The Tudor Secret

by C. W. Gortner

  A hood shielded its face. It stood still as a column. I paused, every nerve on alert; it lifted its head. For an electrifying instant our eyes met. I sprang to him, just as Master Shelton whirled about and ran, pounding on powerful legs, into the crowd that plunged like stampeding cattle from the ward.

  I crashed headlong into the onslaught, wedging my way forward. Master Shelton was ahead, distinguished by the bullish width of his shoulders. The cobbled causeway narrowed, forcing the fleeing officials and menials into a bottleneck. The portcullis was shut, a maw of teeth impeding escape. From behind us, the clangor of hooves signaled the arrival of mounted patrols on steeds, accompanied by scores of guards in helmets and breastplates.

  I watched in horror as the soldiers began pulling men with apparent randomness from the throng, their staccato question—“Whom do you serve? Queen or duke?”—accompanied by the sickening thrust of pikes rupturing skin. Within seconds, the stench of urine and blood thickened the air. At the portcullis, men clawed at each other in frenzy, scrambling over heads, shoulders, ribs, breaking and crushing flesh and bone.

  Master Shelton was trying to pull back, to fight his way out of the panic that had erupted. If a guard or someone else identified him as a Dudley servant, in this madness he’d be killed.

  A blood-flecked guard on a massive bay approached, forcing the crowd to part. Several unfortunates flew off the causeway into the churning moat, where others swam or drowned. I rammed forward with my shoulders, as hard as I could, pushing those behind Master Shelton. The steward whipped his head about, the puckered scar across his face starkly visible.

  He glared when he saw the guard coming toward him. I started to shout a warning just as the crowd lurched into motion, swallowing him from view. The portcullis had been forced up. There was chaos, men tearing up hands and knees as they sought to crawl under it, desperate to escape certain arrest or death.

  Master Shelton had vanished. I started shoving and elbowing, battling to stay standing. I staggered over the inert bodies of those who’d fallen underfoot and been trampled. As I was dislodged along with the rest of the horde onto a landing quay, I looked about.

  No sign of him anywhere.

  Behind me I could hear the charge of the guards on horseback, followed by those with pikes. Scattering in terror, many of the men began leaping off the quay into the river, preferring to risk the tide than be caught and skewered alive.

  “NO!” I roared, even as I too ran forward. “NOOO!”

  I kept roaring as I plunged into the tide-swollen Thames.

  Hours later, dripping and reeking of sewage, I reached the fields outside the city. Above me a bonfire-lit sky blazed. Behind me London reverberated with clanging bells.

  I had managed to paddle my way to a set of crumbling water steps on the south side, avoiding the river depths, where whirlpools churned the surface. I also avoided the sight of those sucked under by the pools’ vortexes and those clambering back onto the quay like drenched cats, only to find the soldiers waiting. I could only wonder how many would die tonight for having served the duke, even in the most minor capacity, and if Cecil had gotten out. No doubt, he had. The master secretary possessed a knack for survival.

  I tried not to think of Shelton, whom I doubted had ever learned to swim.

  Even more painful was the thought of Jane Grey, who as of this hour had become a captive of the state, dependent on the queen’s mercy. Instead, I focused on putting one sloshing foot in front of the next, dragging the sodden length of my cloak behind me as I slogged to the road. I had no idea how far it was to Hatfield. Maybe I could hitch a ride on a passing cart after I dried off enough to not resemble a vagabond.

  When I thought I’d reached a safe enough distance, I sank to the ground to search my cloak. I extracted the gold leaf in its drenched cloth, moved it to my jerkin. I was squeezing the excess water from my cloak and rolling it into a bundle to carry on my back when hoofbeats sounded, galloping toward me.

  I crouched near a hawthorn bush, which of course offered little cover. Fortunately the night was dark, moonless. Maybe whoever it was would be too intent on their own escape to notice me. I huddled as close to the ground as I could get, holding my breath as two horsemen neared, both in caps and cloaks. When one came to a halt, I cursed my luck.

  “It’s about time,” said a familiar voice.

  With a weary smile, I stood.

  Cecil looked me up and down. He rode Deacon. At his side, on Cinnabar, was Peregrine. The boy exclaimed, “Finally! We’ve been searching for you for over an hour, wondering what kind of trouble you’d gotten yourself into this time.” He chuckled. “Looks like another dip in the river. Are you quite sure you’re not part fish?”

  I gave him a sullen stare.

  Cecil said quietly: “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Almost.” Tying my half-bundled cloak to the saddle, I swung up in front of Peregrine. “It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

  “I never thought it would be.” Cecil followed my gaze back to the silhouette of the Tower. “The rabble’s gone wild,” he said. “They clamor in the streets for Northumberland’s blood. Let us pray Queen Mary proves worthy of it.” He returned his regard to me. I met his eyes in tacit understanding. Enemies we should have been; indeed, should have remained. But the times demanded more of us.

  “To Hatfield, then,” said Cecil.

  * * *

  We parted ways many hours later, as dawn spilled over the horizon. Cecil’s manor lay a few miles away. He gave me detailed directions to Hatfield; there was an awkward moment when I uttered my gratitude that he’d stayed behind to help Peregrine. “Though I did tell the rascal not to wait for me,” I admonished.

  Cecil inclined his head. “I was happy to oblige. It’s a relief to know there is still something to be redeemed in me. Please, give my regards to Her Grace and to Mistress Stafford, of course.” He jolted me with a knowing sparkle in his cool eyes before he cantered off.

  I looked after him. Too much had gone between us for friendship to ever develop, but if Elizabeth must have an amoral champion, she’d find none better than William Cecil.

  Peregrine slouched behind me, half asleep. “Hold tight,” I said. “We’re not stopping till we get there.”

  I spurred forth under a lightening sheet of a sky, over summer meadows and through copses of beech, until we came upon the red-brick manor nestled amidst towering oaks, the floury scent of baking bread rising warm in the morning air.

  I slowed Cinnabar to an amble. As we neared, I saw that Hatfield was a working manor, with an enclosed pasture for livestock, fruit trees, orchards, dairies, and other outbuildings. I knew, without seeing them, that the gardens would be lovely yet slightly wild, like their mistress.

  Solace stole over me. This looked like a place where I might heal.

  When I saw the figure running from the house onto the road, her auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders, I lifted my hand to wave, in joy and relief.

  I was home, at long last.

  HATFIELD

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I did not dream.

  Awakening to the chamber where Kate had brought me in a state of mind-emptying exhaustion, I lay under rumpled linen, absorbing the scent of lavender coming from a wreath on the wall, which mingled with the linseed polish of the chair, the clothes press, and the table.

  I stretched my aching bruised limbs and rose. Stepping past a pewter pitcher and basin, I looked out the mullioned window to the parkland surrounding the manor. I did not know how long I had slept, but I felt refreshed, almost whole. I turned back to the room and began searching for my clothes, which I seemed to recall Kate peeling off my inert body as I dropped into bed.

  Without so much as a knock, the door banged open.

  Mistress Ashley bustled in, carrying a tray. “Breakfast,” she announced, “though in truth it should be supper. You’ve slept away most of the day. So has your dirty friend. He’s in the kitchen devouring a lamb.�
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  I gasped, my hands shooting down to cover myself.

  She chortled. “Oh, don’t mind me. I have seen a man in his skin. I may seem a bit long in the tooth to you, but I’ll have you know I’m a married woman.”

  “My—my clothes?” I was stunned. The last time I’d seen Mistress Ashley, she’d scoured me with her eyes. I barely recognized this stout partridge with her cheery voice and convivial manner.

  “Your clothes are being laundered.” She whipped the linen off the tray to reveal a platter of manchet bread, cheese, fruit, and salted meat. “There’s a fresh shirt, a jerkin, and breeches in the press. We tried to match your weight and height to one of the grooms. Nothing fancy, mind you, but they’ll do until we have you properly fitted.”

  She eyed me matter-of-factly. “You needn’t fret. Mistress Stafford found your things in the lining and has them safe. She’s in the garden now, picking herbs. It’s down the stairs, through the hall, and out the doors to your left. You can meet her there once you’ve eaten and washed.” She paused. “You’re too slight for a beard. There’s water in the ewer and lye soap in the basin. We make the soap ourselves. It’s as good as any you’ll find, including that silly perfumed stuff from France they charge a king’s ransom for in London.”

  She marched to the door. Then she stopped, as if she’d forgotten something. Turning back to me as I whipped the rumpled sheet from the bed and flung it around my waist, she said, “We owe you our thanks. Mistress Stafford told us how you helped Her Grace visit with His Majesty her brother, God rest his soul, and then escape the duke’s clutches. Were it not for you, who knows where she might have ended up? Northumberland never wished anything but harm on her. I warned her not to leave this house, but she didn’t listen to me. She never listens to me. She never listens to anyone. She thinks she’s invincible. It’ll be her undoing one day, mark my words.”

  She babbled like a brook! Who would have guessed?

  I lowered my head. “I was honored to be of service,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, well.” She snorted. “Serving her is no charm, you’ll see. I should know; I’ve been with her since she was this high, and you never met a more contentious soul, even in her leading strings. Always did have to have her way. Still, all of us in this household couldn’t love her more. She has this way of stealing into your heart. You can’t help it. And before you know it, she has you wrapped about her pretty finger.” She wagged her finger. “That’s when you have to be careful. She can be canny as a cat when the mood takes her.”

  She smiled. “Well, I’ll be off, then. You’ve the two of them waiting on you, and I’m hard-pressed to say which of the two is less demanding. Wash yourself well. Her Grace has a nose like a bloodhound. Nothing she hates more than sweat or too much perfume.”

  The door closed. I descended on the fare with gusto. After I’d eaten my fill, I bathed and took out the clothes from the press. I was glad to find my saddlebag there. Gently, I removed the leather-bound volume, which was more battered for the wear. I opened it to that front page and the handwritten inscription in faded blue ink.

  Votre amie, Marie.

  I caressed the slanted writing, penned by a beloved hand I’d never felt. I set the book on the bedside table. Later, I would read Mistress Alice’s favorite psalm. And remember.

  I was able to shave using lather from the soap, my knife, and a sliver of cracked mirror from my bag. Though I couldn’t see myself well in its fractured reflection, what I did glimpse as I washed away the hair-flecked spumes brought me to a halt.

  The face looking back at me was bruised, pale, more angular than I recalled, its youth tempered by hard-earned and sudden maturity. It was a face not yet twenty-one years of age; a face I had lived with all my life, and it belonged to someone I did not know. But in time, I would come to know the stranger I had become. I would make myself his master. I would learn everything I needed to survive in this new world, and I would stake my place.

  And I would not rest until I found Master Shelton.

  For he knew far more about me than he had ever let on, of that I was sure. He had served the late Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, and mourned the duke’s wife, my mother. Had he also known that the golden leaf he’d conveyed to Mary Tudor was from the same jewel whose other leaf had ended up hidden among Dame Alice’s possessions? And if so, did he know Dame Alice had been entrusted with it, and why? I had so many questions that only he could answer.

  I turned away to dress. The clothes were a remarkably close fit.

  Passing through the great hall with its impressive hammer-beamed ceiling and Flemish tapestries, I proceeded to the open oak doors and into a lingering summer evening that drifted over eglantine and willow like a velvet rain.

  Kate stood ankle-deep in an herb patch, a straw hat on her head as she bundled fresh-picked thyme into a basket. She glanced up at my approach, the hat slipping off to dangle on ribbons at her back. Gathering her in my arms, I indulged my starved senses.

  “I assume you slept well,” she whispered at length, against my lips.

  “I’d have slept better if you’d been with me,” I said, my hands running down her waist.

  She laughed. “Any better and you’d have needed a shroud.” Her laughter turned husky. “Don’t you think to tempt me. I’ll not give in to any old tomcat that decides to wander home.”

  “Yes, I like that about you,” I growled. We kissed, after which she drew me to a bench. We held hands, gazing at the diminishing sky.

  Presently Kate said, “I have these.” From her skirt pocket, she brought out the leaf and, to my surprise, Robert Dudley’s silver-and-onyx ring.

  “I’d forgotten about this,” I murmured as I slipped the ring on my finger. It was too big.

  “Do you know what’s happened?” she asked.

  “Last I had heard, the duke started to march on Framlingham when his army deserted.”

  She nodded. “Word came today. He never reached it. The moment the council proclaimed Mary queen, Arundel and the others rushed to grovel at her feet. Arundel then went to arrest Northumberland, Lord Robert, and his other sons. They’re being taken to the Tower, where Guilford is already imprisoned.” She paused. “It’s said Mary will order them executed.”

  My fingers closed over the ring. “Who can blame her?” I said softly, and as I spoke, my memory flew back to a time long past, when a bewildered boy crouched in an attic, fearing discovery and envying the tribe of sons who would never accept him.

  I felt Kate’s hand on mine. “Do you want to talk about it? You still have the petal. Did you find out what it means?”

  The memory faded.

  “It’s a leaf.” I met her gaze. Opening her palm, I set the golden leaf in her hand. “I want to tell you everything. Only, I need some more time to sort it out. And she is expecting me. Mistress Ashley said she is waiting on me.”

  I noticed the subtle stiffening of her posture. I knew she couldn’t help it, and it was something we’d have to learn to deal with if we were to build a life together. Elizabeth had become too much a part of both of us.

  “She is,” said Kate. “She had another of her headaches this afternoon, which is why I came out to gather these herbs for her evening draft; but she did ask to see you as soon as you were ready. I can bring you to her, if you like. She’s taking her exercise in the gallery.”

  She started to rise. I pressed her hand to my lips. “Sweet Kate, my heart is yours.”

  She looked at our twined hands. “You say that now, but you do not know her as I do. A more loyal mistress cannot be found, but she requires undying devotion in return.”

  “She has it already. But that is all.” I stood, cupped her chin, and kissed her lips. “Keep that leaf close. It’s yours now, a symbol of our troth. I’d match it with a ring, if you’ll have me.”

  I was warmed by the luster in her eyes. I had time enough later to prove nothing would interfere with the love I wanted to share with her—a love far from the tumult of these
days and the malice of court, a love in which the secret of my past could finally be put to rest.

  I followed her back to the manor. At the entrance to the gallery, I paused. The slim figure with Urian at her side appeared taller, arresting in its solitude. I drew a quick breath to ease the sudden tightness in my chest, then stepped forth and bowed.

  With an elated bark of recognition Urian bounded to me.

  Elizabeth stood silhouetted in the diffused sun that slipped through the embrasure, her pale mauve gown catching the light like water. Her red-gold hair was unbound, loose about her shoulders. She looked like a startled fawn caught in a clearing, until she strode toward me with that determination that was more of the hunter than the prey. As she neared, I noted a parchment clutched in her hand.

  I met her amber gaze. “I am overjoyed to see Your Grace safe.”

  “And in good health, don’t forget that,” she teased. “And you, my friend?”

  “I too am well,” I said softly.

  She smiled, waved me to the window seat, the worn upholstery and stack of teetering books to one side indicating it was a favored spot. I perched on the edge, taking the time I needed to readjust to her presence. Urian sniffed my legs and then curled at my feet.

  Elizabeth sat beside me, close but not too much so, her tapered fingers fussing with the parchment. Remembering how those pampered hands had wielded a stone against a guard’s head, I marveled at her mercurial duality, which was as much a part of her as her coloring.

  It was only then that the reality of our situation struck me. I hadn’t considered how she might react when I told her. Would she welcome me as a long-lost member of the family? Or would she, like her formidable cousin the duchess of Suffolk, see me as a threat? I might be, after all; if Charles Brandon was my father, I most certainly could be, in her eyes. She might never understand that regardless of the Tudor blood in my veins, I had no aspirations to a throne.