Keeper of the King's Secrets (7 page)

There was a scrape of a boot behind them and Parker tensed. Susanna put out a hand to still him.

“We kept ’er safe, sir.” Alfred shuffled forward and Parker stepped back a little, his arm still around her.

“I thank you for it.” Parker gave a half bow.

Susanna began packing away her things. “This is for you, Alfred.” She held out a second sketch she had made of him, forking hay.

He took it and gaped as he held it to the light. “Aye, and I can see why the King called you from over the sea, mistress. It’s as if you trapped me on paper. Aren’t I the lucky one, getting sommat same as the King?”

“Thank you for letting me stay here.” She lifted her satchel.

Parker took it from her hands. “Peter Jack is looking for you, too. We have to find him.”

“I’m glad he’s safe. I was worried about him.” She let Parker draw her toward the door and gave a final wave to Alfred before stepping out under the eaves to watch the rain fall in rhythmic sheets.

Parker closed the stable doors behind them and turned to her, his face shuttered. “You took years off my life, my lady. I am aged.”

Susanna smiled and looked up into his eyes, as blue as the border she’d used in the King’s document. “I knew you would come to find me. And I did not want to walk back alone in the rain and dark.”

“No.” He raised a brow. “That would have been even worse.”

“I thought I would have to, but Alfred hid me when he came looking in the stable—”

“Who came looking?”

Susanna shivered, like a cat, from the top of her spine down. “The Cardinal’s man.”

She saw him frown, confused.

“The Cardinal wishes me ill.”

He stared at her.

“Did he touch you?” His words were calm, but his eyes made her think of a blizzard.

“He tried, after I finished the illumination. A nobleman came in just at that moment to argue about some grant the Cardinal has ordered people to pay. I managed to get out, but his man came looking for me. When I couldn’t find Simon or Peter Jack, I chose to wait in the stables, near Simon’s cart.”

“You did well.” He looked at her steadily. “No matter the situation, you always do well.”

The smile she gave him came from deep within, and she blinked to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened to fall.

“Which nobleman interrupted Wolsey?”

She cleared her throat. “I don’t know. I wish I did. I want to paint his portrait, or his wife’s, as a thank-you. He saved me from having to stab the Cardinal.” She laughed, weakly. “The knife was ready, in my hand. And then, no doubt, I would have had to flee back to Ghent.”

“Did someone enter the Cardinal’s office while you were working?”

She cocked her head in thought; shrugged. “I have no notion. Wait—yes, someone did come in, but I was too busy to look up. Why?”

“The Cardinal instructed them to give Peter Jack some refreshment.” He frowned.
“Peter Jack spent the afternoon in the garderobe, with his head in the gong.”

“They poisoned him?” Rage flashed through her, hot and wild.

“So it seems. When he told me, I thought it was bad food from the kitchen, but not now.”

“And yet he came back with you?” She looked at him, aghast.

“Nothing could have stopped him returning.”

“Then let’s find him.”

He held his hand out to her and she took it, remembering a time not so long ago when he had done the same thing, almost in this same spot. The rain had been falling just as hard then, too.

As they ran across the courtyard, rain soaking through her cloak, she reflected that they were in as much trouble now as they had been then.

She had trusted him last time, with no idea if that was wise. Now she knew it was the best decision she had ever made.

For among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised, and this is one of those ignominies against which a prince ought to guard himself.

—Machiavelli
, The Prince,
chapter 14

“M
aggie says he’ll live.” Susanna sank into her chair by the fire and rubbed her arms.

“I told you that already.” Parker did not open his eyes.

She turned her head. “He looked green. I’ve never seen him so weak. Or so upset.”

Parker shrugged. “There is no help for that. He lost you and he feels the failure of it.”

“Talk to him.” She reached out and took his hand. “Please. He was bested by no less an enemy than the man who runs England.”

Parker still kept his eyes shut. “You have it right. I will talk to him. It wasn’t his fault.”

“I wonder …” She hesitated a moment, staring at the fire,
not wanting to talk of Wolsey and stoke Parker’s anger again. She lifted her head and was caught in his gaze. He’d gone from sprawled in his chair to quiet readiness for action in a moment.

“You wonder what?”

“If Wolsey was going to … attack me because of the missive.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To intimidate me. Make sure I told no one what the King was proposing to the Emperor.”

“And what was he proposing?” She had his full attention.

“He proposes raising an English army to take all of France, while Charles holds the King of France hostage.” Her fingers were still entwined in his, and she tugged them free. “It was written in the King’s own hand. No one has read that letter but Wolsey and myself.”

“It is rumored in court Wolsey has the pox. And he did not get that without bedding his share of women.” Parker tapped his fist deliberately against the arm of his chair. “Perhaps he wanted you; perhaps he wanted to force you into silence; perhaps both.”

She worried her bottom lip. “He is afraid of that letter. He doesn’t like what it says and he doesn’t want anyone else to know what’s in it.”

Parker shook his head. “That’s because he hopes the King of France will put him forward as a candidate for pope. The Emperor promised twice to advance him, and broke his word both times. Wolsey has lost all trust in him. His only chance now is through France.”

“But the King of France is a prisoner.”

“Francis will be released. The Emperor will reach some arrangement with him; he won’t hold on to the King of France forever. And Wolsey knows we cannot successfully conquer France. We don’t have the money. If we try and fail—and we
will
fail—especially while Francis is hostage, he will not look kindly on England when he is set free. Wolsey will forever lose his chance to be pope.”

“Why would the French king help Wolsey, though? Why would he advance Wolsey before anyone else?” Susanna leaned her head back against the chair.

“Wolsey might have promised to steer Henry away from a war with France.” Parker shrugged. “It would be an empty offer, though. Henry relies on Wolsey but he is not afraid to act of his own accord. Francis knows it, too. If there is a promise between them, it must be something else.”

“Something that would be compromised by that letter. Wolsey’s hands were shaking. He didn’t want to hand it to me to illuminate.”

Parker stroked his thumb across his chin. “It would be useful to find out.”

There was a sound of voices and then the heavy tread of a man’s footsteps coming down the passage from the kitchen.

Parker stood, fluid and fast, and picked up his sword from the table. His knife was in his hand and his eyes on the door. “Curl up in the chair, make yourself small.”

Susanna lifted her feet and hugged her knees, tucking her gown about her so she was invisible from the doorway.

Parker moved toward the door, and she heard him fling it open.

“Simon.” He spoke as if he had not been prepared to kill.

Susanna got to her feet and looked over the top of her chair. She saw Simon’s eyes on Parker’s knife and sword, still held casually in reach of Simon’s throat.

“I’m sorry about Susanna. Alfred told me there was some trouble, but I had no choice.”

Parker raised a brow.

“The King was nearly killed.” Simon’s voice rose. “He fell into a ditch while hawking. His pole snapped as he was vaulting over it. He was stuck, headfirst, in the mud. A groom saved his life.”

“Is he well?”

“Aye.” Simon rubbed a hand through his hair. “It seems he’s well enough, but his doctor wants all manner of medicines brought out to the country. I’ve been running helter skelter all afternoon trying to lay hands on what he’s ordered me to bring up.”

“This will stir up the worries about succession again.” Parker put his knife away but held on to his sword.

“It’s already started. The King is not unaware of it, either. He’s coming back to London as soon as possible.” Simon stepped into the room at last, catching Susanna’s eye and bowing. “I am sorry for leaving you, but with Peter Jack there—”

“Peter Jack was poisoned.” Her throat felt hot.

Simon gaped. “By whom?”

“Who is the Cardinal’s man? The one who sits outside his rooms?” Parker ran his thumb over the hilt of his sword.

“I don’t know.” Simon looked between them, and Susanna saw him swallow hard as the implication of the question sank in.

Parker lifted his sword and slid it into its scabbard with an audible snick in the silence. “Then we’ll find out.”

I conclude, therefore that, fortune being changeful and mankind steadfast in their ways, so long as the two are in agreement men are successful, but unsuccessful when they fall out.

—Machiavelli
, The Prince,
chapter 25

“I
f you need to vomit while I’m talking to Gittens, aim at him, not me.” Parker put a hand out to steady Peter Jack, and waited for him to catch his breath just within the great hall of Bridewell Palace.

Peter Jack drew a shuddering gulp of air into his lungs and stood taller. “I’m well enough.”

“You should be in bed.”

Peter Jack shot him a look that made Parker grin. Maybe the lad
was
well enough. Parker wouldn’t have stayed in bed, either, had he been poisoned and then offered a chance to speak face-to-face with the poisoner.

He led on and Peter Jack followed, his breathing a little too quick and shallow.

A murmur of voices came from the eating hall behind the great room. Only the servants of administrators who had not accompanied the King, and those who stayed behind to clean were there. Parker stood quietly in the doorway, searching for his prey before anyone noticed him.

“There.” Peter Jack pointed to the man Parker had discovered was Isaac Gittens. He was sitting with two others, holding a piece of bread in one hand and a mug of ale in another. His face was lined and his back stooped a little, but Gittens was not frail.

Parker closed in.

One by one, the conversations stopped as he passed the long tables, until the only ones talking were Gittens and his two friends.

One of the men looked up, confused by the silence, and his gaze met Parker’s. His eyes widened.

“What is …” Gittens turned on the bench and froze with the hunk of bread halfway to his mouth.

“Good day, Gittens. A word in private?”

Gittens had the sense to shake his head. “I’ll go nowhere with you.” He flicked his gaze behind Parker to Peter Jack, and dropped his bread.

Parker leaned forward and Gittens’s left eye twitched. “I’ll give you a choice.” He kept his voice reasonable. “You’ll stand up and walk out with me for a private talk, or I’ll drag you out with a knife to your throat.”

“Not in front of the whole hall, you wouldn’t.” Gittens lifted his mug of ale to his lips, and Parker watched the
thoughts chase across his eyes. As Gittens set his mouth on the lip of the mug and lifted it up, Parker stepped to the side and forward, up close. His hand came down hard on Gittens’s back the moment after the Cardinal’s man spat his drink at where Parker had been.

He choked convulsively, and Parker lifted him up by the collar of his doublet. “Wouldn’t I?”

He tightened his grip and flicked a quick look at Gittens’s friends. They had not moved.

“Let’s go.” He dragged Gittens, still coughing, to the back of the hall and into a narrow passage that led out to the kitchen gardens.

Peter Jack followed behind him, brushing droplets of ale from his sleeves.