To Kiss A Spy (29 page)

“What is it?” demanded de Noailles, withdrawing his nose from between Owen’s shoulder blades.

“Just a revelation,” Owen said, his mouth taut. “The answer to a puzzle.”

“What puzzle?”

“A personal one.”

De Noailles grimaced at the curt tone but knew better than to pursue the subject. “So you’ll winkle the princess out of Baynard’s Castle in the morning. I’ll arrange for a goodly crowd to be at the gates just before dawn. Our men will spread largesse around the taverns tonight.”

“Aye, and spice the coin and the drink with a few hints that Northumberland means the princess some harm. That should get them going.”

De Noailles nodded. “Will you escort her yourself into Essex?”

“That depends,” Owen said, his mouth still taut.

“On what?”

Owen gave a short laugh that was quite without humor. “On whether I decide I have something better to do, my friend.”

The ambassador found this answer less than satisfying but he gave a very Gallic shrug and said merely, “God and good fortune go with you, then.”

“And with you, Ambassador.” Owen left the garden and directed his steps along the ice-crusted lane towards a tavern that he knew. There he ordered a pitcher of mulled wine while he waited for evening, when he would make his approach to Baynard’s Castle under cover of darkness.

Pen.

He stared down into his tankard, inhaling the fragrance of cloves and nutmeg. She had failed him, he thought savagely. She’d believed her brother’s tale, Simon Renard’s tale. She had believed the worst without hesitation.

He drained his tankard and set it down hard on the table. He swung his heavy gaze to the fire, watching the patterns in the flames. He had begun to think there could be a future to their loving, although he hadn’t thought how it was to be achieved.

He would have had to tell her the whole wretched tale then, for her own safety. But she would have understood. She would not have endangered either of them as foolish Estelle had done. Poor, foolish, vain Estelle.

Owen stared into the flames and allowed his anger and hurt to flare high with the spurt of scarlet and then diminish as the sudden flame fell back. He wasn’t prepared to let Pen go. It was as simple as that. He was still bitter, still raw. He wanted to hear her beg his forgiveness, he wanted to withhold it, watch her dismay. He wanted her to be as distressed as he was. And yet he wasn’t prepared to let her go.

It was what he had meant, of course, when he’d told the ambassador that he didn’t know what his plans for the morrow would be. They would depend on Pen. On where she went, what she had decided to do. Or rather, what she decided to do when faced with a choice.

He rose abruptly, swinging his sword to his side, catching up his cloak from the bench beside him. For the moment he had a spy’s business to transact.

The tide had turned and the current was running strongly when he returned to the river. He hailed a skiff to take him to Baynard’s Castle.

It was a bitterly cold evening, the sky a mass of stars, throwing silver light onto the dark, fast-flowing waters of the Thames. A small boat full of eel fishermen bobbed against the mud flats along the riverbank and their voices drifted clearly through the brittle air.

Owen pulled his chin into the collar of his cloak like a snail withdrawing its head and reviewed his plans.

“Baynard’s Castle, guv. Looks like ye’ve got company.”

The oarsman’s voice brought him back to the freezing night. He sat upright and gazed across to the mouth of the Fleet River where it flowed into the Thames. The bulk of the castle rose above, dominating the view up and down the river. Three barges were jostling for position against the current as they tried to maneuver alongside the quay. The lead barge, which was also the smallest, flew the Duke of Northumberland’s pennant.

“Stay your oars,” Owen said in a bare whisper, remembering how clearly the voices of the fishermen had carried over the water. “Hold up in midstream.”

The boatman shipped his oars and hunkered down on the bench, pulling his frieze cap down and his collar up over his ears.

Owen turned on the thwart and swiftly doused the light from the cresset. The starlight offered little shadow but the boat was small and sat very still on the water.

He sat immobile, concentrating on the scene. The boatmen were having trouble docking the first barge with the swift-flowing current, and the two others swinging in the water sometimes perilously close to each other. Muffled curses flew on the wind. Three men emerged from the cabin as if in response.

Northumberland, Pembroke, and Suffolk.

Owen nodded to himself. He had expected word of the princess’s arrival at Pembroke’s residence to reach Greenwich by midafternoon. The three council members had wasted no time, it seemed. Which meant that Owen had no time to spare.

The three men huddled against the deck rail, deep in conversation as they watched the docking. Owen could hear nothing. But he didn’t need to. His gaze swept the shoreline.

“Pull into the bank just beyond the mouth of the Fleet,” he whispered. His voice was a mere breath on the air but the oarsman had no difficulty hearing.

He took up his oars again and pulled strongly into the bank. Owen paid him and stepped into the shallows. The mud had a thick coating of ice that protected his boots and hose from the ooze beneath. He trod carefully, and the watching oarsman thought that it was as if he glided over the slick surface, so little sound did he make. He seemed to find footholds in the bank as if he knew they were there, and within a minute he was standing securely on the riverbank, his feet and garments not a whit disturbed by his unorthodox approach.

Owen listened. The castle’s water steps were concealed from him by the bend that formed the mouth of the Fleet River, but he could hear voices clearly now. He was no more than a hundred feet from the steps.

He moved closer, seeking the concealment of a screen of rushes. The three men were now standing on the quay as a small troop of soldiers disembarked behind them.

“I don’t like it,” Pembroke was saying. “Not without the king’s direct orders.”

“The king still will not issue an order for his sister’s arrest without a deal of persuasion,” Northumberland declared impatiently.

“I had hoped to work on him over the next day or two while she remained at Greenwich, safe in our custody, but the princess has taken matters into her own hands. I wish to God I knew who’s advising her, who’s helping her. She couldn’t have planned this alone. Was she even sick?”

He spat over the rail with an oath. “But I’ll find out soon enough. Now, we need to take her, before she leaves London.”

Owen moved away, up towards the castle walls, his step swift and assured as he climbed through the undergrowth, ice crunching beneath his boots. The three men continued their discussion on the quay beneath him.

At the top of the hill, he turned aside along the wall to a small, little-used postern gate that he had discovered on previous visits, before the princess and her retinue had gone to Greenwich.

One minute the watchman was gazing morosely into the freezing darkness trying to find the source of the whisper that had hailed him, the next he was resting in blissful unconsciousness beneath a bush.

Once inside, Owen strode rapidly with the air of a man who knew both his way and his business, grateful in his haste for the straw that had been laid on the cobbles and flagstones to prevent slipping on the ice. Pitch torches flared in sconces high up on the walls of the cloistered courtyards that led to the west wing of the castle, where Mary had her apartments.

A soldier stood at the foot of the wide, curved flight of stone steps that led to the great oak door to the princess’s lodging. He yawned and leaned back against the wall. This was routine duty and he was thinking longingly of the sentries’ fire-warmed antechamber, the mug of ale and the dice cup waiting for him when he was relieved in half an hour.

Owen stopped in the shadow of the cloister leading to the stairs. He took from his doublet pocket a handful of pebbles that he’d picked up from the riverbank. The sentry yawned again and shifted his pike on the flagstones.

Owen tossed the pebbles into the cloister ahead of him. They fell in a clattering shower. It was an old trick, and, like most old tricks, it worked.

The sentry spun around towards the noise and took a step into the cloister. Owen slipped behind him, soundless as a woodland deer. He was halfway up the stairs, his dark clothes blending into the shadows, before the sentry had dismissed the clatter as unimportant and returned yawning to his post.

Owen lifted the latch on the door at the head of the stairs.

Twenty-three

The domestic running of the castle had been thrown into near chaos by the princess’s unexpected return. Her apartments had not been readied for her and servants ran hither and thither through the series of rooms with fresh linens and hangings for the beds, buckets of hot coals for the fires, jugs of steaming water for the comfort of the guests.

The princess stood before the newly kindled fire in her parlor, her eyes on the Psalter she held between her hands. Her lips moved in soundless prayer.

Pen came into the parlor, carrying Philip on her hip, followed by two maidservants with laden supper trays.

“Since our picnic hamper only contained books I thought we should have supper,” Pen said cheerfully.

“I have little interest in supper. ’Tis pesky cold in here.” A shiver went through Mary’s slight frame and she bent to the still sullen coals. “I don’t know why it is that sea coal doesn’t burn as well as wood. The fire’s been lit this hour past and yet it throws off no heat at all.”

“They have so little wood in the city, madam. But you’ll have log fires aplenty at Woodham Walter.” Pen tried to disguise a note of exasperation. They were all three cold, hungry, and anxious, and Mary’s complaints didn’t improve the shining hour. In truth Pen was interested only in Philip’s welfare. The baby was beginning to grizzle; a good sign, she thought. At least he was expressing himself, and maybe with some expectation that now his needs would be gratified.

The servants set the trays on the table and left. Mary put down her Psalter. “Well, let us eat then. When will your chevalier come, I wonder?”

“When he considers it right, madam,” Pen said. Still holding the baby, she took a silver porringer and spoon from the table. Philip, from his perch on her hip, lunged for the bowl, and she laughed. “Yes . . . yes . . . it’s coming.”

She carried him, wriggling and wailing in frustration, to the window seat. She sat him down on the cushioned seat and sat beside him, spooning the honey-sweetened, milky gruel into his ever-open mouth. The tears dried on his cheeks and he waved his skinny arms in his eagerness.

Mary regarded them with a frown. She didn’t mind children, and, indeed, had been moved to horror and pity by Pen’s story, but the child was distracting Pen when all her attention should be on the princess’s plight.

The door opened and Pen looked up, spoon poised. Philip wailed at the pause in his feeding just as Owen d’Arcy stepped into the chamber. He closed the door, turned the key, and dropped the heavy bar into place.

He stood for a second with his back to the door. His black gaze swept the chamber and the energy coursed from him. He was dressed in a dark gray doublet slashed with black silk, the high collar opened to reveal a fashionably narrow ruff. His shirt was of dark gray edged in silver lace; his hose of black silk. He reminded Pen of nothing so much as the deadly silver-gray rapier in its black sheath that he carried at his hip.

“You’ve brought the child,” he said, his dark gaze unreadable as it rested on her countenance. “Was that wise?”

“I had no choice,” Pen returned simply, aware that her cheeks were suddenly flushed, aware of the surge of longing . . . longing to see his conspiratorial smile, his dancing eyes lit from behind with a warmth that she had sometimes thought could only be love. Instead, he was distanced, detached, his expression impassive.

“I could not bear to be parted from him. I don’t believe he will hamper us,” she said in a quiet, uninflected voice.

“I am glad to see you, Chevalier.” Mary rose to her feet, and despite her calm tone fear danced in her eyes. He had brought peril with him, it crackled around him like an aura. “We had been awaiting you. Is there any news from Greenwich?”

“In a minute, madam.” Owen spoke brusquely. He strode into the connecting chamber, his step swift and silent. The princess’s apartments consisted of a series of chambers, some little more than closets, others large and commodious bedchambers, all connecting to each other to form a corridor.

Pen gathered up Philip and followed on Owen’s heels. He hastened through the deserted corridor of rooms. In the seventh and last chamber, an antechamber for the princess’s pages, at present deserted, Owen locked the door and dropped the bar.

He turned to Pen, who stood breathless at his side. “Is there any other door that gives access to the castle beyond these chambers?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Then come, we have little time. They will be here any minute.” He moved past her, hurrying back to the princess’s parlor.

Pen followed, running now to keep up. He entered the parlor and the three women rose to their feet. The sense of urgency and its attendant fear spread through them like an infection.

“What is happening, Chevalier?” Mary spoke steadily, but her hands shook as she pressed them against her skirts.

“You are in danger of immediate arrest, madam,” he said, going to the four narrow glassed windows in the outside wall. He looked through them, down into the courtyard. A party of archers emerged from the gatehouse. “I had hoped that Northumberland would be more cautious, but it seems his need is desperate.”

Mary touched her throat. The pulse beat fast beneath the white lace partlet she wore at the neck of her gown. She said nothing.

Owen turned back from the window. “However, we can circumvent them so matters are not in such dire straits.” He smiled suddenly, and Pen noticed how everyone except herself seemed unaccountably to relax.

The smile was designed simply to hearten the three women, to give them confidence. Why didn’t they realize it? Pen wondered. It was as clear as day to her that Owen was in no mood to smile, however confident he might be in his ability to pull the chestnuts out of this fire.

Philip whimpered and she jiggled him against her shoulder. Maybe they were simply impressed by a show of raw male power. The thought in any other circumstances would have made her laugh and long to share it with Pippa. Lady Guinevere’s daughters had not been bred to be impressed by such displays.

“No one knows I’m here so they won’t know that you’re aware of the immediate threat,” Owen continued in his calm way. “They’ll come to you expecting to gain peaceful entrance. They will not attempt to force their way in here. Such a tale would be quickly spread and it would enrage the people. The council’s intention I’m certain is to lure you out and then speed you away while the city sleeps.”

Mary nodded at the chevalier, her color returning. “The people do love me,” she said with perfect truth.

Owen didn’t reply but turned back to the window. The dukes and the Earl of Pembroke were entering the courtyard from the main gate on the heels of the archers and flanked by the party of soldiers. Quite a force to take one slight woman, he thought aridly. But, of course, it was the people of London they were concerned about. Londoners were a law unto themselves, intimidated by nothing, and they were fiercely loyal to Princess Mary. Therein lay the key to Owen’s plan.

“Pen, extinguish all but a single candle in this chamber.”

Pen obeyed without a word.

Owen spoke now in a whisper that nevertheless carried to every pair of ears. “When they come, madam, they will see that there is no light beneath the door. On no account must the door be opened. Pen, you will inform the earl through the oak that the princess has retired for the night. The journey has tired her and there’s fear that she’s taken a fever again.”

Pen nodded briefly. Somehow she seemed to be standing outside the situation, watching the drama as if it were taking place on a stage. She hitched Philip higher on her shoulder, rubbing his back. He had fallen asleep but he was so thin she barely felt his dead weight.

“At first light, madam, you will be on your way to Woodham Walter,” Owen declared with the same quiet confidence.

No one said anything as they heard the tread of heavy boots on the stone stairs outside. It sounded as if a sizable crowd had come to a halt outside Mary’s door.

Mary was very still; she felt for her rosary, concealed beneath her overgown. Her lips moved silently. Now there was light only from a single candle and the sulky glow from the fire, and the five figures in the chamber seemed frozen in the shadows.

There was a knock at the door and the Earl of Pembroke spoke in warm and friendly tones. “Madam, I am honored you have returned to my house. May I have speech with you?” The latch rattled.

Owen nodded at Pen but she had already moved to the door. “My lord, the princess is awearied and has retired to her bed. I would not disturb her.”

“But ’tis barely eight of the clock,” the earl protested jovially. “I would sup with Princess Mary.”

“My lady’s fever has returned, my lord. She will not be disturbed this even.” Pen stood calmly before the door, her voice steady as a rock.

“Then we should send for the physician.” The earl was now almost pleading.

“The princess has taken a sleeping draft and will not be disturbed this even,” Pen repeated firmly.

There was a rustle of movement beyond the door and then the imperative sound of what had to be a sword hilt against the oak. “Lady Bryanston?”

“Yes, my lord Northumberland,” Pen responded sweetly.

“You will give us entrance. We have need to speak with the princess.” There was a barely perceptible pause before he said, “I bear a message from His Highness.”

That was a swiftly concocted lie, Pen thought, but she could tell by Mary’s sudden movement behind her that it could have worked. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Owen had laid a restraining hand on the princess’s arm.

“My lord duke, the princess is asleep. But I’m certain she will be pleased to receive you in the morning.”

“I would hear that from the princess herself!” Northumberland sounded flustered.

Philip stirred against her shoulder and she rubbed his back again, anxious that he should make no sound. Again she repeated calmly, “My lady has taken a sleeping draft, my lord. She can speak to no one.”

Owen stood outside the shadowy light thrown by the candle and the fire. His hand rested on the hilt of his rapier. He watched Pen soothe the restive child, and thought that in the few short hours since she had found her son she had grown more assured in handling him. They seemed to have grown together. Fanciful, of course, and yet he could almost see the bond strengthening between them.

There was a pause, much whispering, scuffing of boots on the cold stone outside the door. Then Northumberland said, “Lady Bryanston, pray give the princess our earnest wishes for her speedy recovery. We will wait upon her in the morning.”

“I am certain she will be pleased to receive you, my lord duke,” Pen said again.

Northumberland glowered at the massive oak door closed against him. Suffolk and Pembroke stood in silence, and the small troop of soldiers gathered behind them stared into the middle distance.

Northumberland muttered almost to himself, “There’s nothing to be done at the moment. She’s safe enough in there for the night. I’ll return to Durham House until morning and be back here soon after dawn. She has only the three women with her, they’ll have to open the door at some point. We’ll simply wait her out.”

“Aye, that seems best.” Pembroke sounded relieved. The idea of forcibly removing the princess from his residence had alarmed him greatly. If Northumberland’s plans did not succeed, and by some hideous miscalculation Mary did become queen, anyone present tonight would be facing the executioner’s ax.

Everyone in the dim chamber remained immobile, listening as the sound of many boots receded down the steps to the courtyard. Then there was a collective exhalation.

“So, it seems you have bought us some time, Chevalier,” Mary said in a low voice.

“Time for you to take some rest, madam,” Owen said. “We cannot leave until first light.”

“I could not sleep.” The voice was haughty; the rosary beads clicked.

“Then, madam, you may pray,” he returned brusquely. He turned back again to the windows behind him, watching the activity in the courtyard as Northumberland and Suffolk emerged from the castle. Horses were brought for them and they rode out through the opened gates. Presumably they were staying in their London residences for the night, so that they would be well positioned to make a speedy return in the morning. That would leave the princess with a very small window for her escape.

Mary felt that the chevalier had somehow dismissed her. There was insolence in his impatience, as if he gave not a fig for royal blood. But she found that she could not gainsay his assured assumption of command. “How are we to leave here undetected?”

“We cannot leave undetected,” he stated. “But surprise and the dawn light will be on our side. You may leave the details to me. Go to your rest, madam.”

Mary had lived for too much of her life in mortal danger to argue, however much she disliked the peremptory tone. She left the parlor, gesturing to Susan and Matilda that they should accompany her.

Pen closed the connecting door. She stood with her back to it, one hand behind her still resting on the latch, her other arm encircling the sleeping child.

Owen turned back to the room. The sight of her with the child stirred him and at the same time filled him with bitter envy.

“If he’s sleeping perhaps you should put him down,” he said, bending to poke some life into the fire.

Pen laid Philip on the window seat and covered him with a blanket. His thumb was in his mouth and she thought his cheeks had filled out a little; they certainly had more color.

“He’s wet,” she said. “But I’ll wake him if I change him.”

Owen straightened from the fire. “Where’s the other one?”

“Charles . . . I call him Charles,” Pen said. “He’ll be tucked up in the nursery at Holborn by now. I didn’t think I could manage both of them at the moment.”

The exchange was curiously stilted, she thought, as if between two quite other people, two strangers. She felt empty when she looked at him. Empty and hopeless. His eyes were so hard, so pitiless, and she couldn’t read anything behind them. No softening, no understanding.

But she had failed him, she reminded herself, and Owen it seemed had no forgiveness for failure.