C. Gortner - The Tudor Conspiracy

“I don’t like it,” I said begrudgingly, “but yes, for now you can help.” I reached into my pouch and tossed him a few coins. “See what you can find out. Take this, too.” I removed my poniard from my boot. “I don’t want you going around without a weapon.”

He nodded eagerly, stashing the dagger and coins in his bag.

“Just don’t let the other grooms know. I wouldn’t want…” My voice faded as he rolled his eyes. At that moment I was very glad to have Peregrine as my squire.

“Now let’s get some rest,” I said, chuckling. “I have to deal with Renard tomorrow while you arrange everything with Toby.”

Peregrine grinned and started setting up his makeshift bed on the floor. As he stripped to his shirt and bundled up on the floor in his cloak, I said, “We need to get you a cot,” and blew out the tallow. He grunted in response.

I had barely settled into my bed when I heard his soft snore. He had fallen into deep sleep as only the truly young can, exhausted by the day’s events.

I stared into the darkness. The day’s events unspooled in my mind in disjointed fragments, along with Peregrine’s words: You’ll do anything to protect her.

Much as I wanted to deny it, I feared that I just might.

Simon Renard’s office-if such it could be called-was located in the northernmost wing of the palace, crammed between a gloomy disused courtyard and outer gatehouse leading into the park. It wasn’t sumptuous or even particularly well appointed, certainly not what I’d expect for the high-powered ambassador of Emperor Charles V, who represented Hapsburg interests at court. Rather, the antechamber where Renard’s staff worked stank of cheap tallow, must, and mildew. Boxes crammed with papers were piled in every conceivable corner, precarious towers that looked unsteady enough to keel over at any moment. At two desks placed opposite each other hunched morose clerks who looked as if they’d not seen the sun in years; they had matching quills in their ink-splotched hands and the same resentful expressions on their faces when I informed them I had an appointment with the ambassador.

“Wait,” one grumbled, pointing to what looked like a stool buried under a heap of ledgers. The other clerk rose slowly, almost indifferently, and trudged to the door, knocking twice before he entered and closed the creaking door behind him.

I remained standing, as far as I could from the leaning pillars of paper, smiling at the remaining clerk. He scowled and bent his head over his work. His slightly more rotund but equally ill-humored twin emerged from the room a few moments later and said to me, “Leave your weapon with us.”

I unbuckled the scabbard from my waist and set it on his desk. “It’s expensive,” I added. “I expect you to take care of it.” The clerk grunted. I wondered what he would think if he’d known the sword had once belonged to our late King Edward; crafted of Toledo steel, it was worth a small fortune. He might not have cared. I could have carried a harquebus under my cloak for all the attention he paid me.

I stepped through the door into a tidier chamber, boasting a mullioned window that offered a blurry view of the snow-speckled parkland beyond. The air here was sweet. Renard must enjoy beeswax candles for light. A brazier in the corner exuded heat.

“Ah, Master Beecham.” Simon Renard stepped from behind his desk, hand extended. Once again I was struck by his self-assurance. “You’re punctual. Good. I like that.”

He wore unrelieved black, the wool of his doublet of high quality, the fine cambric shirt peeking above his collar edged in distinctive Spanish lacework. Without his cap, I saw his russet brown hair was thinning on top, his high unlined forehead adding distinction to his features. He’d seen a barber this morning: I could detect faint soap on his person, and his beard was cut closer to his chin.

He motioned to a chair. I declined his offer of wine. “Too early?” he remarked. “Punctual and abstentious. Most unusual for an Englishman, if I may be so candid.”

“My lord is gracious,” I said. My senses heightened as I watched him pour a precise measure of red wine into a goblet, to which he added a portion of water. He acted as if our encounter yesterday were of no importance. It was an enviable quality-and a telling one.

Men like him were not the forgiving type.

He paced to his window. “Such a dreary winter.” He sighed. “The snow reminds me of Castile, except here it’s damper and lasts longer. The cold-it hurts my bones.”

I kept my gaze steady. “Has my lord been in England long?”

“Sometimes it feels like forever.” He returned to the desk. “It’s been a little over eight months. Before this, I was stationed in Paris, but my wife and children reside in Brussels. I’d hoped to visit them this year, but alas”-he swept his hand over the broad leather-bound notebooks and other detritus on his desk-“an ambassador’s work never ends.”

I wasn’t taken in by his complaint or casual imparting of personal information. He hadn’t agreed to see me to discuss the weather or his official woes.

I said, “Winter can be harsh. This one may get worse.”

“Yes. I’m told the Thames is close to freezing over. A rarity, I hear.” His smile lingered as he resumed his seat. He had not yet tasted his wine.

He let the silence between us settle. Another trick of the trade, one Cecil had employed to significant effect. It induced a subtle anxiety that could compel a less patient man to initiate conversation. I was not susceptible to it. Not anymore.

His smile faded. “Her Majesty and I spoke at length about you after you left us. She assures me you are trustworthy.” He set his goblet aside. So he, too, was abstentious. His offer of wine must have been either a test of my stated sobriety or a means to loosen my tongue. “She gave me a detailed account of your previous efforts on her behalf. It was all most impressive, particularly coming from someone with no apparent stake in the outcome.”

“My stake may not have been apparent,” I said, “but my payment depended on it.”

“Oh, yes. Her Majesty told me you’re a man for hire, with no personal affiliations of your own. Though it does raise the question of why you chose to undertake those errands in the first place. At the time, Northumberland had the realm in his grip; it must have been widely believed he’d succeed in putting his daughter-in-law Jane Grey on the throne.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, and his gaze sharpened. “I wasn’t privy to the duke’s plans. I was hired to convey a letter from the council, which I did, and Her Majesty was gracious enough to hire me in return. But surely Your Excellency has verified all this by now.”

He reclined in his chair. “Unfortunately, I could not. No one on the council seems to remember having seen you, much less hired you.”

“That’s because no one on the council did. I was hired by Cecil. Anyway, given the circumstances, I’m not the kind of person any of them would want to remember.”

He let out a sudden laugh. “You are a fascinating fellow, most unexpected. I must confess, besides the comforts of home what I most miss about the Continent is stimulating conversation. In Paris, it’s a staple of life, like good bread or wine. Alas, I’ve not found not much of either here; Englishmen are entirely too preoccupied with these tiresome matters of religion. No one has much inclination to cross swords, so to speak.”

“Unless it concerns that tiresome matter of religion,” I said, and he took up his goblet to sip. It reassured me. I’d gained enough confidence to precipitate his relaxation, if not his trust. Then he said, “Are you one to cross swords, Master Beecham?”

I allowed myself a smile. “Is it a condition of my employment?”

“Indulge me.”

“If you’re asking if I’m inclined to fight for one faith over the other, the answer is no.”

He arched a brow. “You have no preference?”

“I didn’t say that. I just prefer not to fight over it. I’m a man for hire, as the queen said. My motto is ‘Whoever bids the highest. The soul can shift for itself.’”

He went quiet, observing me with a studied impartiality. It occurred to me that Simon Renard was testing my suitability for the task he’d already prepared for me.

“So we might say that for you, faith rests in the purse,” he said at length.

“We might, though I wouldn’t want to be quoted on it.”

“Indeed. How is this, to start?” He inked a quill, wrote on a scrap of paper, and pushed it to me.

I looked at the sum, then allowed a few seconds to pass before I said, “Generous, to start. Though it depends on what it’s for. I’m not accustomed to agreeing to a price before I know what I’m being paid for.”

“Naturally.” He took another sip. “As you may have surmised from those idiots in my antechamber, I am indeed in need of another clerk. Actually, several more, but as you made clear to me and Her Majesty yesterday in her apartments, an office position is not your preference. Nor, you will be satisfied to know, is it the job Her Majesty has chosen for you.”

Under my jerkin, my stomach knotted. “Chosen for me? Could Your Excellency be more specific?”

“I can, though what I am about to say must be kept in the strictest confidence.” He paused; when I assented, he went on. “Her Majesty and I believe there is a conspiracy afoot against her. She’s made no secret of the fact that she deplores the heresy that has overtaken this realm, or of her determination to remedy it. However, not everyone on the council shares her aspirations. Those against her are in the minority, naturally, but they exist nonetheless. I’ve had an eye on this subversive element for some time now, but until recently Her Majesty has refused to accept that her own subjects may seek to do her harm.”