Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)
The bowman was cool. He did not so much as flinch as Parker launched himself across the garden to the back wall where the shadowed figure perched, like a crow.
It must be Jean. He was one of the few Parker had ever encountered who had the steady, nerveless hands of a professional assassin.
“Jean.” He shouted the name as the bowman executed a smooth, graceful leap off the wall to the small alley below.
Parker jumped at the wall and scrabbled for hand and foot holds, reaching the top with bleeding fingers and scraped knees. He found his balance and looked down the alley.
The shooter was cranking his crossbow at the corner where the alley met St. Michael’s Lane.
Parker swore. If that was Jean, he would be dead before he took more than a step towards him. Even if it wasn’t the Frenchman, he would be a hard target to miss in the narrow back alley.
The bowman waited a beat, saw Parker had thought better of pursuit and lifted a hand in salute. He turned into Saint Michael’s Lane and disappeared.
Parker stayed where he was, crouched atop the wall, letting the night sounds settle back, letting the blood roaring in his ears abate.
If that was Jean, it was the first salvo in what he knew would be a battle to the death. But the way the man stood, held himself, didn’t stir any memories . . .
He couldn’t be sure.
If it wasn’t Jean, then perhaps Susanna was right.
Her brother had brought more than too much luggage with him from Ghent.
He’d brought trouble.
* * *
Susanna ignored the letter, lying where her brother had left it, duty discharged, on the floor by the window.
He’d gone back to his room, salvaging his pride by walking to the door, instead of crawling to it. She didn’t stop him.
Every step he took away from her twisted her feelings of loyalty to her family until they were a knotted, tangled skein in her stomach. She felt the weight of it as he turned into the passageway and left her alone in the room.
She flicked tears from under her eyes, took a deep breath and swung her legs over the sill. She dropped the short distance into the garden and moved forward.
Stopped.
There was a figure up on the wall, as dark and frightening as a gargoyle hanging from a church roof.
She stood very still as she tried to make it out.
“Parker?”
The figure moved, turning towards her, and leapt down. She could see it was Parker in the lines of his body, in the grace of his movement, and relaxed.
“Was it Jean?” She waited for him to join her, and when he stopped before her, she could not see his face.
“I don’t know.” He looked over his shoulder, back to the wall. “He was cool enough to be Jean. Accurate enough.”
“I hope it was him.”
He started, lifted his hand to touch her face. “Why do you say that?”
She took his wrist, tried to study his hand in the light coming from the study. It was bloody and moss-stained. “Lucas came in after you went out the window.”
She felt his fingers tense against hers, felt the steel in them. “And?”
She drew him towards the window, a finger on her lips, and when they were back in the study, she drew the shutters closed.
Parker stood motionless as she stoked the fire and lit a lantern, watching her every move.
She raised her gaze to his and took a deep breath. “My father has been bullied by Margaret of Austria into getting a secret message to Queen Katherine. He plans for me to pass it to her.”
Parker’s mouth opened, and then he clamped it shut with a snap. “What is the message?”
She looked at the letter, lying almost at his feet, and he followed her gaze, scooped it up.
“In here?” He reached for his letter knife, and was already breaking the seal as she nodded.
She sat, watching as he unrolled it.
He was silent as he read, and then frowned down at the parchment.
“What is it?”
“Were you to pass this to the Queen?” He looked up, and she understood why so many stood down to Parker without him having to do more than look their way. She shivered.
“I was to read it, and pass the message on. Not give her the letter itself. Or so Lucas says.”
Parker held the letter out to her, and she was still reluctant to take it. She crossed her arms. “What does it say?”
Parker flicked it with his fingers. “You’ll have to tell me. It’s written in code.” His expression, when he raised his head again, was unreadable.
“Code?” The notion was so ridiculous, she finally took the letter, smoothed it out on her lap.
It was in her father’s hand, no doubt about that. But the words themselves . . . she gasped.
“This isn’t in code.” She scanned the page, tightly packed with the unusual markings, and leant back in her chair, truly shocked.
“You understand it?” Parker stepped closer, crouched down beside her chair.
“It is in the shorthand we use in the atelier. It’s not only in Flemish, but in a shortened form we’ve used for years to save paper and time. This letter could not have come from anyone but my father. He has compromised himself, using this.”
“And what does it say?” His eyes were on her face, and she raised a hand to rub her temple.
“Margaret sends Katherine a warning. That the Emperor Charles is planning to break his betrothal to her daughter, Princess Mary, and marry Queen Katherine’s niece, Isabella of Portugal, instead.” She traced the words with a finger. “Why would Margaret want to warn Katherine secretly, though? Why not tell Henry as well?”
“Because treachery by the Queen’s relatives caused the Queen to lose the King’s favour before—favour she has never truly won back. And Charles breaking his betrothal vows to Henry’s daughter, that is a betrayal.”
“The Queen would suffer for it, even though she has nothing to do with it?”
“She had nothing to do with her family’s treachery last time, either.” Parker took the letter back, stared down. “Margaret of Austria has always been an ally of England, and an enemy of France. She knows Henry will be furious if Charles reneges on his betrothal promise to Princess Mary, and he’ll possibly break the alliance between them she’s tried so hard to build.”
“But why would she give the Queen advanced warning in secret?” Susanna leant over the page, and read the message again.
“Knowledge is power. Margaret wants to prepare Katherine. And perhaps buy some time, try to change Charles’s mind. Both Mary and Katherine will be far less useful to Henry if Mary is no longer to be the Emperor’s wife.”
“But surely the King loves his daughter?” Susanna spoke without thinking. Then remembered what her own father was asking her to do, asking her to risk. Just to please his employer.
A cold, sick feeling lodged itself in her chest. Her father was most likely acting from desperation. But Henry, she had looked into his eyes before and seen the utter ruthlessness there. He would do whatever he thought in his best interests.
Parker carefully placed a hand on her arm, his touch warm. “The attack tonight could have been to silence you, so you can’t deliver the message. Does your brother realize that?”
She nodded. “He said he was sure no one in London could know why he was here, but he was lying again.”
“Charles won’t want Margaret whispering his plans to Katherine in advance. He would stop this if he could. So most likely someone working for Charles followed your brother here from Margaret’s court, or sent word of his arrival to Emperor Charles’s spies here in London.”
She covered his hand with her own. Looked directly into his eyes. “What do we do?”
He looked towards the fire. “There is no question. We burn this letter and say nothing.”
Chapter Four
For most princes apply themselves more to affair
s of war than to the useful arts of peace; and in these I neither have any knowledge, nor do I much desire it; they are generally more set on acquiring new kingdoms, right or wrong, than on governing well those they possess
Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)
“You would not burn it if it weren’t in my father’s hand. If it weren’t brought by my brother.” She raised her gaze to his. “You would give it to the King.”
“But it is from your father, brought by your brother.” There was nothing to add to that. The ties to treason in this were too close to her. He would cut them with his sharpest knife.
There was a glitter in her eyes as she bent her head over the letter again. “No matter if we burn it or not, if someone knows of this, I won’t be safe until I’ve had an audience with the Queen.” She handed it to him.
Parker rolled it up and touched one end of the parchment to the flames without hesitation, made sure it caught well before he threw it into the heart of the blaze.
They both watched it burn.
“Only if that bolt was not from Jean’s bow.”
The anger he’d been pushing down since learning how her family had compromised and endangered her boiled up again. He tried to keep his voice even. “Henry has spies in Margaret’s court, too, or Wolsey does on his behalf. Charles will most definitely have someone watching his aunt. Any of them could be the ones who know of this. Or all of them.”
“But if they know or suspect Margaret has given me something to pass on to the Queen, would they try to kill me without finding out the details? Without learning the message?” She looked toward the closed shutters and shivered.
“No,” he said slowly. “Wolsey or Henry wouldn’t kill before they found out what Margaret is up to, what message she wants given to Katherine. They’d have you or your brother in the Tower for a . . . conversation first. Charles, on the other hand, would know whatever it was, it would not be in his interests. So he may have given orders to kill first, find out what it’s about later.”
She closed her eyes, her hands gripping her upper arms, as if holding on for dear life. “My father could not have realized . . .”
“Your father has worked at court for many years. He knew what he was doing.” He tried to temper the ice in his tone, but she winced. “And because of it, your death would now be convenient to Emperor Charles.”
She opened her eyes again, raised her head. “Unless you get me to the Queen. Tonight. So that whoever knows of this thinks all the damage I can do has been done.”
He wanted to run up the stairs and punch Lucas Horenbout until his handsome face was in ruins. Parker turned away from her, opening and closing his fists. He would rather anything than take her out on the streets tonight. But she was right. If she was able to obtain a private audience with the Queen they would at least obtain a temporary reprieve.
No one would know she hadn’t said anything to the Queen. It would be assumed she had.
He wished now he had been faster across the garden, wished he knew for certain if it was Jean up on the wall or not. It would make this decision so much easier.
“You know it is the best course.” Her voice was soft, small, and he turned at last to look at her.
She had risen from her chair and watched him with dark eyes.
“Yes.” He said the word on a sigh. His gaze caught the bolt still sticking into the door of the study, and he wondered how fortune could change so quickly.
From kissing his lover by the window, to getting ready to race through the darkness to Bridewell Palace, all within the hour.
There was a noise outside the door, as someone came down the passage.
“I hope that’s your brother.” Parker watched the door, anticipation leaping in him, warming his heart.
“Why?” She looked across to him, and he saw her swallow in shock. “Parker. No.”
He did not respond. If it were Horenbout, he was about to lose some teeth.
* * *
Peter Jack took a step back into the passageway at the sight of Parker’s face, his hand dropping from the handle like a dead-weight.
“Sir?” He half-swallowed his words.
“Come in.” Parker sounded resigned.
“He was hoping it was someone else.” Susanna could not allow Peter Jack to think that look had been meant for him.
“Who?” Peter Jack stepped into the room, and Susanna pointed upwards to the guest room.
“Ah.” He grinned. He pushed the door closed and caught sight of the bolt embedded in it. Stood, open-mouthed.
Parker stepped closer and pulled the bolt from the door. Turned it over in his hands.
Susanna reached out and touched the shaft. The wood was smooth and cool. “’Tis well made.”
“Yes.” Parker held it closer to the light of the fire. “It isn’t English-made. Italian, or perhaps Swiss.”
“What does that mean?” Peter Jack looked between them.
“It means whoever is shooting is from the other side of the Channel, or they can afford the best.”
“Like the Emperor.” Susanna’s heart skipped at the sight of Parker, frowning down at the bolt in his hand. He had been the King’s Yeoman of the Crossbows up until only a few months ago and now he looked at the sleek shaft as if it could somehow speak to him.
“The Emperor Charles?” Peter Jack had not moved since he’d stepped into the room. “Why would he?”
“My brother brought a secret message for the Queen with him from Margaret of Austria. We think the Emperor’s agents are trying to stop me passing it to her.”
“Either that, or Jean took the first of many shots at you.” Parker’s tone made her look up, and despite everything, despite the pit they were sliding into, relentlessly and with no hope of a handhold, she smiled.
“Aye. I do collect enemies, don’t I?”
He held her gaze, and his lips curved. “Almost as many as me.”
Chapter Five
among the ministers of princes, there are none that are not so wise as to need no assistance, or at least, that do not think themselves so wise that they imagine they need none; and if they court any, it is only those for whom the prince has much personal favour, whom by their fawning and flatteries they endeavour to fix to their own interests;
Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)
The Queen would not see them. Parker stared at Gertrude Courtenay, and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Parker, but she is not feeling well and she retired early this evening.”
“We had hoped to see her.” Susanna’s voice was soft, and Gertrude looked between them.
“It is important?”
“Aye.” Hope flared, and Parker stepped closer, but Gertrude was already shaking her head.
“Not now. She truly is asleep. But tomorrow. Come early, and I will make sure you gain admittance, if she is well enough.”
It was all they could hope for.
The other ladies-in-waiting watched them, the few who were not downstairs taking part in a revel organized by the King. He wondered which of the women in the chamber were spies, and for who. Cardinal Wolsey would have a few in his employ, as would the Duke of Norfolk. The Emperor Charles would have at least one, if he was worthy of his title.
News of this visit would reach all of their ears, or in the case of Charles, his spymaster in England, and because they had not succeeded in seeing the Queen, the danger to Susanna had increased. He tried to look as if he was merely disappointed, when he wanted nothing more than to push Gertrude Courtenay aside and force his way into the Queen’s chamber.
“Until the morrow.” Susanna dipped into a curtsy, and drew him away, to the door. He realized belatedly he was dragging his feet.
When they stepped out into the passage, she closed her eyes, her fists clenched at her side. “What now?”
Parker took her arm, and they walked to the stairs. “I think we should speak with the King.”
She
glanced at him, and a shiver shook her. “Is that wise?”
“I would rather know if he has any inkling of what is happening or not. He must have spies in Margaret’s court. The question is, do they know what she’s up to? I don’t think any agent of the King shot at us tonight, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know something.”
Her steps faltered, and then she nodded. “Aye. It would be better to know.”
He squeezed her arm, and let his thumb brush her open palm. “Then into the pit, my love.”
* * *
Elizabeth Carew stood just within the doorway of the Privy Chamber.
Susanna let go of Parker’s arm as he went to greet a friend and stepped up to her side, followed her gaze.
The King was dancing.
Susanna watched him dip and bow, and stamp on the boards to a merry tune.
She looked towards the small band of musicians, but the Flemish flautist she knew was not playing tonight.
The King’s partner laughed as he swung her, her colour high.
“He has grown tired of me.”
Susanna flicked her gaze to Elizabeth, standing with her eyes still on the King.
“I’m sorry.” What else could she say to that? Elizabeth had thought the King had grown tired of her before, thought Susanna had been her replacement, but the fierce heat and jealousy on that occasion was missing from the King’s mistress now. She was calm.
At last, she turned her head to Susanna. Her face was utterly beautiful, completely serene. “I am relieved, truth be told.”
Again, Susanna did not know what to say. She looked out across the dance floor. “Who is he dancing with?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “The youngest daughter of a minor noble. If he takes her to his bed, it will not be for long. But between him and I, it is over. No doubt my husband will get a new landholding as a parting gift. For lending the King my services.”
Susanna stilled. Turned to her again. There had been a thread of steel, and of bitterness, in Elizabeth’s voice. “And you? What will you get?”
She smiled, but it was merely a tug of her cheeks, her eyes were cold. “I get a rest. And perhaps, with time, some of the Queen’s ladies will begin talking to me again.”
In Defense of the Queen Page 2