The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 9

It was hot. Lifting the lid, I found it full of mulled wine.

I had the distinct sense that Rochester had been expecting me.

After drinking half the jug, I collapsed on the hard bed. Despite the scratchy mattress and my best efforts to stay awake, I soon drifted to sleep. When I awoke hours later, my mouth was dry and the room so dark I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I didn’t recall dousing the tallow lights. As I struggled to get my bearings, I realized I wasn’t alone. There was a warm weight by my feet.

I reached down. A warm lick on my hand and a soft muzzle told me Elizabeth’s treasured greyhound, Urian, whom she had brought with her from Hatfield, was here. I eased my foot out from under the coarse blanket covering me and nudged Peregrine, who was, as I suspected, curled in his cloak on a reed mat on the floor.

“You’ll catch your death of cold down there! And you took your time getting here.”

“I found Urian, didn’t I?” he asked. “I also befriended a groom who told me the princess goes riding in the mornings with her friend. I didn’t know she had friends here.”

I was suddenly wide awake. “Neither did I. Did this groom say who her friend was?”

“Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. Apparently he’s her cousin.”

“Did he say anything else?” I could barely restrain the impulse to bombard him with questions, recalling what Cecil had told me about Courtenay. I concentrated on breathing deep, pretending I was starting to fall back asleep before I muttered, “She’s going to notice her dog is missing.”

“That would be the point. Urian would only go with someone he trusts.”

I smiled, crossing my arms behind my head as Elizabeth’s hound settled between my legs. Peregrine’s breathing deepened. The boy could sleep anywhere.

I now had confirmation of her association with Courtenay, whatever it was, and it didn’t bode well, not if Renard was targeting them. Then I thought of the dead dog tossed into the queen’s chapel, a placard denouncing Catholics knotted about its neck.

What perilous path did Elizabeth tread?

WHITEHALL

Chapter Four

I woke before dawn. As I hastily washed my face in the basin, after breaking a film of ice on the water, Peregrine lurched to his feet and insisted on attending me, staggering out the door with his hair askew and jug in hand to fetch fresh wash water.

He poured the jug over my head while I stood in the lumpy basin, the water so cold I was barely able to move my arms to wash myself. “You must find us a brazier, charcoal burner, anything, so long as it holds fire,” I told him through chattering teeth. “I can’t bathe like this every morning. I’ll catch my death of cold!”

“Yes, master,” he said, then ducked as I swiped at him with my hose. I dressed more quickly than I’d ever done in my life, not caring that I was still damp. As I stashed my poniard in my boot, Urian whined and scratched at the door.

“He needs to go out,” said Peregrine, who clearly had no intention of repeating my bathing experience, though he’d slept in his clothes and looked a rumpled mess.

“Fine, take him out,” I said. “While you’re at it, see to our horses. I want them well fed and kept warm. I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. I want to catch a look at this Courtenay. Oh, and if you see Her Grace before I do, try to detain her, but don’t let anyone else see that you actually know each other.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” Peregrine quipped, and, clipping a lead to Urian’s red leather collar, he left.

I pushed my sword in its scabbard under the bed. Bearing weapons at court, at least visibly, was forbidden. Then I looked about for somewhere to hide my bag. I didn’t have anything that could incriminate me except for a book Cecil and I had agreed to employ as a cipher in case I had need of it. I’d rather not leave it out in plain sight. None of the floorboards proved loose enough to pry up. I’d settled on stuffing the bag in the coffer when a knock came at the door. I found Rochester on the threshold, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Good morrow to you, Master Beecham. I trust you’re well rested.” He paused, scrutinizing me. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” I echoed.

“Yes. Her Majesty has agreed to see you this morning. In fact, she insists on it.”

* * *

Snow drifted outside the gallery windows, turning the courtyards into white-cushioned jewel boxes. Inside the palace, the chill was pervasive, despite the profusion of carpets and tapestries. Linked by numerous long galleries and passageways, with wide upholstered bays that reflected an emphasis on luxury instead of defensiveness, Whitehall remained unfinished. An elephantine undertaking, it had been under construction for years, its warren of ostentatious halls, chambers, servant’s quarters, and official offices coexisting with tarpaulins and scaffolds parked beside unfinished walls, with gaps in the mortar where the wind whistled through.

My feet were chilled in my boots when we finally reached a gallery adorned with smoke-darkened paintings. Guards parted to allow us access into a world I had never seen before: a series of interconnected wainscoted chambers filled with sumptuous hangings, gold and silver plate and candelabra, and carved chairs big enough to fall asleep in. Dried lavender and rosemary were scattered underfoot on the carpets, so that each of our footsteps crushed the herbs and released a heady scent. Applewood fires crackled in every recessed hearth, heating the air to a summer’s intensity. It was so warm, I suddenly felt sweat start to trickle under the tight fit of my new doublet. The drastic change in temperature was a sure breeding ground for disease, I thought, thinking of Kate’s theory that weather affected our humors.

I removed my cap. As I dabbed at my brow, a burst of women’s laughter was heard. Rochester motioned to the silver gauze curtain draped across an archway decorated with a lintel of plaster cherubs in midfrolic. He gave me a ribald grin. “You’ll be the fox in the henhouse, but a young buck like you shouldn’t mind the attention.”

I smiled, adjusting my doublet. In the room beyond, the queen declared in her distinctly gruff voice, “Mistress Dormer, will you cease that infernal laughing at once! I can barely hear myself think. Now, is this the right headdress or not? We don’t have all day.”

Amid more high-pitched mirth, I stepped past the curtain.

The chamber before me was large, with two full windows overlooking the snowy parkland. It was also in utter disarray, every available surface-tabletops, chairs, sideboards, even parts of the floor-strewn with fabrics of different colors. A pack of small black- or brown-spotted dogs, all with fluffy ears and ornate jeweled collars, emitted high-pitched barks when they saw me. One bold and mostly black one raced over to nip the toe of my boot, to an accompanying explosion of feminine glee. A slim blond girl dressed in a silver satin gown rushed over to scoop up the offending pet. She glanced at me shyly. She had large blue-gray eyes and lovely skin tinged with the easy flush of youth. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice identifying her as the breathy one whom I had heard laughing. “I just got him, and I’m afraid he’s not very well trained. He hates strangers.”

“What’s his name?” I started to reach out to pet the creature in her arms, but it growled and showed me its teeth.

“Blackie.” She gave me a timid smile. “I am Jane Dormer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mistress Dormer.” I had just started to bow when a too-thin but otherwise handsome woman I recognized as the queen’s favorite, Lady Susan Clarencieux, stepped forth. She gave me a welcoming smile; Lady Clarencieux and I had met before, during the time of Northumberland’s coup, when I had helped her and Mary escape Robert Dudley’s pursuit and reach the safety of Framlingham Castle.