In Defense of the Queen Read online

  Harry tapped his shoulder from behind, pointing right, and he saw Peter Jack crouched on the ground near the dock at Old Swan.

  Susanna leapt from the cart before he’d even pulled on the reins, and stumbled her first few steps.

  Parker left the cart to Harry, swinging down and reaching Lucas and Peter Jack at the same time she did.

  “He’s alive. I felt him breathe.” Peter Jack lifted a hand and hovered it in front of Lucas’s mouth.

  He was very still, Parker could see why they’d thought him dead, at first. “Did you see what happened?”

  Peter Jack nodded. “Saw two men. One swung something at him from behind and he dropped like a stone.”

  “Thieves?” Susanna began to touch her brother’s head, her long, delicate fingers probing for the injury.

  “Don’t know. We shouted and ran forward, and they took off. We were too far away to see who it was.”

  Parker looked along the bank. Caught the quick movement of someone ducking down. “Perhaps we might yet find out.” He kept his voice low, stood smoothly and flicked out his knife.

  Harry started, his eyes widening, and drew his own knife from his boot. Parker pointed to where the ground sloped down towards the river.

  Beside Susanna, Peter Jack stirred, rising up, and Parker hesitated. Shook his head. “Stay here with my lady.” He waited until Peter Jack had his knife out before he turned away.

  A hand caught his arm, and he looked down at Susanna. She said nothing, her eyes glinting in the light of the lantern they had brought with them, and he wondered how he had lived before she came into his life. Truly could not understand or imagine it.

  He lifted a hand to his mouth and open and closed his fingers and thumb together.

  She gave a nod.

  “We need to get him home and send for the healer.” She spoke evenly, clearly. “We’ll need to move him carefully.”

  He saw her glance across at Peter Jack—still unsure, by the frown on his forehead, if he should be pleased to be appointed her guard or sorry to be left out of the action—and she flourished her hand to get him to reply.

  Their conversation filled the night, and he moved to the river.

  The bank sloped down at a gentle pitch until it was in line with the wooden dock, then dropped off sharply to the river. The tide was out, and most of the bank was exposed.

  Parker dropped to a crouch.

  Harry snaked past him and Parker let him go, following as quietly as he could. The most likely place to find their watcher was under the dock itself, and Harry knew the best approach. He’d bedded down under Old Swan’s wooden boards until only a few months ago.

  Slowly, slowly, they crawled closer, until Harry was flat on his stomach, right beside the opening.

  He looked back and Parker lifted a hand, signalling him to wait. He gave a nod, rising carefully into a crouch.

  In a sudden rush of movement, silent but for the quick in and out of his breath, their prey burst from the narrow gap and took Harry down with an elbow to the face.

  Harry cried out in a voice sharp with pain, and Parker leapt, slamming into the man, his arm coming round for a punch to the ear at the same time.

  The man gave a keening, grunting exclamation, which cut off as they hit the ground hard, the wind sucked right out of the bastard.

  Parker jabbed in another blow, to the ear again, and then they were rolling, flipping weightless for a moment, and Parker braced as they fell into the cold waters of the Thames.

  Because the tide was out, Parker was able to find his footing, and haul the man up. He’d swallowed water, and he came up whooping and choking, limp.

  Peter Jack stood on the bank, hand out, and with a massive effort Parker threw the man up onto the grass and took Peter Jack’s hand, grateful for the help.

  When he was standing again, he rubbed the water out of his hair and eyes, shivering. The day had been warm, but now a cool breeze blew down the river.

  It was too dark to see who it was at his feet.

  “Parker.” There was a sharp edge of panic in Susanna’s voice.

  “I’m safe.” He turned, looking up the bank. Susanna was silhouetted, nothing more than a black shape behind the lantern she held. She picked her way carefully down.

  She reached out a hand and touched his arm, as if to be sure he truly was well. “We must hurry. Harry is badly hurt, now, too . . .” She went very still as the lantern light illuminated the man’s face.

  “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.

  She shook her head. “It can’t be.”

  “Who is it?” He found it hard to speak, his clothes clinging to him, wet and icy cold.

  “Jan Heyman. He’s a . . . friend.” She turned to look at him, her eyes wide, her face white. “He plays flute for the King.”

  * * *

  Susanna was crouched next to Lucas when Maggie walked into the kitchen. The healer didn’t knock, and Susanna saw her eyes widen at the sight of Parker, sitting close to the fire, a blanket draped around him.

  He’d taken off his wet clothes, put on new, but even in his dry clothes, he still shivered. He lifted the cup of mulled wine Mistress Greene had made him to his lips, and his teeth clattered against the side of the mug.

  “Not you this time, eh?” Susanna saw Maggie take in Lucas laid out by the fire and Jan and Harry. Jan was still in his wet clothes and he was hunched over himself, shivering as hard as Parker. Parker had tied his hands and feet, and particularly his hands jerked awkwardly with each shuddering breath he took.

  Harry sat close to Parker, his head back against the wall, eyes closed.

  Maggie went to Harry first, not Lucas, and although Susanna felt a small twinge of guilt, she was glad.

  When had Harry replaced her brother in her heart, or if not replaced him, edged him aside?

  “That cheek might be broken or cracked.” She beckoned behind her, and for the first time, Susanna noticed her little apprentice. Clemence always reminded her of a will-o’-the-wisp, with her delicate bones and her fine hair, white gold against the alabaster of her skin. The only point of colour on the girl’s face was her eyes, and they were a dark brown, shocking on her palette of white on white.

  Despite the circumstance, despite her brother lying senseless at her feet, Susanna’s fingers clenched with the desire to pick up a charcoal pencil. Hungered to make that first mark on parchment. To sketch her.

  Clemence knelt beside Harry now, her pale beauty a contrast to his dark hair and sun-darkened skin. She soaked a rag in whatever potion was in the bowl Maggie held out and lifted it to his face. He winced as she touched it to his cheek, gentle and light as a butterfly dipping into nectar.

  She’d thought at first the girl was no more than eight or nine, but in the months she’d come to know Maggie and her assistant, she’d realized Clemence was at least thirteen, maybe older.

  By the way he held himself, stiff and unsure, Harry knew it, too.

  Susanna stared at them, and a picture grew in her head, like the roar of a crowd, coming closer. She forced herself to stay kneeling on the floor, but could not help looking towards the passageway and the study, where her bag with her paper and pens were kept.

  “Which one next?”

  She shook her head clear, and looked into Maggie’s direct gaze.

  “My brother, here.” She shuffled back a little to give Maggie room.

  Maggie said nothing, but her gaze slid to Jan, pale, with blue lips and shuddering body. Then she turned her focus on Lucas, and, like Susanna had done earlier at the dock, felt his head, her fingers moving with soft grace.

  “There is no crack, or if there is, it’s too fine to feel.” She looked up. “He should wake. With a headache, and in need of some days in bed, but he should wake.”

  The edge of uncertainty in her words forced Susanna to pull herself closer, a supplicant at the altar of hope. “But he may not?”

  “Head blows.” Maggie shrugged. “Nothing is certain with head blows
.”

  Lucas lay still and pale, but there was a flash of movement to her left and Susanna found Jan watching her, his head bobbing as he shivered, his hair wet and sticking to his scalp. His brown eyes were hot with emotion.

  She’d enjoyed Jan’s presence in Henry’s court, had smiled each time Jan spotted her, and lifted his flute to warble a little hello whenever she had entered a room where he was playing. “Lucas was your friend. I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t answer, but his gaze slid to Parker and back to her. And he lifted his bound hands towards her. As if she would simply lean forward and untie him. As if her loyalty was somehow with him.

  She stared at him, wondering if he had lost his wits.

  A movement beside her made her turn, and she saw Maggie leaning back on her haunches, watching the exchange. “Parker and Peter Jack can carry your brother to a bed. You’ll need to watch him, try to wake him in the morning. If he opens his eyes, you call me and don’t let him go back to sleep.”

  Susanna nodded.

  “Now him.” Maggie gestured to Jan.

  “He was the one who hit Lucas and Harry.” She saw Jan’s eyes widen at that, and his mouth opened. “Parker tumbled him into the river.”

  “He hit my ear.” Jan spat the words as if he still had Thames water in his mouth. “If I’m deafened, I can’t play any more. I’m finished.” He breathed deeply. “And I didn’t hit Lucas. Are you mad? He sent word for me to meet him. I was just in time to see him attacked and then those . . .” he pointed to Peter Jack and Harry with a shaking finger, “ruffians arrived. I was afraid for my life.”

  There was silence in the room.

  Susanna tried to see Peter Jack and Harry as a stranger would. They were only just entering manhood. Still thin from their years living on the street, but at an age where they were growing taller every day.

  There was an edge to them, especially Harry. But for all their tough looks, they were at least a head shorter than Jan, and thin and wiry to his more solid bulk.

  She looked back at Jan and raised an eyebrow. He turned away, shivering.

  “When you saw Susanna, why did you remain hidden?” Parker spoke from the hearth, his words cold and measured.

  “I didn’t see it was her. By then it was too dark.” Jan turned back to her, but his look was not beseeching, it was furious.

  “You hurt Harry.” She looked him straight in the eye. “We assumed the worst.”

  “And you could be lying.” Parker stood. Took two steps and loomed over the musician.

  “Look in my pouch.” Jan ignored Parker, his eyes holding hers. “You’ll see the note Lucas sent me earlier today.”

  “I don’t know when Lucas could have sent you anything.” Susanna lifted the pouch, as wet as the rest of him, and wondered if any note could have survived the tumble into the Thames. Perhaps Jan was counting on just such a likelihood. “He only arrived this morning. How did he know where to find you?”

  Jan raised his eyes, and she saw he was trying to communicate something to her. She frowned back and his earnest expression turned confused. Irritated.

  He slid his gaze again to Parker and seemed to come to a conclusion. “We have been writing to each other, now and then. Keeping in touch. He knew where to reach me.”

  She lifted the flap on his pouch, and pulled it wide, exposing the contents to the light of the fire. There were coins, and a piece of parchment, ruined completely by the water. She lifted it out, but it tore as she tried to unroll it, and what ink had been on it had run to a dark green nothingness.

  She knelt closer to him, smelt the stink of mud and wet wool. He was still shivering, little shakes of his body. He shot her another look, loaded with meaning. It baffled her.

  Frustration flashed through her, and she slammed her fist on the floor.

  “Jan. Enough of this.”

  Parker turned his head sharply to her. Jan looked up, mouth open.

  “What is it you think I know?”

  Chapter Nine

  It seems to me a very unjust thing to take away a man’s life for a little money, for nothing in the world can be of equal value with a man’s life:

  Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

  The musician was arse-deep in trouble, and he was just starting to realize it.

  Parker watched his face as it dawned on him the ally he thought he had did not exist. That Susanna was not his saviour. Was not in on whatever secret he thought she knew.

  Parker had a feeling whatever it was, it was serious. Dangerous. Or he would have been tempted to smile at Heyman’s expression as he realized his mistake.

  Smile, and then take the bastard by the throat and squeeze whatever he knew out of him.

  The musician hunched further in on himself, and then spat, the spittle landing just short of Susanna’s shoes.

  “Verrader.” His whisper sounded over-loud in the hush that fell over the room.

  Susanna went white, her eyes wide. She rose up and stumbled back a step.

  Peter Jack stood, and Harry ducked around Clemence, pushing up on his knees.

  Parker moved down into a crouch, smooth and so fast he saw Heyman’s eyes widen in surprise. His hands shook with suppressed violence.

  “I’m not sure what you just called my betrothed, but from her face, it was nothing good.” He lifted his knife, and let it catch the gleam of firelight. Heyman’s breath hitched.

  The musician had possessed a cocky assurance since they had caught him, but at last reality was settling in.

  “Answer Susanna’s question.” He kept his voice low. “What is it you think she knows?”

  “Not here.” Jan’s hiss was ruined by the chattering of his teeth.

  “Here. And now.”

  The musician looked around the room, and for the first time noticed Peter Jack and Harry were just as focused on him as Parker was himself. Harry’s cheek had swollen up and darkened, already turning purple, and Heyman swallowed, the sound audible.

  At last—at last—the bastard understood his position.

  “I thought she was . . .” He flicked a glance up at Susanna and then miserably down at his soaked boots. “I thought she was one of us.”

  “One of who?” Susanna folded her arms across her chest, and Parker saw her eyes were hard. Hard as they were when someone mentioned the Boleyns or Wolsey. Whatever he’d called her, Heyman had a crossed a line with her and she would not forgive him.

  The question seemed to spark something in Heyman. He gave a little nod, as if decided on his course. He leant forward, and waited until Parker tipped his head closer.

  “We are—”

  Parker had only an instant’s warning, a moment, as he saw a look harden in Heyman’s eyes. Too late to move, too late to do anything but take the blow.

  Pain exploded as Heyman head-butted him. He fell back, swinging his arm as he did, felt his fist connect with the musician’s jaw. The pain in his fist was equal to that in his head.

  He rolled, rocked himself up to sitting, cradling his hand. Susanna’s arms came around him, and he lifted his fingertips to rub his forehead. S’blood, it was agony.

  The musician was sprawled unconscious on the floor beside Lucas. Harry stood over him, hard-faced.

  Parker closed his eyes, the pain hitting like waves on a shore—slap, slap, slap.

  “What did he call you?” It was hard to talk, he wanted to do nothing but lie down. Make the pain go away.

  He felt Susanna’s hands on him again, pressing a soothing, cool cloth against his head.

  “He called me a traitor.”

  * * *

  Simon, the King’s cartsman, slipped into the room with no announcement.

  Susanna lifted her head at the creak of the door, and blinked at him, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  Simon nodded to where Parker sat, head back against his chair, and she saw his eyes had opened at her words.

  “Who else sends for me at midnight with no explanation?
” Simon moved closer to the fire, and rubbed his arms, his eyes flicking to the door, as if assessing his chances of a quick escape.

  She frowned. “You sent one of the boys to fetch Simon?” She didn’t want Harry or Peter Jack—or God forbid, Eric—out on the streets. She had the sense of being in a maze, or a web, with every turn unknown and deadly. She could not protect them from a danger she didn’t understand.

  “I got Harry to send one of his boys. No one knows them. Or, if they do, we are deeper in this mire than we thought.” Parker spoke as if each word was painful to get out. There was a lump on his forehead, and Maggie had plastered it and wrapped it, leaving him looking like a casualty of war.

  “What trouble, this time?” Simon faced them both, and Susanna was not imagining the tension in his body, the way he seemed to lean towards the door. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

  They had called on him in the past for help, but Parker always gave back as generously as he took. Simon’s current position at court was Parker’s doing and Simon knew it. Had never stinted in his assistance before.

  “Spies.” Parker spoke with no hesitation, and Susanna wondered if he noticed Simon flinch at the word. His eyes were closed again and he took a deep sip of the chamomile tea spiced with cloves Maggie had given him.

  Simon glanced at her, and she stared back until he looked away. Towards the door, again. “There are spies everywhere.” He kept his voice low.

  “Aye.” Parker shifted in his chair. “Did you know the King’s flute player is most likely a spy for Margaret of Austria?”

  “He’s previously from her court, so it doesn’t surprise me. But what can he know that is of any consequence?”

  Susanna stood. “One might say the same of you, Simon Carter. Or of me. We both know for someone who has their ears open, there is much to gather at court.”

  Simon’s fists clenched. “One might say it of you, mistress. But I have no allegiance to another court.”

  “I spoke of our positions, not our past allegiances.” She said the words slowly, reeling at his tone, at the way he looked at her, suspicious and angry. “As the King’s cartsman, you know details of his movements, of the location of his possessions, that others do not. As his illuminator, papers pass through my hands that some may wish to know of. The King calls for music often. What might he have spoken of in the hearing of his players that others would find of interest?”