The Tudor Conspiracy (21 page)

“You can’t let him leave,” Henry was saying. “He knows everything now. He’ll tell the queen. The bastard foundling will be the one who sends us all to the scaffold!”

John glared at him before he turned to me. “You once served our family. But you deceived us and, according to Robert, helped the queen put us in here. Will you now send us all to our deaths?”

I shook my head, trying not to look at Jane’s thin figure behind him, the tube in her hands. “I want only to help my mistress, Princess Elizabeth.”

Robert croaked from behind me, “Don’t believe him. He’s a liar. He wants revenge. Give him those letters and he will use them against us. He’ll take us down, every last one.”

John hesitated. All of a sudden, fear seized me. I might not make it out of here alive.

“I promise on my own life,” I said to John. “I will not use the letters against you.” I clutched my knife tighter, sensing his brothers watching, waiting for his word to tear into me like hungry wolves.

Then John stepped aside. “Give him the letters.”

Jane held out the tube. As I took it, I saw the stoic resignation in her blue-gray eyes. I had to resist the urge to clasp her to me, to gather her up and take her far from this awful place. She was so short she barely reached my chin, fragile as a child; the toll of her confinement showed in the hollows of her cheeks and in her shadowed, haunted gaze.

“I believe you to be a man of honor,” she said. “I trust you’ll honor your word.”

“My lady,” I whispered. “I would rather die than see you harmed.” I bent over her hand. Then I tucked the tube into the saddlebag, grabbed it and my cloak off the table, and started for the door.

“Prescott!”

I paused, glancing over my shoulder. Robert had staggered to his feet with John’s help. Leaning on his older brother’s thin shoulder, he flung his words at me like a gauntlet.

“It’s not over,” he said. “Nothing you say or do can stop it. You may have won this day, but in the end I’ll triumph. I will restore my name if it’s the last thing I do. And remember this: On the day Elizabeth takes her throne, I will be at her side. I will be the one she turns to, in all things. And then, Prescott-then you’ll regret this day. Her hour of glory will be your doom.”

I didn’t answer. I did not give him the satisfaction. I turned and walked out and left him there in his prison, where, if there was any justice left in the world, he would remain for the rest of his days.

It was the only way Elizabeth would ever be safe from him.

Outside, a cacophony of distant bells rang. It was late afternoon, and the winter sky had begun to darken. Pulling my cloak about me I hastened back through the ward, pausing briefly at a horse trough to wet my cloak and wash the blood from my face. The gates would close at dusk; I must be out before they did. Transferring the tube from my cloak to the safety of my doublet, I tried to look impervious as I made my way to the gatehouse.

The yeomen gave me a curious look. I yanked up my cloak’s cowl, hurrying out. Only as I gained distance from the Tower did the knot in my chest start to dissolve.

I had done it. I had Dudley’s letters. Renard couldn’t use these against Elizabeth: The proof he required was now in my hands. All I had to do was to report whatever lies I must to keep him at bay, long enough to send word to her and-

I paused. And do what? Confront her? Demand to know why she’d acted so recklessly, why she had lied to me when she knew what Robert planned? Or should I simply destroy the letters and never mention that I had discovered she’d taken a stance against her sister, pretend she was as guiltless as she had feigned? As I considered this, though, I abruptly recalled with a jolt what she’d said to me in the stables.
I warn you now: You, too, could be in grave danger if you persist in this pursuit. I’ll not have you risk yourself for my sake, not this time. Regardless of your loyalty, this is not your fight.

I came to a stop in the middle of the road. She had warned me. In my zeal to protect her, I’d failed to hear her actual message. It was not my fight, she had said, and she meant it.

She had walked into Dudley’s web willingly.

Around me, the light faded, lengthening the shadows. Veering into Tower Street, I began searching the painted signs hanging above doorways for the Griffin. People hustled about their errands, bundled to their ears and eager to finish with their day so they could get indoors before the night took hold. Everyone steered clear of me. I would have steered clear, too. My left cheek felt grossly swollen and was starting to throb. I had a wound on my temple and, no doubt, several nasty bruises on my face. Nevertheless, a burden of years had been lifted from my shoulders. I had stood up to Robert Dudley. No longer did I have to cower from my past, for this time I’d given as good as I got. Some might say I’d given better.

I espied the sign ahead, depicting a black-winged griffin. I pushed past the doorway inside, stamping my boots to get the blood back into my ice-numb feet. The tavern was choked with the smell of greasy food, cheap ale, and hearth and tallow smoke, and raucous with voices; it was also blessedly warm. I’d never been so happy to find myself among ordinary men doing ordinary things in my entire life. No one gave me a second glance as I weaved past the serving hutch and the crowded booths and tables. Apparently a bruised eye or two was common enough in taverns like these, close to the rough-and-tumble dockyards and riverside gaming houses.

Scarcliff lounged in apparent content by the smoking hearth, his legs stretched out before him, a tankard on the low table and a battered white mastiff at his feet. His chin drooped against his chest; he looked deep in slumber. I noticed his right boot had a wedged sole, as if he compensated for a disparity in the length of his legs, perhaps an old injury that had made one shorter than the other. I inched closer, transfixed by the sight of him in repose, but before I got within ten paces his head suddenly shot up, swerving to me with that uncanny precision he’d shown in the brothel, as if he could smell my approach.

He peered at me. “Christ on the cross,” he muttered. “Looks like you had a time of it.”

I broke into an unexpected grin, inexplicably relieved to see him. He might be a villain, as apt to drive a blade into my ribs and tumble me into a ditch as to escort me back to Whitehall, but at least he was a villain I could understand-a man for hire, who worked for his coin, not some treacherous noble whose corruption had permeated his very soul.

“Lord Robert and I had a disagreement,” I said. “Guess who won?”

He snorted and hailed a passing tavern maid. “Nan, bring more ale!” Taking the flagon from her, he filled a tankard to its rim and shoved it, sloshing, at me. “Drink. You need it.”

The ale was vile, a yeasty concoction that slid like wet flour down my throat, but the heat it generated helped clear my head. Scarcliff set his hand on the mastiff as it looked up at me with mild interest. He seemed quite familiar with the animal, which boasted nearly as many scars as he did-a fighting dog, no doubt, lucky enough to have survived the pit.

A survivor: like him.

“Thrashing aside, did you get what you wanted?” he asked, not sounding as if he much cared either way.

I nodded, downing the rest of my tankard. I couldn’t keep from staring at him. The flickering dim light of the tavern made him appear even more sinister, shadowing his graying patchwork beard and misshapen mouth, but somehow emphasizing his empty eye socket and the fused lattice of mutilated skin on his face. I thought him brave for not covering his missing eye with a patch; I wanted to ask him what had happened, how he’d ended up looking like this, but as if he anticipated my curiosity he muttered, “You ought to put some food in your belly before we ride back,” and he barked at Nan for pie and bread. He turned to me with sudden seriousness. “Few men leave the Tower unscathed. You’re a lucky one; your injuries will heal.” His chortle scraped my ears, like sand on cobblestone. “Unlike that Dudley lot, who I daresay can’t grow new heads.”

I was taken aback. The monster had a sense of humor. Who would have thought?

Nan arrived with the pie; it was steaming hot, with chunks of overcooked meat that I didn’t examine closely. I was too famished to care, digging in with my blade and hands.

Scarcliff leaned back in his chair. It was a big tattered thing, with dirty flattened cushions and squat legs, but he presided upon it like a lord in his castle. After taking several loud sniffs at my pie, the dog curled back at his feet. It was definitely his. This was his spot. He must come here often. He probably felt comfortable among the foreign sailors and dockside workers, the pox-scarred whores and local thugs; certainly, it was more his style than that bizarre scenario Courtenay favored in Southwark.

He gave me a jagged-toothed sneer as I wiped my mouth. “That good, eh?”

“The worst pie I’ve ever eaten,” I said. As the food settled in my belly, I began to feel the aftereffects of my encounter with Lord Robert; my every muscle was starting to ache. “I should get going before I’m too stiff to move,” I added.

“What’s the rush? Here, one more for the road. It’s bitter as an old snatch out there; man’s got to keep his bollocks warm.” He poured again from the flagon. He seemed to have a limitless capacity for the stuff; he’d drunk three full tankards in the short time it had taken me to finish the pie. I’d already had one and normally wouldn’t have indulged in more. The beverage was so fermented it guaranteed a temple-splitting headache, and the last thing I needed was to lose myself in drunkenness. We still had to ride together through the city at night; despite his genial manner, I wasn’t entirely convinced Scarcliff didn’t harbor nefarious motives. I wouldn’t put it past Courtenay to have ordered that if I made it out of the Tower in one piece he was to make certain I didn’t make it back to Whitehall. Nevertheless, I found myself clanking my tankard against his and joining him in four more rounds, until I felt the ale sloshing in my gut and the room whirled.

Finally I tossed some coin on the table for my share and he slapped his other half down. He gave Nan a pinch on her ample buttocks, and she slapped him playfully; then he threw on his cloak and oversized cap before he reached down to scratch the mastiff under its chin. I heard him mutter, “You be a good dog till I get back.” Then he lifted his one good eye and said, “Night’s not getting any warmer.”

I followed him outside into the backyard stalls. Cinnabar whinnied in greeting, nuzzling me. I used a mounting block-my thighs were raw, as if I’d ripped every tendon-and checked for my sword in its scabbard. It was still there, hanging from my saddle. Scarcliff paid the urchin who had tended the horses and swung up onto his massive bay.

We rode out under a fog-wreathed moon, the cold gnawing at every bit of exposed skin. I wrapped my scarf tighter about my nose and mouth. The chill dissipated some of the fumes of the drink; I felt pleasantly soused, though not to the point of inebriation. Scarcliff ambled ahead, impervious, as if he’d been imbibing water all night. He glanced over his shoulder at me; in that moment, the winter fog parted and a spear of moonlight slashed down across his creviced face, catching the gleam of his eye.

I returned his stare. I reached for my sword.

That was when the others burst upon us.

* * *

There were two of them, both cloaked and masked, astride black steeds that gouged the hardened ice from the road. Cinnabar threw back his head in alarm as they came crashing toward us from the darkness. I grappled with the reins, nearly sliding off my saddle. Scarcliff swerved his bay in an expert maneuver, fending off one of the attackers as he lunged for the destrier’s bridle. The horse proved impressively agile for its size. Then I heard shouting from the attacker riding toward me-
“No, ése no! El joven! Agárrelo!”
-and Scarcliff bellowed: “Go, lad!
Now!
”

I had thought he’d planned this, but as I heard him yank his sword from its scabbard-blades tended to stick in the cold, so he clearly kept his well oiled-I didn’t wait to find out. I slammed my heels into Cinnabar, knocking my arm across my pursuer, backhanding him in his saddle long enough for me to gain a head start.

Cinnabar didn’t need encouragement. He had been idling in a stable for days at Whitehall save for our occasional outings, and his eager bolt caught the man off guard, so that he barely had time to veer his own horse out of our way. Yet as I took flight down the road, I knew he would take up our pursuit, and I lifted my weight off the saddle to facilitate Cinnabar’s stride. “Faster, my friend,” I said in his flattened ear. “My life depends on it.”

As indeed it did. The men had spoken in Spanish; they must be in Renard’s employ and had no doubt been tracking me the entire time, waiting for the moment to seize what I had taken. I’d let my guard down, let myself get overly distracted by my suspicions of Scarcliff. I hadn’t considered that Renard would have me followed.

The striking of hooves on the road behind me grew louder. I looked over my shoulder. Both men were gaining on me; the one I had backhanded was ahead, slighter of build than his companion, his dark cloak billowing like outstretched wings, the half-moon in the sky above capturing random glints of metal on his person, including the unsheathed sword he gripped in one gloved hand while he steered his horse with the other.

I strained to see ahead. I couldn’t be too far away. A few more leagues at best and the torch-lit sprawl of Whitehall would appear before me. There would be sentries, courtiers, and officials; it wasn’t that late. No Spaniard would dare harm me in view of the palace. Renard had chosen this moment because of the late hour, this lone stretch of road. He knew that with Peregrine’s death, he could not afford to rouse the queen’s suspicions. It had to appear as if I’d fallen prey to an unfortunate but all too common accident, waylaid and murdered outside the palace while I went about the task he had assigned-