The Tudor Conspiracy by C. W. Gortner

Author:C. W. Gortner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press

Chapter Fifteen

Outside, a cacophony of distant bells rang. It was late afternoon, and the winter sky had begun to darken. Pulling my cloak about me I hastened back through the ward, pausing briefly at a horse trough to wet my cloak and wash the blood from my face. The gates would close at dusk; I must be out before they did. Transferring the tube from my cloak to the safety of my doublet, I tried to look impervious as I made my way to the gatehouse.

The yeomen gave me a curious look. I yanked up my cloak’s cowl, hurrying out. Only as I gained distance from the Tower did the knot in my chest start to dissolve.

I had done it. I had Dudley’s letters. Renard couldn’t use these against Elizabeth: The proof he required was now in my hands. All I had to do was to report whatever lies I must to keep him at bay, long enough to send word to her and—

I paused. And do what? Confront her? Demand to know why she’d acted so recklessly, why she had lied to me when she knew what Robert planned? Or should I simply destroy the letters and never mention that I had discovered she’d taken a stance against her sister, pretend she was as guiltless as she had feigned? As I considered this, though, I abruptly recalled with a jolt what she’d said to me in the stables. I warn you now: You, too, could be in grave danger if you persist in this pursuit. I’ll not have you risk yourself for my sake, not this time. Regardless of your loyalty, this is not your fight.

I came to a stop in the middle of the road. She had warned me. In my zeal to protect her, I’d failed to hear her actual message. It was not my fight, she had said, and she meant it.

She had walked into Dudley’s web willingly.

Around me, the light faded, lengthening the shadows. Veering into Tower Street, I began searching the painted signs hanging above doorways for the Griffin. People hustled about their errands, bundled to their ears and eager to finish with their day so they could get indoors before the night took hold. Everyone steered clear of me. I would have steered clear, too. My left cheek felt grossly swollen and was starting to throb. I had a wound on my temple and, no doubt, several nasty bruises on my face. Nevertheless, a burden of years had been lifted from my shoulders. I had stood up to Robert Dudley. No longer did I have to cower from my past, for this time I’d given as good as I got. Some might say I’d given better.

I espied the sign ahead, depicting a black-winged griffin. I pushed past the doorway inside, stamping my boots to get the blood back into my ice-numb feet. The tavern was choked with the smell of greasy food, cheap ale, and hearth and tallow smoke, and raucous with voices; it was also blessedly warm.

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