Parker was occupied with the King and Wolsey, unable to introduce her to the Queen, and it was unthinkable that she introduce herself. She moved back to stand again at Elizabeth Carew’s side, and turned to the tableau of king, courtier, and cardinal.
Wolsey seemed to stumble as her gaze clashed with his, and he had to jerk himself away to avoid jostling the King. Henry turned to him, his brow creased in annoyance.
“My pardon, Your Majesty.” In the wrong, having almost toppled onto the King, Wolsey bowed low. When he lifted his head, his eyes were hot and bitter.
“Parker. That matter …” Henry swung away from the others and Parker moved to stand beside him, cutting Wolsey off.
“My lord, I have something to say that cannot wait.” Wolsey’s voice rang too loud in the confines of the gallery, and all conversation stopped.
The King turned. “And would you say it now, before all who stand with us?”
“I would prefer not.” Wolsey gave a half bow, awaiting the King’s pleasure.
Parker murmured something in the King’s ear.
“Come, let us step a little away, then.” Henry motioned with his hand, and Wolsey shot Parker a look of triumph. It faded immediately as Wolsey realized the King meant Parker to join them.
Susanna felt a touch on her arm.
“I never would have thought to see this confrontation with my own eyes.” It was Francis Bryan, come to stand with her and his sister, and he dipped his head in a bow.
Susanna nodded, too distracted to curtsy. “I hope it is not a confrontation. I hope Parker can turn the talk to safe ground.”
Bryan watched the trio with eyes hungry for blood, for the singing whisper of steel freshly drawn. “In that, my lady, in this whole gallery, you stand alone.”
21
A prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else for his study, than war and its rules and discipline.
—Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 14
“You have news?” Henry inclined toward Wolsey, and Parker saw the flash of respect in the King’s face. He needed always to remember that Wolsey lifted the massive burden of administrating England from the King’s shoulders. The King had plenty to thank Wolsey for.
The Cardinal most definitely had the royal ear, and he would use that for all it was worth today.
“Disturbing information was given to me today. A diamond cutter I hired to revalue your jewels was found dead.” Wolsey flicked a look at Parker, expecting some reaction.
Parker kept his face impassive. He had not realized Wolsey did not know of Jens’s death. Perhaps the diamond cutter had been planning to run from Wolsey when he was cut down. Or perhaps Wolsey was merely using the diamond cutter’s death now because it suited him.
“That is sad news, but I do not understand the urgency—”
“My pardon, Your Majesty. The matter is urgent because some days back, he mentioned there was a jewel not where it should be when he went through the inventory. He was endeavoring to find out where it was when he was killed.”
Henry glanced at Parker, a flicker of worry, and Parker narrowed his eyes. It was a cunning counterattack.
“What jewel do you speak of?” The King crossed his arms over his chest. There was a sudden tension about him, the cords in his neck and hands standing out in relief.
“The Mirror of Naples, Your Majesty.” Wolsey spoke the words so low, both Parker and the King had to lean forward to hear him.
“And did your man find where the jewel had gone?” The King’s tension thickened around him, and his words came out clipped and hard.
Wolsey shook his head cautiously, like a deer in a hunter’s sights. “He thought it must surely be mislaid, or away for cleaning. He was waiting for a reply from the Master of the King’s Jewels when he was struck down. By a bolt.” Wolsey let that sink in. “I think he was silenced.”
Henry frowned. “Who do you suspect silenced him? If you think to accuse Sir Henry Wyatt, my Master of the Jewels has never picked up a weapon in all the years I’ve known him.”
Wolsey opened his hands wide, palms out, the innocent messenger. “I suspect and accuse no one. I merely come to inform Your Majesty that your largest diamond is missing and the man trying to find it is dead.”
“There you are wrong.” Parker held Wolsey’s gaze. “The man trying to find it is standing before you.”
Wolsey was not quick enough. The surprise and fear on his face were visible to the King, and his hands trembled against his red robes as he realized it.
“Indeed.” Henry turned to look out of the gallery to where the Fleet spilled into the Thames. “Parker came to me with this the day I returned to Bridewell, and has been looking into it.”
“Then I am sure the matter is in good hands.” Now all Wolsey wanted was to retreat. Retreat and find some new way to come at this.
Parker would not give him the chance if he were able.
“My Lord Chancellor, I have spoken with the Clerk of the King’s Jewels on this matter and he claims no knowledge of the whereabouts of the Mirror. He also claims the last person to have access to the jewel was your diamond cutter, sent there at your express request and over the protests of his father.”
Wolsey went very still. “He points a finger at me? Me?”
Parker shrugged. “No more than you point a finger at him.”
“Enough.” Henry turned back to the conversation. “The jewel must be found. If it truly is stolen, it must be recovered. And anyone who aided in its theft will be for the Tower.”
Wolsey did not so much as flinch at that. Perhaps he thought no matter what, he would never be for the Tower. He had made himself too valuable to the King.
“And if it is the French? If they have taken it?” Despite his threat to the Comte, Parker had no wish to see England at war. He knew full well there wasn’t the money for it.
“If the Mirror has been stolen, and if it is France, there is no choice but to war.”
Wolsey turned his head sharply. “Your Majesty, even with the grant I am trying to collect, there will not be the funds—”
“Bah.” Henry cut him off. “France’s king is a prisoner, their army in ruins. If the Emperor will support us, we cannot fail.”
Wolsey rubbed a hand on his forehead. “France is vast, and we have not the resources to equip …” His voice petered out, as if he’d already said this too many times.
Henry eyed the small feast. “I will not stand huddled in corners whispering all morning. Let us eat.”
Wolsey bowed. “If Your Majesty will excuse me, I have matters that need my attention.”
Henry lifted a hand to give him leave to go and Parker watched Wolsey hurry away.
By coming to the King with this, distancing himself from the Mirror and subtly pointing a finger of blame, the Cardinal had given himself away.
Either he still intended to give the jewel to the French, or he did not know where it was.
Either way, the Cardinal was a desperate man.
Harry was waiting for them when they stepped out into the courtyard at Bridewell. He leaned against the cart, chatting to Peter Jack, and Susanna could see from the way they stood together how they had once shared space under Old Swan dock as a place to sleep out of the rain.
There was an easy way to both of them now: they were less like mice and more like cats—their twitchiness had given way to focus. Peter Jack was far more dangerous now than he had been before, and Harry was more dangerous still. As he noticed her and Parker, he straightened and drew himself up.
“News?” Parker kept his voice low.
“Aye. This.” Harry held out a roll of parchment, and Parker took it with a frown.
“A message? Who delivered it?”
“A Frenchman. Stopped me in the street.”
Parker went still and Susanna’s heart began a slow, hard thump. “They have been following you, then. How else did they know who you are?” Her voice was not as steady as she would have liked
.
Harry nodded. Although he was trying to appear relaxed, his shoulders were stiff, his fingers curled too tight in on themselves. He would not like to think he’d been stalked, followed, without knowing it.
Parker broke the wax seal and Susanna watched his face.
“It is from the Comte.” His attention was on the letter as he spoke, and when he lifted his gaze, Susanna saw deep worry in his eyes. “He wants to talk to me.”
“Nee.” The word flew out of her mouth in Flemish without any bidding.
“I will do it on my own terms.” Parker rolled the parchment as he stared off at the lane leading from the palace to Fleet Street.
He seemed to come back to himself. “Harry, call your boys.”
Harry nodded, and Peter Jack rubbed his hands on his thighs in a gesture both nervous and eager.
Susanna put a hand on Parker’s arm. “You could call on Francis Bryan.” She looked back at the palace. “And any number of those you saved last month. They could help you, too.”
He shook his head, helping her climb up into the cart with his uninjured arm, then swinging up beside her. Peter Jack scrambled to the back, and Harry pulled himself up as well.
“Parker.” Her voice was sharp with worry.
“I could.” He let Harry take the reins and the cart horse moved slowly forward. “But there will be strings attached to their help, no matter what I’ve done for them in the past. And I cannot say their hatred of Wolsey won’t jeopardize things.”
Susanna remembered Bryan’s face as they’d stood together in the gallery. “They do hate him.”
“Aye. Enough that they would plunge England into war to bring him down.”
“What will you do?”
He grinned. “I will parley with the French.”
22
But a man is not often found sufficiently circumspect to know how to accommodate himself to the change, both because he cannot deviate from what nature inclines him to do, and also because, having always prospered by acting in one way, he cannot be persuaded that it is well to leave it; and, therefore, the cautious man, when it is time to turn adventurous, does not know how to do it, hence he is ruined.
—Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25
Parker watched the Comte’s house from a small stand of trees, wondering if Susanna was right.
He could have called on any number of men to help him. But so often, the problems he dealt with could not become well-known. And none of those men, not even the best, were trustworthy with a bottle of wine down their gullet and a bit of music playing in the room.
If this didn’t go to plan, if the Mirror had been stolen and there was no way to get it back—far, far better that no one knew of it, no one could talk of it, than that it become common knowledge.
With the sting of gossip lashing at him, the King would not hesitate to go to war. As long as only a few knew of it and kept it that way, that possibility was lessended.
Norfolk and Wyatt were the problems.
Parker shifted his position, suddenly uncomfortable, as if there were eyes on him, and turned to look behind him. There was nothing but the dance of branches in the wind and the growing shadows of dusk. He turned his attention to the mansion again.
He’d been caught by surprise by Wyatt gossiping to the Boleyns and their circle. At least he hadn’t told them everything. And at least Bryan and Carew were truly loyal to the King.
They would not say anything if he explained the stakes, but Thomas Boleyn … Boleyn was like a rat crouched under a kitchen cupboard, quivering with readiness for every morsel he could take for himself. He would use this to his greatest benefit, no matter the cost to others.
A light flickered to life in the hallway, shining through the small glasswork decoration above the door, and a tingle ran down Parker’s back. The Comte was getting ready to leave.
He heard the sound of horse hooves, and as he had done the night before, a stable boy led two horses around the side of the house to the front steps.
One of the big double doors swung open and the Comte stepped out, a thick cloak about his shoulders.
Parker knew where he was going—he had named the place of the meeting himself—but he wanted to know who the Comte was bringing with him.
If he could still function, he suspected the assassin could, too.
The doors remained open while the Comte swung himself up into the saddle. He turned his head, sharp and impatient, and another figure stepped out.
There was a stiffness to him. He did not move with the fluid grace of before, but it was the same man. The man Parker had begun to think of as his nemesis.
The man pulled himself into the saddle with less agility and more care than the Comte had taken, and the light in the groom’s hand glinted off the crossbow hanging from his belt.
The men moved off with quiet purpose, and Parker watched until they were out of the drive and disappeared down the street.
His horse was hidden down the road, with one of Harry’s lads watching it. He needed to get to it, to move on to the meeting place where Harry and Peter Jack waited for him.
After a long hour crouched down, his whole focus on the mansion, his legs cramped as he stood. He stretched them, rolling his shoulders to relieve the ache across his neck. He winced as hot darts of pain shot down his right side. He rubbed around his wound with cautious fingers, blinking back the spots floating before his eyes.
He kept forgetting he was injured.
There was a sharp crack behind him as a twig snapped in two, and he spun around. A blow slammed into him just where his fingers had been moments before. White-hot agony engulfed him and he fell, scrabbling for handholds to consciousness.
The blow came again, vicious and purposeful, and he plummeted under, welcoming the drop to oblivion.
“Parker is missing!”
Harry burst through the back door into the kitchen, panic and fear on his face. He was gasping, hauling in breath.
Susanna’s throat closed up and she clenched the table as she stood.
Mistress Greene and Eric rose with her as Peter Jack came in behind Harry, his chest heaving.
“Tell me.”
“He was watching the Comte’s house, to know if the assassin would accompany the Comte to the meeting. We had lads stationed along the way, to see if and when the assassin peeled off. Thought he might hide and try to take a shot at Parker.”
“And?” She forced herself to sound steady and calm.
“The assassin came, but he stayed with the Comte. They are both still waiting at Queenhithe docks. Waiting for Parker.”
“He didn’t shoot Parker?” Susanna felt a sliver of hope.
Harry shook his head. “If he did, he did it at the house. But then why would they go to the meeting place? Why are they still waiting there?”
“Where could Parker have gone?” She frowned, tried to think through all the implications.
“Nowhere.” Peter Jack threw his hands wide. “He was going to wait and see who stepped out with the Comte, and then follow behind them.”
Harry nodded. “If they got too far ahead, he could find out from my lads where the assassin had gone. Then the plan was for him to slip in behind the assassin and take him by surprise.”
“Did he do that?”
“No.” Peter Jack’s voice was hoarse. “He never even followed them. He didn’t even come for his horse.”
There was a faint ringing in her ears now. Getting louder and louder, along with the thump of her heart. “Did you go to where he was watching the Comte’s house?”
Harry nodded. His eyes slid away, and Susanna realized their panic wasn’t at Parker’s disappearance—it was at what they found where he’d been waiting. “Tell me, Harry.”
“Blood.” He whispered the word. “There was a struggle, from the markings on the ground. And there was blood.”
“They may still want you, my lady,” Eric said from beside the fire. “Maybe they waited to keep up a pretense. So the
y could follow Harry and Peter Jack straight back here.”
23
Hence it is to be remarked that, in seizing a state, the usurper ought to examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for him to inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to repeat them daily; and thus by not unsettling men he will be able to reassure them, and win them to himself by benefits.
—Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 8
Parker came to hard and fast, aware of the cold, the pain, and the dark in an instant. He kept still, trying to absorb a sense of the place.
He lay on stone. The chill had seeped through his clothes, into his bones, and numbed his skin. The hardness left him feeling bruised and stiff.
He was alone. He guessed it from the air, which was stale, musty, with a strange sour-sweet odor. As he breathed it in it clung to his face, damp and freezing, invading his throat and lungs and taking up residence with bat claws.
The darkness was as solid as the stones he lay on.
A crypt, perhaps. Or a cellar. From the smell, he had a sinking feeling it was a crypt.
His shoulder throbbed and burned, and he gently felt around his wound. Felt the hard stiffness of dried blood on his sleeve and his chest, and then the sticky wetness where the wound still seeped blood.
He was shivering, and every tiny shake of his body slammed another nail into his shoulder. He sensed he’d been thrown to lie where he fell on the floor, and, like an old man, cramped and aching, he forced his feet under him and stood.
The knife was gone from his sleeve, and he slid a hand into his boot. Nothing.
His sword was also missing.
He swayed, disoriented and adrift.
He was defenseless.
And then, somewhere high above, he heard bells ringing.
Keeper of the King’s Secrets Page 10