I hurried up a flight of stairs to the inner ward. The massive White Keep stood to my right. Before me lay a cobblestone space hemmed in by towers and walls but open to the sky and festooned with stalls-an improvised marketplace where guild tradesmen took orders and vendors plied food, the air warmed by the odor of cooking fires. Livestock lowed in pens; everyone went about their business with brisk efficiency, circumventing an empty scaffold situated paces from the chapel, a grim reminder of the Tower’s ultimate purpose.

I stopped in my tracks. Elizabeth’s mother had died on that spot. Though there was no block, no hay to soak up the blood, in my imagination I saw it all, flashing in a tableau before me-Anne Boleyn’s slim figure as she was blindfolded, the slow drop to her knees, and the swift, inescapable arc of the French executioner’s sword …

Tearing my eyes away, I hastened to the Beauchamp Tower.

The guard at the entrance regarded me with the slovenly indifference of someone who needn’t do much to earn his wage. His potbelly hung over his wide, studded belt as he slumped on a stool, a halberd propped against the wall. On the rickety table before him were the ruins of a meat pie and an open ledger. Inking a pruned quill, he said in a toneless mumble, “Name. Occupation. Purpose.”

Name. I hadn’t thought of a name.

“Are ye daft?” He glared at me. “Name. Occupation. Purpose.”

“Beecham,” I said quickly, for it hardly mattered if I used another alias. “Body servant to his lordship, Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. By my lord’s command, I bring linens for the prisoners.”

“Oh. More linens, eh?” The guard snorted as he scrawled my information in the ledger. “Them Dudleys have the devil’s own luck. We’ve got a hundred poor bastards rottin’ underground and in the Ease, eaten by rats and drinking their own piss, but this lot dine like kings on the earl’s purse, no matter that their father took the ax.” He rummaged cursorily through the saddlebag, his fingers oily with pie grease. I suspected he did it on purpose, to soil the linens. He pushed the bag to me. “Their quarters are up the staircase,” he said, but he didn’t move out of my way until I doled out the requisite bribe.

As I climbed the stairs, the hilt of my hidden poniard dug into my calf. The Dudleys certainly enjoyed both privileges and risks, if this was all it took to get inside their quarters. I might have been a paid assassin, for all the guard knew. No wonder Courtenay found it easy to smuggle in books and letters. I could have carried a dozen on my person alone.

I also might have entered the hall in a manor, I thought, as I walked through a door on the landing into a vaulted room. The walls were adorned with thick, albeit faded, wool tapestries; there were carpets underfoot instead of the ubiquitous lousy rushes, and a fire crackled in the recessed hearth, staving off the chill. A low archway to the left led to sleeping chambers and a garderobe. Several chipped, high-backed chairs, stools, a reading lectern, and a long central table added to the illusion of domestic comfort, while a large mullioned embrasure admitted dusty light. Piles of books on the floor and a furry indent on a cushion by the hearth indicated the Dudleys had the means to keep boredom at bay; evidently it paid to be born on the right side of the blanket, even if one’s family had a tendency to end up with their heads on spikes.

The room was empty. Unclasping my cloak, I draped it across a chair and set the bag on the table, eyeing the pile of books. I resisted the urge to search them for the one Elizabeth had given Courtenay. By now, her letter must have been taken.

I paced to the embrasure. Below me on a protected rampart, stretching between this tower and the next, moved a group of cloaked figures. I went still, recognizing Guilford Dudley’s fair mop and the ginger coloring of his shorter and far less amiable brother Henry. Behind them trailed muscular Ambrose and the eldest of the Dudley brood, John, who bore the closest resemblance to their late father. Only Robert was missing, but I scarcely marked his absence, riveted by the unexpected sight of a slim female figure, her hood slipping from her head to reveal coiled gold-red tresses plaited about her head, a shade paler than her cousin Elizabeth’s.

Lady Jane Grey, Guilford’s wife, was with the four brothers.

John stumbled. As Jane put her hand to his back to steady him, a nearby servant holding a terrier on leash hurried to them. John leaned on the servant gratefully while Jane took the dog. Of the five boys, I knew John Dudley the least. The firstborn, he’d been educated at court, far from the castle where I’d been raised. I’d therefore rarely seen him and now recalled overhearing he was prone to fever, his lungs weakened from a bout of-

“Who are you?”

I spun around. Standing in the doorway was Lord Robert.

“Don’t you recognize me, my lord?” I cast back my hood. “It hasn’t been that long.”

He paused, staring. Then he let out a hiss through his teeth, “Prescott!” and kicked the door shut behind him. He took a step toward me. The sight of him-taller than I recalled and much leaner, his raven-wing’s hair shorn to his skull, accentuating the striking Dudley cheekbones and liquid black eyes-plunged me into the past, when I’d been an insignificant squire, unaware of my royal blood, dependent on him for my very survival.

“Well, well.” He put a hand on his hip, eyeing me. “Imagine my surprise when I was told I had a visitor.” His voice was tauntingly familiar, as if we’d only seen each other a few hours ago. “I’ve wondered what became of you and what it would be like to see you walk in here like a dog returning to its own vomit. But I never thought you’d actually do it. I never thought you’d be that stupid. Oh, and the guard downstairs? He isn’t going to lift a finger to help you, so don’t think of yelling. Whatever you paid him, I offered double.”

I didn’t doubt it. I refused to react to his threat, even as my heart started to pound. I pointed to the bag on the table. “I brought your linens.”

“I see. Is that who you work for now? Are you Courtenay’s latest bum-boy? You certainly move fast. They only let him out of here two months ago. Were you loitering outside the gates, waiting for the first pair of noble boots to lick?”

My anxiety faded. I should savor this moment. The wheel of fate had turned. Once, I’d been the defenseless one and he had all the power to strike against me at will, but I’d done him one better. I had won. It was time he knew it.

“I serve Princess Elizabeth now. I’m here to collect something of hers.”

His lip curled, as if it meant little to him, but I sensed the violence lurking in his broad shoulders. If he decided to charge me, I’d have a time of it. He might look underfed, a shadow of the gorgeous favored son he’d once been, but he had the strength of a lifetime of privilege to draw upon, honed by years of horsemanship, archery, jousting, swordplay, and other costly recreations only the rich could afford. He’d always been gifted, both in his beauty and prowess. Six long months spent in this cage must have stoked his temper to a fiery pitch. After all the luxury and expectation, the aspirations of grandeur when his father ruled the realm, Robert Dudley had become a cornered man.

Cornered men were always dangerous.

His smile sliced across his lips. “So, you serve Elizabeth now. When did this occur, exactly? Before or after you betrayed me?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me. I should never have trusted you. I should have known a runt like you would have no concept of loyalty.” He swerved to the sideboard and reached for a tarnished decanter. As he poured wine into a goblet, he kept his back to me. If he thought to lull me into lowering my guard, it wasn’t going to work. I knew him too well.

“Let me get this clear.” He turned around with a frown, as if I had presented a particularly vexing issue. “You work for her and she sent you here, to me? I find that odd, considering the last time she and I spoke she insulted me to my face. What were her words again?” He stared at me. “Surely you must remember. Though I didn’t see you at the time, like the snake you are I’m sure you were hiding somewhere in the brush.”

“I believe she said she’d rather die than let a lowborn Dudley rut in her bed,” I replied, and I braced my entire body for his charge.

His face hardened, so that the bone structure under his taut skin seemed to show. “So, you were there. I’m impressed. You played me like a courtier. Just look”-he flung out his arm, sloshing wine from his goblet-“you’re now free to hire yourself out to whomever you please, while I’m locked up waiting for the same ax that killed my father.” His voice darkened. “And all because my family took pity on you, rather than throwing you down a well like you deserved.”

“Are you blaming me for this?” I arched my brow. “Because if so, you do yourself a disservice. I didn’t put you or your brothers in here. You did all that on your own.”

His goblet froze halfway to his mouth. I had struck at his core; he could not refute that, more than greed or ambition, the Dudley belief in their infallibility had been their ruin.

“You speak the truth,” he said at length, his voice dead quiet. “It’s not as if you did anything but seek your advantage. Elizabeth always did have a weakness for subservience; she likes nothing better than to be fawned upon.” He drank. “You said you came for something of hers. What is it?” He held up a hand. “No. Don’t tell me.” He smiled. “A letter.”

The contempt in his tone enraged me. I had to stop myself from being the one who lunged first. “Because of that letter, she’s in grave danger. Ambassador Renard seeks evidence against her. He suspects her and Courtenay of plotting against the queen. Your own head also stands to roll if you don’t help me. I know very well that you’re behind it.”

“Oh? I fail to see how I can be suspect. Am I not a prisoner already?”

“Condemned men have the least to lose. Courtenay also told me everything.” I watched his feigned indifference slip from his face like a poorly fitted mask. “I know about the other letters you’ve sent, to men throughout the kingdom. You made a mistake with Courtenay. He may cut a fine enough figure, but he’s hardly heroic. How long do you think he’ll hold out when Renard convinces the queen to order his arrest, as he will? I rather think the earl will take one look at the rack and spill his guts. And once he tells Renard what he wants to hear, they’ll come here-for you.”

The visible protruding of Robert’s jaw muscles assured me I’d finally hit my target.

“But they’ll need proof,” I added. “The queen isn’t given to signing death warrants without it. Give it to me and they’ll never find it.”

“You expect me to take your word for it,” he snarled, “after what you’ve done? You betrayed my family!”

“If you don’t, Renard will hire someone else. And if his next agent gets as far as I have, you won’t survive.” I returned his implacable stare. “Give me all your letters and they’ll find nothing. No evidence. What can they accuse you of? Only the earl risks arrest.”

He considered for a long moment. Then he raised his hands and began to clap slowly, in mocking applause. “Congratulations! You’ve become a man. But you’ve neglected to consider one thing.” He showed me his teeth. “What if your precious Elizabeth isn’t quite as innocent as you think? What if you seek to spare her from the very thing she herself helped set in motion?”

My hands coiled at my sides. “Speak plainly for once.”

He chuckled. “I will. It would be my pleasure. Ambassador Renard is right about this much: There is a plot against the queen. It’s the only way to save us from this infernal Spanish prince and Mary’s deluded belief in her duty to return us all to popery and superstition. At the appointed date and time, men I have sent letters to will muster their armies; they will rise up to declare Queen Mary unfit to rule. She’ll be given a choice: If she renounces her throne willingly, her life will be spared. Elizabeth insisted on it; she thinks that faced with an uprising, her sister will heed reason.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But we both know that Mary can’t heed reason, don’t we? We know she’ll fight to the death, as she did against my father. And thus, death she will have, by my word. Her head will join my father’s on the bridge, and then, my faithless friend, I will have my revenge.”

I didn’t speak. I stood silent and let his words absorb into me, like painful ink. It was difficult to hear but not a shock: Elizabeth had never been one to back down from a fight, and Mary had threatened her. The queen had even, according to Renard, questioned her legitimacy. She may have misled me as to her full involvement, but she didn’t realize how far Dudley had preyed on her fears for his own twisted ends, not when she found herself in the midst of her own battle for her right to succeed. It was why she’d written to Dudley; why she risked her safety and Mary’s eroding trust; why she indulged Courtenay even after she’d been warned. She thought she could still compel her sister to accept the sacrifice that being queen entailed, to turn away from her Hapsburg marriage for the good of her people.