“I see you’ve failed to heed the one unbreakable rule of every loyal servant,” she said. “You failed to recognize your proper place.” She glanced at the panel in the wainscoting concealing the secret door. “But, I do give you credit for finding that entrance.” Her voice hardened. “Where is she?”
Knowing Barnaby and Kate must be rushing Elizabeth to the gate where Peregrine waited with the horses at that very moment, I said, “I am alone. I wanted to find out for myself.”
“You’re not a very good liar,” she replied. “She’ll never get away, no matter what you think you can do. She’s going to lose that feckless head of hers, just like her whore of a mother.”
I ignored her threat. “Why have you done this?”
She arched one thin eyebrow. “I’m surprised you have to ask.” She motioned. “Move away from the bed. Oh, and drop that … sword, is it?” She smiled. “My son Henry and our retainers are outside, eager for better sport than toasting Guilford’s fortune between Jane Grey’s thighs. One word from me and they’ll flay you alive.”
I threw the sword onto the rug between us. I didn’t deign Master Shelton a glance. The steward stood in front of the door, in the same stance Barnaby had affected, powerful arms folded across his barrel chest.
Bastard. I hated him as I’d never hated anyone in my life, as if it were venom in my blood. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.
Lady Dudley said, “Mistress Alice, please mix His Majesty’s draught now.”
From the chest, Mistress Alice removed a pouch and sprinkled white powder into a goblet.
I found it almost impossible to maintain my stance. She had done this, all of it. She had mutilated Mistress Alice, set her to poison the king. She’d always been efficient, whether she was organizing her household or ordering the autumn slaughter of the pigs. Why should this have been any different? Understanding now what had been hidden from me all these years, I marveled at how I’d missed it, how I had failed to sense the deception.
It had been Lady Dudley who had plotted to provide an alternative heir to the two princesses. Implacable, she had aimed at exalting her favorite son, used everything she had at her disposal. She’d even divined a weakness in the duchess of Suffolk’s past and made a devil’s pact to one end and one end only—preserving the family power.
But her husband the duke had repaid her in false coin. He’d gone along with her plans, even as he contrived to take Elizabeth for himself. Somehow, Lady Dudley had found out. She had discovered the truth.
What else did she know? What else had she kept secret?
As if she could read my thoughts, her bloodless lips curved. “Twenty years. That’s how long it’s been since you came into our lives. You were always clever, too clever by far. Alice used to say she’d never seen a child so eager to grasp the world. Perhaps I should keep you alive a bit longer, in case our angry duchess reneges on her promise. She thinks you’re dead, but I still need her compliance until we have Jane declared queen. I could use you again.”
I felt sweat on my brow and in my fist clutching the cloth. Without betraying my spiraling fear, I replied, “I might prove more useful if your ladyship told me everything.”
“Everything?” She regarded me with a hint of mirth in her cold gray eyes.
“Yes.” My chest tightened, as if I were short of breath. “I was brought here for a purpose, wasn’t I? At Whitehall, your ladyship told the duchess about my … my birthmark.”
“So, you understood that. I wondered if you counted a fluency in French among your many hidden talents. How fascinating; you certainly have been busy.”
The sweat trickled down my face, pooled in the hollow of my throat. The salt stung the bruises on my cheeks. “I taught myself,” I said. “I am clever, yes. And if I knew who it is the duchess thinks I am, I could help you. I’m amenable to an arrangement that will serve us both.”
It was a pathetic deceit, born of desperation, and she responded with startling laughter.
“Would you, indeed? Then you’re not as clever as I’d supposed. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to trust you, now that I know you protect that Boleyn whore? However, you have solved my dilemma. Shelton, watch him while I see to His Majesty.”
She glided to the bed. I stealthily tucked the cloth into my jerkin pocket, pushing it down against the inside seam as I braved a glance at Master Shelton. He avoided all eye contact, his gaze fixed ahead, but I knew that if I made any move to escape he would leap into action. He had the reflexes of a soldier—which is why I found it disconcerting that he didn’t seem to notice Sidney shifting away from the alcove where he’d retreated.
In Sidney’s wake, the curtains stirred.
I turned my attention to the bed. Mistress Alice had finished mixing the powder in the goblet. Edward didn’t stir or protest as Lady Dudley reached down to smooth his coverlets and rearrange his pillows. He stared fixedly at her through his pain-laced eyes when she took the goblet from Mistress Alice and, placing one hand under his head, propped him up.
“Drink,” she said, and Edward did. She smiled. “Now rest. Rest and dream of angels.”
His eyes closed. He seemed to melt into his pillows. Turning away, Lady Dudley set the goblet on the table and reached into the medicine chest. She brought up something, made a sudden movement. Steel slashed. There was no sound. A gush of scarlet sprayed from Mistress Alice’s throat, splattering the carpet and the bed. Before my horrified eyes, she fell to her knees, looking straight at me, then crumpled onto the floor.
“NOOO!” My wail erupted from me like a wounded howl. I sprang forth. Master Shelton rushed at me, seizing my left arm to yank it behind my back. My cry was cut short, the pain searing through my torn shoulder muscles.
“I told you not to meddle,” he hissed in my ear. “Be still. You cannot stop this.”
I panted with helpless rage, watching Lady Dudley drop the bloodied knife and step over Mistress Alice’s convulsing body. Blood pumped out from under her, darkening the carpet.
“Kill him,” she told Master Shelton.
I kicked back with all my strength. I felt my heel slam into the steward’s shin, rammed my elbow simultaneously into his chest. It was like hitting granite; yet with a surprised grunt, Master Shelton released me.
Sidney scooped up the sword and thrust it at me as I dove for the alcove, where a draft now blew through the curtains. I heard Lady Dudley cry out, heard the door open, heard furious shouting; but I didn’t pause to see how many were entering the room to come after me.
Something whined and popped. I ducked as the ball flew past and embedded itself in the wall. Someone, perhaps one of the Dudley retainers with Henry, had a firearm. Such weapons were lethal but difficult to manage at close range. I knew it would take a good minute to reload and ignite the matchlock. It was all the time I had.
I leapt onto the windowsill, squeezing through the open window. With sword in hand, and my heart in my throat, I dropped into the night.
I hit the stone leads of the story below with teeth-rattling impact. The sword flew from my hand, clattering off the edge into the courtyard below. Sprawled, my head reeling, the agony was so intense I thought I had shattered both my legs. Then I realized I could move, despite the pain, and glanced up to the window through which I’d just leapt in time to see a long-nosed hand-pistol belch smoke.
I rolled. A ball struck the spot where I’d lain and ricocheted against the palace wall.
“A pox on it,” I heard Henry Dudley curse. “I missed him. Don’t worry. I’ll get him.”
The pistol disappeared for reloading. I forced myself upright. Standing as flat against the wall as I could, I looked to either side with a sickening drop in my bowels. The leads weren’t leads at all. Instead of a walkway there was an extended parapet with a decorative balustrade, punctuated by stucco nymphs and running parallel with an indoor gallery. At the far end I could see a mullioned casement and the turrets of a water gate. At any moment someone above me would realize
the same and race downstairs to finish me off.
I had no escape.
Think. Don’t panic. Breathe. Forget everything else. Forget Mistress Alice. Forget her blood seeping into the floor.…
To the left rose the moldering roof of the tower housing the secret staircase. To the right stood the gate. I began edging in that direction, away from the light spilling from the window above. I didn’t know that much about firearms but Master Shelton did, for he had served in the Scottish wars. He once remarked to me that guns were a primitive weapon, infamous for not igniting when lit, missing targets despite perfect aim, or backfiring due to poorly packed powder. It was too much to hope that Henry might blow his own face off, and instinct urged me to put as much distance between me and that window as I could.
Instinct proved correct. I froze as the pistol fired again. This time Henry displayed remarkably improved marksmanship, the ball spraying grotesquerie right above my shoulder. Tiny shards of plaster flew into my face. It wasn’t until I felt the warm trickle of blood that I realized the ball had grazed me, as well.
“You got him!” Henry guffawed. Someone else had fired the shot. I continued my precarious advance. My escape must have addled their wits. I was surprised that whoever had the gun hadn’t realized they could far more effectively shoot at me from the gallery.
The pistol pulled back. I quickened my step, nearing a casement. I hoped there wouldn’t be shutters, locks, small leaded panes I couldn’t smash. Between the pain in my legs and the throbbing in my shoulder, I was feeling faint. Another pop came, the ball razing the air above my head.
I struggled forward, flat with the wall.
The casement swung open. I halted when I saw a figure step onto the parapet with feline stealth. It paused. Another shot rang out, sending plaster flying. It turned. In the moonlight, I caught the gleam of dark eyes.
Then the figure started moving. Toward me.
My entire being clamored an urgent warning, even as I stood transfixed by the sight of the man approaching me in complete disregard for his own safety.
Two distinct impressions went through me in those crucial seconds. The first was that he moved as if he’d been tripping over rooftops all his life. The second was that either he’d come to finish the job for the Dudleys or he sought to rescue me.
When I spied the curved blade in his gloved hand, I realized I shouldn’t wait to find out. Hopefully I had come close enough to the water gate. If not, I wasn’t likely to regret my error.
I sprang forth with all the strength I had left.
And leapt out into nothingness.
Chapter Twenty
I plunged feetfirst into the river. I had kept my body pointed like a blade, knowing that if I hit the surface any other way I would certainly die. Still, it was like falling into slate, the impact yanking all air from my lungs with terrifying suddenness. I gasped, flailed to the surface. The brackish taste of salt mixed with dregs and mud clogged my nostrils, my throat, my ears. I coughed it out, trying to gain control of my floundering body.
The river flowed all around me, a swift current flooded by the tidal influx, its inky back littered with branches and leaves. A bloated corpse of something bobbed nearby, sank briefly, and resurfaced. Caught in the current, the corpse and I were like flotsam, dragged along while I, at least, struggled to stay above water.
My left shoulder had gone numb, as had my arm. Gazing back toward the dwindling palace, I envisioned my would-be assassin staring down in disbelief. I also understood just how far a jump it had been. It was amazing I had survived at all.
And once again I was going to drown.
I struggled to swim sideways against the current, toward a distant cluster of trees on a shore, evading the putrid corpse. I couldn’t ignore how dire my situation had become. I’d been shot, or at least skimmed by a ball, and must be losing blood. The cold had also begun to affect my lungs, making it difficult to breathe and move at the same time. Even while my heart and head roared, somewhere deep within, in that dark place where nothing has consequence, I wanted to stop, go still, drift, and let it all pass.
The shore wavered like a desert mirage. Submerged in an icy, suffocating cocoon, I stared toward it with faltering eyes, my arms inexorably ceasing their futile movements. In a rush of panic, I thrashed my legs, seeking to quicken my blood. Nothing moved. Or I didn’t feel anything move. I kicked again, in desperation. There was something twined about my ankles.
“No,” I heard myself whisper. “Not like this. Please, God. No.”
An eternity passed. I tried to bring my legs up to my unfeeling hands and untangle whatever had wrapped about me. I was feeling better. Strange warmth welled under my skin. The cold had ceased its stinging assault.
I sighed. It was just a skein of riverweed or an old rope.…
That was the last thing I thought before the water closed over my head.
* * *
Rain, intermixed with what sounded like fistfuls of gravel being flung against a rooftop, was the first thing I heard, the first sound that told me I was miraculously still alive.
Cracking open a grit-sealed eye, I tried to raise my head. The pounding in my temples and a wave of nausea told me I’d best stay put.
After the spinning in my head waned, I tentatively lifted the sheet covering me. I appeared intact, though my torso was a mass of contusions. I wore a linen undergarment—not my own—and my bruised chest was bare. When I tried to move my left arm, sharp pain coursed through my bandaged shoulder. I looked up. The room was unfamiliar; sprawled in slumber across the rushes near the door was a silver dog.
“Some watchdog,” I muttered.
As I drifted back to sleep I thought the dog looked remarkably like Elizabeth’s.
* * *
When I next awoke, delicate sunlight drifted in shafts throughout the room. The dog was gone. I also found, to my relief, that I was both less stiff and less sensitive, and I could sit up, albeit with much clumsy maneuvering. Easing a pillow under my head, I reclined against the daub wall and prodded my wounded shoulder. It was tender to the touch. Oily salve seeped through the bandage. In addition to tending to my obvious bodily functions, someone had taken the time to dress and treat my injury.
Lying on the bed as afternoon faded into dusk, I glanced from the door to the half-shuttered window. I heard water dripping from gutters. The slant in the ceiling led me to deduce I was lodged in a garret. I wondered when whoever had brought me here would make his or her appearance. I could still remember plummeting through seemingly endless abyss, crashing into black water. I even had a faint recollection of trying to stay afloat, swimming for a time against a sweeping current. After that, nothing. I had no idea how I had been rescued or ended up here.
My eyelids started to droop. I blinked. I couldn’t be certain what I’d find upon awakening. Despite my efforts, I slipped off again, only to be jolted awake by the creaking of the door. I struggled upright. When I saw her walk in, bearing a tray, I stared in disbelief.
“I’m pleased to see you awake.” She pulled up a stool by the bed and set the tray beside it. She wore a russet gown laced over a chemise. Tendrils of lustrous hair curled about her face. I couldn’t believe how, given my state, my loins could react to her proximity. But they did.
She uncovered the tray, releasing the aroma of hot bread and soup.
Water flooded my mouth. “God,” I said, in a hoarse voice I didn’t recognize, “I’m starving.”
“You should be.” Kate unfolded a napkin, leaned over to tie it about my neck. “You’ve been lying here for four days. We were afraid you might never wake up.”
Four days …
I averted my eyes. I wasn’t ready to remember everything.
“And you’ve been here,” I ventured, “all this time … caring for me?”
She broke the bread in chunks over the soup, ladled a spoon, and cooled it with her breath before lifting it to my lips. “Yes, but don’t worry. You look like any other naked man.”
Was I so bruised that the birthmark on my hip had gone unnoticed? Or was she being tactful? A closer look at her didn’t reveal anything, and I was too flustered at the moment to ask.
“This soup is delicious,” I said.
“Don’t change the subject.” She narrowed her eyes. “What on earth possessed you to stay behind in that room, when you should have followed Her Grace and Barnaby? I’ll have you know, we risked our lives waiting for you at the gate. Her Grace refused to budge. She kept saying you’d arrive at any moment, that you knew the woman attending His Majesty and had tarried to question her. It was only when we heard gunshots and saw the duke’s retainers coming out from every doorway that she agreed to leave. She wasn’t happy about it, though. She said it was nothing less than cowardly of us to abandon you.”
“But she did go? She’s safe now, at her manor?”
Kate refilled the spoon. “Safe is a relative term. Yes, it’s been given out that she’s at Hatfield, where she’s taken to her bed with fever. Illness can be a useful deterrent at times like these, as she well knows. Of course, so can the cellars of numerous neighboring houses in Hatfield’s vicinity, any one of which would gladly shelter a princess should the duke’s men be spotted on the road.”
“And you?” I asked. “Why are you not with her?”
“I stayed with Peregrine, of course. He insisted that we look for you.”
“Peregrine found me?”
“He did, on the riverbank. He told us he used to fish the Thames for bodies.” She paused. A slight tremor crept into her voice. “He said we had to keep searching, that in the end everything washes up. He was right. You’d been swept upstream by the tide and appeared near where the river bends. You were soaked through, wounded and delirious. But alive.”
“And you nursed me back to health.” I heard the sullen gratitude in my voice. It had become second nature for me to doubt even my good fortune. “Why? You lied to me about not working for Cecil. Why care if I lived or died, as long as you did your master’s bidding?”
The Tudor Secret Page 17