Keeper of the King's Secrets (9 page)

Those who strive to obtain the good graces of a prince are accustomed to come before him with such things as they hold most precious, or in which they see him take most delight; whence one often sees horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones, and similar ornaments presented to princes, worthy of their greatness.

—Machiavelli
, The Prince,
dedication

P
arker had sent Peter Jack back to Crooked Lane, but now he regretted it.

The occupants of the house Pettigrew had visited on London Bridge were packing up, and Parker would’ve felt happier to have Peter Jack or Harry with him, to follow if the cart went one way and the man Pettigrew had spoken to another.

He’d wanted to take some control, instead of being flotsam on a raging tide, and his decision to come here, rather than wander the streets where he’d lost the assassin the afternoon before, had served him well.

The pile of furniture and trunks being loaded into the cart was growing. If he’d come half an hour later, he might have missed them.

He watched the house from a sheltered corner of a stall selling pies. The pie seller had urged him to stand awhile out of the wind, and it was a good place to loiter.

He lifted the meat pie to his mouth and took a bite, and rich flavor, lamb cooked with wine and rosemary, spilled onto his tongue.

“I will be back to buy more,” he said, his mouth half full, and the stallholder grinned.

“This is a good spot for you,” Parker commented casually as the man wrapped up six pies for another customer. He pointed to the houses on the north side of the bridge. “Those who live nearby buy from you often, I have no doubt.”

The stallholder snorted. “Some do. Some don’t.”

“Who would not?” He kept his tone mildly curious.

“The Englishmen do, that’s true.” The pie seller tied the bundle of pies with string. “The foreigners, though, they ain’t used to our cooking.”

“There are a lot of foreigners living on the bridge?” Parker watched heat flare in the seller’s eyes.

“One’s more than there should be, you ask me. I’ve been trying to rent rooms in a house here for years.
Years.
If I could live nearer my stall, or have a little shop instead of a stall, it would be much easier—but the rents they want.” He shook his head. “Then some wealthy foreigners come and move in.”

“And don’t buy your pies, on top of it.” Parker’s voice was dry.

The stallholder nodded. “Aye. Insult to injury.”

“But I’m curious; where do these foreigners come from?”

“The ones across there, the ones leaving.” The stallholder pointed at the cart. “From the Low Countries.”

“Ah.” Parker swallowed the last of his pie. “Merchants?”

The stallholder shrugged. “Cloth. Some say ’tis very fine.”

Parker let his gaze wander to the house again. “Well, perhaps a few rooms in the house will be available to you, as they seem to be taking everything with them.”

The pie seller twisted his mouth in an expression that said he wouldn’t hold his breath.

Parker turned away and began to walk slowly past the other stalls, allowing himself to be jostled by the traffic, his eyes never leaving the cart.

What had Norfolk wanted from here, that he had sent Pettigrew to get for him? And what had put the fright into his informer?

He tensed as a couple approached the cart, skirted around it, and stepped up to the door.

The man guarding the cart called out to them and the woman turned to respond, lifting the hood of her cloak and speaking in a foreign tongue.

Parker’s mouth dropped open, and he closed it with a snap.

It was Susanna.

“
W
ho are you?” The man beside the cart switched to Flemish.

“Susanna Horenbout, of Ghent, sir. I heard a friend of my father’s might be living here, and I came to inquire.”

The man’s fists uncurled, but when he looked at Harry, his eyes were hard.

“And him?” He jerked his head in Harry’s direction.

“My page. It is very dangerous in this city, no? Not like Ghent.”

“True enough.” He looked around him sourly. “Not that I’m from Ghent, but anywhere in the Low Countries would show well next to this cesspit.”

“I see that you are leaving. Are you going back home?”

He nodded, curt and suddenly silent.

Susanna felt Harry fidget beside her. She wasn’t moving fast enough for him. “Could you tell me who lives here? I am not sure I have come to the right place.” She smiled at the cart man as if they shared a secret. “My father does not understand how large London is, and he has a friend living somewhere near here. I heard a fellow countryman was in this house, and thought perhaps it was the man my father is urging me to visit.”

The man shifted, wary, but before he could answer her the door opened, and two men wrestled a heavy chest down the steps.

Harry drew in a surprised breath, and she could feel his body tense.

“That is the last one.” One of the men stood back, brushing his doublet and breathing deeply. He was better dressed than the other two, and his hair and hands looked well tended.

He gave a startled shout when he caught sight of Susanna and tried to cover it, placing a hand to his heart.

“My apologies, my lady. I did not realize I had visitors.”

“I am sorry to startle you.” Susanna curtsied deeply. “I am from Ghent and—”

“A fellow countrywoman.” He laughed, the sound too wild, too full of relief. “As you see, we are on our way home, and very busy.”

“I apologize for disturbing you, sir. Had I known you were leaving, I would of course have come sooner, but I was told someone in this house was perhaps a friend of my father, and that I should visit you—”

“Someone mentioned me by name?” He spoke as if there were hands around his throat, squeezing.

“No. Someone at court—”

“Who?” He reached out, grabbing her arm in a tight grip, but even as Harry stepped forward a hand shot out from the street, squeezing the man’s arm so hard, Susanna saw his face go pale.

Parker.

The man slid his gaze left. “Unhand me, sir.” He spoke in Flemish, but his meaning was clear.

“Not until you unhand my lady.”

Susanna winced. Parker was speaking through gritted teeth.

“What’s this?” The cart man took a step toward them, but Parker’s gaze did not leave her assailant’s face.

Harry’s hand slid to his boot.

There was a pause, the threat of violence hanging clear in the air, then the grip on her arm was suddenly gone. She took
a step back, rubbing the spot. There would be a bruise. Something for Parker to grumble about later, she was sure.

“That was swift indeed, my lord.” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. “I sent Eric to find you not twenty minutes ago.”

“Did you? I must have missed him.” He spoke as if his jaws were locked together, and suddenly Susanna wanted to laugh. She realized if they were alone, he would quite cheerfully be strangling her.

“Who do you seek, my lady?” The gentleman edged closer to his door.

Susanna lifted her gaze to his. “I seek one of my father’s close friends. Jens of Antwerp.”

The man stumbled on the steps, then he spun to the doorway and ran through it.

For injuries ought to be done all at one time, so that, being tasted less, they offend less; benefits ought to be given little by little, so that the flavour of them may last longer.

—Machiavelli
, The Prince,
chapter 8

P
arker watched the merchant run into his hole, a hole with no escape. The door of the house stood open and he hauled Susanna with him up the stairs and into the entrance hall. Harry was right on his heels and as soon as he was in, Parker slammed the door shut and locked it.

He ignored the shouts and hammering from the street.

He turned and eyed the two of them with annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed the cart driver from Norfolk’s to this house earlier.” Harry avoided his stare. “He gave a note to a boy to deliver to the Duke, and stayed to make sure it was. Upset the Duke mightily, it did.”

“Mmmm.”

“I saw they were packing up, came to find you, but you weren’t home.” Harry concentrated on pulling his knife from his boot.

Susanna put a hand on his arm. “I suggested sending Eric to get you. When Harry told me they were from the Low Countries, I thought I might be able to delay them.” She smiled at him, serene and beautiful, as perplexing as a warm wind in winter. And as devastating.

“Why did you think to offer up Jens’s name?” It was the most dangerous one she could have given, no matter that it had produced the most startling result.

“It was all I could think of.”

“My lord.” Harry at last looked up at him. “When the merchant came down the stairs with that chest I recognized him right away, but had no chance to tell Mistress Horenbout.”

“Recognized him?” Parker frowned.

“Aye. He was the man who visited Jens for ten minutes the night he was killed.”

Parker felt the first flames of success warming his belly. This was progress. “Let us go ask our man a few questions.” He unsheathed his sword, flicked his knife into his hand. The merchant was desperate enough to be dangerous.

From a room at the back he heard shutters bang, and with a feeling of dread he raced down the hall and flung open the door to a good-sized room stripped almost bare. The shutters were hanging wide-open.

Could the merchant be so mad as to go into the water?

He reached the window and peered down, leaning over the
edge to see the man climbing down a rope ladder attached to hooks in the wall.

The ladder hung against the brick and stone of the bridge and swayed as the merchant grappled with it. Down below, a huddle of boats bided their time a short distance from the bridge, waiting for the waters to calm.

Parker could hear the roar that came with the ebb tide. The river was cut off by the bridge, choked suddenly in its journey and forced to squeeze itself between the narrow spans. There would be a difference in the level of water from one side of the bridge to the other of perhaps a man’s height, and Parker could see its raging power, the churning white foam flinging up a fine spray.

He sheathed his sword, slipped his knife back up his sleeve, and swung himself out over the window.

“No!” Susanna’s shout jerked his head up as he took the first step.

“I can’t let him get away.” Parker tested the strength of the rope and took another step down.

“What do you want me to do, sir?” Harry’s head joined Susanna’s.

“Take my lady and meet me down below on the bank.”

“Parker.” Susanna’s eyes were wide, her voice faint, as if from lack of breath.

Before, he would have thrown himself into the chase with no fears, but he had so much more to lose these days.

He reached up and touched her hand, then moved down the rope as fast as he could. The wind whipped up by the
raging water lifted his cloak about him, battering his face and getting in his eyes.

When he was halfway down, he risked a look between his feet and saw he was gaining on his quarry. What could he do when he caught the merchant that wouldn’t endanger them both?

Now that he was lower down, nearer the river, he heard a faint sound of shouting over the roar of the water, and turned his head to see the watermen gesturing and calling.

Telling him and the merchant they were mad, no doubt, and he couldn’t disagree. The merchant was nearly at the end of the rope ladder, and he dropped down onto the pier at the base of the pillar.

He began to call to the watermen, waving at them to collect him.

Parker moved faster. It would be madness for the watermen to sail under the bridge at ebb tide, but some of the watermen
were
mad. They shot the bridge as a badge of honor, braving the torrent and flying through the air to the other side.

The merchant looked up and for a moment they stared at each other, gazes locked.

With a wrench, the merchant looked away, scrabbling in an inner pocket. He drew out a gem and held it up to the light.