She turned to the window, her voice low, as though she spoke to herself. “I’ve watched her, day after day, ever since she came to my court. Flaunting her youth and witch’s beauty, whispering, always whispering; luring others to do her deeds like her mother before her. Elizabeth wants me to suffer. She wants me to know that no matter what, I will never have peace. Without marriage, I cannot bear a child to supplant her in the succession; without a husband, I will die a virgin. That is what she desires. She lives for the hour when she can take my crown and call it her own.”
When she turned back to me, I saw in her pale gray eyes the flickering ember of something horrible, unstoppable. Those eyes probed at me, seeking a flaw in the very texture of my face, so she might confirm the relentless hatred that had begun to consume her. “Who’s to say she did not know of Courtenay’s plot?” she asked in a dead-quiet voice. “Who’s to say she knew and gave her consent, knowing my ruin would be her gain? She might have kept herself apart from the planning, knowing the risk her involvement would entail, but it would not stop her-no, not her, not the daughter of Anne Boleyn.”
I stood silent, my throat dry as bone. In her expression and words, Mary revealed she had gone beyond reconciliation. Even if Elizabeth managed to escape with her life, there was no denying that she had lost her sister forever. Henceforth, they would be at odds until one of them breathed no more. Cecil’s prediction had come true: They were destined to be mortal enemies.
Mary returned to her desk, composed again, resigned to what came next. “I want to believe you,” she said, “and without proof of her guilt, I can do nothing else. But for now I do not want her near me; wherever I am, she must be elsewhere. Before she departs, however, I will look her in the eye. I will ask her to her face if she knew anything about”-she swept her hand over the letters-“this vile business. Go now. Bring her to me. Tell her the queen of England would see her.”
I bowed and had started to retreat to the doors when she added, “You will continue to investigate every detail of this conspiracy. Courtenay may not confess to everything or he may not know. He was never a clever man; he couldn’t have organized this alone. And I expect loyalty, Master Beecham. If you think to conceal anything from me, if you dare try to protect anyone to my detriment, remember that yours is the life which will be forfeit.”
“Majesty,” I murmured, and I left her.
* * *
I strode through the officials crowded outside the queen’s apartments. In less than an hour, the gallery had filled to capacity, and all eyes marked me as I passed, gauging my importance now that I’d been closeted alone with the queen. I did not spot Renard; he must have gone to prepare Courtenay’s arrest. I did see Rochester among those present, talking to an anxious-looking man in a bishop’s robe, who I assumed was Courtenay’s patron, Gardiner. I made to pause, catching Rochester’s troubled glance.
He turned away pointedly, as if he did not recognize me.
I could hardly blame him. I moved onward, down the staircase into the lower gallery, where courtiers had converged to speculate. Already word had leaked out that something of importance had happened. By early afternoon at the latest, all Whitehall would be buzzing with news of the earl’s fall.
I had a sudden pang as I thought of Courtenay. He would surely die for this; after having survived years of imprisonment in the Tower, his own actions had led him to the scaffold. Though he wasn’t a pleasant man, nor, as the queen had surmised, a particularly clever one, I was relieved I could still feel pity for him, and angry regret that I’d had to expose his dealings, despite my promise to him. For all his misdeeds, he didn’t deserve this.
Dudley did.
Then I came to a halt. I did not know where Elizabeth lodged. Raking a hand through my matted hair, I saw courtiers staring at me in unabashed disgust. All of a sudden, I was aware of my unkempt person. Must I approach one of these mincing peacocks to ask-
“Master Beecham! Master Beecham, wait a moment!”
I turned to see Mistress Dormer hastening down the staircase, holding up fistfuls of her skirts, exposing thin ankles in gray hose. “Her Majesty asked me to accompany you,” she explained, breathless. “The rooms you seek are a distance away, and she thought you’d need help finding them, seeing as you’ve not been there before.”
I smiled faintly in gratitude. With a toss of her pretty head, Jane Dormer led me past the courtiers, who immediately leaned to each other to whisper.
“Where did you leave Blackie?” I asked, hoping to distract her from uncomfortable questions concerning my meeting with the queen.
“With Lady Clarencieux. He’ll have to learn sometime that I can’t be with him every minute. Though I’m quite fond of him now, I never wanted a dog. He was a gift-or so Mistress Darrier claimed.” Jane grimaced. “As if that could excuse what she did.”
Just as I’d been on the night of my arrival, I was struck by the spite in her voice. Though she seemed an otherwise unassuming girl, where Sybilla was concerned Jane Dormer was all claw.
“I did not see Mistress Darrier this morning,” I remarked.
“No, you did not. Because Mistress Darrier comes and goes as she pleases.” The silence turned taut before Jane added pointedly, “You’d be wise to stay far from her.”
“Oh?” I kept my expression neutral, even as I took in the twist of her mouth, the slit-eyed jealousy that was too mature for someone of her age. Beautiful women often incited competition among their peers, I knew, but Jane Dormer was little more than a child. “What exactly has Mistress Darrier done to have provoked such dislike in you? She gave you that dog, which seems to me a kind gesture-”
“Does it?” she snapped. “Do you think it a fair exchange for stealing my betrothed?”
I almost stopped walking. “Your betrothed?” I echoed.
She glared. “Yes. You cannot know, naturally, having just arrived at court, but Her Majesty had arranged for me to wed the Duke of Feria. I was to be his bride and return with him to Spain, had Mistress Darrier not decided she wanted Feria for herself. Or rather, that toad Renard decided it for her.”
A chill overcame me. “Perhaps she has no wish to wed Feria, then.”
“No wish?” She gave a humorless laugh. “Women like her have every wish. Feria will make her a duchess, which is quite a step up from being the ambassador’s whore.”
An invisible noose coiled about my throat. “That’s a strong accusation. I understood that he was her patron and moreover that she is of noble blood. Her father and brothers perished defending the Church during the Pilgrimage of Grace.”
Jane sniffed. “Is that what she told you? I suppose it does carry a ring of truth, if you don’t know the real story. But most do not, and those who do don’t care to recall otherwise, given her proximity to Renard. But Lady Clarencieux certainly does; she remembers when Master Darrier, Sybilla’s father, was one of those up-and-coming men who got rich under Lord Cromwell-a lawyer, like Cromwell himself, who inventoried the monasteries once they’d been slated for closure. He made his fortune pillaging like a pirate, building his estate with gold he never reported to the treasury. When Cromwell fell, so did Darrier. He was executed, yes, but not for defending our Church. He was drawn and quartered like a common criminal because he had stolen from the king.”
I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. I saw Sybilla in my mind, her heavy tresses of hair draping over me, her body writhing …
“And her brothers?”
She shrugged. “Who knows if they even exist? If they do, they did not die in York, I can assure you. Of everything Mistress Darrier says, the only verifiable truth is that she, her mother, and her sister fled England to escape the king’s wrath, no doubt with some of the Darrier wealth stashed in their underlinens. After all, they had to have something, to gain entrance to the Hapsburg court. Empresses don’t take on paupers to be ladies-in-waiting.”