In a Treacherous Court (28 page)

T
he buzz of conversation in the Queen’s dining hall was so loud Susanna didn’t hear the first few words whispered in her ear. She jerked around at the tickle of breath against her skin.

“Pardon?” She stepped away from the woman standing right beside her, and wondered why she crowded so close.

“The Queen wishes your company, mistress.” The woman did not meet her eyes, her gaze darting about the room. She hunched her shoulders, ill at ease despite the finery of her dress.

Did the Queen also believe she was Elizabeth Carew’s replacement as her husband’s mistress? If so, this would be a most uncomfortable interview. “The Queen wishes me to sketch her?”

The lady-in-waiting looked startled, as if she had no idea what Susanna was talking about, and Susanna felt her stomach plummet. The Queen obviously
did
believe her nothing more than a new bedmate for the King. She pasted on a bright smile. “I’ll need to retrieve my satchel with my paper and charcoals. I left them in the antechamber of the Queen’s rooms.” They would be armor of a sort, and perhaps help convince the Queen of the truth.

“The Queen is in her bedchamber downstairs. You will follow me immediately.” For some reason, the woman’s words were more panicked than authoritative.

“As soon as I have my satchel. An artist is no use without her tools.” Susanna was determined to have her paper and pencil with her. She cursed Mary’s suggestion that she leave
them behind when they had been called to a repast in the dining hall set aside for the Queen and her ladies.

As Susanna turned, she saw the woman’s eyes flash, and was shocked at the pure hatred there. It made Susanna more determined than ever to get her satchel.

Mary had said some of the ladies were hostile to the King’s latest mistress out of loyalty to the Queen, and this focused rage was an uncomfortable taste.

She stepped out of the dining chamber and turned in the direction of the Queen’s receiving rooms, down the passage and around a corner, but the woman was once again far closer to her than she’d realized. She’d closed the dining chamber door behind them, and as the sounds of the chatter within were muted, she gripped Susanna’s shoulder.

Her hold was cruel and biting, and with a cry, Susanna jerked away. “My lady, I am a painter from Ghent, here at the King’s request, and I have no wish to be abused!”

Again, the woman looked startled, and she stepped back a fraction. “A painter?”

“Aye. You see now why I must get my bag. I am not the King’s new mistress. My satchel is the proof of that.”

The woman blinked; then her gaze focused just behind Susanna.

Susanna felt the hairs on her neck stir, and as she turned her head a hand came around to clamp over her mouth. She was pulled against a man’s body, his arm as biting as a steel band.

“Margaret here doesn’t know about painters or mistresses, and I know for a fact she’s never met the Queen.” The low
voice in her ear sounded amused, the hard, cruel undertone freezing her in place. “You won’t need that satchel of yours where we’re taking you.”

Susanna’s heart thumped in panic. She tried to scream, tried to twist away, but he tightened his grip and pressed his hand more viciously into her mouth. She could smell sweat and the sweet, green scent of hay on him.

Without even a grunt of effort, he lifted her off her feet, leaving her to kick uselessly at the air.

“The way clear?” Margaret asked, her cold eyes never leaving Susanna’s face.

“Aye. I paid the servants to look the other way for ten minutes.” He seemed relaxed, holding her easily.

More than anything else, his self-confidence thrust a cold, roiling ball of fear into her stomach.

“Come on, then.” The woman stepped ahead of them, moving away from the Queen’s rooms, and slipped down the service staircase at the end of the passageway.

“Time to get you tucked away, nice and safe,” the man said.

Susanna tried to bite his hand, to fling herself from him, but he was immensely strong. He held her firmly, laughing softly at her attempts as he followed his accomplice down the stairs.

Tucked away nice and safe? As she panted with exertion and frustration, Susanna wondered at his words. It sounded as if he did not mean to kill her.

Which left only one alternative.

Parker should have hidden his regard for her. They were about to use her against him.

The Chiefe Conditions and Qualities in a Courtier:
Not to be overseene in speaking wordes otherwhile that may offende where he ment it not.

Of the Chief Conditions and Qualityes in a Waytyng Gentylwoman:
Not to mingle with grave and sad matters, meerie jestes and laughinge matters: nor with mirth, matters of gravitie.

I
s that the call to hunt?” Norfolk swung his head in the direction of the bugle call, then turned back to Parker. The clear, full notes of the call settled over them like the snow blanketing the squat rosebushes among which they stood.

“So it seems.” Parker kept his eyes on Norfolk.

“Your threat to take me to the King was a bluff.” Norfolk’s voice rose. “He wasn’t in his closet at all, he was at the stables.”

Norfolk drew himself up, vibrating anger, and Parker’s sword hand twitched. “Knowing what I do about you, I wouldn’t let you within ten feet of the King.”

“Damn you, Parker. You go too far.”

“I could go further. The King has given me his full support.
I don’t need to remind you what happened to Buckingham when he was tried for treason. I heard your father cried as he sentenced him, sir. You know you are not above the same fate at the chopping block.”

Norfolk blanched, his posture collapsing as he took a stumbling step back. He looked stricken. “You remind me of the worst day of my life. Of my father’s life.”

“One you may well relive as the guilty party this time, instead of the judge. Unlike Buckingham’s case, we don’t just have the disaffected testimony of staff and the foolish movement of troops as evidence. We have a full-blown plot.”

“And what plot is that?” Norfolk’s face was impossible to read.

“Sir.” Harry’s voice rang out in warning from a large lemon tree in the corner of the garden.

Parker’s hand went to his sword, but the man approaching was in servants’ dress, unarmed. He had a hard-edged, cocky look about him and he was well-built and strong, but no threat against a sword and knife. It was a relief.

Having pressed every able-bodied man he trusted into service protecting the King today, Parker was vulnerable if Norfolk had more accomplices of Fielder’s caliber available to him.

The servant picked his way through the garden toward them and Norfolk went to intercept him, white-lipped and agitated. They put their heads together, and Parker noticed that the man stumbled over his message, a curious, pent-up energy in him.

Norfolk smiled, and when at last he stepped back, his
expression was smug. The servant turned to gaze at Parker, a long, considering look that made Parker think of cats crouched over fishponds. Parker’s knife dropped into his palm.

Norfolk’s gaze fixed on Parker’s hand. “Put it away.” He shot a quick, furious look at the servant, and the man turned and walked off at an easy pace.

“I do not take orders from you, Norfolk.” Parker held himself still, waiting for the bad news.

“That’s about to change.” The smug look was back on Norfolk’s face. “If you want to see your Flemish painter alive, you’ll start listening to me very, very closely.”

H
er satchel sat abandoned against the far wall of the Queen’s antechamber. Parker lifted the bag up, because she would not forgive him if it was lost.

“Sir?”

Parker turned and saw a young woman he recognized from court. She was holding a piece of paper in her hands, and she stepped boldly from the huddle of women that had formed when he’d flung the door open and stormed in with the surprised yeomen at his heels.

“I see from the way you touch Mistress Horenbout’s satchel that you care for her.”

She looked at him intently, then flicked her eyes toward the door.

“You are right.” Parker held out his arm as naturally as he could.

She took it with a smile and a curtsy.

“I do not know who arranged for her abduction, sir.” The woman pitched her voice for his ears alone. “It could be one of the ladies, although I did see a servant look overlong at her when they came to deliver the Queen’s repast to her chamber.”

Parker felt a jolt at that. Norfolk had made use of servants throughout his scheme. But to have someone serving the Queen … The thought lodged sharp-edged shards of ice in his gut.

“That alone is valuable information. Thank you.” They were nearing the door, although Parker was walking as slowly as he could.

She spoke quickly. “I saw the woman she spoke with. I think the woman who lured Mistress Horenbout out of the room is Norfolk’s mistress. My mother knows his wife, who has complained about the woman many times. She once pointed her out to my mother, although they were not aware I was listening to their conversation.”

They had reached the door, and Parker bowed smartly over her hand. “My thanks,” he murmured, his heart pounding at hearing her revelation.

She curtsied in return, and Parker stepped into the passageway.

“Halt.”

The strident voice of Lady Guildford cut across the room. For a moment, Parker considered ignoring her.

“Parker.” Her voice was like a whip crack.

He turned, his teeth clenched, impatient to be away.

“The Queen wishes to speak with you, sir.”

Parker forced himself to bow. His smile would have done credit to a death mask. Norfolk had given him an hour to see for himself that Susanna was gone, and he had never dealt well with the Queen.

No matter his personal regard for her intelligence and her courtesy, they were both very aware where his loyalties lay. And he knew it rankled her that he knew far more than she about her husband’s business.

Lady Guildford raised an imperious eyebrow. Parker stepped back into the room with an inward shout of frustration and made his way to the door of the inner sanctum.

Who could disobey a summons from the Queen?

The Chiefe Conditions and Qualities in a Courtier:
To have the vertues of the minde, as justice, manlinesse, wisdome, temperance, staideness, noble courage, sober-moode, etc.

Of the Chief Conditions and Qualityes in a Waytyng Gentylwoman:
Not willinglie to give eare to suche as report ill of other women.

T
he gentle rock of the rowboat knocked Susanna’s forehead against the rough wood support of the side seat with every ripple that hit the bow. Splinters poked through the sack that encased her, digging into her skin and adding to her misery at being bound and gagged, lying in the filthy, icy water at the bottom of the boat.

She was alone, and in this they had been especially wily. They had stuffed her into a hessian sack that stank of oily, wet wool and to the casual eye she was nothing but a lump at the bottom of a small, battered boat tied just off the banks of the river.

Parker would never think to look for her here.