didn’t put enough poison on that seal to do more than sicken you. Your squire must not have weighed much, for it to have worked so quickly. It was an unfortunate accident.”
“Accident?” My voice rose in fury. “He died because of you!”
“I know. I … regret it.” She spoke as though the sentiment were unfamiliar, difficult to enunciate. She was the same woman who had wept in my arms, shown me such concern and taken me inside her, and yet she was not, as if she’d shed her skin to reveal an equally beautiful but far deadlier persona.
“This elaborate deception of yours must have a reason,” I went on. “You do not work for Renard, so whom do you serve?”
“Haven’t you guessed by now? You’ve pieced the rest of it together with remarkable facility.” She trailed her hand over the desk, forcing me to angle my blade to prevent her approach. She stopped at the edge of the desk, a few paces from where I stood. “Renard was always too unyielding,” she said. “And he serves an equally unyielding master. Charles V may be emperor, but he’s shackled to the past, much like Mary herself. He cannot forgive himself for what he did to Mary’s mother, his aunt Catherine of Aragon. He promised to assist Catherine against King Henry’s annulment of their marriage, but Catherine died alone in a remote manor, while Anne Boleyn, the witch- queen, assumed her place. For all his avowals, Charles did nothing.” She paused, looking at me. “His conscience must have plagued him for years. Then Mary took the throne, and he saw a way to redeem himself. He’d wed his son Philip to her; they would return England to the Catholic faith and kill all the heretics, and the past would be put to right. Only one thing stood in his way.”
“Elizabeth,” I breathed.
“Yes. The witch-queen’s daughter. She was dangerous. The heretics would fight for her; she had to be dealt with. The emperor sent Renard here with orders to negotiate the marriage and ensure Elizabeth did not survive it.” She went quiet again, her expression pensive. “As I said, they are unyielding. My master, on the other hand, understands the need for compromise. He sees no reason to dispose of a potential asset.”
“He…?” My skin crawled. She spoke so matter-of-factly, as though these were matters that people discussed every day. Perhaps they did. Perhaps where she came from, conversations about whether or not to destroy a princess were part of daily life.
She tilted back her head, her laughter sultry. “How can it be that you still refuse to see what is right before you? The emperor views the world through eyes that grow old before their time. But Philip of Spain does not. He is still young, virile. He will only sacrifice himself on the altar of his father’s guilt if he can reap the benefit.”
“You-you serve Philip?” I asked in horror. “He is your master?”
“He hired me to be his special agent. He’s known me for years; I grew up in his mother’s court. He also knew I had spied for Renard, and he promised me freedom-a noble marriage and my own household, a dowry for my sister, refuge for my mother. All I had to do was use Renard’s enmity to destroy Courtenay, a rival for Mary’s hand, as well as any others who opposed the Hapsburg alliance. But Philip insisted that he mustn’t be held responsible. Whatever blood is shed must be on Mary’s hands alone.”
“Dear God,” I whispered. “Why…?” Then, with sickening clarity, the final piece of the mystery slid into place. “It’s been about Elizabeth, all this time. Philip wants her.”
She smiled. “Does it surprise you? The prince is a modern man; he doesn’t care about the past. His father is weary. When Charles abdicates, Philip stands to inherit half the empire. Why suffer the older sister’s bed unless he has the assurance that in time, he can have the younger’s? But Elizabeth must be brought to heel; all those who support her heretical leanings must die. And once Mary fails to bear a child and succumbs, as she must, Elizabeth will be his. Through her, he will sire heirs to make all Europe tremble-a Tudor-Hapsburg dynasty to rule the world.”
I felt sick. “You are mad.
“Oh,” replied Sybilla, with a lift of her chin, “she will, if she hopes to live. Her letter to Dudley confirms that she knew about the revolt.” Her voice darkened. “The game is over. Not even you can save her.”
I lunged forward, swiping my blade across the desk. I relished her swift inhale as she stepped back warily, her eyes on my sword. “Give it to me. Give me her letter.”
She did not flinch. “Why do you insist on fighting for what is already lost? That letter belongs to Philip now. He owns the knowledge that Elizabeth consented to treason in her own hand. When Wyatt and his men reach London, the queen will order her arrest. Renard will make sure Elizabeth is blamed for everything and see her locked in the Tower. The only one who can save her is the husband Mary desires so fervently she’ll do anything he asks, including spare her treacherous sister. Philip will be Elizabeth’s savior. And in time, Elizabeth will be his.”
“Not if I warn her first.” I raised my blade. She flattened herself against the wall. As she gazed at me, at last I gleaned in her face what I craved.
Fear.
A spasm went through me. I despised her with every part of my being, but the memory of my desire for her still clung to me like chains. She was a woman. I had never killed anyone. I knew her death was necessary if I was to save Elizabeth. The letter had to be hidden somewhere, awaiting Philip’s arrival. Sybilla would never entrust it to another. I might never find it, but if she was dead, neither would anyone else. I could gain Elizabeth valuable time before-
I hesitated too long. With a leap aside, she yanked a blade from within her sleeve and slashed it across my arm. Hot pain and a gush of blood broke my focus. I swerved away from her, flinging up my cloak to thwart her next stab.
Instead, she ran to the doorway.
I spun about. As I lunged toward her with my sword lifted, this time ready to cleave her in two, she kicked the side table holding the lantern. It fell onto the heap under the window and shattered. With terrifying suddenness, the piled rushes and rags burst into a flame, startling me and causing me to fling my hands up. She had doused the heap with tallow oil-that was the odor I had smelled and failed to identify.
Sybilla slammed the door shut. I reached it in time to hear a key turn in the lock. I yanked at the latch, shouting at the top of my lungs, hammering with my sword hilt, oblivious to the spray of blood from my wounded arm.
Then I slowly turned back to the room. My heart capsized in my chest. The flames were leaping up the wall, feeding on the brittle pile and oil like a ravenous beast.
My eyes started to water. Forcing myself to stay calm, I moved as far as I could from the conflagration and scanned the room. There was no other way out except through that window. Sybilla had planned this; she had brought me here for this specific end.
I was going to die.
The smoke thickened, gusting up to the low ceiling like the clouds of an incoming storm. In seconds, it would fill the room and I’d suffocate. I’d lose consciousness; by the time the flames reached me, I wouldn’t feel it. When it was done, when the manor had collapsed in smoldering ruins, there’d be nothing left save my charred bones.
A howl struggled in my throat. I looked about desperately, and my gaze fell on the decanter and untouched goblet. I yanked up my hood, sheathed my sword, and tore my gauntlets from my belt. Grabbing the goblet, I poured ale over my trembling gloved hands. Then I soaked my hood and threw the empty decanter aside. It wasn’t enough; ten pitchers wouldn’t have been enough, but as I turned resolutely to the fire, I knew I had no choice. I could feel the heat through my clothes, as if the flames already licked my flesh …
Hunching my shoulders, I stepped forward. The ground shifted under my feet. I looked down. The floorboards … they were moving …
A dull roar filled my head. I coughed, lurching forward. It was the smoke. I was being strangled by it, deluded into seeing things that weren’t there. If I could just push through that writhing screen of flame to grab hold of the window latch-
I didn’t think I was moving to my death or hear the section of floor creaking open behind me until rough hands grabbed hold of me, pulling me back, yanking me down into a hole. Only then did I realize the piercing sound in my ears was my own scream.
“Get moving, before it all comes down on top of us,” an urgent voice said. I dragged myself after the hulking figure who’d rescued me, my smoke-singed nostrils detecting a faint trace of wet earth. I was in a tunnel under the manor, a secret escape passage. Slimy water sloshed underfoot; it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. Gradually it
