The Tudor Secret (18 page)

I’d not heard anything positive about her, from anyone; indeed, the very possibility of her accession was rife with tumult. Yet in that moment I felt only empathy for her. She was at an age when most women had wed, borne children, settled for better or worse into the rest of their lives. Instead she stood in someone else’s manor, a fugitive marked for death.

“Well?” she said. “Will you not answer? You were hired by them, were you not?”

“Your Majesty, if you’ll pardon my insolence, I would prefer to answer in private.”

“Absolutely not,” said Rochester. “The queen does not entertain strangers. You’re lucky we haven’t thrown you into a dungeon for conspiring with her enemies.”

“Dungeon?” I repeated, before I could stop myself. “Here?”

There was stunned silence before Mary’s gravelly laughter rang out. “At least he doesn’t mince his words!” She clapped her hands. “Leave us.”

Rochester marched to where the shadowy man with the firearm lurked; Huddleston followed behind. Mary motioned to her flagon. “You must be thirsty. It’s a long ride from London.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said. Her terse smile revealed bad teeth. She’s not had much occasion to smile in her life, I thought, as I drank deeply of the warm ale.

She waited.

I said, “Your Majesty, my companion … he is just a boy. I trust he’ll not be harmed?”

“Of course not.” She faced me now without trepidation. “Tell me honestly: Is my brother King Edward dead?”

I met her stalwart gaze. “Yes.”

She was quiet, as if she contemplated something she had already accepted. Then she said, “And this letter from the council: Is it a ruse, or can I trust what these lords say?”

I measured my response. “I haven’t been at court long, but I would say, no, you should not trust them.” As her face tightened, I added, “However, you can trust their letter. Lady Jane Grey is indeed the duke’s pawn. She’d not have assumed your throne given the choice.”

She snorted. “I find that hard to believe. She did marry Northumberland’s brat.”

“Your Majesty can believe in her innocence, if you believe nothing else. The duke has devised this situation to secure his own power. He is the perpetrator. He—”

“He should be drawn and quartered, his head stuck on a pike,” she blared. “How dare he contrive to steal my realm, which is mine by divine right! He’ll soon learn that I am not a queen to be trifled with—he and every other lord who dares to exalt my cousin over me.”

The fervor of her declaration animated her person. She might not possess her sister’s charismatic appeal, but she was still Henry VIII’s daughter.

“I gather Your Majesty intends to fight for your crown,” I said.

“To the death, if need be. My grandmother Isabella of Castile led armies against the infidel to unite her kingdom. Nothing less can be expected of me.”

“Then Your Majesty has answered your own question. The council’s offer to support you is trustworthy only as much as you make it so. If you forgive their past transgressions, then you will have their loyalty.”

Her eyes turned cold. “I see you’ve mastered their art of double-talk.”

I felt a prickle of fear in my belly. Her face was drawn, closed. Elizabeth had warned me to be careful. I was struggling to find the right response, when Rochester strode in. “Your Majesty, we found this cur lurking outside!” He stepped aside, revealing three others dragging another man between them. As they threw him facedown on the floor, his cap slipped off his head. Mary prodded him with her foot. “Your name.”

I could not contain my relief when the man lifted his face.

“Some call me Durot, Your Majesty, but you would know me as Fitzpatrick.”

The Tudor Secret

Mary said, “Barnaby Fitzpatrick, my brother’s servant?” From behind her I interjected, “Your Majesty, he’s been working to keep the duke’s son Lord Robert away from you. Whatever news he brings must be important.”

Barnaby came to his feet. Streaks of his natural hair color showed through his walnut-juice stained mop. At Mary’s nod, he said, “Robert Dudley and his men are fast closing in. I was sent ahead as a scout, because a local sheepherder swears he spotted you riding in this direction. Your Majesty has less than an hour to make your escape.”

Rochester said, “Where is your proof?”

“My lord steward,” said Mary, before Barnaby could reply, “Master Fitzpatrick served my late brother loyally for many years. He was often whipped for Edward’s transgressions. I don’t require further proof.”

She returned to the table, Huddleston at her heels. She gathered her map and papers, thrust them at him. “We ride for Framlingham Castle. It’s a Howard seat, and they revere the True Faith. If God is with me, I’ll gather my supporters there. Otherwise, it’s not far to the coast. My lord Huddleston, you must come with us. Your house is no longer safe for you.”

White as the papers he clutched, Huddleston hastened after Rochester and the other men, who bolted from the hall shouting orders. As the manor erupted in pandemonium, Mary called out, “Clarencieux, Finch!” and two women emerged from the hall’s recesses, bearing a cloak and a small valise. “These are my faithful servants,” said Mary, as the women draped the cloak about her. “You must defend them with your lives.”

She did not ask us how we felt about being entrusted with this duty. Crowned already in her mind, she merely assumed we would obey.

We followed her into the courtyard, where servants stuffed saddlebags with last-minute articles. Peregrine held our horses. His eyes snapped wide as he saw Barnaby dart around the side of the manor and return on his cob. While Rochester assisted the queen and her ladies to their mounts, Huddleston and Mary’s other manservants jumped onto theirs.

Barnaby mumbled to Peregrine and me, “We may need someone to defend us before this day is done.”

“Or maybe not,” I said. “Lord Robert looked none too fresh last I saw him.”

Barnaby chortled. “I thought I heard a rat in the brush. By the way, the beard suits you.”

“A precaution of my new trade. In case anyone should ask, my name is Daniel Beecham, of Lincolnshire.” I reached over to thump his back. “That was quite a voice you used, Durot. And the hair coloring is an accomplishment. How did you get yourself into Dudley’s company?”

“Let’s just say I was accosted by a certain earl who offered me the opportunity to avenge my king. The rest was easy. I made myself Robert’s bane from the start. If I had said she was in France, he’d have gone looking for her in Brussels. He was only too pleased to send me off ahead. He probably hoped some papist sniper would rid him of me for good.”

“You are bold. And you’ve helped save me twice now. I shan’t forget it.”

“Just pray you don’t need a third.” Barnaby’s expression turned somber as he looked up. He lifted his voice. “Your Majesty, the hour isn’t getting any longer.”

Swiveling in the saddle, a sickening lurch went through me. Horsemen rode down a distant hill, coming straight toward the manor.

“This way,” Barnaby shouted. Sandwiched between her servants, Mary galloped onto the road, hard after him as he led us to a ridge. Robert Dudley and his men were still too far off to pose an immediate threat, but as we climbed the path single file, the sun wringing sweat from our brows, we discovered we weren’t moving fast enough.

A gasp escaped the women. Behind us rose a plume of thick black smoke. The manor we had left was being torched.

At Mary’s side, Huddleston went white. “Let it burn,” she told him. “I’ll build you a finer house. You have my word as your queen.”

Huddleston’s dismayed look indicated he wasn’t taking her promise to heart.

I motioned Barnaby aside. “We’re too easy a target. We have to divide their pursuit.”

Barnaby assented. “What do you suggest?”

“You proceed with Her Majesty and three of her people. Let Peregrine take the others along a different route. That way, Robert and his men will have to separate. The less there are after her, the better her chances are of reaching Framlingham.”

“Good plan.” He paused. “What are you going to do?”

I gave him a cold smile. “I’ve an overdue appointment. I’ll need your bow.”

*   *   *

Peregrine kicked up a storm before he was convinced of the necessity of sacrificing personal preference in order to serve his queen. To my surprise, Rochester supported my proposition. Mary also agreed, insisting I come to her once I’d scouted the lay of the land, which I cited as my reason for staying behind. The two parties galloped off in opposite directions, the queen’s escort headed farther into the hills, Peregrine’s party turning to the road toward Essex.

As I scrambled up an incline and set Cinnabar loose to graze, I offered up a prayer for their safety, especially the queen, whom I found I admired more than my employer might prefer.

I located a cluster of boulders to hide behind and turned my focus to the winding path, notching an arrow in anticipation.

It didn’t take long. As an influx of scudding clouds smothered the sun, four men came charging up the path, soot faced and sweat soaked. Robert wasn’t among them. I soon found out why. The men dismounted a stone’s throw from my hiding place, unhooked wineskins from their saddles, and proceeded to resume an argument that evidently had been transpiring for some time.

“He’s as full of the devil’s pride as his father,” one of the men groused. “I’ve had enough of those Dudley upstarts lording it over us. Why didn’t he just let someone else go back for the soldiers, I ask you? Because he doesn’t want to sully his hands, lest Mary wins the day and he finds himself at her mercy. Well, I say leave him to it. Papist or not, bastard or legitimate, she’s still our rightful queen, no matter what Northumberland says. Remember, old Henry beheaded the duke’s own father for treason. Treachery runs in their blood.”

The other two grunted their agreement, glancing at the trim figure standing apart from them, sniffing the air as if he might scent the way Mary had gone.

“What say you, Stokes?” asked one.

The duchess’s man turned with a swirl of his velvet cloak, revealing a glimpse of scarlet lining. “I think we must each act as our conscience dictates, Master Hengate. But I’ll wager you’re not the first these days to question the Dudleys’ authority.”

Hidden behind the boulder, I had to smile. Trust him to ensure his mistress’s neutrality. The duchess was Mary’s paternal cousin, and her daughter was about to don Mary’s crown. Lady Suffolk stood to lose a great deal should Mary triumph, including her head.

Hengate stared at Stokes. “And you? What would you do if we decide to return to our homes and wait to see how this all ends?”

Stokes shrugged. “I’d go home myself and inform my lady that the duke needs a new hound. The one he sent has obviously lost its skill.”

The men guffawed. Hengate hesitated before he went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He swerved to Stokes. “If you betray us, you should know my master Lord Pembroke’s arm is long. He will find you, no matter whose skirts you hide behind.”

“I’m not an informant,” Stokes retorted. “I’ve no stake in what befalls the Dudleys. Neither does my lady, I can assure you.”

“Good,” said Hengate, as his accomplices mounted. “In times like these, it’s the pliant man who survives.” Digging heels into his horse, he and the others thundered off, leaving Stokes to wave a fastidious gauntleted hand before his nose, as if to dispel a noxious smell.

He started to move to his own idling steed when my arrow hissed over his head. He whirled about and froze, glaring toward the boulders with more arrogance that I would have expected from a man in his position.

I stepped out, extracted another arrow from the quiver strapped to my back, and fitted it to the bow. It was one of the first times in my life I had the chance to put my years of weaponry practice to action. I wasn’t disappointed in Stokes’s wary recoil.

“What do you want?” he said. “Money?” He unhooked a purse from his belt and flung it on the road between us. “That should be enough.”

I pushed back my cap. “Don’t you recognize me? It hasn’t been that long.”

He stared. “It … it can’t be.”

I adjusted the bow, aiming the arrow between his legs. “I’m thinking if I shoot you there, it will take you a few hours to die.” I leveled the bow upward. “Or I could just shoot you between the eyes. Or you can start talking. Your choice.”

He snarled, yanked his sword from the scabbard at his waist.

I let the arrow soar. It struck Stokes in the thigh, brought him howling to his knees. He grasped the protruding shaft, blanching with shock. There was little blood. I walked to him and pulled the bow taut again, ignoring the flare in my shoulder from the ball wound.

As I took aim, Stokes reared a vicious face. “Whoreson! You’d kill a defenseless man in cold blood!”

I paused. “Now, there’s a start. A whore’s son: Is that what I am?”

“A murderer is what you are. I’m going to bleed to death!”

“Not if you let that arrow be. You need an experienced surgeon to extract it; the tip is barbed. Without proper care, the wound will corrupt. Still, you’ve a better chance of survival than you gave me.” I lowered the bow. “Back to my question: Was my mother a whore?”

“I don’t know,” he retorted, but he was quivering.

“I think you do.” I squatted in front of him. “The duchess seemed to know. She saw the birthmark on my hip and was willing to kill me. Why does she want me dead? Who does she think I am?”

“Exactly?” he said, and he flew at me without warning, bowling me back and crushing the quiver of arrows under our combined weight. My head struck the path. For a second, the world melted. I rammed my knees into his ribs, clawing at the arrow shaft. His scream and the ensuing gush of blood were enough. I rolled, throwing Stokes off. I sprang up, kicked the bow out of reach. Unsheathing my blade, I leapt onto Stokes’s back and pinned him in the dust. I pressed my blade against his throat, pushing the side of his face into the dirt.

“Shall I do it?” I hissed. “Shall I cut you here and now, and leave you to bleed to death? Or will you tell me what I want to know?”

“No! No! Please!”

I released him. Stokes panted, blood seeping from his maimed leg.

I yanked him over onto his back. Positioning the dagger at the site where the arrow protruded, I said, “I promise you, this will hurt. When I start cutting out that shaft, it will hurt more than you can imagine. But it might hurt less if you don’t hold your breath.”

I punctuated the words with an icy smile. Dark rage erupted in my heart, a sudden uncontrollable thirst for vengeance. In my soul’s eye, I saw again a slash of steel, the slow terrible crumpling of a mutilated form. I stood swiftly, went and retrieved the bow.

Stokes was staring at me in horror when I located an intact arrow, fitted it, and wheeled about. I shot with precision. The arrow sang through the air and thumped into the cloak rumpled about his head, missing his ear by a hair’s breadth.

He writhed and tore at the cloak, trying to get away from the arrow that held him fast. “You win!” he shrieked. “I’ll tell you anything you want. Just cut me loose, damn you to hell!”

“Answer my question.”

He suddenly let out a feral giggle. “You fool. You’ve no idea, do you? We were going to drown you, toss your body into the river, and you would never have known why.”

I clenched my jaw. “You’re going to tell me. Now.”

“Very well.” Pure malice gleamed in his sloe-eyed look. “You are the last child of Mary of Suffolk, Henry the Eighth’s youngest sister, also known to her family as the Tudor Rose. That mark you bear—it is one her babe inherited, a mark she too carried. The only ones who would have known of it are those who were intimate with the late duchess’s person.”

My breath came in stifled bursts. A roar drowned out the sounds around me. I stared at the man before me and recalled in mind-chilling procession all the events that had led me to this unthinkable moment.

I tasted bile in my throat. “Are you saying the duchess thinks…?” I faltered. I couldn’t say the words.

Stokes sneered. “I’ve told you what you wanted. Now let me go.”

Feeling as if I tumbled into an endless void, I raised my fingers to my lips and whistled. Cinnabar trotted down the hill. From my saddlebag, I removed Kate’s salve and the linen she’d packed for my shoulder. I tore back his bloodied breeches, cut the arrow at the hilt, applied the salve, and dressed the wound. Then I wrenched the second arrow from his cloak.

I looked at his ashen face. “You’ll still need a surgeon to remove the tip. See that you get to one as soon as possible. Otherwise, the wound will fester.” I held out my hand. “Come. I’ll help you onto your horse.”

He gaped. “You lie in wait to shoot arrows at me, and now you want to help me onto my horse? It must be true. You must be one of them. You’re mad as old Henry himself.”

“Don’t. Not another word.” I took hold of him, yanked him up. He yelped as I held his stirrup and hoisted him onto his saddle. He gathered his reins, hauled his horse’s head upward.

He swiveled about. I met his malicious regard, knowing he prepared to inflict a far deeper wound than any arrow of mine could deliver.

“Your mother,” he said, in undeniable glee, “her mother—she delivered you in secrecy before she died of childbed fever. She never told anyone but her trusted eldest daughter that she was with child. She was mad with fear; she begged her daughter to keep it a secret. She hid her pregnancy from everyone, even her husband, who was by that time estranged from her, living almost full-time at court. But something happened in those last hours; Mary of Suffolk must have confided in the midwife, said something that fostered her mistrust, because my lady was told you were stillborn. She was at court at the time, so she ordered your body disposed of, the birth covered up. Had she known you in fact had survived, she’d have ridden from Whitehall that very night and strangled you herself. You see, you could take everything from her—the estate and title, her place at court and in the succession. You are the son that Charles Brandon had longed for, the heir to the Suffolk earldom. Think of that next time you muck out a stable.”