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.”
My reply was passionless. “Next time, I give no quarter.”
“Neither do I,” he replied. “If I were you, I’d make sure there is no next time. Because should she ever find out you’re still alive, it’ll be far worse for you than for me.”
He whirled about, galloping away.
Left alone on a road splattered with blood, I sank to my knees.
FRAMLINGHAM
Chapter Twenty-five
Every man, no matter how humble, should know from whence he came.
Cecil’s words echoed in my head as I rode in silence. By nightfall I had to pause to give Cinnabar time to rest. I chose a clearing in a forest, beside a shallow stream. Removing the saddle and bridle, I rubbed him down with a cloth from my saddlebag and set him loose to graze. “At ease, my friend. You’ve earned it.”
I crouched in the bracken, opened my saddlebag, and brought out the ruby-tipped jewel Mistress Alice had given me. I almost couldn’t look at it, knowing now its significance, the reason she’d hidden it all these years. I wanted to throw it away, forget it existed, though in my soul I knew I could not afford to delude myself anymore.
For if what Stokes had told me was true, there was no forgetting, no turning away. I had to uncover the truth, come to terms with something that was so vast, so far-reaching, it defied acceptance. I owed it to myself, to the many times I’d wondered as a child; more importantly, I owed it to the woman who had saved me—to Mistress Alice, who had somehow known who I was and preserved my life from my own murderous sister.
In the palm of my hand, the gold shimmered.
A Tudor.
I was one of them, born of the younger sister of Henry VIII; brother to the bestial Duchess of Suffolk, uncle to Jane Grey, and cousin to Queen Mary.
And Elizabeth. She and I: We shared the same blood.…
Tears burned in my eyes. What had she looked like, this mother I had never known? Had she been beautiful? Did I have her eyes, her nose, her mouth? Why had she borne me in secrecy? What had she feared, that she’d never let her pregnancy be known?
And what would my life have been like had she lived?
The Tudor Rose … the mark of the rose.
I arched my arm over my head. I should fling the petal away, never speak of this to another living person. Better to be a common stable hand, a bastard and foundling, rather than some being borne in secrecy and consigned to oblivion—condemned always to shadows and the fear of discovery, to a lifetime of hiding and of keeping others
always from the truth.
My fingers would not release it, though. The petal had a truth of its own now, inextricably entwined with my own. God help me, it was a part of me I could not surrender, not until I had discovered everything there was to know.
I returned it to Kate’s scented handkerchief and put it back in my bag. As I did, my fingers brushed the thin volume of psalms I had taken from the Dudley library, bringing a momentary smile to my lips. I carried another memory of Mistress Alice with me, as well, one that made me think of her as she had been.
After I finished the last of the stale bread and cheese I’d packed, I lay down on the forest floor and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing a shriveled hand on mine, setting in my palm a gift of unimaginable import.
When dawn finally broke over the horizon, I mounted once more to ride through fields dotted with faded golden irises. I tried not to think of anything until I reached the River Orr.
There, rearing on the other side of the banks atop its mound, was Framlingham Castle.
Its thirteen towers and immense ramparts overshadowed three moats. In the hunting park glittered an ocean of steel. As I forded the river and approached, I gleaned hundreds of men hauling cannon and firearms, stockpiling boulders, felling and stripping trees. I gave rein to Cinnabar’s eager canter, for he sensed stables, oats, and a well-deserved respite.
Guards stopped me on the road. After a rough barrage of questions, I was obliged to dismount, give my name, and wait under their watch before word came that Rochester bid me to the castle. Shouldering my bag, I took Cinnabar by the reins and trudged to the looming edifice, which swallowed half the sky. Few men paused to mark my passage, the majority engrossed in labor, their ribaldry interspersed with barking dogs and the lowing of livestock, tended by urchins and women.
Despite everything, I felt my spirits lighten. A makeshift city had sprung up around Framlingham practically overnight, composed of ordinary people and retainers of local lords who had come to defend their rightful monarch. In less than seventy-two hours, Queen Mary had amassed her army. At least here, things were as they should be.
The main bailey was thronged with men and animals. Rochester strode to me, sweating profusely but otherwise looking like a completely changed man. He clamped my hand in his.
“Master Beecham! I failed to recognize the name. You’re fortunate your friends informed me of it. Leave your horse to the grooms and come. Her Majesty wishes to see you.”
Looking past Rochester, I had to laugh. Peregrine and Barnaby, both stripped to the waist and as filthy as they could be, waved at me before they returned to the arduous task of pushing a cannon into a forger’s shed for repairs. I returned my gaze to Rochester.
“I’m pleased to find you all safe,” I said with genuine relief.
“We might not be, had it not been for you. We owe you much. After we separated, Robert Dudley’s men chased the others for miles before he realized his error. He then turned and came after us. Praise God he’s since been apprehended.”
My smile slipped. “Apprehended?”
“Yes. But of course you wouldn’t know.” Rochester steered me toward an incongruous red brick manor flanked by timber lodgings, all situated inside the castle’s curtain wall. “It seems that when he discovered where we were headed, Lord Robert decided to seek reinforcements. He must have thought we’d have no means of defending the castle once he returned to set siege.”
Rochester chuckled. “To be honest, we never expected to find old Norfolk’s son waiting here with his retainers. But here he was, and by nightfall another five thousand had arrived. Word of Her Majesty’s plight has swept before her, a call to arms has gone out. Men are arriving from all over England. It’s as if God Himself watches over her.”
“Indeed,” I said quietly. “You were saying about Lord Robert?” As I spoke I thought of Elizabeth, standing in that anonymous room. I do not want him harmed, she had said. All of a sudden, to my disconcertment, I realized neither did I. Perhaps because he had been the closest thing I’d ever had to a sibling; or maybe because while a Dudley to his very marrow, she was right: In truth, Robert was a victim of his upbringing.
“He made it as far as King’s Lynn,” said Rochester. “By then, several of his men had deserted him. When he got there, his soldiers also deserted, and he was forced to flee. He sought refuge in Bury Saint Edmunds and sent urgent word to London. His messenger got away, but he didn’t. Baron Derby arrested him shortly after, in the queen’s name. Fitting justice, you might say. He’s being held in the ruins of the very abbey that his father helped destroy.”
“And … what will happen to him?”
Rochester sniffed. “Her Majesty will decide his fate once she takes her throne. It shan’t be enviable, I would think. At best, a cell in the Tower for the rest of his days; at worst, the ax, along with the rest of his traitorous kind. I vote for the ax, myself. Ah, but Her Majesty will be pleased to see you. She’s asked about you several times.”
The last of my brief exultation faded. Like Rochester, I should have been rejoicing in this blow to the Dudley cause. Without Robert, the task of apprehending Mary became all that more difficult. Yet all I felt was fatigue falling over me like a mantle. I wanted only a hot bath, solitude, a cot, and to shut out the world for a time.
I did not want to think of how I would tell Elizabeth.
We entered the manor, climbed a staircase to a rustic upper hall. Mary waited there, dressed in a plain black gown and gable headdress that looked too heavy for her thin shoulders. She paced back and forth as if its weight were of no account, dictating in a stern voice to a harried secretary whose quill couldn’t possibly scratch fast enough to record the torrent of words issuing from her lips.
“Wherefore, my lords, we require and charge you, as your rightful sovereign, that for your honor and the surety of your persons, you employ yourselves forthwith upon receipt of this letter to proclaim us queen in our capital city of London. For we have not fled our realm nor do we intend to do so, but will die fighting for that which God has called upon us to defend.”
Rochester cleared his throat. I bowed low. “Your Majesty.”
She swirled about in her abrupt manner, peering at me. She was, apparently, severely nearsighted, for she blinked several times, her brow furrowed in perplexity before she exclaimed, “Ah, it is my mysterious friend,” and motioned with her hands. “Rise, rise! You’re just in time. We’re about to declare war on Northumberland.”
“Your Majesty, that is indeed good news.” As I righted myself, I took note that despite her vigor, which must in no small measure be instilled by the spontaneous demonstration of loyalty she’d received, Mary looked strained about the eyes and mouth, and too gaunt. She had the look of someone who has not eaten well or rested in weeks.
“Good? It is more than good!” Her laughter was curt, derisive. “Our proud duke is not so proud now. Tell him, Waldegrave.”
She swerved to her secretary, her ringed hands clasped, beaming like a school teacher as the man recited: “Six cities garrisoned by the duke have vowed allegiance to Her Majesty, offering artillery, food, and men. Her Majesty has also sent a proclamation to the council, demanding—”
Mary couldn’t stop herself from interrupting. “… Demanding to know why they have yet to acknowledge me as their lawful sovereign in London. I also demanded an explanation as to why they dared to bestow my crown on my cousin. Do you know what they replied?” She grabbed a paper from the table. “They say my brother authorized a change to the succession before his death, denying my claim to the throne because of serious doubts concerning my legitimacy.”
She flung the paper aside. “Serious doubts!” This time, her laughter was tinged with a darkness that stirred the hair on my nape. “They’ll soon see how well I take to such. Heretics and traitors are what they are, to a man, and thus shall I deal with them when the time comes.”
Silence followed her outburst. Her eyes shifted from face to face befo
re fixating on mine. “Well? You are the council’s courier, yes? Have you no opinion to impart?”
It was a similar inquiry to the one I’d faced in Huddleston’s manor, only this time I felt sure Barnaby would not be dragged in. As though in confirmation, Rochester took a prudent step back. A pit opened in my belly. It seemed impossible that after everything that had occurred, I might still have to prove my loyalty. But then, how could she know where my ultimate allegiance might lie? How could she begin to trust a stranger, after what she had been through?
“Your Majesty,” I said, “may I have your leave to examine this letter?”
At her gesture, I retrieved the paper, scanned down to the appended signatures and seals. I met her stare. “Those lords whose letter I first conveyed, are they represented here?”
“They are not, as you can see.” Though her voice remained terse, her rigid posture eased somewhat. She moved to me, saying over her shoulder to the others, “Leave us. I would speak alone with our friend.”
I had passed her test, though it did not ease my apprehension. The council had persecuted Mary without mercy because of her religious faith. My association with them, however tenuous, had put me at a perilous disadvantage.
She paused at the table. “I’m starting to wonder about you. You come out of nowhere and neglect to give us a name. Then you risk your life to help us escape. You’re considered reliable enough to carry confidential letters yet feign ignorance of matters you should, in fact, know a great deal about. I would know exactly whom it is I am dealing with.”
I swallowed against my dry throat, measuring my words: “Your Majesty, I assure you I am of no importance. I did what I was paid to do. As for my risking my life, you should know that Lord Robert’s men had already decided to abandon him. And you must know by now that my name is Daniel Beecham.”
The Tudor Secret Page 22
