The Tudor Conspiracy (25 page)

A chill overcame me. “Perhaps she has no wish to wed Feria, then.”

“No wish?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Women like her have
every
wish. Feria will make her a duchess, which is quite a step up from being the ambassador’s whore.”

An invisible noose coiled about my throat. “That’s a strong accusation. I understood that he was her patron and moreover that she is of noble blood. Her father and brothers perished defending the Church during the Pilgrimage of Grace.”

Jane sniffed. “Is that what she told you? I suppose it does carry a ring of truth, if you don’t know the real story. But most do not, and those who do don’t care to recall otherwise, given her proximity to Renard. But Lady Clarencieux certainly does; she remembers when Master Darrier, Sybilla’s father, was one of those up-and-coming men who got rich under Lord Cromwell-a lawyer, like Cromwell himself, who inventoried the monasteries once they’d been slated for closure. He made his fortune pillaging like a pirate, building his estate with gold he never reported to the treasury. When Cromwell fell, so did Darrier. He was executed, yes, but not for defending our Church. He was drawn and quartered like a common criminal because he had stolen from the king.”

I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. I saw Sybilla in my mind, her heavy tresses of hair draping over me, her body writhing …

“And her brothers?”

She shrugged. “Who knows if they even exist? If they do, they did not die in York, I can assure you. Of everything Mistress Darrier says, the only verifiable truth is that she, her mother, and her sister fled England to escape the king’s wrath, no doubt with some of the Darrier wealth stashed in their underlinens. After all, they had to have something, to gain entrance to the Hapsburg court. Empresses don’t take on paupers to be ladies-in-waiting.”

I couldn’t move another step, coming to an appalled halt. Sybilla had lied to me. She had deliberately misrepresented her situation. What I didn’t understand yet was why.

“She was actually telling Feria that same tragic tale when you came into the gallery with your dying squire,” Jane went on, oblivious to my discomfort. “I tell you, she was not convincing and not pleased by your interruption. Oh, I’ll give her this much: She’s a fine feast for the eye, if you care for her sort, but Feria will regret having agreed to Renard’s terms. A woman like her-all she can bring a man in the end is perdition.”

I had to restrain myself from grabbing hold of her, bombarding her with questions she’d have no answers for.

“Do I offend?” Jane asked, taking note of my silence. “I merely thought you should be forewarned. She’s not who you think she is. She is hardly a respectable person. To steal another woman’s betrothed and give a dog as consolation is not a respectable thing to do.”

She’d reverted to being a wronged adolescent, railing against the wiles of an older, more experienced woman. I gave her a vague nod, my mind awhirl. “Yes,” I murmured. “I agree it is not respectable. I appreciate your candor. You’ve been very kind to me.”

“I like you. I think it a pity you’ve nothing to commend you save the queen’s favor.”

I cleared my throat, turning my attention to the gallery we entered, the carved wainscoting and elaborate plaster decorations edging a coffered ceiling marred by damp stains. “I’ve never seen this part of the palace,” I said, as I tried to get my mind around what she had told me, trying to fit the fragments into some cohesive design. Why would Sybilla mislead me? Had she hoped to incite my pity, perhaps? It could be that she still sought to escape Renard’s hold on her; nothing Jane Dormer said had negated that. Maybe she thought the truth less compelling than a fabricated past, guaranteed to evoke sympathy in a man like me.

Jane said, “This part of Whitehall is rarely used.” She paused. “Lady Elizabeth insisted on staying here, I’m told. Apparently the apartments used to be hers when her father was alive and she came to visit him at court.”

Remote and empty, without the ubiquitous legions of courtiers or servants, the gallery before me offered a spectacular view of the river but little else. The cold was palpable as we came before a sturdy door adorned with faded gilt. There were no guards; as I rapped on the wood panel, the sound echoed. Scuffling on the door’s other side preceded its tentative opening and a tremulous “Yes? Who is it?”

I recognized Blanche Parry. “Master Beecham. I bring word for the Lady Elizabeth.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Blanche didn’t know my alias, I suddenly thought, and as I heard her urgent inquiry of someone nearby, I turned to Jane. “Please inform Her Majesty that I’ll escort Her Grace back as soon as she’s ready.”

She pouted. I recalled how she’d suggested that Elizabeth would do better to submit to the queen and realized she’d been looking forward to witnessing the princess’s humiliation. It saddened me that a girl with so much to live for had already imbibed the venom of the court, where reveling in another’s disgrace was a coveted pastime.

“Very well,” she said unconvincingly, and she walked away, glancing over her shoulder as I waited for the door to be unbolted. When she was far enough away that she couldn’t possibly overhear, I said, “Mistress Parry, it’s Brendan. Open up.”

The locks immediately slid back to reveal the haggard face of Elizabeth’s trusted lady, the matron upon whom, after Mistress Ashley, she most relied. Mistress Parry had been in service to the princess since Elizabeth was a babe. Though not old-no more than forty-six-she looked ancient, her eyes hollowed from sleeplessness, graying hair escaping her hood. With a clawlike hand she yanked me into the room and slammed the door shut, bolting it again as if she feared an invasion.

“What is happening?’ she asked anxiously. “Tell me. Are they going to arrest her?”

I shook my head. Urian dashed up to me, shoving his long muzzle into my hand, demanding to be petted. As I caressed him, I surveyed the chamber. It boasted a magnificent oriel window that let in plenty of light, floor-to-ceiling tapestries, carpets underfoot, and fine furniture. Scattered about were traveling chests, into which a perspiring young maid was emptying armfuls of clothing, candlesticks, and other possessions. Except for her and Mistress Parry, I saw no other women or attendants.

I turned back to Mistress Parry. “Where are her ladies?”

“Gone.” She gave a fretful sigh. I could see the poor woman was about to leap out of her skin. “Her Grace is in her bedchamber; she was taking her exercise in the gallery, as she does every morning, when one of those insufferable women came to tell her that the Earl of Devon would be arrested. As soon as the others heard, they ran off, like rats from a ship, leaving Her Grace alone. She told us to start packing. Then she locked herself in her room. She thinks they’re coming for her next. Are they?”

“Not yet,” I said, and I moved to a narrow door I assumed led to the bedchamber, Urian at my heels. Mistress Parry warned, “She won’t see anyone.”

I knocked on the door. “Your Grace? It’s me. Let me in.”

No response. I knocked again. “You must open. I bring word from Her Majesty.”

After a tense moment, I heard a key turn and pushed the door open onto a small bedchamber, suffused in darkness. There was no window or candles; only a rush light on a side table, which cast more smoke than illumination. As light from the outside seeped in, I saw an unmade tester bed and another coffer on the floor. Elizabeth crouched there, a heap of books at her side. She appeared to be looking through them, putting some in the coffer and discarding others. Another maid stood nearby with a frightened look; she must have unlocked the door.

I waved her out, keeping the door ajar. Urian padded over to Elizabeth and whimpered. She petted him absently, her hair tangled about her face; under the hem of her dark skirt, I glimpsed slim bare feet. The chamber was icy, yet she wore no shoes.

“Don’t,” she said, before I could open my mouth. “I don’t want to hear it. I need to decide which of these books I can take with me into the Tower.”

“You’re not going to the Tower.” I stepped to her, lowering my voice even as I heard Mistress Parry marshaling the two maids in the outer chamber.

Elizabeth turned to me, her eyes black in her ashen face. “Is she sending me to the scaffold instead?”

“She’s sending you from court. I know not where. But before she does-”

“She’ll question me. Am I to submit to her interrogation before the entire court?”

I did not answer. I returned her stare until she looked away. She pretended to go back to her books. Then I heard her say, “If she sent you, then I can assume you haven’t lost her favor. Does that mean our other matter is resolved?”

“Yes. I delivered letters to Her Majesty. I am responsible for Courtenay’s arrest.” I paused. “But not Dudley. For the moment, he is safe-though he doesn’t merit it.”

She drew in a stifled breath and turned her sharp gaze back to me. “And my letter?”

“It was not there. Dudley must have kept it.”

Her eyes narrowed. She searched my face. “Did he do that to you?”

“Among others. But he took the brunt of it.”

Her mouth twitched; it was almost a smile. “I take it he wasn’t pleased to see you.”

“You might say that. He blames me for everything that has befallen him and his family. He vowed that when the time comes, he’ll see me pay for it.”

She nodded. “It’s to be expected. Robert was never one to accept responsibility if he could blame someone else.” She stood, her gown crinkled. “So,” she said, “with all his threats and bluster, did he tell you everything?”

“Most of it, but I don’t know how much to believe. That, too, I suppose, is to be expected.” Then, before I could stop myself, I added, “Why? Why did you do this?”

This time, her smile crept across her lips. “I think you already know. Or if you don’t, Cecil did. It’s why he sent you. He could not have expected me to wait for Renard to put an end to me? I did what I had to. I don’t regret it. I only regret that I put those I care about in harm’s way.” She brought a hand to her throat. “I was saddened to hear of Peregrine,” she said. “I would never have allowed it to go so far had I known the price you would pay.”

“He paid it. I wish it were otherwise.” I met her eyes. “It’s not over yet. Renard is enraged. He will do whatever he can to see you dead. You are still in danger.”

Her gaze turned inward. She reached to her bed for her discarded slippers; their rose silk ribbons tangled about her slim fingers. “I’ve been in danger from the day my sister became queen. Our past is something she can never forgive or forget. If she does not harm me today, she will eventually. Nothing is more certain.”

With the echo of Sybilla’s words in my head, I watched Elizabeth move to her tarnished glass to gauge her appearance. “Is that all you want to ask of me? Speak now, for I’ll not tolerate it later. Or have I so disillusioned that you wish to now serve my sister instead?”

“I pledged myself to you. After everything I’ve done, can you still doubt me?”

She turned from the glass. Though she didn’t say a word, I saw in her eyes the momentary fracturing of her reserve.

“I will never leave you,” I told her, “not willingly.”

She bit her lip. “Mistress Parry,” she called out. Her matron bustled in.

“It seems we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Elizabeth said. “I must attend my sister the queen and request leave to depart court. I don’t think she’ll let us get as far as Hatfield,” she added, glancing at me, “but perhaps my house at Ashridge will be acceptable.” She gave a sudden shiver, sole indication of the fear she must harbor deep inside. “I’ll implore on my knees, if need be. Fetch my white gown. I must look … penitent.”

Mistress Parry nodded, hurrying back into the anteroom.

Elizabeth fixed her gaze on me. “We still have time. Robert wouldn’t keep my letter, not because he cares anything for you but because he would not see me harmed. He has many faults, yes, and desires too much, but never my death. If my letter is missing, then someone else must have it.”

I pivoted immediately to the door.

“Wait,” she said. I looked over my shoulder. “Do whatever it takes,” she whispered. “No matter the cost, Renard must never get hold of it. If he does, it will indeed be over-for all of us.”

I strode through the outer chamber, startling Mistress Parry as she went to the princess with her gown. Only once I was alone in the gallery did I let myself pause, leaning against a wall to force out the air lodged like barbs in my chest.

I knew who had taken Elizabeth’s letter.

A few moments later, the princess emerged. In silver-white satin, with her hair loose under a simple crescent headdress, she looked almost serene. I tried to focus only on escorting her through the palace to the queen’s wing, even as urgency pounded in my blood, making it difficult not to abandon her and begin my frantic search for the woman I now believed had deceived me far more than I could have ever imagined.

Mary waited in her audience chamber, bedecked in a jewel-encrusted gown that swamped her thin figure, surrounded by terse black-robed councillors. After Elizabeth dropped to a curtsy, the queen motioned brusquely and turned without a word to march into the council room with the councillors behind her. Elizabeth did not look at me; she went into that room alone, her chin high, as if she truly had nothing to hide.

The door shut. Immediately, the queen’s women began to whisper. I avoided their questioning gazes. I had already seen Sybilla was still not among them, but she must be somewhere. She couldn’t have escaped yet, not from London. Where would she hide? She must have taken the letter from the folder before she brought it to me; perhaps she thought that as long as she had it, she’d have something to barter with, in case Renard discovered her ploy and her own life was placed in danger.