I took a deep breath. “I am a foundling. Mistress Alice, the woman who raised me, gave me my name. In olden times, those called Prescott lived by the priest’s cottage. That’s where I was found—in the former priest’s cottage near Dudley Castle.”
“And your first name?” he asked. “Was that Mistress Alice’s doing, as well?”
“Yes. She was from Ireland. She had a deep reverence for Saint Brendan.”
A laden moment ensued. The Irish were despised in England for their rebelliousness, but until now my name had not roused undue curiosity. As I waited for Cecil’s response, I began to fear I’d made a mistake. Illegitimacy was a handicap an industrious man could turn to his favor. Lack of any lineage, on the other hand, was a liability few could afford. It usually sentenced one to a lifetime of anonymous servitude at best, and beggardom at worst.
Then Cecil said, “When you say ‘foundling,’ I assume you mean you were abandoned?”
“Yes. I was a week old, at best.” Despite my attempt to seem unaffected, I could hear the old strain in my voice, the weight of my own sense of helplessness. “Mistress Alice had to hire a local woman to nurse me. As fate would have it, a woman in town had just lost her child; otherwise, I might not have survived.”
He nodded. Before another uncomfortable silence could descend, I found myself rushing to fill it, as if I’d lost control of my own tongue. “Mistress Alice used to say the monks were lucky I wasn’t dropped on their doorstep. I’d have eaten their larders dry, and what would they have had then to withstand the storm old Henry brewed for them?”
I started to laugh before I realized my error. I’d just brought up the subject of religion, surely not a safe subject at court. Mistress Alice, I almost added, had also said my appetite was exceeded only by the size of my mouth.
Cecil did not speak. I began to think I’d done myself in with my indiscretion, when he murmured, “How dreadful for you.”
The sentiment failed to match the scrutiny of his eyes, which remained fixed on me as if he sought to engrave my face in memory. “This Mistress Alice, might she have known whom your parents were? Such matters are usually local in origin. An unwed girl got in the family way, too ashamed to tell anyone—it occurs frequently, I’m afraid.”
“Mistress Alice is dead.” My voice was flat. Despite my previous honesty, some hurts I could not willingly reveal. “She was beset by thieves while on the road from Stratford. If she knew anything about my parents, she took it with her to her grave.”
Cecil lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear it. Every man, no matter how humble, should know from whence he came.” He suddenly inclined to me. “You mustn’t let that dissuade you. Even foundlings may rise high in our new England. Fortune often smiles on those least favored.”
He stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure, Squire Prescott. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should you require anything. I’m easily found.”
He gave me another of his cryptic smiles, turned heel, and walked away.
Chapter Three
I watched Master Cecil disappear down the gallery before I sucked in a deep breath and turned to the door. I knocked. There was no reply. After another knock, I tried the latch. The door opened.
Stepping in, I found that the apartments, as Cecil had called them, consisted of an undersized chamber dominated by a bed with a sagging tester. Scarred wainscoting adorned the lower half of the walls, and the lone small window was glazed with greenish glass. A lit candle stub floated in oil in a dish on the table. Across the floor were strewn matted rushes, soiled articles of clothing, and assorted utensils and dishes. The smell was nauseating, a mixture of rancid leftover food and dirty garments.
I dropped my saddlebag on the threshold. Evidently, some things never changed. Rooms at court or not, the Dudley boys still lived like hogs in a sty.
I heard snores coming from the bed. I edged to it, my heels crunching on slivers of meat-bones embedded in the rushes. I avoided a pool of vomit by the bedside as I grabbed hold of the tester curtain and tugged it aside. The rungs rattled. I leapt back, half expecting the entire howling Dudley clan to lunge out at me, brandishing fists as they used to do in my childhood.
Instead, I saw a lone figure sprawled on the bed, clad in wrinkled hose and shirt, his tangled hair the color of dirty wheat. He exuded the unmistakable stench of cheap beer: Guilford, the fair babe of the tribe, all of seventeen years old and in a drunken stupor.
I pinched the hand dangling over the bedside. When all I roused was another guttural snore, I grabbed his shoulder and shook it.
He swung out his arms, rearing a sheet-lined face. “Pox on you,” he slurred.
“Good eve to you as well, my Lord Guilford,” I replied. I took a prudent step back, just in case. Though he was the youngest of the five Dudley sons, against whom I’d won more battles than lost, I was not about to risk a thrashing my first hour at court.
He gaped at me, his saturated brain trying to match identity to face. When he did, Guilford scoffed. “Why, it’s the bastard orphan. What are you—” He choked, doubled over to spew on the floor. Groaning, he fell back across the bed. “I hate her. I’ll make her pay for this. I swear I will, that righteous bitch.”
“Did she spike your ale?” I asked innocently.
He glared, forced himself up to clamber out of bed. He had the Dudley height, and I knew that if he hadn’t consumed his weight in ale he’d have pounced on me like a cub with a boil. Instinctively, I slid my hand to the sheathed dagger. Not that I could dare brandish it. A commoner could be put to death for so much as verbally threatening a noble. Still, the feel of its worn hilt against my fingers was reassuring.
“Yes, she spiked my ale.” Guilford swayed. “Just because she’s kin to the king, she thinks she can snub her nose at me. I’ll show her who’s master here. As soon as we’re wed, I’ll thrash her till she bleeds, the miserable—”
A voice lashed across the room. “Shut your miserable trap, Guilford.”
Guilford blanched. I turned about.
Standing in the doorway was none other than my new master, Robert Dudley.
In spite of my apprehension at our reunion after ten years, he was a sight to behold. I had always secretly envied him. While mine was an unremarkable face, so commonplace it was as easily forgotten as rain, Robert was a superlative specimen of breeding at its best; impressive in stature, broad of chest and muscular of shank like his father, with his mother’s chiseled nose, thick black hair, and long-lashed, dusky eyes that had certainly made more than a few maidens melt at his feet. He possessed everything I did not, including years of service at court and, upon King Edward’s ascension, prestigious appointments leading up to a distinguished, if brief, campaign against the Scots, and the wedding and bedding, or vice versa, of a damsel of means.
Yes, Lord Robert Dudley had everything a man like me could want. And he was everything a man like me should fear.
He kicked the door shut with his booted foot. “Look at you, drunk as a priest. You disgust me. You have piss for blood in your veins.”
“I was”—Guilford had turned white as canvas—“I was only saying…”
“Don’t.” Robert spoke as if he hadn’t seen me standing there. He swerved, his eyes narrowed. “I see the stable whelp has made it here intact.”
I bowed. Our association, it seemed, was to take up where we’d left off, unless I could prove I had more to offer him than a hapless body he could pummel.
“I have, my lord,” I replied in my finest diction. “I am honored to serve as your squire.”
“Is that so?” He flashed a brilliant smile. “Well, you should be. It certainly wasn’t my idea. Mother decided you should start earning your upkeep, though if it were up to me I’d have let you loose in the streets, where you came from. But seeing as you were not”—he flung out an arm—“you can start by cleaning this mess. Then you can dress me for the banquet.” He paused. “On second thought, just clean. Unless you learned how to tie a gentle
man’s points while mucking out horseshit in Worcestershire.” He let out a high laugh, finding, as ever, great pleasure in his own wit. “Never mind, I can dress myself. I’ve been doing it for years. Help Guilford, instead. Father expects us in the hall within the hour.”
I guarded my expression as I bowed again. “My lord.”
Robert guffawed. “Such a gentleman you’ve become. With those fancy manners of yours, I’ll wager you’ll find a wench or two willing to overlook your lack of blood.”
He turned back to his brother, stabbed a finger circled by a silver ring at him. “And you keep your mouth shut. She’s but a wife, man. Bridle her, ride her, and put her to pasture as I did mine. And, for mercy’s sake, do something about your breath.” Robert gave me a tight smile. “I’ll see you in the hall, as well, Prescott. Bring him to the south entrance. We wouldn’t want him to spew all over our exalted guests.”
With a callous laugh, he turned and strode out. Guilford stuck out his tongue at the departing form, and, to my disgust, promptly vomited again.
It took every last bit of patience I had to accomplish my first assignment in the time allotted. Most of the discarded clothing needed a good soaking in vinegar to remove whatever detritus clung to it, yet seeing as I was no laundress I hid the nasty stuff from view and then went in search of water, finding an urn at the end of the passage.
I returned and ordered Guilford to strip. The water ran brown off his flaccid skin, the raw bites on his thighs and arms indicating he shared his bed with mites and fleas. He stood scowling, naked and shivering, cleaner than he’d probably been since he first arrived at court.
Unearthing a relatively unstained chemise, hose, doublet, and damask sleeves from the clothing press, I extended these to him. “Shall I help my lord dress?”
He ripped the clothes from my hands. Leaving him to wrestle with his garments, I went to my saddlebag and removed my one extra pair of hose, new gray wool doublet, and good shoes.
As I held these, I had an unbidden memory of Mistress Alice smoothing animal fat into the leather, “to make them shine like stars,” she’d said winking. She had brought me the shoes from one of her annual trips to the Stratford Fair. Two sizes too large at the time, to accommodate a still-growing boy, I’d proudly sloshed around in them, until one dark day months after her death, I tried them on and found they fit. Before I’d left Dudley Castle, I’d rubbed fat into the leather, as she would have. I’d taken it from the same jar, with the same wooden spoon.…
My throat knotted. While I had lived in the castle I could pretend she was still with me, a benevolent unseen presence. The mornings spent in the kitchen that were her domain, the fields where I’d ridden Cinnabar in the afternoon, the turret library where I’d read the Dudleys’ forgotten books: It always felt as if she were about to come upon me at any moment, remonstrating that it was time I eat something.
But here, she was as far away as if I’d set sail for the New World. For the first time in my life, I had the post and means to build a better future, and I was skittish as a babe at a baptism.
Recalling this favorite saying of hers, I felt a surge of confidence. She had always said I could do anything I set my mind to. Out of respect for her memory, I must do more than survive. I must thrive. After all, who knew what my future held? Ludicrous as it might seem at this moment, it wasn’t inconceivable that one day I could earn my freedom from servitude. As Cecil had remarked, even foundlings could rise high in our new England.
I slipped off my soiled clothes, careful to keep my back to Guilford as I washed with the last of the water and quickly dressed. When I turned about, I found Guilford entangled in his doublet, shirt askew, and crumpled hose about his knees.
Without needing to be told, I went to assist him.
Chapter Four
Though Guilford had been at court for over three years, presumably engaged in more than the satiation of his vices, he got us lost within a matter of seconds. I imagined being discovered centuries later, two skeletons with my hands locked about his throat, and took it upon myself to ask directions. With the aid of a gold coin secured from a grumbling Guilford, a page brought us to the hall’s south entrance, where the duke’s sons waited in their ostentatious finery. Only the eldest, Jack, was absent.
“Finally,” declared Ambrose Dudley, the second eldest. “We’d begun to think Brendan had hog-tied you to the bed to get you dressed.”
Guilford curled his lip. “Not bloody likely.”
The brothers laughed. I noticed Robert’s laughter didn’t reach his eyes, which kept shifting to the hall, as though in anticipation of something.
Henry Dudley, the shortest and least comely of the brothers, and therefore the meanest tempered, clapped my shoulder as if we were the best of friends. I was pleased to discover that I now stood a head taller than he.
“How fare you, orphan?” he jibed. “You look as if you haven’t grown an inch.”
“Not where you can see,” I said, with a tight smile. Matters could be worse. I could be serving Henry Dudley, who as a boy had enjoyed drowning kittens just to hear them mewl.
“No,” spat Henry. “But even a dog can tell who its mother was. Can you?”
He eyed me, eager for a tussle. His attacks on me had always been edged with more than derision, but he wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t been subjected to before, or indeed even contemplated myself, in the loneliness of the night. I refused to rise to his bait.
“Given the chance, I rather hope I could.”
“No doubt,” sneered Guilford. “I’d say the same if I were you. Thank God I’m not.”
Robert glared at his brothers as they again burst into raucous laughter. “God’s teeth, you sound like a gaggle of women. Who cares about him? If I were you, I’d be more concerned about what’s happening around us. Just look at the council, hovering about the dais like crows.”
I followed his stare to where a group of somber men stood close together, the black of their robes blending together like ink. They were indeed gathered before a dais draped in cloth of gold. Upon it sat a large velvet-upholstered throne; overhead, hung a canopy embroidered with the Tudor Rose. It suddenly occurred to me that I might see the king himself tonight, and I felt excitement bubble up in me as I looked into the hall itself.
It was luminescent, its painted ceiling offset by a black-and-white tile floor over which nobles moved as though on an immense chessboard. In the gallery, minstrels strummed a refrain, while lesser courtiers streamed through the open doors, some moving to trestle tables laden with victuals, subtleties, and decanters; others assembled in small groups to whisper, preen, and stare.
If intrigue had a smell, Whitehall would reek of it.
I heard a footstep behind us. Turning about, I had a fleeting glance of a tall, lean figure in iron-colored satin before I bowed as low as I could.
John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, said in a quiet voice, “Ah, I see you are all here. Good. Ambrose, Henry, go attend to the council. They look in dire need of drink. Robert, I’ve just received word there is need for someone of authority to see to an urgent matter at the Tower. Pray, go and attend to it.”
Even with my head bowed I heard incredulity in Robert’s reply. “The Tower? But, I was there only this afternoon and all seemed well in order. There must be a mistake. Begging your leave, my lord father, but might I see to it later?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the duke. “As I said, the matter is urgent. We’ve imposed an early curfew tonight, and nothing can occur that might unsettle the populace.”
I could almost feel the fury emanating from Robert. With a curt bow, he said tersely, “My lord,” before he strode off.
The duke addressed his remaining son. “Guilford, find a chair by the hearth and stay there. When Their Graces of Suffolk arrive, attend to them as befits your rank. And may I suggest you be a little more circumspect tonight with your intake of wine?”
Guilford skulked off. With a pensive sigh, the duke turned his passio
nless black eyes to me. “Squire Prescott, rise. It’s been some time since I last saw you. How was your trip?”
I had to crane my head to meet Northumberland’s gaze.
I had been in his presence only a handful of times, his service to the king having kept him at court for most of my life, and I was struck by his imposing figure. John Dudley had retained the lean build instilled by a lifetime of military discipline, his height complimented by his knee-length brocade surcoat and tailored doublet. A thick gold chain slung across his shoulders bore testament to his wealth and success. No one would have mistaken this man for anyone other than a man of great power; few in fact would have looked beyond that to the hint of insomnia under his deep-set eyes, or the careworn lines wiring his mouth in its cropped goatee.
Recalling what Master Shelton had said about the price of absolute power, I said carefully, “My trip was uneventful, my lord. I thank you for the opportunity to be of service.”
Northumberland was looking distractedly toward the hall, as if he barely registered my words. “Well, it is not me you should thank,” he said. “I did not bring you to court. That was my lady wife’s doing, though I hardly think Robert merits the luxury of a private body servant.” He sighed, returning his gaze to me. “How old are you again?”
“I believe twenty, my lord. Or, it’s been twenty years since I came to live in your house.”
“Indeed.” His cold smile barely creased his mouth. “Perhaps that explains my wife’s persistence. You are a man now and should be allowed to prove yourself in our service.” He motioned. “Go. Attend to my son and do as he says. These are perilous times. Those who demonstrate their loyalty to us will not go unrewarded.”
I bowed low again, about to slip away when I heard the duke murmur, “We won’t forget those who betray us, either.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke. Turning away he stepped into the hall, where a palpable hush greeted his entrance.
Unnerved by his words, I moved in the direction Robert had taken, my mind in a tumult. Master Shelton had also said the Dudleys would reward my loyalty. At the time I had thought he meant they’d accept me as Shelton’s eventual successor. Now I could not shake the sudden sense that I’d been plunged into a nest of serpents, where one false step could spell my ruin. The more I considered it, the more I began to question the true reason for my summons. Unlike her husband the duke, Lady Dudley had been part of my childhood—an aloof presence I’d avoided at any cost. She’d always treated me with disdain, when she deigned to notice me at all. She never interfered even when her sons tormented me, and I always suspected she only allowed Mistress Alice to care for me because she did not want it said she’d let a founding child perish on her grounds. So why did she want me at court now, serving her son, in the midst of what seemed to be an exacting time for her family?
The Tudor Secret Page 3