“Hawk’s Nest?” he repeated. “Ye’re that type, are ye?”

“Type?” I frowned. “I’m not sure I understand. I’m looking for-”

He cut me off with a leer that showed rotting gums. His breath alone could have felled an ox. “I know what ye look for,” he leered. “Pretty boy-arse. Go into the district and find Dead Man’s Lane. The Nest is nearby. Though it don’t accept just anyone, I warn ye. Best be up to waitin’, too, ’cause it’s closed till dusk.” He cackled at his own joke. “Up to waitin’, now isn’t that a riot? All ye fancy men are up to waitin’, I wager.”

I smiled through my gritted teeth. “Thank you.” I went to the rickety table where Peregrine sat staring at me over his tankard as if he were about to bolt at any moment.

“Do you know what kind of place the Hawk’s Nest is?” I growled.

He shook his head, too quickly.

“Are you sure?”

He shook his head again, this time with less assertion.

“Boy bum.” I leaned to him. “It’s a quean’s custom house, isn’t it?”

Peregrine said nervously, “Is that what you heard? Imagine that.”

“Yes, imagine it. I also heard it doesn’t allow everyone in. What does that mean?”

“It must be private. You’ll probably need a password-” He avoided the swipe I aimed at his ear. “Would it have mattered if I told you before tonight?” he protested as I glowered at him. “You still have to get inside, no matter what!”

“I wish I didn’t.” I downed my tankard in a gulp. “And why a password? I thought the whole point of running a brothel was to attract as much custom as possible.”

“Well,” said Peregrine, “if their custom is, shall we say, not the usual kind, you’d have to be careful, right? You don’t want the wrong sort getting in.”

He had a point. Buggery was a crime in England, punishable by imprisonment, fines, even death, though I’d never heard of any man being executed for it. Then again, I didn’t have experience. The most I’d gleaned was stories in my boyhood, lurid anecdotes about monks, one of the reasons cited for the closure of the abbeys. The way I looked at it, if the act was consensual, why should I care what anyone chose to do in private? There was more than enough evil in the world for it to rank as a minor vice, if that. Still, I’d never considered I might actually have to visit a place that catered to the predilection.

As if he could read my mind, Peregrine added, “You don’t have to do anything, just get yourself through the door. It probably won’t hurt to look the part, though.”

“Great. And here I thought mastering the sword was my biggest challenge. Anything else you forgot to tell me? Best do it now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

He burst out laughing, his eyes gleaming as I dug into my pie with a decided ill humor. After we ate, we went outside. As I untied Cinnabar and paid the ostler, I gauged our environs. Courtenay’s man could be hiding anywhere; there were still masses of people traveling over the bridge, but the cold was deepening to a bone-sapping chill as the sun started to ebb and I figured we might as well locate the damn brothel so I could return later without undue complications. The last thing I wanted was to lose myself in the crime-infested warren of baiting pits, whorehouses, and cheap inns and taverns of Southwark.

I clicked my tongue at Cinnabar, urging him to quicken his pace as we rode into the coiled heart of the district. I had never beheld such squalor. There was filth everywhere, festering in piles; skeletal dogs skulked past, every rib showing, and children dressed in rags, with open sores on their feet, sat listless in the frozen mud of the lanes while their mothers entertained custom inside seedy lean-tos fit only for rats-a significant quantity of which tripped over the rooftops and through the gutters, bold as day.

“This can’t be right,” I said. “Courtenay would never set foot here.” I pulled out a coin, waving it. Five children immediately bounded to us, grubby hands extended, all eyes and knees and filthy hair. “Which way to Dead Man’s Lane?” I asked, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease when one of the boys pointed to one side, toward the river, and then caught the coin I pitched in midair. I saw feral cunning on the other children’s faces and set my hand on my sword hilt, returning their stares. They retreated, like a pack of animals.

We rode down a rutted path that barely qualified as a lane, past a series of slightly less sordid establishments, and came up before a two-story, timber-framed building. I thought at first it must be a guesthouse until I saw the sign swinging above its stout oak door, depicting a bird of prey, crudely drawn wings stretched over a circle of twigs: THE HAWK’S NEST.

There were no lower windows or visible places to gain a foothold up to a narrow catwalk of a ledge that ran parallel under high upper windows, all of which were shuttered. Indeed, nothing about the place indicated easy access or a welcoming air. It was more a fortress than a den of illicit pleasure.

“Locked tight as a virgin’s knees,” I remarked, and Peregrine laughed. “How will we get inside?” I took another moment to memorize the house and its location before I surveyed our surroundings. I waited. After a few minutes, I turned Cinnabar around.

“We?” I said in response to Peregrine’s question. “There is no ‘we’ tonight. You’ve had quite enough adventure for one day.”

He sulked as we rode back to the bridge. Crossing north proved less arduous, the crowds thinning as dusk draped a cinder shroud over the horizon. Moving slowly through the waning populace, as shop vendors bolted their doors for the night, I kept my poniard unsheathed. I made a brief stop at a shop to purchase a new dark wool cap, lingering over the wares, but did not catch sight of Courtenay’s man. His absence proved disquieting. It wasn’t like a henchman to give up easily. He’d had plenty of opportunity to follow and engage, if he were so inclined, but he hadn’t. Why?

The only reason I could think of did not ease my apprehension. Maybe he’d been paid to watch and report back.

If so, that could mean Courtenay wanted me to find him.

* * *

After seeing to Cinnabar’s water and feed, we hurried into the palace. My fingers were so numb with cold by the time we reached my chamber, I could barely pull out the key from my doublet and unlock the door.

I went still. The room had been ransacked, the coffer flung open, my saddlebag overturned on the floor, its contents scattered, my cot pulled from the wall and upended. I released my sword, holding Peregrine back. “So much for giving up,” I said. “While we were investigating the brothel, it looks like our friend came back to investigate me.”

“What could he have wanted?” Peregrine slipped in front of me, gingerly stepping over the debris. “Doesn’t look as if he stole anything; he didn’t even take your fake chain. See? It’s over there by the coffer.”

“I don’t know what he wanted,” I said, but as I reached down for my bag I had the sudden thought that this overt display of theft seemed staged-a deliberate act intended to instill fear in me.

The skin of my nape crawled.

Peregrine started to pick up my chain. All of a sudden, he paused. He straightened up, a folded square of parchment in his hands. “What’s this?” he asked, and before I could stop him he cracked apart the gray wax seal.

“You cannot save her,” he read aloud. He looked at me, bewildered.

I lunged.

He recoiled instinctively, the note dropping from his hand. He gazed at me, his eyes widening. “It-it burns,” he gasped. “My fingertips … they’re burning…”

I took one look at the note, at the jagged edges of the broken seal. I tasted bile in my throat. Kicking the note aside, I seized Peregrine’s hands. Welts were seared into his flesh, like burns.

Poison. The seal on the parchment had been poisoned.

He let out a startled cry and staggered against me. I dragged him to the nearby pitcher, overturning the water on his hands, rubbing them frantically against my doublet. His face drained white; blood-flecked foam bubbled from his lips. He clutched at me, his legs buckling.

The room swirled about me as I held him upright. He started to thrash, the greasy contents of our afternoon meal spewing from his mouth. As his eyes rolled back in his head, I hauled him up into my arms and flung open the chamber door, scrambling down the staircase, through the freezing courtyards, and into the torch-lit gallery. I couldn’t hear anything except my own voice-like the cry of a wounded animal.

A group of figures paused at the gallery’s end; as I staggered toward them, Peregrine draped in my arms, I heard urgent voices. A tall, thin man in black strode to me.

“My squire,” I said haltingly, gasping. “He-he’s been poisoned. Please … help me.”

The man came to a halt, his hawkish bearded face closing like a trap. He was a Spaniard from the Hapsburg delegation; I recognized him from the night in the hall, one of the exalted lords who’d stood by the queen and frowned at everything. Behind him I saw the others staring. No one moved. Then, through a haze of despair, I caught sight of a familiar face, although it wasn’t until she hastened forth that I recognized Sybilla. The Spaniard detained her. “Dice que han envenenado al joven. No le toques.”

She shook his hand aside, moving to me. “I know some herbal lore,” she said. “I can help him until we fetch a physician. Quickly, bring him to-”

Peregrine started thrashing again. As I tightened my grip, liquid seeped from his mouth, dark and putrid, staining his parched lips. Sybilla whirled about, her voice shredding, and the tall Spaniard barked at his companions. From among them, someone broke free, a slight figure I watched through a daze as she bolted down the opposite end of the gallery to the hall, her hood flying off to expose blond tresses, her frantic cry echoing as her little black dog bounded behind her, barking in excitement.