Keeper of the King’s Secrets

by Michelle Diener

  The back door slammed again and Parker sat up in a swift movement, his heart suddenly thundering.

  Susanna.

  That was what woke him.

  He could not hear her. Could not sense her.

  She was not in the house.

  There were many men at court whose wives would not sit beside them in illness. Some even socialized while their husbands lay sick and dying.

  But she was not one of them.

  If she was in the house, she would be here in this room.

  And she wasn’t.

  It sounded as if Mistress Greene threw a copper pot at the wall. He heard the crash and then the ting as it bounced on the stone floor of the kitchen, the rumble as it spun and slowly came to a stop.

  Parker swung his feet to the floor, and closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness that pushed him back onto the bed.

  He aimed himself at the door, staggered through it, and grabbed hold of the banister at the top of the landing.

  He looked down the stairs straight into the desperate, wild eyes of Mistress Greene, holding a copper bowl over her head, ready to throw.

  She lowered the bowl. “Thank the heavens.”

  “Where is Susanna?” He couldn’t believe his voice sounded so calm.

  “She’s gone and thrown herself to the wolves, sir. To get back those boys.”

  33

  For my part I consider that it is better to be adventurous than cautious, because fortune is a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and ill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by the adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25

  Susanna saw Westminster up around the bend, and her stomach pitched along with the small barge she was in.

  She suddenly knew where the jewel was. Knew down to the very room.

  She closed her eyes and recalled the numbers and notes on the inventory. It was possible she even knew exactly where to look, down to the precise box.

  The wind hit them full force, slicing at her face and ears. It carried a hint of ice and snow, and a shiver ran through her.

  She glanced at the Comte, who had wrapped his cloak tighter about him, his eyes on the spires of Westminster Abbey. Did he know the precise location, too?

  She gripped her cloak in her fists. How should she play this out?

  She’d hoped to be able to say truthfully that she could not find the Mirror.

  She looked behind her and saw Harry’s eyes, fury and frustration distilled in their gray.

  The man the Comte had brought with him to manage the boys raised his brows at her, but she ignored him.

  Harry and Peter Jack lay bound and gagged at the bottom of the boat. Peter Jack moved a little, turning toward her, and his watcher placed a heavy boot on his throat. Clicked his tongue.

  Susanna faced forward again before she stirred up trouble.

  The boys had not gone quietly. Their knuckles were scraped and raw, their faces bruised. But they seemed otherwise all right, and she held the bargaining chip when it came to their release.

  She knew the Comte could send his men after them once they were set free, but at least they would have a chance.

  “Where in Westminster do you think the Mirror is hidden?” She asked the question as if she were passing the time of day.

  The Comte turned eyes watery with the cold wind to her. “I will tell you when we are there.”

  She shrugged and forced her hands to relax on her lap.

  When the barge scraped against the dock, she got up with relief and took the hand offered by the Comte’s boatman.

  The boys’ minder untied them and they sat up slowly, rubbing their wrists and ankles to get the blood circulating. They filed off the boat, shaky and quiet.

  “You can both be home with Parker in half an hour, if you’re quick.” She spoke softly and without emphasis, trying not to draw attention to what she was saying.

  But Harry and Peter Jack both understood. The light returned to Harry’s eyes at the thought of Parker being safe and home, and Peter Jack stared at her.

  “You foun—”

  “I would start running if I were you.” The Comte waved them off as if they were flies and turned Susanna away from them, making her face Westminster.

  She stiffened and turned back. “No. I will see that they are safely away.” The boys hobbled toward the road, looking over their shoulders, as if to keep her in sight until the very last.

  “They are safe enough.” The Comte took her by the arm and she could feel his anger and frustration as he spun her back.

  “What would you have me do?” She relaxed her body, and his grip fell away.

  “I would have you find Jens’s quarters.”

  “Jens stayed here?” Susanna could not keep the surprise from her voice.

  “He did.” There was rich satisfaction in the Comte’s tone. “And I think he hid the Mirror somewhere in his room, or near it.”

  “If he was staying here, why could he not get the Mirror whenever he wanted?”

  “Because,” the Comte said, “in all his wisdom, the Cardinal had him thrown out and refused to let him back in.”

  “And what makes you think I will have access to his chambers?” Susanna braced against another gust of wind.

  The Comte laughed. “Your betrothed is the Keeper of this palace. There is nowhere here you cannot go.”

  It was true. She had been here enough in Parker’s company that the guards would recognize her and let her through.

  “Am I going alone?”

  A smile played on the Comte’s face. “You think, after all the times you have reneged on us, I would trust you to look properly?”

  Susanna shrugged and said nothing.

  “You will have a page with you. He will meet you when you gain entrance.”

  “If you have someone inside the palace already, why do you need me?”

  “He is only kitchen staff, and cannot go anywhere else.”

  “How long have you had a spy in Westminster?” Susanna began moving forward to get out of the wind.

  The Comte’s voice dripped bitterness. “Since the Mirror of Naples was stolen from France.”

  “Hi! Sir!”

  Parker stopped the cart as he turned out of the yard into Crooked Lane, and waited for the small boy to catch up.

  “Thought you were in your sickbed?” The lad swung up onto the bench, his cheeks stung red by the wind.

  Parker shook his head. “What news?”

  “I’m to watch the house, and if Harry and Peter Jack come back, I’m to pass the message on.”

  “Where is Eric?”

  “Don’t know.” The lad pointed down to Fish Hill. “Will is waiting down there; he’s part of the chain.”

  “The chain?”

  “There’s a string of us, sir. Eric’s at the pointy end.” The boy jumped down. “Need to get back to my post.”

  He ran back up to the house, and Parker sped up, trying to spot Will at the junction of Crooked Lane and Fish Hill.

  He saw him immediately, standing beside a tavern, giving a good impression of a page waiting while his master went in for a drink.

  Parker caught his eye and he ran across, hunching against the wind.

  “Thought you was hurt?”

  Parker grimaced. “Where’s Mistress Horenbout, Will?”

  He shrugged. “Eric’s watching her back.”

  “Which way?”

  Will pointed up Fish Hill. “The Comte’s house. That’s where they went first. Not sure where they are now.”

  Parker nodded his thanks and forced the horse into a trot up the hill. It was already dark and the wind had culled the usual market crowds, so he made good progress.

  He pushed all thoughts of pain away, despite the sharp stabs of agony in both shoulders, and turned left toward the Comte’s mansion.

  Susanna had gone back on her bargain with Jean o
nce before, and Parker knew she would try anything in her power to do it again.

  Jean must know it, too.

  She would be under guard. The thought of Jean having any power over her made him flick the reins again, even though the horse could go no faster.

  He was almost there.

  A dart of movement ahead caught his attention. It was panicked, the movement of a mouse with a cat after it, and he slowed the cart.

  He had not seen who it was, and they had gone to ground in the deep shadows.

  “Eric?” The gate to the Comte’s residence was directly to his right. The panic in the moment he’d seen was not a good sign.

  Down the long drive to the Comte’s mansion, someone screamed, and Parker jumped from the cart, leaving it in the middle of the street.

  He palmed his knife and slipped between the trees. It was the way he’d come the day Wolsey’s men had taken him while he watched the Comte’s front door. He had no intention of being taken by surprise again.

  Whoever had run between the Comte’s drive and the next stand of houses was behind him, and although he’d gotten the impression of a boy, he kept a careful watch.

  The scream had gone on, a long, continuous wail that grabbed the back of his neck in a chilly grasp. It cut off sharply, and Parker moved forward as fast as he could in the silence.

  It was the silence after life has been taken. When the hunter has shot his arrow and the deer has finished struggling and now lies still. The hair on his arms rose, as if a shade brushed over him as it left the world behind, and he shivered.

  He crouched low as he came to the edge of the trees, the house in view. Some of the lower-floor windows were lit, casting a glow around the mansion that wavered and flickered with the candles within, a swirling, diaphanous skirt of light.

  He readied himself to take a chance and run to a window to look in, to see if Susanna could be there, but before he took the first step, a shadow rose up from beneath a window.

  Jean.

  A twig snapped behind him, and someone fell heavily on the ground.

  Jean turned, unerring as a bloodhound, and Parker saw him lift his crossbow up.

  Crouched low, Parker tried to beat Jean to the source of the noise, but froze low and deep in the undergrowth as Jean passed by.

  He heard a scuffle and straightened up, edging forward until he stood right behind Jean.

  In the dim light filtering between the trees, he saw that the assassin had a young boy cowering on the ground, and that his crossbow was raised and aimed.

  “Who do you work for?”

  The boy was silent. Parker recognized him as James, one of the lads who worked for Harry.

  Jean sighed, sighted the bow, and Parker realized he was about to kill. Moving faster than he thought possible, he pressed his knife to Jean’s throat, and satisfaction sang in his blood.

  He fought the urge to cut deep.

  “Killing children, now, Jean?”

  “Killing Norfolk’s spies.” Jean did not betray any surprise at the sound of Parker’s voice. “Though I thought I’d got them all after that last one.”

  “This one isn’t Norfolk’s, he’s mine.”

  “Ah.” There was silence a moment. “I wondered where you were, earlier, when your lady came round.”

  “Why are you killing Norfolk’s men?”

  Jean turned his head a little, and Parker saw his lip curl in distaste. “They were following your lady. The Comte does not want Norfolk privy to our plans.”

  Fear thrust a cold hand down Parker’s back. He had spent too much time on the French, and had ignored Norfolk at his cost. If the Duke had evidence that Susanna was conspiring with the French, whether willingly or not, he would use it. If not in this affair, then some other time.

  “Where is my betrothed?”

  James had risen, standing tense as a wild animal, ready to run. He opened his mouth to talk, but Parker gave the smallest shake of his head.

  He let the blade dig deeper into Jean’s neck. “Is she inside?”

  Jean said nothing.

  “Perhaps we should go and look?” Parker grabbed the back of Jean’s doublet and shoved him forward, but instead of resisting, Jean threw himself at the ground, twisting midair as he did, crossbow up.

  Parker dropped down and felt a rush of air as a bolt brushed past him.

  Jean cried out in pain as he hit the ground on his damaged shoulder. He rolled to his feet and staggered into the undergrowth.

  “Do we go after him?” James stood where he was and watched Parker with wide eyes.

  Parker shook his head. “Where is Susanna?”

  “Took her out the side way, they did. Then down to the river, to a barge. I came back here to see why that Frenchman didn’t go with them.” James’s teeth started to chatter. “Tripped over the first body in the half-light. Shot through the back.” He shuddered, as if to try to shake loose the memory.

  “Did they go up- or downriver?”

  “Upriver. Eric is following, running the bank to keep them in sight.”

  “Are there other lads along the way? Anyone who can tell me where they put in?”

  James shook his head. “’Twas just me and Eric left. The rest are out looking for Harry and Peter Jack. I best tell ’em they were in the barge with your lady. Carried out behind ’er like two lumps, they were. All tied up ’n’ knocked about.”

  Parker cast a last glance at the house. It was dangerous leaving Jean free, but every moment might count for Susanna. He couldn’t risk the delay.

  “What will you do, sir?”

  Parker thought of the boatmen from the time he’d shot the bridge. “I think it’s time to call on some old friends.”

  34

  It is not unknown to me how many men have had, and still have, the opinion that the affairs of the world are in such wise governed by fortune and by God that men with their wisdom cannot direct them and that no one can even help them; and because of this they would have us believe that it is not necessary to labour much in affairs, but to let chance govern them.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25

  Every step she took was a betrayal of trust.

  She nodded to the guards, who bowed and let her through, the wife-to-be of their master.

  That Parker would approve what she did didn’t help ease the nausea that roiled in her stomach.

  She let the page guide her through the passageways, although he slipped behind her whenever they came upon someone about their business. His head no doubt subserviently bowed.

  She had not spoken a word to him. He was young, but too old to be a page, and he bowed and cringed to make himself smaller.

  She could see a quickness and an intelligence in his face, and thought he wouldn’t have gone unnoticed in the palace for long.

  He and the Comte thought they would find the Mirror tonight and be done and gone. They were in for a disappointment.

  “We need to go through here.” For the first time, he tugged his cowl over his head before they turned the corner.

  Susanna steeled herself to smile and nod at more guards, but although there was a place for them at the entrance to the wing, they were not there.

  “There have always been guards here.” The French spy’s words set a spider of fear crawling across Susanna’s neck.

  She surged ahead to shake it off, and the Frenchman followed her.

  The corridor held accommodations for the more senior servants of the nobles at court. Had she needed a room at court, she would most likely have found herself in one of these.

  They were small but private, and one drew the eye because its door was hanging off a single hinge. With heart pounding, Susanna approached the entrance, and looked in on mayhem.

  Someone had ripped every item in the room to shreds, and what could not be ripped had been smashed.

  “Mon Dieu.” The Frenchman stepped inside and looked around with bleak eyes. “If there was anything here, someone else has it now.”

/>   Susanna crouched down and picked up a broken wooden box. There was nothing inside it, and she set it down again. “The Cardinal finally thought to look here, too, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” He turned slowly, to check that nothing had been left untouched. “We will look anyway.”

  Susanna began sifting through the straw from the mattress.

  She found a crumpled piece of paper and the spy snatched it from her, read it, and threw it down in disgust. Out of interest, Susanna picked it up and saw with shock that it was written in her father’s hand.

  A letter from her father to Jens, yet she was still waiting for a letter after nearly two months.

  It was the first page of the letter only, and covered the pleasantries and greetings. Her eyebrows rose as she read her father’s boasting of her position at the English court, and the fine work her brother Lucas was doing in Germany.

  She began to look for the second page, carefully checking under the straw and lifting the broken bed.

  The spy grunted in approval.

  At last, Susanna sat back in frustration. “It is gone.”

  “It seems to be. If it was ever here.”

  She had to remember they were talking about the Mirror, not her father’s letter. She folded the page she had and slipped it into the money pouch hanging from her belt. “What makes you think it wasn’t here?”

  “If it was, it was in the last thing they smashed, which doesn’t seem likely. Come. The Comte is waiting.” He held out a hand to her, but she got to her feet herself.

  As they walked back through the warren of passages, each step seemed heavier than the last. She wondered if Parker was awake. Wondered if the boys had made it back.

  Wondered if the Comte would let her live.

  It felt as if she were walking to her execution.

  Parker pulled himself up onto the dock at Westminster, every joint aching with cold, and stiff from sitting still in the small boat.

  “The tide is going out,” the boatman said, the first time he’d spoken since Parker hailed him.