Keeper of the King’s Secrets

by Michelle Diener

  “Come.” She walked to Parker and took his arm, as gentle now as she had been ferocious a moment before.

  His skin was hot and tight, yet he was cold to his core and shivering. He tried to focus, to concentrate, but his mind would not settle.

  Susanna gave his arm a tug. “I am tired of this, Parker. I want it to end. And if I have to behave a little like you to do it, then I will.” She took the torch from him and towed him behind her, her stride steady and sure.

  They came to an iron gate blocking the tunnel from floor to ceiling. Susanna tried two keys before she opened it. She did not close and lock it behind her.

  There was a stench here, a smell that seemed ingrained in the very stone around them. Parker sensed the darkness, the despair, from a long way off. He was apart from his body, content to allow Susanna to lead him where she would.

  Their steps elicited cries and calls all around them, and Parker squinted to focus. There were cells on either side of them now, and Susanna stopped at each one, unlocking the doors.

  “Is this Bartholomew Fair?” Her whisper echoed through the passage.

  He heard a few cries of assent, and she continued down the tunnel, unlocking as she went.

  A small group of men emerged from their holes, twitchy and nervous. They began to follow her as though she were a fairy-tale piper.

  “Go the other way.” She pointed in the direction they had just come. “There is a man down there with a crossbow, but if you call out who you are, he will not harm you. It is only us he wants to kill.”

  “Where does the tunnel lead?” A man stepped out of a cell, filthy and wild, his hair standing in stiff tufts, his face a blackened mess with white, staring eyes.

  With a vague sense of recognition, Parker tilted his head to look more closely; he thought the man might be some minor figure from court.

  “St. Sepulchre’s.” Susanna turned away and moved on, tugging Parker along.

  “Is that you, Parker?” The man moved away from his cell cautiously, as if expecting the world to dissolve around him.

  Speaking was too much effort, so Parker merely raised a hand. It bothered him he did not know the man’s name, but if this was the Fleet, then most of these prisoners would be men who had annoyed the nobles in power, or Wolsey.

  He stumbled as they reached a staircase, blocked by another gate, and Susanna did lock this one behind them before helping him up each step as if he were a small child.

  “Eh?” A man blocked the way at the top of the stairs. Susanna’s face was in deep shadow, and she had somehow tucked his cloak back so his chain of office was in full view.

  “Out of the way.” She spoke in a clipped whisper, and the man obliged, too surprised to do anything else.

  Parker tried to draw himself up, to tower over the shorter man, but he had no sense of whether he had managed to or not. He had a curious floating sensation, and kept having to juggle his feet to keep from staggering sideways.

  There was another strong door ahead.

  “Where’d you come from?” The warden’s voice was neutral. He wasn’t sure whether to be respectful or not.

  Parker saw he was torn between going down the stairs to see what they had been up to below, and following them. They were a priest and a king’s officer, and he was obliged to obey them, but they shouldn’t be here.

  Susanna took advantage of his uncertainty, searching through the keys and trying one with a shaking hand. “One of your men is injured below.” She spoke matter-of-factly, her voice rough and low, and Parker turned his head to the man and saw him frown.

  “I think a prisoner harmed him.”

  The warden kept his gaze on them but took the first few steps down the stairs, and Parker heard the click as a key turned the lock. Susanna fumbled a little as she drew the key out and swung open the door, pulled him through, and slammed it behind them, locking it in one deft movement.

  They were in a large open yard, surrounded by the crenellated walls of the Fleet Prison. The massive doors to the outside were straight ahead, and Susanna walked directly toward them. Parker had the sense of being very small in a massive space, of having some terrible power hovering just over them, ready to crush them on a whim.

  “Stop.” A man waddled out of a side building, his belly hanging over his belt, his face unwashed and unshaven. His eyes seemed unusually small in his face, but they gleamed bright.

  “We will let ourselves out. No need for you to be distracted from your … work.” Susanna’s voice was thready, almost gone, making her sound strangely sinister.

  The man looked between them, a frown creasing deep lines in his forehead.

  “The Star Chamber is expecting our report as soon as possible, so we will bid you good day.”

  The warden stepped back a little, clearly perturbed by the way she spoke in a whisper.

  She lifted the keys, selected the largest one, and walked toward a smaller door cut into the large gate.

  “I didn’t know anything about a report.” The man moved alongside them, shuffling his feet to keep up.

  “It would not be an accurate report on the state of the Fleet if you had known of it, would it?” Susanna did not slow down.

  “But …”

  Parker kept his gaze on the man’s face, watching for some warning if he decided to attack, but all he saw was horror.

  “Good day.” Susanna spoke the words without turning around. She turned the key in the door, and Parker realized vaguely it had opened.

  She pulled him out, closed the door and locked it behind them, and then grabbed his arm again. Her hands were shaking so badly, he could feel each shiver. “Let’s get as far away from here as we can.”

  31

  Pretexts for taking away property are never wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always find pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for taking life, on the contrary, are more difficult to find and sooner lapse.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 17

  Dusk had fallen, and the bells of St. Michael’s had rung before Maggie was finished at Parker’s house.

  “I thought I told you to lock him up.” The healer’s words held no heat; she knew full well the impossibility of such an order.

  Susanna closed her eyes and rested her head against her fists on Mistress Greene’s kitchen table, too exhausted to do anything more than sit.

  “You need me to tend to you?” Maggie’s voice sharpened, and Susanna looked up as she shook her head.

  “Just tired. And my throat.” Her voice was still husky, but the two cups of honey and lemon tea Mistress Greene had given her had restored it a little.

  “Put this salve on it to help the bruising.” Maggie placed a small wooden box on the table beside her.

  Susanna nodded her thanks, and saw a look pass between the healer and Mistress Greene as she lifted the lid and dipped a finger into the salve.

  The air filled with a strong herbal perfume as the door closed behind Maggie.

  The housekeeper said, “She doesn’t think it wise for you to go after Harry and Peter Jack. You need rest. Let the boys do it. Harry is theirs. They want to, anyway.”

  Susanna rubbed the mixture onto her throat with delicate upward strokes. The salve had a cooling property, and she dipped her finger into the box again. “Harry’s boys can help me, but I can’t go to sleep without knowing where they are.”

  “No doubt they’re running themselves ragged trying to find you.”

  Susanna hoped that was so. She closed the lid and forced herself to her feet. “Where are the lads, then?”

  “With Eric out in the stables. You’ll have a hard time keeping Eric back. He’s set on going along.”

  Susanna nodded; she would expect nothing less. She drew on her cloak. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but if Parker should ask …”

  Mistress Greene set her mouth. “I’ll not lie.”

  Susanna walked to her and put a hand on each shoulder. “I don’t expe
ct you to.” She felt an overwhelming need to rest her head on Mistress Greene’s softly rounded breasts, to be led to bed and tucked in.

  She snapped up, blinking her eyes and breathing deep to get her body awake again. “Tell Parker where I’ve gone. I’ll send a lad back every hour with news, if I can.”

  “That would be appreciated.” Mistress Greene gave a sniff. As she turned, Susanna saw a tear glimmering in her eye.

  She opened the back door, and for once welcomed the bracing cold wind as it lifted her cloak. It ripped the warmth and the lethargy from her, and she stepped into the backyard with more energy than she’d had since Parker had fallen asleep.

  Dusk had darkened to early evening, and she had a bitter enemy to face.

  “Mistress Horenbout, I see you are not your usual serene self.”

  Susanna huddled deep in her cloak, having refused to give it up when she’d entered Norfolk’s house. She hoped she was up to dealing with the most cunning and powerful man in England, after Wolsey and the King.

  “It has been a trying day for me, Your Grace. I have a feeling some of my troubles may be known to you. The man in the monk’s robes at St. Sepulchre’s must have told you some of it.”

  She watched him carefully and saw him flinch a little at the mention of St. Sepulchre’s. His man had not seen her. Norfolk must be wondering how she knew.

  He pretended ignorance. “St. Sepulchre’s?”

  Ready for this, she held out a quick sketch. It was of Norfolk’s spy in his monk’s robes.

  Norfolk’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever else I think of you, mistress, you are uncanny fine in your picture making.”

  “Where did he go, and what did he do with my pages?”

  “I am surprised you would come here alone, without Parker. If he thought I had something to do with the disappearance of his pages, he would be here holding a knife to my throat, or some other crude gesture.”

  “That is true.” Susanna did not allow her gaze to falter. “While Parker is busy elsewhere, I have taken action on my own. But if you would like Parker and his methods here instead of me and mine, that can be arranged.”

  Norfolk raised a brow. “The way I’ve heard it, Parker is nowhere to be found.”

  Susanna stared him down. “You have heard it wrong.”

  He seemed to weigh up whether to believe her or not. Eventually, he shrugged. “I have no use for your pages. They should be at St. Sepulchre’s.”

  A hot, heavy claw closed around her gut and squeezed. “I have already been to St. Sepulchre’s.” And they were not there.

  “Then I cannot help you.” He did not look ready for her to leave, though. He drummed his fingers against the dark wood of his desk, and watched her from under hooded lids. “The French seem very interested in you, I’ve noticed.”

  Susanna remembered him watching her in the King’s chamber and stilled, like a bird ready to burst into flight as soon as the hound leaped. “The French are not interested in me at all.”

  “That is untrue. Why, the Comte seemed most taken by you the other night.”

  “You did not watch closely enough, then. He was anything but taken by me.”

  “Mmmm.” Norfolk took up a quill and tilted it back and forth between his fingers. “I noticed you enraged him as much as you have enraged me in the past, but not many others did. They saw only your arm in his grasp. The special attention he gave you. And noted, as I did, that he left soon after you.”

  “By then,” Susanna said sweetly, “I was in audience with the Queen. I think she will be quite a difficult witness to naysay.”

  Norfolk snapped the quill. “Indeed. But whether you met with him afterward or not, the scene was noted by enough for my purpose.”

  “And what is your purpose?” She could hear the double thump of her heart in her chest.

  “I want Wolsey gone. Ruined. I know what he’s been up to. If you interfere with my plans to expose him, I will serve you up on a platter to the Tower for treason with as much fabricated evidence as I can get away with.”

  They stared at each other.

  “And I will not have to fabricate much, after that scene with the Comte.”

  Susanna had no answer to that. Nothing she said would change anything, so she turned and walked out of his study, out into the hallway and out the front door.

  Headed for the only other place the boys could be: with the French.

  32

  And in examining their actions and lives one cannot see that they owed anything to fortune beyond opportunity, which brought them the material to mould into the form which seemed best to them. Without that opportunity their powers of mind would have been extinguished, and without those powers the opportunity would have come in vain.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 6

  “You have quite a nerve, madame.” The Comte stood high on the staircase, looking down on Susanna. “To come knocking on my door, you must be bold as a street whore.”

  “You have forced me to boldness.” Susanna kept her head raised. “You have my pages. By coming to you I’m merely saving you time.”

  She heard a sound to her right, turned her head, and saw Jean leaning against the door of a large room off the main entrance.

  “Saving us time?” Jean’s eyes were hot and his fists were clenched.

  Susanna felt her throat close and had to clear it to speak. “I am sure your spies are still wasting time trying to find out if Parker and I are in the tunnel, or in the Fleet.”

  She stood with her feet planted apart and cocked her head, as aggressive as any of the street whores she’d seen. She wished for a tenth of their bravado and negotiating skills now. She certainly had their desperation. “You should be happy I’m here. Your holding Harry and Peter Jack is only useful if I’m free and in a position to give you what you want.”

  Jean spat. From the corner of her eye, Susanna saw the Comte wince. “Your word is nothing to me. You made a promise in the tunnel and then you refused to honor it.”

  She did not look away. “I do not deny it. At the moment I made the promise, I had no choice. Then I did have a choice.”

  “The Fleet was a choice?” The Comte’s voice was disbelieving.

  “You think I’m mad?” Her voice cracked on the last few words and she swallowed hard, wishing for something to drink to soothe it. “Yet your request is mad. You ask me to give up my reputation, the reputation of my betrothed, and possibly my life. The Fleet was most certainly a choice.”

  “You took the risk that you could walk out of one of the most guarded prisons in England, instead of doing what I asked, but will give in to me for the lives of two servants?” The Comte shook his head, as if not sure what to make of her.

  “So, you will come with us now? And try to find the Mirror?” Jean straightened. “When we have it, we will release your boys.”

  “No.” It came out a croak. Susanna swallowed again. “When we get wherever you need me to be, I will go inside only if I see my pages released right there, free to run off.”

  “Why would we agree to that?”

  “Because there is a chance I may be caught.” Susanna crossed her arms under her breasts. “They should be free no matter what happens to me.”

  “Bien. I agree.” The Comte waved a hand. “Let’s go.”

  Susanna half-turned to the door, then hesitated.

  “What is it?” Jean was already level with her.

  “The Duke of Norfolk. He is watching me. If he thinks I’m going to interfere with his plans, he will try to have me sent to the Tower.”

  “What are his plans?” The Comte had reached the bottom of the stairs, and there was no mistaking the interest in his eyes.

  “To bring down Wolsey.”

  “That is unfortunate.” Jean shrugged, but Susanna thought there was a trace of glee in the movement.

  “More than unfortunate.” The Comte spoke sharply. “If Norfolk watches her too closely, he watches us.”

  “His spies are wat
ching me. They may have followed me here.”

  “Then Jean will have to make sure they do not report back to their master. We also do not want any interference.” The Comte stood by the door, but did not open it. “Perhaps we can take the side door, madame? Jean, make sure the Duke’s men do not follow. By any means.”

  Jean flicked an angry look at her. “You are sure there is danger from Norfolk?”

  “I know there is.” She felt a tug of guilt at the fate of the men the Duke would have sent after her, even though she’d had more than one unpleasant encounter with his servants.

  Jean turned toward the back of the house. He seemed to slice the darkness and slip through the hole, disappearing in one swallow of the shadows.

  The Comte watched him go, and kept watching the darkened passageway until the last of his footsteps faded. Only then did he relax.

  “You put him on edge.” He gestured in bewilderment. “There is something about you that enrages him. He is not his collected self when you are present.”

  “You think it is safer for me that he does not accompany us?”

  The Comte started down the passage, stopping in front of the side door. “If you have made an enemy of Jean, nowhere is safe for you anymore.”

  The softness and the scent that cocooned Parker were of home, and as he fought his way to wakefulness, he reveled in the simple comfort.

  He had never taken what he had gained for himself lightly. Wealth, fine clothes and lodgings, servants. But he felt an even deeper appreciation for them since his stay in the foul chambers beneath Fleet Prison.

  As he surfaced, he was content to keep his eyes closed and listen to the sounds of the house around him. The soft creak of the roof in the wind. The buzz of vibration as the gale forced itself between the wooden shutters.

  He could hear Mistress Greene in the kitchen, banging pans, and the slam of the back door as it was caught by the wind.

  There was another clatter, and he frowned. He had never known Mistress Greene to be so noisy, not even when he was in perfect health. And if any of them were laid up for any reason, she was always obsessively quiet.