Perhaps not a tunnel, then, but a passageway to a cavern, and a neat little trap.
She stumbled, scraping her hand on the rough stone to keep from falling. Harry and Peter Jack could be ahead. Most likely were.
She stopped her backward retreat and listened until her ears buzzed, her eyes creating lights dancing before her in the dark.
At last she heard the sound of someone breathing through their nose. The tiny hairs on her nape and arms rose, and she couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through her.
Someone was ahead, listening, like her. Or waiting for her to stumble into them.
She took a silent step sideways across the passageway, then another, so she was up against the right side rather than the left.
She began to move backward again, feeling the floor for loose rubble before she put her foot down. She found she didn’t have the courage to turn her back on whoever was waiting for her.
She heard a soft curse and tensed, standing as still as she could, pressed up hard against the tunnel wall.
The unknown person moved toward her down the tunnel, walking faster than she would have dared in the dark.
She sank down on her haunches, curling herself up as tight as she could. The air moved as he passed her and she thought he was swinging his arms, trying to catch hold of her.
She heard him grunt as he tripped on the uneven floor. Before he turned the corner she stood and followed him, her hands trembling against the rough stone. She got as close behind him as she dared.
Light bloomed at the tunnel entrance, flickering from the single sconce in the chamber beyond. She could see the man in silhouette, broad at the shoulder, something familiar in the angle of his head.
She needed a place to hide where she could see which way he went, and she began looking for recesses in the wall or a deep shadow to crouch in.
They were almost at the mouth of the tunnel, the flickering light illuminating her various options. She would have to make a choice quickly—
“Ha.” He spun, running at her, his arm coming up under her chin as he threw her against the passage wall, pressing down on her throat, cutting off her scream. Her hands scratched at his arm and she kicked out as she hung suspended, choking. She looked him in the face and shock jolted through her.
Jean.
“You.” Jean’s eyes widened, the light showing his astonishment. He stepped back and her feet hit the ground and she stumbled, bent over, hands to her knees, coughing and whooping as she drew in a breath.
“I am impressed, madame. You have managed to do far more by yourself than I would have thought.” He spoke in French, very softly. “But do not let yourself be caught dressed as a monk. You will find even murder is more forgivable than that.”
“What are you doing here?” She breathed it out on a whisper of sound, still bent double. Her throat hurt even from that small effort. It was as if something were lodged in it, and she forced back the instinct to retch.
“As you were not convinced of the value of my services, I thought to find your Parker for you anyway. It is always good to negotiate from a position of strength, no?”
“Or you are down here checking on your prisoner?” She had to swallow twice to get the words out and winced as she rubbed a hand over her throat.
“Enough.” He grabbed her shoulder, his fingers like a vise. He shook her with only one hand, and she remembered Parker had wounded him. “I will not tell you again that this is not my doing.” The pain made her want to cringe away, but she looked him straight in the eye.
“My God, I have never met a more difficult woman.” For a second his grip intensified, and if he hadn’t needed her, she knew he would have struck her. At last he dropped his hand and took a deep breath.
She moved her shoulder, trying to ease it. The wound on his left shoulder would be a good place to hit him if she needed to later.
“My spies have been following two men who work for the Cardinal. Last night they brought a large bundle between them into this church, and we thought it might be your man.”
“Are they here now?” She suddenly remembered what the monk had said above.
Jean shook his head. “I would not be so stupid as to come down with them here.”
Susanna shrugged. “The monk who followed my boys down said they were.”
Jean froze, then shook his head. “He wanted to put your servants off, perhaps? Make them think it too dangerous?”
Susanna had thought the same, and nodded.
“We are not the only ones who are spying on Wolsey.” Jean sheathed a knife in his boot, and Susanna realized she was lucky her throat was not slit. “There is someone else. I was hiding in the Newgate tunnel when your two boys came down. I nearly confronted them, but then the other spy came after them. Someone I don’t know.”
“Where did they go?”
“Down this passage.” Jean jerked his head the way they had just come. “To a dead end. They were sizing each other up when I reached them. I realized there was nothing there and began back. But then I heard you in the passage with me, and we had our game of cat and mouse.”
“There is another passage.” Susanna did not know when she decided he was telling the truth, but if he was the one who had taken Parker, he knew about the secret tunnel anyway. “A tunnel that comes out inside Fleet Prison.”
Jean stepped away from her, his head to the side. Considering.
“There was something …” He walked to the tunnel entrance, close to the wall, and looked out into the chamber. When he was sure it was empty, he stepped into the room.
Susanna followed and waited for him as he turned slowly, considering every angle.
“There.” He spoke to himself, so softly. Susanna took a step closer to him. She followed his gaze and saw there was a small door in the side of the stairs. It looked like a small storage cupboard.
Jean tried the handle, inching it down. It gave, but did not open.
Locked.
He moved his left arm and cursed, his face white. He’d forgotten he was wounded, just as Parker kept forgetting. He lifted the bag slung across his chest off him and held it out for her.
She opened the bag and he searched through it, one-handed, and drew out a dull metal instrument. He inserted it into the lock and began to work it.
She could see sweat on his upper lip and brow, though the air seemed colder. The sconce lighting flickered and thinned, and she feared it would go out and sink them into darkness.
Jean shivered, and she wondered if he was getting a fever with his injury.
There was a sound from the dark tunnel, the clatter of feet and the bouncing echo of angry voices.
Jean’s hand shook, and for the first time since she’d met him, he seemed nervous, rattled.
“It’s Harry and Peter Jack, most likely. They can help us.”
“And whoever is with them? Do you want them to know of this passageway, too?” His words were harsh and low, his eyes flicking to the tunnel as his hand moved and twisted the metal in the lock.
Susanna heard a click, but when Jean tried the handle again, it did not budge.
He lost his patience and rattled the pick, then took a deep breath and moved it again, carefully. There was another click, and then another.
The voices were getting louder, harsher. At least Harry and Peter Jack were safe, and arguing, by the sound of things.
They were coming around the corner.
“Get that light,” Jean hissed, and Susanna ran and lifted it off the wall just as he opened the door.
She sprinted across the chamber, monk’s robes flying around her, and followed Jean inside. As she stepped through he closed the door, and the boys and their adversary burst into the chamber.
“Where’s the light?”
It was Harry, and she could hear the edge of exhaustion in his voice.
“Someone has taken it. Most likely down the Newgate tunnel.” It was the man from earlier.
Their footsteps thumped on the st
airs as they went up, and then there was silence.
“And now?” Susanna lifted the torch and saw a tunnel stretching out before them.
“Now we look for your Parker.” Jean lifted a hand to his shoulder. “I have much to discuss with him.”
30
I compare her to one of those raging rivers, which when in flood overflows the plains, sweeping away trees and buildings, bearing away the soil from place to place; everything flies before it, all yield to its violence, without being able in any way to withstand it.
—Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25
Susanna did not trust Jean and she didn’t like him, but she was glad he was with her. She wouldn’t have found the tunnel, and she wouldn’t have liked walking down it on her own.
It should put her in his debt—but he had tried to kill her once, and had murdered Jens. She felt no obligation to him.
He had been too quick for her earlier in the tunnel, and she hadn’t had a chance to get to her knife, but now she was glad she had not shown it.
It would be a good surprise for later, if she needed it.
She rubbed her throat again, fighting the urge to cough. Neither of them made a sound, and Susanna thought she heard a noise ahead. A rhythmic banging.
Jean tapped her shoulder, and she looked at him to find his finger on his lips.
He had heard it, too.
Their pace slowed, and Jean unclipped his crossbow from his belt and held it awkwardly in his right hand.
Susanna shook her right arm, and felt her knife hilt nudge her palm.
The banging was louder now, and more erratic. Not the steady rhythm of a hammer, more like the thump of a body against a solid object. Like someone throwing themselves against a door.
“Parker.” Her cry echoed down the tunnel, bounding and rebounding, and Jean looked back at her with horror.
“Are you mad?” He lifted the crossbow in a sharp, furious movement, pointing it straight down the tunnel, and moved faster.
The noise stopped, too abruptly to be coincidence.
Her cry had been heard by someone.
“Parker!” It hurt so much to shout, it was as if someone had run a knife tip down the inside of her throat. It brought tears to her eyes.
She heard a shout in return, muffled but audible. Then a sound like a fist pounding.
Susanna ran, the torch flickering wildly as she sprinted down the passageway. She pushed Jean aside and could sense him at her shoulder, his silence cold and angry.
The tunnel opened up suddenly without warning, and Susanna stumbled to a halt. The short, wide section contained three doors on each side before it narrowed again and disappeared toward the Fleet.
The walls were of natural stone; she guessed the tunnel diggers had come across a natural chamber and decided to make use of it.
“Parker?”
There was a bang against the middle right door, and she ran to it and banged back. “Where is your lock pick?” Her voice broke as she called to Jean. She grabbed hold of the door handle and tugged. It rattled a little. Parker had weakened it.
Jean said nothing, and she turned, frowning. He was standing with his crossbow held loosely away from his body, but in a way that told her he could lift it and fire at any moment.
“I think now is a good time to negotiate, hmm?”
When Parker first heard her call, he thought he was hearing things. The pain in his body from every smash of his shoulder against the door made him light-headed, and he was sure, even though he stopped to listen, that it could not be her.
When her shout came again, his legs collapsed under him. He raised a fist and banged it on the door, too exhausted to call out.
The answering bang gave him the strength he needed to pull himself up.
He heard Susanna demanding something of someone, and then silence.
There was a sound in the lock, the snick and grind of metal on metal, and Parker realized someone was picking it.
The movements were quick and efficient, and as the door swung outward he pushed himself through, so unsteady on his feet, he knocked whoever had opened it to one side.
He came to an abrupt halt. Susanna stood in the middle of the room dressed as a monk, with a torch in one hand. He blinked to clear his vision, trying to make sense of what he saw.
The man he’d pushed aside moved directly in front of him, and for a long moment, Parker and the French assassin stared at each other.
Parker could see amusement and arrogance in the Frenchman’s eyes; there was only shock in his.
The Frenchman’s lips curled up, and his eyes moved to Susanna. He lunged for her, but she thrust the torch in his face and he leaped back, cursing.
Parker moved in an arc, each step an effort to stay upright. He kept the Frenchman in view and reached Susanna’s side. She said nothing, her gaze going to him, eyes glittering in the torchlight. She switched the torch to her left hand and flicked her right, then held out the knife that landed in her palm.
His eyes still on the Frenchman, he kissed the top of her head as he took it. Not that he could best a crossbow with a knife.
Both of his arms felt encased in scorching lead. It would be almost impossible to lift one and throw the knife accurately against the aim of a bolt pointed at his heart.
“You do not look well.” The Frenchman moved, shifting his bow, and Parker remembered he’d injured him. It was only mild consolation as the bolt tip leveled with his chest again.
“I am well enough.” It was a lie, and they all knew it.
There was the clang of a gate from deeper down the tunnel, and all three froze, listening.
“Mistress Horenbout has made me certain promises, and perhaps, now that I have you trapped between whoever is coming from the other side and my crossbow, I can ask that you both come with me now to fulfil them.”
Parker glanced at Susanna and saw her lips thin and her eyes narrow. She blew out a breath.
The Frenchman raised an eyebrow, looked over Susanna’s shoulder to the passage beyond, and then back to both of them, the question clear.
They could all hear the heavy tread of footsteps, and someone began to whistle tunelessly.
Susanna lifted her cowl to cover her face.
The steps came closer.
“What have you promised him?” Parker asked her.
She gave him a sidelong look. “He wants me to retrieve the Mirror of Naples for him, from where Jens left it.” Her voice was husky, faint.
He absorbed her words with difficulty, unable to take his eyes off her, but her attention was already back on the Frenchman.
The assassin took a step toward the tunnel. “They are almost upon us. Let’s go.” His agitation was clear. He would not like to be caught down here by the wardens of the Fleet any more than they would.
Parker didn’t know how fast he could run, even as he readied himself for whatever Susanna had in mind.
He sensed the Frenchman tensing as the footsteps sounded closer.
“We will not go with you.” Susanna’s voice was hoarse, as if her throat had been injured. He could no longer see her face, shadowed by the deep cowl, but her grip on the torch tightened.
“You are merely delaying the inevitable.” The Frenchman couldn’t control the anger in his tone. Parker sensed there was something between him and Susanna, some conflict he knew nothing about.
She shook her head and lifted her hands, the movement unhurried and dismissive, and he cursed.
“I’ll be waiting for you farther down the tunnel when you come to your senses and run. If you try to escape past me without honoring your promise, I will shoot.”
He backed away, disappearing into the darkness, the tip of the bolt the last thing to be swallowed by the shadows.
Parker turned to Susanna and stood swaying, beyond words, as she loosened the rope belt of her monk’s robe and lifted it up.
Beneath it, there was something tied around her waist—another monk’s robe. She pulled it loose and
handed it to him, along with the belt that had held it around her midriff.
Parker couldn’t put them on. He could not lift his arms.
Susanna tied the rope belt around her again, and then looked up sharply when she realized he was not dressing.
“I can’t lift—”
The footsteps sounded as if they were just around the corner.
She lunged forward and grabbed the robe and rope, snatching the knife from his hand. In its place she handed him the torch.
As the world tilted and dipped around him, Parker felt as if everything happened at half speed.
Susanna spun into the dark corner where the tunnel opened into the natural chamber, and as she pressed herself against the wall, a man stepped through and tripped over his feet at the sight of Parker standing with a flickering torch in his hand.
“What …” The word was whispered, then he took a deep breath as if to shout.
Susanna leaped out, robe in hand, and brought the brown wool over the man’s eyes. He crumpled as if she’d knocked the back of his legs to unbalance him, and as he hit the ground with his knees, hands out to save himself, she looped the rope around his head and tied it tight, turning the robe into a hood.
She brought the knife up to his throat and let him feel the tip through the wool.
He flinched.
“Stay very still.” Her words were whispered, the sound eerie in the echoing chamber. She kept the knife pressed against his skin and tugged at the belt around his waist. “Undo your belt.”
The man’s fingers fumbled with the task, and a moment later the belt—heavy with jangling keys—was in Susanna’s hands.
“Now move. On your hands and knees, move forward.” The man moved awkwardly, and with the knife still pricking him, Susanna walked beside him, nudging him in the direction of Parker’s cell.
When he crossed the threshold she slammed the door shut and flipped through the keys, working fast as the man hammered at the door.
She found the right key and turned it in the lock with an audible click, and for a heartbeat there was silence.
Then the man began to pound the door again and shout, the sound muffled.
Keeper of the King’s Secrets Page 14