C. Gortner - The Tudor Conspiracy

“Who are you to threaten me, you knave!” To my disconcertion, he reacted as any noble confronted by an inferior would. Heedless of my knife, he took a furious step at me, though he made the mistake of glancing at his discarded doublet on the bed. If he had a weapon, it was there. He’d have to come through me to get it. I gave him time to consider his options, even as I began to consider the possibility that his display of outrage was sincere. Not only would a guilty man have shown more caution, there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest any surprise that I was still alive.

If it had not been Courtenay, who had tried to poison me?

I shook my contemplations aside, lowering my blade. Courtenay’s expression shifted; with a lift of his brow, he pointed to a flagon on the side table. “May I? I’m parched.”

I nodded, watching him move to the table and fill a goblet. He eyed me over its rim. “I am sorry to hear about your … squire, was it?” He took a sip. “But seeing as I had nothing to do with his death and you’re still here, you must have another purpose in mind. Could it be blackmail, perhaps?”

“Now that you mention it,” I said coldly.

“Then you’re wasting your time. Contrary to how it appears, just because you found me in this disreputable establishment doesn’t mean I swive boys.” He gave me a languid smile. “But I know plenty of men at court who do. Shall I give you their names?”

I wasn’t taken in by his flippant manner. “I don’t care who or what you swive. I want answers, and you’re going to give them to me.”

“Oh, my. That almost sounds like a threat.” He downed the contents of his goblet and set it back on the table with the exasperated air of a man obliged to engage in a tedious conversation. “Answers, you say? For whom? Your master, Renard, perhaps?”

“He does have the queen’s ear,” I replied, and before I had time to react, Courtenay flew at me, his hand closed about a long, slim dagger he’d lifted unseen from the side table. He aimed the blade at my stomach; as I swerved to avoid being stabbed, he kicked at my legs, knocking me to my knees. I dropped my poniard. I was trying to retrieve it while avoiding him and getting back on my feet when he leapt on top of me, yanking my head back by my hair. He slid his knife against my throat; I felt its bite abrade my skin.

“I don’t like being accosted by common blackguards like you,” he whispered, and the feral glee in his voice was more unnerving than the sudden warm seep of blood down my neck. “I’ll ask you once, and if I don’t like what I hear, I will slit your throat: Who sent you?”

Without hesitation, I whispered, “Elizabeth. She sent me.”

He still had me by the hair, but as I felt his grip ease at the sound of her name, I curbed my impulse to heave him off me and strike back. I had an entire childhood of experience to draw upon, years of being waylaid and thrashed by the Dudley brood. These men of so-called good birth were all the same: They assumed someone like me would always capitulate to their superior force.

I’d let Courtenay go on thinking that, at least for a short while.

“Elizabeth?” he echoed. “Come now, you’ll have to do better than that. Why would our princess entrust her affairs to a grubby little street cur like you?”

I was finding it increasingly difficult to stay still. He’d drunk more than his fair share this evening; I could feel his grip quivering through his blade, and I didn’t want to end up with my throat slashed in this godforsaken brothel because he let his knife slip. I told myself to wait, that the cut he’d inflicted was superficial, a mere nick; the throat always bled a lot. I’d been cut countless times while being shaved. This was no worse. Something ferocious was building inside me, though. He represented everything I’d come to detest-a fop who believed he had the right to bully his way through life with impunity, to treat with contempt anyone he deemed beneath him. If he hadn’t left the poisoned note in my room, it was only because he lacked imagination, for he was perfectly capable of killing me without a second thought.

I’d had enough of men like him.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me a cur. And I happen to like dogs,” I said, and I slammed his rib cage with a backward jab of my elbow while simultaneously heaving up my back to knock him askew. Pivoting on my knees, I grasped him by the arm and wrenched it down, forcing his blade away from me. To my unpleasant surprise, he proved stronger than he looked, though I had caught him unawares. As he grappled with the sudden reversal in our positions, I yanked him to his feet with his arm up behind him, forcing him to release his dagger, which clattered at my feet.

“I can break it,” I said in his ear, and I wrenched his arm higher. He cried out. I kicked his ankles apart, steadying his stance. “Or we can come to an arrangement. Your choice.”

I yanked again. As I did, I pawed at the floor with my foot, dragging my poniard to me. I would have to release him in order to grab it, and I knew the moment I did he’d seize the advantage. Counting to four under my breath, I let him loose and leapt for the poniard, rearing up with it, slashing the air to stave him off. He backed away, cradling his wrist; he didn’t even try to go for the other dagger. Apparently I’d inflicted damage.

He grimaced and jerked his chin at the side table. “I–I need wine. My arm hurts.”

“This time,” I said, “let me pour it.” I yanked his doublet off the bed and threw it into a corner. Then I motioned him to sit on a stool by the bed, keeping my gaze on him as I poured from the flagon. He took the goblet gingerly, his wrist already starting to swell. In an hour at most, he’d be in severe discomfort.

“You’ll need to get that treated,” I told him. “Ice is best. Lucky for you, there’s plenty of it.” I paused. “Tell me about your friendship with Robert Dudley.” I went tense, anticipating his reaction; all I received in return was a scowl.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“I’d reconsider if I were you. I overheard you, remember, in the passageway with the princess? I know you’re working with Dudley. I also know the queen rejected your suit to marry her, which gives you plenty of motivation. What I want to know is what you plan.”

Panic flashed across his face. “You’re mad. We’re not planning anything.”

“No? Then perhaps you can explain why you’re scheduled to deliver a book to Dudley with a letter from Princess Elizabeth hidden inside it?”

He couldn’t contain his startled gasp. “How-how do you know about that?”

“She told me. Oh, and she wants her letter back. In fact, she insists on it.”

He recoiled, even as his tone turned belligerent. “She insists, does she? She thinks she can change her mind and I’ll get her letter back from Dudley, easy as that?”

I went still. “What do you mean by that?”

He gave me a malicious smile. “I mean it was delivered today. Dudley’s been waiting for it, and he isn’t going to change his course just because she’s had a pang of regret. He knows what is coming. He knows the moment the queen announces her betrothal to Philip of Spain it’ll be the end for him and his brothers. Renard will demand the head of every traitor in the Tower as a wedding gift.”

I went cold. “Why would he need a letter from her? What is he planning?

Courtenay shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I merely deliver-” I lunged, leveling my blade under his chin with one hand as I kicked his legs apart and grabbed hold of his injured wrist with the other. I twisted hard enough to wring out an agonized cry.

“If you think that hurts,” I said, “just imagine what the rack must feel like. You’re already marked, my lord, though you don’t know it. Though I secretly work for the princess, Don Renard hired me not a day ago to find evidence that would put you back in the Tower. And in my current mood, I’m thinking I just might oblige him.”

His eyes bulged. “Renard? He … he’s marked me?”

“He believes you’re behind a plot against the queen. But we know better, don’t we? We know your friend Dudley is the real mastermind. So, my lord, help me and I’ll help you.”

His breathing turned shallow. Sweat beaded his ashen brow. He looked frantically past me to the door, as if he awaited some impromptu rescue. I was surprised myself that his beast of a manservant hadn’t barged in by now, if only to see if his master was still alive. Evidently Edward Courtenay didn’t inspire much in the way of loyalty.

I tightened my grip on his wrist. “I don’t have all night.”

“I already told you,” he gasped through his teeth. “I don’t know anything-”

I twisted again; this time, he let out a piercing scream.

“Last time: What does Dudley plan?”

“No. God, please. Stop. I swear, I don’t know.” He was panting, his legs thrashing between mine. “He doesn’t confide in me. I just do as he asks.”

“What does he ask?”

“To gain Elizabeth’s confidence, that is all.”

I eyed him. “You’re lying.”

“No. Don’t!” Though I had his wrist and he was a mere half inch from being impaled under his chin by my knife, the pain must have grown bad enough for him to actually fling himself backward off the stool and go crashing to the floor. I had to let go and leap aside to avoid being tangled in his fall, looking down at him as he cowered at my feet. When he spoke, his tone was anything but repentant.

“You fool,” he said. “Kill me if you want to, but I can’t tell you anything more. Only Dudley knows what he’s about. I just convey his letters!”

The undeniable desperation in his avowal gave me pause. I didn’t trust him, not for a second. He could be lying through his teeth; he probably was, but he was my sole conduit to Dudley, and unless I was prepared to torture him, I had to strike a pact.

“Get up,” I said.

He staggered to his feet, his wrist hanging at an odd angle.

“Tell me about these letters. I assume you meant you both send and receive them? How many are there? Who does Dudley write to? Who writes back?”

He swayed where he stood, his cheeks sucked in. He was colorless. I feared he might actually faint. “Not many,” he managed to utter, a pinch in his voice. “Six or seven, back and forth, I think. I don’t remember. We hide them in different things; my manservant, he delivers and retrieves the parcels. All the letters were sealed. No addresses, just the names of shires written on them. I didn’t read any. I just did as he bade and waited here on the nights specified for the couriers to pick them up.”

He hadn’t read Dudley’s letters? If he was telling the truth, I couldn’t decide whether he was the biggest idiot I had ever met or the most naive.

“Which shires?” I asked tersely. “Think: Where did the letters go?”

His breathing was labored; the pain must be excruciating by now. “There was one for Sussex. Another for Surrey. Also Oxfordshire and Berkshire, I think. Suffolk, too. He arranged everything beforehand; I didn’t ask questions. Why would I? The couriers paid me. I sent half the coin to Dudley and kept the other half. Living at court isn’t cheap; my allowance from the queen barely covers my expenses.”

I almost rolled my eyes. “I can imagine. So you have no idea who those letters went to, but if Dudley arranged the delivery without you, he must have someone else working for him, to alert his recipients that the letters were waiting with you. Who?”

Courtenay let out a moan and staggered to the bed. He sat, grimacing. “How would I know? Do you think he lacks for eager menials? Any lowly guard or urchin who cleans out the bilge pits in the Tower will oblige a noble prisoner if he pays enough.”

I turned it all over in my mind, like the pieces of a disjointed jigsaw. Robert Dudley was not only receiving letters but sending letters out, to parties invested enough to ensure the earl’s silence through bribes. Those payments Courtenay sent must also furnish Dudley with the means to pay whoever he used to advance word to his conspirators. Not that any of this made me feel reassured. All those shires Courtenay had mentioned surrounded London, from north to south; Dudley must be hatching a conspiracy. From the sound of it, it was something big.

But what? How did Elizabeth fit into it?

“I must speak to him,” I said abruptly.

He gaped. “Are you mad? You’re nobody to him! Why would he tell you anything?”

“I’m not as much of a nobody as you might think,” I replied, and he flinched. “You’re going to get me inside the Tower. Or would you rather I reported what you just told me?”