The Tudor Vendetta

by C. W. Gortner

  “A welcoming sight,” said Shelton wryly. He caressed Cerberus’s muscular neck, easing the destrier’s labored breathing. We had ridden our horses past endurance. Welcoming or not, we had to rest here for the night. We could not risk them going lame.

  I dismounted, barely reaching the ground before I espied a figure running toward us from one of the outbuildings. At first, I thought it was a short man, but then he reached the gates, and as he peered at us through the bars, I saw he was in fact a youth, fumbling for a key tangled on a chain about his throat.

  From the tube containing the map, I removed the queen’s letter. I did not have time to show it before Shelton barked: “Open those gates, lad. We are here by royal command!”

  I scowled. So much for being invisible. Shelton shrugged in response, his shout having startled the gatekeeper, who promptly bent over and jammed his key into the gate’s lock, without removing it from the chain about his neck.

  The gates creaked open. The boy stood staring, his mouth ajar.

  “I come by order of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth—” I started to declare, until Shelton muttered, “It’s no use. Look at him: The lad’s boil-brained.”

  The youth cocked his head as if he understood Shelton’s disparagement. He had wide-set small hazel eyes, an upturned nose, and small mouth. Lank ginger-hued hair was plastered to his brow from the damp and his jerkin and breeches were rumpled, with bits of straw clinging to his hose as if we had woken him from an illicit nap. He was very thin, but not ill formed; I thought he must be eleven or twelve years old.

  “Are you here to pay your respects?” he said, shifting his regard to Cerberus as he spoke, his eyes growing wider as he took in the impressive size of Shelton’s steed.

  “No, we…” I faltered. “Respects? Who has died?” As I spoke, my stomach sank to my feet. God save us, we had come too late. Lady Parry was dead.

  “The little master,” said the youth sadly. “He took the fever. My lady said, why poor Master Henry? Why is that stupid Raff alive when Master Henry is dead? My lady hates me because I never get ill.”

  Shelton muttered, “Boil-brained, just as I said.”

  I ignored him, taking a cautious step toward the youth—only I still held Cinnabar’s reins and as my horse also clopped forward, shaking his mane, the boy edged backward, his gaze riveted to Cerberus as if he feared the destrier might tramp forth next, right over him.

  “Are you Raff?” I asked, and he said, “Yes. That is my name.”

  Shelton snorted.

  “Can you show us to the stables, Raff?” I said.

  His brow creased for a moment before he exclaimed, “Your horses must be hungry. I feed the horses, too!” as though it were a revelation that he might be of use.

  Shelton rolled his eyes when I looked at him. “I know. I’m to go with him so he doesn’t overfeed the horses and give them bloat.”

  “He won’t,” I said quietly. I returned my gaze to Raff. “This is my manservant, Scarcliff. He will help you with our horses.”

  Raff wagged his head. “No, no. No one can help me in my work. My lady says I must work on my own. You take your manservant with you.”

  I leaned to him. “It will be our secret, eh? No one should help Master Scarcliff, either. He is supposed to be invisible. Do you know what that means?”

  Raff paused, jutting out his lower lip, making me think perhaps Shelton was right, and the boy was a little slow. “It means he’s not supposed to be seen,” I said. “If he goes to help you in the stables, it can be our secret, too. Would you like that? Can you keep a secret?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Yes, I know secrets. I know how to keep—”

  “Good, very good,” cut in Shelton, his exhaustion rousing a bout of ill humor. “Raff knows how to keep a secret. Bully for him.” He jumped off his horse, taking the reins. “Lay on, then. Show me the way.”

  Raff whirled around. “Come with me!”

  Shelton shot me a scathing look. “Isn’t this grand? I’m to bed in the hay with an idiot when I could be up against my Nan’s warm backside right now, a meat pie in my belly.”

  “Remember, you are my servant now,” I said. Unhooking my saddlebag, I handed him Cinnabar’s reins and watched him trudge after Raff, disappearing into the fog.

  Shouldering my bag, I walked alone to the manor.

  * * *

  Up close, Vaughan Hall displayed the relentless assault by wind and sea, its solid sandstone façade mottled with discoloration, creeping ivy-like tendrils of vine clinging to the mortar like collapsed veins, winding about oblong windows inset with panes of discolored horn. Devoid of ornamentation, the entire structure appeared impermeable, thick enough to deflect the extremity of the weather, if not the pervasive damp. A square watchtower squatted on the west end; gazing up, I noted the tips of chimneys poking through the fog like incongruous fingers.

  Passing under a vaulted stone porch, I came before a stout oak door braced with enough ironwork to impede a battering ram. A sprig of rosemary tied with a white ribbon was affixed to the postern, signaling a child’s death. I was reaching up to seize the brass handle when it abruptly swung open to reveal a thin, sallow man dressed in black frieze.

  In a supercilious tone, he said, “Yes? What is your purpose here?”

  “My name is Master Brendan Prescott and I come by command of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth to inquire into the disappearance of Lady Blanche Parry. If you would be so kind, I wish to speak with the master or mistress of the house.” As I spoke, I handed him the letter of introduction, which he peered at with feigned indifference even though he must have espied Elizabeth’s elaborate signature at the bottom, the paper imprinted with her royal signet. She had not been queen long enough to have a privy seal crafted for her.

  The man’s face twitched. It was nearly imperceptible, the slight stiffening of his expression, but sufficient to convey that despite my credentials, he did not view me as anyone of significant rank. Given his attitude, I guessed he must be the household head steward. Only stewards behaved as though they owned the place.

  “Lady Vaughan is abed, resting,” he said, placing marked emphasis on her title. Suddenly, I realized how little I knew about the people I had come here to question; what their backgrounds were, if they were gentry or noble, impoverished or wealthy. My instinct told me the former in both regards. The house itself might be imposing, but its location, so far from London and the court, indicated that high noble blood did not run in their veins; or that if it did, they had fallen on hard times. Likewise, the dual duties Raff performed as gatekeeper and stable groom betrayed a scarcity of coin. Nevertheless, this man’s manner indicated how my arrival might be perceived, and I inclined my head in an appropriate gesture of deference.

  “I beg your forgiveness. I have only just learned the family has suffered a recent loss.”

  The man sniffed, opening the door wider. “I am Master Gomfrey and I manage the household. You will address your concerns to me in all matters pertaining to your stay.” He paused. “Your boots are soiled,” he remarked. As I surreptitiously wiped each of my boots in turn on the back of my hose, he added, “Have you no servants?”

  “Yes, one: my manservant, Scarcliff. I sent him to assist with our horses. He is a rough sort, ill accustomed to fine accommodations. I thought it best if he bed with your groom. I trust that is amenable?”

  Master Gomfrey sniffed again. “It is. Pray, come inside.”

  The manor’s interior was stark as its exterior. The steward led me into a large hall with a high timber-framed ceiling and narrow arched windows whose dirty panes barely permitted any light, let alone a view of the surrounding area. The furnishings were sparse—a long central table arranged before a smoke-blackened hearth, with upholstered chairs of a purely functional nature. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, affixed by a rope to a pulley for lifting and lowering, its iron circle festooned with gutted wax stubs, as was the one standing candelabrum. The plank floors were clean but lac
ked carpets or the usual herb-strewn rushes; I detected a draft coming from somewhere, billowing spider-webs clinging to the eaves and the lengths of white mourning cloth pinned to the walls.

  The damp, I suspected, must be a constant presence. A few months here and even the hardiest man would begin to complain of ague in his bones.

  “My lord attends the gravesite at present,” Gomfrey told me in an emotionless tone. “Master Henry’s funeral took place only this morning and the family is naturally quite bereft. If you care to wait here, I shall have our maidservant stoke the fire.” He paused, as if to measure the echo of his explanation and decide if he had relayed it as well as he should. “Are you intending on bedding here in the hall or would a private chamber be required?”

  “A chamber, if it does not inconvenience,” I replied, thinking that surely Gomfrey could not expect the queen’s appointed representative to sleep on a pallet in the hall.

  “I will inform our housekeeper, Mistress Harper.” Stiffly, the steward turned heel.

  “Master Gomfrey.”

  He stopped, not moving for a moment before he turned back to me. “Yes?”

  “The gravesite: Is it nearby? Could I go there to pay my respects?”

  He regarded me in silence. Then he pointed past the hall. “Through that archway, to your left, past the private chapel. The cemetery is situated outside behind the house, near the bluff.”

  “Thank you.” I made my way past the hall and an empty watching chamber into a passageway narrow as a tunnel. Here, I felt the damp keenly, making me pull my cloak closer about my shoulders. As I neared a set of tarnished filigree gates, I smelled the unmistakable must of incense. Beyond the gates lay a chapel carved of stone, upheld by pilasters that showed prior evidence of gilded paint. The altar was nearly lost in shadow, its frayed cloth adorned with a dull-stoned crucifix set in its center. In a niche to my right stood a chipped wooden statue of the Virgin, a peeling oversized Christ child in her arms. At her feet rested a bouquet of dusty silk lilies.

  It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. When I did, I stepped back quickly. I heard Kate in my head: Yorkshire is still loyal to the old faith; many there are not happy she is queen and will not welcome a man of hers in their midst.

  The household was Catholic. This would explain my sensation of feeling unwelcome. I’d come at the behest of the new queen; while Elizabeth had yet to declare her stance on religion, it was no secret she’d been reared in the Reformed faith like her late brother, Edward. Such were the vagaries of faith since King Henry’s death that in less than twelve years, we had gone from stringent Protestantism under his son to vicious Catholic reprisal upon Mary’s accession, and now, back once more, to an unknown future embodied by an untried queen.

  Turning about, I made my way back down the passage to a narrow door, pulling it open to reveal a mist-shrouded garden—or what I assumed had once been a garden. Now, it was more of a haphazard collection of ragged herb beds and overgrown paths, lichen-stained birdbaths and lumpen statuary giving it an air of forlorn neglect.

  The wind had ceased, and the roke blanketed everything as far as I could see. With tentative steps, I moved toward where I could glean a huddled pile of gravestones, several of which were blackened, inscriptions erased by time, teetering against each other like decayed teeth. The soil here must be chalky, brittle to excavate; I wondered how many of the dead had actually ended up seeping out of their graves to dissipate, ash-like, into the air. I did not see anyone until abruptly, near a copse of wind-twisted pine, where the crash of the sea below thundered, I saw a small mausoleum guarded by forlorn stone angels. Above its closed gates was chiseled the name of Vaughan.

  Two figures stood before it, clasping hands—one tall but stooped, with a cloak hanging limply from its shoulders, the other diminutive, in a short cape and gown.

  I cleared my throat, not wanting to startle them. Without warning, I heard a low menacing growl and turned to see a large black mastiff stalking up to me, a studded leather collar about its bullish neck.

  I went still, aware that any sudden move or sign of panic would indicate I was prey. The little figure turned to look over her shoulder, her pinched wan face overpowered by aqua-blue eyes, a cascade of fair ringlets escaping her askew hood—a girl no older than six, clinging to the veined hand of a man whom I assumed must be her father, Lord Thomas Vaughan.

  She whispered to him. The man turned to me, without surprise. He had a long, furrowed face, with jowls sagging against his high collar, as if he had recently shed a great deal of weight. His thick beard could not conceal the stricken expression on his features, his hollowed eyes deep in their sockets, his downturned mouth bracketed by etched lines.

  He whistled sharply, bringing the mastiff to a halt. “Bardolf, hold!”

  The enormous dog immediately dropped to its haunches.

  “Do not fear him,” the man said, beckoning me forth. “He only attacks at my command. Otherwise, he is gentle as a lamb.”

  I doubted it, but guilt overcame me as I sidestepped the watchful dog and took a wary step forward. Vaughan had the mien of a man lost to grief and here I was, a stranger, from court no less, about to make his time of mourning even more difficult.

  I bowed. “Forgive my intrusion, my lord, but my name is Prescott and I am here by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth’s command.”

  Lord Vaughan’s expression remained blank, as if he was having trouble deciphering my words. It was the little girl instead who piped, “Elizabeth? She is not our queen. Queen Mary is.”

  “Hush, Abigail.” Lord Vaughan tightened his hand about hers. In a low voice I scarcely heard above the din of the sea, he said, “Yes, Master Prescott, we have been expecting you.”

  I must have looked taken aback, as I had encountered nothing thus far to indicate it. He let out a weary sigh. “We assumed Her Majesty would send someone to investigate. I am glad to see you, though I regret it comes under such circumstances.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your son, my lord. Had I been apprised, I would have—”

  “Henry isn’t lost,” Abigail interrupted. “Isn’t that right, Papa? My brother has gone to heaven with the angels and the saints because he was shriven in the one true faith.” She spoke with the earnestness of an innocent seeking reassurance and I saw Master Vaughan’s mouth quiver, though I could not tell if he reacted to her guileless reminder of his son’s death or the fact that his daughter had just confirmed that the household was indeed Catholic.

  Then he said, “Yes, my child. Henry is with the angels.” His tender attempt to muster a smile brought a knot to my chest. I had never known such tenderness in my childhood from anyone save the humble woman who raised me, my beloved Mistress Alice. Such care for innocence, particularly among the privileged, was a rarity.

  Lord Vaughan said to me, “We cannot conduct our business here before the tomb. We only saw my son into the vault yesterday.”

  “No, naturally we cannot,” I said, aware I had broken into a private moment. “I only wished to tell you I was here and pay my respects. Master Gomfrey is seeing to my accommodation.”

  I was about to return to the manor, bypassing the dog by a wide margin, when Lord Vaughan said, “We shall speak later. I will have supper served in the hall, as you must be hungry after such a long journey. You must ask Mistress Harper or Master Gomfrey to provide you with anything you may require, such as hot water for a bath or extra comforters for your bed. I assume a chamber has been prepared for you? It has?” he said, as I nodded. “Good.”

  He was doing his utmost to convey the solicitous attitude of a nobleman for his guest, even as I sensed his composure fraying. “We have always been loyal subjects to our sovereign, so rest assured we welcome any inquiry you care to present and will do our utmost to assist you in your investigation. Lady Parry is my aunt; I wish to find her whereabouts as much as you do.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Bowing again, I paused to smile
at Abigail. Giving Bardolf wide berth, I walked back into the swirling mist.

  As Lord Vaughan returned to his vigil with his daughter, I pondered how, in all this, his wife was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  Cutting across the garden around the side of the house, I passed the cluster of outbuildings—a henhouse and livestock enclosure devoid of anything save for a thin lowing cow and a few ducks—and moved to the larger structure that must be the stable block. As soon as I entered the building, with its smell of hay and musk of horses, hearing stamping in the stalls, the burden of my task lifted from me. I allowed myself a moment of reflection on the fact that while I had long since escaped my days of toil and fear as a Dudley minion, all it took was returning to a simple place where beasts dwelled for me to feel safe.

  Dudley had been right: I was indeed more cur than hound.

  “Getting settled in silk and feathers?” Shelton’s greeting pulled me from my reverie. He stood by one of the stalls, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a long-handled brush in his hand.

  “Hardly. Where is Raff?”

  “Who knows?” Shelton grimaced. He had removed his eye patch. “That lad may be daft as a hare, but he gets about quick as one, too. He had the horses unsaddled and in their stalls faster than any ostler I’ve seen, then went out for water from the trough, brought in feed, and dashed out once more.” He glanced up to the hayloft. “Could be up there for all I know. He’s clearly lived here all his life; he knows the place like a man knows his prick.”

  I smiled, approaching the stall where Shelton had been brushing down Cerberus. Next to him in the adjacent stall was Cinnabar, who whinnied at me.

  “How’s the manor?” Shelton lowered his voice as if Raff might indeed be perched on one of the rafters above us like a hidden owl.