The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии TXT) 📗
Scarcliff came back to me and unhooked the saddlebag. “You’re the earl’s man now, remember, so best act like it. The Dudleys are in the Beauchamp Tower off the inner ward. They like to take their exercise on the leads around this hour, but Lord Robert will be advised he has a visitor. I’ll wait at the Griffin Tavern on Tower Street. Remember, I leave at dusk when the gates close-with or without you.”
I clicked my tongue reassuringly as Scarcliff took my reins. I found it curious that while usually wary of strangers, Cinnabar did not seem averse to letting this particular stranger handle him. Then I hoisted the bag on my shoulder and moved to the portcullis, assaulted by a vivid memory of the last time I had seen it, slamming down like a fanged mouth on a crowd of frantic men. The Dudley steward Shelton had disappeared here that night, struggling in the crush, as guards galloped toward him, swinging maces and pikes …
I forced aside my ruminations, opening the bag for the yeoman to inspect. The scent of lavender rose from the wrapped parcel of linens. The yeoman stared at me. I thought he was going to question me before I remembered. As I fished coins from the purse at my belt, he said, “Through the Bell Tower and to your left into the ward.” He let me pass. Behind me the waiting queue raised angry protest at my preferential treatment.
My boot heels struck hollow echoes upon the flagstones. Sentinels dressed in green uniforms sporting Tudor-rose badges, black-clad secretaries, and other official-looking persons moved around me, carving purposeful paths to various assignations. I recalled that the Tower was more than just a prison; within these walls were an armory, a treasury, a menagerie, and royal apartments. Like every royal fortress, it was governed by a strict bureaucracy, much like Whitehall itself, but as I passed the water gate through which the condemned entered by the river, I felt the walls close in on me, as if I were a rat in a maze.
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.”
