned about with a bright smile, gesturing to Peregrine. As she herded him out, Peregrine glared over his shoulder at Cecil.

“Judging by the look on your face, and your little friend’s reaction, I assume you’d rather I wasn’t here,” he remarked.

“And I see you haven’t lost your acuity. What do you want?”

He smiled, moving to the window seat. “You’re looking fit,” he said. “You’ve put on weight. The air here at Hatfield suits you, it seems.”

“Better than the court,” I replied. I concentrated on keeping an impassive stance. Cecil was an expert dissimulator; he knew how to get under my skin. I could already sense him gauging me, assessing how this time of seclusion, of early mornings and earlier nights, had transformed me so that I no longer resembled the callow youth he’d lured into informing against the Dudleys. “You haven’t answered my question,” I said.

“I came to see you.” He sat. “Kate sent me a note, but I wrote to her first. I told her I had important news to impart. She returned word that I should present myself.”

“You could have written to me.”

“Yes, I could have. But would you have replied?”

“Depends.” I eyed him. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

To his credit, Cecil looked discomfited. “I would not have come were it not a matter of urgency, I assure you. I’ve no desire to cause you any more trouble than I already have.”

“Is that so?” I asked, and as we faced each other for the first time since the tumultuous events that had first brought us together, I reflected on the irony that two such antithetical men could hide such powerful secrets about each other. For only I knew how ruthlessly Cecil had acted to destroy his former master, Northumberland, and protect Elizabeth, just as only Cecil knew the truth of who I was.

I tensed as Cecil shifted aside the pile of books on the window seat and perched on the cushions. He picked up one of the volumes, perusing it. “I see that besides your swordsmanship, you’ve taken to studying Spanish and French. Quite a formidable endeavor, if I do say so myself. One might think you’re preparing for something.”

I had to school myself to meet the impact of his pale blue eyes. Enough had gone between us for me to know I’d always be on the short end of the mallet when it came to Cecil. Even now, as he stood poised against the window embrasure as if he were still holding audience in his London manor, his power and influence vast, though rarely exercised in public, I felt a shudder pass through me as I contemplated everything he was capable of.

I clenched my jaw. “Lest you forget, I now serve Princess Elizabeth. I am not your informant anymore, so get to the point. What is this urgent matter?”

He inclined his head. As usual, his matter-of-fact air didn’t do justice to the exigency that must have propelled him to Hatfield. Still, his opening volley took me off guard.

“Have you any word from Her Grace?”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with my sweat-dampened chemise. “Not recently. We had a short letter from her a month or so ago, saying she was staying on at court through Twelfth Night. We assumed the queen had invited her to stay.”

Cecil arched his brow. “Oh, she is staying, but not because she was invited. Mary has ordered her to remain at court.” He paused. “Do I have your interest?” He reached into his satchel to remove a sheaf of papers. “These are reports I recently received from an informant. I assumed that under the circumstances, you wouldn’t take my word for it.”

I crossed my arms with deliberate nonchalance, hiding my disquiet.

“Elizabeth is in danger,” he said. “Grave danger, according to these reports.”

I took a moment to meet his gaze. I found no deception there, no conniving. He looked both troubled and sincere. Then again, he was a master at hiding his motives.

“In danger?” I repeated. “And you have an informant at court who told you this? Who is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He untied the leather cord binding the sheaf. “These reports started arriving a month or so ago-all anonymous, all in the same hand.” He extended one of the papers to me; as I took it, he added, “That’s the last one. It arrived about a week ago. You can see the paper is a common grain, like the others, but I believe the man who wrote these reports must be employed at court. His information indicates proximity to the events he describes. Look at the handwriting: It’s orderly but not overly literate; a secretary or notary, perhaps.”

I scanned the report. The writing reminded me with a jolt of the neat lettering I’d often seen in the castle account ledgers kept by Archie Shelton, the Dudley family steward. Shelton had trained me to be his apprentice. He also first brought me to court to serve as a squire to Lord Robert Dudley, plunging me into danger.

I tore myself away from the memory. “I don’t understand,” I said, looking up at Cecil. “This is an account of Queen Mary receiving a Spanish delegation to offer the Emperor Charles V’s congratulations on her coronation. Why is that unusual? The emperor is a fellow sovereign.”

“Turn it over,” he said. “The page. Turn it upside down, and hold it up to the light.”

I went to the windowpane and pressed the paper against it. I had to focus, but then I began to see them: translucent white lines, surfacing like ghosts between the inked ones.

There was another letter, hidden within the letter.

I squinted. “I can’t make it out. The words are too faded.”

“The special ink he used is activated by lemon juice,” Cecil explained. “It’s a familiar ploy, and I’m ashamed to admit it took me a while to figure it out. Clearly this is not the work of a trained spy. At first, I thought someone was playing a trick on me, in rather poor taste, sending me reports of seemingly innocuous events at court. But as they kept arriving, I started to get suspicious. Fortunately, Lady Mildred always keeps on hand the juice of preserved lemons from our orchard.” He met my stare. “I have transcribed everything for you here, on this paper. What that invisible letter says is that unofficially, the Spanish delegation brought Charles V’s secret offer of marriage to his son, Prince Philip.”

“Philip?” I started. “As in, the prince of Spain?”

“The same. And the emperor is more than a fellow sovereign: He is the queen’s first cousin, whom she’s always treated as a family confidant. She relies on his advice. Should she accept his offer of marriage to his son, one of the terms of the betrothal will be returning England to the Catholic faith. Charles V will tolerate nothing less. It also goes without saying that a rapprochement with Rome would be calamitous for every Protestant in this realm, and most of all for Elizabeth.”

He picked up the page on which he’d transcribed the invisible words from the reports. “See here. ‘Her Majesty heeds exclusively the imperial ambassador, Simon Renard, who deems Elizabeth a bastard and heretic, and menace to the queen.’” He glanced up at me. “They’re all in this vein: two or three secret lines per report, yet taken together they present an undeniable picture.”

My heart started to pound. Cecil might be a liar, but when it came to Elizabeth he was nothing if not thorough. She meant everything to him; she was the reason he persisted, the beacon that guided him through the shoals of his disgrace, as the fall of Northumberland had been his fall as well, for Queen Mary had exiled him from court.

“Her Majesty doesn’t strike me as someone who is easily swayed by others,” I said.

“Yes, she is like her father that way; she makes up her own mind. But she is also the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, a princess of Spain, and Simon Renard represents Spanish interests. He has served the Hapsburg emperor Charles V for many years, and she takes his advice seriously. If Renard is advising that Elizabeth poses a threat to her faith and her desire for a Hapsburg marriage, nothing could be more calculated to rouse her suspicions. After all, religion is the queen’s lodestone. She believes God himself guided her through her vicissitudes to the throne. Elizabeth is a Protestant; she stands in direct opposition to everything Mary hopes to achieve, including returning England to the Catholic fold.”

Alarm went through me. “Are you saying this man Renard seeks the princess’s arrest?”

“And her death,” replied Cecil. “It can mean nothing else. With Elizabeth out of the way, the succession is to Prince Philip and Mary’s future child. An heir of Hapsburg blood to rule England and unite us with the empire, thereby encircling the French-it is Charles V’s dream. Renard is a career civil servant; he knows whoever delivers that dream stands to gain a great deal.”

I stared at him, aghast. “But the queen would not harm her. Elizabeth is her sister and…” My protest faded as I took in Cecil’s expression. “Dear God, do you think he has any proof against her?”

“Besides accusations whispered in the queen’s ear? No, not yet. But that doesn’t mean he shan’t be long in obtaining it. Make no mistake: Simon Renard is a tenacious opponent. When he sets his mind to something, he will not stop until he achieves it.”

I clearly heard the soughing of the evening wind rising outside. I took a moment to collect my thoughts before I said quietly, “What is it you want from me?”

He smiled. “What else? I want you to go to court and stop Renard. You earned Queen Mary’s trust when you risked yourself to help her escape Northumberland’s coup. She would welcome you. Gain a post in her service and you can beat Renard at his own game.”

I let out a terse laugh. “Just like that? I return to court and the queen grants me hearth and board, and a post to boot?” My mirth faded. “Do you think me a complete fool?”

“On the contrary, I think you have a flair for this work, as previous events have shown.” He glanced at the pile of books by his side, now overlaid by his reports. “I do not believe this rural life can satisfy you for long, not with so much important work yet to do.”

His unexpected insight stung me, more than I cared to admit. I didn’t relish his knowing things he had no right to. I didn’t want him inside my head.

“The last time I accepted an assignment from you,” I said, “I almost perished.”

“Yes.” Cecil met my regard. “A spy does run that risk. But you prevailed, and rather well, I might add, all things considered. This time, at least you’ll be prepared and know who your foe is. You will also return to court under the alias I gave you when you first met Mary. You will be Daniel Beecham, and his return is unlikely to arouse much interest.”

He rose from the window seat, leaving the reports on my books. “You needn’t answer me now. Read the reports and consider whether you can afford to ignore them.”

I didn’t want to read his reports. I didn’t want to care. Nonetheless, he had already lured me to his bait. He stirred something in me that I could not evade-a restlessness that had plagued me ever since I had left court for this safe haven.

Cecil knew it. He knew this terrible craving in me because he also felt it.

“I still must talk to Kate about this-” I started to say. I stopped, noting his impatient frown. “She already knows, doesn’t she? She knows you want to send me back to court.”

“She’s no fool, and she cares for you-rather deeply, it would seem. But she also understands that in matters such as these, time is often the one commodity we lack.”

I clenched my jaw. I thought of Kate’s enthusiastic cajoling of me to master the sword, her determination for me to excel. She must have suspected a day would come when I’d be compelled to return to court in defense of Elizabeth.

“I should wash up before supper,” said Cecil. “I assume you’ll have more questions after you read these. I can stay the night, but tomorrow I must return to my manor.”

“I haven’t said I agree to anything.”

“No, not yet,” he replied. “But you will.”

Outside the window the gray sky leached into the colorless winter landscape, blurring the demarcation between air and land. Gazing toward the forest, where bare trees swayed in the snow-flecked wind, I felt this haven, this place of refuge for me, begin to fade away inexorably, like a brief, idyllic dream.

I turned to the window seat and took up the reports. There were six total, and though I pressed each one to the glass, in the ebbing afternoon light it was difficult-impossible, in some cases-to decipher everything written between the inked lines. Cecil’s concise transcription, however, confirmed what he’d told me: It appeared the Spanish ambassador Simon Renard had sowed fear in the queen regarding Elizabeth’s ultimate loyalty to her, using the princess’s Protestant faith to tarnish her reputation and implicate her in something dangerous enough to warrant her arrest. What that something was, the informant did not say, probably because he didn’t know. There were various mentions of one Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, a nobleman who apparently had befriended the princess. I made a mental note to ask Cecil about this Courtenay.