In Defense of the Queen (13 page)

It was like fine wine was to some men, or food to a sophisticated palate. She lived for the moment her charcoal or her brush touched the white of a blank surface. With infinite possibilities and endless ways to create beauty before her, she moved the charcoal just so to capture the joy she saw before her.

“What have you drawn?” Henry stopped before her, and Susanna turned the parchment round so he could see.

It was rough, the work of a few minutes, but it captured his excitement, the way he moved. He clapped his hands, delighted.

“That is me.”

“Aye. You may have one of the sketches I do today. You can pick the one you like best when I am done.”

“I didn’t know women could paint and draw.” He looked from the sketch to her.

“Well.” Susanna looked across at Croke, but he was busy fussing with the target. “Do women have eyes and hands?”

“Yes.” He giggled.

Behind her, she sensed Kilburne’s gaze on her.

“And do they have fingers?”

He nodded, laughing.

“Well then they can paint and sketch. But a lot of women aren’t taught how. I was lucky. My father is a famous painter. And he taught me. And then, like all painters, I needed time and the right materials to practice. And my father saw I could be useful for his work, and he gave me the time and all the brushes and charcoals and paints I needed. I didn’t have to help my mother with the cooking and cleaning, I could paint all day.”

“Just like I have to practice my bow?”

She nodded. “Just like that.”

“But women can’t shoot bows.” Henry frowned. He looked up at Kilburne. “Can they?”

Kilburne seemed at a loss for words.

Susanna gave him a quick look over her shoulder. He gazed back at her, bemused.

“I thought we already agreed women have hands and eyes.” She smiled as she turned back to Henry.

But his expression was mulish, and he did not like the turn of her logic. “Maybe you need more than hands and eyes for bow shooting. Something only men have.”

Harry snickered and Susanna wagered Kilburne was smiling.

She said nothing, and at that moment, Croke called to Henry that they were ready for him, and he spun around, and ran happily to take his bow.

“You draw better than anyone I have ever seen,” Kilburne said, suddenly, from behind. “Man or woman.”

She twisted on the bale to face him and he fidgeted in place. “I saw the writ you finished for the King, lying on your desk, and I understand why he wishes you to work them for him. Your skill reflects well upon him. No person receiving such a letter could fail to understand the King of England is the greatest sovereign in the world.”

She was touched by his words. They were honest, and heartfelt, and without warning, she felt the sting of tears. She opened her eyes wider, refusing to let them fall, and nodded to him. Turned away.

“My thanks, Captain. You make a pretty compliment.”

“It’s no compliment. It’s the bare truth.” Harry’s voice was rough, as if he’d gone too long without speaking. She shot him a look but he would not meet her eyes.

He had never spoken of her work, and she had always wondered what he thought of it.

She faced the little prince again and watched as one of the guards helped him fit his arrow, with Croke looking on with a smile, and took another piece of parchment from her satchel.

Perhaps, if she drew his son well enough, the King would find her indispensable.

Chapter Nineteen

for in courts they will not bear with a man’s holding his peace or conniving at what others do: a man must barefacedly approve of the worst counsels and consent to the blackest designs, so that he would pass for a spy, or, possibly, for a traitor, that did but coldly approve of such wicked practices;

Utopia by Thomas More (translated by H. Morley)

J
ehan de la Sauch kept a fine house. Parker looked around the room he’d been left in to wait on the merchant’s pleasure, and noticed the fine tapestries and jewel-coloured paintings. They had the feel of Susanna about them. Detailed, intricate. Perfect.

That de la Sauch was from the same place as she was, was as clear as the crystal glass that stood at the centre of the table.

It made Parker wonder how homesick she felt. Whether she missed Ghent.

She never mentioned it. But he had never heard her complain about anything, no matter the circumstances, since he’d known her.

It might please her if he bought a few tapestries for the walls and some paintings by her fellow countrymen.

He wondered why he had never thought of it before.

“John Parker?” De la Sauch stood in the doorway, a lean, handsome man, with hair a strange shade between blond and brown. His grey eyes were quick and intelligent, and there seemed to be no fear, no nerves in him at this surprise visit.

Parker bowed. “I am told you are acting as the Imperial Ambassador?”

De la Sauch nodded slowly. “Not just me. I came here with a number of other merchants around the time the former ambassador was expelled. We became ambassadors by default. But it has come about that I have shouldered the majority of the duties.”

“How quickly can you get a message to Louis de Praet?”

De la Sauch stepped back, his eyes narrow. “Why would you want to get a message to de Praet? Who are you?”

Parker wished he had worn his chain of office, but it would have only been a hindrance to him while he’d followed Renard. He was aware of the mud on his hose and his doublet. He’d wiped most of it from his boots on the way. “I am the King’s Keeper of the Palace of Westminster, and his Yeoman of the King’s Robes.”

“A Gentleman of the Privy Chamber.” De la Sauch’s eyes widened in surprise. “What business has the King with de Praet? He is disgraced here in England.”

“My interest is personal.” Parker gave a bitter smile. “One of de Praet’s spies has fabricated a story of treason. He has given false information, and I want de Praet to retract it in writing. To the King. Not Wolsey. I don’t care if it foils the Emperor’s plans.”

“What plans?” De la Sauch’s face turned wary.

“His plans to break his betrothal to Princess Mary, and marry her cousin Isabella instead.” He spoke baldly, and de la Sauch flinched.

“I know nothing of that.” He held Parker’s gaze a moment, and then sighed heavily. He sank down into a chair, and motioned for Parker to do the same.

“Truth be told, I’m ill-equipped to deal with being ambassador. I’m a merchant, not a diplomat, and the Cardinal Wolsey and I . . . “ He hesitated. “Well, I am a plain-speaking man. I have no patience for innuendo and pretty speeches that mean nothing.”

Parker felt the first stir of warmth for the man. “You and Wolsey do not see eye to eye?”

De la Sauch looked as if he regretted his honesty, but shook his head.

“Is Jan Heyman an Imperial spy?” Parker slipped the question in easily, and de la Sauch paused and then stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Is he? You seem to know more of my business than I do, sir.”

“Yes. He is. He is reporting to de Praet, and recently to a former French spy living in London, who has been turned to the Imperial cause, I assume because de Praet is paying him well. There is a third man, Jules, although I think his role is more that of henchman than true spy.”

De la Sauch closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. “I am not the man for this job.”

“Too bad.” Parker’s harsh tone had de la Sauch open-eyed and braced in his chair. “You are the one in place and I am telling you that de Praet’s man has lied to Wolsey, fed him a story so he would imprison one of your fellow countrywomen in order to stop her talking.”

“Her?” De la Sauch was truly alert now. “A woman?”

“My betrothed.” Parker stood, paced to the window. “Her name is Susanna Horenbout, and—”

“I know Susanna Horenbout.” De la Sauch surged to his feet, as well. “I know her father well. He painted a portrait of my family, it is right there.” He pointed to a small picture, one of the ones that had reminded Parker of Susanna a little earlier, with a deep, deep blue sky, a beautiful house on a river in the background. In the foreground stood de la Sauch and his wife and three children, their clothes, their expressions, were exquisitely rendered.

Parker stepped up to it again. “She has his talent.”

“So I’ve heard.” De la Sauch’s tone was calmer, warmer. “She is here in London?”

“Her father received a commission from the King for a painter from his
atelier
, and he sent her.”

“And since coming to London she has been betrothed to you?” De la Sauch sounded uncertain.

“She has.” His words were fierce. Defensive.

“De Praet would not have had anything to do with getting her into trouble. That I can promise you. If his agent has acted to endanger her, it would have been on the agent’s own authority, not de Praet’s, and I’m convinced de Praet will be quick to reverse what has been done.”

“Any letter from him may be too late, but I would have you reach him and tell him every moment counts.” Parker swung around. “Though how can you be so certain de Praet will do whatever he can to have Susanna cleared?”

“De Praet was mayor of Ghent for years before he became Imperial ambassador to England. He is a close friend of the Horenbouts.”

Parker folded his arms across his chest and stared at de la Sauch, shock reverberating through him.

Now he knew to whom Lucas must have sent the note Renard had spoken of. Not to a minor agent, but the spymaster himself. De Praet.

Renard had implied it, but now he had proof. Lucas Horenbout was an Imperial spy.

* * *

Susanna stood in the sun, on the edge of Tower Green, lifting her shoulders and releasing the ache of too many hours bent over her desk.

She had spent her second night in the Tower hunched over the portrait of Henry Fitzroy, until her eyes burned and her hands were too unsteady to continue.

All the while, hanging like a chain around her neck, stifling her with every movement, was the certainty Wolsey had not given up.

He would try again and again, until he had her.

She eyed the White Tower. It sat, squat and implacable, a declaration of strength and might. The sun winked off the glass of the arched windows and she shivered at the thought of who might be behind them, staring down at her. Plotting to drag her within, to the bowels of the beast.

“A word, my lady.” A soft call broke through her thoughts. A woman, covered with a cape and wrapped against the cool, brisk wind that was blowing, even though it had just turned June, stood near the entrance to the Lieutenant’s Lodgings.

Harry stepped from the shadows by the door, and the woman started when she noticed him.

There was something familiar about her, and Susanna walked towards her with a frown.

She was holding a covered basket uncomfortably, as if she had never had cause to carry one before, and her eyes darted, low and frightened, as if she had no right to be there and was waiting for someone to call the alarm.

“Lady Courtenay.” Susanna breathed the words softly as she reached Gertrude, and the Queen’s confidant snapped her head up at last.

“Do not say my name.” Gertrude spoke between gritted teeth. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“Not my chambers. Unless you have good reason to be here if someone comes knocking?”

Gertrude shook her head.

“Let us walk then.” She held out her arm, and Gertrude took it.

Harry took up position just behind them and Susanna glanced quickly back at him.

There was a suppressed excitement in his face, in the way he moved, but she did not think Gertrude was coming with a way out. The Queen had been helpless against Kilburne and his men. She would be even more helpless in the face of the King and Wolsey.

“You have news from the Queen?”

Gertrude nodded. “She thanks you, truly, for the risk you took in telling her what her nephew plans. She has written to him, begging him to keep his word in the betrothal. If he does marry Isabella instead of Mary . . .” Gertrude stopped and set the basket on the ground, opening and closing her hand, her fingers white from the weight of it.

“The King already blames her for no sons. His only compensation would have been his daughter married to the Holy Roman Emperor. He could see his grandchildren the rulers of England and the whole of Europe, and the thought of it soothed the disappointment of a lack of a male heir. But if that is taken away . . .” Gertrude fell silent.

“Then neither his wife nor his daughter are very useful to him, any more.” Susanna looked at Gertrude as she spoke, and the lady dipped her head.

“As you say,” she whispered. “With the Queen’s health as it is . . . she will not bear another child.”

“And the King is left with only a bastard son and a daughter.”

“Yes.” Gertrude looked down at the basket as if it held a snake.

“He must feel the wolves breathing down his neck.” Susanna angled herself against the breeze, wrapped her cloak tighter against its chill, over-familiar fingers.