The Tudor Conspiracy (22 page)

All of a sudden, Cinnabar balked and swerved, throwing me sideways. Yanking on the reins, my right foot tangling in my twisted stirrup, I tried to steady him, but he had plunged off the road and was running toward the open fields of St. James. As hard as I pulled at his reins I couldn’t get him to stop, and when I glanced over my shoulder I saw why.

The Spaniard was at our heels. As the moonlight caught a streak of dark wet on Cinnabar’s hindquarters, I saw the wound that the tip of his sword had made.

Rage filled me. I wanted to stop and fight, but Cinnabar, maddened by the stinging pain and urgency emanating from me, galloped faster than before, so that it felt as though we were about to take wing. I kept looking back over my shoulder to gauge the distance between me and the Spaniard. It was widening, despite his frenzied heel-kicks into his own horse. I looked ahead. A copse of trees neared. Past it, flickering light indicated the palace of St. James. If I could only get past that copse, I might be able to-

My body lifted completely off my saddle as Cinnabar jumped, skirting a fallen bough. Then a low-lying branch hit me full in the face.

I tumbled onto stony ground, my skull ringing from the impact. My teeth cut into my lip, hard enough that I tasted blood. Looking up in a daze, I saw the Spaniard heel his mount, spraying up clods of frozen turf. He leapt off his saddle, his sword at the ready, his companion riding up close behind.

Struggling to my feet, my head pounding from the fall and the last, lingering effects of my ill-advised bout at the alehouse, I met his approach with my own sword brandished.

* * *

The Spaniard held up a hand to detain his companion. He was a narrow silhouette in head-to-toe black, not tall, though his lack of physical stature offered no comfort. He regarded me impassively from behind a full black face mask, as if he had all the time in the world, before he assumed his stance. This was a man of experience, with no fear of failure. He lunged at me with blinding speed, his sword arcing. As I parried his thrust, the impact of our blades shuddering through my arm and into my very bowels, I understood he wanted to play with me. As he assailed me, his polished moves forcing me backward, step by clumsy step, into the weaker position of defense, I realized just how bad my situation was. Setting aside that just hours before I’d grappled with Dudley and one of my eyes was now a swollen slit, I had only a few painstaking months of practice in the controlled environment of Hatfield’s gallery to rely upon. I was an amateur; I didn’t stand a chance against someone this highly trained.

I was sweating within minutes, breathing hard and fast as he attacked with almost nonchalant precision. Staggering over brittle twigs, stones, and broken branches littering the field, evading his swipes as he pushed me toward the deeper pocket of darkness under the trees, I began to consider that I might die tonight. If he hadn’t delivered the fatal blow by now, it certainly wasn’t because he couldn’t. He was playing with me, biding his time and pushing me to my limits, until I either made a mistake that opened me to his killing thrust or surrendered voluntarily, in acknowledgment of his superiority. Either way, the outcome was bleak. The question was, did I want to die on my feet or on my knees?

Everything faded to insignificance. The knowledge that I still had the one thing that could save Elizabeth, and my fury that once again my own life was deemed forfeit by callous design, compelled me to fight as I had never fought before, even as my arm grew numb and my chest burned from deflecting his relentless assault. Only once did I catch him by surprise, nicking his sleeve with my sword tip.

His teeth gleamed as he smiled. Then he came at me with all his vigor, shedding any pretense of consideration for a savage display of professionalism. Before I knew it, the shocking smack of his blade on my wrist sent a flame of agony shooting up my arm, and my sword went flying as I desperately dodged his move to slice off my hand.

Panting like a winded foal, I scrambled to retrieve my sword. He leapt in front of me. I started to reach for the poniard stashed in my boot when I felt the tip of his sword at my throat, so close it pierced the matted wool of my scarf and bit into my flesh. I looked to where Cinnabar stood, quivering, his nostrils flared and reins dangling. I hoped that they wouldn’t hurt or take him, that he’d be canny enough to elude them and find his own way back to the palace. His riderless arrival would alert the stable hands. They’d inform their betters; at some point word would reach Rochester, who’d dispatch a party to look for me. With any luck, I’d be buried with Peregrine-if anything of me was left to be found.

At this thought, a gust of laughter exploded from me, surprising me with its force, considering how winded I felt. What a way to end my not-so-illustrious career as a spy, skewered by an anonymous assassin after a visit to my former master in the Tower! Here lies Brendan Prescott, also known as the inept and short-lived Daniel Beecham.

“Regístrele,”
ordered the Spaniard in a deep, almost too forceful voice. He did not take his eyes from me. Or what little I could see of them; under the mask I could only glean the glimmer of whites in the eyeholes, not enough to discern any expression or color.

“Don’t move,” said his companion in broken English as he marched to me and twisted my hands behind my back. He wrapped a cord about my wrists, binding them. Then he began to search me. The tube hidden inside my doublet revealed itself within seconds under his probing hands; it was futile to even try to stop him as he tore off one of my sleeves and wormed the tube out.

He waved it aloft.
“Aquí está,”
he said to the swordsman. “
Ahora mátale
. Kill him.”

I braced myself, but the swordsman did not move, his stare intent, boring into me as he waved his companion back to his horse. He was clearly in charge; though the other man grumbled, he did as he was told. For what felt like an eternity, we faced each other, motionless. Then he took a step closer. I let out an unwilling gasp as he trailed his sword down my torso, slowly, until he poised it on my codpiece. Though I couldn’t see it under the mask I knew he was smiling. He made a gesture with his other hand, ordering me to kneel. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I shook my head.

“No,” I managed to whisper. “Not like this…”

He pushed on his blade. Fearing he’d emasculate me and leave me here to bleed to death, I dropped to my knees. He raised his sword. He’s going to decapitate me, I thought in a burst of blinding terror. I was going to die like Anne Boleyn, by a foreigner’s sword-

I closed my eyes. Urine leaked down my thigh. I felt a thud on the ground near me.

When I dared to look, I saw my sword lying a short distance away. The swordsman had turned away and was striding to his horse, his cloak swirling about him. After he leapt onto his saddle, he paused to look across the field at me. I was still kneeling, my hands behind my back, the sword a tantalizing glimmer, within reach.

With a kick of his heels, he galloped off with his companion.

The cold finally encouraged me to attempt to stand-that and Cinnabar’s concerned nuzzling. Drawing in a deep lungful of air, I hoisted myself as best as I could to my feet. The side of my temple where the branch had struck me throbbed; I could only imagine the sight I’d present when I finally made it to my room. I was having difficulty accepting I was still alive.

I went to my sword, lay down at an awkward angle, and maneuvered my bound wrists as best as I could against the edge of the blade. As I sawed back and forth clumsily-the tops of my palms rubbing on the blade with a sharp sting, I prayed I’d not end up shredding my hands or slicing open a vein-I considered my position. Clearly the swordsman had been hired to steal the letters; he had known what I carried. If he was Renard’s man-and it seemed the likely explanation-then I must owe my life to the ambassador. Renard had what he sought; he had also neutralized my attempt to safeguard Elizabeth. My death could come later, after he’d sent the evidence to the queen and his prey to the Tower. I was not important. He could afford to dispense with me at his leisure.

When I felt a sudden loosening of the knot, I shifted away. With all my strength, I strained to pull my wrists apart. The leather cord frayed; with a gasp of painful relief, I slid one hand free. Unraveling the cord from my wrists, my skin smarting and bloodied, I picked up my sword and trudged to Cinnabar. Limping, I led him to a tree stump, where I balanced unsteadily to clamber onto my saddle. Cinnabar waited patiently; when he sensed I was seated, he ambled toward the road.

I searched the environs cautiously, though I already knew Scarcliff would not appear. He’d not come to my rescue. He must have bolted away the moment he realized who the men were after; there was no point in risking his life. By now he’d be back in the Griffin, slurping from his tankard and petting his ugly dog. He wasn’t one to waste sentiment on circumstances beyond his control. As he had told me, he had his orders.

The palace appeared like a mirage out of the night. As we neared the postern gate, Cinnabar quickened his pace, eager for his well-earned rubdown and oats. I slid off him in the darkened stable yard. I’d barely started to unbuckle his harness when a groom hurried out of the shadows by the stalls.

My heart stopped. He reminded me of Peregrine. Then he paused, staring at me, and I saw he was an older boy, pimply and angular, with a thatch of unwashed hair. “Are you Peregrine’s master?” he asked, hesitantly.

I replied hoarsely, “I am. You must be his friend, Toby.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry about Peregrine. All the lads here are. He was nice. He gave us extra money and told us he was a friend of the princess. If we can do anything for you…?”

”You can.” I rummaged in my pouch, handing him a coin. “Please see that my horse is well attended. We’ve had a rough night.”

He eagerly went to work, relieving Cinnabar of saddle, harness, and bridle while I took stock of myself. I was covered in muck, my cloak rumpled and torn from my fall. God only knew what the rest of me looked like. I couldn’t walk into the palace in this state without attracting attention. I asked Toby for a pail of water. I washed up as best as I could, and once I saw Cinnabar to his stall, I stole through the back passageways to my room.

Undressing was a torment. As I peeled away the soiled layers, I clenched my teeth and reopened my cut lip. My chemise in particular proved torturous, the linen having mixed with my sweat to adhere to my contusions, like a hair shirt dipped in salt. Naked save for my sagging hose, I surveyed my shockingly bruised torso before I took up my small hand mirror. Catching one look at my face in the tallow light, I set the glass aside. No use dwelling on it. As terrible as it looked, as Scarcliff had said, I would heal.

The water in my basin was icy; I gasped as I carefully used a rag to wash away the worst of the filth and blood from my body. Despair lurked at the edges of my awareness. I’d have given anything to see Peregrine again, to hear him whistle in amazement and comment about how I couldn’t go anywhere alone because I always ended up falling into a river or chased by ruffians. Blinking back tears-salt on my face was the last thing I needed-I went to the coffer and poured with a trembling hand from the decanter. I gulped the entire draft down, not caring that the beer was a day old and already souring.

As the drink hit my stomach, I sat on the bed.

Failure crashed over me.

I had lost the letters, and time was running out. Renard had sent his men to ambush me; he knew that without evidence, there was nothing I could do to stop him, short of murder. This possibility took root in my mind, even as I told myself that if his death were ever traced to me, I, too, would die. Somehow, though, my own life no longer mattered. I longed to see Renard’s expression as he took his last breath; I wanted him to know that I was also capable of doing whatever was required. His henchman had not let me live tonight out of mercy; Renard had me spared because my demise was of no account for the moment. If he’d had his way, I’d be dead already. He’d come for me eventually, unless I got to him first.

I mapped out scenarios. I was scheduled to report to him tomorrow; I could meet him in his office and do it there, behind closed doors, but I’d have to contend with his secretaries afterward. It might be better to hide in the vicinity and catch Renard unaware as he made his way to the office, take him down in one of the remote courtyards, and make it look like a random assault, a botched robbery, as I had thought he’d have his men do to me on the road. However I did it, I had to act soon.

I had to kill him before he presented those letters to the queen.

Urgency brought me staggering to my feet. The room swam. I paused, choking back bile as I shrugged on my doublet, pulled on my boots, and, with my sword dangling at my belt, lurched to the door. I felt like I was moving underwater. I faintly acknowledged that in my current state I’d probably never make it down the stairs, let alone traverse the palace to his office in the dead of the night. I couldn’t begin to think of how I’d actually wield my poniard with enough force to kill him, but I grasped the door latch anyway, determined to try.

I yanked the door open. Standing outside was a cloaked silhouette. I struggled backward, lifting the sword up. The figure resolved itself from the inky shadows; a warning hand came up, to silence my outburst. “
Ssh!
Don’t shout.”

I smelled lilies. I could only stare. In the guttering tallow glow, her eyes were huge, her face framed by a cascade of dark blond hair that caught the light like cloth of gold. She pulled back her hood; it crumpled softly about her shoulders. As she turned to close the door, the cloak parted to reveal her slim form, clad in a simple, high-necked black gown.

“What-what are you doing here?” I said in a hoarse whisper.

“Looking for you.” Sybilla regarded me with a worried frown. “I knew something must have happened. I waited for hours, watching the staircase to your room.”