I reached into my doublet. She took the paper and turned to the desk.
I remained on my knee.
Unfolding the paper, she read in silence. She stood without moving for a long moment, holding the letter limply, before she let it drift from her hand to the floor. “Is it true?” she asked. “Does she revere me above all else? Or is she as much of a deceiver as you?” She looked over her shoulder at me. “I suspect not even you can say. After all, she’s had far more experience.”
“Majesty, she is innocent. I came to court to help her, yes, but I also investigated the conspiracy as ordered. And there is more you must know, about Don Renard and—”
She lifted her hand again, cutting me off. “Renard has told me already. I know all about Mistress Darrier and her scheme. Even if he hadn’t, I’ve had spies in my household since I was old enough to walk. I knew what kind of woman she was. I’m glad she paid the price for her treachery.” Her smile was cold. “The Duke of Feria may now wed my Jane Dormer, as I first planned. And lest you doubt, I do intend to show clemency to my allegedly loyal sister. Enough blood has been shed—for the moment.”
I exhaled. I was on the brink of allowing myself to believe I had succeeded when she said, “But she still goes to the Tower tomorrow. Evidently she cannot be left to her own devices. At least in the Tower, she’ll be safe from these malcontents who foment rebellion in her name. Once my husband, Prince Philip, arrives, together he and I will decide what is to be done with her. I will follow his advice.”
His advice …
I already knew what Prince Philip would say; unlike her, I knew exactly what he desired. Even so, I could venture no further. She would not kill Elizabeth. For now, it had to be enough. “Your Majesty is most merciful,” I said, bowing my head.
“Yes,” she replied, “so they say. Any other would have taken her head by now, but I must answer to God. I will not soil my hands with her blood without cause. As for you, while your tale is remarkable, I do not believe it. No princess would bear a bastard. You are mistaken; you have been misguided by others. Still, I spare your life because of past services, which, as you claim, you performed of your own free will. But you are henceforth banished from this court. I never want to see or hear of you again. Now you may go.”
“Majesty.” I stood and turned to the door. She spoke again, her tone rigid with devastating power. “Remember this, whoever you are: To me you no longer exist. You’ve achieved your aim. You are now truly a man without a past. See that you stay that way.”
I turned to take one final look at her, erect with her head held high, every inch a queen despite her dishevelment. I bowed, with reverence, and I walked out.
Lady Clarencieux rose from her post by the fire. I saw relief wash over her face as I reached out and took her hand in mine.
“Watch over her,” I said. “She’ll need more care than she knows.”
“I will care for her with my life.” She left her hand in mine for a moment before she withdrew it. “Be safe, Master Beecham.” She turned to the door of the chapel. She did not need to explain; a man who did not exist could no longer pass through Whitehall.
As the door closed behind me, I heard her say, “At the fork in the tunnel, turn right. It will bring you to the river.”
* * *
Rochester had absconded, as I expected. As he’d said, he had a family to protect. He had left the chapel’s secret door unlocked, but I knew the way back to his study was barred. Inhaling deep, I slipped on my gloves and entered the stone tunnel. This time, I had no light. I could scarcely see two feet in front of me, my heels crunching on rubble, the chatter and scamper of rats sending shivers through me. The farther I went into that airless darkness, the more I smelled the acrid tang of the river. I quickened my step, stumbling as I neared what appeared to be the fork.
The left tunnel stretched into nothingness; the right glimmered with faint light. Gripping my sword at my hip, I advanced carefully. More debris crunched underfoot; the moldering walls were slimy to the touch even through my gauntlets. I was so focused on reaching that distant pinprick of light that seemed to beckon like a mirage that at first, I thought I must be imagining the other scent wafting toward me—an insidious perfume, which clung to the air as if its wearer had just passed through.
I froze. Lilies.
A footstep came behind me. I whirled about, yanking at my blade.
No one was there.
I started to tremble. No, it couldn’t be. It was impossible. I had seen her leap off the bridge. She had plunged to her death.
The perfume was everywhere now, swirling like a tenacious invisible mist until all I could smell was her. Inside my skin and out. Everywhere.
“Show yourself!” I cried, my voice reverberating wildly. I heard another footstep, the crush of powdered stone under a heel. I bolted forth, dashing toward that sound, my blade swinging before me as I kicked rats aside, my inchoate howl exploding from my lips.
I reached the fork. The tunnel that led to Rochester’s office lay directly before me, the one to the chapel to my left. As I stood there breathless, terror erupting through my very pores, a door clicked open, and then there was the distinct clack of heeled footsteps.
Someone had entered the chapel.
God help me, she was alive. Sybilla still lived.
Muted voices in the chapel reached me: a murmur, a barked order, and then the singing of metal being drawn. I didn’t wait to see the guards come charging through that door. Spinning back around, I raced the way I had come, careening like a drunkard in a labyrinth, my heart in my throat. The tunnel grew tighter, pitching to a slope. The ceiling lowered, so that I had to duck my head lest I scrape it, scrabbling into a rivulet that grew steadily deeper, until it reached to my waist and I was sloshing through it. The water was so cold it cramped my bowels. Light began to widen around me. I couldn’t feel my own legs as I struggled through that fetid pool, almost wailing in fury when I saw the curved grate directly before me, set low in an impassable stone wall.
A sluice gate: I was in a sewer that carried waste from the palace.
Behind me, clamor approached. I heard the men splashing, coming closer. Sheathing my sword, I unhooked my cloak and threw it aside. With a whispered prayer, I shut my eyes and plunged underwater, groping at the underside of the gate, seeking an opening. If it went all the way down, I was doomed. Just as I began to despair, as my lungs screamed for air and I fought the impulse to open my mouth and let myself drown in the shit-filled bog, my hand encountered a serrated edge. Grabbing hold of it, I propelled myself under the gate, clawing with my hands across the putrid bottom. I felt a sharp tug at my shoulder, something snagging my doublet. I kicked hard, knowing whoever was behind me would see my floating cloak and know where I’d gone. The alarm would be sounded; guards would be sent from the palace. The queen would not protect me again if I were found.
With a talonlike scrape down my shoulder, I tore free of the grate and swam upward. The water carried me, tumbling, down an incline. I grappled with debris, clutching at anything I could, and then I was tumbling headlong into the conduit that spilled into the river, the sky wheeling above, scattered with stars, the moon remote in its cradle of cloud.
The sounds of pursuit faded; the far shore of Southwark winked with random torchlight. Dragging myself out of the conduit, I took a moment to catch my breath.
Then I scrambled to my feet and ran as fast as I could into the city.
* * *
I dragged myself toward the dockyards, sodden and shivering. Remembering Cinnabar in the stables, as well as Elizabeth’s mount, Cantila, and Urian, I thought I’d have to find a way to retrieve them. I didn’t dare return to the palace now, though. I had to find shelter in the only place I had left—in the crowded streets near the Tower.
I stumbled past evidence of Wyatt’s aborted revolt: broken barricades, trampled standards, a bloodstained armband submerged in slush. Every house, shop, tavern, and inn was shut; when I reached the Griffi
n, I banged on the door with my bruised knuckles.
“Please, please answer,” I whispered through chattering teeth. “Please, be here.”
It seemed an eternity before a pair of shutters in an upper-story window flung open. “Who’s there?” demanded a woman’s voice. I craned my gaze to where she leaned out, a nightcap askew on her head, a work-roughened hand gripping the sill.
“Scarcliff,” I said, and as she tilted her head, I repeated, louder, “Scarcliff! Is he here?”
She glared. “No one by that name here. Get from my door, beggar, or I’ve a mind to toss my chamber pot on you. Get, I say!”
“No, you don’t understand…” My protest faded. I was fairly certain I addressed the buxom Nan, who served me the night I had met Scarcliff here. She must be the owner or his wife; proprietors usually dwelled above their place of business, as a safeguard against break-ins and theft. “Shelton,” I suddenly thought to say. “I’m looking for Archie Shelton.”
She hesitated. Then she vanished, banging the shutters behind her.
I groaned. I couldn’t take another step. My clothes were lined in icicles; I could feel a stinging pain where the sluice gate had cut me. My knees wavered; just as I decided to drop on this threshold, as good a place as any to die, the bolt behind the door slid back and the woman was standing on the threshold, clutching a shawl to her plump shoulders.
Behind her, barrel-chested and clad only in his braies, was Scarcliff.
“I thought you might be here,” I said, and he caught me in his arms as I collapsed.
Chapter Twenty-three
A fiery concoction being poured down my throat jolted me back to consciousness. Coughing, I tasted a sudden foul rise of bile and leaned over a tattered settle to heave up a horrifying quantity of vomit.
“You poor thing,” exclaimed Nan, patting my mouth with a cloth as I groaned and lay back against a cushion. “Where in heaven’s name have you been?”
“Smells like the river to me,” Scarcliff rumbled.
“Worse,” I croaked. I cracked open my eyes. “Much worse. You don’t want to know.”
“Aye, I’m sure I don’t.” He sat beside me on a stool, regarding me; they’d stirred up the hearth, and the fire’s warmth slowly seeped into my chilled bones. I found myself staring at his bare chest, muscular as a wrestler’s; he had few visible scars on that expanse of skin, compared to his face.
“Drink more.” He shoved the cup at me. “It’s brandy, imported from Seville, about the only damn thing the Spaniards are good for.”
I resisted the offer, struggling to my elbows. I was in a small parlor, nothing fancy, but clean and neat. His battered dog lay on a reed mat by the fire, its eyes opaque as it watched me with cursory interest. “Do you live here?” I asked him.
“Most of the time; when Nan will have me.”
From the sideboard where she wrung out the cloth in a basin, Nan harrumphed. She tramped back to me and set the cloth on my forehead. “There, now. You stay there and rest. I’ll fetch some hot porridge from the kitchen.” She cast a troubled look at Scarcliff as she left, closing the door behind her. I heard her descend a staircase.
“She worries,” he explained. “She’s always said her biggest fear is that one day we’ll be woken at night by some Dudley hireling come to strangle us in our beds, though I keep telling her it’s not bloody likely. That lot’s got more important things to fret over than whether or not I’m still alive.”
“She knows about you … about all of it?”
He shrugged. “A man can’t be a stranger to everyone. Someone’s got to know who you are.” Seeing as I’d declined the brandy, he drank it down. “Besides, she helped me. She was a doxy in one of those rat-hovels on Bankside, growing long in the tooth; her customers weren’t getting any younger, either. She found me washed on the shore that night I escaped the Tower, my legs all smashed up and my face—well, you can see what they did to my face. She and the other whores in the neighborhood fetched me indoors and tended to me. It took weeks before I could open my eyes or uttered a sound, Nan said. Had it not for that pack of cunnies, I’d have died.”
“And now you two live together?”
“You could say that. After I healed—or healed as much as I ever would—I hired myself out as a strongman for the brothels; Nan and I tucked away every coin we earned. In time, we saved enough to buy this place from an uncle of hers, a drunken lout who barely kept it running. He died on that settle, from liver rot. Miserable bastard he was, but he did Nan a decent turn in the end. At least now, she needn’t sell herself for bread.”
My head reeled, as much from the aftereffects of my recent imbroglio as from the very idea that Archie Shelton, previously steward to the noble Dudley household, now ran a tavern with a former whore.
“Surprised?” His one eye gleamed. “I must admit, I was, too, at first. Didn’t think I’d stay long. But I like it here. I’m thinking of taking up permanent residence and working full-time. After that ugly bit of trouble with the earl, I figure it’s time for old Scarcliff to retire.”
My throat tightened with emotion. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my life.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? You certainly have a penchant for getting into trouble.” He went silent for a spell, staring into the crackling hearth. “Did you do it?” he said at length. “Did you help her?”
I sighed. “She’s going to the Tower, but I have assurance she’ll not be killed.”
Though his ravaged face could barely register an expression, I could tell he was incredulous. “Assurance from whom? The queen?” He snorted. “I’d not put much trust in her if I were you. Not if you’ve seen the dead hanging on every corner and those fresh heads on the bridge. She went to the Guildhall when Wyatt’s men were spotted across the river; she swore up and down she’d never marry without her people’s consent. She got the city all riled up so they’d march to her defense, like they did that time before, against the duke. But she lied. She’ll marry the Hapsburg. Wyatt had the right idea; he just went about it wrong.”
“I see your point,” I said. “But it’s not her word alone I’m counting on.” I drew the blanket closer around me. I was naked under it, the discarded ruins of my clothing sitting in a dripping basket by the fire. The smell of herbs wafted from my shoulder; Nan must have tended the wound. It hurt, though it probably felt worse than it was.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked.
I didn’t. I didn’t want to relive it, not yet. I found myself telling him anyway, my voice remarkably calm as I related what had occurred, everything but what I’d confided to Mary about my secret. When I finished, he sat with his lower lip protruding, as though he were ruminating on a particularly vexing issue. “Are you sure it was her? It’s a long fall off the bridge.”
I considered. “It was very dark in the tunnel. I didn’t see her.”
“Then maybe it was your imagination. Maybe Renard found out you’d snuck into the palace to see the queen and sent someone after you. Or perhaps Rochester told him. It’s the court, lad. Nothing is more important to a courtier than his own hide, and you’ve a lot of secrets to spill.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, reluctantly. “But that scent: Only she wore it. And it was everywhere. As if she’d doused herself in it, because she wanted me to know she was alive.”
He looked doubtful. “In all that muck and mire, you could smell her?” He grunted. “I suppose it’s possible. Hell, anything’s possible. But if she survived that fall without breaking her neck, she’s more experienced than anyone I’ve known. The way she handled her sword, and now this: She’s had training. I’ve never heard of anyone jumping off the bridge in the middle of winter and living to tell the tale.”
I had to agree. Sitting in his cramped parlor above the Griffin, after having nearly drowned in a sewer, I had to doubt my own experience. The tunnel had been suffocating, a nightmarish labyrinth. I must have lost my reason. It seemed utterly improbable that Sybilla could ha
ve plunged into the Thames and not died instantly. Mary had told me she had paid the price, but I had not thought to ask if her body had been recovered. I was glad I hadn’t. It was better if I never knew. I had to believe she was dead. I didn’t want to consider what I would do if I found out otherwise. The hunt for her would destroy my existence.
“I must be at the Tower tomorrow,” I said at length. “I have to see it.”
He turned to the door as Nan came trudging back up the stairs.
“Then we will,” he said.
* * *
The next morning, he located old garb for me that had belonged to the dead uncle: a shirt, an itchy doublet that smelled faintly of lavender and more strongly of mold, mended hose, an oversized cap that flapped about my ears, and shoes too big for my feet. The dead uncle had been larger than me, I thought absently as I dressed, glancing at my contused arms, the purpling bruises on my torso, and the aching shoulder wound wrapped in a bandage; that, and I had lost too much weight. Shelton unearthed a worn belt from the clothes press to keep everything more or less in place. My other clothes were ruined. Nan had painstakingly tried to salvage them, but the taint of sewage was ineradicable, and I told her to give up. My boots could be salvaged, with care and loads of fat rubbed into the leather to restore its pliancy, after they dried out. I was most concerned for my sword, but while I slept Shelton had wiped away the moisture and filth and polished it to a bright hue.
We set out to an early morning that felt like spring, the sun breaking through the clouds in brilliant shafts that soaked into the frigid land. As we walked toward the Tower wharf on the west side of the fortress, I heard chirping in a beech tree and looked up, startled. A robin sat on bare twined limbs, where tiny buds were already visible—a welcome reminder that even this winter must pass, although it was hard to think that spring would find Elizabeth, Kate, and Mistresses Ashley and Parry behind prison walls.
It was a small crowd, not at all what I’d expect when a princess is sent into captivity. Today was Palm Sunday, Shelton told me, to my surprise, and official proclamations from the palace plastered on every wall encouraged the city’s denizens to attend worship in the old tradition.
The Tudor Conspiracy Page 27