The Tudor Vendetta (29 page)

My only hope was to reach the bridge and somehow get myself out. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain afloat. The cold water stole through me; if I continued to thrash, I would exhaust my strength. Unclasping my cloak, I let it sink below me. I told myself to loosen my limbs, keep my head above water, and let the tide bring me close. Yet as it did, alarm fired my veins, for the sterling appeared enormous, built to withstand the river and protect the piers.

Still, I made a move toward it. Better to risk death by bashing against it than end up sucked under the bridge. I felt something tangle about my calves; as I reached down, submerging my head, my fingers strained, snagging on a net. I flung my head up, blinking water from my eyes. The bridge filled my entire being. I looked further to where the waterline lapped. There: a rusted hook attached to the net and embedded in the sterling. Breathing fast to quicken my blood, as Walsingham had taught me during those excruciating exercises in Brussels, I yanked on the net and employed it to drag myself closer.

The river pummeled me. I concentrated only on paddling forward, grasping section by section of net, until I was reaching out with one trembling hand to take the hook. Sharp pain sliced my palm. I cursed, swallowing more water, coughing and sputtering as I tightened my grip and with my other hand withdrew my poniard from its soaked sheath at my belt to slash the net enveloping my legs. I might cut myself, too, but every moment I tarried was one less I had to live.

Grasping the hook, I scrabbled up the sterling’s tiered side, my sodden boots slipping and catching on its roughened edge. There was a terrifying moment when I faltered and started to fall backward. With shoulder-searing effort, I heaved and collapsed, faceup, pooled in water, my belt with the sword in its scabbard snarled about my waist, digging into my ribs.

I gazed at the bridge’s underside as cold settled into my marrow. Within minutes, my teeth stared to chatter and I knew I had to move before I congealed where I lay. Hoisting myself to my feet, every part of me numb—which was a blessing, given how bruised I must be from the ordeal—I limped to the steps. The flight was narrow, none too safe, rising upward without any balustrade. Adjusting my belt, I climbed. Once I reached the top, I did not look down the dizzying drop to the river below, using my poniard to probe the wood beaming set into the stone framework for an opening. I eventually found it, pushing up a small trapdoor. Peering through it, I gazed upon the miniature city swathed in snow upon the bridge.

I saw no one abroad but could hear people within candle- and tallow-lit homes, the clatter of cutlery and occasional voice reprimanding a child. Unlike London itself, where night released a horde from its underworld—beggars, vagrants, and others taking to the streets along with packs of feral dogs—here a sense of calm prevailed, with hourly patrols from the northern and southern gates maintaining uneasy order. Fear of fire was always present. With so many buildings, some over six stories tall and all crammed together, an errant spark from a poorly tended hearth or toppled lantern could result in a holocaust that would ravage the only means of ground transport across the Thames.

I ducked into a nearby doorway, removing my boots and emptying them of water as best as I could. I could smell the river on me, a pungent stench. From where I stood, I could not see the gatehouse where Dudley waited, my view blocked by the folly of Nonesuch Palace, a gilded edifice whose jutting palisades straddled the bridge. But I was not far from Sybilla’s house and I crept toward it, keeping under eaves and hanging signs, unsure of when the patrols would next make their rounds.

Passing shuttered windows and doors behind which riotous laughter and the banging of fists on tables betrayed an illicit tavern, I kept watch for stray curs. I saw only a few, snuffling over piles of refuse; as I slipped past them, one lifted its muzzle, eyes opaque in the moonless night. It bared its teeth but made no move toward me.

The darkness turned the multitude of structures indistinguishable, balconies and walkways like webbing over the road, the passage ahead an endless tunnel. I could hear my boots slosh as I walked; nearing the closed haberdashery and doorway to the house, I paused to catch my breath. I had forgotten in my stealth how cold I truly was. Now the chill returned, making me shiver uncontrollably. I was in no state to contend with a Spanish agent, crippled or not.

Taking brief reprieve by the haberdashery, I surveyed the small upper-story window inset like a scar in the house’s façade. There was no sign of habitation, no flicker of candlelight. Yet he must be here, waiting. He had to know I would come.

I had no other choice but to enter. Setting my fingers on the latch, I slowly turned it. The door opened on well-oiled hinges.

My time of reckoning was at hand.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The parlor on the ground floor was empty and glacial as a tomb. Before me, a flight of rickety stairs led to the second floor. Standing still, the dripping of my clothes muted on the warped plank floor, I strained to hear any sounds. When I did not, I drew out my wet sword, wiped the blade on my breeches, and began to take the stairs, wincing at each groan and protest of the weathered treads, aware that I was announcing my presence as brazenly as if I had barged in shouting with Dudley and his guard at my back.

The door to the room was ajar, its contents shrouded by gloom—the cot and corner desk, a chair pushed against a peeling wall. It was as though nothing had transpired here, as if time had stood still between that moment years ago, when Sybilla had lunged at me with her blade drawn, and now, as I braced again for her assault, my breath coming fast and shallow, my sword held so tight that its pommel gouged my wounded palm.

There was no swift move in my direction, no rearing shadow. As I stepped over the threshold, swiping my blade, my vision began to adjust and I saw evidence of recent occupation: a pitcher on the desk, a tarnished platter and wood bowl. I blinked, my eyes burning from exposure to the vile river, and then I heard a muffled gasp.

Whirling around, I cried, “Show yourself!” As my voice echoed, the gasp became louder, a desperate wrenching sound. The chair facing the wall rocked slightly. I approached it with my heart in my throat; using my blade, I hooked the back of the chair. It was heavy and tall; as another sob issued from it I yanked it around to find a woman in a soiled gown bound to the seat, mouth gagged and unkempt tresses falling over her face. I recognized her at once.

“My lady Parry,” I breathed and I spun around again, thinking someone crept up behind me. When I saw we were alone, I pulled out the rag stuffed in her mouth. The crevices at either side of her lips were torn, jagged with scabs. Lady Parry had never been robust, and weeks of captivity had reduced her to colorless skin and bone. As she sagged in the chair, tears seeping down her sunken cheeks, I knelt before her and sawed at the ropes. Her skirts had protected her legs to some measure, but her wrists were raw from chaffing.

“My lady, please look at me,” I said gently. She had not seen who I was; as terror flared in her eyes, I said quickly, “It’s Master Prescott, the queen’s man. I am here to see you safe.”

She whimpered, reached out an imploring hand.

“Can you stand?” I started to assist her but she shook her head. She was too weak. “I must send someone for you,” I said. “The person who did this: Where is he?”

She shook her head again, seemingly unable to formulate words. Then she clutched at my sleeve, her fingers sharp as bird claws. “The child,” she whispered. A desperate sob escaped her. “I tried to resist…”

“Where is he?” My voice rose in urgency. “Where did he take him?”

Lowering her face, she began to sob. “The saint’s crypt … You must save him.”

I raced back down the stairs into the street, my heels pounding on the roadway as I ran to the northern gatehouse. Dudley and his guard had already come through the gate; standing by his horse with reins in hand, Dudley whirled on me. “How dare you make me wait like a menial—”

“Lady Parry,” I interrupted. “She is here! She needs help.”

To his credit, Dudley reacted at once. “Where?” he barked as the guard drew his sword.

Breathless, I explained the house’s location; as the guard raced toward it, Dudley took in my sodden appearance. “Did you swim here?”

I grimaced. “That is of no consequence. Where is the saint’s crypt?”

He frowned.

“The crypt,” I said. “Quickly, man, before it is too late! The boy is there.”

Dudley looked utterly bewildered. Just as I was about to stride past him to ask the wide-eyed sentries watching us from the gate, he exclaimed, “The crypt of Thomas Becket. It is by the ninth pier, toward the middle of the bridge. Pilgrims used to stop there on their way into the city, but it was closed after the break with Rome— Damn you, Prescott. Wait for me!”

I shoved him aside and vaulted onto his horse, swerving it about. Digging my heels into it, I galloped away, Dudley’s cries for me to halt swallowed by the swirling snow in the air.

The clangor of hooves echoed in my ears as I rode to the chapel. A group of drunken men staggered from one of the drinking holes; they wagged fists at me as I plowed through their midst, narrowly missing them as they threw themselves out of my way.

The chapel sat huddled over the pier: an egglike structure with pointed spires and arched stained-glass windows, with delicate stone tracery and figures of saints and disembodied crowned heads carved over its portico. A crenellated turret faced the street on the bridge; the chapel itself clung to the side of the pier and stood on the sterling below. I heard the river funneling through the pier as I leapt from Dudley’s horse and yanked out my sword.

Behind me, the horse was breathing hard from our brief but intense ride; the roar of the river below dampened all other sounds. Approaching the chapel’s double doors within the portico, I braced myself. I had never been inside this place, had no idea what to expect. But the message was clear enough: This was a sacred house of worship, dedicated to a bishop who’d been canonized after he was murdered for defying his sovereign, his chapel shuttered since King Henry confiscated the Church’s wealth. Here, the sins of the past were symbolized by a sacrosanct place that had been defiled by Elizabeth’s own father.

Though not a gesture I often indulged, I crossed myself and then pushed on the door. It was locked. Rounding the chapel, I searched for another entrance. Godwin had brought Raff here, so he must want me to enter; it was the final stage in his plan but he was not going to facilitate my entry. He knew I would be armed, ready to do whatever was required to save Raff. He had to challenge me first, sap my strength. Then, only then, would he engage.

Pressed against the side of the bridge, I espied a broken windowpane in the lower set of windows. It was hardly large enough for a child, let alone a man, and too high to reach. I gauged the chapel wall. A residue of moss from the ever-encroaching damp of the Thames coated the exterior. Enterprising bridge-dwellers had exploited the chapel’s neglect to remove pieces of the outer stonework themselves, leaving a patchwork of misshapen holes. Could I climb up?

Sheathing my sword, I took hold of the stone wedges and fitted the tips of my boots into the crevices and indents; the mortar joining the stones was crumbly, wet from the recent snowfall. As I dug in, I was able to widen some of the holes, enough to gain precarious foothold.

Pressed flat against the chapel, my fingers clinging to the shallow indents around the stones, I began to ascend, resisting the flare of pain in my battered body, summoning my reserves of strength until I was close enough to the broken window to grasp its sill. Slivers of broken glass razed my fingers; my gauntlets were gone, lost during my fight to survive the river. Clenching my teeth, I hoisted myself upward and closed my eyes, then used the hilt of my poniard to smash at the glass, wincing as it shattered and fell in a shower of colored shards, widening the aperture. I felt a piercing slice across my brow, the warm spurt of blood. With a final thrust of my legs, I rammed myself bodily through the window, breaking the leading, and with a gasp tumbled through it into a void.

It was not a long fall but it had enough impact to knock the air from me. I lay stunned, panting and staring up at the crisscrossed stone vaults above.

Staggering to my feet, I saw that I stood on a black-and-white tile floor, smeared with dust and grime. I swiped my sleeve across my brow, spraying scarlet droplets. The cut on my brow was probably not deep but it stung horribly. Wiping blood from my eyes, I looked around.

The chapel had been lovely once, adorned with all the incense-fragrant trappings of a faith that relied on glorious manifestations of wealth to exalt its fervor, but not much remained of its glory now. Submerged in shadow interspersed by shifting opalescence filtering through the stained-glass windows, the chapel of St. Thomas stood barren. Gaping tombs in the walls, intended for wealthy patrons entitled to rest here for eternity, were ransacked. As I moved to the altar, I nearly tripped over a skeleton in rotting velvet tumbled across the floor, the upended slab of a nearby sarcophagus broken in half. Thieves had come inside, scavenging whatever could be taken in the wake of Queen Mary’s death.

Nearing the apse, where a faded fresco high above was barely discernible, I caught sight of an open entryway to the side. Faint illumination issued from within. With my dagger in hand, I approached cautiously, straining to hear anything that might precede an impending attack. Past the threshold, a staircase led down into darkness, a moldering scent wafting from the unseen space below. A torch sputtered in a sconce at the top of the stairs—a courtesy, I thought grimly, or a distraction? I seized it anyway, using it to light my way as I crept down the stairs.

The crypt opened before me. It too was vaulted, though here the ceiling was lower—an enclosed but surprisingly large space, permeated by damp but not wet, despite the fact that this part of the chapel sat on the river and the Thames’s high tide would brim at its very skirts.