The Tudor Secret

Chapter Nineteen





She wore a gown the color of armor. Of all those who might have entered through that door, she was the last person I expected to see—though it made perfect sense it should be her. Behind her was Archie Shelton, his scarred face impassive. At the sight of him, I had to stop myself from vaulting forward in fury.

I heard voices in the antechamber. “Wait until I call for you,” she said over her shoulder, and Master Shelton came in and closed the door. I registered Sidney’s retreat out of the corner of my eye. At my back I felt Mistress Alice go still. I outstretched an arm to shield her, even as I recognized the futility of it. Though she must have been surprised to see me, Lady Dudley’s expression was imperturbable.

“I see you’ve failed to heed the one unbreakable rule of every loyal servant,” she said. “You failed to recognize your proper place.” She glanced at the panel in the wainscoting concealing the secret door. “But, I do give you credit for finding that entrance.” Her voice hardened. “Where is she?”

Knowing Barnaby and Kate must be rushing Elizabeth to the gate where Peregrine waited with the horses at that very moment, I said, “I am alone. I wanted to find out for myself.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” she replied. “She’ll never get away, no matter what you think you can do. She’s going to lose that feckless head of hers, just like her whore of a mother.”

I ignored her threat. “Why have you done this?”

She arched one thin eyebrow. “I’m surprised you have to ask.” She motioned. “Move away from the bed. Oh, and drop that … sword, is it?” She smiled. “My son Henry and our retainers are outside, eager for better sport than toasting Guilford’s fortune between Jane Grey’s thighs. One word from me and they’ll flay you alive.”

I threw the sword onto the rug between us. I didn’t deign Master Shelton a glance. The steward stood in front of the door, in the same stance Barnaby had affected, powerful arms folded across his barrel chest.

Bastard. I hated him as I’d never hated anyone in my life, as if it were venom in my blood. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.

Lady Dudley said, “Mistress Alice, please mix His Majesty’s draught now.”

From the chest, Mistress Alice removed a pouch and sprinkled white powder into a goblet.

I found it almost impossible to maintain my stance. She had done this, all of it. She had mutilated Mistress Alice, set her to poison the king. She’d always been efficient, whether she was organizing her household or ordering the autumn slaughter of the pigs. Why should this have been any different? Understanding now what had been hidden from me all these years, I marveled at how I’d missed it, how I had failed to sense the deception.

It had been Lady Dudley who had plotted to provide an alternative heir to the two princesses. Implacable, she had aimed at exalting her favorite son, used everything she had at her disposal. She’d even divined a weakness in the duchess of Suffolk’s past and made a devil’s pact to one end and one end only—preserving the family power.

But her husband the duke had repaid her in false coin. He’d gone along with her plans, even as he contrived to take Elizabeth for himself. Somehow, Lady Dudley had found out. She had discovered the truth.

What else did she know? What else had she kept secret?

As if she could read my thoughts, her bloodless lips curved. “Twenty years. That’s how long it’s been since you came into our lives. You were always clever, too clever by far. Alice used to say she’d never seen a child so eager to grasp the world. Perhaps I should keep you alive a bit longer, in case our angry duchess reneges on her promise. She thinks you’re dead, but I still need her compliance until we have Jane declared queen. I could use you again.”

I felt sweat on my brow and in my fist clutching the cloth. Without betraying my spiraling fear, I replied, “I might prove more useful if your ladyship told me everything.”

“Everything?” She regarded me with a hint of mirth in her cold gray eyes.

“Yes.” My chest tightened, as if I were short of breath. “I was brought here for a purpose, wasn’t I? At Whitehall, your ladyship told the duchess about my … my birthmark.”

“So, you understood that. I wondered if you counted a fluency in French among your many hidden talents. How fascinating; you certainly have been busy.”

The sweat trickled down my face, pooled in the hollow of my throat. The salt stung the bruises on my cheeks. “I taught myself,” I said. “I am clever, yes. And if I knew who it is the duchess thinks I am, I could help you. I’m amenable to an arrangement that will serve us both.”

It was a pathetic deceit, born of desperation, and she responded with startling laughter.

“Would you, indeed? Then you’re not as clever as I’d supposed. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to trust you, now that I know you protect that Boleyn whore? However, you have solved my dilemma. Shelton, watch him while I see to His Majesty.”

She glided to the bed. I stealthily tucked the cloth into my jerkin pocket, pushing it down against the inside seam as I braved a glance at Master Shelton. He avoided all eye contact, his gaze fixed ahead, but I knew that if I made any move to escape he would leap into action. He had the reflexes of a soldier—which is why I found it disconcerting that he didn’t seem to notice Sidney shifting away from the alcove where he’d retreated.

In Sidney’s wake, the curtains stirred.

I turned my attention to the bed. Mistress Alice had finished mixing the powder in the goblet. Edward didn’t stir or protest as Lady Dudley reached down to smooth his coverlets and rearrange his pillows. He stared fixedly at her through his pain-laced eyes when she took the goblet from Mistress Alice and, placing one hand under his head, propped him up.

“Drink,” she said, and Edward did. She smiled. “Now rest. Rest and dream of angels.”

His eyes closed. He seemed to melt into his pillows. Turning away, Lady Dudley set the goblet on the table and reached into the medicine chest. She brought up something, made a sudden movement. Steel slashed. There was no sound. A gush of scarlet sprayed from Mistress Alice’s throat, splattering the carpet and the bed. Before my horrified eyes, she fell to her knees, looking straight at me, then crumpled onto the floor.

“NOOO!” My wail erupted from me like a wounded howl. I sprang forth. Master Shelton rushed at me, seizing my left arm to yank it behind my back. My cry was cut short, the pain searing through my torn shoulder muscles.

“I told you not to meddle,” he hissed in my ear. “Be still. You cannot stop this.”

I panted with helpless rage, watching Lady Dudley drop the bloodied knife and step over Mistress Alice’s convulsing body. Blood pumped out from under her, darkening the carpet.

“Kill him,” she told Master Shelton.

I kicked back with all my strength. I felt my heel slam into the steward’s shin, rammed my elbow simultaneously into his chest. It was like hitting granite; yet with a surprised grunt, Master Shelton released me.

Sidney scooped up the sword and thrust it at me as I dove for the alcove, where a draft now blew through the curtains. I heard Lady Dudley cry out, heard the door open, heard furious shouting; but I didn’t pause to see how many were entering the room to come after me.

Something whined and popped. I ducked as the ball flew past and embedded itself in the wall. Someone, perhaps one of the Dudley retainers with Henry, had a firearm. Such weapons were lethal but difficult to manage at close range. I knew it would take a good minute to reload and ignite the matchlock. It was all the time I had.

I leapt onto the windowsill, squeezing through the open window. With sword in hand, and my heart in my throat, I dropped into the night.

I hit the stone leads of the story below with teeth-rattling impact. The sword flew from my hand, clattering off the edge into the courtyard below. Sprawled, my head reeling, the agony was so intense I thought I had shattered both my legs. Then I realized I could move, despite the pain, and glanced up to the window through which I’d just leapt in time to see a long-nosed hand-pistol belch smoke.

I rolled. A ball struck the spot where I’d lain and ricocheted against the palace wall.

“A pox on it,” I heard Henry Dudley curse. “I missed him. Don’t worry. I’ll get him.”

The pistol disappeared for reloading. I forced myself upright. Standing as flat against the wall as I could, I looked to either side with a sickening drop in my bowels. The leads weren’t leads at all. Instead of a walkway there was an extended parapet with a decorative balustrade, punctuated by stucco nymphs and running parallel with an indoor gallery. At the far end I could see a mullioned casement and the turrets of a water gate. At any moment someone above me would realize the same and race downstairs to finish me off.

I had no escape.

Think. Don’t panic. Breathe. Forget everything else. Forget Mistress Alice. Forget her blood seeping into the floor.…

To the left rose the moldering roof of the tower housing the secret staircase. To the right stood the gate. I began edging in that direction, away from the light spilling from the window above. I didn’t know that much about firearms but Master Shelton did, for he had served in the Scottish wars. He once remarked to me that guns were a primitive weapon, infamous for not igniting when lit, missing targets despite perfect aim, or backfiring due to poorly packed powder. It was too much to hope that Henry might blow his own face off, and instinct urged me to put as much distance between me and that window as I could.

Instinct proved correct. I froze as the pistol fired again. This time Henry displayed remarkably improved marksmanship, the ball spraying grotesquerie right above my shoulder. Tiny shards of plaster flew into my face. It wasn’t until I felt the warm trickle of blood that I realized the ball had grazed me, as well.

“You got him!” Henry guffawed. Someone else had fired the shot. I continued my precarious advance. My escape must have addled their wits. I was surprised that whoever had the gun hadn’t realized they could far more effectively shoot at me from the gallery.

The pistol pulled back. I quickened my step, nearing a casement. I hoped there wouldn’t be shutters, locks, small leaded panes I couldn’t smash. Between the pain in my legs and the throbbing in my shoulder, I was feeling faint. Another pop came, the ball razing the air above my head.

I struggled forward, flat with the wall.

The casement swung open. I halted when I saw a figure step onto the parapet with feline stealth. It paused. Another shot rang out, sending plaster flying. It turned. In the moonlight, I caught the gleam of dark eyes.

Then the figure started moving. Toward me.

My entire being clamored an urgent warning, even as I stood transfixed by the sight of the man approaching me in complete disregard for his own safety.

Two distinct impressions went through me in those crucial seconds. The first was that he moved as if he’d been tripping over rooftops all his life. The second was that either he’d come to finish the job for the Dudleys or he sought to rescue me.

When I spied the curved blade in his gloved hand, I realized I shouldn’t wait to find out. Hopefully I had come close enough to the water gate. If not, I wasn’t likely to regret my error.

I sprang forth with all the strength I had left.

And leapt out into nothingness.