The Tudor Conspiracy (32 page)

Lord Howard ordered immediate departure. His men sprang into action, relieved to finally be doing something other than ogling the maids and drinking the cellars dry. As the servants went rushing to and fro, loading belongings into carts and setting up a litter in the courtyard, I slipped out to the stables to saddle Cinnabar. I was affixing his bridle when a familiar voice was heard exclaiming in the courtyard. I stepped out hastily into glittering daylight speckled by random snowflakes. My heart constricted. Standing beside two lathered mares were Mistress Ashley and my Kate, confronting the row of men-at-arms guarding the manor entrance and Lord Howard himself.

“I tell you, I must attend her,” Mistress Ashley declared. “No one thought to inform me of her illness. It was only by coincidence that we heard of it at all. We made haste at once, but it took several days because of all the blockades and delays on the roads. Whatever has occurred, however lamentable, has nothing to do with us. I am Her Grace’s governess, and you must let me pass!”

Howard appeared unsettled by this rotund, partridgelike woman wagging her finger in his face. He might have faced down Wyatt’s rebels, but he had no experience with the tenacity personified by Mistress Kat Ashley. I walked toward them. As I approached, my boots crunched on the hard snow, and Kate glanced over her shoulder to me.

She went still. Then her hand came up to push back her hood, and I beheld the dark shadows under her eyes. I wanted to embrace her; she had come at the worst hour, after having braved days of arduous travel, but I could not show her intimacy. Since his initial query Howard had left me alone thus far, and I dared not rouse his suspicion now by demonstrating overt familiarity with the princess’s women.

“My lord,” I said, as Howard turned his gaze to me. “This is indeed Mistress Ashley and Her Grace’s lady, Mistress Stafford. They serve her at her house at Hatfield.”

“Yes,” Howard said dryly. “So I’m told.” His expression had softened, however. Without a word, Mistress Ashley took his compliance as permission and shoved past him into the manor. Kate hesitated. As if he could read the silent language between us, Howard turned pointedly away. “We leave within the hour,” he said. “No excuses.”

He retreated into the hall.

Kate moved to me. “Our sweet Peregrine…” I heard her whisper, and she started to reach for my hand. I pulled away, glancing at the guards, several of whom were eyeing Kate with appreciation. I said quietly, “I must return to my duties, Mistress Stafford. You should go inside. Her Grace will no doubt be relieved to see you.”

“What?” She frowned. “No. I must talk to you. I want to ask-”

I took another deliberate step back, without giving her occasion to continue, turning about to return to the stable. I did not look back, though I knew she stood there, staring after me, bewildered. It was too dangerous. We couldn’t risk it. I didn’t care to explore the other reason, like a stain on my soul, which turned me into a coward, unwilling to face her.

Then I heard her footsteps coming behind me and suddenly she was at my side, her hood crumpled about her shoulders, her face flushed from the cold. “Do not avoid me,” she said. “Not after all this time. I’ve been worried sick for you. When Cecil came to see me, with your letter about Peregrine-” She faltered. “Brendan, please. What happened to him? What has happened to you? It’s something terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. And it hasn’t ended.” Again I resisted the urge to touch her, to feel her body press against mine and pretend that nothing would ever change between us, that no matter what, our love could overcome even my own weakness. “Howard suspects me,” I said. “Do not question me anymore. Not now. Just do as I say.”

The hurt showed on her face as she vacillated, torn between my warning and the unseen fissure she already sensed between us, though she didn’t yet know its cause.

“What do you want me to do?” she finally asked.

Hoping our conversation would appear innocuous to the watching guards and fully aware it couldn’t last much longer, I asked, “Do you wear my troth?”

“You know I do. I always keep it about my neck and-” She stifled a gasp. “I’m such a fool! I should have left it behind. If I am searched, they might find it.”

“Take it off.” I kept my expression neutral, as if we exchanged news such as two servants in our positions would.

She started to reach to her throat for the clasp. Then she stopped. “Why do you want it now? I offered it to you before in Hatfield and you refused it.”

“Kate, please. There is no time to explain.”

“You cannot do whatever it is you’re thinking,” she said. “It’s a key to your past, your true identity; it could reveal that you have royal blood.”

“No one would know that except the queen. It could be our only chance. Kate, drop it and go. Don’t ask me more questions; don’t seek me out again. Whatever happens, you must stay with Her Grace. I am fighting for all our lives.”

I started to turn away as she fumbled at her neckline, searching within her bodice. “I thought you trusted me,” she whispered. She whirled about, her departure leaving me desolate. I could not think of it. I must focus only on what I had to do.

Bending down as if to check my boot, and taking advantage of the guards’ catcalling distraction as Kate went past them to enter the manor, I retrieved the chain with its dangling ruby-tipped leaf, which she’d left on the snowy ground.

To the crack of whips, gusts of wind lifting snow in whirlwinds off the road, we departed Ashridge. A storm had rolled in; though the actual snowfall was light, the wind cut through our wool cloaks like teeth. Mistress Parry had tried in vain to gain us another day, cajoling Lord Howard that should anything befall the princess under such inclement weather it would be on his head. He remained adamant. Elizabeth had been pronounced fit to travel; barring a catastrophe, he’d rather risk the weather than the queen’s wrath.

I’d scarcely caught a glimpse of Elizabeth when they brought her from her rooms, swathed in furs, her swollen face averted as they set her inside the cushioned litter. Guards surrounded her. The litter curtains were drawn. There wasn’t a moment to exchange a word with her, and even if there had been I was relegated to the vanguard with the carts and servants, while Mistress Ashley, Blanche Parry, and Kate rode beside her.

We proceeded in slow stages. The litter jostled on the pitted road, and Elizabeth called for several stops along the way, complaining of discomfort and forcing Lord Howard to attend her. She prolonged the inevitable, determined to extend what should have been a daylong trip into as much time as she could. By dusk, with London still hours away, Howard had no choice but to order a halt. We would spend the night in a nearby manor, where the owners, apprised without warning of our arrival, arranged accommodations as best they could, giving up their own bedchamber for the princess.

The next morning, we took to the road at first light. This time, Elizabeth’s litter curtains remained closed the entire way, and she did not raise a single protest. Lord Howard rode flinty-eyed beside her, her ladies behind him. From my position in the back, I strained to see Kate. She’d taken my advice to heart; not once did she turn to look at me.

Under a sunset that smeared crimson across the lead sky, we reached the city gates.

Everything was transformed, the poisonous suspicion of the past weeks having burst open to reveal its rotten fruit. On the gates hung the torn limbs of Wyatt’s rebels. Their blood dripped onto the road, where dogs snarled at each other and lapped the congealed pools. Gibbets loomed like specters at every corner, adorned with gutted naked bodies, stiff and blackening. It was the expected punishment for treason, but as the smell of death invaded my senses, the impact of what we faced threatened to overwhelm me.

This time, I feared the queen would take all our heads.

Houses and businesses were closed tight, doors bolted and shutters drawn, though it was not yet dark. Only a few people roamed the streets, and as soon as they spotted our procession, hemmed by men-at-arms, they dashed indoors, furtive as mice. Yet as word somehow spread that it was none other than Princess Elizabeth making her entrance, a small, brave crowd gathered along the road to Whitehall-a sea of silent stares, their stunned expressions bearing testament to the unexpected violence that had swept through their city. I saw Howard tighten his grip on his reins, looking pointedly at the princess’s litter, as if he expected an eruption.

All of a sudden, the curtains whisked back. Elizabeth revealed herself reclining on her bolster, her drawn features offset by a high-necked white gown. Her hair was unbound. In breathtaking symbolism, she wore a necklace of dark square-cut rubies about her throat. As she returned the crowd’s stares with her impassive dark eyes, several women curtsied and one lone man called out, “God save Your Grace!”

Howard motioned to the guards. Before they surrounded the litter, impeding the view, Elizabeth shot him an amused look. Despite her fear, she had not lost her bite.

Kate finally dared a look at me as Whitehall appeared before us, protected by cordons of sentries, less a palace now than a fortress. Her gaze was questioning; though she rode only paces away, it felt as though an impassable chasm separated us.

We passed under the main archway. Elizabeth sat upright, stiffening as she looked ahead. The procession passed a knot of officials, watching warily from behind guards. We did not stop. We continued on, through a stout gateway, into an enclosed courtyard where yeomen with halberds, dressed in the green-and-white Tudor livery, waited.

Howard dismounted and assisted Elizabeth from her litter. As she yanked her furs about her, the guards’ perfunctory bows brought an angry crease to her brow. “Is this to be my reception?” she demanded. “Where shall I lodge, pray tell? In a dungeon?”

“Your Grace will lodge in specially appointed apartments selected for you,” Howard replied. “These yeomen are here to escort you. You’re allowed the services of your three women; all others of your household are dismissed.”

“Dismissed?” Her voice frayed. “Surely you can’t mean to deprive me of these people on whom I depend?” Howard did not answer. Lifting her chin, Elizabeth said loudly, “I demand to see my sister the queen! I demand audience with Her Majesty, who cannot-”

The yeomen shifted to her. Taking in their stance, she went still. Mistress Ashley and Blanche Parry hastened to her; all of a sudden, the understanding that she was truly at Mary’s mercy must have struck her, for she pivoted back to Howard. “I beg you, my lord, if only for the family ties between us.” She set a gloved hand on his sleeve. “At least permit me the services of my squire. My travel chest is heavy. He must carry it for me.”

It was an ineffectual excuse, concocted of sheer desperation; Howard must have realized it. Any one of those brawny yeomen could see to her traveling chest, but he looked as if he were actually considering it. His gaze lifted to where I stood by Cinnabar. Kate had also gone immobile by her mare, hooded and cloaked, as if uncertain what to do.

“No men,” Howard intoned. “My orders are clear. Only Your Grace’s women.”

“Please, my lord,” Elizabeth implored. “He’s but a servant. What harm can he do?”

“Plenty,” said Howard curtly, “if he’s the same man I think he is.”

He knew who I was. He had known all along. Could he actually be abetting me?

I dropped the reins and went to him. “My lord,” I said, “Her Grace is ill. Surely she merits this consideration.” My voice lowered. “It could be that one day she will find herself in a better position to reward your compassion.”

His mouth worked. As I surmised, Lord William Howard was no sycophant. He had defended London, putting himself in harm’s way to protect the throne. He had his honor to uphold. My appeal must have stirred his already conflicted conscience, for he nodded once, tersely. “He may assist. But after that, he must depart. I cannot,” he added, a hint of apology in his tone, “gainsay the queen. If I earn her reproof, how can I be a friend to Your Grace?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Thank you, my lord.” She drew herself erect. The yeomen closed in around her. She walked into the palace, Kate, Ashley, and Parry behind. Lifting the brass-banded leather chest from the cart, I caught Howard’s gaze.

His impervious mask had slipped, revealing a troubled countenance.

“Whatever you plan,” he muttered, “you’d best act fast.”

* * *

I hurried after Elizabeth. The passage was clammy, the vaulted stone ceiling low above our heads. We were brought to closed chambers without any windows, furnished with only the essentials. It was freezing; there were no braziers. Stepping back through the antechamber without a word, the yeomen bowed and shut the door on us.

Mistress Parry gaped in dismay. Ashley stomped her foot. “This is an outrage! Does Her Majesty mean to murder us by ague?”

Elizabeth sank wearily onto a stool, as if her bones had turned to water.

I deposited the chest on the floor. “Your letter,” I said. “I’ll take it to someone who doesn’t want to see you imprisoned any more than Howard does.”

She regarded me blankly. “Letter?”

“Yes, your letter to the queen. The one I asked you to write. Please, Your Grace. We must hurry. There is little time.”

Mistress Parry intervened. “I–I didn’t believe you. And we had no means. They confiscated the ink, quills, and paper from her chamber at Ashridge. She couldn’t write anything, so I … I didn’t give her your message.”

As Elizabeth whipped her stare to Parry, Kate knelt to rummage in her tapestry bag. She pulled out a sheaf of paper, a sharpened quill, and a small bottle of ink. Turning to the table, Elizabeth removed the stopper from the ink and dipped the quill. She paused, her hand poised over the paper. She looked at me. Then she leaned forward and started writing, her quill scratching furiously in the silence.