As I beheld the small wood coffin on its chipped dais, a lump filled my throat.
“Her Majesty paid for everything,” the priest said with evident pride. “Though I understand the boy had no rank to commend him, she’s insisted he be put to rest here until the ground thaws. A plot is set aside for him in the churchyard, away from the pit where common traitors go, all at her expense. She’s been most generous to pay such honor to-”
I lifted my hand. “Please. Might I have a moment alone?”
With an offended pout, he nodded and retreated.
I stared upon Peregrine’s waxen face, the only visible part of his body in its winding sheet. I had never seen him so still; as I reached out a trembling hand to touch the lifeless curls on his brow, I half-expected him to laugh and sit up. The faint tang of the herbs with which his body had been washed was the only sign of life in this place of stone. As I finally took it in and let myself accept that Peregrine was truly gone, a choked sob escaped me.
I stood over him for what seemed an eternity before I heard the priest shuffle in. He cleared his throat with begrudging respect. “The hour grows late; I must close my doors soon. If there is nothing more, the coffin will be sealed shut and left here till spring.”
I nodded and made myself step aside, thinking I should have brought something to put in with him, some memento for him to have in the dark.
“Good-bye, sweet friend,” I whispered. “I will avenge you.”
Dusk hung over the city. I rode in silence back to Whitehall, stabled Cinnabar, and paid the groom extra to watch over him and Peregrine’s horse. I tarried a while, trying to take comfort in the animals’ tacit company, the horses sniffing at me as they sensed the bottomless well that had opened inside me.
That night, I could not sleep. I sat cross-legged on the floor of my room as the tallow guttered low in its oil, honing my sword with my whetstone until my fingers bled and every muscle ached, but I found no reprieve in the punishment of my body.
I could no longer control the stranger I was becoming.
THE TOWER
Chapter Fourteen
Courtenay’s manservant was waiting outside the postern gate when I rode out on Cinnabar at the stroke of one-a hulking figure seated on an enormous gray destrier, his black cloak enveloping him, its cowl drawn over his head to hide his ravaged face.
“Right on time,” he said gruffly before he swerved onto the road that led to the Tower. Ice-hardened snow crunched under our horses’ hooves. The day was clear, though a bracing wind made me glad of my layers of doublet and cloak, my scarf pulled up about my nose and mouth, and my cap shoved down about my ears.
I noted equal discomfort on the scowling faces of passing Londoners, the goodwives, merchants, and other citizens trudging over makeshift planks sunk in mires of slush, while vagabonds and beggars skulked, shivering, in doorways. I looked away from a cadaver, stripped naked and tossed on a midden, its limbs frozen solid, only to catch sight of a mange-ridden bitch herding four skeletal pups out of the way of an approaching cart. As the carter flayed his whip, the bitch yelped, grabbing two of the pups in her jaws and leaving the others to race into a nearby rookery of ramshackle edifices. I yanked Cinnabar aside to avoid trampling the cowering pups and was relieved when I looked over my shoulder and saw them darting, unharmed, after their mother.
“Lucky curs.” The manservant swiveled his head in my direction. “By all accounts, they should be in somebody’s stew pot by now.”
I stared stonily at him. I had no doubt he’d have eaten those pups, too, straight out of the pot. I could see why Courtenay had hired him; with this beast at his side, the earl could prowl the most unsavory places in London and not fear for his life.
Though it was not the earl’s life I was most concerned about.
Not forty-eight hours ago, this man had stalked me. I’d threatened him in the brothel and was blackmailing his master. Now we rode through the city, and while he’d kept his distance thus far, I was fully aware he might yet turn on me. Courtenay could have ordered him to make sure I never reached my destination.
He surprised me by grunting, “My name’s Scarcliff. Hope you brought coin.”
I nodded, resisting an urge to laugh. That was his name? I almost pitied the ugly oaf.
As if he read my thoughts, he gave me a disparaging grimace, his front teeth blackened and jagged. “You needn’t worry. I have my orders. But you’ll need to pay the yeomen at the gate and guards inside.” He gestured to his saddlebag. “You’ll take this in with you. Those who pay enough are allowed certain privileges, and the Dudleys get fresh linens every week, courtesy of his lordship. You’ll deliver the bag to their quarters. I’ll wait till the gates close at dusk. If you don’t return by then, I’ll see your horse back to the stables, but you’re on your own.”
His speech was less slurred than it had been at the brothel, no doubt because he was sober, but he still sounded as if he spat out pebbles instead of words. Nevertheless, I was slightly comforted that he did not harbor murderous intent. Of course, he might not need to. I was about to walk voluntarily into the most notorious and well-guarded prison in the realm, where countless men vanished, never to be seen again. If I didn’t get out in time, it might do the job just as well as a blade between my ribs.
We approached the main causeway over the Tower moat. The Tower loomed before me, an enormous, forbidding sight, the domed turrets of its keep thrusting like the calcified fingers of a moribund giant from a surrounding warren of gatehouses, lesser towers, and impregnable walls.
My skin crawled. I’d never thought to set foot in this dreadful place again.
“I’d take off the scarf if I were you. Yeomen don’t like visitors who hide their faces.” As he spoke, Scarcliff shrugged back his own cowl, exposing his hideous, one-eyed visage. Seeing the destruction in daylight, I thought he must have survived some awful fiery battle.
I tore my gaze from him, unraveling the ice-flecked wool from my face. My cheeks were numb from the biting wind blowing off the river, though here the Thames ran deeper and had even started to thaw in parts, with chunks of broken ice bobbing in the dark water.
Various persons stood in line outside the gate, waiting to enter, their subdued chatter punctuated by an occasional mournful roar drifting from inside the crenellated barbican.
“Henry’s old lions,” said Scarcliff. “They don’t much like being caged.”
I shuddered. I couldn’t imagine keeping a wild creature behind bars, though far worse happened every day in this city. I braced myself as we drew our horses to a halt. Scarcliff dismounted, trudged over the drawbridge with his lopsided gait, ignoring the startled glances in his direction from those in line. He reached the warder yeoman guarding the entrance. Two others checked the credentials of those seeking entrance; the warder appeared to recognize Scarcliff, heeding him attentively before giving a curt nod.
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 …