Hoofbeats clattered up beside her as Fausto reined in, surprisingly nimble on a rented horse, his donkey left behind. Astonished that he’d managed to match her bruising pace, she slid him a sidelong glance as he jumped lithely down. She would have given much to leave him behind—drugged into slumber, as she’d left Beatriz. Yet he clung tenaciously to her heels and would not be shaken off.
He suspects something. A hard shiver worked through her. Santo Spirito, what will he say to Maximo?
Gaunt as a skull in his shadowed cowl, the priest murmured with a liveried page. “It seems, Contessa, that His Excellency is away from court.”
“Oh, indeed?” She made her face impassive, hiding the consternation that churned her belly. Any delay now could be fatal to her plans, with Twelfth Night looming before them. If her father had sent word…if her secret message had gone undiscovered, if he’d replied at once, if his jailors hadn’t moved him, if the don hadn’t intercepted his response, if a hundred desperate chances hadn’t gone awry…then she must act tonight.
She edged her voice in a flippant tone. “Has Henry finally tired of the Spanish Devil and exiled him from court?”
“The boy here says the don went to Westminster. No doubt he’ll play a role in the marriage trial, as Charles of Spain’s Ambassador. But he left word to wait here, for he intends to return shortly.” Still as an assassin himself, he watched her. “Our master has anticipated you.”
A chill crawled over her skin. Her entire plan—feverishly hammered out on the road as she fled—revolved around making the don complacent. He must be certain of her tonight, or all was lost.
“Very well.” She tossed her reins to a reluctant groom. “I’ll wash away the stink of these English roads and wait for him in his chambers. You’ll be summoned when he desires your presence.”
Despite her pointed dismissal, Fausto’s steps whispered behind her as she went inside, and she knew he would be watching. Indeed, his vigilance could prove an obstacle. Pray she could elude him without killing him! Yet even that she would do if she must—if he came between her and her family.
The eerie sense of an abandoned ruin deepened as she slipped through the echoing corridors. Torches guttered low in their brackets, wreathing the halls with foul-smelling smoke. The shifting shadows played tricks with her vision. The distant roar of the banquet only added to her unease and muffled the steps of anyone who might pursue her. Corpus Christi, that clamor sounded more like the bloody bellow of gladiatorial games in pagan Rome than a New Year’s feast at a Christian court. Perhaps Henry had ordered his courtiers to celebrate the end of his marriage.
Anne Boleyn may be Queen by St. John’s Day—if she survives Don Maximo’s malice.
As she used her key to slip into the don’s apartments, Allegra’s thoughts swooped and fluttered like trapped birds. Carefully she locked the door behind her and searched the empty suite. Her stomach knotting, she sifted through the neat piles of correspondence on Maximo’s writing desk, searching for the loops and whirls of a familiar hand. Halfway through a pile of opened mail, her sister’s round childish hand leaped up at her.
Allegra’s heart pounded in her throat. Carefully she unfolded the parchment. Its wax seal had been broken, which meant that Maximo had already glanced through it, as was his habit. Swiftly her eyes flew over the lines—her father’s words inscribed in Rosaria’s hand, since a blind man could not write. Her mind flashed through the hidden patterns of the codes her father had taught her long ago, while she learned the killing arts in secret, and prayed for the death of the brute she’d married. But no hidden meaning coalesced under her searching eyes.
Hurry hurry hurry. The warning pounded in her blood. She reread the innocuous lines—her sisters’ musical accomplishments, the worsening cough that had troubled her father all winter, appreciation for her Christmas gifts. Her father hoped she would enjoy a practical gift, a healing lotion for her mare’s bruised hoof—
In a heartbeat she found the jar, sitting nearby on the desk. It too had been opened, but her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid—cautiously—and sniffed. Under the pungent reek of camphor, she barely discerned a subtle fragrance, nearly undetectable. A lightning crackle of awareness raced across her skin.
Hastily she snatched up the items and withdrew to her privy chamber, where she rubbed a fine film of liquid over the parchment. Although the black ink smeared, a few ghostly letters leaped out at her. Methodically she treated the remaining text, until the invisible message became clear:
L-O-N-D-O-N-T-O-W-E-R
Her heart thudded wildly as the words shouted in her brain. The Tower of London, one of the oldest Tudor castles, the place where the English crowned their kings. Also the most famous prison in England, the one least likely to hide Spanish influence, the place where suspect traitors rotted in their chains and prayed for a merciful beheading. Her poor blind father, her baby sisters—held in that ghoulish place?
As God was her witness, she would strangle Maximo with her own hands, and a swift clean death would be more than he deserved.
The sense of a ticking clock drove her onward. No time for this now, no time for anything. When she was certain she’d missed nothing, she held the parchment to her candle, and watched the evidence burn to ashes.
Swallowing hard against the metallic tang of terror, she turned to her work-table, cluttered with the flasks and mortars of a perfumer’s trade—or a poisoner’s. Her careful array of bottles and vials stood undisturbed, for no one wished to cross her, with her evil reputation. No one could know if she’d brewed a love-philter or something to ease a cough, or whether she’d ground an ugly death with her pestle.
Swiftly she found the bottle that held her jasmine fragrance. She stripped down to her chemise and tossed bodice and skirts, sleeves and stockings in a tidy pile on her bed. Cold air nipped at her, raising gooseflesh on her skin, as she poured fragrance into the ice-cold water in her pitcher. Shivering, she sponged the road-dirt from her body.
Then she tugged off her knuckle-sized ruby ring and unhinged the stone, revealing the hidden cavity inside. Recently, it had held bryony—the warning she had poured for Anne Boleyn, which Joscelin’s vigilance had prevented his sister from drinking. But she mustn’t think of Joscelin now, or the ocean of regret would swell up and drown her.
Gesù, he must despise me.
The poison’s acrid scent lifted every hair on her body. With the meticulous precision the Hand of God had taught her, she poured something else into the cavity, careful not to touch it or spill a drop, then thumbed the ring closed.
Next door, the rattle of the lock lodged her heart in her throat. For a breath, blind panic clawed through her, and she could only stand at her work-table and pant. Steady, you fool. Quelling the attack of nerves, she eased her door open a finger’s width and pressed her eye to the crack.
Maximo had still not returned, but his body-servant scurried about, laying a fire in the hearth, lighting a branch of candles on the writing table. Her knees almost buckling with relief, she closed the door and chose her attire: underskirt and sleeves, stomacher and gown—the black-and-gold serpentine gown she’d worn that fateful night, when she set out to warn Anne Boleyn and met Joscelin instead.
Her heart ached as she checked the stiletto strapped to her thigh, in her hand at a heartbeat if it all went awry. She coiled her hair high and clasped the heavy rubies to her ears, flesh stinging at their cruel pinch. Her rings she chose with care, her large square amethyst, a golden topaz that blazed like a sun on her finger…and then the ruby. Her mother’s cross, as always, hung at her throat.
Gesù grant me courage.
A glance in her mirror showed her face etched with stark fear. Her eyes had darkened to indigo, nearly black against her white skin—too pale. So she used the cosmetics she rarely touched. Lead powder and coral rouge to hide her pallor, a dab of carmine for her lips.
Too late now for regrets or second thoughts, always and forever too late. Tonight was for her nemes
is, and she would show him her most seductive mask. She would be the polished blade he had purchased and loved so well to wield.
The sound of footsteps rooted her feet to the floor. She stared at the connecting door, a tunnel of blackness constricting her vision. God save her, she could only wait with the mute pounding terror of the rabbit crouched in its burrow while the wolf sniffed and scratched outside.
Now came the body-servant’s respectful murmur, the splash of water, the low tenor of the don’s reply. The dark spice of ambergris seeped into her nostrils. Doggedly, she waited while silence fell and the servant departed. At last, she crept to her door and eased it open.
Bathed in an island of candlelight, Don Maximo lounged in his chair, booted feet propped on the desk before him, his features drawn with weariness. In the moment before he sensed her, he pinched thumb and forefinger against his nose and sighed, as though his head ached after a taxing day. Gradually, the discomfiting thought stole through Allegra that he, too, was human. An untimely reminder, when she was steeling herself to strike.
Smoothing her face into indifference, she glided into his chamber. “Buona sera, Excellency.”
Don Maximo angled his head toward her, as though too tired to lift it. “Ah, my pet, it’s you. Back already from your assignation?”
“As you see.” She sank to a stately curtsey and closed her mind to his weariness. She could not afford to find humanity in him now. “You summoned me back with such haste that you almost killed your courier. Why should my presence surprise you?”
“For a travel-weary woman, you’re looking rather splendid—a trifle pale, perhaps.” His silver gaze narrowed. Grimly she clung to her composure, made no effort to hide the dark ruby that smoldered on her finger. She often wore this ring, so it would not attract his notice.
“I must confess, Allegra, that I anticipated you might delay. Our Lutheran knight appears quite besotted—valiant of him, didn’t you think, marching into the lion’s den to arrange your liaison? I trust he hasn’t tired of you already.”
“Did you really think he might?” The don knew all her secrets except this one.
“I think he’s quite probably in love with you.” The don reached for his correspondence. “Which is highly unfortunate for the poor fellow, and I did try to warn him against it. How disappointed he must be with your hurried departure. Tell me, my pet, was he a talented lover? He is French, after all, and one hears a great deal of boasting.”
To her alarm, a tide of warmth climbed in her cheeks. “He isn’t in love with me, I assure you.” Damnation, she’d spoken too sharply. She couldn’t be certain of controlling her face while the don rifled through his letters, so she forced her legs into motion and paced the chamber with a careless air. “I daresay he is intrigued. I made it my business to see that he was—as you commanded. The priest himself can attest to my success. He’ll serve your purpose, when the moment comes.”
“The moment is already looming, my treasure. The outcome of this trial is impossible to predict. Campeggio can’t rule against the queen, for all the reasons we’ve discussed. Yet the king’s chancellor, the desperate Wolsey, dares not allow the trial to go against Henry.”
“Then it sounds to me as if the matter goes nowhere.” Allegra arched her brows.
“Katherine has been magnificent, and very clever—with me to counsel her.” A satisfied smile flickered across his lips, but the crease of worry did not vanish from his brow. “So far, the queen refuses even to appear before the court. But Henry is determined to be rid of her, one way or another, so we dare take no chances. Needless to say, the king’s heretic whore has no place at this Catholic trial. She remains here at Richmond, separated from Henry—but only for tonight.”
His hands stilled among his parchments. “Now is your moment, Allegra.”
Her sense of dread deepened. “You gave me until Twelfth Night to act. I have six days of that time remaining, and I need all of it to complete my preparations.”
“The unexpected onset of this trial has added a certain urgency. Therefore, we must alter our arrangement.”
Did he already guess what she intended? He was a monster in the guise of a man, and it steeled her spine for what she must do.
“You mustn’t be concerned, Your Excellency. The lady will be in no position to benefit, no matter what Campeggio decides.”
“Pray do not forget Sir Joscelin,” he murmured. “So envious of his sister’s success, so resentful that she hinders his rise. Half the court already whispers of the strain between them—I’ve made certain of that. No one will be surprised when he’s accused, although they’ll pretend to be shocked, of course.”
His eyes burned her spine as she strolled toward the flagon his body-servant had brought. An edge of malice sharpened his tone.
“You have surprisingly little to say about your recent tryst. Come, indulge my curiosity. Did you enjoy his bed?”
Enjoy it? He showed me the miracle of a tender touch. And I flung it away like a ruined handkerchief, with no more regard than that. Thank God she had put the don behind her, where he couldn’t read her face.
“I didn’t undertake the deed for enjoyment’s sake. My position does not permit me to act for my own pleasure, but only for yours.” Idly, she examined a pair of silver goblets. “’Tis thirsty work, this business of betrayal.”
He was silent. She waited, sick with nerves. For the trained assassin she claimed to be, surely she could hold herself together. No matter how perceptive he seemed, the don couldn’t read her mind.
“If you act solely for my pleasure,” he said, “shall we drink to that? We’ll salute the triumph of Christ…and the downfall of all heretics.”
“You’re full of Christmas cheer and charity.” She poured the Falernian red into both goblets. Her placement screened her from view as she thumbed open the ring, and sprinkled its contents into his cup.
He spoke directly behind her, and she swallowed a startled oath. “Can you think of a better way to celebrate the birth of Christ? Our actions shall purge this godforsaken island of heresy, as a surgeon lances an infected wound.”
Had he seen what she’d done? Allegra summoned her excuses: she had a headache, it was a powder for her pain. Somehow she’d contrive not to drink it. The heavy sweetness of ambergris swam in her head—the same fragrance Casimiro had reeked with, whenever he came to her bed. Desperately she struggled to clear her head, to ground herself in the present.
When she could, she pinned on a brilliant smile and pivoted. He stood close enough to touch. A single bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts.
“You must forgive me, Excellency. I fear I can’t share your passion for rooting out heresy. I can’t find it within myself to celebrate when some poor soul is taken up for torture.”
“But we’re saving their souls, Allegra.” Firelight flashed on his gold-slashed doublet. He dazzled the eye with all the majesty of the Holy Roman Empire. What hubris, to presume she could bring him down! “Can’t you see it? All these ignorant English peasants scratching in the dirt, these simple souls, so easily led astray. What does it matter if their wretched, disease-ridden bodies feed the flames, so long as their souls are saved?”
Tortured by the thought of her mother writhing in the flames, she couldn’t reply.
“You, my dear, are the perfect instrument of God’s wrath, a fitting successor to the Hand of God. When you bring divine judgment to those accursed Boleyns, you’ll earn your own salvation. God will forgive you all your sins.”
“No!” The denial burst from her lips, so raw that it tore her throat. “There can be no salvation for me, whether I embrace your methods or renounce them. Leading others to their doom only damns me more.”
“Madre de Dios! Can you possibly comprehend so little?” Astonished, he spread his hands. “Why else have you remained with me for three long years? Why else endure being called a whore and a witch for serving a man whom, I regret to say, you obviously despise?”
Sh
e forced the words through gritted teeth. “I remain with you because you leave me no choice.”
“But this is self-delusion of the worst sort! Let us call things what they are, at least. Do you honestly think you could not have found some way to escape me—you with your skills, your cunning, your deadly strength of purpose?”
Denial surged through her. “That is a monstrous lie! You would never allow me to leave.”
“Truly?” he whispered. “For three years you’ve walked free, sailed the seas, ridden the roads of this kingdom at will. You’ve just spent four nights in another man’s bed, and yet you returned to me. Have I locked you in your chamber at night? Have I hobbled your feet to keep you from running? You are bound to me by chains of your own devising.”
“Another lie!” She burned to hurl her wine in his face. “You’ve set spies to watch my every breath. I can’t even dream without your knowledge.”
“What man or woman lives free of scrutiny at this court—even myself? No, Allegra, you remain with me for no other reason than your conviction that you deserve it. How tightly you cling to your chains—the shame and guilt for your mother’s torment, the oafish husband who died in your bed, your sisters’ imagined suffering, though they’re pampered like princesses.
“I’m your penance for the sins of your past—your only hope of absolution. I am God to you.”
Her blood boiled with anger, so many words bottled in her throat that she could barely speak. “You’re mistaken, a thousand times over. And now you speak blasphemy. My sisters hold the only absolution that is possible for me. As for yourself…”
Santo Spirito, this was no time to examine her soul! She must search her conscience for truth another time.
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