The Queen's Dwarf A Novel (45 page)

“Since you have served Buckingham, I wondered if you ever met one of his servants. A man named Uriel Ware.”

“Uriel in the duke’s employ!” Felton exclaimed with honest astonishment. “It is hard to picture the boy I knew working for a libertine like Buckingham. Especially after what Uriel’s mother did.”

“What did she do?”

“Made my mother sick for three months afterward. She’d wake up, sobbing. Ware’s mother saw him staring at a girl at meeting. Cut out his eye for it. Meant to cut off his prick as well, but my father took the knife before she could finish it.”

Horror flooded through me. What had the boy felt? Seeing that knife coming at him? Blinded, bleeding, his maddened mother fumbling at his crotch to butcher him even more? Had she damaged him somehow despite Felton’s father’s interference? Was that why he loathed women so much?

We walked in silence until we reached the inn.

“Where are you going?” I asked him as we said good-bye.

“To visit my cousin’s boy.” He adjusted his sleeve. “Lad has an itch to go to sea. I intend to make certain he never will.”

*   *   *

I hired some men to search for my horse, then watched from the inn’s highest window, willing the beast—and my special saddle—to appear over the hillside. When at long last they did so—the horse lathered, the saddle askew—I had to wait for grooms to rub her down with straw to keep the beast from foundering, have the blacksmith repair a thrown shoe, and then wait while a storm drenched the earth.

It was dawn on August twenty-third by the time I rode into Portsmouth, damning myself for the time I had lost. The misfortune with my horse had prevented me from concluding my grisly mission before the duchess arrived at her husband’s side. From my hiding place behind a tangle of gorse, I had watched the ducal envoys ride past three days before, the duchess’s face just visible inside the coach that jounced in the procession’s midst. It seemed cold-blooded to cut down a husband in front of a wife. Yet was she not responsible for linking my brother with the Jesuit who could get him killed? Would she recognize me? I was an easy figure to pick out if one knew me—unless I passed at first glance as a child.

I would just have to hope I could make Boku’s illusion work when the time came. It seemed easy enough. I would appear to be some unpaid soldier’s child, wandering near to the great ones to beg. I would have the length of fuse lit, hidden in the small metal box affixed to my waist, the smoke makers in pockets in the cloak. When I was near enough to the duke, I would pull the fuse out, light the paper tubes, and fling them under the feet of the duke’s retinue. When they exploded, I would dart through their legs, run the duke through with my sword, and then shove my way through the maze of legs.

With just a little luck, I would be able to escape in the confusion.

I dirtied my cheeks, put dust in my hair, and stripped off any fine trappings that might betray that I was not the urchin I seemed. I did the same for my horse, though it was harder to hide his breeding. He was aristocratic by blood. I was a butcher’s son.

I found a natural idiot to guard him for me—a hulking fellow with the wit of a lad of seven, accompanied by a terrier with one ear torn off. Only fate had not added these two to the menagerie or to some other noble’s stock of fools. Much as I hated to take advantage of his simplicity, I had no choice but to threaten him. Who would believe him when he told them a Fairy King had charged him to guard his magical steed or be turned into a rat?

I left the horse in his hands, then made my way to Buckingham’s headquarters at the Greyhound Inn.

Morning sunlight baked the mud on my face into a tight shell. I looked at the sky, memorized the particular blue, the smell of the salt air blowing in from the sea John had once sailed.

Perhaps someone else’s brother would live because of what I was about to do. Surely, with Buckingham dead, the king would put someone more skilled in command.

I had to believe it was so.

I sucked in a steadying breath, picturing what I must do. My weapons master had shown me where to aim to kill an opponent, painted targets on the straw dummy he had hung from a beam in the ceiling. I had driven my sword through those fatal spots marking the heart dozens of times. Would it feel so different thrusting steel through sinew and bone?

Guards stood at the door, deep in conversation. I skipped up to them and feigned an urchin’s accent. “Somebody’s scritching up the coach the duchess lady come in with they knife.” I dug my finger into my left nostril.

The guards looked revolted as I popped my finger into my mouth. They turned, one hurrying off to the stable, the other avoiding looking at me. I darted past him into the inn.

I had barely gotten inside the door when I heard Buckingham’s voice and glimpsed his arrogant form, head held high as he barked an order. My hand shook as I slid it beneath the cloak and drew out the fuse. I felt its slow burn, like wicking in a candle. Drawing out one of the cylinders, I judged the distance I would have to travel, the obstacles in my way, the place on Buckingham’s body I must aim for.

If only that one man would get out of the way. He was moving toward the duke, calling Buckingham’s name. What was it about the man that seemed familiar? The drooping hat, the patched jacket …

He was right in front of Buckingham now.

I felt the fuse singe my fingertips, fumbled as I tried to touch it to the paper cone.

A scream of agony pierced the air. Blood poured down Buckingham’s doublet as he fought to stay on his feet. “Villain!” the duke cried, grasping the hilt of a tenpenny knife and pulling it from his chest.

“Murder!” Someone in the crowd screamed. “His Grace is struck down!”

The assassin turned toward me: John Felton—his useless hand crimson.

My head swam, my body bruised as Buckingham’s men rushed to their dying master. I dropped the fuse and crushed it out with my heel.

A woman’s shriek from the balcony overhead made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. I looked up through the chaos and saw the duchess of Buckingham, who was watching her husband die.

T
WENTY-
S
EVEN

I do not know how I got back to my horse, but as I raced back to Wellingborough, scenes kept swirling in my mind: the duchess stumbling down the stairs, gathering her dying husband in her arms. Keening … I had never heard such a hellish noise, even in the shambles, where dying animals sounded like screaming children.

Blood had soaked her hands, her breast; a smear of it was visible on her cheek. She had rocked him like one of the babes they had created, fatherless now in a world that devoured the unprotected. “You will pay for this!” she’d cried. “I swear I will make you pay!”

He had not deserved her devotion. He had humiliated her with his mistresses, worried her with his recklessness and his penchant for plotting.

I could not forget her words to Henrietta Maria at Wellingborough. Chilling dreams she’d had. Could those nightmares have been any worse than what had happened in the Greyhound Inn? Sitting in that pool of her husband’s blood?

More inconceivable still: John Felton just standing there with hideous calm, announcing to the crowd that he was Buckingham’s assassin.

As news spread beyond the inn yard, a sound far different from the duchess’s anguish could be heard. Shock, yes, but then jubilation: shouts of triumph, flagons of ale toasting John Felton as hero, not murderer.

What had it been like for the duchess to hear the celebration of her husband’s death? Why was it that I could not forget the image of Buckingham she had etched for me in the garden that day an eternity ago—a beautiful, all but penniless youth, thrust by his mother into the arms of a lustful king.

No. I must not think of Buckingham that way. I was glad he was dead. He could not hurt Samuel, could not hurt the queen anymore. They were safe at last. And Uriel Ware? Was it possible he would be released now that Buckingham was dead? Would he finally be able to seek some human warmth beyond stolen letters?

We were free, for the first time since Buckingham had plucked me from the shambles. Samuel’s Virgin had granted me my own gift of mercy. Hope built inside me with each beat of the horse’s hooves taking me nearer my destination. I did not have to bare my sins to the queen anymore. There was no need to tell her what evil I had done her. I could just say that my brother had been arrested by mistake, then ask Henrietta Maria to intercede for him. She would do it out of love for me, my generous lady.

This nightmare of betrayal and fear and helplessness was over. God help Felton—he would need it to endure the horrors he would face in retribution for Buckingham’s death. But the man whose life my brother saved had rescued everything I loved. John had been my unwitting champion—and Samuel’s—one last time.

Was it possible that Will might even forgive me? I had poured my heart into the letter I had written, begged his pardon for interfering, for the humiliation he’d suffered, the anguish. Healing took time. I had wished to mend things between us. Maybe now I could.

The queen’s chambers at Wellingborough were so quiet, I knew that news of the duke’s assassination had not reached her yet. I knew I must make my plea for Samuel before a messenger from Portsmouth could arrive.

Everyone whose path I crossed exclaimed in relief that I had come. The queen had been frantic, they claimed. I would banish that worry now.

I stopped in my chamber, hastily changed, then scrubbed my face free of the dirt I had smeared on it. I did not even stop to cram a chunk of bread in my mouth, though I had not eaten since I’d been at the inn where I’d lost my horse.

Light-headed from hunger, I rushed to the place Her Highness designated as a presence chamber. Will Evans was standing guard, his brow more furrowed than ever, dark circles under his eyes. The moment he saw me, his face lit up.

“God’s blood, Jeffrey! Where have you been? Half out of my mind with worry, I was, and so was Her Majesty. Lady Carlisle has been closeted with her for hours, the queen sobbing. Heartbroken, I’m sure, imagining what might be happening to you out there. Mobs murdered Dr. Lamb—a quack Buckingham had dealings with. They’re shouting that they’ll kill Buckingham next.”

“Someone did,” I said, so low that only Will could hear.

“Buckingham? Dead?”

“Quiet!”

“How do you know? Rumors spread like fire. You cannot trust them.”

“I saw Buckingham die with my own eyes.”

“But he is in Portsmouth! What were you doing there?”

“I rode there to kill Buckingham myself.”

Color bled out of Will’s face. “Jeffrey, tell me you did not.…”

“He tried to poison the queen. He nearly killed Dulcinea, and he shattered our friendship. I wanted to kill him. I would have. I had the weapons, made the plan. But just as I walked into the Greyhound Inn, a soldier named John Felton thrust a knife into the duke’s breast.”

Will looked away. “I imagined myself killing him. Wanted to. Not just for what he’d done—turning a simple girl’s head, planting a babe in Dulcinea’s womb—but because he acted as if she didn’t matter at all.”

“He will never hurt another girl again.”

“Or his poor duchess.”

“The duchess was there, Will. She ran out onto a balcony, saw him bleeding. She ran down the stairs and held him in her arms. The sounds she made—the grief…”

“Do you think that is what is causing the turmoil in the queen’s chamber? The queen was already distraught over your disappearance. Might the countess of Carlisle have discovered Buckingham’s fate somehow before anyone else?”

“She was the duke’s mistress, the pair of them locked in intrigues. It’s no secret that Buckingham meant her to fill the king’s bed.” Had Lady Carlisle loved Buckingham? It was impossible to tell. Whom would the exquisite countess ally with now? What would happen to all of the duke’s followers? Would Uriel Ware fade back into obscurity, glad to be free?

I pitied Ware now—a man as much a grotesque as those in the menagerie. The scar where his eye should have been had been carved into Ware’s flesh by the hand of someone who should have shielded him, just like the Gargoyle’s ghastly smile had been.

Afterward, Ware had stumbled back to the only other home he had known. He’d been twisted, beaten down by the mother who had been supposed to protect him. What loyalty would he feel toward the man who took him in despite the horror of his face? Had he pictured the wrathful God of his mother with each step he took into Buckingham’s darkness? Was it possible he’d been as trapped by the duke as I’d become? Not plunging into evil all at once, but inching into hellfire one tiny step at a time.

Maybe I would ask him when next I saw him. We could make peace now that there was no reason for us to clash anymore.

“Jeff, I’m that grateful to see you again. When I think what would have happened to you if you’d killed the duke—”

“The strangest thing is that the man who killed Buckingham knew my brother John.”

Will shoved a lock of shaggy hair off of his brow. “Did he now?”

“John died saving Lieutenant Felton’s life.” I couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“Your brother might have saved himself the trouble. Felton will die for sure now.”

“John saved Felton’s life. Felton saved mine by killing Buckingham before I could reach him. Now I have to find some way to save Samuel.”

“Samuel?”

“Arrested and put into Fleet Prison. Uriel Ware gave me the news when he was here.”

“What kind of trouble can a bookish lad like that have gotten into?”

“His tutor was taken by the king’s pursuivants. Master Quintin is a Jesuit.”

“Any fool can see that Samuel isn’t one! Jesuits study for years. Have to go to Spain or France or some other Catholic place. That boy never left Oakham until a few months ago. Fleet is a terrible prison—full of contagion and the worst sort of criminals. We’ve got to get the boy out! The queen will help him, much as she loves you. I’m certain she’ll convince the king that Samuel’s arrest was a mistake. Wait here. I’ll go tell her you’ve returned. I think she’ll be so relieved to see you, she’ll send the order to release Samuel herself.”