She clutched my belongings as I turned to the staircase. “Should I send to Hatfield for Mistress Ashley and Mistress Stafford?” she suddenly asked.
I froze. Then I nodded. “Yes,” I said, “I think you should.” I continued up the stairs.
When Kate arrived, I would tell her everything.
* * *
The princess’s bedchamber door was ajar; I knocked to announce my presence and entered. The room was small, wainscoted in linen-fold paneling and warmed by a fire burning in a recessed hearth. Strewn about were her open coffers and traveling chests. From what I could see, she’d unpacked her books and a few scattered articles of clothing.
She looked up. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, a lit candle by her side, an open book in her lap. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, a red-gold sheen blending with the scarlet of her robe. She looked so young, so vulnerable, without the accoutrements of her court regalia: a mere girl. Not a princess at all.
A knot filled my throat.
I extended the cylinder I’d carried close to my heart the entire ride.
“You are a man of your word,” she said. She set it unopened on the table next to her candle. “Is it done?”
“No. But there is no evidence against you.”
She did not reach for the cylinder, did not react in any way as though she were interested in its contents, as I relayed what I had found out, about Sybilla and Philip of Spain and their plot to hold her hostage to the prince. She did not interrupt or ask a single question. She sat so still when I was done that she might have turned to stone, had it not been for the rapid rise and fall of her breast.
“I had no idea he considered me such a prize,” she said at length. “I find cold comfort, considering it’ll be yet another reason for Mary to despise me.”
“She doesn’t know—” I began, and the room keeled around me. My knees gave way; I almost fell as I reached for the nearest chair.
“You are wounded,” said Elizabeth. “You must sit.”
As I sank onto the chair, weak as a newborn foal, she went to one of her chests and extracted a painted casket. She pointed at my arm. “Let me see.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing. There is no need—”
“Don’t argue. Take off your doublet and shirt and let me see. If it festers, Kate will never let me hear the end of it.” She opened the casket as I reluctantly shed my upper clothing. When I looked at her, she had set out a jar of salve and folded linen cloths. Taking up the pitcher of water from her sideboard, she bent over me and cleaned my wound. With the crust and dried blood washed away, I saw it was deep but not large.
Her fingertips felt cool as she probed the ragged skin. I winced.
“You’re like a bear after a baiting,” she said. “Stay still. This might sting. It is Kate’s special salve; she made a batch for me before I left Hatfield. I always carry it with me.”
Taken aback by her determination, I let her salve the wound with the rosemary and mint concoction, releasing the very aroma of Kate into the air. She worked efficiently, without revulsion. I’d forgotten that she had lived most of her life far from court, in a country setting where even princesses must learn rudimentary healing skills. The salve eased my pain, inducing a welcome numbness. I reached for my chemise immediately after, my breeches sagging perilously low on my hips.
“There. Better, yes?” She returned the items to the casket. “You should use the salve at least once a day, twice if you can manage it.” She scrutinized my face. “That other wound on your temple should be tended, too. No matter what most physicians say, even such minor hurts can gather dirt. If corruption sets in, you will sicken.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, as if I had not informed her that a revolt could at this very moment be upon London and that she was far from safe—indeed, that all of us were in danger.
“What are we going to do?” I finally asked.
“What can we do? We wait.” She paced to the side table, her long fingers hovering over the cylinder. “Whether Wyatt succeeds or fails; whether my sister chooses to believe in my guilt or innocence; whether I’m left alone or taken—only time can tell now.” She glanced at me. “Though if the situation is as dire as you say, I should think that we’ll have our answer sooner rather than later.”
She picked up the cylinder.
“What does that letter say?” Though I had told myself that I would not ask, I couldn’t stop myself. All of a sudden, I had to know exactly what I had sacrificed so much for.
She paused. Cylinder in hand, she moved past me to stand for a long moment before the hearth. She pulled back the grate; with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the cylinder into the fire. “I told you at court, you had one chance. Now, it is best if you do not know more than you already do. You’ve suffered enough for my sake.”
Her rebuke did not surprise me. It had been presumptuous to assume she’d deign to confidence now. Her words to Robert Dudley would remain a secret between them, the evidence even now curling to ash in her hearth.
“Will you eat?” she asked. “You must be famished.”
Holding on to the chair, I hauled myself to my feet. “No, I just want to sleep.”
“Go, then. Mistress Parry will see to your chamber. We’ve hardly a full house here; there are several rooms to choose from.” She remained at the hearth, the firelight limning her figure in a reddish glow. As I moved to the door, I felt her gaze follow me. My hand was on the latch when my question came out, unbidden. “Will you allow me one thing?”
She nodded. “If I can.”
“Was it worth it?”
She sighed. “I have found it’s always worth fighting for what we believe in, regardless of the outcome. Risk is never without consequence.”
I inclined my head.
“And you?” she asked. “Would you have fought for me as you did, had you known the entire truth?”
I hesitated for only a moment. “Yes,” I said. “No matter what you have done, I believe in your cause.”
She gave me a dry smile. “I’d expect nothing less. Rest, my friend. You’ve earned it.”
* * *
I feared that I might not be able to sleep, that the events of the past days would haunt me in the silence of unfamiliar quarters. In fact, as soon as I disrobed and climbed into the musty bed, I fell fast asleep, without dreams, for the first time since I had left Hatfield.
When I awoke, it was past midday. I could tell by the angle of light filtering through the window. Mistress Parry had sent someone up while I rested, who’d seen to my needs. Along with a fresh shirt, my breeches and hose were folded in a neat pile by my saddlebag, crinkled and stiff from having dried by a fire but blessedly clean and scented with lavender. After I washed and tended to my arm, I went to the hall. In the daylight, Ashridge was visibly as well appointed as the manor at Hatfield; it had the requisite furnishings and size, but the feel of disuse hung in the air, as in all places that are rarely inhabited.
I ate my fill, seated alone at a wide table, served by a blushing maid I didn’t recognize but assumed had been the one who attended to my clothes. I was told Elizabeth remained in her chamber, so I went out to check on Cinnabar. I found him well stalled, with a warm blanket to cover him, and plenty of feed. Urian nosed the straw around his hooves; as the hound recognized me, he let out a joyous bark. Tears sprang in my eyes when I recalled Peregrine’s love for this dog. I buried my face in Urian’s fur as he licked my hands, whining low in his throat as though he could sense my sorrow, and let myself grieve.
Then I wiped away my tears and took Urian into the snowy courtyard to toss a stick, delighting in his eager retrieval, his lopsided gait, and his barks for more. It had been so long since I’d done anything so ordinary, so normal—it felt odd and wonderful at the same time.
Finally he was panting, his tongue lolling, and my hands felt like frozen mutton. Turning back toward the house with Urian at my heels, wondering if the princess was awake yet, I discerned the clang
or of hooves. Even as I turned toward the road, I knew what I would see: men in cloaks and caps, galloping toward the manor.
I bolted into the house. Our answer had come.
* * *
Mistress Parry had also heard the approaching party. She was halfway down the staircase, kneading her skirts. She took one look at me and said, “Her Grace says you must hide. No one can see you here. You might be recognized.”
“What of her?” Her anxiety was infectious; I found myself looking over my shoulder as I spoke, half-expecting the front door to burst open to reveal men at arms.
“She’s staying in bed.” Mistress Parry shook her head at my concern. “With a disposition like hers, she’s prone to fever. She’ll live, but she’s too ill to rise or”—she set her jaw in a hard line—“greet any visitors. Those fine lords, whoever they are, will be in for a difficult time if they think they can come here to berate her.”
It was a ploy, I knew it at once. A sick princess would be hard to move. I didn’t comment as the other servants on the staff—the serving maid and kitchen personnel, a few idle grooms—crowded into the hall. To a person, they looked terrified.
“Get,” Mistress Parry said with a wave of her hand, and the staff hurried back to their posts. She turned to me. “You, too. The last thing we need is one of them asking how the man who once served the queen is now in Her Grace’s house.”
She was right. I had to disappear. Fast.
I ran up to my room and started cramming everything I had pulled from my saddlebag back into it. I was looking around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything when I heard the men’s horses cantering into the courtyard, followed by rough demands of the grooms as they dismounted.
They were inside the manor before I could reach my door; I could hear their booted heels, monstrously loud, and Mistress Parry’s indignant protest. “My lady is abed! She has taken with fever. You cannot intrude on her—”
I hoisted my saddlebag to my shoulder, my other hand on my sword. Daring a glance into the passageway, I glimpsed men with caps bunched in fists as they came up the staircase and turned down the opposite corridor to the princess’s apartment. The startled cry of one of her attendants preceded brusque rapping on her bedchamber door.
“Madam, open at once! We come in Her Majesty the queen’s name!”
I inched backward into my room. My breath came fast. Maybe they wouldn’t search the manor. Maybe they’d just question her, and when they discovered that she had been here all this time, abed, they’d—
Footsteps marched toward me.
Wildly, I started to move to the bed, thinking to hide under it. I was not fast enough. The door banged open. A sentry stood on the threshold. “You.” He jabbed a gauntleted finger at me. “Downstairs. Now.”
He accompanied me to the hall. The entire manor staff had been assembled, the maids openly weeping, the men white-faced. I was grateful Mistress Ashley and Kate were not here. With any luck, Mistress Parry hadn’t yet sent their summons.
The queen’s men milled about the hall, the central table cluttered with the detritus of their office: bags, weaponry, paper, quills and ink bottles. I recognized a few of the men from my time at court, though I didn’t know their names; they were from the council. As the sentry pushed me into line with the other servants, one of the men—a lean, white-haired noble with a forked beard and the commanding stance of a man in charge—pivoted toward me and stared, hard, as if he were searching his mind for my identity.
Then he looked away and I sagged in relief, lowering my eyes and chin.
In a cold voice he announced, “I am Lord William Howard, Admiral of England. I am here by Her Majesty’s command to search this house and inquire into the activities of said household as it pertains to the recent treasonous revolt against the queen’s sovereign person. Thomas Wyatt and others have been apprehended and are in the Tower. Her Majesty will show mercy to the innocent, if such can be proved, but none of you are to leave the manor or its grounds on penalty of immediate arrest.” He treated us to a frigid stare that emphasized his authority before he motioned to the sentries, who herded the servants out.
I was turning to leave when Lord Howard’s voice came at me. “Not you.”
I looked over my shoulder. He had recognized me. I bowed. “My lord.”
“Haven’t I seen you at court?” He did not speak as if it were a question, but I decided to risk it, nevertheless. “You may have, my lord. I’ve been in Her Grace’s employ and have occasionally run errands for her at—”
“Do you lie to me?” His voice did not raise a decibel, but the threat in his tone was unmistakable. “Because if you do, I warn you, we have ways to loosen the tongues of liars so that they learn to speak the truth.”
I went quiet. As I considered my next move, I wondered who had betrayed me this time. Renard was the most likely culprit; after our confrontation outside my room, he had every reason to want to see me disappear. He had lost control of his own agent; Sybilla had turned rogue, stolen the evidence he sought, made him look the fool. Only he, too, had something to lose if I were to confess what I knew; I could certainly tell Lord Howard of how the Spanish ambassador had done his utmost to bring down the queen’s sister, failing in the process to intercept the revolt brewing under his nose. It might not save me, but I was fairly certain Renard would rather his own sordid failings didn’t come to light.
Lord Howard tilted his head. “What is your name?”
I hesitated for a second before I said, “Prescott, my lord. Squire Prescott.” Again, it was a feeble attempt to gain time. Renard and Mary both knew me as Daniel Beecham; if Renard had told these men to look for me, Beecham was the name he’d cite.
“Prescott,” mused Lord Howard. “Well, Prescott, you’re not to leave the premises. I want you where I can find you, at all times. I may have reason to speak with you again.”
“Yes, my lord,” I murmured, inclining my head. He did not move, watching me turn to the door. I anticipated he’d call me back before I had the chance to step out, that he’d realize where exactly he had seen me at court, coming and going from the queen’s own apartments, and then I’d find myself in boiling water, indeed.
A man without a past cannot exist …
Howard did not stop me.
* * *
Guards were placed at the princess’s door; no one but Mistress Parry and members of the council was allowed to see her. I sat with the servants in the kitchens that night, listening with one ear to their hushed, anxious chatter while with the other I strained to overhear Lord Howard and his men deliberating over their dinner in the hall.
Mistress Parry came in with a tray, bearing Elizabeth’s untouched meal; I drew her aside. “What is happening? What do you know?”
Clearly frightened despite her outward stance, she whispered, “Wyatt’s rebellion failed. But it looked at first as though it might succeed; he had over two thousand men under his command, while the council refused to vote the queen so much as five hundred more guards. She marched straight to the Guildhall and gave such a speech that all London took to her defense. Wyatt’s men deserted him when they saw the forces arrayed against them. Lord Howard was there; he barred the rebel entry at Ludgate. By nightfall, Wyatt surrendered. There’ve been deaths on both sides, but not many.”
“And now?” I thought of Scarcliff. Had he fought for or against Wyatt?
“There’ll be more,” she replied grimly. “Every last man in that rebel army is being pursued. That’s not the worst of it, either. I was in my lady’s room today when Lord Howard informed her that a letter, purported to be from Wyatt, informing her of his plan, was found in a packet of secret missives being sent abroad. The queen is enraged. She’s ordered that my lady be brought to court at once. I’m insisting she’s too ill to travel, but Howard has sent for a physician. We’ve a few days, at best. When the physician arrives and examines her, he’ll pronounce her fit. He can do nothing else.”
I stood, stunned. Another letter,
this time from the very man who had marched on London, found in a packet being sent abroad? It could seal Elizabeth’s doom.
There could only be one explanation, and it made my blood run cold.
Renard. This was his deed. He’d found a way to falsify a letter from Wyatt, springing the snare that would bring Elizabeth to her knees.
I gnawed at my lower lip. If we only had a few days, it just might be enough. “Can we get word out? Is there a way to send a secret message?”
She stared at me, incredulous. “How, pray tell? They’ve surrounded the manor. Not even a flea in the stable can get out without their notice. Besides, who can we appeal to? No one will support her now, not even those who called themselves her friend.”
“I know someone. A man highly regarded by the queen. If he could persuade her—”
“You don’t understand. There is no persuading the queen. She’s already agreed to execute Lady Jane Grey, Guilford Dudley, and Jane’s father, the Duke of Suffolk. Lord Howard told the princess to her face. Oh, you should have seen the look she gave him! She might have struck him had she not been abed. It is too late for highly regarded friends now. The queen will see her to the Tower, and she”—Mistress Parry’s voice caught—“she knows it. God save her, all she can think to do is to delay them, to continue to plead illness in the hope that somehow, some miracle can save her.”
“Dear God,” I whispered. I remembered them as I’d last seen them in the Tower, Jane kicking the pile of books before she handed me the folder, and Guilford, that petulant husband, to whom she’d been wed against her will, cawing for my demise: They were to be Renard’s first victims. Would Robert and the other Dudley brothers follow? Would Courtenay die as well? How much blood would Renard make the queen spill?
How would Elizabeth survive it?
Mistress Parry’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. “My lady says if comes to it, she’ll ask for a swordsman from Calais like her mother. She says she’ll not let them take her head with a hatchet, like a beast in a barnyard. What can we do? What can any of us do for her now?”
The Tudor Conspiracy Page 24