C. Gortner - The Tudor Conspiracy

I made to pull away. “No,” I murmured. “I cannot.”

She lifted her face to me. In her eyes I saw oceans.

“I can,” she said. She crushed her lips to mine. I let out a gasp. She whispered, “Does it hurt?” and grazed the broken cut on my lip with her fingertip, whipping desire through me. I heard myself moan; that one weak sound brought down whatever crumbling remnant was left of my resistance. I seized her closer, raveling my hands in her lush mane, and I no longer felt my bruises, the pain vanishing in the whirlpool of our mouths and the swift current of her touch as she yanked at my clothes, pulling down my hose to grasp at my hardness.

“I want to know something other than fear,” I heard her say. “I want to feel desire, if only this once.” She stepped back and unlaced the sides of her gown. I watched her with my heart in my throat, knowing in some dark recess of my soul that if I did this, I would never forget or escape it. I would live with the remorse for the rest of my days, with the betrayal of Kate, the woman I loved, who waited for me in Hatfield, unaware.

Then, as the dark velvet pooled at Sybilla’s feet and I beheld the flawless breadth of her skin, her rose-tipped breasts arched high on her chest, her ribs woven like lyre strings under her pallor, and her lean belly, curving to the gilded shadow between her legs, I could think no more. Gathering her in my arms, I lowered her to the floor upon our cloaks and pushed inside her roughly, almost with anger, feeling myself engorge even more as I coaxed her pleasure from her, until she was bucking up her hips to meet my stride.

It seemed as though we merged forever, then my seed gushed forth with breath-shattering suddenness. I did not have time to pull out. She clenched herself about me, making me cry out, heedless, as she shuddered.

I collapsed beside her, our heat subsiding like smoke from a doused fire.

My heartbeat slowed. As I looked at her profile and started to reach out to wipe the damp hair from her face, she said abruptly, “No. You do not owe me anything.”

She rose to her feet, reaching for her discarded gown. I did not speak; I couldn’t find the right words as I, too, stood and watched her in silence as she laced her dress. Now that it was over and I’d satiated my recklessness, I could take no satisfaction in it.

She bent to my discarded clothing and retrieved my sword. She gave it to me.

“If those letters don’t work,” she said, “use it.”

Our eyes met for a moment. Then she turned and left without another word.

I could not sleep.

I sat awake in the dark, facing the door, every sense attuned to the sound of any approach, until the window grate high in my wall lightened to a murky hue, indicating dawn had arrived. Then I stood, wincing at the stiff pain in my limbs, and prepared myself. I looked a fright, my eye blackened and half-shut, my lip swollen. Under my chemise, my bruises had ripened to a motley shade of yellow-blue. I did not tarry at my glass, however. I did not care to see guilt staring back at me.

In the long gallery leading to the royal wing, servants were already about their tasks, gathering burned candle stubs, stray goblets, and other objects left by inebriated courtiers from the night before. As I approached the double oak doors of the queen’s apartments, one of the guards standing vigil stepped forth, his pike at the ready.

“Halt! What business do you have here?”

“Pray, inform Her Majesty that Master Beecham must see her,” I said as he eyed me, obviously debating whether to order me away to take my place in the queue with the rest of those who gathered at midday as she made her way to the hall to dine. I added, “Tell her it concerns her betrothal.”

The guard’s eyes snapped wide. Turning to one of the others, he barked an order. I paced to a window and stared into a courtyard where a decorative fountain with a cherub on its tip dripped with melting ice. When the guard brusquely motioned to me, I followed him through the doors into the maze of corridors and chambers of Mary’s private apartments.

She stood waiting for me, wearing a russet velvet gown with a jeweled belt, her hair gathered at her nape in a pearled snood. Her women were nearby, sewing. A quick glance showed Sybilla was not among them. Pulling off my cap, hearing their stifled gasps as they caught sight of my battered face, I bowed. “Forgive my intrusion. I bring news Your Majesty must hear at once.”

“You’ve been brawling,” Mary said coldly, and before I could reply, she stepped aside.

My stomach dropped when I saw Renard seated at the table behind her, a mass of papers strewn before him, quill in hand. His brow arched. “Up so early? I fear it’s hardly the place or time for petty appointments. I suggest you return later today, when you will be heard-”

“No.” Mary interrupted. “He’s here now, and I will hear what he has to say. Judging by his appearance, it must indeed be urgent. Any other man in his state would be abed.”

I returned my gaze to her. She, too, looked as if she could use more time in bed, her skin waxen and eyes ringed by shadows, as if she hadn’t slept in days. I could also tell by the force of her regard that the guard had relayed exactly what I said at the doors, thereby revealing, as intended, that I knew something no one outside her intimate circle should know. She obviously was not pleased with my indiscretion.

“Begging your pardon,” I said, “but what I have to say is for your ears only.”

“Oh? You are among friends here. I have no secrets from them.”

Panic knotted my throat; I had to clench my fist to stop myself from ripping out the tube of letters from my cloak. I couldn’t simply hand them over; if she dismissed me without hearing what I had to say, I was doomed. Renard’s terse stare warned me that he knew why I was here and if he could manage it I’d be dead before the day was done, the queen’s suspicions be damned. I must explain to Mary personally what I had deduced before Renard spun his own take on the letters and she bayed for blood.

“It concerns your sister-” I started to say.

Renard leapt to his feet. “Majesty, please, do not indulge this man further! He is a liar. I told you, he cannot be-”

“I believe I’m perfectly capable of judging his ability to tell the truth,” said Mary, her glance withering. “Come, Master Beecham.” She motioned me to her study. As I passed her ladies, Jane Dormer gave me an apprehensive look, her dog growling on a lead at her feet.

I did not acknowledge Renard as he hastened to follow us into the wood-paneled study and closed the door, though I felt his stare boring into my back.

“Well?” Mary turned to face me, standing before her desk. “You have your privacy. Tell us this urgent news about my sister that cannot wait. Best be quick about it; my patience is sorely tried. I still have my council and the Hapsburg delegation to attend to, as well as my upcoming move to Hampton Court. The air here does not agree with me. I need a change of scenery.”

With an incline of my head, I took the tube out.

She went still. “Pray, what is that?” she asked, and though she remained outwardly composed, I heard the tremor in her voice.

“More trickery!” Renard lunged to snatch the tube from my hand.

Holding it aloft from him, I said to the queen, “This is evidence of a conspiracy against Your Majesty-evidence Don Renard himself hired me to obtain.”

Renard came to a halt, his face draining to a chalky hue. Mary regarded him for a lengthy moment before she held out her hand. She took the tube from me, turning to her cluttered desk to unfold it, perusing and discarding each letter in utter silence, until she’d let all eight fall from her ringed fingers to the blotter and had gone rigid, her gaze fixed on me. When she spoke, her voice was calm, which only increased my admiration for her.

“Are you certain of this?”

“I have been most diligent in my task.” I paused, despising the fact that I had to protect Dudley and sacrifice the earl in his stead, even if it was for Elizabeth’s sake. “I believe those letters prove my lord of Devon has been led into a rebellious plot aimed at forcing you to accede to his demands or suffer the consequences.”

Her jaw tightened. “So it appears. Yet you said this matter concerned my sister. How?”

“When he hired me, Don Renard expressed belief that she, too, was involved,” I replied. “I have found no evidence of it.”

Mary swerved to Renard, her voice sharp. “You assured me otherwise.”

“Your Majesty, I am as taken aback as you are,” he replied. I almost envied his self-control. He seemed impervious, though his future hung in the balance. I wished I could tell Mary what kind of man he truly was-what he had done to Sybilla Darrier and her mother; what he might yet try to do to Elizabeth-but I, too, had secrets to hide. I could not risk being exposed as Elizabeth’s agent until I was sure the princess was safe.

Sarcasm tinged Mary’s tone. “I find that hard to believe, Don Renard, considering all your spies and expense. I cannot count the number of times I myself have provided funds for your endeavors through my own privy purse, so intent were on you on this theory of my sister and Courtenay’s falsehood. Yet now you’d have me believe you had no idea that the earl was plotting to betray me with these other lords, many of whom I’ve received with honor at this court and forgiven past grievances?”

To my satisfaction, the ambassador was starting to look panicked. “Your Majesty must forgive me,” he said warily, “but compelling as this so-called evidence may seem, we cannot yet be sure it offers proof of anything. We must verify the letters’ authenticity. And even if they prove real, this rebellion must be disorganized at best, seeing as I indeed gleaned no rumor of it. Perhaps the earl has managed to rally a handful of malcontents, but it’s hardly cause for-”