The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 24

He let out a startled cry and staggered against me. I dragged him to the nearby pitcher, overturning the water on his hands, rubbing them frantically against my doublet. His face drained white; blood-flecked foam bubbled from his lips. He clutched at me, his legs buckling.

The room swirled about me as I held him upright. He started to thrash, the greasy contents of our afternoon meal spewing from his mouth. As his eyes rolled back in his head, I hauled him up into my arms and flung open the chamber door, scrambling down the staircase, through the freezing courtyards, and into the torch-lit gallery. I couldn’t hear anything except my own voice-like the cry of a wounded animal.

A group of figures paused at the gallery’s end; as I staggered toward them, Peregrine draped in my arms, I heard urgent voices. A tall, thin man in black strode to me.

“My squire,” I said haltingly, gasping. “He-he’s been poisoned. Please … help me.”

The man came to a halt, his hawkish bearded face closing like a trap. He was a Spaniard from the Hapsburg delegation; I recognized him from the night in the hall, one of the exalted lords who’d stood by the queen and frowned at everything. Behind him I saw the others staring. No one moved. Then, through a haze of despair, I caught sight of a familiar face, although it wasn’t until she hastened forth that I recognized Sybilla. The Spaniard detained her. “Dice que han envenenado al joven. No le toques.”

She shook his hand aside, moving to me. “I know some herbal lore,” she said. “I can help him until we fetch a physician. Quickly, bring him to-”

Peregrine started thrashing again. As I tightened my grip, liquid seeped from his mouth, dark and putrid, staining his parched lips. Sybilla whirled about, her voice shredding, and the tall Spaniard barked at his companions. From among them, someone broke free, a slight figure I watched through a daze as she bolted down the opposite end of the gallery to the hall, her hood flying off to expose blond tresses, her frantic cry echoing as her little black dog bounded behind her, barking in excitement.

I crumbled to my knees. Clutching Peregrine, I rocked back and forth, over and over, whispering, “No, please God, no, not this, not him…”

Sybilla sank in a pool of skirts at my side. I felt her hand on my shoulder as Peregrine jerked, weakly. His eyes opened wide. He looked at me. He was struggling to speak, but the liquid welled up again, thick and vile.

I heard a terrifying rattle in his throat.

His eyelids fluttered and closed.

He went still.

Chapter Ten

I couldn’t move. I held him to my chest and felt my world disintegrate as the others arrived: Rochester with a napkin still tucked in his collar; two guards and several inquisitive courtiers come to see what all the fuss was about. Jane Dormer, who had run to alert Rochester in the hall, peered in anxious concern from behind them. When she saw Peregrine, she gave a cry of dismay and started weeping.

“Blessed saints, what is it?” Rochester bent to me. “Is the boy…?”

“He’s dead,” I whispered. As I said the words, a chasm cracked open inside me, an awful endless void that threatened to pull me into its swirling vortex forever.

“Dead?” he echoed, and I nodded dully. I wanted to bellow at the immobile Spaniard with his aristocratic expression of distaste, at the others who had stood there gaping, watching from afar as an innocent perished in my arms, but I could not utter a sound.

Peregrine was gone. Nothing I did could bring him back.

“But how?” Rochester’s voice quavered. “Did he eat something tainted? Drink something? What happened to him?” He was looking around indignantly at the company, as though they were keeping the answer from him.

I heard Sybilla Darrier say quietly, “It doesn’t matter now, does it? The child’s body must be attended. Perhaps you can assist, my lord? Master Beecham has just suffered a terrible shock. He’s clearly in no position to contend with this.”

“Yes, yes.” Rochester turned back to me. “I’m so sorry. I really have no idea what to say. I’m quite concerned that someone could have died thus in the palace. An inquest must be done. I’ll notify Her Majesty and-”

“My lord,” interrupted Sybilla. Her voice was calm, steady, but something in it, an indefinable hardness, brought Rochester to a halt. “I think it’s best if you take charge of the boy while I see Master Beecham to his room, yes? These other details can be attended to once he gets his bearings.”

Rochester fumbled at his collar, fingering his food-stained napkin. “Yes,” he muttered. He snapped his hand at the guards, who stepped forth to take Peregrine from me.

I resisted for a moment. I clung to him as if he were the last upright thing in the crumbling edifice of my existence, and then I let them take him from me, his head dangling, his curls plastered with sweat. As they carried him away, I went numb.

Sybilla’s hand felt cool as it enclosed mine. “Come,” she said, and I followed her, still without speaking, moving as if through an impenetrable fog.

In the courtyard by the staircase, she paused, looking at me. “Which way?” she asked. I led her up the staircase, to my open door. I swayed. Her hand rested at the small of my back, steadying me. All of a sudden I could smell Peregrine’s death all over me.

“I don’t know if I can…” I whispered.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “If need be, we’ll ask Rochester to put you in another room.”

My eyes couldn’t focus. I had to blink several times before I took in the chaos. None of it seemed real to me, as if I’d plunged into a nightmare from which there could be no escape.

“Let me go first.” As Sybilla stepped inside, I caught sight of the note crumpled in a corner where I’d kicked it in my frantic attempt to save him.

“Don’t,” I said. “That seal on the paper-it’s poisoned.”

She blanched. “Did your squire … did he touch it…?”

In response, I bent to the floor and retrieved my fallen gauntlets. Pulling them on, I took the note by its corner and went to the guttering tallow light. I looked at the message.

You cannot save her.

“This was meant for me.” My voice sounded hollow, as if it came from someone else. “He found it, but it’s me they wanted to kill.”

Sybilla stood immobile. “Who are they? Why would anyone want to kill you?”

I swallowed. “I cannot tell you.” I held the note over the tallow flame and watched it catch fire. A bluish flame curled upward, blackening the paper, devouring it. Before the flame touched my gloved fingers, I dropped the note and ground it into the floorboards with my heel, leaving a charred smear.

“They won’t get away with it.” I looked up to meet her gaze. “I will track them down if it takes the rest of my life, and I will make them pay for what they’ve done.”

She took a step to me. “Where are you going? No, wait-” She brought up a hand against my chest, stopping me. “You can’t. You’re covered in … Come, let me help you.”

She did not wait for my answer, taking the pitcher and departing. I began to right my belongings, my movements methodical, precise, the grieving rage burning behind my eyes. By the time I got the room in order, she had returned with the pitcher.

“Bathing water,” she said, pouring it into the basin. “It’s cold, but it will do. And you need fresh clothes-a new shirt, hose, linen. You can’t go anywhere in that state.”

I pointed to the articles I’d arranged on my cot. As she regarded my rumpled court doublet and only extra pair of hose, she said softly, “Let me help you. Tell me what you mean to do.”

“I told you, it’s not safe.” Turning from her, I stripped off my soiled doublet and shirt. Using a cloth dipped in the basin, I briskly washed my torso. I didn’t care that she stood a few paces away, watching. When she came to me and took the cloth to bathe my shoulders and back, I did not resist. She wrung the cloth out and turned me around to face her, cleansing my forehead, cheeks, and clotted beard. We were so close I could smell her intoxicating scent of lilies like an oasis in a desert. In the gloom, the blues of her eyes took on a near-turquoise hue, shaded by thick dusky lashes, as if she’d dipped them in soot.