The Tudor Secret

by C. W. Gortner

  I forced myself to pull away and check my horse. Cinnabar’s flanks quivered with a fine lather, his nostrils aflare, but he seemed unharmed. The crowd had rushed ahead toward a wide road, bordered by a line of tenement houses and swinging tavern signs. As we moved forth, I belatedly reached up to my brow. By some miracle, my cap remained in place.

  The crowd came to a stop, an impoverished group of common folk. I watched, bemused, as barefoot urchins tiptoed among them, dogs skulking at their heels. Thieves, and not one over nine years old by the looks of them. It was hard to see them and not see myself, the wretch I might have been had the Dudleys not taken me in.

  Master Shelton scowled. “They’re blocking our passage. Go see if you can find out what this lot is gawking at. I’d rather we not force our way through if we can help it.”

  I handed over my reins, dismounted again, and wedged into the crowd, thankful for once for my slight build. I was cursed at, shoved, and elbowed, but I managed to push to the front. Standing on tiptoes to look past the craning heads, I made out the dirt thoroughfare, upon which rode an unremarkable cavalcade of people on horses. I was about to turn away when a portly woman beside me shoved her way forth, brandishing a wilted nosegay.

  “God bless you, sweet Bess,” she cried. “God bless Your Grace!”

  She threw the flowers into the air. A hush fell. One of the men in the cavalcade heeled close to its center, as if to shield something—or someone—from view.

  It was then I noticed the dappled charger hidden among the larger horses. I had a keen eye for horseflesh, and with its arched neck, lithe musculature, and prancing hooves I recognized it for a Spanish breed rarely seen in England, and more costly than the duke’s entire stable.

  Then I looked at its rider.

  I knew at once it was a woman, though a hooded cloak concealed her features and leather gauntlets covered her hands. Contrary to custom, she was mounted astride, legs sheathed in riding boots displayed against the embossed sides of her saddle—a sliver of a girl, without apparent distinction, save for her horse, riding as if intent on reaching her destination.

  Yet she knew we were watching her and she heard the woman’s cry, for she turned her head. And to my astonishment, she pushed her hood back to reveal a long fine-boned face, framed by an aureole of coppery hair.

  And she smiled.

  Chapter Two

  Everything around me receded. I recalled what the guard at the gate had said—some nonsense of the Princess Elizabeth riding among us—and I felt an actual pang in my heart as the cavalcade quickened down the thoroughfare and disappeared.

  The crowd began to disperse, though one of the urchins did creep onto the road to retrieve the fallen nosegay. The woman who’d thrown it stood transfixed, hands at her breast, gazing after the vanished riders with the gleam of tears in her weary eyes. I reached out and lightly touched her arm. She turned to me with a dazed expression.

  “Did you see her?” she whispered, and though she looked right at me, I had the impression she did not see me at all. “Did you see our Bess? She’s come to us at last, God be praised. Only she can save us from that devil Northumberland’s grip.”

  I stood immobile, grateful I carried my livery in my saddlebag. Was this how the people of London viewed John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland? I knew the duke now served as the king’s chief minister, having assumed power following the fall of the king’s former protector and uncle, Edward Seymour. Many in the land had cursed the Seymours for their avarice and ambition. Had the duke incurred the same hatred?

  I turned from the woman. Master Shelton had ridden up behind me; he stared glowering from his bay. “You are a fool, woman,” he rumbled, “Careful my lord the duke’s men don’t ever hear you, for they’ll cut out your tongue sure as I’m sitting here.”

  She gaped at him. When she caught sight of the badge on his cloak, she staggered back. “The duke’s man!” she gibbered. She stumbled away. Those who remained took up the cry as they, too, fled for the safety of the tangled alleys or the nearest tavern.

  On the other side of the thoroughfare, a group of decidedly coarse-looking men paused to stare at us. As I saw the glint of blades being jerked from sleeves, my stomach somersaulted.

  “Best mount now,” said Master Shelton, without taking his eyes from the men. He did not need to tell me twice. I vaulted onto my saddle as Master Shelton swerved about, scanning the vicinity. The men started to cross the road, partially blocking the route the cavalcade had taken. I waited with my heart in my throat. We had two options. We could go back the way we’d come, which led to the riverbank and maze of streets, or plunge into what looked like an impenetrable row of decrepit timber-framed buildings. Master Shelton seemed to hesitate, whirling his bay back around on its hindquarters to gauge the approaching men.

  Then his scarred face broke into a ferocious grin, and he dug his heels into his bay to vault forth—straight at them.

  I kicked Cinnabar into swift action and followed at a breakneck pace. The men froze in midstep, eyes popping as they beheld the charge of solid muscle and hooves coming toward them. In unison, they flung themselves to either side like the clods of dirt our horses tore from the road; as we thundered past, I heard a gut-wrenching scream cut short. I glanced back.

  One of the men lay facedown on the road, a pool of red seeping from his mangled head.

  We plunged between the ramshackle edifices. All light extinguished. The miasmic smells of excrement, urine, and rotting food overpowered me like a mantle thrown over my face. Overhead, balconies formed a claustrophobic vault, festooned with dripping laundry and slabs of curing meat. Night soil splashed as our horses bolted through overflowing conduits that emptied the city’s filth into the river. I held my breath and clenched my teeth, tasting bile in my throat as the torturous passage seemed to go on forever, until we burst, gasping, into open expanse.

  I reined Cinnabar to a halt. Everything reeled about me, and I closed my eyes, breathing in deeply to catch my breath and steady the whirlwind in my head. I sensed sudden silence, smelled ripe grass and a tang of apple smoke on the air. I opened my eyes.

  We had crossed into another world.

  About us, looming oaks and beeches swayed. A meadow stretched as far as my eye could see. I marveled at the peculiarity of such an oasis in the midst of the city; turning to Master Shelton, I saw he was looking straight ahead, his face like weathered stone. I had never seen him behave as he had a moment ago, riding as if hell-bent over the body of a helpless man, as though he had sloughed aside the veneer of privileged chamberlain to reveal the mercenary underneath.

  I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Then I said carefully, “That woman … she called her Bess. Was she … the king’s sister, Princess Elizabeth?”

  Master Shelton’s voice was hard. “If she was, then she’ll only bring trouble. It follows her wherever she goes, just as it did her whore of a mother.”

  I didn’t dare say more. I knew about Anne Boleyn, of course. Who didn’t? Like many in the land, I had grown up to the lurid tales of Henry VIII and his six wives by whom he had sired his son, our current king, Edward VI, and two daughters, the ladies Mary and Elizabeth. In order to marry Anne Boleyn, King Henry had cast aside his first wife, the Lady Mary’s mother, Katherine of Aragon, who was a princess of Spain. He then made himself head of the Church. It was said that Anne Boleyn laughed when she was crowned; but she did not laugh for long. Reviled by the people as a heretic witch, who had spurred the king to upend the kingdom, only three years after she gave birth to Elizabeth, Anne was accused of incest and treason. She was beheaded, as were her brother and four other men. King Edward’s mother, Jane Seymour, was betrothed to Henry the day after Anne died.

  I knew that many people who had lived through Anne’s rise and fall despised her, even after her tragic end. Katherine of Aragon still prevailed in the common heart, her stoic grace never forgotten, even as her life was torn apart. Nevertheless, I was unnerved by the vehemence in Master Shelton
’s voice. He spoke as if Elizabeth were to blame for her mother’s deeds.

  Even as I tried to make sense of it, he directed my attention to a silhouette etched like thorns against the darkening evening sky. “That’s Whitehall,” he said. “Come, it’s getting late. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  We rode across the vast open park, into streets that fronted walled manors and dark medieval churches. I saw a large stone cathedral standing like a sentinel on a slope and marveled at its stark splendor; as we neared Whitehall Palace itself, I was overcome by awe.

  I had seen castles before. Indeed, the Dudley estate where I’d been raised was reckoned one of the most impressive in the realm. But Whitehall was unlike anything I’d seen. Nestled by a curve in the river, Henry VIII’s royal residence rose before me—a multicolored hive of fantastical turrets, curved towers, and galleries sprawling like somnolent beasts. From what I could discern, two major thoroughfares dissected it, and every square foot teemed with activity.

  We entered under the northern gate, cantering past a crowded forecourt into an inner courtyard crammed with jostling menials, officials, and courtiers. Taking our horses by the reins, we started to make our way on foot to what I assumed would be the stables, when a trim man in a crimson doublet walked purposefully toward us.

  Master Shelton stopped, bowed stiffly. The man likewise inclined his head in greeting. His pale blue eyes assessed us, a spade-shaped russet beard complimenting his lively features. I had the impression of an ageless vitality about him, as well as a keen intelligence.

  As I lowered my eyes in deference, I espied crescents of dried ink under his fingernails. I heard him say in a cool tone, “Master Shelton, her ladyship informed me you might be arriving today. I trust your travels were not too arduous.”

  Master Shelton said quietly, “No, my lord.”

  The man’s gaze shifted to me. “And this is…?”

  “Brendan,” I blurted, before I realized what I was doing. “Brendan Prescott. To serve you, Your Grace.” On impulse I executed a bow that demonstrated hours of painstaking practice, though to him I must have seemed inept.

  As if to confirm my thoughts, he let out a hearty laugh. “You must be Lord Robert’s new squire.” His smile widened. “Your master may require such lofty address from you in private, but I am content with a mere ‘Master Secretary Cecil’ or ‘my lord,’ if you do not mind.”

  I felt heat rush into my cheeks. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  “The lad is tired, is all,” Master Shelton muttered. “If you would inform her ladyship of our arrival, we’ll not trouble you further.”

  Master Secretary Cecil arched a brow. “I’m afraid her ladyship is not here at the moment. She and her daughters have moved to Durham House on the Strand, in order to free up room for the nobles and their retinues. As you see, his lordship has a full house this evening.”

  Master Shelton stiffened. My gaze darted from him to Master Secretary Cecil’s unrevealing smile and back again. In that moment I saw that Master Shelton had not known, and had just been put in his place. Despite Cecil’s friendly demeanor, equals these men were not.

  Cecil continued: “Lady Dudley did leave word that she has need of your services, and you are to proceed to Durham forthwith. I can provide you with an escort, if you like.”

  In the background, pages raced about with torches, lighting iron sconces mounted on the walls. Dusk slipped over the courtyard and Master Shelton’s face. “I know the way,” he said, and he motioned to me. “Come, lad. Durham’s not far.”

  I made a move to follow. Cecil reached out. The pressure of his fingers on my sleeve was unexpected—light but commanding. “I believe our new squire will lodge here with Lord Robert, also at her ladyship’s command.” He smiled again at me. “I will take you to his rooms.”

  I hadn’t counted on being left on my own so soon, and for a paralyzed moment I felt like a lost child. I hoped Master Shelton would insist I accompany him to report in person to Lady Dudley. But he only said, “Go, boy. You’ve your duty to attend to. I’ll look in on you later.” Without giving Cecil another glance, he strode off, leading his bay back to the gate. Taking Cinnabar by the reins, I started after Cecil.

  As I passed under an archway, I looked over my shoulder.

  Master Shelton was gone.

  * * *

  I barely had time to gawk at the immensity of the hammer-beamed stables, populated by a multitude of steeds and hounds. Entrusting Cinnabar to a young dark-haired groom with an avid palm for a coin, I shouldered my saddlebag and hastened after Secretary Cecil, who led me across another inner courtyard, through a side door, and up a staircase into a series of interconnecting rooms hung with enormous tapestries.

  Thickly woven carpets muffled our footsteps. The air was redolent of wax and musk, sweat, and musty fabric. Candles dripped from the eaves, studded on iron candelabra. The strains of a disembodied lute wavered from an unseen place as courtiers drifted past us, the glitter of jewels on damasks and velvets catching the light like iridescent butterfly wings.

  None glanced at me, but I could not have been less at ease than if they’d stopped to ask my name. I wondered how I would ever manage to find my way about this maze, much less steer a clear route to and from Lord Robert’s rooms.

  “It seems overwhelming at first,” Cecil said, as if he could read my thoughts, “but you’ll adjust to it in time. We all do.”

  I let out an uneasy chuckle, eyeing him. He’d seemed prepossessing in the courtyard, but here in the gallery’s length, dwarfed as we were by the surrounding grandeur, I thought he resembled one of the middle-class merchants who came to sell their wares at the Dudley Castle; men who’d carved out a comfortable niche for themselves, having learned to weather life’s vicissitudes with good humor and a careful eye to the future.

  “You have a certain look,” Cecil went on. “I find it refreshing.” He smiled. “It won’t last long. The novelty fades quickly. Before you know it, you’ll be complaining about how cramped everything is, and how you’d give anything for some fresh air.”

  A cluster of laughing women in dazzling headdresses glided toward us, aromatic pomanders clanking from their cinched waists. I gaped. I had never seen such artifice before, and when one of them glanced at me with seductive eyes, I returned her invitation, so entranced by her exquisite pallor I completely forgot myself. She smiled, wickedly, and turned away as if I had ceased to exist. I stared after her. At my side, I heard Cecil laugh under his breath as we rounded the corner into another gallery, empty of people.

  Mustering my nerve, I said, “How long have you lived here?” As I spoke, I wondered if he might think me too forward, and reasoned that even if he did, I could hardly be expected to learn anything if I did not ask. He was, after all, still a servant. Regardless of his rank over Master Shelton, Lady Dudley had given him orders.

  Again, I received his curious smile. “I don’t live here. I have my own house nearby. Rooms at court, such as they are, are reserved for those who can afford them. If you seek my business, I will tell you that I am master secretary to his lordship the duke and the council. So, in a manner of speaking, we all eat from the same hand.”

  “Oh.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “I see. I didn’t mean to offend, my lord.”

  “As I said, Master Cecil will suffice. There’s ceremony enough here, without us adding to it.” A mischievous gleam lit his pale eyes. “And you needn’t be so humble about it. It’s not often a courtier has the privilege of conversing with someone untainted by pretense.”

  I kept quiet as we mounted a flight of steps. The corridor we entered was narrower than the galleries, devoid of tapestries and carpets, revealing functional plaster walls and plank floor.

  He came to a stop before one of several identical doors. “These are the apartments of the duke’s sons. I’m not certain who is in at the moment, if anyone. They each have their duties. In any event, I must leave you here.” He sighed. �
��A secretary’s work never ends, I fear.”

  “Thank you, Master Cecil.” I bowed with less effect due to the saddlebag in my hand, though I was grateful for his kindness. I sensed he had gone out of his way to make me feel less uncomfortable.

  “You are welcome.” He paused, regarding me in pensive silence. “Prescott,” he mused, “your surname has Latin roots. Has it been in your family long?”

  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.