The Tudor Vendetta (3 page)

The children scattered to pursue it, snarling like curs. A wherry arrived just in time. Shouldering our bags, we boarded and I took my seat square in the middle of the bench, gripping it as Walsingham gave me a long look.

“To Westminster,” he told the boatman. “And quickly, before the tide turns.”

He wiped clotted dirt from his cloak as the vessel swirled into the Thames, the lights of Southwark winking behind us like distant stars. The boatman’s lantern bobbed on its hook and cast erratic shadows over Walsingham’s face, deepening the hollows of his cheeks. “Order and control,” he said, as if to himself, “must be her first order of business. All that”—he sniffed, as if to rid himself of a distasteful smell—“evidence of papist savagery must be removed.”

I heard an unusual undertone of fury in his normally reserved voice, but before I could remark on it, the boatman said, “Aye, Bloody Mary would’ve burned every last one of us, no matter that she gained her throne with our support. Good riddance to the bitch, I say; she might have been queen but no one’s sorry she’s dead.”

His words plunged me into my last memory of the queen who’d been dubbed Bloody Mary by her own subjects, glaring at me in her chamber at Whitehall with her soiled gown gaping at her thin breast, ravaged by the knowledge that nothing she did or said could ever overcome her sister’s magnetic appeal.

“She’d have seen our Bess dead, too,” the boatman added, hawking phlegm over the side. “Mark my words: She’d have taken the princess’s head sure as we sit here.”

“Yes, well,” said Walsingham tersely, “she’s gone to judgment now, my good man.”

“Hellfire’s all she deserves. Let her get a taste of what she served up. Some might pray to the saints to see her through Purgatory but I hope she’s headed straight to the Devil.”

Walsingham grimaced. A staunch Protestant, he eschewed both the concept of salvation through Purgatory and the cult of saints; the boatman’s declaration must have been an uncomfortable reminder of how religious unease still held sway over England. For many, the old faith and the reformed one had coalesced into a barely understood construct that people adapted to their particular needs. To Walsingham, this very idea was anathema. I could almost hear him making a mental note to address the issue of religious uniformity as soon as he had opportunity for audience with our queen.

Thoughts of Elizabeth quickened my blood as we reached the public water stairs at Westminster. We disembarked for the short walk to Whitehall. Night pressed in around us, inky cold; cresset torches in brackets shed soot as we came to a halt at the Holbein clock tower. Here, Walsingham produced documents, sent by Cecil, I assumed, to ensure our entry. While the guards inspected our safe conducts, I let my gaze pass over the imposing brick façade of this palace that I’d left in disgrace.

The mullioned casements were blazing with candles, the silhouettes of passing courtiers wavering behind the flame-lit glass. Faint laughter reached me; gazing into the enclosed great courtyard past the gates, I espied a couple muffled in sable and velvet, entering the palace through an archway. Whitehall was less a cohesive structure than a bewildering warren of interconnected buildings, an elephantine and still-unfinished pastiche. It had consumed the old palace of the archbishops of York, which King Henry confiscated from Cardinal Wolsey after he failed to bring about the annulment the king needed to marry Anne Boleyn. Wolsey had died for his failure, on his way to the Tower; six years later, Queen Anne, Elizabeth’s mother, met her own fate at Henry’s hands. I wondered how Elizabeth must feel, knowing that she was now ruler of the very palace that had seen her mother’s rise and fall and nearly her own demise.

I started at the press of Walsingham’s fingers on my elbow. “Come,” he said. “We’ll have to find our own way to the hall. It seems Her Majesty holds a reception tonight and there are no available pages about to bring word to Cecil of our arrival.”

The jolt of life we encountered upon entering the palace presented vivid contrast to the last time I’d been here, when every access had been shuttered and guarded following an aborted rebel attempt to depose Mary. Now, Whitehall’s wide tapestried corridors and numerous galleries shimmered with glamour, jewels winking and laughter echoing as courtiers moved in satiny stampede toward the great hall. I’d resided in Whitehall, experienced life-altering and heartbreaking events within its walls, but never had I seen as many people as I did at this moment, so that I fretted over my disheveled appearance until I realized no one paid us the slightest mind. At my side, Walsingham moved with soundless stealth, his black-clad figure a feline shadow among the peacock herd. His jaw clenched under his beard; he did not need to say a word for me to know he disapproved of such uncontrolled access to the queen’s very person.

At the great double doors leading into the hall, we paused to check our cloaks but weren’t given time. Behind us, courtiers pressed like an unstoppable tide, sweeping us into the expanse, the hammer-beamed painted ceiling suffused in smoke high above us, a fogbound sky; the black-and-white tile floor strewn with trampled rushes, which formed a slippery meadow under our feet.

The cacophony was deafening; the air was suffused with the heat of dripping wax from the many candelabras in corners and hanging on chains overhead, of musk and perfume splashed on bare skin, of sweat, grease, and spilt wine. A posse of ladies sauntered past us; one of them, pretty enough in her dark blue satins, shot an unmistakable look at me. As unexpected heat kindled in my groin, I recalled with a start that I’d not been with a woman since—

I looked away, banishing the memory, even as my admirer’s companions tugged her away into the crowd, one of them whispering loud enough to ensure she was overheard: “Comely enough, I suppose, but did you
smell
him? I warrant he hasn’t bathed in weeks! Only a papist would dare come to court bearing such a stench.”

Walsingham commented dryly, “So, we’re papists now, are we?” Even as he spoke he searched the crowd, devising a path to the raised platform, where a cluster of privileged, bejeweled figures could be glimpsed. Having navigated crowds in this hall before, I appreciated the challenge. I doubted we could approach the dais without being detained, given our unkempt persons.

“Perhaps we can take a drink first,” I said, eyeing a page as he hustled by with a decanter. I was suddenly parched and had my goblet in my bag.

Walsingham said sharply, “Drink?” as if I’d suggested we swim across the Thames. Thrusting his bag at me, he marched forth, carving his way like a blade, his determination causing those in his path to shift aside, scowling and grumbling. I followed in his wake, carrying our luggage, and caught a fleeting glimpse of my admirer to my left. She winked at me. Her friends nudged her, giggling.

Then, all of a sudden, yeomen in green-and-white livery barred our passage with their pikestaffs. Behind them stood the wide dais with its empty throne, situated by one of Whitehall’s famed Caen-stone hearths. The privileged nobles gathered about it turned to stare. I had a discomfiting impression of hawkish noses, trim beards, and contemptuous eyes before they parted, revealing another man, his hand casually poised on the throne’s upholstered armrest.

It was none other than my former master, Lord Robert Dudley.

Chapter Three

He looked better than expected, though in truth I hadn’t been expecting him at all. I cursed under my breath at my lack of foresight. He wore rich, ash-gray velvet slashed with ivory silk, a profusion of seed pearls picking out his family emblem of bear and ragged staff on his sleeves. His broad shoulders offset the muscular legs he was so vain of; he looked nothing like the gaunt prisoner I had last seen in the Tower, and without warning all the pent-up rage inside me surged. Ever since I had been a foundling in his family’s care, Dudley had delighted in tormenting me. I could tell by the hatred igniting his dark eyes that he had not forgotten it, either.

He took a step forward. “What,” he hissed, “are
you
doing here?”

I met his stare. I too had shed all vestiges of the youth he had known. Hardened by my training, confident that in a fight I could more than match him, I was no longer afraid of his bark. Before I could react, Walsingham said with appropriate deference, “Begging my lord’s forgiveness, but I was summoned by my lord Secretary Cecil. This is my manservant and—”

Dudley snarled, “Manservant? Since when was this cur anyone’s servant? He’s incapable of it; he bites every hand that feeds him. And by God, I’ve a mind to tie him in a sack and drown him myself.” He was actually starting to step down, fists curled at his sides, when an authoritative voice called out, “My lord, if you please! These men are here at my invitation.”

Relief overcame me as I turned to see Cecil coming toward us. I was in no mood to contend with Robert Dudley now, though judging by his frozen stance and the glare he directed at Cecil I had no doubt that I’d have to deal with him later.

Cecil was somewhat out of breath from his brisk walk across the hall. He quickly assessed us with that expert ease that made everything he did seem perfectly timed. He looked tired. Having reached his thirty-eighth year, he’d started to display a middle-age paunch, no doubt from all the hearty fare he enjoyed at his country manor with his devoted wife Lady Cecil, but his russet beard remained free of telltale gray and he still retained a keen air.

“Master Walsingham, we did not expect you so soon.” Cecil did not greet me and I lowered my eyes, feigning subservience. Evidently, I was indeed to act the role of manservant, as Walsingham confirmed with his next words: “I apologize for the inconvenience. The trip took less time than expected and I hired a wherry to avoid the Bridge. But, my man and I are clearly not fit company. If a room could be made available…?”

Dudley guffawed, swiveling with aristocratic bonhomie to his fellow nobles. “Do you hear that, my lords? They would like a room! Perhaps we can equip it with fine linen and a hot bath, as well, eh?” His derisive laughter faded abruptly. As he swerved back to us, he said, “Lest you had not heard, Her Majesty has only just assumed her throne. I’m afraid we are full at this time, unless you’d care to bed in one of the kennels.” He fixed his taunting gaze on me. “I’m sure your manservant is acquainted with such, having lain with dogs all his life.”

I kept my face averted, lest my disgust for him showed. I noticed Cecil was adept at hiding his own distaste, well acquainted with Dudley’s preemptory manner. He also knew how deep the rift ran between my former master and me; but Dudley was still a childhood friend and intimate of the queen’s, and Cecil managed to display the appropriate level of respect when he replied, “My lord, we are of course fully aware of how little space there is at court. However, I’m sure Her Majesty would wish us to find suitable lodgings for our guests.”

Rage darkened Dudley’s countenance but before he could retort, a sudden hush fell over the hall, followed by a susurration that rippled through the courtiers like wind. At the dais, the nobles tugged at their doublets and hastened to bow. Dudley himself did not move, staring at me with a violent promise that seemed to empty the hall around us, so that we stood alone. He mouthed, “You are mine, Prescott,” and then he swept into practiced obeisance, leaving me to whirl about as Elizabeth made her entrance.

The effect she had on the assembly was immediate. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as her slim figure passed through a flutter of curtsies and bows. She held a jeweled pomander, and a slight flush on her angular cheekbones enhanced her pallor. She wore sienna damask, her fiery hair twined in an agate-studded net to expose the length of her alabaster throat. She was not beautiful—her forehead too high and features too narrow, her nose an aquiline thrust—but she conveyed such a consummate illusion of beauty that most believed her to be. Her dark amber eyes glittered, capturing me with that leonine intensity that first made me hers from the moment she had directed their power at me five years ago. Now, after having survived numerous attempts to either imprison or execute her, she had finally attained the seemingly impossible feat of becoming queen. I had been one of those who had fought to see her to this moment, and my heart swelled at the sight of her, so that I couldn’t move until one of her thin red-gold brows arched.

Lurching to one knee, my awkward obeisance brought forth a covert smile on her lips that vanished as soon as it appeared. She swept past me to mount the dais, her women bustling behind her to arrange themselves on upholstered cushions at her feet.

I glanced up at these women, my breath catching in my throat as I braced to find Kate among them; to my simultaneous relief and disappointment, the woman I loved and had forsaken was not present.

Elizabeth waved her hand, bringing the entire hall to its feet; on her finger, she wore the signet ring I had last seen adorning her sister, Mary. “Carry on,” she said in a slightly hoarse voice. “I’ll receive everyone shortly.” As the courtiers returned to various activities while maintaining covetous watch on her, she shifted her attention to us.

“Well?” she said. “I sense tension. Would anyone care to explain?”

Dudley shoved forward. “Your Majesty, I was just informing my lord Secretary Cecil that given the quantity and rank of those already seeking lodgings at court, we cannot possibly accommodate these … new arrivals of his.”

His tone, to my revulsion, had turned acquiescent, almost servile, but it did not fool me. I knew his history. I had lived it. His family’s machinations had cost both his father and younger brother their heads, but Dudley had survived, though he was as guilty of past treason as they were. He had always relied on his charm and long-time association with Elizabeth, and as past experience had shown, she was not immune to him even when fully apprised of his guile. In my opinion, he had always been her greatest threat, his ambition overriding all other considerations, including his own unfortunate marriage to a Norfolk gentleman’s daughter. He kept his wife far from court, forever scheming to find a way to end the marriage so he could wed Elizabeth instead. Elizabeth had kept him dancing on the end of a long string, alluding at promises she had thus far failed to deliver, but I had seen how much it cost her, and I was not reassured to witness the reciprocal warmth in her eyes as she contemplated him. Theirs was a lifelong bond, forged since childhood by the volatile arena of the court; their magnetic attraction now seemed to burnish the air between them like invisible flame.