The Tudor Secret (6 page)

With a knot in my throat, I followed her. As we neared, Elizabeth glanced at me from her stance at the hearth. There wasn’t a hint of recognition in her cool amber gaze.

“Kneel,” Lady Dudley hissed in my ear. “The duchess of Suffolk is of royal blood, daughter of the younger sister of our late King Henry the Eighth. You must show her your respect.”

I dropped to one knee. I caught a glimpse of a spaniel huddled on a massive lap, its red leather collar encrusted in diamonds. The dog yipped.

I slowly lifted my gaze. Ensconced on a mound of cushions, constrained by a gem-encrusted bodice and galleon-sail nectarine skirts, was a monster.

“Her Grace Frances Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk,” lilted Lady Dudley. “Your Grace, may I present Squire Prescott? He’s newly come to court to serve as a squire to my son.”

“Squire?” The civility in the duchess’s high voice was brittle as piecrust. “Well, I can’t see the churl bowed over like that. On your feet, boy. Let us have a look at you.”

I did as she bade. Metallic eyes bore into me. She must have been handsome once, before inactivity and overindulgence at the table had taken their toll. The phantom of a once-robust beauty could still be discerned in the tarnished auburn hair coiled under her enormous jeweled headdress, in the strong line of her aquiline nose, and in the pampered translucence of her skin, which was taut and white, without blemish or wrinkle.

But it was her eyes that transfixed me; cruel, appraising, and appallingly shrewd, those eyes belied the indifference of her expression, tyrannical as only those born to privilege can be.

I couldn’t hold her stare for long and dropped my discomfited gaze to her hem. I saw that her left foot, squashed into a ludicrously delicate slipper, twisted inward, grossly misshapen.

I heard her chuckle. “I was an expert rider in my youth. Are you? A rider, that is?”

My reply was low, cautious. “I am, Your Grace. I was raised among horses.”

“He was raised at our manor,” interposed Lady Dudley, a perverse challenge in her voice. “He came to us by chance twenty years ago. Our housekeeper at the time found him—”

A terse wave of the duchess’s ringed fingers cut her off. “What? Have you no family?”

I glanced at Lady Dudley, though I knew she’d give me no succor. Her lips parted, showing teeth. With a sudden drop of my stomach, I wondered if I was about to be cast off. It happened. Masters transferred or exchanged servants for favors, to pay off debts, or to simply dispose of those who ceased to please. Was this why she’d brought me to court? Had all my aspirations been mere fanciful notions?

“No, Your Grace.” I couldn’t keep the quaver from my voice. “I am an orphan.”

“A shame.” The duchess’s tone indicated she’d heard enough. She said briskly to Lady Dudley, “Madam, your charity is to be commended. I trust the boy proves worthy of it.” Her hand flicked at me. “You may go.”

Overcome by relief, I bowed, remembering not to turn my back on a person of the blood royal. Just as I took a step backward, praying I wouldn’t bump into another chair, Lady Dudley leaned to the duchess and said: “Il porte la marque de la rose.”

She couldn’t realize I understood her words, unaware I’d studied French with the aid of one of Robert’s discarded lesson books. The duchess sat as if petrified, her ferocious gaze fixed on me. I froze in my tracks. What I saw in her narrowed eyes chilled my blood.

He bears the mark of the rose.

I felt sick. Lady Dudley stepped back from the chair, offered the duchess a brief curtsy. The duchess seemed unable to move. Behind her, lurking at the fringe of the group, I caught a tawny flicker. I blinked, looked again. It was gone.

A heavy hand came down on my shoulder. I wheeled about to find fury etched on Master Shelton’s scarred face. He hauled me to the sideboard. “I thought I’d seen you off with that wench. Instead, here you are getting yourself into trouble again! Is this to be my reward, eh? Is this how you repay me for everything I’ve done for you?”

His reprimand fell on me like rain. My mind whirled, though I had the forethought not to give voice to my tumult, even when he stabbed his finger at my chest and said, “Don’t dare move. I’ve something to do; and when I get back, I expect you to be here.”

He strode off. I caught my breath, my mouth dry as bone. With almost painful trepidation I slid my hand to the top of my hose. Further down, near my hip, where points held my codpiece in place, I could feel it. It took all my strength not to strip away my clothing, to reassure myself it couldn’t be possible.

The rose—Mistress Alice had called it that. She said it meant I was blessed. But how did Lady Dudley know? How could she have discovered something so intimate, which I’d thought belonged to a lonely boy and a laughing, red-cheeked woman, his only friend in a hostile world? And why would she have wielded it like a weapon upon someone who had no reason to care?

Anger flared in me. Mistress Alice was gone. I couldn’t stop mourning her; but in that instant, God help me, I almost hated her for wrecking our memories, for violating our trust. It did not matter that no doubt Lady Dudley had seen my birthmark when I was a babe; all I could think was that she’d been granted a confidence I believed was mine and Mistress Alice’s alone.

I closed my eyes, removed my hand from my hose to press it to my pounding heart. As I felt the ring tucked there in my inner pocket, I suddenly realized I was in serious peril, hurled into a situation I had no means to survive. Something was happening, something terrible. I didn’t know what it was but somehow I had a part in it, and so, it seemed, did the princess. The Dudleys meant to do us both harm. And if I could find a way to warn her, then maybe—

A blast of horns came from the gallery, and the duke marched to the dais. The hall went silent. I peered to the hearth, where Elizabeth stood motionless. The duchess of Suffolk had risen, as well; as her eyes met mine, fear stabbed through me and I shifted sideways, seeking the camouflage of the crowd.

The duke’s speech carried into the hall. “His Majesty wishes to extend his gratitude to all those who’ve expressed concern over his health. It is at his request that I make this announcement.” He scoured the courtiers with his stare. “His Majesty is a benevolent prince, but he is most displeased by the rumors that have come to his attention. Contrary to those who dare speculate, he is well on his way to recovery. Indeed, at his physicians’ advice, he has retired to his palace at Greenwich, where he can hasten his cure. As a sign of his improvement, he also wishes it be known he’s given gracious consent to the marriage of my youngest son, Guilford Dudley, to his beloved cousin, Lady Jane Grey. Said union will be celebrated tomorrow night with festivities at Greenwich, where His Majesty himself will bless the couple. His Majesty commands we toast this joyous occasion.”

A page hastened forth to hand the duke a goblet. He brandished it in the air. “To His Majesty’s health; may he long reign over us. God save King Edward the Sixth!”

As if on cue servitors entered with platters of goblets. Courtiers rushed to snatch these, thrusting them upward. “To His Majesty!” they cried in unison.

Northumberland gulped down his wine and abandoned the dais, proceeding from the hall with the lords of the council behind him, like dark leaves in his wake. From where I hid, I saw Lady Dudley follow, as well, but at a distance, accompanied by the glowering duchess of Suffolk. The duchess’s daughter, Jane Grey, was behind her mother, one tiny hand lost in Guilford’s as he strutted proudly, his father’s chosen link to the Tudor royal blood.

The moment they exited, courtier turned to courtier like fishwives in a market, and I glanced in sudden painful understanding at the hearth. Ashen disbelief spread over Elizabeth’s face. Her goblet fell from her hand. Wine splashed across the floor, spattering her hem. Without warning, she whirled about and stalked out the nearest side door.

The next minutes passed like years as I stood waiting to see if anyone would follow. The courtiers began to take their leave. No one seemed to notice that Elizabeth had left. I started to move to the door when I espied the princess’s attendant sidling up to a stark figure I failed to recognize at first. When I did, my heart lurched. It was Walsingham, Cecil’s associate. He and the girl exchanged a few words before they parted, Walsingham turning pointedly away. Neither showed any intention of following the princess.

I slipped to the door. I didn’t see Master Shelton before he suddenly blocked my way. “I thought I told you to stay put. Or haven’t you found enough trouble for one night?”

I met his bloodshot stare. He’d never given me cause to mistrust him. Yet he answered to Lady Dudley for everything he did; and in that moment all I saw was a reminder of the powerlessness I had felt all of my life. “Since you seem to know more about this so-called trouble than I do,” I retorted, “maybe you can explain it to me.”

His voice turned ugly. “You ungrateful whelp, I don’t need to explain anything to you. But I’ll tell you this much: If you value your skin you’ll stay far from Elizabeth. She’s poison, just like her mother. No good ever came of the Boleyn witch, and none will come of the daughter.”

He flung the words at me like filth. It was a warning I knew I should heed, but at that moment all I wanted was to get away from him and the Dudleys, no matter the cost.

“Be that as it may, I have my master’s bidding to fulfill.”

“If you go after her,” he said, “I’ll not be responsible for it. I’ll not protect you from the consequences. Do you understand? If you go, you’re on your own.”

“Perfectly.” I inclined my head and walked around him. I did not look back, though I could feel his eyes boring into me. I had the uncanny sensation that despite his threats, he understood what I was about to do, that somehow, in a distant past, he’d felt the same compulsion, and was, in his belligerent way, trying to save me from myself.

Then all thought of him left my mind as I hurried into the passage in search of Elizabeth.

The Tudor Secret

I thought I was too late, for she seemed to have vanished into the labyrinth of halls and galleries. My heels struck hollow echoes on the floors as I dashed down one corridor, paused, and turned into another. I was following my instinct, avoiding the line of sputtering sconces spaced unevenly on the walls, braving the darker twists and turns in the blind hope that she would not take so easy a route.

I nearly sighed aloud when I finally came upon her, standing in an archway that led into an inner courtyard, bunching handfuls of her gown. She’d removed her filigree net; her hair coiled loose, like fire, over her taut shoulders. Hearing my approach before she saw me, she spun about. “Ash Kat, get word to Cecil at once. We must—”

She stopped, staring. “By God, you are bold.” She looked past me. Panic colored her voice. “Where are my women? Where are Mistress Ashley and Mistress Stafford?”

I bowed low. “I haven’t seen Mistress Ashley,” I said, using the tone I’d learned to wield when dealing with a volatile foal. “If by Mistress Stafford, you refer to your other lady, she didn’t follow you out. In fact, I saw her go in the opposite direction.”

“She must have gone to ready my barge.” Elizabeth paused. Her eyes were unblinking, riveted on me as if she might truly divine my purpose under my skin. She abruptly gestured, moving on swift steps into the courtyard, where the shadows lay thick. Glancing back to the doorway, she said, “Why are you still following me?”

My hand went to my doublet. “I’m afraid I still have my master’s orders to complete.”

Her face hardened. “Then uncompleted those orders will remain. I believe I’ve suffered enough humiliation from the Dudleys for one night.” In the open air, her indignation echoed a decibel higher than it should. She looked translucent, almost wraithlike. She had come to court to see her brother, only to be disdained, informed in public that the king, no doubt by the duke’s command, had departed for Greenwich. Now here I was skulking after her, a nuisance determined to win favor at any cost. Disgust swept through me. What was I doing? Let Robert and his ring be damned! I’d concoct some excuse as to why I’d failed in my assignment. If I was beaten or dismissed, so be it. I was literate, able. With any luck, I wouldn’t starve.

“Forgive me.” I bowed. “I did not intend to cause Your Grace any distress.”

“I’m far more concerned by the distress the duke has caused me.” She fixed the full force of her eyes on me. “You’re their servant. Do you know what he plans?”

I went still. Master Shelton’s words spilled in my mind: She’s poison. Poison to the core.

Even as I considered it, I knew I wouldn’t turn away, wouldn’t evade or flee her question, even though it might end up costing me everything. I’d reached that inevitable crossroads that comes in every man’s life—the crucial moment when, if we’re fortunate enough to recognize it, we can make a choice that will forever alter our fate. Elizabeth was the catalyst I’d sought without ever knowing it; poisonous or benign, she offered me the key to a new existence.

“I do not,” I replied. “If I did know, I would tell you. But I have eyes and ears; I saw what happened tonight, and I fear that whatever he plans, it will not bode well for Your Grace.”

She tilted her head. “You’ve an able tongue. But before you go any further, let me warn you, I’ve dealt with abler in my time. Be careful where you tread, squire.”

I did not flinch. “I state what I see. I learned early in life to look beyond the obvious.”

A faint smile creased her lips. “It seems we have something in common.” She paused again, and the silence restored that invisible divide between royal and commoner. “So, you have my attention. Tell me what you saw to make you think I may be in danger?”

I didn’t disregard the underlying threat in her voice. This was treacherous ground, not some fable in which I might play the knight. This was the court, where the sole coinage was power. She’d grown up among its quicksands, tasted its brine since she’d been old enough to learn the truth of her mother’s death. But whether she cared to admit it or not, she knew we were both now pawns in some Dudley game. It was the primary reason I couldn’t walk away; in truth, there was no walking away.

“I saw that you did not anticipate being denied His Majesty’s presence. You expected him to be in the hall to greet you, as he surely would have, were he truly on the mend from his illness. Now you are afraid, because you do not know how he is or what the duke has done.”

She was silent, so still she might have been a statue. Then she said, “You are indeed perceptive. Eyes such as yours could take you far. But if you can see so much, then God spare me from those with even keener sight, for it’s clear that travesty in the hall was meant as a warning that John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland now rules this realm.”

I fought the urge to look over my shoulder, half expecting to see the duke padding up to us, his black-robed council at his heels with warrants for our arrest.

“Does Robin know of your suspicions?” she asked.

I swallowed. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her what I suspected about Robert, and of the mysterious exchange between Lady Dudley, the duchess of Suffolk, and me. But all I had were, in fact, suspicions, and something instinctual kept me quiet. Whatever the Dudleys had planned for me was not her concern—not yet.

“Your Grace,” I said at length, “I do not know if Lord Robert can be trusted or not. But if you so command it, I will try to find out.”

Without warning, a burst of laughter broke from her lips, wild and uninhibited, and then it vanished as soon as it appeared. “I do believe you would do exactly as you say. For better or worse, their corruption has not yet touched you.” She smiled, in sudden sadness. “What is it you want of me, my gallant squire? Don’t deny it; I can see it on you. I am no stranger to longing.”

And as if I’d known the answer all along, never knowing when or if this moment would come, I said, “I want to help Your Grace, wherever it may lead.”

She clasped her hands, glancing down. Dry wine stains soiled her hem. “I hadn’t expected to make a friend tonight.” She lifted her gaze to me. “Much as I appreciate the offer, I must decline. It would complicate your standing with your master, which seems to me none too firm. I would, however, accept an escort to my barge. My ladies must be waiting for me.”

Resisting sudden emptiness, I bowed low. She reached out, touched my sleeve. “An escort,” she said softly, “to see me safe. I’ll lead the way.”

Without another word she took me through the courtyard and back into a maze of silent galleries hung with tapestries, past casements shuttered by velvet drapes and embrasures that offered moon-drenched glimpses of patios and gardens. I wondered what she felt, being in this place built by her father for her mother, a monument to a passion that had consumed England and ended on the scaffold. I saw nothing in her expression to indicate she felt anything.

We emerged where we had started, in the mist-threaded garden leading to the quay. Standing there in anxious vigil were her women. Mistress Ashley bustled forth, the princess’s cloak in her hands. Elizabeth raised a hand to detain the matron’s advance. Her other attendant, the one called Mistress Stafford, remained where she stood, enveloped in her tawny cape.

I feared Elizabeth might nurse a serpent in her midst. She turned to me. “A wise man would look to his safety now. The Dudleys brew a storm that could rend this realm apart, and if there is any justice, they will pay for it. I’d not wish to be associated with their name, then, not when men have lost their heads for far less.” She drew back. “Fare you well, squire. I don’t think we’ll have occasion to meet again.”

She strode to her barge. Her cloak was thrown over her shoulders. Flanked by her women, she moved down the steps. A few moments later, I heard the boatman’s oars strike the water as the craft plied the rising tide, sweeping her away from Whitehall, from court. From me.

In the wake of her departure, I sought reassurance. She had said no to my help, but only because she cared. Much as it hurt, I hoped she left London while she still could. This court, I thought, echoing Master Cecil’s pronouncement only hours ago in this garden, was not safe. Not for her.

Not for any of us.

I passed a hand over my doublet, feeling the ring in my pocket. I had failed in my first, and probably last, task for Robert Dudley. I should indeed see to my own safety now.

I started back into the palace. After what seemed like hours of aimless wandering, I stumbled upon the stables, where the dogs greeted me with lazy barks, drowsy eyed amid slumbering horses in their painted stalls. After checking on Cinnabar, whom I found well stabled, with plenty of oats, I located a coarse blanket in a corner. Divesting myself of doublet and boots, I burrowed into a pile of straw, drawing the blanket around me as if it were linen.

It was warm and cozy, and it smelled like home.

The Tudor Secret