"They are taking a chill." Parker pointed in the direction of the courtyard. "I wouldn't want to keep such fine horses waiting; it isn't good for them."

The man held a hand over one eye, as if to see Parker better, then sidled toward the door, muttering under his breath as he weaved his way out.

Parker turned to the one who was left. "Are you the Comte, or is he?" Parker pointed to the man passed out on the table.

"C'est moi." The man pulled himself up, then staggered to the side. "I am he."

"You have someone working for you. A man who favors a crossbow."

The Comte put out a hand and grasped the back of a chair, his knuckles white with effort. "Non."

"Yes. In the last three days he has killed a man, and tried to kill a few more. My betrothed is on his list."

The Comte shook his head, the movement making him dizzy enough to need a second hand on the chair to steady himself. His lips worked as if he were trying to find the words to deny it, but he said nothing.

"I would have a word with your man. Immediately."

The Comte shook his head again, winced, and began to edge away.

Parker moved, adder-quick. He still had the feel of Susanna on his skin, the deep green scent of rosemary, the smooth curves of her body. He would not have her threatened another moment.

In two steps he had the Comte lying across the table, his head resting on the lip of a plate of roast pheasant.

"Where is he?"

"He is dangerous, monsieur. You do not want to find this man."

"You are wrong. I want to find him very badly."

The Comte looked up with flat eyes. "I cannot tell you. I know him. He will kill you, then he will kill me. And if by some miracle you manage to kill him first, then my king will kill me when I return."

"I will make this easy for you." Parker lifted his knife and placed it just below the Comte's right eye, so he could see it if he looked down.

"You will not get the Mirror back. You do not wish for a war with England while your king is a prisoner of the Emperor. But you will get one if you continue this madness."

"You can arrange a war all on your own, can you?" The Comte's mouth turned in a sneer, and his gaze was no longer on the blade against his cheek but on Parker's face.

"Aye. I can do just that." Parker spoke with quiet conviction. "It will not be difficult to convince my king to do that which he is already considering."

The Comte looked away, down the table to where the last guest lay snoring into a dish of pastries.

"Perhaps the clever thing would be to make sure you don't get the chance?" The Comte turned back, his eyes blazing with triumph.

The smug look of victory was a mistake.

As Parker heard the crack of glass smashing, he lifted his arm and threw his knife at the guest who had risen, cake mashed into his cheek, a jagged wine bottle drawn back to throw.

He dived left, too late, and the thud of the jagged bottle into his flesh was the only sound he could hear. White-hot pain seared down his arm, and then the shouts of the Comte pierced the thrumming of blood in his ears. A man screamed in agony, and something dropped to the floor with a clatter.

His knife?

Parker gritted his teeth and snaked under the table to retrieve it, sliding in blood.

It was not all his.

He rose cautiously, gripping the table. The assassin stood at an open window, panting, his face white against the night sky. He pressed a hand to his upper shoulder, blood staining his fingers, and Parker looked down and saw the bottle still buried high on his own right shoulder.

He pulled it out by the neck, refusing to make a sound, then lifted his gaze to the window again, knife ready. But the assassin was gone.

Parker looked after him, swaying. Then he blinked to clear his vision and turned to the door.

"Where are you going?" The Comte was still crouched by the table, his words a whisper.

Parker glanced at him. "Perhaps to start a war."

He threw the bottle, dripping with his blood, at the Comte's feet.

He looked like a Viking from the old sagas. Wild-eyed, blood stiff in his hair, caking his clothes.

A dark stain sat high on his shoulder.

He held his knife in one hand, as if he'd carried it across London, expecting immediate attack.

Susanna had run into the hallway when she heard him on the front steps, and she stumbled to a stop, staring, as he closed the door behind him.

He watched her, waiting to see what she would do. A spray of blood, fine as the pattern on a butterfly's wing, decorated the ridge of his cheek.

She felt a cry well up within her chest and she fought it, fought the way it wanted to twist her face, her mouth, and fill her eyes with tears.

She went to him, gentle, careful, and he bent his face to hers. She kissed his lips lightly. She was too afraid to put her arms around him.

"Can you walk to the study?"

He nodded and she expected him to use her shoulder to lean on, but he walked under his own power, then sank down beside the fire.

"I will get Peter Jack to call Maggie."

He started to protest, but she ignored him and walked out of the room to the kitchen.

Peter Jack was already yawning and stumbling out of his room, roused by the sound of voices at the door.

"Fetch Maggie."

He froze mid-stretch and his gaze went to the passageway. "Bad?"

"Bad enough." Susanna went straight to the hearth and took a jug to scoop up some hot water from the pot in the embers.

Peter Jack had his boots on and his cloak about him by the time she had stoked the fire.

"Bolt wound?" he asked.

She shook her head, viciously stamping down the wail inside her, pressing her lips together and gulping as it tried to claw its way up.

"Broken bottle."

The door slammed behind Peter Jack as he ran out, and she took a deep breath, trying to still her hands as she fumbled through a drawer for some clean cloths.

Then she picked up the jug of water and walked carefully out of the room, watching to make sure she did not spill.

There would be no more spilling tonight. No water, no tears.

No blood.

19.

Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty of the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and especially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges by the result.

-Machiavelli, The Prince, chapter 25 It was like old days, Parker thought. He would get into trouble, and Maggie would patch him up.

She glared at him now, stirring something with a little pestle. "I thought this kind of thing was over, when you became a fine gentleman for the King."

Parker looked down at his shirt lying on the floor, cut to ribbons, and at the deep cuts in his shoulder. "The King's business is not all courtly dances and days at the joust."

Maggie snorted. Her tiny sylph of an assistant stepped forward with a jug of water, and Maggie held the mortar out for her to pour in a splash.

"Will it heal well?" Susanna sounded as though she were fighting something when she spoke. Every word was measured.

"Aye." Maggie looked disgusted, as if she'd hoped it were otherwise. "Nothing important was damaged, and he can feel down his arm to his fingertips, so he should make a full recovery if he keeps it clean." She lifted up some of the mixture in the mortar with a spoon and dropped a little onto Parker's shoulder.

It was hot and it stung, and Parker swallowed a curse.

"Keep putting this on every few hours," Maggie told Susanna. She packed her things in quick, deft movements. "I get far too much business from this house." She sniffed, and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Lock him up if you have to." Then, with her assistant in tow, she sailed from the room.

Parker closed his eyes, riding out the sting of the herb paste on his wound. He heard Maggie go through the kitchen and have a word with Mistress Greene, who'd woken when Peter Jack had returned with the healer. The house was a blaze of light, and it was not yet matins. The bells of St. Michael's would not ring for a few more hours.

The room was silent. The small sounds Susanna made as she gathered the jug of water and cloths she'd used to mop the blood from his shoulder had ceased, and he opened his eyes.

She stood in the middle of the room, her hands full, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He felt his heart rip.

"My love." He pushed out of his chair, forgetting his shoulder and staggering under the sudden stab of pain.

Susanna dropped the jug with a clatter, pressing her hands to her mouth as if to still the trembling of her lips.

"I am safe and well." He slid his arms around her, wincing as the movement caused ripples of pain up his neck and down his arm.

She said nothing, shaking in the circle of his arms without making a sound. His left hand stroked her back, and at last she breathed in deeply and lifted her head.

"This cannot go on. It needs to end." She spoke in a whisper.

"I drew blood from him tonight. He will not easily lift a crossbow for a few days. It will give us some time."

She sighed and rested her head against his left shoulder. "What is Norfolk's role in this, do you think?"

Parker let the feel of her, the heat and flexible strength, seep into his tired body. "When Wyatt went to him about the Mirror, it was surely the best day of Norfolk's life. If he could expose Wolsey to the King, catch him out with the Mirror of Naples ..." Parker thought of the humiliation, the absolute disgrace that would come down on Wolsey. "It would be the triumph of Norfolk's life at court."

"Norfolk must have had Jens followed, and through that, found the cloth merchant Jens had asked to provide passage out of England." Susanna eased away and led him like a child back to his chair.

"Aye." Parker sank down gratefully. "Jens was either charged by Wolsey to be the courier of the Mirror to France, and was arranging passage with the merchant, or he had some other plan afoot. Perhaps he had even decided to flee without Wolsey's knowledge."

Susanna rubbed her temples. "And Norfolk was either paying or blackmailing the merchant to give him information. To betray Jens."

"To catch Wolsey." Parker closed his eyes. "Norfolk would not care who he ruined if it meant having Wolsey thrown from court. Or better yet, beheaded."

"So what happens now?" Susanna knelt beside him and took his hand in hers.

"The French don't have the Mirror. The Comte would have left with it already if they did. So either Wolsey has it, or he knows where it is. I'll have to talk with him again."

"What happens if he won't tell you?" She traced the back of his hand with her fingertips.

Parker opened his eyes. "He will."

Wolsey's red cardinal's hat stood high and proud on his head. When it had been sent from Rome more than ten years earlier, Parker had heard it was received at Dover like royalty and accompanied to London in the same way. There had been a procession through the streets with it.

Now it dipped and swayed as Wolsey stood at the altar in the chapel at Blackfriars. If rumor was right, the Queen had insisted on this ceremony to thank God for sparing the King's life after his fall into the ditch.

Her motives were no doubt sincere, but Parker knew the King did not want any reminders to the nobility that he could have died without a legitimate male heir. The only way to mitigate the damage was to keep it private and quiet. So though the Queen had wanted it held at St. Paul's or Westminster, the King had persuaded her he would prefer a more personal, heartfelt ceremony among friends.

Parker and Susanna's invitation now gave Parker access to Wolsey, if he could get the Cardinal alone.

Quiet ceremony or no, Wolsey had made use of the occasion to wear his red robes, to remind those present that he was the highest-ranking official of Rome in England.

And you want to be higher. Parker watched Wolsey perform the rituals and wondered if he would ever attain his ambition. He was one of the King's new men; like Parker himself, raised up from obscurity because of his ambition, intelligence, and hard work. They could have been natural allies, but Wolsey's ego would suffer no rival. Parker had learned long ago that every honor that went to someone else, Wolsey considered stolen from him. He would have it all, even control of the Christian realm itself.

Wolsey came to the end of his liturgy, and the congregation rose.