C. Gortner - The Tudor Conspiracy

Our blades clashed with a merciless ring. Teetering on the edge of the stairs, I knew I had only moments before she broke through my defenses. I did not think, then; did not hesitate. I whirled about and leapt down the stairs, three at a time. As I hoped, like a wolf with its blood up, intent on fleeing prey, she came after me.

All of a sudden we were in the street, pitched in fierce battle, as passersby scrambled to avoid us. She moved so fast she was like quicksilver, her hair uncoiling from the knot at her nape to stream about her flushed features, so that even then, in that terrible moment as I fought for my very life, she was as beautiful as an avenging angel-and as cruel.

She failed to see Scarcliff. He had shifted Cinnabar to the other side of the street, a few doorways from the house, and hidden in the crowd. He suddenly barreled out toward her, his massive body poised like a ram. As he slammed into her with audible impact, she lost her footing on the uneven paving. Her blade flew from her hand. It was the opening I needed. As she whipped around to Scarcliff, snarling and jerking a knife from her boot, I ran at her with my sword brandished, determined to take her head. I missed by a hair’s breadth, the very air quivering as she crouched and reeled away. For an instant that seemed to last an eternity, our eyes met. I was blocking her return to the house.

Her mouth curved in an icy smile.

She turned and began to run.

“Upstairs!” I yelled at Scarcliff as I bolted after her. “Under the floorboard!”

The congestion on the bridge had thickened; it was nearing midmorning, and hundreds of people were going about their business. She swerved to and fro, dodging shouting carters and angry mercers, her knife clutched in her hand, though it was no match for my sword and she knew it. She was heading for the southern gate; if she managed to escape the bridge and make it into the warren of Bankside, I’d be forced to hunt her down.

Chances were, she’d get me first.

Neither of us anticipated the additional sentries posted at the other end, a precautionary move prompted, no doubt, by Courtenay’s arrest. As the hulking gateway with its massive barbican and spiked crown of rotting heads came into view, Sybilla’s pace flagged. Everyone coming from London, be he a tinker with a shoulder pole or a fur-clad lady in a litter, was being stopped and questioned before they were permitted to pass. I heard snatches of agitated clamor from people standing nearby-“Rebels from Kent, they say, an army of traitors!”-and Sybilla spun around, knowing that those sentries would question her, that perhaps Renard had provided a description of her.

She came to a panting halt, facing me. Every sound and sight about me faded. Even as I started to rush to her, shouting, she leaped up onto a low parapet on the edge of the bridge-one of those rare openings between buildings that gave out onto the river and offered a stunning view of the city’s breadth. She perched on that parapet like a gorgeous bird of prey, the wind catching at her cloak, silhouetting her slender figure, the cluttered spires of London erupting into gold as the sun emerged from its bed of mist.

“No,” I heard myself whisper. I dropped my sword at my feet.

She cocked her head, as if disappointed. Then, to my disbelief and a communal gasp of horror from those watching, she flung out her arms and plunged off the parapet.

In the ensuing silence, something inside me cracked in two. A scream came from a woman nearby, piercing the hush, and then everyone was rushing to the parapet in a gaggle of morbid curiosity, peering down to the ice-clogged river far below.

I stood immobile. Then I picked up my sword and walked away.

Scarcliff was waiting by the house with Cinnabar. He reached into his jerkin, extending the leather cylinder containing Elizabeth’s letter to me. He had Sybilla’s sword in his other hand. “It’s an expensive piece,” he said, “worth saving.”

“Keep it.” I tucked the cylinder into my jerkin. “I have what I came for.” I sheathed my own sword, taking Cinnabar’s reins. We rode quietly back to the north gate. Scarcliff went to fetch Cerberus. As I waited for his return I noticed that the number of guards and officials near the gatehouse had increased; when I saw Rochester among them, his rotund person quivering as he spoke with the sentries, I called out, “My lord!”

He turned around, startled, and bustled over to me.

“What is it?” I asked. “What is happening?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the staring officials. “Word came before dawn of an army coming toward us from Kent. Scouts have been sent to verify. We await their report.”

“But the queen’s betrothal,” I said, “it hasn’t been announced…” Even as I spoke, I cursed my own blindness. I should have realized this, too, was part of Dudley’s plan. He’d led Courtenay to believe the betrothal would be the sign, but it wasn’t. Surprise attack: It was the only chance to catch the queen, and London, unprepared.

Rochester looked perplexed. “The official announcement will be made at Hampton Court, if you must know, though such matters have a way of leaking out. The earl is in the Tower; he was questioned at length and gave us names. Warrants are being issued for the other conspirators, though most, if not all, must have heard by now of the earl’s arrest. If they’re wise, they’ll be fleeing the country as we speak.” His voice lowered. “The earl did not mention the princess. He insisted over and over that she knew nothing.”

I exhaled in relief. Despicable as he was, at least Courtenay had retained one last shred of honor. “You mustn’t wait for the scouts,” I told Rochester. “The uprising is real; it’s being led by Wyatt of Kent. Those letters I delivered were only half the story. Wyatt plans to join with Suffolk’s retainers. Whatever she does, Her Majesty mustn’t tarry.” I paused, seeing him turn pale. “Tell her for me. Tell her I did as she bade and uncovered this last detail of the conspiracy. But I must take my leave. Thank you, my lord, for everything you’ve done, for me and Her Grace. Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”

He flinched. “You must go to her,” he whispered, “before they do. If this is true, if there is a rebellion upon us, I fear she’ll have even greater need of you than ever before.”

“I will do what I can,” I said. “I promise.”

At Bishopsgate, Scarcliff drew to a halt. “This is as far as I go.”

“What?” I stared at him. “You can’t stay here. I have questions only you-”

He cut me off with a sigh. “I know. I owe you answers, but it will have to wait. London is my home; these thieves and whores and beggars, dregs no one ever gives a second thought to-they helped me when no one else would. If there’s to be fighting in the streets, I must be here. Besides,” he added, “there’s my dog. I’m not leaving him.”

I almost laughed. “The steward I knew never cared much for anything save duty.”

“A dog can change a man.” He turned somber. “Go now. Warn your princess. I will find you. Or if you return to the city first, come find me. If I’m still alive, I’ll be at the Griffin. See that you cure that arm. You don’t want to end up maimed, like me.”

Without another word, he turned his horse about and rode back into the city.

I watched him vanish, wondering if I’d see him again. I wanted to call him back, to demand a full accounting of his actions, the reason he’d assisted me and the reason he had vanished, all those months ago. No, he was right: It must wait. He had his path to follow, and I had mine. For now, they led in opposite directions.

I rode resolutely out of London.

* * *

It was a long ride, through a bleak landscape I barely registered, so weary I could have slept upright on my horse, though I did not.

In my mind, I kept seeing Sybilla balanced on that parapet, the curious look on her face before she soared to her death. I remembered her radiant smile, her breathtaking beauty, when she’d first approached me in the queen’s chamber; her walk with me in the gallery and her solicitude when Peregrine died, and our searing, urgent communion in the darkness of my room.

Even now, knowing she was gone, knowing I needn’t ever confess my transgression to Kate, my feelings were disturbing. Sybilla had deceived and manipulated everyone around her, connived to destroy everything I cared about. Peregrine was dead because of her; I should rejoice in her end, knowing her master, Philip of Spain, had nothing to wield against Elizabeth when he arrived. Without the letter, he’d be even more ardent in her defense, for only by saving her could he hope to earn her gratitude.

Yet as I rode through intermittent snow flurries, my head tucked to my chest as Cinnabar moved purposefully forward, I couldn’t deny that despite everything she had done, despite the fact that never had I met another woman like her, and prayed I might never again, Sybilla had transformed me. She had roused something in me-a near-feral recognition of my own self.

You do not owe me anything.

She was mistaken. I owed her the knowledge that I understood. Like her, I had known the desperation of a fractured childhood, the helplessness of being prey to the callous whims of others. I, too, had burned with the fervent desire to prove my worth. She was my reflection, the dark twin of my soul. Only what I had sought to vanquish, to capture and tame by serving Elizabeth, she had embraced, honed to a lethal edge like the very blade she had brandished.

She was the person I might have been, had my fate not taken a different turn.