The Tudor Secret

by C. W. Gortner

  We rode at an unflagging pace, hours slipping past as dawn drenched the sky in mauve. Though I had trusted my gut, as the countryside emerged from night into a placid vista of rolling vales and hills, I began to wonder if I had relied too much on it and not enough on harsh reality.

  Could Mary have gotten this far? Or was she at this very moment being marched out of her hiding place at the tip of a Dudley sword, bound for the Tower? Rather than chasing her, shouldn’t I be rushing to Hatfield to warn Elizabeth and beloved Kate, and making for the nearest port before the duke arrested us all?

  I wiped a hand across my chin. My beard itched. Tugging off my cap, I let my matted hair tumble to my shoulders, glancing over at Peregrine. The boy drowsed on his saddle. We had to stop soon. Even if the horses held out, we couldn’t.

  A half hour later I spied a manor ahead, nestled among orchards, a veil of bluish smoke hovering over chimney and courtyard. From this distance, it almost looked deserted.

  “Peregrine, wake up. I think we’ve found her.”

  The boy started, raised bewildered eyes. “How do you know?”

  “Look at the courtyard. There are horses tethered there—seven, to be exact.”

  * * *

  We rode into the courtyard with our cloaks thrown over our shoulders to expose the sheathed blades at our belts, our hands free and heads uncovered. I instructed Peregrine to remember my new name and refrain from appearing perturbed, while I in turn feigned a calm I did not feel, as servants preparing the mounts froze in midbuckle of stirrups. One of three men overseeing the operation lifted a firearm. The other two advanced. Both were in their middle years, dressed in yeomen garb, their bearded faces haggard.

  The elder of the two—who held himself with the dignity of a steward despite his attempt to appear common—barked, “Who are you? What is your business here?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” I said. “My business is a missive for the queen.”

  “Queen? What queen?” The man guffawed. “I see no queen here.”

  “Her Majesty Queen Mary. The missive is from the council.”

  The men exchanged terse looks. “Find Lord Huddleston,” the older one directed, and the other ran off. “Jerningham, keep that musket aimed,” he ordered the man with the firearm. The servants didn’t shift an inch. “Dismount,” ordered the man. Peregrine and I obeyed.

  A moment later, a harried portly gentleman I assumed was the aforementioned Huddleston bustled out. “I advised her not to, Master Rochester,” he said in a worried tone, “but she says she’ll see them in the hall, providing they are unarmed.”

  The man Rochester turned a stern eye on me. “Your lad stays here.”

  * * *

  Detecting the lingering scent of roast as I was escorted into the manor, my stomach rumbled. Rochester was at my side, the armed Jerningham at my back, and Huddleston ahead. At the entrance, Jerningham backed into the shadows, from where I had no doubt he would continue to aim his weapon at me. Rochester and Huddleston led me forth.

  A slim figure clad in bucolic dress stood before a table. The men bowed. Dropping to one knee, I glimpsed a map on the table, alongside quill and paper, flagon and goblet.

  A surprisingly brusque voice said, “Rise.”

  I came to my feet before Mary Tudor.

  She did not look anything like Elizabeth. She more closely resembled their cousin, Jane Grey—short and too thin, with a hint of red-gold in the graying hair parted under her coif. Unlike Jane, Mary’s age and her sufferings were written on her face, etched in the crevices of her brow, the webs cradling her lips, and the slackness at her chin. Her thickened hands were clenched at her girdle, each of her long fingers ringed. Only in her eyes could be discerned that indomitable Tudor strength—forceful gray-blue eyes rimmed in shadow, meeting mine with a directness that imparted she was a superior being.

  I recalled Elizabeth’s words: She has always believed the worst of people, never the best. Some say it is the Spaniard in her. But I say it is our father.

  Her voice came at me with strident force. “I’m told you bring a missive.” She thrust out her hand. “I would see it.”

  I removed the envelope from my interior pocket. Turning to the light, she tore it open and peered. Her frown deepened. She looked back at me. “Is this true?”

  “I believe so, Your Majesty.”

  “You believe? Have you read it, then?”

  “I would not be much of a messenger if I failed to memorize so important a missive. Such letters, if fallen into the wrong hands, can prove dangerous.”

  She gave me an appraising stare. Then she paced to the table with brisk steps. “This dangerous letter,” she declared, with a hint of asperity, “is from none other than my lords Arundel, Paget, Sussex, and Pembroke, all of whom served my brother and who now inform me that while they’ve no desire to see me deprived of my throne, their hands are tied. The duke’s hold, it seems, is too powerful to resist. They fear they must uphold my cousin’s claim, though Jane has expressed no desire to rule.” She paused. “What say you?”

  Her request took me aback. Though she hid it well, I sensed her trepidation. Thrust into notice after years of obscurity, forced to flee within her own realm, Lady Mary had been hunted before, too many times, in fact, for her to trust anyone’s promises, written or otherwise.

  I’d not heard anything positive about her, from anyone; indeed, the very possibility of her accession was rife with tumult. Yet in that moment I felt only empathy for her. She was at an age when most women had wed, borne children, settled for better or worse into the rest of their lives. Instead she stood in someone else’s manor, a fugitive marked for death.

  “Well?” she said. “Will you not answer? You were hired by them, were you not?”

  “Your Majesty, if you’ll pardon my insolence, I would prefer to answer in private.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Rochester. “The queen does not entertain strangers. You’re lucky we haven’t thrown you into a dungeon for conspiring with her enemies.”

  “Dungeon?” I repeated, before I could stop myself. “Here?”

  There was stunned silence before Mary’s gravelly laughter rang out. “At least he doesn’t mince his words!” She clapped her hands. “Leave us.”

  Rochester marched to where the shadowy man with the firearm lurked; Huddleston followed behind. Mary motioned to her flagon. “You must be thirsty. It’s a long ride from London.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said. Her terse smile revealed bad teeth. She’s not had much occasion to smile in her life, I thought, as I drank deeply of the warm ale.

  She waited.

  I said, “Your Majesty, my companion … he is just a boy. I trust he’ll not be harmed?”

  “Of course not.” She faced me now without trepidation. “Tell me honestly: Is my brother King Edward dead?”

  I met her stalwart gaze. “Yes.”

  She was quiet, as if she contemplated something she had already accepted. Then she said, “And this letter from the council: Is it a ruse, or can I trust what these lords say?”

  I measured my response. “I haven’t been at court long, but I would say, no, you should not trust them.” As her face tightened, I added, “However, you can trust their letter. Lady Jane Grey is indeed the duke’s pawn. She’d not have assumed your throne given the choice.”

  She snorted. “I find that hard to believe. She did marry Northumberland’s brat.”

  “Your Majesty can believe in her innocence, if you believe nothing else. The duke has devised this situation to secure his own power. He is the perpetrator. He—”

  “He should be drawn and quartered, his head stuck on a pike,” she blared. “How dare he contrive to steal my realm, which is mine by divine right! He’ll soon learn that I am not a queen to be trifled with—he and every other lord who dares to exalt my cousin over me.”

  The fervor of her declaration animated her person. She might not possess her sister’s charismatic appeal, but she
was still Henry VIII’s daughter.

  “I gather Your Majesty intends to fight for your crown,” I said.

  “To the death, if need be. My grandmother Isabella of Castile led armies against the infidel to unite her kingdom. Nothing less can be expected of me.”

  “Then Your Majesty has answered your own question. The council’s offer to support you is trustworthy only as much as you make it so. If you forgive their past transgressions, then you will have their loyalty.”

  Her eyes turned cold. “I see you’ve mastered their art of double-talk.”

  I felt a prickle of fear in my belly. Her face was drawn, closed. Elizabeth had warned me to be careful. I was struggling to find the right response, when Rochester strode in. “Your Majesty, we found this cur lurking outside!” He stepped aside, revealing three others dragging another man between them. As they threw him facedown on the floor, his cap slipped off his head. Mary prodded him with her foot. “Your name.”

  I could not contain my relief when the man lifted his face.

  “Some call me Durot, Your Majesty, but you would know me as Fitzpatrick.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Mary said, “Barnaby Fitzpatrick, my brother’s servant?” From behind her I interjected, “Your Majesty, he’s been working to keep the duke’s son Lord Robert away from you. Whatever news he brings must be important.”

  Barnaby came to his feet. Streaks of his natural hair color showed through his walnut-juice stained mop. At Mary’s nod, he said, “Robert Dudley and his men are fast closing in. I was sent ahead as a scout, because a local sheepherder swears he spotted you riding in this direction. Your Majesty has less than an hour to make your escape.”

  Rochester said, “Where is your proof?”

  “My lord steward,” said Mary, before Barnaby could reply, “Master Fitzpatrick served my late brother loyally for many years. He was often whipped for Edward’s transgressions. I don’t require further proof.”

  She returned to the table, Huddleston at her heels. She gathered her map and papers, thrust them at him. “We ride for Framlingham Castle. It’s a Howard seat, and they revere the True Faith. If God is with me, I’ll gather my supporters there. Otherwise, it’s not far to the coast. My lord Huddleston, you must come with us. Your house is no longer safe for you.”

  White as the papers he clutched, Huddleston hastened after Rochester and the other men, who bolted from the hall shouting orders. As the manor erupted in pandemonium, Mary called out, “Clarencieux, Finch!” and two women emerged from the hall’s recesses, bearing a cloak and a small valise. “These are my faithful servants,” said Mary, as the women draped the cloak about her. “You must defend them with your lives.”

  She did not ask us how we felt about being entrusted with this duty. Crowned already in her mind, she merely assumed we would obey.

  We followed her into the courtyard, where servants stuffed saddlebags with last-minute articles. Peregrine held our horses. His eyes snapped wide as he saw Barnaby dart around the side of the manor and return on his cob. While Rochester assisted the queen and her ladies to their mounts, Huddleston and Mary’s other manservants jumped onto theirs.

  Barnaby mumbled to Peregrine and me, “We may need someone to defend us before this day is done.”

  “Or maybe not,” I said. “Lord Robert looked none too fresh last I saw him.”

  Barnaby chortled. “I thought I heard a rat in the brush. By the way, the beard suits you.”

  “A precaution of my new trade. In case anyone should ask, my name is Daniel Beecham, of Lincolnshire.” I reached over to thump his back. “That was quite a voice you used, Durot. And the hair coloring is an accomplishment. How did you get yourself into Dudley’s company?”

  “Let’s just say I was accosted by a certain earl who offered me the opportunity to avenge my king. The rest was easy. I made myself Robert’s bane from the start. If I had said she was in France, he’d have gone looking for her in Brussels. He was only too pleased to send me off ahead. He probably hoped some papist sniper would rid him of me for good.”

  “You are bold. And you’ve helped save me twice now. I shan’t forget it.”

  “Just pray you don’t need a third.” Barnaby’s expression turned somber as he looked up. He lifted his voice. “Your Majesty, the hour isn’t getting any longer.”

  Swiveling in the saddle, a sickening lurch went through me. Horsemen rode down a distant hill, coming straight toward the manor.

  “This way,” Barnaby shouted. Sandwiched between her servants, Mary galloped onto the road, hard after him as he led us to a ridge. Robert Dudley and his men were still too far off to pose an immediate threat, but as we climbed the path single file, the sun wringing sweat from our brows, we discovered we weren’t moving fast enough.

  A gasp escaped the women. Behind us rose a plume of thick black smoke. The manor we had left was being torched.

  At Mary’s side, Huddleston went white. “Let it burn,” she told him. “I’ll build you a finer house. You have my word as your queen.”

  Huddleston’s dismayed look indicated he wasn’t taking her promise to heart.

  I motioned Barnaby aside. “We’re too easy a target. We have to divide their pursuit.”

  Barnaby assented. “What do you suggest?”

  “You proceed with Her Majesty and three of her people. Let Peregrine take the others along a different route. That way, Robert and his men will have to separate. The less there are after her, the better her chances are of reaching Framlingham.”

  “Good plan.” He paused. “What are you going to do?”

  I gave him a cold smile. “I’ve an overdue appointment. I’ll need your bow.”

  * * *

  Peregrine kicked up a storm before he was convinced of the necessity of sacrificing personal preference in order to serve his queen. To my surprise, Rochester supported my proposition. Mary also agreed, insisting I come to her once I’d scouted the lay of the land, which I cited as my reason for staying behind. The two parties galloped off in opposite directions, the queen’s escort headed farther into the hills, Peregrine’s party turning to the road toward Essex.

  As I scrambled up an incline and set Cinnabar loose to graze, I offered up a prayer for their safety, especially the queen, whom I found I admired more than my employer might prefer.

  I located a cluster of boulders to hide behind and turned my focus to the winding path, notching an arrow in anticipation.

  It didn’t take long. As an influx of scudding clouds smothered the sun, four men came charging up the path, soot faced and sweat soaked. Robert wasn’t among them. I soon found out why. The men dismounted a stone’s throw from my hiding place, unhooked wineskins from their saddles, and proceeded to resume an argument that evidently had been transpiring for some time.

  “He’s as full of the devil’s pride as his father,” one of the men groused. “I’ve had enough of those Dudley upstarts lording it over us. Why didn’t he just let someone else go back for the soldiers, I ask you? Because he doesn’t want to sully his hands, lest Mary wins the day and he finds himself at her mercy. Well, I say leave him to it. Papist or not, bastard or legitimate, she’s still our rightful queen, no matter what Northumberland says. Remember, old Henry beheaded the duke’s own father for treason. Treachery runs in their blood.”

  The other two grunted their agreement, glancing at the trim figure standing apart from them, sniffing the air as if he might scent the way Mary had gone.

  “What say you, Stokes?” asked one.

  The duchess’s man turned with a swirl of his velvet cloak, revealing a glimpse of scarlet lining. “I think we must each act as our conscience dictates, Master Hengate. But I’ll wager you’re not the first these days to question the Dudleys’ authority.”

  Hidden behind the boulder, I had to smile. Trust him to ensure his mistress’s neutrality. The duchess was Mary’s paternal cousin, and her daughter was about to don Mary’s crown. Lady Suffolk stood to lose a great deal should
Mary triumph, including her head.

  Hengate stared at Stokes. “And you? What would you do if we decide to return to our homes and wait to see how this all ends?”

  Stokes shrugged. “I’d go home myself and inform my lady that the duke needs a new hound. The one he sent has obviously lost its skill.”

  The men guffawed. Hengate hesitated before he went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He swerved to Stokes. “If you betray us, you should know my master Lord Pembroke’s arm is long. He will find you, no matter whose skirts you hide behind.”

  “I’m not an informant,” Stokes retorted. “I’ve no stake in what befalls the Dudleys. Neither does my lady, I can assure you.”

  “Good,” said Hengate, as his accomplices mounted. “In times like these, it’s the pliant man who survives.” Digging heels into his horse, he and the others thundered off, leaving Stokes to wave a fastidious gauntleted hand before his nose, as if to dispel a noxious smell.

  He started to move to his own idling steed when my arrow hissed over his head. He whirled about and froze, glaring toward the boulders with more arrogance that I would have expected from a man in his position.

  I stepped out, extracted another arrow from the quiver strapped to my back, and fitted it to the bow. It was one of the first times in my life I had the chance to put my years of weaponry practice to action. I wasn’t disappointed in Stokes’s wary recoil.

  “What do you want?” he said. “Money?” He unhooked a purse from his belt and flung it on the road between us. “That should be enough.”

  I pushed back my cap. “Don’t you recognize me? It hasn’t been that long.”

  He stared. “It … it can’t be.”

  I adjusted the bow, aiming the arrow between his legs. “I’m thinking if I shoot you there, it will take you a few hours to die.” I leveled the bow upward. “Or I could just shoot you between the eyes. Or you can start talking. Your choice.”

  He snarled, yanked his sword from the scabbard at his waist.

  I let the arrow soar. It struck Stokes in the thigh, brought him howling to his knees. He grasped the protruding shaft, blanching with shock. There was little blood. I walked to him and pulled the bow taut again, ignoring the flare in my shoulder from the ball wound.