The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 31

At length, Sybilla broke the quiet. “Did you keep your appointment?”

“Yes.” I paused. “Although it did not go quite as I expected.”

“Few things do.” I met her violet-blue eyes. Her brow creased. “You seem perturbed. Did you discover something that troubles you?”

Now that we were alone together, I recalled how she had touched me in my chamber moments after Peregrine had died in my arms, how she had been concerned for me and offered to help. I’d just discovered that Rochester was more than he appeared; that while he loved and cared for the queen, he evidently didn’t wish to see Elizabeth fall to Renard’s wiles.

Might this enigmatic woman also be of value to me?

“I want to thank you for your assistance yesterday,” I said. “It was very kind, considering I am a stranger to you.” As I spoke, I could trace the stroke of her hand with the cloth over my bare skin, her throaty whisper: Tell me who you are …

“There’s no need to thank me. I know what it is like to lose someone.” She came to a halt before an alcove. “And I hope we’re not strangers anymore. Indeed, I know far less of you than you do of me. No doubt you’ve already been apprised of my own misfortunes.”

“No,” I said, surprised. “I assure you, I have not.”

“But Renard hired you. Surely he made some mention of me?”

“He did, but he didn’t say anything … Well, he did say one thing. He told me you were spoken for. I assumed he meant to warn me away.”

“Did you?” She gave a taut smile and sat on the window seat. As I perched beside her, she arranged her skirts. “Simon Renard is my benefactor,” she said. “He took pity on my mother, sister, and me after we left England.” She lifted her gaze to me. The impact was almost visceral; I’d never met any woman except Elizabeth who had such intense purpose in her expression. “My father and three brothers were executed for participating in the Pilgrimage of Grace. The king placed our family under attainder of treason.”

I knew about the Pilgrimage of Grace. It started in Yorkshire as an initial demonstration to challenge King Henry’s supremacy over the Church and his confiscation of its benefices. Anne Boleyn was dead and Henry had wed Jane Seymour, but it hadn’t stopped his and Lord Cromwell’s drive to accumulate ecclesiastic wealth. Henry placated the Yorkshire dissenters by promising to hear their grievances. Once he fulfilled his promise, he had Cromwell dispatch an army against them.

Over two hundred men and women in Yorkshire had died by the king’s command.

“I was just a child,” said Sybilla, “but I learned firsthand what defiance can bring. The king did not impose punishment directly on us because we were women, but the result was still the same. His attainder left us penniless, without hope of a future. So my mother took us abroad, first to France and later to Spain.”

I recalled Jane Dormer’s spiteful words the night of the feast: And you, my lady, should be more careful, given your family’s history …

“Is that where you met Renard?” I asked. “He mentioned that he’d served as ambassador to the French court.”

“Yes. He saw us settled in Spain.” She paused, as if the memory pained her. “We had nothing to commend us, but he had heard of my father and brother’s actions. Those who died in York were declared traitors here, but abroad, in Catholic courts, they were revered as martyrs. Renard found my mother a post in the Spanish Hapsburg court as lady-in-waiting to the empress; my sister and I became his wards. When the empress died a few years later, we attended Charles’s daughters, the infantas. It was at Renard’s behest that I came here to serve Her Majesty.”

“I see.” I did not betray my curiosity. She was Renard’s ward: It explained his covetousness of her. Why, though, was she confiding in me?

I decided to opt for the direct approach. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully before she leaned close. Her distinctive perfume flooded my senses. “I told you, I want to help you.”

I sat still. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh,” she said softly, “I think you do. You were almost poisoned because of it. You must have considered by now that the man who left that note in your room is the same one who hired you. After all, Renard’s ultimate goal is to-” She suddenly drew back as a burst of laughter preceded a group of courtiers entering the gallery.

In their midst, her hood crumpled about her shoulders, her hair like damp flame, walked Elizabeth.

Urian tugged on the lead in her hand. Her laughter rang out, high and effervescent. As she neared us, she twirled about to wag her finger at a tall man in dark damask, wearing a large feathered cap. “Enough of that, my lord. I vow, one day you’ll go too far. Do you think me a hive to take in your honeyed words?”

It was then that I realized the man bore his arm in a black silk sling.

Edward Courtenay.

Disbelief kept me frozen to my seat. He did not look much worse for the arm-twisting I’d given him; that ridiculous sling seemed donned almost as an accessory as he made a move toward Elizabeth with his free hand and she tossed her head, dancing away. The others accompanying them were also young and privileged, strutting with costumed elegance. Elizabeth’s ladies trailed behind, looking less enthusiastic.

Sybilla started to her feet. “Get up!” she hissed at me. As I rose, I bit back my fury. Gossip could spread faster than lice at court, but surely Elizabeth didn’t yet know about Peregrine. She wouldn’t be laughing and sauntering with Courtenay if she did. Nevertheless, I tasted iron in the back of my throat. Even if she didn’t know, how could she continue to indulge Courtenay? Did she deliberately invoke disaster?

She acted as if she hadn’t seen us like statues in the alcove, until Urian barked in joyous recognition and tore the lead from her hand, leaping toward me.

Elizabeth stopped. She turned to us. As I grappled with the dog, I murmured, “Your Grace,” and at my side Sybilla dropped into a curtsy.

Courtenay strode up, saw me petting Urian, and swerved angrily to Elizabeth to hiss, “Is that him?” She gave a terse nod. Caressing the dog’s chilled silvery fur, I braved a look at her. Her eyes had gone cold; I knew that look. She was warning me not to say a word.

“Fancy that,” guffawed Courtenay. “So the dirty cur did not lie. But really, cousin Bess, you must choose your dogs more carefully next time. This one’s a rogue.”

Only her quick, probing glance at Sybilla betrayed Elizabeth’s anxiety. I suddenly understood. Courtenay must have questioned her about me, demanding to know if I was her hireling before complying with my request. The man was bold; I had to give him that. I’d held a knife to his throat, nearly broken his arm, and threatened to report everything I knew if he didn’t do as I bid, and still he’d taken the chance.

Now Elizabeth was doing what she must to protect me.

She yanked at the lead-“Urian, come!”-and proceeded down the gallery.

Courtenay turned to me with a sneer. “Fancy that. I had a mind to have you cut into pieces so small not even your mother would recognize you. Now it seems I must play along. Tomorrow at the stable gate, at the stroke of one.” He cast an appraising look at Sybilla. “My lady Darrier,” he purred, “if I were you, I’d be more circumspect in choosing those with whom I idle away my time. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re consorting with the enemy, now would we?”

He clucked his tongue in mock reproof before he strode after Elizabeth. As the princess’s ladies moved past us, I caught sight of her favored matron, Blanche Parry, among them. She looked haggard.

My hands curled into fists. I almost forgot Sybilla was at my side until I heard her say, “She’s as reckless as her mother Anne Boleyn ever was, and as heedless of danger. But if she continues to play this game, no amount of courage can save her. The earl is without scruple; he will lead her straight to disaster.”