The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .txt) 📗

Then I heard her. “You needn’t be afraid. I am alone.”

I stepped through a narrow door. The room before me might have been a private study or small library, perhaps, employed for personal business. The diamond-paned window overlooked the courtyard and front gate. On the floor under the window was a heap of old rushes, swept up with fragments of cloth. The air was dank, its mustiness tinged with an odd greasy smell I couldn’t quite place.

The only furniture was the side table holding the lantern and a chipped oak desk, behind which stood Sybilla. She wore a loose-sleeved black shirt, a fitted leather tunic, and belted breeches: her swordsman garb. The only thing missing was the mask.

She smiled. “You took your time. I did mention Renard rented a manor, did I not? Though I suppose under the circumstances, your forgetfulness can be excused.”

I had to make a conscious effort to resist her eyes-lustrous as moon-drenched violets, alluring as sin. My fist closed about my sword hilt, as though it were a talisman.

“You can put that away.” She spread her arms. “As you can see, I bear no weapon.”

“So you claim,” I replied. “Not that it would stop me. Weapon or not, if you weren’t a woman I’d kill you without hesitation.”

“So my gender finally protects me? Pray, what have I done to merit such hostility?”

I stared at her. “You deceived me from the start. You said you spied on the queen for Renard, but in truth he set you to spy on Courtenay. You seduced the earl, got him to tell you all his secrets, but you didn’t tell Renard what you discovered, about the conspiracy and about me. You knew I’d tracked the earl to that brothel and what I arranged with him. You made me think you were helping me, but all along you prepared a trap. Shall I go on?”

“Please do.” Her eyes glittered. “I find this all … fascinating.”

I took a menacing step toward her. “You left the poisoned note in my room. All this time, you led me to think Renard was the culprit when it was you, all along.”

She reached for a decanter on the desk and poured ale into two goblets. She extended one to me. I ignored it. With a sigh, she set the cup within my reach. “I never intended to kill the boy. I merely sought to warn you away. I didn’t expect you, you see; you were never part of the plan. I was at a loss as to how to contend with you. But I didn’t put enough poison on that seal to do more than sicken you. Your squire must not have weighed much, for it to have worked so quickly. It was an unfortunate accident.”

“Accident?” My voice rose in fury. “He died because of you!”

“I know. I … regret it.” She spoke as though the sentiment were unfamiliar, difficult to enunciate. She was the same woman who had wept in my arms, shown me such concern and taken me inside her, and yet she was not, as if she’d shed her skin to reveal an equally beautiful but far deadlier persona.

“This elaborate deception of yours must have a reason,” I went on. “You do not work for Renard, so whom do you serve?”

“Haven’t you guessed by now? You’ve pieced the rest of it together with remarkable facility.” She trailed her hand over the desk, forcing me to angle my blade to prevent her approach. She stopped at the edge of the desk, a few paces from where I stood. “Renard was always too unyielding,” she said. “And he serves an equally unyielding master. Charles V may be emperor, but he’s shackled to the past, much like Mary herself. He cannot forgive himself for what he did to Mary’s mother, his aunt Catherine of Aragon. He promised to assist Catherine against King Henry’s annulment of their marriage, but Catherine died alone in a remote manor, while Anne Boleyn, the witch-queen, assumed her place. For all his avowals, Charles did nothing.” She paused, looking at me. “His conscience must have plagued him for years. Then Mary took the throne, and he saw a way to redeem himself. He’d wed his son Philip to her; they would return England to the Catholic faith and kill all the heretics, and the past would be put to right. Only one thing stood in his way.”

“Elizabeth,” I breathed.

“Yes. The witch-queen’s daughter. She was dangerous. The heretics would fight for her; she had to be dealt with. The emperor sent Renard here with orders to negotiate the marriage and ensure Elizabeth did not survive it.” She went quiet again, her expression pensive. “As I said, they are unyielding. My master, on the other hand, understands the need for compromise. He sees no reason to dispose of a potential asset.”

“He…?” My skin crawled. She spoke so matter-of-factly, as though these were matters that people discussed every day. Perhaps they did. Perhaps where she came from, conversations about whether or not to destroy a princess were part of daily life.

She tilted back her head, her laughter sultry. “How can it be that you still refuse to see what is right before you? The emperor views the world through eyes that grow old before their time. But Philip of Spain does not. He is still young, virile. He will only sacrifice himself on the altar of his father’s guilt if he can reap the benefit.”

“You-you serve Philip?” I asked in horror. “He is your master?”

“He hired me to be his special agent. He’s known me for years; I grew up in his mother’s court. He also knew I had spied for Renard, and he promised me freedom-a noble marriage and my own household, a dowry for my sister, refuge for my mother. All I had to do was use Renard’s enmity to destroy Courtenay, a rival for Mary’s hand, as well as any others who opposed the Hapsburg alliance. But Philip insisted that he mustn’t be held responsible. Whatever blood is shed must be on Mary’s hands alone.”

“Dear God,” I whispered. “Why…?” Then, with sickening clarity, the final piece of the mystery slid into place. “It’s been about Elizabeth, all this time. Philip wants her.”

She smiled. “Does it surprise you? The prince is a modern man; he doesn’t care about the past. His father is weary. When Charles abdicates, Philip stands to inherit half the empire. Why suffer the older sister’s bed unless he has the assurance that in time, he can have the younger’s? But Elizabeth must be brought to heel; all those who support her heretical leanings must die. And once Mary fails to bear a child and succumbs, as she must, Elizabeth will be his. Through her, he will sire heirs to make all Europe tremble-a Tudor-Hapsburg dynasty to rule the world.”

I felt sick. “You are mad. He is mad. The very idea is monstrous. Elizabeth would never consent to him.”

“Oh,” replied Sybilla, with a lift of her chin, “she will, if she hopes to live. Her letter to Dudley confirms that she knew about the revolt.” Her voice darkened. “The game is over. Not even you can save her.”

I lunged forward, swiping my blade across the desk. I relished her swift inhale as she stepped back warily, her eyes on my sword. “Give it to me. Give me her letter.”

She did not flinch. “Why do you insist on fighting for what is already lost? That letter belongs to Philip now. He owns the knowledge that Elizabeth consented to treason in her own hand. When Wyatt and his men reach London, the queen will order her arrest. Renard will make sure Elizabeth is blamed for everything and see her locked in the Tower. The only one who can save her is the husband Mary desires so fervently she’ll do anything he asks, including spare her treacherous sister. Philip will be Elizabeth’s savior. And in time, Elizabeth will be his.”

“Not if I warn her first.” I raised my blade. She flattened herself against the wall. As she gazed at me, at last I gleaned in her face what I craved.

Fear.

A spasm went through me. I despised her with every part of my being, but the memory of my desire for her still clung to me like chains. She was a woman. I had never killed anyone. I knew her death was necessary if I was to save Elizabeth. The letter had to be hidden somewhere, awaiting Philip’s arrival. Sybilla would never entrust it to another. I might never find it, but if she was dead, neither would anyone else. I could gain Elizabeth valuable time before-