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

How would Elizabeth survive it?

Mistress Parry’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. “My lady says if comes to it, she’ll ask for a swordsman from Calais like her mother. She says she’ll not let them take her head with a hatchet, like a beast in a barnyard. What can we do? What can any of us do for her now?”

The servants had turned to look at us in dread. I took her by the arm, silencing her. Her eyes widened as I leaned close. “Tell her to write a letter to the queen. She must refute any knowledge of the revolt and Wyatt. If she can sow doubt in the queen’s mind, we may still save her. Tell her I will deliver the letter.”

“You?” she whispered. “But how can you…?”

“Never mind.” I steered her to the kitchen door. “Tell her, before it is too late.”

* * *

We remained indoors as the snow fell outside, confined in the manor as the councillors and Howard trudged up the stairs to Elizabeth’s chamber, once, twice, three times a day. Each time they emerged flustered, their threats unheeded; each time Howard was heard debating angrily with them in the corridor as to how to proceed. Mistress Parry told me he was related to the princess through her maternal family; they were kin, and a little of the burden I bore eased as I began to suspect Lord Howard wasn’t quite as sure of his mission as he appeared. Every inch of the house and its grounds had been turned upside down; it was clear they sought evidence that Elizabeth had been stockpiling an arsenal to abet the rebellion and defend her position until she could be declared queen, as Mary had done before her in the struggle against Northumberland. They had found only frost-bitten hedges and a rusted old ax head in the orchard. Without concrete proof of Elizabeth’s guilt, Lord Howard began to look more and more like a man who’d rather be anywhere but here, browbeating a sick girl and her parcel of frightened servants.

At night after supper, once the men had taken to their quarters, Mistress Parry came to tell me the news. Even as Elizabeth mounted a spirited defense from her sickbed, proclaiming she could not believe such terrible deeds could be ascribed to her, her past recklessness at court returned to haunt her. She had, Lord Howard reminded her, been seen indulging Courtenay, as well as his friends; it was also established that she’d resisted Mary’s attempts to make her convert and indeed had sent away the very friar the queen had appointed to instruct her the moment she arrived at Ashridge. Nevertheless, as I repeatedly assured Mistress Parry, none of these acts was treason. Only rumor and innuendo linked Elizabeth to Wyatt’s revolt, and neither was enough to kill her.

Yet while I spoke, I saw her again as she stood at the hearth in her room upstairs and threw her letter to Dudley onto the fire. If they were to search Dudley’s prison, what might they find? What other secrets did he and Elizabeth hide?

On the fourth day, as the anemic sun struggled to penetrate a pall of cloud, the physician from court arrived-a self-important older gentleman in the peaked cap and black robe of his trade, who proceeded to shake the snow from his cloak and closet himself with Elizabeth. Mistress Parry was the only other person present; it was unthinkable, she declared, that her lady should be alone with a stranger, and a man, at that. When he emerged two hours later, his verdict was clear, just as Mistress Parry had feared: Her Grace the Lady Elizabeth suffered from a swelling sickness and fever, yes, but her condition was not grave enough to impede her from returning to court, providing precautions were taken.

Lord Howard ordered immediate departure. His men sprang into action, relieved to finally be doing something other than ogling the maids and drinking the cellars dry. As the servants went rushing to and fro, loading belongings into carts and setting up a litter in the courtyard, I slipped out to the stables to saddle Cinnabar. I was affixing his bridle when a familiar voice was heard exclaiming in the courtyard. I stepped out hastily into glittering daylight speckled by random snowflakes. My heart constricted. Standing beside two lathered mares were Mistress Ashley and my Kate, confronting the row of men-at-arms guarding the manor entrance and Lord Howard himself.

“I tell you, I must attend her,” Mistress Ashley declared. “No one thought to inform me of her illness. It was only by coincidence that we heard of it at all. We made haste at once, but it took several days because of all the blockades and delays on the roads. Whatever has occurred, however lamentable, has nothing to do with us. I am Her Grace’s governess, and you must let me pass!”

Howard appeared unsettled by this rotund, partridgelike woman wagging her finger in his face. He might have faced down Wyatt’s rebels, but he had no experience with the tenacity personified by Mistress Kat Ashley. I walked toward them. As I approached, my boots crunched on the hard snow, and Kate glanced over her shoulder to me.

She went still. Then her hand came up to push back her hood, and I beheld the dark shadows under her eyes. I wanted to embrace her; she had come at the worst hour, after having braved days of arduous travel, but I could not show her intimacy. Since his initial query Howard had left me alone thus far, and I dared not rouse his suspicion now by demonstrating overt familiarity with the princess’s women.

“My lord,” I said, as Howard turned his gaze to me. “This is indeed Mistress Ashley and Her Grace’s lady, Mistress Stafford. They serve her at her house at Hatfield.”

“Yes,” Howard said dryly. “So I’m told.” His expression had softened, however. Without a word, Mistress Ashley took his compliance as permission and shoved past him into the manor. Kate hesitated. As if he could read the silent language between us, Howard turned pointedly away. “We leave within the hour,” he said. “No excuses.”

He retreated into the hall.

Kate moved to me. “Our sweet Peregrine…” I heard her whisper, and she started to reach for my hand. I pulled away, glancing at the guards, several of whom were eyeing Kate with appreciation. I said quietly, “I must return to my duties, Mistress Stafford. You should go inside. Her Grace will no doubt be relieved to see you.”

“What?” She frowned. “No. I must talk to you. I want to ask-”

I took another deliberate step back, without giving her occasion to continue, turning about to return to the stable. I did not look back, though I knew she stood there, staring after me, bewildered. It was too dangerous. We couldn’t risk it. I didn’t care to explore the other reason, like a stain on my soul, which turned me into a coward, unwilling to face her.

Then I heard her footsteps coming behind me and suddenly she was at my side, her hood crumpled about her shoulders, her face flushed from the cold. “Do not avoid me,” she said. “Not after all this time. I’ve been worried sick for you. When Cecil came to see me, with your letter about Peregrine-” She faltered. “Brendan, please. What happened to him? What has happened to you? It’s something terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. And it hasn’t ended.” Again I resisted the urge to touch her, to feel her body press against mine and pretend that nothing would ever change between us, that no matter what, our love could overcome even my own weakness. “Howard suspects me,” I said. “Do not question me anymore. Not now. Just do as I say.”

The hurt showed on her face as she vacillated, torn between my warning and the unseen fissure she already sensed between us, though she didn’t yet know its cause.

“What do you want me to do?” she finally asked.

Hoping our conversation would appear innocuous to the watching guards and fully aware it couldn’t last much longer, I asked, “Do you wear my troth?”

“You know I do. I always keep it about my neck and-” She stifled a gasp. “I’m such a fool! I should have left it behind. If I am searched, they might find it.”