Keeper of the King’s Secrets

by Michelle Diener

  “But the passage to the Fleet is not generally known?”

  The Queen leaned back in her chair, her hands gripping the arms. “We cannot say. It is impossible for any of us to go there without Wolsey knowing of it, and perhaps guessing our purpose. But my spies think this is a secret passage. It passes under St. George’s Inn and comes out in the dungeons of the Fleet, they heard the Cardinal’s men say.”

  “And you think that is where Parker is being kept?”

  “If Wolsey were staying at Hampton Court, as is usual, I would say look there. But he has remained very close to the King since his return to Bridewell. He would not want Parker to be too far from him.”

  “Then I need to find this passage and see if Parker is indeed in the Fleet.”

  Katherine’s expression was tense. “I urge you, first ask at the prison gate, or find someone to speak with a warden. If Parker is officially a prisoner, Wolsey has much against him. If not, then Wolsey is still gathering his lies.”

  Susanna nodded, and curtsied deeply. “Your Majesty, I thank you.”

  “Parker has given me aid before. And he is the one courtier of my husband’s I can trust to always speak true. I will not stand by and let Wolsey bring him down.”

  Susanna dipped her head gratefully to Gertrude and her aunt, and turned to the door.

  If Parker was in the Fleet, she would do anything to get him out. Even walk through the bowels of London itself.

  28

  But to exercise the intellect the prince should read histories, and study there the actions of illustrious men, to see how they have borne themselves in war, to examine the causes of their victories and defeat, so as to avoid the latter and imitate the former.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 24

  Fleet Prison loomed ominous and grim in the dark. A bell tolled—St. Sepulchre’s. It was coming to matins, and she had not yet slept.

  Harry and Peter Jack accompanied her, trudging along Ludgate Hill and up Fleet Lane without a word.

  The Fleet River ran to her left, a constant hiss of sound that was suddenly drowned out by a cry from beyond the prison walls. It seemed to come from a dark, desolate place in the crier’s soul, and raised the hair on the back of her neck. It cut off suddenly. And while she’d wanted badly for it to stop, now that it had, the silence was worse.

  “Thanks to God that wailing has stopped,” Harry muttered.

  “No one about, this time of night.” Peter Jack shivered against the deep cold that rose from the river like fog, sneaking under cloaks and numbing faces and ears.

  Susanna hugged herself and looked again at the massive, closed gates. “Perhaps there is a watchman. There must be.” She pounded on the wood. “Hello?”

  They listened in silence, and after long moments Susanna heard the scrape of boots on the other side of the gate.

  A small panel slid open and a face appeared, ghostly white against the darkness. “Aye?”

  Susanna swallowed. “Please, sir.” Her voice trembled and for once she did not try to get it under control. She lifted a hand to her eyes. The tears suddenly glistening there were not false, but where she would usually have struggled not to show them, now she let them fall freely.

  “Well?”

  “I come to ask if my betrothed is here, sir. I heard a rumor—” She felt a sob rising up through her throat, tearing through her, and she choked it back. “I heard a rumor he has been sent here, but I am not certain.”

  “You want to know now?” The watchman spoke with an edge. There was a calculation to his outrage, and the way he waited for a response, she could almost imagine him rubbing his hands together.

  “Yes, please, sir. I will most certainly pay you for your trouble.” She spoke the required response with as much sincerity as she could muster. Harry and Peter Jack stood tense beside her, their eyes on the watchman, and she was never so grateful to have company in her life.

  “Maybe I could ask the wardens—depending when he came in. Would it have been this morning?”

  “No. Earlier this evening.”

  He lifted a hand to his chin, and his fingers rasped across it. “The wardens on duty will know if he’s here, then. What is the name?”

  “Parker.” She took a deep breath. “John Parker.”

  He disappeared without a word, sliding the window closed with a snap.

  Susanna only realized she was rocking back and forth when Peter Jack put a hand on her arm to stop her. His face was white, panicked, and she stood tall, letting her arms fall to her sides.

  She wasn’t the only one suffering.

  “What if he isn’t here?” Harry spoke very low.

  “It will be bad enough if he is.” Peter Jack shivered again. “This place is a fortress.”

  Susanna said nothing. There was almost no good answer. But if she knew he was here, at least she would know he was alive.

  They heard the shuffle of footsteps, and Susanna spun to the gate, her fingernails digging into her palms.

  The sliding window opened and the watchman’s face appeared. He said nothing, and at last she realized he was waiting for payment.

  She dug into her belt purse and pulled out three coins. His face disappeared, replaced quickly by an outstretched hand, and she dropped the money onto his palm.

  She heard him counting it, making sure he thought it fair.

  His face appeared again. “No John Parker come in this evening. Not above, nor down in Bartholomew Fair.”

  “What is Bartholomew Fair?” she whispered.

  “Our less pleasant accommodation, in the cellars and dungeons.” He cackled. “Men down there don’t last long. Tend to die of jail fever.”

  “And he wasn’t brought in?”

  The watchman shook his head. “If he’s here, he’s in a cell without paying his lodging fee, or any other fee. Which is impossible.” His little snigger turned into a hacking cough.

  She nodded, and he closed the sliding window with a snap. She could hear him just the other side of the gate, shuffling his feet as he ambled away.

  “I can’t help being relieved.” Peter Jack looked at the gates, massive enough to withstand the centuries.

  The gate creaked, possibly with the wind, and Susanna also heard the tiny scrape of a shoe. As if someone leaned against the gate listening.

  “Let’s go home.” She let defeat and despair fill her voice, and her steps away were heavy.

  Parker was in there; she was certain of it. Shut away, hidden even from the wardens. Wolsey had not manufactured enough evidence against him yet.

  Which left a problem.

  If the wardens didn’t know he was there, how would she find him?

  A driving, relentless rain drummed into the ground. Susanna stood on the back step and watched the way it churned up splashes of mud with every hard drop.

  “Take an extra cloak.” Mistress Greene came from behind and pressed the thick wool into her hands.

  Susanna’s fingers clenched the fabric tight. It was an old cloak of Parker’s, his scent still on it. She swirled it about her shoulders and felt immediately warmer, more focused.

  “Your face is as white as a ghost.” Mistress Greene handed her another mug of warm cider. After a few sips, Susanna handed it back.

  “You haven’t slept enough.”

  She’d slept as long as she could risk. Every second gouged at her heart, the pain a constant ache within.

  “Will Father Haden agree, do you think?” she asked, turning to watch the housekeeper.

  “Of course he will. That painting you did of him and the Worshipful Company of Plumbers made them all your servants for life, my lady.”

  “I would think he would do it because Parker is in danger.”

  “Aye. That, too.” Mistress Greene picked up a rag and began wiping down her table. “But do not think you are without influence. You are no longer the stranger you were in these parts. People respect you. And they like you.”

  Susanna blinked her eyes, then sq
ueezed them shut for a moment. “Thank you.”

  She had not been here very long, and she was surprised how quickly she had settled in, how much she felt at ease. She thought it was Parker, but of course it was not only him. It was everyone she had dealings with.

  “Hoy!”

  The shout from across the courtyard had her spinning back to the door, and she saw Harry and Peter Jack running, a large cloth held over their heads.

  They each carried a bundle under an arm, and stopped under the eaves of the stable.

  “He agreed?” She was breathless with nerves.

  “Aye.” Peter Jack shouted to be heard over the rain. “He loaned us four, more than we need.”

  He pushed the stable door open and stepped inside, Harry right behind him.

  She looked over her shoulder at Mistress Greene. “Farewell.”

  She stepped outside and ran to the stable door, leaping the puddles, then stepped into the building’s warm, dark air.

  Eric stood with the cart, his face set. She knew he had accepted that he could not come with them, but he would not forgive them lightly for it.

  “Thank you, Eric.” She did not say anything else to him. Nothing would do.

  She had felt the same way countless times when her brother had been given a chance or a commission, and she had been overlooked. She knew the slow burn of resentment.

  Anything she tried to say to him now, he would take as an insult.

  Peter Jack gave her the bundle he carried. She shook it out and found two cassocks in stiff, scratchy brown wool. “Do we have the belts, as well?”

  Harry lifted four rope belts up from his bundle.

  She stood, undecided. “Is there a private place between here and St. Sepulchre’s where we could don these robes?”

  Harry nodded. “There is a small outhouse not far from there; I’ve used it a time or two.”

  “Good.” She swung up into the cart. “We don’t want anyone recognizing us in these too close to home.”

  “And we don’t want them too wet.” Harry took the cassocks from her and wrapped all four in a horse blanket.

  Eric went to open the stable doors.

  The rain had become a shroud over the world, gray and blinding.

  “Did you tell Father Haden I plan to wear one?” She couldn’t imagine the priest agreeing to it, no matter how much he liked her.

  Harry shook his head. “Told him it would be just Peter Jack and me and a couple of my lads.” He pulled himself up beside her and took up the reins.

  Susanna wondered if Harry had any objection to a woman in priest’s clothing. Even the court pageants, with their never-ending themes of disguise and cross-dressing, would not go this far.

  Peter Jack climbed in the back, sitting crouched behind them, and drew the heavy, wet cloth he and Harry had used over all of them. Susanna held a corner taut, and Harry flicked the reins.

  “Don’t—” Eric blocked their way, stopping mid-sentence. He looked too young, his clothes a little too big. Even his eyes, once hard as the streets he’d slept on, looked young. She’d helped soften him, helped to give him expectations of happiness, and now everything hung in the balance.

  “We’ll be back,” she said with conviction.

  He looked away, hiding his face. She understood why. He knew better than most that nothing was certain.

  29

  I hold it to be true that Fortune is the arbiter of one-half of our actions, … but that she still leaves us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25

  The wool of the cassock felt like a thousand-legged grasshopper, scratching at Susanna’s skin with tiny claws through her fine cotton underclothes.

  She’d wrapped the spare robe around her waist underneath it and tied it fast with the rope belt, giving her the appearance of a short, portly monk. She was grateful for the deep cowl that hid her hair and face.

  The Church would burn her at the stake if she were caught. Burn her as a witch.

  When Harry had suggested this, she had known she couldn’t send them into St. Sepulchre’s by themselves.

  Her family believed in a more inclusive church and was interested in the talk of reforms, but even those broad-minded views weren’t enough to stop the feeling of blasphemy as she’d pulled the monk’s robes over her head.

  Her heart had beat like a bird caught in a trap ever since. As they walked into St. Sepulchre’s, every sound, every movement, came to her in stark clarity.

  Harry and Peter Jack were beside her, and she could see the tension in their shoulders and faces.

  Harry had slipped inside St. Sepulchre’s while she and Peter Jack were changing into their robes, and had found the stairs down to the tunnels.

  Mass was being said and the chanting echoed through the high chambers, blending and echoing together to form a shimmering net of sound.

  Susanna kept to the west side, in deep shadow. The rain had ceased at last and the sun came through the stained glass windows opposite, reaching only far enough to light a quarter of the pews in rainbow colors.

  Her feet slowed, then stopped as she took in the scene. She would have to come back and paint this, at exactly this time of day. She wanted to find a way to convey the chanting on canvas, how it became a physical part of the scene. How some of the monks stood bathed in blue, orange, and red, while others were in darkness.

  Harry and Peter Jack were a little way in front, and before she moved again to catch up, she saw someone just ahead of them standing in the gloom.

  “You.” The voice was low, urgent.

  Fear skittered over her and she slipped back into the shadows.

  The man’s hand reached out and grabbed Peter Jack.

  “Why aren’t you at Mass?” A priest stepped into the half-light, his face impossible to see.

  Peter Jack shrugged the hand off. “On an errand, Father.” His voice was calm and she felt immensely proud of him.

  “What errand?”

  Harry stepped closer, crowding in on the priest. He was taller than Peter Jack, broader in the shoulders, and together they made a solid wall. “For the Cardinal.”

  The priest sucked in a breath. “More of you?” He looked down the outer aisle toward the door to the undercroft. “They did not say there were more of you.”

  Susanna hoped her shock was not mirrored in Peter Jack and Harry’s faces. The Cardinal’s men were here?

  A sense of urgency rose in her. What could they be doing? She couldn’t let go of the notion that they were here to harm Parker. To kill him, perhaps, or take him elsewhere.

  The priest indicated the undercroft door, and watched as Harry and Peter Jack walked to it, sure and confident.

  She began to move, slipping from pillar to pillar until she was in the darkest part of the aisle, as close to the door as she could get without being seen.

  When would the priest go?

  Peter Jack turned to look over his shoulder, searching for her. When he saw that the priest had not moved, he gave a nod and stepped through the door after Harry, then closed it behind him.

  The priest watched the door, took a hesitant step toward it … then walked forward with more assurance, opened the door, and stepped through.

  It swung closed silently.

  Susanna stared at the plain, uncarved wood while the monks sang a verse of the liturgy, the sound soaring and swirling up to the high ceiling.

  She left the shadows, crossed to the door, and put a hand against it. Then she turned the handle and stepped through.

  The stream of sound, the harmony of the chorus, cut off abruptly as she closed the door. She paused on the top step, listening. If the priest had heard the few seconds of increased noise from the church, he might come back to see who had opened the door.

  Then again, perhaps he would not.

  He’d been standing near the door when Harry and Peter Jack had come upon him, and he had wasted no time following. He could be as false a pri
est as she was.

  Perhaps his talk of Wolsey’s men was to scare them off.

  The moments ticked by. She’d waited long enough on the landing, and there was no one coming up.

  Before she could move down the ill-lit stairs, though, she heard the rustle of fabric brushing against rough stone.

  Someone waited just below, on the turn in the staircase.

  She stopped breathing, her gaze pinned to the point where anyone climbing the stairs would appear.

  Another rustle.

  A quick, impatient sound.

  And then the sound of footsteps, running lightly down the stairs. Not up.

  Wanting to sag against the door in relief, Susanna forced her feet to run down at the same pace, masking the sound of her running with his.

  The stairs twisted three times before they ended in a small chamber, stone cold and damp. A lit passage off the room ran roughly south, in the direction of Newgate Prison. Another ran southwest toward the Fleet, but it wasn’t lit.

  She heard the faint ring of footsteps down the dark tunnel and plunged in after them.

  The tunnel swallowed her with one gulp of its shadowed mouth. It consumed her, coated her with obsidian, the color so pure, she wondered what she would do with it if she ever found a pigment this beautifully black.

  But there was something amiss. She slowed, frowning, and then stood in the dark, a pulse throbbing at her throat, trying to make sense of it.

  She obeyed an impulse to start moving silently backward.

  She could track the time she was losing with this compulsion by the drip, drip, drip of water from the ceiling. She timed each step backward with the noise, to make her footsteps even harder to hear.

  And then she understood what her senses had been trying to tell her. The footsteps in front of her had stopped, far too long ago. She did not know when.

  She’d felt a faint breeze coming down the Newgate tunnel, chill and unpleasant, with a whiff of night soil about it. But in this dark passageway, no air had stirred at all; it was stale and musty.