The Tudor Conspiracy by C. W. Gortner Page A

courtyard and outer gatehouse leading into the park. It wasn’t sumptuous or even particularly well appointed, certainly not what I’d expect for the high-powered ambassador of Emperor Charles V, who represented Hapsburg interests at court. Rather, the antechamber where Renard’s staff worked stank of cheap tallow, must, and mildew. Boxes crammed with papers were piled in every conceivable corner, precarious towers that looked unsteady enough to keel over at any moment. At two desks placed opposite each other hunched morose clerks who looked as if they’d not seen the sun in years; they had matching quills in their ink-splotched hands and the same resentful expressions on their faces when I informed them I had an appointment with the ambassador.
    “Wait,” one grumbled, pointing to what looked like a stool buried under a heap of ledgers. The other clerk rose slowly, almost indifferently, and trudged to the door, knocking twice before he entered and closed the creaking door behind him.
    I remained standing, as far as I could from the leaning pillars of paper, smiling at the remaining clerk. He scowled and bent his head over his work. His slightly more rotund but equally ill-humored twin emerged from the room a few moments later and said to me, “Leave your weapon with us.”
    I unbuckled the scabbard from my waist and set it on his desk. “It’s expensive,” I added. “I expect you to take care of it.” The clerk grunted. I wondered what he would think if he’d known the sword had once belonged to our late King Edward; crafted of Toledo steel, it was worth a small fortune. He might not have cared. I could have carried a harquebus under my cloak for all the attention he paid me.
    I stepped through the door into a tidier chamber, boasting a mullioned window that offered a blurry view of the snow-speckled parkland beyond. The air here was sweet. Renard must enjoy beeswax candles for light. A brazier in the corner exuded heat.
    “Ah, Master Beecham.” Simon Renard stepped from behind his desk, hand extended. Once again I was struck by his self-assurance. “You’re punctual. Good. I like that.”
    He wore unrelieved black, the wool of his doublet of high quality, the fine cambric shirt peeking above his collar edged in distinctive Spanish lacework. Without his cap, I saw his russet brown hair was thinning on top, his high unlined forehead adding distinction to his features. He’d seen a barber this morning: I could detect faint soap on his person, and his beard was cut closer to his chin.
    He motioned to a chair. I declined his offer of wine. “Too early?” he remarked. “Punctual
and
abstentious. Most unusual for an Englishman, if I may be so candid.”
    “My lord is gracious,” I said. My senses heightened as I watched him pour a precise measure of red wine into a goblet, to which he added a portion of water. He acted as if our encounter yesterday were of no importance. It was an enviable quality-and a telling one.
    Men like him were not the forgiving type.
    He paced to his window. “Such a dreary winter.” He sighed. “The snow reminds me of Castile, except here it’s damper and lasts longer. The cold-it hurts my bones.”
    I kept my gaze steady. “Has my lord been in England long?”
    “Sometimes it feels like forever.” He returned to the desk. “It’s been a little over eight months. Before this, I was stationed in Paris, but my wife and children reside in Brussels. I’d hoped to visit them this year, but alas”-he swept his hand over the broad leather-bound notebooks and other detritus on his desk-“an ambassador’s work never ends.”
    I wasn’t taken in by his complaint or casual imparting of personal information. He hadn’t agreed to see me to discuss the weather or his official woes.
    I said, “Winter can be harsh. This one may get worse.”
    “Yes. I’m told the Thames is close to freezing over. A rarity, I hear.” His smile lingered as he resumed his seat. He had not yet tasted