The Tudor Conspiracy (29 page)

I hesitated too long. With a leap aside, she yanked a blade from within her sleeve and slashed it across my arm. Hot pain and a gush of blood broke my focus. I swerved away from her, flinging up my cloak to thwart her next stab.

Instead, she ran to the doorway.

I spun about. As I lunged toward her with my sword lifted, this time ready to cleave her in two, she kicked the side table holding the lantern. It fell onto the heap under the window and shattered. With terrifying suddenness, the piled rushes and rags burst into a flame, startling me and causing me to fling my hands up. She had doused the heap with tallow oil-that was the odor I had smelled and failed to identify.

“No!”
I roared.

Sybilla slammed the door shut. I reached it in time to hear a key turn in the lock. I yanked at the latch, shouting at the top of my lungs, hammering with my sword hilt, oblivious to the spray of blood from my wounded arm.

Then I slowly turned back to the room. My heart capsized in my chest. The flames were leaping up the wall, feeding on the brittle pile and oil like a ravenous beast.

My eyes started to water. Forcing myself to stay calm, I moved as far as I could from the conflagration and scanned the room. There was no other way out except through that window. Sybilla had planned this; she had brought me here for this specific end.

I was going to die.

The smoke thickened, gusting up to the low ceiling like the clouds of an incoming storm. In seconds, it would fill the room and I’d suffocate. I’d lose consciousness; by the time the flames reached me, I wouldn’t feel it. When it was done, when the manor had collapsed in smoldering ruins, there’d be nothing left save my charred bones.

A howl struggled in my throat. I looked about desperately, and my gaze fell on the decanter and untouched goblet. I yanked up my hood, sheathed my sword, and tore my gauntlets from my belt. Grabbing the goblet, I poured ale over my trembling gloved hands. Then I soaked my hood and threw the empty decanter aside. It wasn’t enough; ten pitchers wouldn’t have been enough, but as I turned resolutely to the fire, I knew I had no choice. I could feel the heat through my clothes, as if the flames already licked my flesh …

Hunching my shoulders, I stepped forward. The ground shifted under my feet. I looked down. The floorboards … they were moving …

A dull roar filled my head. I coughed, lurching forward. It was the smoke. I was being strangled by it, deluded into seeing things that weren’t there. If I could just push through that writhing screen of flame to grab hold of the window latch-

I didn’t think I was moving to my death or hear the section of floor creaking open behind me until rough hands grabbed hold of me, pulling me back, yanking me down into a hole. Only then did I realize the piercing sound in my ears was my own scream.

“Get moving, before it all comes down on top of us,” an urgent voice said. I dragged myself after the hulking figure who’d rescued me, my smoke-singed nostrils detecting a faint trace of wet earth. I was in a tunnel under the manor, a secret escape passage. Slimy water sloshed underfoot; it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. Gradually it began to lighten. A hatch above me was thrown back and I was again yanked, coughing and sputtering, into the garden. I lay on my back, gasping for air. In the distance, I glimpsed the river, shimmering like a dragon’s tail in the sullen dawn.

The barge was gone.

I looked up into Scarcliff’s twisted visage. “You’re lucky I saw my horse bucking at his tether,” he said, wrapping his cloak about me. It was soaking wet, foul with river-stink. “A little more time and you’d be roast meat.”

“How-how did you know?” My voice was faint, hoarse.

“I told you. I saw poor Cerberus fit to slip his bridle and all that smoke-”

“No. The passageway. You knew it was there. You’ve been here before.”

He went still. Then he said softly, “Don’t you recognize me, lad?” and I felt as if I’d plunged into an endless void, falling and falling without reaching bottom.

“Shelton,” I whispered. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it until now.

It was there, beneath his ravaged face-the traces of the man I had known, the stern Dudley steward who had helped raise me and had brought me to court. As I met his one eye in recognition, I was swept back to that horrible night in the Tower when I’d pursued him. He’d been trapped in the crush at the portcullis. All those terrified souls, trying to escape the guards coming down on them with halberds and maces-skulls must have been cracked, limbs shattered, bodies scythed like chaff. Someone must have struck him, slashed his face to the bone. The wedged soles on his boots-his legs had been damaged, too. Yet somehow, he’d survived. He had dragged himself to safety and changed his name, his identity. He’d melted into London’s underbelly, hired himself out as a strong-arm for the earl. He must have known who I was the moment he saw me, but he had not breathed a word. Had he intended to stay hidden from me forever, to take his secret with him to his grave? If so, he had betrayed himself to save me.

“I know I owe you an explanation,” he said roughly, “but this isn’t the place. If you want to catch that she-wolf, we’d best get moving. I’ve been tracking her since the ambush on the road. I didn’t dare engage her”-he grimaced-“I’m not the man I was. But I saw her take the barge toward the bridge. The current isn’t strong, however. You still have time.”

I struggled to get up, to get away. He tightened his grip on me. “We need to bind that wound.” He tore a strip from the bottom of his chemise and tied it around my arm, stanching the blood. “It’s not deep. It’ll need curing, but that should suffice for now.”

He let me go. I clambered to my feet, the taste of embers in my mouth. Looking past him to the manor, I saw smoke billowing from the rooftop, an eerie nectarine glow smearing the windows. The fire was spreading. It would consume the entire house.

We trudged into the river, the water coming to our waists as we waded out far enough to bypass the garden wall. Scarcliff had moved the horses away from the manor. As he helped me onto my saddle, Cinnabar pranced sideways, agitated by the scent of fire. My world shrank for a moment. What was I doing? How did I think I was I going to stop Sybilla with a wounded arm and the help of a man I’d believed was dead and barely trusted?

We bolted toward the city.

It was that preternatural hour before morning, when everything is softened by the waning of the night. The city was just awakening, grumbling goodwives still sweeping their doorsteps of refuse as peddlers and hawkers embarked on the trudge to the marketplace at Cheapside with their wares, and pigs and dogs rooted in the conduits for leavings.

We galloped past them, scarcely registering their presence.

There was still time, I kept telling myself. Still time …

The massive gateway leading to the bridge reared into view. Officials in cloaks clustered before it as liveried sentries and armored soldiers roamed the perimeter. People were lining up, herding livestock. I registered a cacophony that must be loud, though to me it sounded less intrusive than my heart’s pounding in my ears.

Still time …

I slid off Cinnabar. “Too many people, and on horseback we’re too visible.”

He gave a grim nod. “I’ll follow you. Be careful.”

As I moved on foot to the gate, leading Cinnabar by the reins, I searched the crowd. Given the hour, most of those waiting to cross the bridge were tradesmen, but as I stepped into the line I suddenly spotted her near the front of the queue, swathed in a cape and with a cap pulled low on her head. She held a gelding by its bridle, the horse stamping nervously as it was jostled by those around it. She must have docked the barge and hired a horse. Under the bandage, my arm throbbed as I lowered my hand to my scabbard. The sentry waved her onward. She mounted and began to steer her horse through the crowd. She couldn’t ride fast; once she was at a safe distance, I hauled myself onto Cinnabar, dodging the multitude of animals, carts, and wagons on the bridge, intent on not losing her.

She wasn’t in a rush, nor did she appear to show concern that she might be followed. I saw her crack her whip, opening passage. I wondered where she was headed; wherever it was, she clearly wasn’t returning to Whitehall. I glanced over my shoulder. To my relief, Scarcliff was a short distance away; he had left Cerberus in the stalls by the bridge, where grooms minded horses for a fee.

Sybilla abruptly reined to a halt outside a haberdashery. I slid from Cinnabar, watching her dismount through the ebb and flow of the bridge’s denizens. She looped her horse’s reins to a post and went to a door beside the shop, unlocking it. She disappeared inside. I lifted my gaze. The building was like all those cluttering the bridge-squeezed tight between its neighbors, precariously tall, its overhanging balconies festooned with sodden laundry, its peeling exterior pockmarked by small, thick-paned windows.

My blood quickened.

It must be a safe house. She had stashed the letter here. She had come for it.

Scarcliff neared. I motioned for him to see to Cinnabar and crossed the road. The haberdashery wasn’t open; the building looming above me was quiet, even as the sounds of traffic on the bridge rumbled around me.

As at the manor, she had left the door unlocked. It put me on alert; cracking the door ajar, I found an empty parlor and a narrow staircase leading upward into gloom. I heard nothing as I took the stairs, wincing at every creak, knowing she was somewhere above me, perhaps already aware and ready for attack. That she’d shown no awareness of being followed was no solace. I’d underestimated her before. This time, I had to fight to the death.

Stepping onto the landing of the first story, I eased out my sword. There was movement in the room before me. Edging closer, reaching out with my free hand, I threw the door open and braced myself. I glimpsed a cot in a corner, a desk, and a stool; then, from the corner, she came to her feet swiftly, revealing an upended floorboard. Her expression faltered; she looked almost disconcerted to see me. My gaze riveted itself to that dislodged floorboard, seconds before she lunged at me with her sword in hand.

I ducked away, thrusting my blade. She pranced aside. “You should have let the fire take you,” she said through her teeth. “I trained for years with a master in Toledo. After I kill you, I’ll take your blade to him so he can see how far the steel of Spain has traveled.”

I did not respond, saving my strength, concentrating on parrying her strikes and maneuvering her away from that upended board. My arm was aching; I could feel fresh blood welling through the makeshift bandage, but my rage was stronger, all-consuming, so that she was all I saw, all I felt and wanted. My doubt vanished; my sword seemed to anticipate my every move, and her expression hardened when I avoided one of her strikes and grazed her side with my blade, drawing blood and forcing her to pivot away from me to evade a deeper wound. She understood what I was trying to do, and she came at me with demonic fervor, lashing her sword, pushing me out of the room and toward the staircase, where she no doubt intended to put an end to me.

Our blades clashed with a merciless ring. Teetering on the edge of the stairs, I knew I had only moments before she broke through my defenses. I did not think, then; did not hesitate. I whirled about and leapt down the stairs, three at a time. As I hoped, like a wolf with its blood up, intent on fleeing prey, she came after me.

All of a sudden we were in the street, pitched in fierce battle, as passersby scrambled to avoid us. She moved so fast she was like quicksilver, her hair uncoiling from the knot at her nape to stream about her flushed features, so that even then, in that terrible moment as I fought for my very life, she was as beautiful as an avenging angel-and as cruel.

She failed to see Scarcliff. He had shifted Cinnabar to the other side of the street, a few doorways from the house, and hidden in the crowd. He suddenly barreled out toward her, his massive body poised like a ram. As he slammed into her with audible impact, she lost her footing on the uneven paving. Her blade flew from her hand. It was the opening I needed. As she whipped around to Scarcliff, snarling and jerking a knife from her boot, I ran at her with my sword brandished, determined to take her head. I missed by a hair’s breadth, the very air quivering as she crouched and reeled away. For an instant that seemed to last an eternity, our eyes met. I was blocking her return to the house.

Her mouth curved in an icy smile.

She turned and began to run.

“Upstairs!” I yelled at Scarcliff as I bolted after her. “Under the floorboard!”

The congestion on the bridge had thickened; it was nearing midmorning, and hundreds of people were going about their business. She swerved to and fro, dodging shouting carters and angry mercers, her knife clutched in her hand, though it was no match for my sword and she knew it. She was heading for the southern gate; if she managed to escape the bridge and make it into the warren of Bankside, I’d be forced to hunt her down.

Chances were, she’d get me first.

Neither of us anticipated the additional sentries posted at the other end, a precautionary move prompted, no doubt, by Courtenay’s arrest. As the hulking gateway with its massive barbican and spiked crown of rotting heads came into view, Sybilla’s pace flagged. Everyone coming from London, be he a tinker with a shoulder pole or a fur-clad lady in a litter, was being stopped and questioned before they were permitted to pass. I heard snatches of agitated clamor from people standing nearby-“Rebels from Kent, they say, an army of traitors!”-and Sybilla spun around, knowing that those sentries would question her, that perhaps Renard had provided a description of her.

She came to a panting halt, facing me. Every sound and sight about me faded. Even as I started to rush to her, shouting, she leaped up onto a low parapet on the edge of the bridge-one of those rare openings between buildings that gave out onto the river and offered a stunning view of the city’s breadth. She perched on that parapet like a gorgeous bird of prey, the wind catching at her cloak, silhouetting her slender figure, the cluttered spires of London erupting into gold as the sun emerged from its bed of mist.