Chapter Twenty-Two

The parlor on the ground floor was empty and glacial as a tomb. Before me, a flight of rickety stairs led to the second floor. Standing still, the dripping of my clothes muted on the warped plank floor, I strained to hear any sounds. When I did not, I drew out my wet sword, wiped the blade on my breeches, and began to take the stairs, wincing at each groan and protest of the weathered treads, aware that I was announcing my presence as brazenly as if I had barged in shouting with Dudley and his guard at my back.

The door to the room was ajar, its contents shrouded by gloom—the cot and corner desk, a chair pushed against a peeling wall. It was as though nothing had transpired here, as if time had stood still between that moment years ago, when Sybilla had lunged at me with her blade drawn, and now, as I braced again for her assault, my breath coming fast and shallow, my sword held so tight that its pommel gouged my wounded palm.

There was no swift move in my direction, no rearing shadow. As I stepped over the threshold, swiping my blade, my vision began to adjust and I saw evidence of recent occupation: a pitcher on the desk, a tarnished platter and wood bowl. I blinked, my eyes burning from exposure to the vile river, and then I heard a muffled gasp.

Whirling around, I cried, “Show yourself!” As my voice echoed, the gasp became louder, a desperate wrenching sound. The chair facing the wall rocked slightly. I approached it with my heart in my throat; using my blade, I hooked the back of the chair. It was heavy and tall; as another sob issued from it I yanked it around to find a woman in a soiled gown bound to the seat, mouth gagged and unkempt tresses falling over her face. I recognized her at once.

“My lady Parry,” I breathed and I spun around again, thinking someone crept up behind me. When I saw we were alone, I pulled out the rag stuffed in her mouth. The crevices at either side of her lips were torn, jagged with scabs. Lady Parry had never been robust, and weeks of captivity had reduced her to colorless skin and bone. As she sagged in the chair, tears seeping down her sunken cheeks, I knelt before her and sawed at the ropes. Her skirts had protected her legs to some measure, but her wrists were raw from chaffing.

“My lady, please look at me,” I said gently. She had not seen who I was; as terror flared in her eyes, I said quickly, “It’s Master Prescott, the queen’s man. I am here to see you safe.”

She whimpered, reached out an imploring hand.

“Can you stand?” I started to assist her but she shook her head. She was too weak. “I must send someone for you,” I said. “The person who did this: Where is he?”

She shook her head again, seemingly unable to formulate words. Then she clutched at my sleeve, her fingers sharp as bird claws. “The child,” she whispered. A desperate sob escaped her. “I tried to resist…”

“Where is he?” My voice rose in urgency. “Where did he take him?”

Lowering her face, she began to sob. “The saint’s crypt … You must save him.”

I raced back down the stairs into the street, my heels pounding on the roadway as I ran to the northern gatehouse. Dudley and his guard had already come through the gate; standing by his horse with reins in hand, Dudley whirled on me. “How dare you make me wait like a menial—”

“Lady Parry,” I interrupted. “She is here! She needs help.”

To his credit, Dudley reacted at once. “Where?” he barked as the guard drew his sword.

Breathless, I explained the house’s location; as the guard raced toward it, Dudley took in my sodden appearance. “Did you swim here?”

I grimaced. “That is of no consequence. Where is the saint’s crypt?”

He frowned.

“The crypt,” I said. “Quickly, man, before it is too late! The boy is there.”

Dudley looked utterly bewildered. Just as I was about to stride past him to ask the wide-eyed sentries watching us from the gate, he exclaimed, “The crypt of Thomas Becket. It is by the ninth pier, toward the middle of the bridge. Pilgrims used to stop there on their way into the city, but it was closed after the break with Rome— Damn you, Prescott. Wait for me!”

I shoved him aside and vaulted onto his horse, swerving it about. Digging my heels into it, I galloped away, Dudley’s cries for me to halt swallowed by the swirling snow in the air.

The clangor of hooves echoed in my ears as I rode to the chapel. A group of drunken men staggered from one of the drinking holes; they wagged fists at me as I plowed through their midst, narrowly missing them as they threw themselves out of my way.

The chapel sat huddled over the pier: an egglike structure with pointed spires and arched stained-glass windows, with delicate stone tracery and figures of saints and disembodied crowned heads carved over its portico. A crenellated turret faced the street on the bridge; the chapel itself clung to the side of the pier and stood on the sterling below. I heard the river funneling through the pier as I leapt from Dudley’s horse and yanked out my sword.

Behind me, the horse was breathing hard from our brief but intense ride; the roar of the river below dampened all other sounds. Approaching the chapel’s double doors within the portico, I braced myself. I had never been inside this place, had no idea what to expect. But the message was clear enough: This was a sacred house of worship, dedicated to a bishop who’d been canonized after he was murdered for defying his sovereign, his chapel shuttered since King Henry confiscated the Church’s wealth. Here, the sins of the past were symbolized by a sacrosanct place that had been defiled by Elizabeth’s own father.

Though not a gesture I often indulged, I crossed myself and then pushed on the door. It was locked. Rounding the chapel, I searched for another entrance. Godwin had brought Raff here, so he must want me to enter; it was the final stage in his plan but he was not going to facilitate my entry. He knew I would be armed, ready to do whatever was required to save Raff. He had to challenge me first, sap my strength. Then, only then, would he engage.

Pressed against the side of the bridge, I espied a broken windowpane in the lower set of windows. It was hardly large enough for a child, let alone a man, and too high to reach. I gauged the chapel wall. A residue of moss from the ever-encroaching damp of the Thames coated the exterior. Enterprising bridge-dwellers had exploited the chapel’s neglect to remove pieces of the outer stonework themselves, leaving a patchwork of misshapen holes. Could I climb up?

Sheathing my sword, I took hold of the stone wedges and fitted the tips of my boots into the crevices and indents; the mortar joining the stones was crumbly, wet from the recent snowfall. As I dug in, I was able to widen some of the holes, enough to gain precarious foothold.

Pressed flat against the chapel, my fingers clinging to the shallow indents around the stones, I began to ascend, resisting the flare of pain in my battered body, summoning my reserves of strength until I was close enough to the broken window to grasp its sill. Slivers of broken glass razed my fingers; my gauntlets were gone, lost during my fight to survive the river. Clenching my teeth, I hoisted myself upward and closed my eyes, then used the hilt of my poniard to smash at the glass, wincing as it shattered and fell in a shower of colored shards, widening the aperture. I felt a piercing slice across my brow, the warm spurt of blood. With a final thrust of my legs, I rammed myself bodily through the window, breaking the leading, and with a gasp tumbled through it into a void.

It was not a long fall but it had enough impact to knock the air from me. I lay stunned, panting and staring up at the crisscrossed stone vaults above.

Staggering to my feet, I saw that I stood on a black-and-white tile floor, smeared with dust and grime. I swiped my sleeve across my brow, spraying scarlet droplets. The cut on my brow was probably not deep but it stung horribly. Wiping blood from my eyes, I looked around.

The chapel had been lovely once, adorned with all the incense-fragrant trappings of a faith that relied on glorious manifestations of wealth to exalt its fervor, but not much remained of its glory now. Submerged in shadow interspersed by shifting opalescence filtering through the stained-glass windows, the chapel of St. Thomas stood barren. Gaping tombs in the walls, intended for wealthy patrons entitled to rest here for eternity, were ransacked. As I moved to the altar, I nearly tripped over a skeleton in rotting velvet tumbled across the floor, the upended slab of a nearby sarcophagus broken in half. Thieves had come inside, scavenging whatever could be taken in the wake of Queen Mary’s death.

Nearing the apse, where a faded fresco high above was barely discernible, I caught sight of an open entryway to the side. Faint illumination issued from within. With my dagger in hand, I approached cautiously, straining to hear anything that might precede an impending attack. Past the threshold, a staircase led down into darkness, a moldering scent wafting from the unseen space below. A torch sputtered in a sconce at the top of the stairs—a courtesy, I thought grimly, or a distraction? I seized it anyway, using it to light my way as I crept down the stairs.

The crypt opened before me. It too was vaulted, though here the ceiling was lower—an enclosed but surprisingly large space, permeated by damp but not wet, despite the fact that this part of the chapel sat on the river and the Thames’s high tide would brim at its very skirts.

A sinking in my stomach overcame me as I lifted the torch higher.

The crypt was empty.

“Where are you?” I heard myself whisper. “Miserable villain, show yourself.”

An odd clicking sound reached me, echoing into the crypt. I spun about, the torch wavering in my hand, casting erratic light and causing shadows to leap across the far walls.

A figure appeared from a distant doorway, coming slowly, the tapping of its cane on the stone floor reverberating in my ears. I edged backward as it shrugged aside the dark, resolving into a figure in a black doublet, breeches, and hose, legs sheathed in boots. Only as I stared did I see its left leg twisted inward.

It was the tutor Godwin—yet as he neared, to my simultaneous shock and horror, I saw that it was not.

“At long last,” said Sybilla Darrier. Her husky voice clutched me like a talon. “You have passed every test. Impressive.” She halted a short distance away, leaning on her cane. I had to lift the torch again, to avoid the flame blinding me, though I exposed my torso to her.

Her face wavered in the light, marked by those indigo eyes even more pronounced now in her near-waxen visage. She was still beautiful, even if I would never have recognized her had I passed her on the street, her once-lush blond hair shorn close to her skull, her cheekbones angular, her loss of flesh adding to her illusion. I realized now what had eluded me: She was Godwin. She had deceived us all, passing for a slender, strange young man who had seduced Agnes and Lady Philippa, hoodwinking Lord Vaughan and everyone else in the manor.

There was no other Spanish agent. It had always been her.

“Where is the boy?” My voice was calm, though I still was having trouble reconciling myself to what I saw, my entire being breaking out in cold sweat, the pounding of my heart making it feel as if it might burst from my chest. I was face-to-face with the very woman who had haunted my dreams, whose betrayal I agonized over and death I had so fervently wanted to believe and deny.

She canted her head, as if in puzzlement. “Boy?”

“Yes.” I leveled my blade at her. “You took him. Where is he?”

“Are you so eager to conclude our game? We have only just started. You must have questions only I can answer.”

“No game. No questions. It is over. If I must, I will kill you myself. Where is he?”

“You will kill me?” Her mockery rang out. It made the hairs on my nape stand on end, for it was still her laughter, still imbued with all its seductive power. “Have you not heard? I am already dead. I have been dead for years.” Clenching her cane with her left hand, she spread her right arm wide. “Go on, then. Kill me. Only this time,” she said, her voice lowering, “make sure you do not fail.”

I met her eyes. “Tell me. What must I do to save him?”

“Not so fast. As you can see, I am not the opponent I used to be. You took that from me.”

“I won,” I said, fighting back the urge to lunge at her and finish it. “If you had had your way, you would not have hesitated to see me to my grave.”

“I did try. But I concede your victory. I conceded it on this very bridge, the day I leapt from your pursuit. I could have fought you to the death. Instead, I let you save your princess.”

“You did not concede. You never will. You and your master, Philip of Spain—you will do everything you can to see her topple from her throne.”

She chuckled. “Yes, I believe we understand each other. Yet I so enjoyed our time together.…” She let her innuendo charge the air with the memory of our shared passion and loss. “Did you think of me at all, during those years you hid abroad? Did you ever wonder if they dragged the river to find me, the woman whose skin you coveted? Because I thought of you when I made it to shore, my leg shattered, near-dead from the cold. I thought of you when the boatman who found me took pity and for the few coins in my cloak brought me to Renard. I thought of you every hour of every day in the months it took me to learn to walk again.”

“You knew,” I said, trembling. “Renard … he was the one who told you about me.”

“He did. Oh, you were careless. You confided in Mary—and she was distraught. She dared not kill her sister now, not with you waiting in the wings, another threat. Eventually, she went to Renard. You are fortunate indeed that Cecil had contacts at court to warn him and knew the time had come to send you away. Renard’s men lost track of you in the swarm of refugees escaping Mary’s persecution, but I knew it was a matter of time before you would return. You never could stray far from Elizabeth’s side. And time was all I needed.”

Hoisting the torch into a bracket in the pillar beside me, I sheathed my poniard at my belt and withdrew my sword. The damp hiss of its release brought a smile to her lips. I realized that I should not indulge her in meaningless confessions; I had the advantage. She was crippled; she could not fight me physically, not as she once had. But she had Raff; I could not risk killing her until I established where he was. Once I did, she would not leave this crypt alive. I had longed for this hour from the moment she plunged from the bridge: to see her again, to have all my questions answered. But like everything else between us, her truth was twisted, monstrous.

“How did you find him?” I asked.

“How else? Elizabeth herself led us to him. After Mary released her from the Tower, she had her lover Dudley sell off some of her lands. Philip ordered her watched closely in case she betrayed herself—as she did. Even under house arrest, she did not cease to scheme and entrusted the funds from those lands to her Lady Parry.”

“You followed Lady Parry…?”

“Alas,” she sighed, “I could not, for I was still too weak. But Renard had her messenger followed and once he deduced where the money was being sent, he had the man intercepted. The funds were lost. Elizabeth must have been beside herself but she could not risk sending money again, not until she took the throne. In the meantime, Renard made inquiries. When he learned Lady Vaughan had a sister in London, it was almost too easy. The queen was dying; Renard could not hide me anymore, for he received word of his recall to Spain. Seeing as Lady Vaughan’s family had suffered as mine had, a discreet recommendation was all it took. Lady Browne referred me to Vaughan Hall. Thus did I become Master Godwin.”

“But you did not find the child, though he was there all the time.”

Triumph colored her voice. “Oh, I found him.”

For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. Then I breathed: “The box of gloves—you sent it to rouse my suspicion, using the same poison that killed my squire. You taunted me.”

“As I said, you passed every test. You suspected from the start, did you not? How it must have tormented you, the fear I might still be alive. You must have thought you were going mad.”

Without answering, I passed my gaze over her. A pulse beat at the base of her throat, visible under the lacings of her collar. I also noticed something else: The tips of her boots were shiny in the torchlight. Wet. She had been outside.

“Let the child go,” I said. “He is not to blame for our sins.”

“Do you think I ever cared about him? He is the bastard son of a bastard queen: He means nothing to me. Had you not tried to save him, he would still be mucking out stables. I only took Lady Parry to ensure Elizabeth would send you to investigate; I knew she would, for whom else could she trust with her misdeeds? You were always her most loyal creature.”

“You lie.” I clenched my sword in my fist, resisting the urge to ram it into her. “You left a letter in that box telling her who I was. You wanted me dead.”

“It was a test, another part of the game! My letter was in her own cipher; it was a challenge to see how long it would take before she realized it, but I never doubted you would find her secret first. She was never as clever as you. Now, you are revealed for who you are and as soon as you deliver her bastard to her, she will see you to your death.” Her voice drove at me, harsh and unrelenting. “Do you know how many believe she is the by-blow of an incestuous whore, with no right to wear the crown? Her own sister Mary believed it. Yes, Mary thought Elizabeth was not her sister at all. But you—you are the son of a Tudor princess. Mary believed your claim, as did Renard. You will come with me to Spain, where King Philip can exalt you as this realm’s rightful sovereign. He will build an armada for you, take this land by force, and set you in her place. You will be king.” She paused. “If you refuse, the boy dies.”

I held on to every shred of will to contain the fury cresting inside me, the savage need to rent her apart, to bathe myself in her blood. I had told Elizabeth the truth; Philip had indeed sought to use a secret against her, but I had been wrong in my assumption that it was Raff.

I was the secret. I was the weapon.

“And if I do not accept?” I said. “No matter what Philip does, he cannot force me.”

“Now, who is the one who lies? You cannot deny your fate. I have seen how much you hunger for it; I have tasted it. It is the very reason you survive.” Anticipation turned her features taut. “Follow your destiny, Brendan,” she said, and time swirled, collapsing, returning me to that night when she appeared in my chamber at Whitehall, ensorceling me with her touch, with her mesmerizing beauty. I had thought lust had been my downfall, but now I understood it was more ominous: Sybilla embodied the very self I fought against, the temptation of what I could become if I surrendered to my own desires. “Follow me,” she said, “and take what is yours.”

I let her promise seep within me, as remorseless as it was intoxicating. She was right. I was a Tudor. How could I resist, with a kingdom within my grasp, an untried queen to depose, and Spain’s might at my back? I would be king. I would rule.

Then the moment began to unspool, and as her eyes turned black and I realized she had suspected all along what my choice would be, I whispered: “You must see me dead first,” and she flung up her arm, smashing her cane into my face.

Blood sprayed from my nose. Pain shot through my cheeks, blinding me as I thrust my sword. Swerving with astonishing speed despite her leg, she evaded my blade, which sliced past her, shredding her doublet. With a snarl in her throat, she rushed at me and I saw in her hand the blade she had concealed—a thin rapier yanked from within the cane. As I pivoted, lifting my sword, our blades struck, the impact shuddering through me. She had not lost her skill; the time spent healing her shattered body had lent her extraordinary virtuosity, so that she came at me with ease, her mouth parted, barely a labored breath escaping her as I rallied to defend myself.

Around us, the clang of our blades sparked echoes against the stone vaults. She was maneuvering me to a wall, where she could entrap me. Ducking around a pilaster, I slashed back and forth, keeping her at bay as I raced to the small postern door behind her, through which she had entered the crypt. She was at my heels; as I felt her rapier slash into my shoulder, she said through her teeth, “Loyalty was always your fatal weakness,” and I yanked at the door, releasing the roar of the river beyond, its spume and soaking damp.

My sword slipped from my grip. Agony lanced from my shoulder to my wrist. I vaguely heard my sword clatter behind me as I staggered from her advance onto the slippery waterlogged sterling, struggling to stay upright. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a small vessel moored to the chapel’s quay; within it, a bundled sack of cloth writhed as the current raged past, setting the small boat to tugging at its tether. Soon, the rope holding it would snap and the vessel with Raff inside it would be swept to its doom in the voracious whirlpools under the bridge.

I spun around to face her, my blood-drenched sword hand whipping my poniard from my belt. With an inchoate roar, I flung myself at her to ram my blade into her gut, even if it meant I would in turn impale myself on her sword. We would die together, locked in hatred.

A sudden hiss punctuated the air. She went still. A gasp escaped her lips.

Everything slowed to a crawl: her figure immobile, my poniard still in my hand as her eyes flared wide. Crimson bubbled from her lips. Her blade clattered to her feet as she began to keel, her twisted leg splaying. In a haze, I saw the fletched bolt protruding from between her shoulders and looked past her to a figure behind her in the doorway, crossbow lifted.

Meeting my stare, Dudley pulled back the mechanism and fit another bolt into it.

I was next. Before me, Sybilla crumpled to her knees. Dudley fired again. The bolt slammed into her, blood gushing from her mouth. She collapsed facedown, a dark pool spreading around her as her body twitched and went still.

The world capsized. Voices echoed; there was a clamor of footsteps, hands hauling me up. The searing pain in my shoulder numbed my senses. I could feel blood soaking my doublet, streaming down my chest; as Dudley shouted at someone behind him, “Quick, he needs a physician!” I struggled to resist, clutching at his sleeve to whisper, “The boy is in the boat…”

It was the last thing I remembered saying before oblivion engulfed me.