The Tudor Secret

Chapter Twenty-three





“When did you say she’d arrive?” said Peregrine for what had to be the hundredth time.

“I didn’t.” I suppressed my own impatience as I peered through the ragged opening in the bushes, where I crouched with a crick in my back and my legs numb below the knee. The star-spattered sky displayed a sickle moon. A breeze rustled the woods behind us, where we’d tethered and muzzled the horses.

“She left her manor sometime yesterday. Seeing as she didn’t head to London, as she’d have been arrested by now, we can only hope she took this road. But she could be anywhere.”

At my side, smothered in a heavy blue wool cloak that matched the one he’d brought me, Peregrine scowled. “Bite off my head. I was only asking. If I’d known you’d be such a grouse, I’d have gone to Hatfield with Mistress Stafford and Urian.”

I forced out a chuckle. “Sorry. Camping in a trench at the side of a road isn’t my idea of fun, either. I’d rather be with Kate and Urian, as well.”

“I should think so. I saw how you looked at her. You love her, don’t you?”

The discordant blend of envy and longing in his voice gave me pause. He had been nothing if not resourceful, not to mention tenacious.

I now knew that while we’d crept into Edward’s chamber, Peregrine had slunk past several manned guards in order to reach the stables, where he then avoided the night watch to saddle, bridle, and lead three somnambulant horses, and a dog, out to the gate. There he had waited, feeding the beasts tidbits of those crabapples he seemed to grow in his pockets, keeping them quiet until Elizabeth, Kate, and Barnaby arrived. According to Kate, when they heard the pistol and saw the duke’s retainers racing out, Barnaby had to haul Peregrine onto Cinnabar. As soon as they reached the house, the boy demanded they turn back to search for me. He would have gone then and there, were it not for fear the duke had sent troops after them. As it was, Peregrine did not stop pacing the room where they hid. When Mistress Ashley and the men sent by Cecil arrived to spirit the princess away, he had exclaimed with relief that now he could go find me.

This same unwavering devotion had prompted his refusal to let me undertake my latest mission without him. He’d cited, not unreasonably, that as I had a penchant for tripping into disaster, it would be best if I had a friend. I had made the mistake, however, of treating him as he wanted me to, forgetting he was still a lad. Now, as I saw the trepidation in his eyes, I said, “Yes, I love her. But you will always have a place with us. I promise you.”

Peregrine kneaded his cloak. “You do?”

“I do.” I reached over to rustle his hair when I heard the rumble coming toward us.

We froze. I unsheathed my new dagger, having entrusted the sword to Kate rather than risk losing it again. Peregrine pulled out his knife.

The clangor of iron-shod hooves striking the road turned to muted thunder. I whispered, “Remember, we don’t show ourselves until we know for certain it’s her. The duke could have sent out a hundred decoys to flush out her supporters.”

His eyes were wide. It sounded as if an infantry were upon us, yet when I looked out, I saw only a small company of horsemen, their lathered mounts flinging up clumps of dirt. Dark cloaks billowed about the riders. They had no torches, but as they galloped past, the leader glanced at the bushes where we lurked. Under his unadorned black cap, I recognized him.

My heart leapt into my throat. I half expected him to yell a halt and turn on us. When the contingent continued down the road, I sagged onto my haunches. “That was Lord Robert.”

Peregrine stared. “The Lord Robert?”

“The same.” I sprang to my feet. “Come!”

We raced to the woods. Cinnabar and Peregrine’s mount (which had the odd name of Deacon) snorted as we leapt onto the saddles and yanked them about. “We’ll ride parallel with the road,” I said. “Hopefully we can find a quicker route.”

The night was lifting. Though still a few hours away, dawn approached. Cantering at the forest edge, using the trees as camouflage, evading or jumping fallen trunks that could snap a horse’s leg, I was grateful for the scarce moon. I couldn’t see very far ahead, which was unfortunate, but it also meant Lord Robert and his men might not see us. I knew that if we were spotted we’d be hard pressed to make an escape.

How had Robert caught the scent so fast? We had expected the duke to send him after Mary, but her manor was miles from here. Somehow Robert had discovered she was on her way north and had determined to run her to ground, employing the same ruthless purpose he’d shown in pursuit of Elizabeth. Only this time he carried a warrant, not a ring.

Peregrine broke into my thoughts. “They’re stopping.”

I slowed Cinnabar, straining my eyes to a fork in the road. “Go farther,” I said, “and wait there. If something should happen, don’t be a hero. Ride back to Hatfield. I mean it.”

I picked my way toward the group. Cinnabar had a light step, but even that couldn’t stop the occasional crack of twigs underfoot or jiggle of harness. At every sound, no matter how subtle, I cringed. I’d hunted with the Dudleys in our youth, before the cruelty of the sport turned my stomach. I had seen the delight Robert took in tracking prey. How much more would he enjoy hunting the squire who had betrayed his trust?

But no one heard me, probably because they were too engrossed in their own vociferous debate. Sliding from my saddle, I continued on foot, drawing close enough to overhear but not so close that I wouldn’t have a fighting chance if I were seen.

I counted nine; among the clash of voices Robert’s was the loudest.

“Because I say so! God’s teeth, am I not the leader here? Is it not my head that stands to roll if we fail to capture that papist witch?”

“Begging your pardon,” retorted a gruff voice, “but we all stand to lose here, my lord. None of us wants to see a Catholic queen set the Inquisition over us, which is why we shouldn’t have left our soldiers behind to wait for us. What if she has more retainers than we think?”

Robert scoffed. “You heard her steward at Hoddesdon. At the most, she travels with six: her treasurer, secretary, chamberlain, and three matrons. We don’t need a host of soldiers to catch her. They’ll only slow us down.”

I had to smile. Out in the middle of a road, in the middle of nowhere, and still they trembled in their boots over what one embattled spinster might achieve. It was good to hear that, like her younger sister, Mary Tudor had a reputation.

Then my entire being went cold as I heard a voice drawl, “Perhaps we should come to an agreement, gentlemen, before she sets sail for Flanders and returns with an imperial army at her back. We’ll need more than soldiers then, I can assure you.”

Stokes. He was here, among Robert’s men.

Robert conceded. “Yes, we can’t afford to waste more time. She fled Hoddesdon and has been riding nonstop. All the signs indicate she’s on her way to Yarmouth. She has to take refuge somewhere, if only to rest her horses. Most likely she’ll seek out a sympathizer. I ask you, how hard can it be to track down one old woman and her servants on their way to Norfolk?”

“Hard enough,” said the gruff voice. “Considering we’ve not seen hide nor hair of them. I still say we should head east. There are plenty of papists sympathizers there, too.”

“And I say I’ve had enough of your bloody dissension!” Robert slammed his fist on his thigh, but I knew him well; I detected an unwitting fear in his voice. My former master was scared, and that gave me hope. “You’ve set us by our ears since we started out,” he snarled, “and I for one am starting to wonder at your purpose. Are you with or against us, Master Durot?”

I watched this Durot swing about on his horse, a large muscular figure clad in a quilted doublet and oversized cap, equipped with sword, short bow, and quiver of arrows. “If you’re questioning my loyalty,” he said “and by implication that of my master Lord Arundel, I can always head back to London to report on your progress. I feel no pressing need to continue on this particular goose chase.”

Robert glared. “You might not, but your master the earl has every need. He’s made a fortune off pillaging the abbeys. I don’t think he’ll appreciate having to explain himself to Queen Mary and her friars,” he added sarcastically. “So I suggest you follow my orders, lest you’d rather see your master hang from a gibbet.”

Durot didn’t respond. Robert swerved to the others. “Anyone else have cause for complaint? Best speak now. I’ll not tolerate it later.” When none spoke, he said, “We’ll head east. This area is infested with Catholic landowners. She could be hiding with any one of them. If we have to search house by house, we will.” He flung his next words at Durot. “Lest we forget, she doesn’t have the brains to fool us, even if she tried.”

No one argued the point. Digging spurs into horse flanks, they charged off.

I slipped back to Cinnabar. Peregrine waited at the crest. “To Suffolk,” I told him.

* * *

We rode at an unflagging pace, hours slipping past as dawn drenched the sky in mauve. Though I had trusted my gut, as the countryside emerged from night into a placid vista of rolling vales and hills, I began to wonder if I had relied too much on it and not enough on harsh reality.

Could Mary have gotten this far? Or was she at this very moment being marched out of her hiding place at the tip of a Dudley sword, bound for the Tower? Rather than chasing her, shouldn’t I be rushing to Hatfield to warn Elizabeth and beloved Kate, and making for the nearest port before the duke arrested us all?

I wiped a hand across my chin. My beard itched. Tugging off my cap, I let my matted hair tumble to my shoulders, glancing over at Peregrine. The boy drowsed on his saddle. We had to stop soon. Even if the horses held out, we couldn’t.

A half hour later I spied a manor ahead, nestled among orchards, a veil of bluish smoke hovering over chimney and courtyard. From this distance, it almost looked deserted.

“Peregrine, wake up. I think we’ve found her.”

The boy started, raised bewildered eyes. “How do you know?”

“Look at the courtyard. There are horses tethered there—seven, to be exact.”

* * *

We rode into the courtyard with our cloaks thrown over our shoulders to expose the sheathed blades at our belts, our hands free and heads uncovered. I instructed Peregrine to remember my new name and refrain from appearing perturbed, while I in turn feigned a calm I did not feel, as servants preparing the mounts froze in midbuckle of stirrups. One of three men overseeing the operation lifted a firearm. The other two advanced. Both were in their middle years, dressed in yeomen garb, their bearded faces haggard.

The elder of the two—who held himself with the dignity of a steward despite his attempt to appear common—barked, “Who are you? What is your business here?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” I said. “My business is a missive for the queen.”

“Queen? What queen?” The man guffawed. “I see no queen here.”

“Her Majesty Queen Mary. The missive is from the council.”

The men exchanged terse looks. “Find Lord Huddleston,” the older one directed, and the other ran off. “Jerningham, keep that musket aimed,” he ordered the man with the firearm. The servants didn’t shift an inch. “Dismount,” ordered the man. Peregrine and I obeyed.

A moment later, a harried portly gentleman I assumed was the aforementioned Huddleston bustled out. “I advised her not to, Master Rochester,” he said in a worried tone, “but she says she’ll see them in the hall, providing they are unarmed.”

The man Rochester turned a stern eye on me. “Your lad stays here.”

* * *

Detecting the lingering scent of roast as I was escorted into the manor, my stomach rumbled. Rochester was at my side, the armed Jerningham at my back, and Huddleston ahead. At the entrance, Jerningham backed into the shadows, from where I had no doubt he would continue to aim his weapon at me. Rochester and Huddleston led me forth.

A slim figure clad in bucolic dress stood before a table. The men bowed. Dropping to one knee, I glimpsed a map on the table, alongside quill and paper, flagon and goblet.

A surprisingly brusque voice said, “Rise.”

I came to my feet before Mary Tudor.

She did not look anything like Elizabeth. She more closely resembled their cousin, Jane Grey—short and too thin, with a hint of red-gold in the graying hair parted under her coif. Unlike Jane, Mary’s age and her sufferings were written on her face, etched in the crevices of her brow, the webs cradling her lips, and the slackness at her chin. Her thickened hands were clenched at her girdle, each of her long fingers ringed. Only in her eyes could be discerned that indomitable Tudor strength—forceful gray-blue eyes rimmed in shadow, meeting mine with a directness that imparted she was a superior being.

I recalled Elizabeth’s words: She has always believed the worst of people, never the best. Some say it is the Spaniard in her. But I say it is our father.

Her voice came at me with strident force. “I’m told you bring a missive.” She thrust out her hand. “I would see it.”

I removed the envelope from my interior pocket. Turning to the light, she tore it open and peered. Her frown deepened. She looked back at me. “Is this true?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty.”

“You believe? Have you read it, then?”

“I would not be much of a messenger if I failed to memorize so important a missive. Such letters, if fallen into the wrong hands, can prove dangerous.”

She gave me an appraising stare. Then she paced to the table with brisk steps. “This dangerous letter,” she declared, with a hint of asperity, “is from none other than my lords Arundel, Paget, Sussex, and Pembroke, all of whom served my brother and who now inform me that while they’ve no desire to see me deprived of my throne, their hands are tied. The duke’s hold, it seems, is too powerful to resist. They fear they must uphold my cousin’s claim, though Jane has expressed no desire to rule.” She paused. “What say you?”

Her request took me aback. Though she hid it well, I sensed her trepidation. Thrust into notice after years of obscurity, forced to flee within her own realm, Lady Mary had been hunted before, too many times, in fact, for her to trust anyone’s promises, written or otherwise.

I’d not heard anything positive about her, from anyone; indeed, the very possibility of her accession was rife with tumult. Yet in that moment I felt only empathy for her. She was at an age when most women had wed, borne children, settled for better or worse into the rest of their lives. Instead she stood in someone else’s manor, a fugitive marked for death.

“Well?” she said. “Will you not answer? You were hired by them, were you not?”

“Your Majesty, if you’ll pardon my insolence, I would prefer to answer in private.”

“Absolutely not,” said Rochester. “The queen does not entertain strangers. You’re lucky we haven’t thrown you into a dungeon for conspiring with her enemies.”

“Dungeon?” I repeated, before I could stop myself. “Here?”

There was stunned silence before Mary’s gravelly laughter rang out. “At least he doesn’t mince his words!” She clapped her hands. “Leave us.”

Rochester marched to where the shadowy man with the firearm lurked; Huddleston followed behind. Mary motioned to her flagon. “You must be thirsty. It’s a long ride from London.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said. Her terse smile revealed bad teeth. She’s not had much occasion to smile in her life, I thought, as I drank deeply of the warm ale.

She waited.

I said, “Your Majesty, my companion … he is just a boy. I trust he’ll not be harmed?”

“Of course not.” She faced me now without trepidation. “Tell me honestly: Is my brother King Edward dead?”

I met her stalwart gaze. “Yes.”

She was quiet, as if she contemplated something she had already accepted. Then she said, “And this letter from the council: Is it a ruse, or can I trust what these lords say?”

I measured my response. “I haven’t been at court long, but I would say, no, you should not trust them.” As her face tightened, I added, “However, you can trust their letter. Lady Jane Grey is indeed the duke’s pawn. She’d not have assumed your throne given the choice.”

She snorted. “I find that hard to believe. She did marry Northumberland’s brat.”

“Your Majesty can believe in her innocence, if you believe nothing else. The duke has devised this situation to secure his own power. He is the perpetrator. He—”

“He should be drawn and quartered, his head stuck on a pike,” she blared. “How dare he contrive to steal my realm, which is mine by divine right! He’ll soon learn that I am not a queen to be trifled with—he and every other lord who dares to exalt my cousin over me.”

The fervor of her declaration animated her person. She might not possess her sister’s charismatic appeal, but she was still Henry VIII’s daughter.

“I gather Your Majesty intends to fight for your crown,” I said.

“To the death, if need be. My grandmother Isabella of Castile led armies against the infidel to unite her kingdom. Nothing less can be expected of me.”

“Then Your Majesty has answered your own question. The council’s offer to support you is trustworthy only as much as you make it so. If you forgive their past transgressions, then you will have their loyalty.”

Her eyes turned cold. “I see you’ve mastered their art of double-talk.”

I felt a prickle of fear in my belly. Her face was drawn, closed. Elizabeth had warned me to be careful. I was struggling to find the right response, when Rochester strode in. “Your Majesty, we found this cur lurking outside!” He stepped aside, revealing three others dragging another man between them. As they threw him facedown on the floor, his cap slipped off his head. Mary prodded him with her foot. “Your name.”

I could not contain my relief when the man lifted his face.

“Some call me Durot, Your Majesty, but you would know me as Fitzpatrick.”