The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .txt) 📗
Elizabeth dropped practically to her knees, head bowed. She’d come to court as the queen’s cherished heir and sister; in less than six months she was leaving under a pall of hatred and suspicion. My heart went out to her as the queen extended her hand with its signet ring. There was no affection in the gesture, no sign of forgiveness or largesse; Mary was as remote as the clock tower looming above us.
In the silence broken only by the wind and sifting thaw of snow, with the queen’s little hand trapped in hers, Elizabeth lifted her voice and said, loudly enough for everyone present to hear, “I depart from Your Majesty’s presence with a heavy heart, though circumstances and my own delicate health require it. Yet I declare myself your most loyal subject, who loves you more than anyone. I beseech you not to believe those who spread evil reports about me without doing me the honor of letting me prove to you in person the malicious nature of such slanders, for on you alone do I depend for my honor.”
It was a perfect speech, stamped with Elizabeth’s signature flair for rhetoric. Mary reacted accordingly, her thin white lips seeming to disappear into the pressed crevice of her mouth. I held my own breath as everyone waited. Elizabeth glanced warily past her sister to Renard, who stood steps from the queen. Though his cap shaded his face, his eyes must have been directed at her with single-minded fervor. If he had had his way, this moment would have gone very differently.
Mary withdrew her hand. Something intangible, fleeting in its poignancy, moved across her face. Her attempt to smile came out as a bloodless grimace; she impulsively reached out without warning and clasped Elizabeth’s hand again, as if in regret.
Then she called to her women.
Lady Clarencieux stepped forth, bearing what looked like a small animal. As the princess unraveled it, a length of lustrous sable flooded her arms-a cloak with inset sleeves and hood, fashioned of supple velvet and the exquisite Russian fur.
“It is cold in Hertfordshire,” Mary said, “and, as you say, your health is delicate. We would not wish for you to take ill for lack of proper care.”
Elizabeth started to speak, her gaze bright with unshed tears; before she could, the queen motioned again, and a friar in a Franciscan habit and cape, the knotted cord of his order about his waist, appeared. At the sight of him, Elizabeth’s eyes dimmed.
“You assured us that you wished to become better acquainted with the ways of our true faith,” Mary said. “This friar will go with you to Ashridge to instruct you. He brings with him the articles of our true faith, so you may see them every day and learn their solace. We pray that you’ll soon realize that only by casting aside the heretic teachings of your youth can you prove this loyalty you so ardently declare.”
She took a step back. The sable overflowed in Elizabeth’s arms. Turning to Mistress Parry, she relieved herself of it and curtsied again before moving to her litter. She had a large entourage that included her women, an escort of men-at-arms, her Arabian jennet, Cantila, and Urian.
“We choose to believe you for now,” Mary called out, freezing her in midstep. “Live quietly at Ashridge with no further upset, and we’ll take note of your sincerity.”
Elizabeth paused, casting her gaze over the assembly. Though she couldn’t have seen me among the multitude, I hoped that somehow she felt my presence.
To the crack of whips and clangor of hooves, the procession rode out under the palace archway. The crowd dispersed, the courtiers rushing to join the watchers in the galleries, to examine and dissect, to again place bets on Elizabeth’s chances.
Shrouded in my cloak, I blended with them.
The time had come to embark on my own desperate gambit.
SOUTHWARK
Chapter Eighteen
I crossed the frosted gardens and tiltyard to the stables. Cinnabar whickered from his stall, happy to see me; I tarried a few moments, reassuring him. I did not want to risk riding over the bridge again or make myself too visible a target on horseback. If Renard was going to have me followed, this time let the chase be on foot.
After paying Toby a generous bribe, I gave him instructions as to what to do with Cinnabar if I did not return. “Send him to Ashridge, as a gift to Her Grace, Princess Elizabeth. She will reward you.” As I left the stables, Cinnabar neighed, and I fought off a pang of fear. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him or anyone I loved again.
Slipping into the frigid night, I headed for the river. Close to the water steps I suddenly heard someone behind me. I ducked into the nearest doorway, unsheathing my sword. The footsteps grew closer, an odd dragging sound that rasped in my ears. As I gripped my sword, ready to lunge, a beggar limped past the doorway, muttering to herself, her misshapen feet swathed in rags. She did not notice me lurking only inches away, my length of blade bared. Warily, I searched the environs and continued onward.
The ice in the Thames had begun to break apart, the tepid warmth of the past few days heaving it up in slabs. The river was still dangerous to navigate, but I reasoned that with so many boatmen facing starvation without their trade, a few must have returned to work by now. I located one by the water steps, rubbing gnarled hands together to stave off the chill.
He avidly pocketed my coin, and I cautiously stepped into his rickety skiff. Seated on the exposed bench, I repressed my lifelong fear of dark water as the skiff bumped into the river. Ice clunked against the sides; the wherry man maneuvered past it, pushing larger pieces aside with his oar. I couldn’t help but think that if one of those sharp fragments struck the hull, we’d sink like stone.
We made it across without incident, though I was frozen to my toes from the wind. After paying the wherry man extra to wait, I raced through the winding, filth-strewn streets to the Hawk’s Nest.
Its facade was shuttered against the inhospitable night. Looking at it, I felt as though a lifetime had passed since I’d first come to this place. I rapped on the door, thinking for no apparent reason that Scarcliff might be here.
“The earl’s man,” I said to the leering doorman, dumping the last of my pouch’s contents into his meaty paw. “Is he here?”
“Who?” He pocketed my coin. “No idea what you’re bleatin’ about, pretty man.”
They must have killed him on the road, dumped him somewhere he wouldn’t be found until dogs or kites unearthed his bones. Though he had done nothing to warrant my pity, I felt it anyway. No man deserved such an end.
I was moving purposefully forward when the doorman grasped me by the sleeve. “Not so fast. I still need the fee and yer weapon.”
My answer was to whirl about and slam my poniard’s hilt into his face. Blood spewed from his nose. I hit him again, then again, in the groin. He groaned and dropped to the floor, cupping his parts. “Bastard,” I heard him gasp. “You miserable arse-lickin’-”
I clubbed him again, silencing him. As I strode into the brothel, I hoped I hadn’t killed him.
The main room was practically deserted. Only a few masked customers sat drinking or playing dice, attended by desultory boys who didn’t even bother to sway their hips. Glancing at the booth near the staircase, where Scarcliff had his post, I found it empty.
Once up the staircase, I paused, listening for telltale sounds of customer entertainment. A few cats slinked into the shadows, but I heard nothing coming from behind the doors. Had news from the palace spread this far, so quickly?
I didn’t bother to knock on Courtenay’s door, kicking it open with my boot. He sat alone at the table, decanter and goblet before him. He looked up, startled; when he saw me, he scowled. “You faithless cur. You betrayed me.”
