“I do, though not by you.” She fingered a quill. “Why were you chosen to deliver the council’s missive? There are surely others they might have sent, men I would know personally.”
I heard Elizabeth in my head: I love my sister, but she is not a trusting woman. Life has made her that way.
I mustered a smile. “Your Majesty must know how such matters go. I’d done a few errands in the past and was offered a fee, the lords being disinclined to travel. In addition, should anything have befallen me on the road … well, I’m not easily linked to any one in particular.”
She snorted. “In other words, you are expendable—a man for hire?”
“Aren’t most men, Your Majesty?” I replied, and she stared straight into my eyes.
“I’ve little experience with men, Master Beecham. What little I do possess tells me there’s more to you than you care to let on. Life has taught me a thing or two about hidden motives.” She held up a hand. “But, there is no need to say anything else. I will not query further. Barnaby Fitzpatrick speaks highly of you, and you’ve proven your fealty. You will, of course, be welcome at my court once I’m proclaimed queen. For make no mistake, queen I shall be. Not even the duke can prevail against those whom God has ordained.”
“I pray it will be so,” I said. I believed her conviction. No matter what else she might be, Mary Tudor was no coward. Dudley had underestimated more than one princess, it seemed.
With a brittle smile, she retreated to a chair, putting more than mere distance between us. Her next words were spoken with the remoteness of a woman who has more important concerns to attend to. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, I’m not in the position to reward you at this time. However, you have my solemn word that you will be compensated as soon as I secure my throne. Until then, if you require anything, you must let Rochester know.”
I bowed, resisting the sudden urge to retreat. I might never have another chance.
“I expect no reward for having served my queen,” I heard myself say, and I marveled at the calm in my voice, for my heart had quickened. “But there is something I would ask of Your Majesty, if I might be so bold?”
“Oh?” She set her hands on her lap, her head tilted in curiosity.
“A few questions, is all; an indulgence.” I paused. Though I knew it wasn’t visible, I could feel myself start to tremble. “Your father King Henry the Eighth, he had two sisters. The Duchess Mary of Suffolk—was she the youngest?”
“She was. Margaret Douglas, dowager of Scotland, was the eldest.”
“I see. Your Majesty, I don’t mean to pry, but was your late aunt, Mary of Suffolk, also known as the Tudor Rose?”
She regarded me with that unwavering stare I now knew stemmed less from an innate perspicacity, such as Elizabeth commanded, and more from a basic goodness of nature tainted by years of corrosive betrayals. At length she nodded. “It’s not widely known, but yes, thus was she called within the family. How is it you came to know of this?”
My throat knotted. I wet my parched lips. “I heard it once, at court, in idle talk.”
“Talk, you say? Yes, well, my Aunt Mary always did lend herself to talk.” She went still, her eyes turning distant. “I was named after her. She was like an angel, both to look at and in her heart. I adored her. So did my father. It was he who called her the Rose.”
The sorrow flooded my chest. An angel, beautiful to look at, inside and out …
“This interest in our history,” she said. “I find it unusual for one of your class.”
Despite the chasm within me, the lie rolled off my lips as if I’d practiced it a thousand times. “An amateur enthusiasm, Your Majesty. Royal genealogy is an interest of mine.”
Her smile was infused with warmth. “I commend it. You may proceed.”
“I know of the late duchess’s surviving daughter, of course,” I heard myself say, and it was as though I stood apart, listening to someone else. “Did she ever have a son?”
“She did, indeed. She had two sons, both named Henry. One died in 1522, the other in 1534, a year after her. It was a tragedy for his father. Only a few years later, Suffolk lost both his sons of his subsequent marriage before his own death in 1545.”
“How did his other sons die?” I asked, and an icy shiver crept up my spine.
She paused, considering. “I believe it was the sweat, though children are apt to die of so many things.” She sighed. “I seem to recall my cousin Frances helped care for them during their illness. She’d had the sweat before; she was immune to contagion. Their deaths must have been hard on her. To lose one’s brothers is a terrible burden.”
I clamped down on my horrified burst of laughter. The Suffolk male heirs had all perished in childhood. This was how the duchess had inherited her estate! And somehow, everyone thought this was a coincidence?
“And Mary of Suffolk…?” I asked. For regardless of the answer, I had to know. I had to be sure, no matter how much pain it might cause. “How did she die?”
“Of a fever, I was told, though she’d been ill for some time. The swelling sickness, other ailments … She was not old, however, nearly the same age as I am. We hadn’t seen each other in so much time. She deplored the state in which my father had chosen to live and retired from court to her manor in East Anglia.” Her face tightened. “Few took the time to mourn her. It was June; everyone awaited the outcome of that woman Boleyn’s pregnancy.”
She went silent. Though she didn’t say it aloud, the struggle within her was apparent. Here then lay that seed of discord between her and her younger sister.
Then she added, “I remember the details because a few weeks after Charles of Suffolk’s funeral, his squire came to see me. A stalwart man—very proper. He had a terrible scar running from his temple to his cheek. I asked him about it. He said he had served in the Scottish wars. Poor man; he seemed most affected by his master’s death. But what I most recall is that he brought me a piece of a jewel that apparently Mary had left me in her will but was never sent to me. I still have it. One of the leaves from a golden artichoke given to her by that rogue King Francis the First, who conspired to wed her to Charles Brandon after her first husband Louis of France died.”
I felt my knees start to buckle under me, as if I were disintegrating from within.
Mary chuckled. “That jewel meant a lot to her; it was almost all she had when she was finally allowed to return to England. It turned out well enough in the end, but for a time my father threatened to throw both Mary and Brandon in the Tower for their presumption. He also exacted a stiff fine that they never succeeded in paying off entirely, even though she pawned her jewels. But not that one; she once told me that artichoke represented the best and the worst in her life, the sorrow and the joy. She would not part with it.” Mary leaned forward suddenly. “Master Beecham, are you not well? You’ve gone quite pale.”
“I’m tired, is all,” I managed to utter. “Thank you for indulging me. I cannot begin to tell Your Majesty how much it has meant.”
“Oh, I enjoyed it. It has been far too long since I thought of my late aunt. Perhaps one day you’ll consider penning a family history for me. I’d happily commission it.” She wagged her finger. “I daresay it would keep you from less-reputable sources of income.”
“I would be honored.” I forced out a smile, glad of the dimness in the room. “I should like to retire awhile, by your gracious leave.”
“Of course.” She held out her hand. As I bowed low she said, “I believe I owe your current employers an answer. Come back tomorrow, and let’s see if I can arrange one.”
“Your Majesty.” I kissed her dry, bejeweled fingers.
Rochester led me to a building off the bailey. There was a trough in the quadrangle where I could bathe and a room upstairs with the essentials. I stripped to my hose, careful to keep them above my hips as I washed in the mossy water, then went up and closed the door.
A cold meal waited on the table. I had no appetite, wondered if I ever would
again. Still, I tied back my damp hair and ate my fill. The needs of the body rarely care about the desolation in the heart.
After eating, I sat on the edge of the straw-filled cot and removed the jewel from my bag again. It shone like a fragment of a star. I marveled that I could have mistaken it for anything else. I ran a fingertip along a sculpted vein, as if it were alive, knowing now how far it had traveled to reach me, across the Channel from France, through a cherished lifetime. I looked down to my concave groin, and to the left, to the hip which bore my own mother’s birthmark.
The only ones who would have known of it are those who were intimate with the late duchess’s person.…
Charles of Suffolk’s … squire came to see me. A stalwart man …
I closed my eyes. I had to rest. I slid the jewel into my cloak lining and pulled the coarse linen bedsheet over me.
As I drifted off to sleep, I thought Kate would be as surprised as me when she learned the jewel was not a petal, but a leaf.
Chapter Twenty-six
I dreamed of angels. To the echo of a soaring chorus, I opened my eyes and found the room submerged in night. A fiery glow flickered from the open window. I sat upright. The singing came from outside. Then I saw the figure in the room with me.
“Barnaby? Is that you?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I let myself in.” He stood with arms wrapped about his chest, staring out. “Did you make your appointment?” he asked, without looking around to me.
“Yes. I brought your bow back.” I paused. “Where’s Peregrine?”
“Fast asleep. He eats like the famished and drops like a stone. Come, look at this.”
Pulling on my breeches, I padded barefoot to the window.
Indigo sky canopied the castle. An improvised altar had been set up in the bailey, draped in faded crimson sporting threadbare gold crucifixes. Before it stood a white-robed figure, holding aloft a chalice; banked about the altar were beeswax tapers, their wavering flames casting incandescent light upon the uplifted faces of men and women who kneeled in rapt silence. Perfumed smoke gusted from censers. The refrains of a hymn rose upward from a choir of children assembled on crates.
I saw Mary seated on a chair, a garnet rosary twined in her hands. The gems captured the candlelight, scattered it like blood drops across her dress.
“By God, she is secure of her victory,” said Barnaby. “We can only hope this is all she’ll make us suffer of her papist rites.”
Mesmerized by the scene’s eerie strangeness, I said, “I’ve never seen the old ways before. They’re quite beautiful, in truth.”
“For you, perhaps. To those of us who’ve seen heretics burn in France and Spain, it’s not so pretty a sight.” Barnaby turned into the room. There were no shutters or panes on the window, so I could only turn about as well and watch him pace.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “I want to do her honor as my queen, but already she brings out altars and burns incense, just as they warned us she would.” He looked at me. “Word came tonight that the duke assembles an army against her. If he fails, her way to the throne is open.”
“As it should be,” I replied. “It is, after all, her throne.”
“I know that. But what if…?” He glanced at the door, lowered his voice to a whisper. “What if we’re wrong? What if her devotion to Rome proves more compelling than her duty to England? Edward was terrified of this very thing. He sought to alter the succession because he believed she would bring us back into superstition and idolatry, overturn everything that their father and he had tried to achieve.”
I started. “Philip Sidney said something to that effect, the night we were in the king’s rooms. But he said Edward had been forced to sign something. And earlier today, Her Majesty told me the council had said she’d been disinherited because of doubts about her legitimacy.” I paused, looking at him. “What do you know that you haven’t told me?”
He did not hesitate. “The doubts about her legitimacy were the excuse. In truth, Edward didn’t think Mary was a bastard; he believed all his father’s marriages were legal. But he also never thought she should become queen. When he signed that addendum barring her from the throne, he did it willingly. But I thought you knew this already.”
“No.” My mind worked fast to absorb this unexpected development. “I thought the duke had forced Edward to sign it so he could name Jane Grey as heir. Are you saying Edward had plans of his own, before he fell ill?”
“Yes. He wanted Elizabeth to rule. He was going to tell her himself. That’s why Northumberland went to such lengths to refuse her leave to visit. He didn’t want Edward and her to meet and hatch a plot against him.”
It all made sense now. There was far more to this tangle of half-truths and lies.
“And how do you know this?” I asked quietly.
Barnaby frowned. “How else? Master Cecil told me. He approached me shortly after Edward suffered his first collapse. He said the king and I were like brothers, and therefore I would understand his concern.”
Again, I felt that sharp twist in my gut. “Concern about what?”
“That the duke aimed to safeguard his own power, regardless of Edward’s desires.” He went to the lone stool in the room and perched. Clasping his hands, he regarded me thoughtfully.
“Edward had been ill for three years; he was losing weight, suffering fevers.… He knew he might not live long enough to ever marry and sire an heir. By right of succession, Mary stood next in line to the throne. Edward was against any rapprochement with Rome, so he invited Mary to court to sound her out. Her refusal to accept the Reformed Faith convinced him of her unworthiness. According to Cecil, he decided to disinherit Mary in favor of Elizabeth. He told Cecil as much, asked him to help draft the necessary documents so he could present his decision to the council. But he developed a terrible rash and soon thereafter fell gravely ill. The duke took over his care. That was the last anyone of the council ever saw of him.”
“Wait a minute.” I held up a hand, the seemingly disjointed final pieces of the puzzle falling like knives into place. “Edward wanted to present his decision without the duke knowing of it beforehand? Why? Northumberland must have shared his concerns about Mary. Why hide it from him?”
Barnaby shrugged. “Edward could be tight-lipped when the occasion warranted. Once he decided against someone, he rarely changed his mind. I think he took a dislike to the duke when he realized how much control Northumberland had over him. In any event, after his collapse, he was denied access to anyone without the duke’s leave, including Cecil.”
“Which is when Cecil came to you.” Had I not been so outraged, I might have admired the sheer audacity. Our master secretary had been far busier than any of us had imagined.
“That’s right.” Barnaby looked confused. “He told me he feared the duke might hasten the king to his death and turn the ax on anyone who tried to expose him.”
“And you believed him.” As I spoke, I recalled that dapper figure with its modulated voice, which could exude such sincerity.…
“I had no reason to doubt.” Barnaby spread his big hands. “Cecil wanted me to watch over the king and report anything unusual. He didn’t know the duke would dismiss me from service. I kept watch all the same, though, especially after I discovered Northumberland had also dismissed all of Edward’s physicians.”
I found it suddenly difficult to draw breath.
Barnaby went on, his voice edging with suspicion. “You’re acting like you don’t know any of this. But you work for Cecil. When you helped Her Grace, it was by his orders. That’s what Peregrine told me. It’s why I agreed to help you.”
I made myself move from the window. I felt cold, numb. “Half-truths and omissions,” I breathed, “that’s how he functions.” I looked up. “He knew everything, all the time.”
Barnaby stared. “Who?”
“Cecil. He knew everything that was happening to Edward.”
“He knew what the Dudleys were doing?”<
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“I think so.” Implacable fury rose in me. “Without Edward to protect him, Cecil stood alone. If the duke succeeded in his own plots, he wouldn’t survive. He knew too much, and Northumberland had grown too powerful. Even if a lone assassin could do the deed, there were still the duke’s sons and his wife to contend with. That’s why Cecil had to do more than just bring down Northumberland. He had to destroy the entire Dudley family.”
I drew a shuddering breath. “I just never saw it. I never would have, had we not spoken tonight, though it was staring me in the face from the moment he asked me to spy for him.”
Barnaby stood. “But if Cecil was going to destroy the Dudleys, why didn’t he warn Her Grace away? All he had to do was tell her Edward was dying. Why risk her life?”
“I don’t know.” I retrieved my shirt from the floor. “But I intend to find out.”
“I wish he were here!” He hit his fist into his palm. “I’d make him explain it, the snake.”
I met his gaze, shook my head. “We’ve been cruelly used, my friend. None more so than you, whose devotion to your king became fodder for Cecil’s game.” I took a moment. “I have one more question. Did you tell Cecil about the herbalist?”
He averted his eyes. “Yes. It seemed odd. Why would Northumberland dismiss the royal doctors only to bring in some herb witch? When Sidney saw Lady Dudley in Edward’s room one evening, giving the herbalist orders, I recalled Cecil saying he feared the duke might hasten Edward to his death. What better way than poison? It seemed right to tell him.”
My heart felt as if a giant hand gripped it in a vise. I made myself draw a steadying breath, put on my jerkin and boots, and took up my battered cap.
“Where are you going?” asked Barnaby, as I fastened my bag’s straps and shouldered it.
“To ask the queen for leave. If she grants it, I’ve business in London.” I looked at him. “Promise me you’ll look after Peregrine. I don’t want him to think I’ve abandoned him, but I can’t bring him with me. I can’t risk them finding out what he means to me.”
The Tudor Secret Page 23