The Tudor Secret (3 page)

His question caught me off guard. For a second, I plunged into panic, unsure as to how, or if, I should answer. Would it be better to brazen an outright lie or to take a chance on a possibly newfound friend?

I decided on the latter. Something about Cecil invited confidence, but even more compelling was the possibility that he already knew. He was aware I’d been brought to court to serve Lord Robert. It stood to reason that Lady Dudley, or perhaps the duke himself, had shared other, less palatable truths about me. It wasn’t as if I was worthy of their discretion. And, if I spoke an outright falsehood to one who held their trust, it could ruin any chance I had of furthering myself at court.

I met his placid stare. “Prescott,” I said, “is not my real name.”

“Oh?” His brow lifted.

Another wave of hesitation engulfed me. There was still time. I could still offer an explanation that would not stray too far from reality. I had no idea why I didn’t, why I felt the almost overpowering need to speak the truth. I had never willingly imparted the mystery of my birth to anyone. From the time I had discovered that what I lacked made me the brunt of taunts and cruel suppositions, I decided that whenever asked I would admit only what was necessary. No need to offer details that no one cared to hear or to invite speculation.

Yet as I stood there, I perceived a quiet thoughtfulness in his regard that made me think he would understand, perhaps even sympathize. Mistress Alice had often looked at me like that, with a comprehension that never balked at admitting the most difficult of truths. I had learned to trust that quality in others.

I took a deep breath. “I am a foundling. Mistress Alice, the woman who raised me, gave me my name. In olden times, those called Prescott lived by the priest’s cottage. That’s where I was found—in the former priest’s cottage near Dudley Castle.”

“And your first name?” he asked. “Was that Mistress Alice’s doing, as well?”

“Yes. She was from Ireland. She had a deep reverence for Saint Brendan.”

A laden moment ensued. The Irish were despised in England for their rebelliousness, but until now my name had not roused undue curiosity. As I waited for Cecil’s response, I began to fear I’d made a mistake. Illegitimacy was a handicap an industrious man could turn to his favor. Lack of any lineage, on the other hand, was a liability few could afford. It usually sentenced one to a lifetime of anonymous servitude at best, and beggardom at worst.

Then Cecil said, “When you say ‘foundling,’ I assume you mean you were abandoned?”

“Yes. I was a week old, at best.” Despite my attempt to seem unaffected, I could hear the old strain in my voice, the weight of my own sense of helplessness. “Mistress Alice had to hire a local woman to nurse me. As fate would have it, a woman in town had just lost her child; otherwise, I might not have survived.”

He nodded. Before another uncomfortable silence could descend, I found myself rushing to fill it, as if I’d lost control of my own tongue. “Mistress Alice used to say the monks were lucky I wasn’t dropped on their doorstep. I’d have eaten their larders dry, and what would they have had then to withstand the storm old Henry brewed for them?”

I started to laugh before I realized my error. I’d just brought up the subject of religion, surely not a safe subject at court. Mistress Alice, I almost added, had also said my appetite was exceeded only by the size of my mouth.

Cecil did not speak. I began to think I’d done myself in with my indiscretion, when he murmured, “How dreadful for you.”

The sentiment failed to match the scrutiny of his eyes, which remained fixed on me as if he sought to engrave my face in memory. “This Mistress Alice, might she have known whom your parents were? Such matters are usually local in origin. An unwed girl got in the family way, too ashamed to tell anyone—it occurs frequently, I’m afraid.”

“Mistress Alice is dead.” My voice was flat. Despite my previous honesty, some hurts I could not willingly reveal. “She was beset by thieves while on the road from Stratford. If she knew anything about my parents, she took it with her to her grave.”

Cecil lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear it. Every man, no matter how humble, should know from whence he came.” He suddenly inclined to me. “You mustn’t let that dissuade you. Even foundlings may rise high in our new England. Fortune often smiles on those least favored.”

He stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure, Squire Prescott. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should you require anything. I’m easily found.”

He gave me another of his cryptic smiles, turned heel, and walked away.

The Tudor Secret

I watched Master Cecil disappear down the gallery before I sucked in a deep breath and turned to the door. I knocked. There was no reply. After another knock, I tried the latch. The door opened.

Stepping in, I found that the apartments, as Cecil had called them, consisted of an undersized chamber dominated by a bed with a sagging tester. Scarred wainscoting adorned the lower half of the walls, and the lone small window was glazed with greenish glass. A lit candle stub floated in oil in a dish on the table. Across the floor were strewn matted rushes, soiled articles of clothing, and assorted utensils and dishes. The smell was nauseating, a mixture of rancid leftover food and dirty garments.

I dropped my saddlebag on the threshold. Evidently, some things never changed. Rooms at court or not, the Dudley boys still lived like hogs in a sty.

I heard snores coming from the bed. I edged to it, my heels crunching on slivers of meat-bones embedded in the rushes. I avoided a pool of vomit by the bedside as I grabbed hold of the tester curtain and tugged it aside. The rungs rattled. I leapt back, half expecting the entire howling Dudley clan to lunge out at me, brandishing fists as they used to do in my childhood.

Instead, I saw a lone figure sprawled on the bed, clad in wrinkled hose and shirt, his tangled hair the color of dirty wheat. He exuded the unmistakable stench of cheap beer: Guilford, the fair babe of the tribe, all of seventeen years old and in a drunken stupor.

I pinched the hand dangling over the bedside. When all I roused was another guttural snore, I grabbed his shoulder and shook it.

He swung out his arms, rearing a sheet-lined face. “Pox on you,” he slurred.

“Good eve to you as well, my Lord Guilford,” I replied. I took a prudent step back, just in case. Though he was the youngest of the five Dudley sons, against whom I’d won more battles than lost, I was not about to risk a thrashing my first hour at court.

He gaped at me, his saturated brain trying to match identity to face. When he did, Guilford scoffed. “Why, it’s the bastard orphan. What are you—” He choked, doubled over to spew on the floor. Groaning, he fell back across the bed. “I hate her. I’ll make her pay for this. I swear I will, that righteous bitch.”

“Did she spike your ale?” I asked innocently.

He glared, forced himself up to clamber out of bed. He had the Dudley height, and I knew that if he hadn’t consumed his weight in ale he’d have pounced on me like a cub with a boil. Instinctively, I slid my hand to the sheathed dagger. Not that I could dare brandish it. A commoner could be put to death for so much as verbally threatening a noble. Still, the feel of its worn hilt against my fingers was reassuring.

“Yes, she spiked my ale.” Guilford swayed. “Just because she’s kin to the king, she thinks she can snub her nose at me. I’ll show her who’s master here. As soon as we’re wed, I’ll thrash her till she bleeds, the miserable—”

A voice lashed across the room. “Shut your miserable trap, Guilford.”

Guilford blanched. I turned about.

Standing in the doorway was none other than my new master, Robert Dudley.

In spite of my apprehension at our reunion after ten years, he was a sight to behold. I had always secretly envied him. While mine was an unremarkable face, so commonplace it was as easily forgotten as rain, Robert was a superlative specimen of breeding at its best; impressive in stature, broad of chest and muscular of shank like his father, with his mother’s chiseled nose, thick black hair, and long-lashed, dusky eyes that had certainly made more than a few maidens melt at his feet. He possessed everything I did not, including years of service at court and, upon King Edward’s ascension, prestigious appointments leading up to a distinguished, if brief, campaign against the Scots, and the wedding and bedding, or vice versa, of a damsel of means.

Yes, Lord Robert Dudley had everything a man like me could want. And he was everything a man like me should fear.

He kicked the door shut with his booted foot. “Look at you, drunk as a priest. You disgust me. You have piss for blood in your veins.”

“I was”—Guilford had turned white as canvas—“I was only saying…”

“Don’t.” Robert spoke as if he hadn’t seen me standing there. He swerved, his eyes narrowed. “I see the stable whelp has made it here intact.”

I bowed. Our association, it seemed, was to take up where we’d left off, unless I could prove I had more to offer him than a hapless body he could pummel.

“I have, my lord,” I replied in my finest diction. “I am honored to serve as your squire.”

“Is that so?” He flashed a brilliant smile. “Well, you should be. It certainly wasn’t my idea. Mother decided you should start earning your upkeep, though if it were up to me I’d have let you loose in the streets, where you came from. But seeing as you were not”—he flung out an arm—“you can start by cleaning this mess. Then you can dress me for the banquet.” He paused. “On second thought, just clean. Unless you learned how to tie a gentleman’s points while mucking out horseshit in Worcestershire.” He let out a high laugh, finding, as ever, great pleasure in his own wit. “Never mind, I can dress myself. I’ve been doing it for years. Help Guilford, instead. Father expects us in the hall within the hour.”

I guarded my expression as I bowed again. “My lord.”

Robert guffawed. “Such a gentleman you’ve become. With those fancy manners of yours, I’ll wager you’ll find a wench or two willing to overlook your lack of blood.”

He turned back to his brother, stabbed a finger circled by a silver ring at him. “And you keep your mouth shut. She’s but a wife, man. Bridle her, ride her, and put her to pasture as I did mine. And, for mercy’s sake, do something about your breath.” Robert gave me a tight smile. “I’ll see you in the hall, as well, Prescott. Bring him to the south entrance. We wouldn’t want him to spew all over our exalted guests.”

With a callous laugh, he turned and strode out. Guilford stuck out his tongue at the departing form, and, to my disgust, promptly vomited again.

It took every last bit of patience I had to accomplish my first assignment in the time allotted. Most of the discarded clothing needed a good soaking in vinegar to remove whatever detritus clung to it, yet seeing as I was no laundress I hid the nasty stuff from view and then went in search of water, finding an urn at the end of the passage.

I returned and ordered Guilford to strip. The water ran brown off his flaccid skin, the raw bites on his thighs and arms indicating he shared his bed with mites and fleas. He stood scowling, naked and shivering, cleaner than he’d probably been since he first arrived at court.

Unearthing a relatively unstained chemise, hose, doublet, and damask sleeves from the clothing press, I extended these to him. “Shall I help my lord dress?”

He ripped the clothes from my hands. Leaving him to wrestle with his garments, I went to my saddlebag and removed my one extra pair of hose, new gray wool doublet, and good shoes.

As I held these, I had an unbidden memory of Mistress Alice smoothing animal fat into the leather, “to make them shine like stars,” she’d said winking. She had brought me the shoes from one of her annual trips to the Stratford Fair. Two sizes too large at the time, to accommodate a still-growing boy, I’d proudly sloshed around in them, until one dark day months after her death, I tried them on and found they fit. Before I’d left Dudley Castle, I’d rubbed fat into the leather, as she would have. I’d taken it from the same jar, with the same wooden spoon.…

My throat knotted. While I had lived in the castle I could pretend she was still with me, a benevolent unseen presence. The mornings spent in the kitchen that were her domain, the fields where I’d ridden Cinnabar in the afternoon, the turret library where I’d read the Dudleys’ forgotten books: It always felt as if she were about to come upon me at any moment, remonstrating that it was time I eat something.

But here, she was as far away as if I’d set sail for the New World. For the first time in my life, I had the post and means to build a better future, and I was skittish as a babe at a baptism.

Recalling this favorite saying of hers, I felt a surge of confidence. She had always said I could do anything I set my mind to. Out of respect for her memory, I must do more than survive. I must thrive. After all, who knew what my future held? Ludicrous as it might seem at this moment, it wasn’t inconceivable that one day I could earn my freedom from servitude. As Cecil had remarked, even foundlings could rise high in our new England.

I slipped off my soiled clothes, careful to keep my back to Guilford as I washed with the last of the water and quickly dressed. When I turned about, I found Guilford entangled in his doublet, shirt askew, and crumpled hose about his knees.

Without needing to be told, I went to assist him.

The Tudor Secret

Though Guilford had been at court for over three years, presumably engaged in more than the satiation of his vices, he got us lost within a matter of seconds. I imagined being discovered centuries later, two skeletons with my hands locked about his throat, and took it upon myself to ask directions. With the aid of a gold coin secured from a grumbling Guilford, a page brought us to the hall’s south entrance, where the duke’s sons waited in their ostentatious finery. Only the eldest, Jack, was absent.

“Finally,” declared Ambrose Dudley, the second eldest. “We’d begun to think Brendan had hog-tied you to the bed to get you dressed.”

Guilford curled his lip. “Not bloody likely.”

The brothers laughed. I noticed Robert’s laughter didn’t reach his eyes, which kept shifting to the hall, as though in anticipation of something.

Henry Dudley, the shortest and least comely of the brothers, and therefore the meanest tempered, clapped my shoulder as if we were the best of friends. I was pleased to discover that I now stood a head taller than he.

“How fare you, orphan?” he jibed. “You look as if you haven’t grown an inch.”

“Not where you can see,” I said, with a tight smile. Matters could be worse. I could be serving Henry Dudley, who as a boy had enjoyed drowning kittens just to hear them mewl.

“No,” spat Henry. “But even a dog can tell who its mother was. Can you?”

He eyed me, eager for a tussle. His attacks on me had always been edged with more than derision, but he wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t been subjected to before, or indeed even contemplated myself, in the loneliness of the night. I refused to rise to his bait.

“Given the chance, I rather hope I could.”

“No doubt,” sneered Guilford. “I’d say the same if I were you. Thank God I’m not.”

Robert glared at his brothers as they again burst into raucous laughter. “God’s teeth, you sound like a gaggle of women. Who cares about him? If I were you, I’d be more concerned about what’s happening around us. Just look at the council, hovering about the dais like crows.”

I followed his stare to where a group of somber men stood close together, the black of their robes blending together like ink. They were indeed gathered before a dais draped in cloth of gold. Upon it sat a large velvet-upholstered throne; overhead, hung a canopy embroidered with the Tudor Rose. It suddenly occurred to me that I might see the king himself tonight, and I felt excitement bubble up in me as I looked into the hall itself.

It was luminescent, its painted ceiling offset by a black-and-white tile floor over which nobles moved as though on an immense chessboard. In the gallery, minstrels strummed a refrain, while lesser courtiers streamed through the open doors, some moving to trestle tables laden with victuals, subtleties, and decanters; others assembled in small groups to whisper, preen, and stare.

If intrigue had a smell, Whitehall would reek of it.

I heard a footstep behind us. Turning about, I had a fleeting glance of a tall, lean figure in iron-colored satin before I bowed as low as I could.

John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, said in a quiet voice, “Ah, I see you are all here. Good. Ambrose, Henry, go attend to the council. They look in dire need of drink. Robert, I’ve just received word there is need for someone of authority to see to an urgent matter at the Tower. Pray, go and attend to it.”

Even with my head bowed I heard incredulity in Robert’s reply. “The Tower? But, I was there only this afternoon and all seemed well in order. There must be a mistake. Begging your leave, my lord father, but might I see to it later?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the duke. “As I said, the matter is urgent. We’ve imposed an early curfew tonight, and nothing can occur that might unsettle the populace.”

I could almost feel the fury emanating from Robert. With a curt bow, he said tersely, “My lord,” before he strode off.

The duke addressed his remaining son. “Guilford, find a chair by the hearth and stay there. When Their Graces of Suffolk arrive, attend to them as befits your rank. And may I suggest you be a little more circumspect tonight with your intake of wine?”

Guilford skulked off. With a pensive sigh, the duke turned his passionless black eyes to me. “Squire Prescott, rise. It’s been some time since I last saw you. How was your trip?”

I had to crane my head to meet Northumberland’s gaze.

I had been in his presence only a handful of times, his service to the king having kept him at court for most of my life, and I was struck by his imposing figure. John Dudley had retained the lean build instilled by a lifetime of military discipline, his height complimented by his knee-length brocade surcoat and tailored doublet. A thick gold chain slung across his shoulders bore testament to his wealth and success. No one would have mistaken this man for anyone other than a man of great power; few in fact would have looked beyond that to the hint of insomnia under his deep-set eyes, or the careworn lines wiring his mouth in its cropped goatee.

Recalling what Master Shelton had said about the price of absolute power, I said carefully, “My trip was uneventful, my lord. I thank you for the opportunity to be of service.”

Northumberland was looking distractedly toward the hall, as if he barely registered my words. “Well, it is not me you should thank,” he said. “I did not bring you to court. That was my lady wife’s doing, though I hardly think Robert merits the luxury of a private body servant.” He sighed, returning his gaze to me. “How old are you again?”

“I believe twenty, my lord. Or, it’s been twenty years since I came to live in your house.”

“Indeed.” His cold smile barely creased his mouth. “Perhaps that explains my wife’s persistence. You are a man now and should be allowed to prove yourself in our service.” He motioned. “Go. Attend to my son and do as he says. These are perilous times. Those who demonstrate their loyalty to us will not go unrewarded.”

I bowed low again, about to slip away when I heard the duke murmur, “We won’t forget those who betray us, either.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke. Turning away he stepped into the hall, where a palpable hush greeted his entrance.

Unnerved by his words, I moved in the direction Robert had taken, my mind in a tumult. Master Shelton had also said the Dudleys would reward my loyalty. At the time I had thought he meant they’d accept me as Shelton’s eventual successor. Now I could not shake the sudden sense that I’d been plunged into a nest of serpents, where one false step could spell my ruin. The more I considered it, the more I began to question the true reason for my summons. Unlike her husband the duke, Lady Dudley had been part of my childhood—an aloof presence I’d avoided at any cost. She’d always treated me with disdain, when she deigned to notice me at all. She never interfered even when her sons tormented me, and I always suspected she only allowed Mistress Alice to care for me because she did not want it said she’d let a founding child perish on her grounds. So why did she want me at court now, serving her son, in the midst of what seemed to be an exacting time for her family?

I was so distracted by my thoughts I did not heed my surroundings. Halfway through a corridor, an arm shot out and grabbed me about the throat. I was hauled into a closed, fetid room. The fecal-spattered hole and stomach-churning smell demonstrated the room’s function. As I staggered against a wall, I thrust out a hand to avoid fouling my clothes, reaching with my other hand to the dagger I’d stashed under my doublet.

“I could cut off your hand with my sword before you release that paltry blade.”

I turned about. A shadow stepped forth. Lord Robert seemed overwhelmingly large in the confined space. “Well?” he said. “What did my father say to you?”

I kept my voice calm. “He said I should attend to you, and do as you bid.”

He took another step forward. “And?”

“That’s all.”

Robert stepped so close, the smell of his expensive musk filled my nostrils. “You’d best be telling me the truth. If you’re not, then you’d best pray I don’t find out.” He regarded me intently. “He made no mention of Elizabeth?”

“No.” I said immediately, and then I paused as I realized whom he spoke of.

He snorted, “I don’t know why Mother bothers with you. What would you know, a simple fool from the country brought here to clean my boots?” He stepped away. I heard a flint being struck. Moments later, a taper flared in his hand. He set it on the floor. “I’ll give you this much: You haven’t learned to lie yet.” He looked at me over the wavering flame, as misshapen shadows splashed across his face. “So, my father said nothing about her?”

I recalled what I heard as we entered London, and as if a bell went off inside me I decided to feign ignorance. Looking down to my feet, I murmured, “If he had, I would tell you.”

He guffawed. “Aren’t you the meek one? I’d forgotten how good you were at fading into the background, never seeing or hearing what didn’t concern you. I understand now why Mother was so set on bringing you here. You’re truly someone who doesn’t exist.”

His sharp burst of laughter ended as abruptly as it had appeared. “Yes,” he breathed, as if to himself, “the squire who doesn’t exist. It’s perfect.”

I stayed very still. I did not like the look creeping over his face, the slow calculated malice. He rocked back on his heels. “So, tell me, what would you say if I asked you to do an errand for me tonight that could earn you your fortune?”

The thick air in the room felt like a noose about my throat, cutting off my breath.

“What?” Robert’s smile showed a hint of perfect white teeth. “Have you nothing to say? How odd—a weasel like you. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance to earn your way out of service and become your own man. It is what you dream of, is it not? You don’t want to be nobody forever? Not you, not the clever little foundling. Why, I think you must be fully literate by now, what with that old monk Shelton hired. I bet he taught you Latin with one hand while buggering you with the other. Well, am I right? Can you read and write?”

I met his eyes. I nodded.

His smile turned cruel. “I thought as much. I always knew you weren’t as stupid as you’d have us think.” His tone lowered, adopting a sinister intimacy. “And I know our proud Bess will come here tonight, though my lord father pretends to know nothing.”

At these words, I could not stop the rush of excitement that went through me. So, it was true. Elizabeth Tudor was here, in London. I had witnessed her arrival.

Then I saw Robert’s expression darken. When he next spoke, his voice was tainted by a furious heat, as if I had in fact faded to nothing, an invisible being before who he needn’t measure his words. “My father promised me that when the time came, I would not be neglected. He said none was more worthy than I. But now it seems he prefers to heap honors on Guilford, and put me to do his dirty work instead. By God, I’ve done everything he asked; I even married that insipid sheep Amy Robsart because he thought it best. What more can he want from me? When will it be my turn to take what I deserve?”

I’d never heard any of the Dudley boys express anything other than conformity with their father’s wishes. It was the way of the nobility: Fathers sent their sons away to serve in influential posts and assist the family. Dudley’s sons had no will other than his, and in turn, they would reap his fortune. As far as I was concerned, Robert had no cause for complaint. He’d never known a day of hunger or want in his life; he probably never would. I had no reason to pity him; but in that moment I saw that like so many sons who feel helpless, Robert Dudley had begun to chafe against the paternal tether binding him.

“Enough!” He hit his fist into his palm. “It’s time I showed my mettle. And you, you worm—you are going to help me.” He thrust his face at me. “Unless you’d rather I sent you back to the stables for the rest of your miserable days?”

I did not speak. I knew I should prefer the stables, where life was at least predictable, but I did not. I met Robert’s stare and said, “Perhaps my lord should explain what he expects of me.”

He seemed taken aback. He glanced over his shoulder before he looked back at me. He gnawed at his lower lip, as if he had sudden doubt. Then he menaced, “If you fail me or do me wrong, I swear there isn’t a place in all England where you can hide. Do you understand me? I will find you, Prescott. And I will kill you with my bare hands.”

I did not react. Such a threat was to be expected. He had to intimidate me, ensure that I feared him enough to not betray his trust. It made me all the more curious. What did he want so desperately?

“Very well,” he said at length. “The first thing you need to know is that she’s apt to surprise you when you least expect it. I’ve known her since she was a girl, and I tell you, she likes nothing more than to set everyone around her to wondering. She delights in confusion.”

The guarded note that crept into his voice alerted me to an unspoken undercurrent. This sounded more than just a son’s bravura against his father.

“Take her arrival today, for example,” he continued. “She steals into the city without prior warning, and only once she’s reached her manor does she send word requesting leave as to when she may visit her brother, as her sister, the Lady Mary, did a few months past.” He let out a staccato laugh. “Now, there’s pure connivance, if ever I saw it. God forbid she should put herself at our mercy or that her papist sister should outdo her. And she knows we dare not refuse her, for just as she planned, rumors of her arrival run like wildfire through the city. She wants us to know no Dudley is more powerful than her.”

He spoke as if it were an elaborate game, when it was clear Elizabeth must have come to London because she’d heard rumors of her brother’s impending death. Once again I fought back the near-overwhelming sensation that I should be doing everything possible to escape this errand. Why put myself in harm’s way? Why risk becoming Lord Robert’s victim again? Inviting as it was, freedom from servitude seemed a rather remote possibility at this particular moment.

I drew in a steadying breath. “Why would she even heed me? We’ve never met.”