The Tudor Secret (12 page)

I shouted until I had no voice left. I couldn’t believe I would end like this. It was unthinkable. I wanted to roar the walls down into rubble, dig my way out with my bare hands, knowing now how a slaughterhouse animal must feel, waiting for its executioner.

Without realizing what I was doing, I started to pace. It was astounding how much had fallen into place—astounding and appalling. My arrival at court must have been premeditated, orchestrated by Lady Dudley to force the duchess into relinquishing her place in the succession. And if this was true, then Lady Dudley knew something about me. She’d taken me into her care because of it. The woman who disdained and humiliated me, set me to cleaning her stables, ordered me flogged when I sought to read a book—she held the secret to my past.

Il porte la marque de la rose.…

A wave of desperation overcame me. I fought not to give in, reminding myself that everything could be an illusion, a manipulation. In my pain and anger, as I sought to make sense of the senseless, I didn’t pay heed to the subtle changes in the air around me, to the mounting gurgle that signaled the beginning of the end, until I heard water seeping across stone, felt its cold touch swirl about my feet.

And I reeled around to see a black torrent gushing in through the wall grate.

I stood, petrified. The flow grew stronger, faster, bringing a smell of rot and sea, gushing in with unstoppable force as the flooding tide funneled through underground conduits into the small cell. In a matter of minutes, the entire floor was awash.

I backed to the door. There was no latch or keyhole; several furious kicks confirmed that breaking it down was not an option. Fear tightened about my chest. The overflow from the river would keep pouring through that grate until it filled the room to the ceiling.

I was going to drown unless I found a way out.

For an instant, my body refused to move. Then I jerked forward and sloshed through a death trap rapidly vanishing under liquid. I acted on instinct. I bent by the grate, maneuvering past the torrent. Mustering every last bit of strength, I grabbed hold of it and pulled, resisting the burning tear of muscles and the fact that I was kneeling in water that now reached my waist.

I pulled. Nothing. Tightening my grip, I pulled again. Rusted shards scraped my fingers.

“Move,” I whispered. “Move. Move!”

With a crumbling crack, the grate gave way. My arms flew up to shield my head as I plunged into the pool. Gasping, spitting out a slimy mouthful, I clambered to my feet. The grate had twisted outward, a toothy maw. I had no way of squeezing out.

The water continued to rise.

*   *   *

I still couldn’t believe I would die.

Scenes from my brief time at court drifted past me, so that I saw again the bedlam of London, the maze of Whitehall, the faces of those I’d met, who had become the architects of my demise. I thought Peregrine; of all of them, he might mourn, and just as I could abide no more, I recalled Kate Stafford’s face as she kissed me. And I beheld the twin suns in Elizabeth’s eyes.

Elizabeth.

Molten blood pumped through my limbs. I could feel the water creeping upward, an implacable presence whose clammy fingers swam about my chest. As I imagined that taste of death and silt filling my lungs, I swirled about and started hammering on the visible top of the door with all my might. My cries erupted from me like a feral howl. I didn’t care if anyone answered. I refused to drown in silence.

As if from across a chasm I heard a faint call. “Brendaaan!”

I paused, pressed against the door, straining.

“Brendan! Brendan, are you there?”

“I’m here! Here!” I banged again on the door, scraping my knuckles raw. “Here! I’m here!” My knees started to buckle when the muffled splashing footsteps grew louder, running toward me. “Open it! Open it!” Unseen hands seized hold of the bolt, yanking it back.

“Be careful,” I shouted. “The room’s flooded. Get back before—”

I was knocked off my feet. Propelled out on a wave, I crashed against the opposite wall and slid to the floor, a boneless sodden rag.

In the dripping hush, a frightened voice asked, “Are you alive?”

“If I’m not, then you must be dead,” I muttered. Arms like blocks of marble hauled me up. Before me stood two figures; one was Peregrine. The other, massive, carrottopped, square jawed and his face marred by pimples, was a stranger.

Peregrine said, “What happened to you? You look awful.”

“You would, too, if you’d been used as bear bait.” I looked at the stranger. “Thank you.”

He nodded, his freckled hands hanging big as bread panders at his side. I said to Peregrine, “How did you find me?”

“This.” He lifted my crumpled jerkin. “We found it by the entrance. We started searching for you when Barnaby saw a man running away.”

“These old cloisters and cells,” added Barnaby, “belonged to the Grey Friars until King Henry kicked them out. They’ve been abandoned for years. If someone comes here, most likely it’s for no good purpose. The moment I saw that man, I knew something was amiss.”

I put on the jerkin, grateful for something dry. I was chilled to my bones.

“We didn’t get a good look at him,” Peregrine said, with excitement in his voice, now that he realized they’d just saved my life. “It was too dark and he wore black. But he caught Barnaby’s attention—he’s got eyes like a falcon, this one. Lucky for you, he did. If we hadn’t happened to find your jerkin, we’d never have thought to look down here.” He paused, regarding me with a newfound awe. “Someone must really want you dead.”

“Indeed. There was no one else with this man?” I asked, though I didn’t need to hear more. I knew who the man in black had been.

Barnaby shook his head. “He was alone. Strange thing—it was if he wanted us to see him. He could have gone any number of ways besides right within our eyesight.”

This gave me pause. I passed a hand over my hair, which was plastered with silt, then accorded the muscular youth a bow. “You must be Master Fitzpatrick, King Edward’s friend. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Brendan Prescott. I owe you my life.”

He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Tall and built like a barbican, not uncomely despite his blemished complexion, with a shock of wiry red hair springing out from under his cap, he was not someone to disregard. Judging by the size of those hands and his drenched doublet, he must have been the one who unbolted and yanked open the cell door.

Barnaby said matter-of-factly, “Peregrine told me who you are. You’re a Dudley servant. He also tells me you’re a friend to Her Grace. She’s like a sister to me, which is why I agreed to help you. But I must warn you, if you intend her any harm”—he shook his massive fist—“you won’t like the results.”

I nodded. “Trust me, I intend her no harm. I would explain more, if we had the time. Unfortunately, we must make haste. She is in danger.” I reached up to wrench the crackling torch from the bracket. Peregrine piped, “His Majesty is here, in the Secret Lodgings. Barnaby says he’s been here for weeks. See? I told you I’d find out anything you asked.”

My gaze shifted to Barnaby over the tarry, smoky flame. His stare conveyed grim resolution. We started down the passage, sloshing through ankle-deep pools, toward the steep staircase. I ventured, “Is His Majesty very ill, Master Fitzpatrick?”

Barnaby’s voice caught. “Edward is dying.”

I was silent. Then I said, “I am sorry to hear it. Not only for his sake, but because Her Grace hoped to see him again. Now I fear she never will. I can only pray she’ll heed me.”

“She’ll heed me,” Barnaby said, with a certainty I found comforting in the extreme. “Her Grace, His Majesty, and I were raised together. She and I shared Edward’s lessons. In fact, we first taught Edward how to ride.” He smiled briefly. “Old King Henry would laugh out loud whenever Edward’s tutors went running to him, squawking that we must be punished for putting His Highness at risk.”

He shifted his dark blue stare to me. His smile became a taut grimace. “She knows I would never leave Edward’s side unless I was forced to. And she knows that even in exile, I’d find a way to watch over him. She’ll heed me, especially once I tell her about the duke.”

We reached the gardens. I’d never been more grateful for fresh air in my life. Above the palace, fiery jettisons and wheels careened and exploded, showering multicolored glitter over rapt figures crammed together on balconies lining the hall windows.

I started to attention. “The fireworks! Quick, which way to the pavilion?”

Peregrine sprinted to the left. Crossing an overgrown thicket of hedges and topiaries, I saw the pavilion ahead. The lake’s still waters reflected the artificial spectacle, so it seemed bathed in glittery fire. As we approached, I spied a silhouette in black standing at the balustrade. Another figure stood paces away, looking into the gardens.

“Give me a moment with her,” I said to Barnaby. “I don’t want to overwhelm her at first.” He nodded, and he and Peregrine crouched down as I walked forth into the splashes of moonlight and counterfeit fire.

The figure in black turned to me. I came before her, bowing. At her side, Kate gave a startled gasp. I hadn’t stopped to consider that besides my considerably soiled clothing, I must look a mess of bruises and cuts, blood caked on my face.

To her credit, Elizabeth did not comment, though her concern was plain. “Squire Prescott, please rise.” She paused. “Isn’t it rather late in the day for swimming?”

I smiled. “An accident, Your Grace. It looks worse than it is.”

“Thank God for that.” Her eyes gleamed. Her hair was seeded with pearls, coiled at her nape. She looked disarmingly young, the severity of her black gown with its banded ruff and lace cuffs emphasizing her willowy figure. Only her hands gave her away, those exquisite ringed fingers twisting and untwisting a handkerchief.

“Well?” she said. “Will you speak? Has an accident also detained your master?”

“Your Grace, I’m afraid I bring news of His Majesty your brother. And of your cousin, Lady Jane.” I paused, wet my parched lips. In that moment, I realized how fantastic, even ludicrous, my tale would sound, let alone lacking in any proof. I also had the disquieting sensation she knew exactly what I was about to say.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“His Majesty your brother is dying,” I said quietly. “The duke keeps his illness a secret so that he can set Lady Jane and his son Guilford on the throne. He plans to capture you and your sister the Lady Mary, put you both in the Tower. If you stay in Greenwich, no one will be able to vouch for your safety.”

I went silent. Without taking her eyes from me, Elizabeth said, “Kate, is this true?”

Kate Stafford stepped to us. “I fear so.”

“And you knew about it? Cecil … knew?”

“Not everything.” Kate didn’t avoid my stare, though she had just confirmed she did report to Cecil. “But I do not doubt Squire Prescott’s word. It would appear he has good reason for saying this.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I don’t doubt it, not for a second. I’ve suspected something of this nature was afoot from the moment Northumberland refused my request to visit Edward. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate I haven’t been arrested yet.” She paused, her gaze still on me. “Do you know why I haven’t been arrested?”

“I believe his lordship does not dare risk it,” I replied, “lest word of it gets to your sister and prompts her to flee the country. It would explain why he ordered my master Lord Robert to capture her first. Someone at court, they say, is feeding her information.”

“I’m sure someone is,” said Elizabeth. “We’re talking about John Dudley, after all. By now he’s made more enemies than Mary ever could.”

“Then we mustn’t press your luck further. I’ve friends nearby who can help us get you away. Even His Majesty’s close companion Master Fitzpatrick is—”

“No.”

For a moment, the last of the fireworks popping in the distance seemed to pause.

“No?” I echoed, thinking I must have heard wrong.

“No.” Her face set. “I’m not leaving Greenwich. Not yet.”

Kate said quickly, “Your Grace cannot mean to stay after what we’ve just heard. It would be madness. We promised Master Cecil you would—”

“I know what we promised. I said I would consider his advice. Consider, Kate, not comply. Now, I must see this through. I couldn’t live with myself if I did not.”

“My lady,” I ventured and I received the full force of her stare. “I beg you to reconsider. You cannot change the duke’s course, no matter what you do, nor can you hope to save His Majesty. Under the circumstances, you must now save yourself, for England.”

Her mouth pursed. “That’s Cecil speaking and I like it not. Be yourself, Prescott. I prefer you that way—impudent, rash, and determined to do whatever it takes.”

I might have smiled, had the matter not been so serious. “Then, impudent as I am, I must emphasize how dangerous it would be to keep your appointment with my master. Lord Robert aims higher than Your Grace knows. He will deceive you in any way he can. He has refused to go after your sister because he believes you will accept his proposal of marriage.”

Her expression underwent a change. It was almost imperceptible, but I saw it, the tightening of the sensitive skin about her mouth, a flash of something livid in her eyes.

“And I,” she said softly, “know best how to deal with him.” She raised her chin. “Besides, it’s too late. Here he comes now.”

I spun about. Kate grabbed me, pulled me back. “Go,” she hissed. “Hide!”

I scrambled over the balustrade, dropping with what sounded like a deafening crash into the hawthorn bushes. “Graceful,” muttered Peregrine. He and Barnaby had crept up unheard, each armed with daggers. Peregrine handed me one. I remembered my old dagger, which Master Shelton had given me. Stokes owed me, if only for stealing my knife. As for my cap, it seemed I had finally lost it for good.

Through the leaves, I watched Robert swagger down the pathway. He had asked me to make sure to return to help him dress tonight. Despite my absence, he’d done well enough, resplendent in a doublet of gold brocade studded with opals that must have cost an estate. He paused, removing his jeweled and feathered cap as he stepped up the stairs into the pavilion, his legs sheathed to his thighs in cordovan boots with gold spurs.