The Tudor Vendetta (7 page)

All of a sudden, my trepidation about him vanished. I had dueled with him before. I was prepared to do so again to protect her.

“Majesty,” I murmured. Bowing again, I stepped back. When I reached Cecil, he said under his breath, “You will stay.” I had no choice but to watch as Dudley sought to dominate Elizabeth’s attention once more by swaggering forth to the gift-laden table, swatting the women on their backsides and eliciting mock cries of protest and not a few surreptitious looks of admiration at his thighs in their fitted silk hose.

“Now, then,” he said, “whom of these royal applicants most honors our queen with his largesse? Who among them is worthy to earn her consideration?”

With an indulgent smile, Elizabeth reclined in her chair, twirling her goblet as she watched her Master of Horse paw through her fellow sovereigns’ offerings as though they were trinkets.

“Is it His Benevolent Highness the prince of Sweden?” Dudley flipped open a satin-lined box; within it nestled a necklace of pink rubies shaped in the form of the Tudor rose. He held it up to the light, examining it for flaws. He frowned. “Unimaginative,” he announced. He dropped the jewel back into its box and swept both aside, prompting a genuine outcry from the ladies as they hastened to gather it off the floor.

Elizabeth chuckled.

The excitement at the table stirred the dozing spaniels, both of whom leapt up to round the table, barking as Dudley dug again through the pile and extracted a bigger case this time, bunted in scarlet. “Or is it His Imperial Majesty of Russia?” Throwing off the lid, he unloosed a length of white fur. “Another stole?” he groaned. Elizabeth could not contain her laughter. “Her Majesty has dozens,” Dudley declared, and he flung the fur aside. The women squealed, losing all sense of dignity as they scrambled for it.

At my side, Cecil stiffened. It was evident that Dudley intended to distribute all the gifts among Elizabeth’s women, thus consigning these first suitors for her hand to ridicule.

“Or is it—” Dudley paused with theatrical timing, dramatically extending the moment as he retrieved a narrow black-satin box. “His Majesty Philip of Spain?”

Silence fell in the wake of his words. Philip had been the late queen’s husband; during my previous mission at court, I had contended with his ambassador Renard’s fervent quest to see Elizabeth executed for treason. Renard had gone far beyond his master’s orders; in truth, the young Spanish king had wanted only to hold her in captivity until the time came when he became a widower. His union with Mary had kindled the pyre of persecution, his Catholic stringencies inciting our late queen to burn hundreds of English martyrs and send hundreds of others into exile. His name was no laughing matter, and Elizabeth responded accordingly, her voice turning sharp as she said, “That is sufficient. I’ll not hear anointed princes mocked.”

“Who is mocking?” exclaimed Dudley, and I heard Cecil gasp at his confident rebuttal of her. “I merely wish to discover which of these exalted princes is best qualified to pay suit to Your Majesty’s person. We all know how eager Philip of Spain is to impress. The question is, how much is he willing to spend?”

Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed, but I could tell she was enjoying this. She could not help but relish hearing disparagement of the very king whose machinations had cornered her during her sister’s reign, though Philip had intervened on her behalf and persuaded Mary to release her from the Tower. I had not been in England when she and the Spanish King met face-to-face, having already gone abroad, but I could imagine the merry jig she had led him on, the insinuations she must have dangled before him as she determined to safeguard her person. Indeed, I had no doubt that Philip must now regret that he had both released her and failed to convince Mary to kill Dudley, as rumor must have already reached him of Dudley’s intent to supplant him.

“I said, that will suffice.” Gaining control of her better judgment, Elizabeth thrust out her hand. “I will open his gift and judge for myself whether Philip of Spain can impress.”

Dudley froze. It was only a fraction of a second, but I saw the rage flicker across his expression as he proceeded to her, bowing with flourish before presenting her with the box.

“Have some wine,” Elizabeth suggested, and as he stomped to the board in the alcove and the decanter, my breathing inexplicably turned shallow.

Elizabeth plucked at the embossed wax seal, which bound a ribbon around the box and held the lid in place. Leaving the other women, Kate hastened to take a jeweled letter-opener from the table and went to assist the queen, the spaniels scampering at her heels. Elizabeth smiled—“How thoughtful of you, Mistress Stafford”—and Kate said softly, “Allow me, Your Majesty,” swiveling the box in the queen’s lap toward her, kneeling down to slide the blade under the seal.

I did not know that I had moved toward her until Cecil said, “What are you doing?” His rebuke brought me to a precipitous halt. In rapid succession, the seal on the box cracked apart and Kate rocked back with a little cry of surprise. The lid fell off. Elizabeth tried to hold on to the box as it slipped from her lap, tumbling its contents to the floor—a mess of gilded tissue, wrapped about something leathery.

Kate scrambled up, making a grab for the bundled article. But one of the spaniels dove at the same time and clamped the gift between its jaws, shredding the tissue, worrying it as if it were a rat.

Elizabeth gazed at the dog as it tore apart the king of Spain’s gift. “Are those … gloves?” she asked, bemused. Her tone indicated that Philip had indeed failed to impress.

I didn’t hear Kate’s response, however, deafened by a warning roar I did not realize was in my head, as I remembered another broken seal on an unexpected letter, the curiosity on Peregrine’s face as he held it, then his gasp as he lifted fingertips already singed from—

The women shrieked as I leapt forth, pushing them aside. Elizabeth recoiled in her chair. From the alcove, where he had been drowning his humiliation in wine, Dudley flung aside his goblet and barreled at me. I scarcely felt the bone-jarring impact of his body nor the fist he slammed into my gut, quenching my breath as he cried, “Now, I’ve got you, mongrel!” Twisting sideways to evade his yanking me to the floor—a maneuver learned through Walsingham’s tests of endurance—I rammed my own fist under his jaw as hard as I could.

Blood dripped from his cut lip. He hunched his powerful shoulders; as I prepared for his full onslaught, Cecil cried, “Stop it! Stop this instant!” and Dudley snarled, showing me bloodstained teeth. He might have charged again had Elizabeth’s frightened voice not shattered our confrontation: “God save us, what—what is wrong with it?”

I whirled about. Horror flooded me.

Kate stood as if paralyzed. At her feet, black foam bubbling from its snout, the spaniel thrashed, one gnawed glove still clenched between its teeth.

The other glove dangled from her hand.

Chapter Six

“Do not touch anything,” I said and I had to force back a surge of panic, drawing a steadying breath as I stepped to her.

The chamber’s stunned hush was broken only by the spaniel’s death throes, as if it were being disemboweled from within. Arching its spine, the dog released a vile stream of spew, choked, and went still. The other spaniel whimpered but did not try to approach.

Her color drained to an ashen hue, Kate dropped the glove and started to turn to Elizabeth. I heard Dudley shout, “No! Do not approach the queen!” and a stiff rustle of petticoats as he pulled Elizabeth bodily off her chair.

Kate lifted wide eyes to me. “Am I…?” she whispered. She knew this was how Peregrine must have died, intoxicated by poison smeared on a letter’s seal.

I made myself look at her hands, hanging limp at her sides; to my overwhelming relief, I did not detect the blisters that had been the beginning of Peregrine’s doom. Still, I could not be certain. If the poison had seeped inside her, nothing I did could save her. The spaniel had died within seconds. It would not take much longer to kill a woman—

Something snagged at my attention, dragging my gaze downward. Gilded shreds, stuck in the dog’s now-rigid mouth …

“The wrapping inside,” I breathed. “It was poisoned.” To no one in particular, I added, “I need something to cover my hands with, so I can gather it. And keep the other dog away.”

There was no movement until Elizabeth said, “Do as he says.
Now!
”

One of the women took the surviving spaniel by the collar and hauled it from the room. Within moments, Cecil had handed me a pair of hawking gauntlets and as I pulled them on, the fit loose but close enough, Kate said, “What should I do?” She remained immobile, a tremor in her voice, but there were no other changes. I took her hands in mine and turned them over, examining her palms, closely this time.

“Am I going to die?” I heard her ask. I shook my head. “No. It wasn’t on the gloves.” I glanced at the tumbled box, the upended lid. “The box … it looks as though it was altered—”

Dudley said angrily, “What do you mean? How could it be altered?
Who
would dare?”

Elizabeth hushed him. Cecil shifted to Kate, leading her to the other women, who were holding each other and crying. I started to bend to the shredded papers when I felt someone hand me a shawl. “Cover it,” Elizabeth said. “Lord Robert,” she added, lifting her voice. “Fetch gloves and help Master Prescott.” Not awaiting Dudley’s answer, she directed her next orders at Cecil: “Take my women to my rooms; they look ready to faint. And make sure the outer doors are secure and no one is admitted. Disperse the parasites outside. Tell them I will make no public appearance today. No one says a word of this to anyone, on pain of my worst reprove. Is that understood?”

The women nodded in unison, sniffling, and allowed Cecil to herd them out. After I shrouded the dead dog, I began picking up the torn paper and half-chewed glove. Dudley delayed for as long as he possibly could, joining me as I finished making a heap by the hearth, his own hands sheathed in gauntlets and his expression grim.

“What is your intent?” he asked, and while I’d expected derision in his tone, perhaps even a hint of accusation, he seemed begrudgingly willing to listen.

“Burn it, of course,” I said. “What other remedy is there?”

He bristled. “Poisons can be traced. My own Dr. Dee knows a great deal of these matters and could tell us where the poison originated, help us find whoever did—”

“It will not tell us anything,” I interrupted. “I’ve seen this type of poison before. It is fast acting and untraceable.” Even as I spoke, I had a terrifying notion of who was responsible, and Dudley must have gleaned it, for he snarled, “Whatever you know, you had best spill it now. It is treason to do otherwise.”

“I will decide what is or what is not treason,” cut in Elizabeth. “If Master Prescott says we can’t discover anything from this—this abomination, then I would prefer it were burned and out of my sight, lest some other hapless creature suffers. And the same for that poor dog.” She motioned to Dudley. “If you would not mind, my lord…?”

Tight-lipped, he went to assume charge of the corpse. Footsteps entered the room. Cecil had returned with Walsingham.

“Did I not just say I wanted absolute secrecy?” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“Your Majesty,” said Cecil, “Master Walsingham is familiar with poisons. He has traveled extensively in Italy, made a study of the art—”

“Art?” Elizabeth was outraged. “Christ’s wounds, this so-called art was meant for me!”

“Yes, it was,” Walsingham said. “Which is why we must examine it first. I have asked Lord Robert to have the dog’s body brought to the cellars. With Your Majesty’s leave, I can perform a necropsy that might help determine the type of poison and its origin.”

Elizabeth hesitated and Cecil drew her to the alcove. As they engaged in urgent conversation, Walsingham stepped to the hearth. “Excellent,” he murmured, so that only I could hear, “already you’ve made yourself indispensable, the hero who saved the queen’s life. But, you’re about to make an error, albeit an understandable one, given your experience. Don’t you think it wise to sift through the evidence first?”

“My squire perished like that dog,” I said. “I’ve seen this poison before. It is odorless, tasteless; it strikes within seconds and leaves no trace. You can cut that dog up in pieces and it will tell you nothing.”

“Indulge me. Have you searched the box?”

I started. In the uproar, I had not considered it. Abandoning the hearth, I gingerly righted the box by Elizabeth’s chair. It was, as I had supposed, empty, save for a crumpled lining. I reached for the lid. The same fine cloth upholstered both; as I took up the lid, something crinkled under my fingers. I paused, probing. “Walsingham,” I said.

He rose from his crouch over the tissue, striding past Elizabeth and Cecil, who broke off their argument to stare at us. “I think there’s more paper under this.” I patted the lid. “Not tissue. By the feel of it, it could be a letter parchment.” Even as I relayed the information, I was pulling my poniard from my boot to slash at the covering.

“Careful,” warned Walsingham. “Some poisons release their toxin when exposed to air. It could be a trap, in case the first attempt failed.”

“Or it could be a message,” I said, “because the assassin anticipated that the attempt would, in fact, fail.” Still, I did as he instructed, meticulously slicing the fabric and rocking back on my heels, to avoid being directly over it as I gripped the shorn edges and ripped them apart.

A folded parchment slid out—unsealed.

Walsingham’s mouth curved into an icy smile. “He plays with us. Allow me.” He removed gloves from within his doublet. My breath stalled in my lungs as I braced for the worst, but he unfolded the parchment without incident. Passing his gaze over it slowly, he went still as if contemplating its significance. Then he removed his gloves and passed his fingertips deliberately over and around the paper.

“Well?” Elizabeth demanded warily after enough time had passed and Walsingham had not started foaming at the mouth. “Will you tell us what it says, sir?”