The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 44
- Предыдущая
- 44/65
- Следующая
I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. I saw Sybilla in my mind, her heavy tresses of hair draping over me, her body writhing …
“And her brothers?”
She shrugged. “Who knows if they even exist? If they do, they did not die in York, I can assure you. Of everything Mistress Darrier says, the only verifiable truth is that she, her mother, and her sister fled England to escape the king’s wrath, no doubt with some of the Darrier wealth stashed in their underlinens. After all, they had to have something, to gain entrance to the Hapsburg court. Empresses don’t take on paupers to be ladies-in-waiting.”
I couldn’t move another step, coming to an appalled halt. Sybilla had lied to me. She had deliberately misrepresented her situation. What I didn’t understand yet was why.
“She was actually telling Feria that same tragic tale when you came into the gallery with your dying squire,” Jane went on, oblivious to my discomfort. “I tell you, she was not convincing and not pleased by your interruption. Oh, I’ll give her this much: She’s a fine feast for the eye, if you care for her sort, but Feria will regret having agreed to Renard’s terms. A woman like her-all she can bring a man in the end is perdition.”
I had to restrain myself from grabbing hold of her, bombarding her with questions she’d have no answers for.
“Do I offend?” Jane asked, taking note of my silence. “I merely thought you should be forewarned. She’s not who you think she is. She is hardly a respectable person. To steal another woman’s betrothed and give a dog as consolation is not a respectable thing to do.”
She’d reverted to being a wronged adolescent, railing against the wiles of an older, more experienced woman. I gave her a vague nod, my mind awhirl. “Yes,” I murmured. “I agree it is not respectable. I appreciate your candor. You’ve been very kind to me.”
“I like you. I think it a pity you’ve nothing to commend you save the queen’s favor.”
I cleared my throat, turning my attention to the gallery we entered, the carved wainscoting and elaborate plaster decorations edging a coffered ceiling marred by damp stains. “I’ve never seen this part of the palace,” I said, as I tried to get my mind around what she had told me, trying to fit the fragments into some cohesive design. Why would Sybilla mislead me? Had she hoped to incite my pity, perhaps? It could be that she still sought to escape Renard’s hold on her; nothing Jane Dormer said had negated that. Maybe she thought the truth less compelling than a fabricated past, guaranteed to evoke sympathy in a man like me.
Jane said, “This part of Whitehall is rarely used.” She paused. “Lady Elizabeth insisted on staying here, I’m told. Apparently the apartments used to be hers when her father was alive and she came to visit him at court.”
Remote and empty, without the ubiquitous legions of courtiers or servants, the gallery before me offered a spectacular view of the river but little else. The cold was palpable as we came before a sturdy door adorned with faded gilt. There were no guards; as I rapped on the wood panel, the sound echoed. Scuffling on the door’s other side preceded its tentative opening and a tremulous “Yes? Who is it?”
I recognized Blanche Parry. “Master Beecham. I bring word for the Lady Elizabeth.”
There was a moment of hesitation. Blanche didn’t know my alias, I suddenly thought, and as I heard her urgent inquiry of someone nearby, I turned to Jane. “Please inform Her Majesty that I’ll escort Her Grace back as soon as she’s ready.”
She pouted. I recalled how she’d suggested that Elizabeth would do better to submit to the queen and realized she’d been looking forward to witnessing the princess’s humiliation. It saddened me that a girl with so much to live for had already imbibed the venom of the court, where reveling in another’s disgrace was a coveted pastime.
“Very well,” she said unconvincingly, and she walked away, glancing over her shoulder as I waited for the door to be unbolted. When she was far enough away that she couldn’t possibly overhear, I said, “Mistress Parry, it’s Brendan. Open up.”
The locks immediately slid back to reveal the haggard face of Elizabeth’s trusted lady, the matron upon whom, after Mistress Ashley, she most relied. Mistress Parry had been in service to the princess since Elizabeth was a babe. Though not old-no more than forty-six-she looked ancient, her eyes hollowed from sleeplessness, graying hair escaping her hood. With a clawlike hand she yanked me into the room and slammed the door shut, bolting it again as if she feared an invasion.
“What is happening?’ she asked anxiously. “Tell me. Are they going to arrest her?”
I shook my head. Urian dashed up to me, shoving his long muzzle into my hand, demanding to be petted. As I caressed him, I surveyed the chamber. It boasted a magnificent oriel window that let in plenty of light, floor-to-ceiling tapestries, carpets underfoot, and fine furniture. Scattered about were traveling chests, into which a perspiring young maid was emptying armfuls of clothing, candlesticks, and other possessions. Except for her and Mistress Parry, I saw no other women or attendants.
I turned back to Mistress Parry. “Where are her ladies?”
“Gone.” She gave a fretful sigh. I could see the poor woman was about to leap out of her skin. “Her Grace is in her bedchamber; she was taking her exercise in the gallery, as she does every morning, when one of those insufferable women came to tell her that the Earl of Devon would be arrested. As soon as the others heard, they ran off, like rats from a ship, leaving Her Grace alone. She told us to start packing. Then she locked herself in her room. She thinks they’re coming for her next. Are they?”
“Not yet,” I said, and I moved to a narrow door I assumed led to the bedchamber, Urian at my heels. Mistress Parry warned, “She won’t see anyone.”
I knocked on the door. “Your Grace? It’s me. Let me in.”
No response. I knocked again. “You must open. I bring word from Her Majesty.”
After a tense moment, I heard a key turn and pushed the door open onto a small bedchamber, suffused in darkness. There was no window or candles; only a rush light on a side table, which cast more smoke than illumination. As light from the outside seeped in, I saw an unmade tester bed and another coffer on the floor. Elizabeth crouched there, a heap of books at her side. She appeared to be looking through them, putting some in the coffer and discarding others. Another maid stood nearby with a frightened look; she must have unlocked the door.
I waved her out, keeping the door ajar. Urian padded over to Elizabeth and whimpered. She petted him absently, her hair tangled about her face; under the hem of her dark skirt, I glimpsed slim bare feet. The chamber was icy, yet she wore no shoes.
“Don’t,” she said, before I could open my mouth. “I don’t want to hear it. I need to decide which of these books I can take with me into the Tower.”
“You’re not going to the Tower.” I stepped to her, lowering my voice even as I heard Mistress Parry marshaling the two maids in the outer chamber.
Elizabeth turned to me, her eyes black in her ashen face. “Is she sending me to the scaffold instead?”
“She’s sending you from court. I know not where. But before she does-”
“She’ll question me. Am I to submit to her interrogation before the entire court?”
I did not answer. I returned her stare until she looked away. She pretended to go back to her books. Then I heard her say, “If she sent you, then I can assume you haven’t lost her favor. Does that mean our other matter is resolved?”
“Yes. I delivered letters to Her Majesty. I am responsible for Courtenay’s arrest.” I paused. “But not Dudley. For the moment, he is safe-though he doesn’t merit it.”
She drew in a stifled breath and turned her sharp gaze back to me. “And my letter?”
- Предыдущая
- 44/65
- Следующая
