The Tudor Vendetta (30 page)

A sinking in my stomach overcame me as I lifted the torch higher.

The crypt was empty.

“Where are you?” I heard myself whisper. “Miserable villain, show yourself.”

An odd clicking sound reached me, echoing into the crypt. I spun about, the torch wavering in my hand, casting erratic light and causing shadows to leap across the far walls.

A figure appeared from a distant doorway, coming slowly, the tapping of its cane on the stone floor reverberating in my ears. I edged backward as it shrugged aside the dark, resolving into a figure in a black doublet, breeches, and hose, legs sheathed in boots. Only as I stared did I see its left leg twisted inward.

It was the tutor Godwin—yet as he neared, to my simultaneous shock and horror, I saw that it was not.

“At long last,” said Sybilla Darrier. Her husky voice clutched me like a talon. “You have passed every test. Impressive.” She halted a short distance away, leaning on her cane. I had to lift the torch again, to avoid the flame blinding me, though I exposed my torso to her.

Her face wavered in the light, marked by those indigo eyes even more pronounced now in her near-waxen visage. She was still beautiful, even if I would never have recognized her had I passed her on the street, her once-lush blond hair shorn close to her skull, her cheekbones angular, her loss of flesh adding to her illusion. I realized now what had eluded me: She
was
Godwin. She had deceived us all, passing for a slender, strange young man who had seduced Agnes and Lady Philippa, hoodwinking Lord Vaughan and everyone else in the manor.

There was no other Spanish agent. It had always been her.

“Where is the boy?” My voice was calm, though I still was having trouble reconciling myself to what I saw, my entire being breaking out in cold sweat, the pounding of my heart making it feel as if it might burst from my chest. I was face-to-face with the very woman who had haunted my dreams, whose betrayal I agonized over and death I had so fervently wanted to believe and deny.

She canted her head, as if in puzzlement. “Boy?”

“Yes.” I leveled my blade at her. “You took him. Where is he?”

“Are you so eager to conclude our game? We have only just started. You must have questions only I can answer.”

“No game. No questions. It is over. If I must, I will kill you myself.
Where is he?
”

“You will kill me?” Her mockery rang out. It made the hairs on my nape stand on end, for it was still her laughter, still imbued with all its seductive power. “Have you not heard? I am already dead. I have been dead for years.” Clenching her cane with her left hand, she spread her right arm wide. “Go on, then. Kill me. Only this time,” she said, her voice lowering, “make sure you do not fail.”

I met her eyes. “Tell me. What must I do to save him?”

“Not so fast. As you can see, I am not the opponent I used to be. You took that from me.”

“I won,” I said, fighting back the urge to lunge at her and finish it. “If you had had your way, you would not have hesitated to see me to my grave.”

“I did try. But I concede your victory. I conceded it on this very bridge, the day I leapt from your pursuit. I could have fought you to the death. Instead, I let you save your princess.”

“You did not concede. You never will. You and your master, Philip of Spain—you will do everything you can to see her topple from her throne.”

She chuckled. “Yes, I believe we understand each other. Yet I so enjoyed our time together.…” She let her innuendo charge the air with the memory of our shared passion and loss. “Did you think of me at all, during those years you hid abroad? Did you ever wonder if they dragged the river to find me, the woman whose skin you coveted? Because I thought of you when I made it to shore, my leg shattered, near-dead from the cold. I thought of you when the boatman who found me took pity and for the few coins in my cloak brought me to Renard. I thought of you every hour of every day in the months it took me to learn to walk again.”

“You knew,” I said, trembling. “Renard … he was the one who told you about me.”

“He did. Oh, you were careless. You confided in Mary—and she was distraught. She dared not kill her sister now, not with you waiting in the wings, another threat. Eventually, she went to Renard. You are fortunate indeed that Cecil had contacts at court to warn him and knew the time had come to send you away. Renard’s men lost track of you in the swarm of refugees escaping Mary’s persecution, but I knew it was a matter of time before you would return. You never could stray far from Elizabeth’s side. And time was all I needed.”

Hoisting the torch into a bracket in the pillar beside me, I sheathed my poniard at my belt and withdrew my sword. The damp hiss of its release brought a smile to her lips. I realized that I should not indulge her in meaningless confessions; I had the advantage. She was crippled; she could not fight me physically, not as she once had. But she had Raff; I could not risk killing her until I established where he was. Once I did, she would not leave this crypt alive. I had longed for this hour from the moment she plunged from the bridge: to see her again, to have all my questions answered. But like everything else between us, her truth was twisted, monstrous.

“How did you find him?” I asked.

“How else? Elizabeth herself led us to him. After Mary released her from the Tower, she had her lover Dudley sell off some of her lands. Philip ordered her watched closely in case she betrayed herself—as she did. Even under house arrest, she did not cease to scheme and entrusted the funds from those lands to her Lady Parry.”

“You followed Lady Parry…?”

“Alas,” she sighed, “I could not, for I was still too weak. But Renard had her messenger followed and once he deduced where the money was being sent, he had the man intercepted. The funds were lost. Elizabeth must have been beside herself but she could not risk sending money again, not until she took the throne. In the meantime, Renard made inquiries. When he learned Lady Vaughan had a sister in London, it was almost too easy. The queen was dying; Renard could not hide me anymore, for he received word of his recall to Spain. Seeing as Lady Vaughan’s family had suffered as mine had, a discreet recommendation was all it took. Lady Browne referred me to Vaughan Hall. Thus did I become Master Godwin.”

“But you did not find the child, though he was there all the time.”

Triumph colored her voice. “Oh, I found him.”

For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. Then I breathed: “The box of gloves—you sent it to rouse my suspicion, using the same poison that killed my squire. You taunted
me.
”

“As I said, you passed every test. You suspected from the start, did you not? How it must have tormented you, the fear I might still be alive. You must have thought you were going mad.”

Without answering, I passed my gaze over her. A pulse beat at the base of her throat, visible under the lacings of her collar. I also noticed something else: The tips of her boots were shiny in the torchlight. Wet. She had been outside.

“Let the child go,” I said. “He is not to blame for our sins.”

“Do you think I ever cared about him? He is the bastard son of a bastard queen: He means nothing to me. Had you not tried to save him, he would still be mucking out stables. I only took Lady Parry to ensure Elizabeth would send you to investigate; I knew she would, for whom else could she trust with her misdeeds? You were always her most loyal creature.”

“You lie.” I clenched my sword in my fist, resisting the urge to ram it into her. “You left a letter in that box telling her who I was. You wanted me dead.”

“It was a test, another part of the game! My letter was in her own cipher; it was a challenge to see how long it would take before she realized it, but I never doubted you would find her secret first. She was never as clever as you. Now, you are revealed for who you are and as soon as you deliver her bastard to her, she will see you to your death.” Her voice drove at me, harsh and unrelenting. “Do you know how many believe she is the by-blow of an incestuous whore, with no right to wear the crown? Her own sister Mary believed it. Yes, Mary thought Elizabeth was not her sister at all. But you—
you
are the son of a Tudor princess. Mary believed your claim, as did Renard. You will come with me to Spain, where King Philip can exalt you as this realm’s rightful sovereign. He will build an armada for you, take this land by force, and set you in her place. You will be king.” She paused. “If you refuse, the boy dies.”

I held on to every shred of will to contain the fury cresting inside me, the savage need to rent her apart, to bathe myself in her blood. I had told Elizabeth the truth; Philip had indeed sought to use a secret against her, but I had been wrong in my assumption that it was Raff.

I was the secret. I was the weapon.

“And if I do not accept?” I said. “No matter what Philip does, he cannot force me.”

“Now, who is the one who lies? You cannot deny your fate. I have seen how much you hunger for it; I have tasted it. It is the very reason you survive.” Anticipation turned her features taut. “Follow your destiny, Brendan,” she said, and time swirled, collapsing, returning me to that night when she appeared in my chamber at Whitehall, ensorceling me with her touch, with her mesmerizing beauty. I had thought lust had been my downfall, but now I understood it was more ominous: Sybilla embodied the very self I fought against, the temptation of what I could become if I surrendered to my own desires. “Follow me,” she said, “and take what is yours.”

I let her promise seep within me, as remorseless as it was intoxicating. She was right. I was a Tudor. How could I resist, with a kingdom within my grasp, an untried queen to depose, and Spain’s might at my back? I would be king. I would rule.

Then the moment began to unspool, and as her eyes turned black and I realized she had suspected all along what my choice would be, I whispered: “You must see me dead first,” and she flung up her arm, smashing her cane into my face.

Blood sprayed from my nose. Pain shot through my cheeks, blinding me as I thrust my sword. Swerving with astonishing speed despite her leg, she evaded my blade, which sliced past her, shredding her doublet. With a snarl in her throat, she rushed at me and I saw in her hand the blade she had concealed—a thin rapier yanked from within the cane. As I pivoted, lifting my sword, our blades struck, the impact shuddering through me. She had not lost her skill; the time spent healing her shattered body had lent her extraordinary virtuosity, so that she came at me with ease, her mouth parted, barely a labored breath escaping her as I rallied to defend myself.

Around us, the clang of our blades sparked echoes against the stone vaults. She was maneuvering me to a wall, where she could entrap me. Ducking around a pilaster, I slashed back and forth, keeping her at bay as I raced to the small postern door behind her, through which she had entered the crypt. She was at my heels; as I felt her rapier slash into my shoulder, she said through her teeth, “Loyalty was always your fatal weakness,” and I yanked at the door, releasing the roar of the river beyond, its spume and soaking damp.

My sword slipped from my grip. Agony lanced from my shoulder to my wrist. I vaguely heard my sword clatter behind me as I staggered from her advance onto the slippery waterlogged sterling, struggling to stay upright. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a small vessel moored to the chapel’s quay; within it, a bundled sack of cloth writhed as the current raged past, setting the small boat to tugging at its tether. Soon, the rope holding it would snap and the vessel with Raff inside it would be swept to its doom in the voracious whirlpools under the bridge.

I spun around to face her, my blood-drenched sword hand whipping my poniard from my belt. With an inchoate roar, I flung myself at her to ram my blade into her gut, even if it meant I would in turn impale myself on her sword. We would die together, locked in hatred.

A sudden hiss punctuated the air. She went still. A gasp escaped her lips.

Everything slowed to a crawl: her figure immobile, my poniard still in my hand as her eyes flared wide. Crimson bubbled from her lips. Her blade clattered to her feet as she began to keel, her twisted leg splaying. In a haze, I saw the fletched bolt protruding from between her shoulders and looked past her to a figure behind her in the doorway, crossbow lifted.

Meeting my stare, Dudley pulled back the mechanism and fit another bolt into it.

I was next. Before me, Sybilla crumpled to her knees. Dudley fired again. The bolt slammed into her, blood gushing from her mouth. She collapsed facedown, a dark pool spreading around her as her body twitched and went still.

The world capsized. Voices echoed; there was a clamor of footsteps, hands hauling me up. The searing pain in my shoulder numbed my senses. I could feel blood soaking my doublet, streaming down my chest; as Dudley shouted at someone behind him, “Quick, he needs a physician!” I struggled to resist, clutching at his sleeve to whisper, “The boy is in the boat…”

It was the last thing I remembered saying before oblivion engulfed me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Will he live?” The queen’s voice reached me as if from across a great distance. Something cold nuzzled my hand. Slowly, I opened my eyes. A burst of light blinded me. I groaned, shifting my head on the pillows. A cool hand touched my brow, pressing upon it.

“The fever is gone,” I heard Kate say. “I think the worst of it has passed.”

“Thank God.” A rustle of skirts approached. Turning my head, I saw Elizabeth’s face wavering above me, pallid and hollowed, but quiet fortitude in her eyes. “You are like a cat, my friend. But I fear you have used up the last of your nine lives.”

I tried to speak, untangling my knotted voice from my throat. “Raff … is he…?”

She nodded. “He is safe. No”—she held up her hand as I struggled to rise—“you must rest. There will be plenty of time for questions later.” She moved away, murmuring to Kate. The queen’s hound Urian whined, stuck his muzzle into my hand again. I stroked him with my fingertips, feeling the burning ache in my shoulder. My nose felt twice its normal size, too, and throbbed like a tiny anvil striking a forge. I could not keep my eyes open. As I let them close once more, sleep sneaking upon me even as I tried to resist, Kate set a warm compress on my nose and I heard her say softly, “You’re going to look like your father.”