The Tudor Conspiracy

by C. W. Gortner

  A simple life, without the burden of protecting Elizabeth.

  Yet even as I imagined it, I knew I deluded myself. My choice had been made. I’d made it the hour I agreed to serve her. I’d done it willingly, knowing the price I might pay.

  Elizabeth and I shared the same blood. My fate was now bound to hers.

  “We still have time,” I said, and she gave me a startled look. “To get your letter back,” I explained, “and discover what Dudley and Courtenay plot before it is too late. Renard wants evidence; if I can, I will give it to him.”

  She took in my somber expression. “But it would mean their deaths…”

  “It could mean yours if I do not,” I replied. “You must survive this. Do nothing more, Your Grace; say nothing more. Let me retrieve your letter and do whatever is required, even if it means betraying Dudley and Courtenay.”

  Her hands clenched at her sides. “No. I cannot. There must be another way.”

  “There isn’t. Your letter could be your death. You cannot rule from the grave.”

  Her conflict played upon her face, a tangled web of emotions that had no doubt haunted her since she arrived at court and realized the path her sister would take—a path that led to the abolishment of her faith and her right to be queen. She’d fought to save herself and those she loved; now she had to confront her own thorn-laden choice.

  “It’s the only way,” I said. “You or Dudley. You cannot save both.”

  “Let me think!” She held up her hand, turning away. From outside the sound of voices reached us, along with the clack of wood pattens on cobblestone. As the grooms catcalled and women returned pert replies, Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. She turned back to me, her eyes remote.

  “So be it,” she said quietly. “Do what you must.”

  The women were almost at the doorway; we had no more time. I shifted into the nearest stall. As I dropped to my knees beside a startled mare, yanking my cloak about me to blend with the shadows, I heard Elizabeth say with staccato impatience, “Where have you been? I nearly froze to death here waiting for you. God’s teeth, how long does it take to fetch a muff and gloves?” I heard the women’s murmured apologies, followed by hurried footsteps as they walked out after the princess.

  I let out a shuddering breath. Elizabeth had put herself in harm’s way to save Dudley and her future right to be queen.

  As I had suspected, however, when it came to choosing between them, she came first.

  SOUTHWARK

  Chapter Nine

  I took a few moments to compose myself. I heard Elizabeth call out to the grooms, “Best get back to your chores before the stable master finds you squandering those coins I gave you. Don’t forget, I want the best fodder, not the cheap hay you give the rest of the court’s beasts. And plenty of blankets at night—my Cantila is a delicate creature bred for sunnier climes than ours. I’ll take it amiss if something should happen to him.”

  As the grooms laughed and promised to do as she asked, I had to smile. Even in peril, Elizabeth would think of her horse, Cantila, an expensive Arabian she pampered like a child. She also wisely sowed allegiance where she could: Those grooms would be her willing slaves henceforth, after she’d paid them to gamble and drink during work hours.

  The truant grooms tramped into the stables to go about their business. None paid me heed as I brushed straw from my hose and moved to where my Cinnabar was stalled. He snorted at my greeting, nuzzling my cloak for the bits of dried apple I usually carried. I’d forgotten to stop by the kitchens for some, so I apologized as he tossed his head in frustration and I checked his forelock for the wound Peregrine had mentioned. It was healing, a small nick. I could still ride him.

  Urian came bounding up to me with an excited bark. I turned to see Peregrine holding the dog’s lead, his gaze bright and hair unkempt. No matter how much he tried, a few hours on his own and he invariably looked as if he’d run into a windstorm.

  “Well?” he said eagerly. “Did you see her? What did she say?”

  “Never mind that.” I eyed him. “Did you find out anything?”

  He nodded, his voice lowering to a whisper. “That horse Toby keeps ready, Courtenay uses it to visit a brothel called the Hawk’s Nest, across the river in Southwark near Bankside Street. He’s smitten with a bawd there, and he’s going again tonight. He paid Toby this morning.”

  I nodded grimly, reaching for Cinnabar’s saddle blanket and bridle.

  Peregrine’s expression crumpled. “What? Are you not pleased?”

  I began to saddle Cinnabar, making an effort to lighten my tone. “You did well, but you’re not to ask anything more. Leave the rest to me.”

  He scowled. “I don’t see why. I got the information you needed and—”

  I wheeled about and pinched his ear, eliciting a stifled protest. I said softly, “Because I said so.” I released him. He rubbed his ear. “No more working on your own. Understood?”

  “Yes, master,” he muttered.

  I proceeded to ready Cinnabar. As I took his reins, Urian whined. “She’s fond of this dog,” I said. “Make sure you feed him before you put him in his kennel. I’ll wait outside.”

  I led Cinnabar from the stall. During the time I’d been inside the stable block, the temperature had dropped even lower. Snow had started to fall again. The wind nipped at my cheeks like teeth. Shivering, I walked Cinnabar around the courtyard to warm him, huddled in my cloak, my hood yanked up as far over my head as it could be. I desperately needed a new cap.

  Peregrine emerged from the stables. I swung him into the saddle and mounted. “Let’s go find this Hawk’s Nest,” I said.

  * * *

  With Peregrine’s arms clasped about my waist, I turned Cinnabar past the parklands bordering the palace, bringing him to a slow canter as we left behind Whitehall’s labyrinthine expanse. Barren trees bowed under the hush of new snow; I reveled in the sight of open land, its white tranquility reminding me of Hatfield.

  Cecil had been wrong. Flair or not, being an intelligencer would never be my choice.

  Taking Grace Church Street, we plunged into the city clustered by the Thames. The calcified spine of London Bridge reared into view, perched on its twenty vast stone piers. I’d never been on the bridge before and marveled that it could hold so much on its back. Below us, the glazed river was devoid of its habitual water traffic, the ice already so dense in the shallows that children were skating across it, using pieces of bone for their blades. I saw a skinny dog romping after them, couples roaming the serrated white shore hand in hand, and vendors hawking hot pies—an unexpectedly festive sight that brightened my mood.

  At the northern gatehouse, crowds lined up to pay their toll and visit the hundreds of shops perched on either side of the bridge’s span like teetering birds, the air clogged with the raucous shouts of peddlers and others going about their business. I maneuvered Cinnabar with a tight rein; he was not used to the near-deafening noise or masses of people. Mule- and ox-drawn carts laden with goods added to the clamor as they rumbled across with utter disregard for pedestrians. The bridge was the only way to transport merchandise across the river in winter, and the stink of animal ordure permeated the air.

  I gazed up in awe as we passed under a gilded palatial structure that clambered several stories into the sky, its jutting balconies festooned with banners.

  “Some people live and die without ever leaving the bridge,” Peregrine said in my ear. “It’s considered the safest place in the city after the palace, because the gates close at curfew and it has everything the people need, except for ale and beer. No cellars for it.”

  “Curfew?” I frowned. “That’s inconvenient. How will I get across the bridge tonight? I’m not a nobleman who can flash his credentials whenever he needs to bypass something.”

  “You could always walk. The river should be frozen through by nightfall, and…” His voice faded as I glanced over my shoulder at him in disbelief.

  “That’s right,” he muttered
. “I forgot you’re like a cat when it comes to water. But it would be safe, not to mention faster. You’ll see. It’s going to take an hour just to get across.”

  I didn’t believe him at first, but as we progressed, I began to see that while there might not be official taverns, plenty of makeshift stalls offered beverages and food, inviting passersby to stop and peruse, sending those behind them into paroxysms of angry curses. Navigating the congested route between the edifices was like moving through a maze, for while the narrow central road was divided into designated lanes—one north and one south—nobody paid the directions any mind, sauntering to and fro whenever a shop display caught their fancy, ducking around and sometimes outright defying the passage of oncoming carts and wagons and horse riders with oblivious determination.

  To Peregrine’s glee, I kept ducking my head to avoid the painted signs in the shape of goods that hung overhead, proclaiming that shop’s particular trade. The light grew dim. The top levels of many of the bridge’s structures connected to each other across the road by soaring passageways, forming a web of vaults. Occasionally I glimpsed open space between the buildings, offering spectacular views of the partially frozen river and spires of London, but I didn’t tarry, much as I might have liked to. I wanted to survive the crossing without trampling over some hapless pedestrian.

  By the time we passed over the massive drawbridge at the southern end, I was breathless and Cinnabar quivered with distress. As we rode from under the fortified gatehouse, I glanced upward to its top; the tar-boiled heads of traitors were impaled there on spikes. A shiver went through me as I wondered if the Duke of Northumberland’s head was among them.

  I had started turning Cinnabar toward the din of Southwark when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a swish of telltale black. I reined in sharply, swiveling in my saddle to stare into the crowd. Peregrine clutched at my waist, my sudden movements nearly unseating him. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “Ssh.” I reached for my sword. A large, dark-clad figure was blending with the people emerging under the gatehouse; I was certain it was none other than Courtenay’s man. As if he felt my stare, he went still. His cowl cast a deep shadow over his face, but I felt him meet my eyes before he wheeled about to disappear into the throngs going north onto the bridge.

  I let out my breath. “We’re being followed. No. Don’t look.”

  “We are?” Peregrine’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Is he still…?”

  “No, he saw me watching and turned around. But he must know what we’re doing; he serves Courtenay. How far do you think it is to the brothel?”

  “I don’t know. It must be in the district.” He paused. “Why didn’t he come after us?”

  “Perhaps he thinks it would be hard to kill anyone here, with so many witnesses,” I said, though in fact the bridge offered a perfect spot for murder, if you were skilled enough. In all that bustle and commotion, a well-aimed knife could slice a victim open from sternum to gut and the body wouldn’t be found until someone stumbled over it.

  Anger surged at my own ineptness. I should have known Courtenay would have me tracked; he might have been lurking unseen near the stable block, seen Elizabeth emerge, and guessed we had met. That didn’t trouble me for now; the princess now knew to keep her distance from Courtenay. My own safety was another matter altogether.

  “Let’s see how eager he is,” I said. “We’ll wet our throats in that tavern and wait.”

  Tethering Cinnabar outside, I hired an ostler to watch him, and we entered a seedy establishment smelling of dank and alcohol, a convenient locale for passengers coming off or onto the bridge. After ordering two tankards of watered ale and a greasy pie from the hutch, I decided to try my luck and ask the server if he knew where the Hawk’s Nest was. The man was an ugly piece of work, one eye covered in milky film, greasy strands of hair plastered to a skull like a rodent’s; as he peered warily at me through his one good but bloodshot eye, I saw a louse skitter across his brow.

  “Hawk’s Nest?” he repeated. “Ye’re that type, are ye?”

  “Type?” I frowned. “I’m not sure I understand. I’m looking for—”

  He cut me off with a leer that showed rotting gums. His breath alone could have felled an ox. “I know what ye look for,” he leered. “Pretty boy-arse. Go into the district and find Dead Man’s Lane. The Nest is nearby. Though it don’t accept just anyone, I warn ye. Best be up to waitin’, too, ’cause it’s closed till dusk.” He cackled at his own joke. “Up to waitin’, now isn’t that a riot? All ye fancy men are up to waitin’, I wager.”

  I smiled through my gritted teeth. “Thank you.” I went to the rickety table where Peregrine sat staring at me over his tankard as if he were about to bolt at any moment.

  “Do you know what kind of place the Hawk’s Nest is?” I growled.

  He shook his head, too quickly.

  “Are you sure?”

  He shook his head again, this time with less assertion.

  “Boy bum.” I leaned to him. “It’s a quean’s custom house, isn’t it?”

  Peregrine said nervously, “Is that what you heard? Imagine that.”

  “Yes, imagine it. I also heard it doesn’t allow everyone in. What does that mean?”

  “It must be private. You’ll probably need a password—” He avoided the swipe I aimed at his ear. “Would it have mattered if I told you before tonight?” he protested as I glowered at him. “You still have to get inside, no matter what!”

  “I wish I didn’t.” I downed my tankard in a gulp. “And why a password? I thought the whole point of running a brothel was to attract as much custom as possible.”

  “Well,” said Peregrine, “if their custom is, shall we say, not the usual kind, you’d have to be careful, right? You don’t want the wrong sort getting in.”

  He had a point. Buggery was a crime in England, punishable by imprisonment, fines, even death, though I’d never heard of any man being executed for it. Then again, I didn’t have experience. The most I’d gleaned was stories in my boyhood, lurid anecdotes about monks, one of the reasons cited for the closure of the abbeys. The way I looked at it, if the act was consensual, why should I care what anyone chose to do in private? There was more than enough evil in the world for it to rank as a minor vice, if that. Still, I’d never considered I might actually have to visit a place that catered to the predilection.

  As if he could read my mind, Peregrine added, “You don’t have to do anything, just get yourself through the door. It probably won’t hurt to look the part, though.”

  “Great. And here I thought mastering the sword was my biggest challenge. Anything else you forgot to tell me? Best do it now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

  He burst out laughing, his eyes gleaming as I dug into my pie with a decided ill humor. After we ate, we went outside. As I untied Cinnabar and paid the ostler, I gauged our environs. Courtenay’s man could be hiding anywhere; there were still masses of people traveling over the bridge, but the cold was deepening to a bone-sapping chill as the sun started to ebb and I figured we might as well locate the damn brothel so I could return later without undue complications. The last thing I wanted was to lose myself in the crime-infested warren of baiting pits, whorehouses, and cheap inns and taverns of Southwark.

  I clicked my tongue at Cinnabar, urging him to quicken his pace as we rode into the coiled heart of the district. I had never beheld such squalor. There was filth everywhere, festering in piles; skeletal dogs skulked past, every rib showing, and children dressed in rags, with open sores on their feet, sat listless in the frozen mud of the lanes while their mothers entertained custom inside seedy lean-tos fit only for rats—a significant quantity of which tripped over the rooftops and through the gutters, bold as day.

  “This can’t be right,” I said. “Courtenay would never set foot here.” I pulled out a coin, waving it. Five children immediately bounded to us, grubby hands extended, all eyes and knees and filthy hair. “Which way to Dead
Man’s Lane?” I asked, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease when one of the boys pointed to one side, toward the river, and then caught the coin I pitched in midair. I saw feral cunning on the other children’s faces and set my hand on my sword hilt, returning their stares. They retreated, like a pack of animals.

  We rode down a rutted path that barely qualified as a lane, past a series of slightly less sordid establishments, and came up before a two-story, timber-framed building. I thought at first it must be a guesthouse until I saw the sign swinging above its stout oak door, depicting a bird of prey, crudely drawn wings stretched over a circle of twigs: THE HAWK’S NEST.

  There were no lower windows or visible places to gain a foothold up to a narrow catwalk of a ledge that ran parallel under high upper windows, all of which were shuttered. Indeed, nothing about the place indicated easy access or a welcoming air. It was more a fortress than a den of illicit pleasure.

  “Locked tight as a virgin’s knees,” I remarked, and Peregrine laughed. “How will we get inside?” I took another moment to memorize the house and its location before I surveyed our surroundings. I waited. After a few minutes, I turned Cinnabar around.

  “We?” I said in response to Peregrine’s question. “There is no ‘we’ tonight. You’ve had quite enough adventure for one day.”

  He sulked as we rode back to the bridge. Crossing north proved less arduous, the crowds thinning as dusk draped a cinder shroud over the horizon. Moving slowly through the waning populace, as shop vendors bolted their doors for the night, I kept my poniard unsheathed. I made a brief stop at a shop to purchase a new dark wool cap, lingering over the wares, but did not catch sight of Courtenay’s man. His absence proved disquieting. It wasn’t like a henchman to give up easily. He’d had plenty of opportunity to follow and engage, if he were so inclined, but he hadn’t. Why?