The Tudor Secret (22 page)

I likened his voice to a siren song—soothing, melodic, and all too convincing. A few days ago, I would have been lulled.

“You’re lying. Mary is the last person you want on the throne. You’ve worked against her almost as avidly as you’ve worked against the duke. You wanted her taken on the road or, better yet, killed as she fled. It’s what you planned. Fortunately for her, she proved less gullible than you thought.”

“I’ve never hidden where my ultimate allegiance rests.” He eyed my hand as it tightened on my dagger. “You should know that regardless of what you may think, Her Grace will have more need of me than ever before. She and Mary are not close, not as sisters should be.”

He reached again for his valise. I snapped, “Stay away from that.”

He paused. “I shall need my spectacles and cipher wheel. I assume the letter you bring is written in her usual code? You must have impressed her. She never entrusts her private missives to strangers.”

He knew I brought a letter. I had the unsettling sensation that I was dueling with someone who exceeded any ability I had to thwart him. I struggled to make sense of what I felt, of what I saw and heard; to pry it apart and examine it for unspoken meaning. When I finally did, I nearly laughed aloud at my own naïveté: that I ever could have believed I’d found out everything there was to know about this subtle, lethal man!

“It was you. I overheard Lady Dudley telling Robert someone at court was feeding Mary information; Walsingham implied the same. You warned Mary away. You let Robert go after her, but you protected yourself first by sending her advance notice. She told me at Framlingham that you would know what must be done. I thought it was a threat, but it’s not, is it? She will spare you because she thinks you helped save her from the duke.”

Amusement laced Cecil’s voice. “I can hardly take all the credit. I understand her cousin the duchess of Suffolk also sent her a communiqué, detailing all types of sordid goings-on at court. It seems Madame Suffolk had her own ax to grind against the Dudleys.”

I was not surprised to hear of the duchess’s involvement. She had vowed vengeance. What better way to achieve it than to feign compliance with the Dudleys while secretly inciting her royal cousin to action?

But there was of course the other matter involving her, the primary reason for my being here. I watched Cecil closely as he added, “As I’ve said, I’m not entirely her enemy. Oh, and she always uses the same cipher. I’ve advised her numerous times to devise a new one, but she never listens. One of the few qualities she does share with her sister.”

He reached again to his valise and drew out a pair of silver-framed glasses. He held out his hand. “The missive, please?”

I gave it to him. Cold certainty began to seep through my veins. He was indeed a master of opportunism, an expert in games of deceit. Whatever I thought he had done or was about to do only revealed another layer underneath.

He read Mary’s letter in silence, glancing now and then at the key wheel in his other hand. When he was done, he removed his glasses, set the paper and wheel aside.

“Well?” I said. I felt a subtle shift in the air.

“She too stays true to character.” He raised weary eyes. “She orders that before the council even thinks of asking for her clemency, they must see that she’s proclaimed queen to the exclusion of all other claimants. She also warns that those who failed to offer her support should remove themselves at once. Those who stay must show proof of their constancy by taking the duke and his sons into custody, as well as Jane Grey. She promises the usual array of punishments if she is disobeyed. Not that she will be; everyone knows the die is cast.”

“You’ll be safe enough,” I said, but I had no satisfaction in the barb. There was an awful tingle in my belly, a growing awareness I had made an error in my assessment of him.

“Do you truly believe that?” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “I may have helped her stay one step ahead of the duke, but don’t think for an instant that she’s forgotten that I served the man. There’ll be no place for me at her court.” He sighed. “No matter. Country life suits me well enough, and it is time I got away from all this.”

“She’s banishing you?” I experienced keen disappointment. Cecil was not someone a wise monarch should disdain. If nothing else, his facility for spying made him an asset or a liability, depending on the circumstances.

“Not in so many words, but she knows I have no other choice. She’ll never trust any of those who served the duke or her brother. I should be grateful that unlike these others, I needn’t soil my hands by putting my former master in prison.”

And those hands, I noticed, had changed. The ink stains under the nails were faded, as if he had already started to slough away the skin of his prior role.

Cecil went on: “Had it gone differently, we’d have seen her to the same prison quick enough. To be banished is fortunate indeed, considering not a few heads will roll before this matter is concluded.”

His play for empathy was a mistake. I smiled. I had been wrong. She had not disdained him. She had seen through him. The time had come to cast my own die.

“But not your head. You made sure of that. No one knows the extent of your involvement.”

This time, I was pleased to see the skin about his mouth tighten.

“Unless you’ve been filling Mary’s ears with nonsense, yes,” he replied.

“I would never stoop so low. Difficult as it may be for you to imagine, Her Majesty is an innocent when it comes to men like you.”

“You shouldn’t let her air of virginal righteousness blind you. She’s an enemy to our faith, and her accession is a tragedy to those who’ve labored to bring greater glory to England.”

“To England?” I asked. “Or to Cecil? Or are they one and the same to you?”

“I assure you, I’ve sought only to serve Her Grace.”

Without warning, my anger resurged, virulent as fever. Lies and more lies—with him, they never stopped. No doubt, he would lie his way to his very grave.

No more. I would make him speak the truth, damn him to hell.

“Is that why you let her come to court?” I advanced on his chair. “Though you knew she risked her life? Is that why you failed to warn her away, because you sought to serve her?”

There was no mistaking the change in the air. He might have actually recoiled in his seat, had he the reflexes of a normal man, unused to guarding his reactions at every moment.

“You forget that I did advise her to leave,” he said, in a measured tone. “I warned her several times of the danger, but she did not listen.” Still, he didn’t move, did not rise in alarm, though I stood so close I could have stabbed him before he had time to cry out.

“You didn’t warn her,” I said. “You manipulated her. You manipulated her just as you manipulated me. You’ve been playing a game with all of us from the beginning.”

He smiled. Actually smiled. “And what, pray, did this game of mine entail?”

I had to step back, lest I went too far and didn’t stop until he lay in a bloodied sprawl at my feet. It had all become crystalline clear, the truth surfacing as if a cloth had been wiped across the tarnished glass of my mind.

Everything was more horribly real than I had imagined.

“To see Elizabeth made queen instead of her sister—that was your game. The duke’s time had run out. After years of watching him exercise control over Edward, you decided never would the likes of Northumberland and his clan rule again. When the time came, they would fall, all of them, no matter the cost. And they would take Mary with them.” I met his stare. “But something happened. Something you didn’t anticipate.”

“Is that so?” He folded his hands at his chin. “Do go on. I find this all … fascinating.”

“Jane Grey happened. You had no idea what the duke planned, did you, that night Elizabeth arrived at court? All you knew for certain was that the king was dying and Northumberland wanted the princess for himself. By the time the duke announced Jane Grey’s marriage to his son and you realized just how far he was willing to go to keep his grip on the throne, it was too late. So you put Elizabeth to the test, because if all went as planned, she herself would help you dispose of your rival.”

His expression revealed nothing.

My voice rose despite myself. I flung my next words at him as if they could humiliate, bruise, maim. “Northumberland posed no threat; you knew she would never have him. But Robert Dudley was another story. Only he had a claim on her more powerful than your own. Only he might have curtailed your influence over her. And it was that, more than anything else, which you could not bear.”

“Careful, my friend,” he said softly. “You may go too far.”

I’d finally struck a nerve. I should indeed be careful, for the only thing more dangerous than his friendship was his enmity. In that moment, however, I no longer cared.

“Not as far as you. You knew the moment the king died, the duke would put an end to you because of what you knew. His Majesty had told you he wanted Elizabeth as his heir. Putting Jane Grey on the throne might prove a deadly error, but it was possible the duke would still succeed, that Mary might escape, or the lure of power would prove too great and Elizabeth would succumb to Robert. If any of these occurred, you could disavow yourself completely.”

I paused. His pale eyes were now fixed on me.

“You were willing to abandon her, to turn coat and feign support of whoever won—including Mary, though in your heart you loathe and fear her more than the duke himself.”

At this, Cecil raked his fingers across the chair arms. “You insult me. You dare insinuate that I would betray my own princess?”

“I do. But no one will ever know, will they? No matter what, your hide is safe.”

He came to his feet. Though he was not a tall man, he seemed to fill the room with his presence. “You should be an actor. The profession would benefit from your flair for the dramatic. I should warn you, however, that before you even think of entertaining Her Grace with this preposterous tale, you should consider she’ll require more than unsubstantiated charges.”

My every muscle tensed. I was right, and the revelation stunned me. I had not thought to be so taken aback, so shocked, by what I had discovered. In some part of me, I had held on to the desperate hope that none of it was true.

“She is no fool,” I told him. “It’s clear to me, as it will be to her, that you let her and her sister walk into a quagmire of lies, completely unprepared for what might befall them.”

An odd light flickered in his eyes. The violence I had glimpsed had vanished, replaced by disturbing levity. Uncoiling his hands, Cecil started to clap. The sound was rhythmic, reverberating against the oak-paneled study. “Bravo. You have exceeded my highest expectations. You are everything I had hoped you would be.”

I stared. “What … what do you mean by that?”

His regard was all encompassing, merciless. “In a moment. First, let me say you’ve a rare gift for deciphering intrigue. For you are correct: I did want Mary dead and Elizabeth on the throne. She is our last hope, the only one of Henry the Eighth’s children worthy to inherit his crown. I may have failed in my goal, but it is an untimely delay of the inevitable. She was born to rule, you see. And when her day comes, nothing—nothing—will be able to compete with her destiny.”

“Not even her happiness?” I said. A hard lump filled my throat. “Not even love?”

“Especially not love.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he spoke of a color she must never wear. “That, above all, would be disastrous. She may have been born the wrong sex, but in everything else she is the prince that her father longed for. Only she has his strength, his courage, his drive to conquer any obstacle thrown in her path. She must not give in to the weakness in her blood—a weakness she inherited from her mother, who was ever one to indulge herself. I’ll not see her sacrifice her future for Dudley, whose ambition is his overriding vice.”

“She loves him!” I yelled. “She’s loved him since they were children! You knew that, and you deliberately set out to destroy it. Who are you to dictate her fate? Who are you to say where she may or may not give her heart?”

“Her friend,” was his reply, “the only one with the stomach to save her from herself. Robert Dudley was her downfall. Now she need never be tempted. Even if he can survive Mary’s wrath, which is most unlikely, he’s lost Elizabeth forever. She’ll never trust him completely again. It is a reward which, in my estimation, more than compensates her suffering.”

“You’re a monster.” My breath came in stifled bursts. “Did you ever stop to think that in your grandiose plan to put a crown on her head you might break her spirit? Or that Jane Grey, who never wanted any part of this, could lose her life because of it?”

Cecil’s gaze riveted me to my spot. “Elizabeth is more resilient than you think. As for Jane Grey, it wasn’t my idea to make her queen. I merely sought to benefit from it.”

I wanted to leave him there, with his papers and his machinations. Nothing he could tell me now would bring me anything other than revulsion, despair.

And yet I stayed, transfixed.

His smile was like slivered steel. “Have you nothing to say? We’ve reached the crux of the matter, the reason why you are here. So go on. Ask me. Ask what else I’ve been hiding from you. Ask me about the herbalist and the reason Frances of Suffolk had to surrender her claim to the throne to her daughter.”

He let out a small sigh. “Ask me, Brendan Prescott, who you are.”

The Tudor Secret

“You know,” I whispered. “You have known from the start.”

“Not from the start,” Cecil said, with an air of reprove. “I only heard a rumor years ago, when I was younger than you are now—one of many scandals overheard in passing, like so much at court. I wouldn’t have paid it any mind had it not concerned Henry the Eighth’s beloved younger sister, whom so many knew as the French Queen—that headstrong princess who created an international uproar when she wed Charles of Suffolk, yet whose death at age thirty-seven caused nary a ripple.”

“It was June,” I said. A bone-deep chill enveloped me, as if I would never be warm again.

“Yes, June 1533, to be exact. King Henry had crowned Anne Boleyn in her sixth month of pregnancy, proof that God approved their union and the turmoil they’d wrought on England. Little did they know the child they awaited would be the beginning of Anne’s downfall.”

Cecil paced to the window. He stood staring out into his garden. Silence descended, laden like the pause before the opening of a well-thumbed book. Then he said quietly, “I was thirteen years old, serving as an apprentice clerk—another ambitious lad among hundreds, working my fingers to the quick. I got around; I was nimble and I knew how to keep my ears open and my mouth shut. Thus, I often heard a great deal more than my appearance suggested.”

He smiled faintly. “I was a bit like you, in fact—diligent, well-intentioned, eager to seek my advantage. When I heard the rumor, it struck me as a sign of the times that the king’s own sister had died alone, after months of seclusion in her manor at Westhorpe, allegedly having lived in terror that Anne Boleyn might discover her secret.”

The chill infiltrated my veins. I heard Stokes’s words in my head:

She was mad with fear; she begged her daughter to keep it a secret.…

“What secret?” I said, in a near-inaudible voice.

“That she was with child, of course.” Cecil turned back to me. “You must remember that many actually believed Anne Boleyn had bewitched the king. She was a strong-willed woman, with strong opinions. The common people detested her; so did most of the nobles. She had destroyed Katherine of Aragon, threatened to send Henry’s own daughter Mary to the block. Several of Henry’s oldest friends had fallen into disgrace or lost their heads because of his infatuation with her. Anne Boleyn had staked her entire future on the fact that the king’s first marriage was not valid and he had no legitimate heir. But until she gave him one, his sister’s children were next in line to the throne.”

“And Mary of Suffolk hated Anne Boleyn.…” I heard myself say.

“Indeed. She’d been vocal in her horror over Henry’s break with Rome and remained a staunch ally of Queen Katherine, who, while imprisoned under house arrest, was still very much alive. Mary had already given birth to two sons and two daughters; any living child of hers posed a threat, but one born in those precarious months while Anne awaited hers—well, let us say she had reason to fear Anne’s enmity. It was why she stayed away from court. Or it was the excuse she wanted everyone to believe.”

My hands hung limp at my sides, my dagger pointed at the floor.

“Then she died,” I said, without inflection.

“According to the rumor I heard, she died shortly after giving birth. She’d hidden her pregnancy from everyone, allegedly because she feared Anne would poison her. She was buried in haste, without ceremony. Henry didn’t display much grief; he was too excited about his queen’s impending confinement, as was everyone else. By the time Elizabeth was born, few remembered Mary of Suffolk had existed. In the next three years, her widower Charles Brandon—a man who embraced self-preservation—married his pubescent ward and sired two sons before his own demise. By then, Anne Boleyn had gone to the block and Henry had wed and lost Jane Seymour, his third wife, who gave him Edward, his coveted son. The king of course went on to wed three more times. In our world, nothing is as quickly forgotten as the dead.”

“And Mary’s last child?” I asked thickly. “What became of it?”

“Some said it was stillborn; others that it was hidden away at her dying request. Certainly, Charles of Suffolk never mentioned it—which he would have, had he known. His remaining son by Mary died the year after her; all he had left were daughters.”

“So he would have welcomed another son…?”

Cecil nodded. “Indeed. But he was abroad for most of the time before his wife’s demise, and by all accounts he and Mary were on difficult terms. Suffolk had supported the king’s quest to rid himself of Queen Katherine and marry Anne; Mary opposed it. Still, theirs was reputedly a love match, and he must have tried; she wasn’t so old that she could not conceive.… In any event, she hid her last pregnancy from him, giving out instead that she suffered from the swelling sickness. He probably never even suspected. It does beg the question of what was going through the unfortunate lady’s mind that she’d keep a child from her own husband.”

“You said she was afraid of Anne Boleyn,” I said, and I heard him step to me, so close we might have embraced. His face looked ancient, the marks of worry, of ceaseless statecraft and insomniac nights, engraved into his flesh.

“Maybe Anne wasn’t the only reason,” he said, and he started to reach out. Before he could touch me, I shifted away, though it felt more like lurching, so leaden were my limbs. The chamber closed in around us, shot through with random afternoon light and stark long shadows.

“How did you find out about me?” I asked abruptly.

“Entirely by coincidence.” His response was certain, subdued. “As I said, Henry the Eighth’s testament decreed that after his children and their heirs, his sister Mary’s issue stood next in line to the throne. So when I learned that the duchess had renounced her claim in favor of her daughter Jane Grey, I was surprised. Frances of Suffolk never renounced anything willingly in her life. Northumberland informed me she had done so in exchange for Guilford as a spouse for Jane, but not even he seemed convinced. I decided to investigate. It wasn’t long before I learned that Lady Dudley had threatened Frances with something altogether more interesting.”

I gave him a hollow smile. “Me.”

“Yes,” he said, “though I didn’t know exactly who you were at that time. I didn’t begin to put it together until I learned Lady Dudley had presented you to the duchess in the hall, where she whispered a comment about the mark of the rose. Now, that caught my attention: The Rose was Henry the Eighth’s affectionate nickname for his younger sister. You of course had already told me when we met that you were a foundling, but you also spoke of a woman you’d lost, who cared for you. I knew from Fitzpatrick of the herbalist Lady Dudley had brought to treat Edward, and so I started to put the pieces into place. It still took me time to figure it all out, but the conclusion, once I recognized it, was irresistible.”

I was floundering, fighting against the unraveling of my own self.

“And it was…?” I managed to utter. Silence ensued. For the first time, Cecil wavered, as if he debated whether or not to continue.

The cruelty of the game finally unhinged me.

“TELL ME!” My dagger clattered to the floor as I grabbed him by the doublet and rammed him hard against the wall. “Tell me this instant!”

In a low voice Cecil said, “You are the last son of Mary of Suffolk. The herbalist, Mistress Alice—the Suffolk household accounts show she had been in service to the late duchess; she attended her at Westhorpe in June of 1533. And years before, Lady Dudley had attended her as well, in France when Mary went to wed King Louis. These three women knew each other, and each was connected to you, the foundling whom Lady Dudley had brought to court to use against Frances of Suffolk.”

With a strangled sound that was part moan, part sob, I released him. I staggered back, plunged back to that day years ago when Lady Dudley had taken the book of psalms from me. I saw its frontispiece in my mind, the handwritten dedication in French in that elegant feminine script. I had not understood, though it too had been with me, all along.

A mon amie, de votre amie, Marie.

That book I had stolen and carried with me in my saddlebag belonged to my mother. She had bequeathed it to a favored attendant—a lady who accompanied her during her brief time as queen of France, a lady she must have trusted, one she had called friend.

Lady Dudley. She had betrayed my mother’s memory to further her own terrible ends.

Grabbing hold of the nearest chair, I threw it across the room. I wanted to tear the roof down about our ears, scour the walls to ashes, rip off my own skin. I spun back to him, enraged, my fists clenched and held before me.

He didn’t shift a muscle. “Strike me if you must. But it won’t return what was taken from you. I may be guilty of many things, but I did not do this. I did not steal your birthright. Lady Dudley did; she concealed it. She used and murdered your Mistress Alice for it.”

I was beyond reason. An abyss opened beneath my feet, full of horrors I did not want to see. Of Lady Dudley, I could believe anything, including this monstrous deed. But my poor Alice … How could she have left me in ignorance, all these years? How could she have not realized that, in the end, what I did not know might be the one thing used against me?

“Alice cared for me,” I heard myself whisper, as if I needed to convince myself. “She kept me safe.… They mangled her, tethered her like a beast, only to kill her in the end.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “They did. And she endured it, out of love for you.”

I looked at him. “Is that what it was? Love?”

“Never doubt it. Mistress Alice gave her life to you. She took you from your dying mother, from the sister who wanted you dead, and brought you to the one place where she thought you’d be safe. She couldn’t have known what would occur; no one could have foreseen it, all those years ago. But she must have suspected enough about Lady Dudley to take steps to protect you. Your name alone proves it.”

I thrust out a hand. “No more. Please. I—I cannot bear it.”

“You must.” He shifted from the wall. “You must accept the treachery and the lies, and you must overcome them. Otherwise, it will be your undoing.” He paused. “She named you Brendan not because of her reverence for the saint but because it is the Latin form of the Irish name Bréanainn, which is derived from ‘prince’ in ancient Welsh. Mistress Alice gave you your legacy from the start. It has been with you all this time.”

“Then why?” Desperation edged my voice. “If Mistress Alice knew who I was, why didn’t Lady Dudley kill her the moment she brought me to her? Why did she wait so long?”

He went quiet for a moment before he said, “I can’t say. All I can think of is that she depended on Alice’s complicity. Any servant could raise you as one belonging to the lower class, and that was the illusion Lady Dudley had to create, that you belonged to no one. But servants gossip; word could get out about you. We can assume Lady Dudley knew you had to be hidden from Frances of Suffolk, and she needed someone to care for you whom she could trust. Alice would do both, so Lady Dudley took the risk that one day she might tell you the truth. At the time, there was no pressing need to do otherwise. You were still a babe; you could die, as many do. Nobody knew how the succession would resolve itself, but a secret like you could prove invaluable. Absolute silence was required—silence and the patience to wait.”

He paused, watching me. My heart pounded in my ears. There was more; I could feel it uncoiling just beneath the surface, shedding its brittle false skin.

Then Cecil added, “Of course, there is another possibility. Perhaps Lady Dudley did not kill Mistress Alice at first because she knew Alice had confided in someone else; someone who would reveal your existence should anything happen to her. If so, then between Alice and this other person, Lady Dudley found herself cornered; she did not dare act impulsively, at least not until she found her opportunity when King Edward fell ill.” He paused. “Is there anyone you can think of whom your Mistress Alice might have trusted with so dangerous a secret?”

I went still, recalling Stokes’s words: But something happened in those last hours; Mary of Suffolk must have confided in the midwife, said something that fostered her mistrust.…

And then Mary Tudor’s: Charles of Suffolk’s … squire came to see me. A stalwart man …

I wanted to bolt from the room, run as far as I could. I didn’t want to know anymore. There would be no peace for me, no hiding. I’d be condemned to search until the end of my days.

But it was already too late. I knew how Alice had protected herself: with my birthmark, which another servant caring for me would see. And I also knew whom she had confided in. Like everything else, it had been there all along, waiting for me to learn enough to see it.

I shook my head in response to Cecil’s question. “No, I don’t. And it doesn’t matter. Mistress Alice is dead.” I hardened my voice. “But I know this much: You have no proof. There is no proof. I intend to keep it that way.” I met his eyes. “If you ever tell another soul, I will kill you.”

He chuckled. “I’m relieved to hear it.” He adjusted his doublet, walked past the broken chair to his valise as if we’d been discussing the weather. “Because the revelation of your birth could create complications that would be most unfortunate for all concerned—especially you.”

Raw laughter burst from me. “Is that why Walsingham was on the leads with a dagger? Given the uncertainty surrounding the succession, I must have presented a terrible hindrance!”

“You were never a hindrance.” Cecil draped his cloak about his shoulders. “I underestimated your ingenuity perhaps, but I had no intention of letting you die, in my service or otherwise.” The gravity in his tone took me aback. “If you consider the events, you’ll see that when you first arrived here, all I had was an unfounded rumor and knowledge of an herbalist who had once served Mary of Suffolk. I couldn’t possibly have known everything beforehand.”

As if I were back in Whitehall the night of Elizabeth’s arrival, I heard that cryptic whisper: Il porte la marque de la rose.

I couldn’t rage anymore. I couldn’t fight. “Not until someone confirmed it for you,” I said. “That’s why you had Walsingham follow me, isn’t it? To see if he could catch me undressed. The mark on my skin, the mark called the rose—it would have proven everything.”