The Tudor Secret

Chapter Twenty-five





Every man, no matter how humble, should know from whence he came.

Cecil’s words echoed in my head as I rode in silence. By nightfall I had to pause to give Cinnabar time to rest. I chose a clearing in a forest, beside a shallow stream. Removing the saddle and bridle, I rubbed him down with a cloth from my saddlebag and set him loose to graze. “At ease, my friend. You’ve earned it.”

I crouched in the bracken, opened my saddlebag, and brought out the ruby-tipped jewel Mistress Alice had given me. I almost couldn’t look at it, knowing now its significance, the reason she’d hidden it all these years. I wanted to throw it away, forget it existed, though in my soul I knew I could not afford to delude myself anymore.

For if what Stokes had told me was true, there was no forgetting, no turning away. I had to uncover the truth, come to terms with something that was so vast, so far-reaching, it defied acceptance. I owed it to myself, to the many times I’d wondered as a child; more importantly, I owed it to the woman who had saved me—to Mistress Alice, who had somehow known who I was and preserved my life from my own murderous sister.

In the palm of my hand, the gold shimmered.

A Tudor.

I was one of them, born of the younger sister of Henry VIII; brother to the bestial Duchess of Suffolk, uncle to Jane Grey, and cousin to Queen Mary.

And Elizabeth. She and I: We shared the same blood.…

Tears burned in my eyes. What had she looked like, this mother I had never known? Had she been beautiful? Did I have her eyes, her nose, her mouth? Why had she borne me in secrecy? What had she feared, that she’d never let her pregnancy be known?

And what would my life have been like had she lived?

The Tudor Rose … the mark of the rose.

I arched my arm over my head. I should fling the petal away, never speak of this to another living person. Better to be a common stable hand, a bastard and foundling, rather than some being borne in secrecy and consigned to oblivion—condemned always to shadows and the fear of discovery, to a lifetime of hiding and of keeping others always from the truth.

My fingers would not release it, though. The petal had a truth of its own now, inextricably entwined with my own. God help me, it was a part of me I could not surrender, not until I had discovered everything there was to know.

I returned it to Kate’s scented handkerchief and put it back in my bag. As I did, my fingers brushed the thin volume of psalms I had taken from the Dudley library, bringing a momentary smile to my lips. I carried another memory of Mistress Alice with me, as well, one that made me think of her as she had been.

After I finished the last of the stale bread and cheese I’d packed, I lay down on the forest floor and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing a shriveled hand on mine, setting in my palm a gift of unimaginable import.

When dawn finally broke over the horizon, I mounted once more to ride through fields dotted with faded golden irises. I tried not to think of anything until I reached the River Orr.

There, rearing on the other side of the banks atop its mound, was Framlingham Castle.

Its thirteen towers and immense ramparts overshadowed three moats. In the hunting park glittered an ocean of steel. As I forded the river and approached, I gleaned hundreds of men hauling cannon and firearms, stockpiling boulders, felling and stripping trees. I gave rein to Cinnabar’s eager canter, for he sensed stables, oats, and a well-deserved respite.

Guards stopped me on the road. After a rough barrage of questions, I was obliged to dismount, give my name, and wait under their watch before word came that Rochester bid me to the castle. Shouldering my bag, I took Cinnabar by the reins and trudged to the looming edifice, which swallowed half the sky. Few men paused to mark my passage, the majority engrossed in labor, their ribaldry interspersed with barking dogs and the lowing of livestock, tended by urchins and women.

Despite everything, I felt my spirits lighten. A makeshift city had sprung up around Framlingham practically overnight, composed of ordinary people and retainers of local lords who had come to defend their rightful monarch. In less than seventy-two hours, Queen Mary had amassed her army. At least here, things were as they should be.

The main bailey was thronged with men and animals. Rochester strode to me, sweating profusely but otherwise looking like a completely changed man. He clamped my hand in his.

“Master Beecham! I failed to recognize the name. You’re fortunate your friends informed me of it. Leave your horse to the grooms and come. Her Majesty wishes to see you.”

Looking past Rochester, I had to laugh. Peregrine and Barnaby, both stripped to the waist and as filthy as they could be, waved at me before they returned to the arduous task of pushing a cannon into a forger’s shed for repairs. I returned my gaze to Rochester.

“I’m pleased to find you all safe,” I said with genuine relief.

“We might not be, had it not been for you. We owe you much. After we separated, Robert Dudley’s men chased the others for miles before he realized his error. He then turned and came after us. Praise God he’s since been apprehended.”

My smile slipped. “Apprehended?”

“Yes. But of course you wouldn’t know.” Rochester steered me toward an incongruous red brick manor flanked by timber lodgings, all situated inside the castle’s curtain wall. “It seems that when he discovered where we were headed, Lord Robert decided to seek reinforcements. He must have thought we’d have no means of defending the castle once he returned to set siege.”

Rochester chuckled. “To be honest, we never expected to find old Norfolk’s son waiting here with his retainers. But here he was, and by nightfall another five thousand had arrived. Word of Her Majesty’s plight has swept before her, a call to arms has gone out. Men are arriving from all over England. It’s as if God Himself watches over her.”

“Indeed,” I said quietly. “You were saying about Lord Robert?” As I spoke I thought of Elizabeth, standing in that anonymous room. I do not want him harmed, she had said. All of a sudden, to my disconcertment, I realized neither did I. Perhaps because he had been the closest thing I’d ever had to a sibling; or maybe because while a Dudley to his very marrow, she was right: In truth, Robert was a victim of his upbringing.

“He made it as far as King’s Lynn,” said Rochester. “By then, several of his men had deserted him. When he got there, his soldiers also deserted, and he was forced to flee. He sought refuge in Bury Saint Edmunds and sent urgent word to London. His messenger got away, but he didn’t. Baron Derby arrested him shortly after, in the queen’s name. Fitting justice, you might say. He’s being held in the ruins of the very abbey that his father helped destroy.”

“And … what will happen to him?”

Rochester sniffed. “Her Majesty will decide his fate once she takes her throne. It shan’t be enviable, I would think. At best, a cell in the Tower for the rest of his days; at worst, the ax, along with the rest of his traitorous kind. I vote for the ax, myself. Ah, but Her Majesty will be pleased to see you. She’s asked about you several times.”

The last of my brief exultation faded. Like Rochester, I should have been rejoicing in this blow to the Dudley cause. Without Robert, the task of apprehending Mary became all that more difficult. Yet all I felt was fatigue falling over me like a mantle. I wanted only a hot bath, solitude, a cot, and to shut out the world for a time.

I did not want to think of how I would tell Elizabeth.

We entered the manor, climbed a staircase to a rustic upper hall. Mary waited there, dressed in a plain black gown and gable headdress that looked too heavy for her thin shoulders. She paced back and forth as if its weight were of no account, dictating in a stern voice to a harried secretary whose quill couldn’t possibly scratch fast enough to record the torrent of words issuing from her lips.

“Wherefore, my lords, we require and charge you, as your rightful sovereign, that for your honor and the surety of your persons, you employ yourselves forthwith upon receipt of this letter to proclaim us queen in our capital city of London. For we have not fled our realm nor do we intend to do so, but will die fighting for that which God has called upon us to defend.”

Rochester cleared his throat. I bowed low. “Your Majesty.”

She swirled about in her abrupt manner, peering at me. She was, apparently, severely nearsighted, for she blinked several times, her brow furrowed in perplexity before she exclaimed, “Ah, it is my mysterious friend,” and motioned with her hands. “Rise, rise! You’re just in time. We’re about to declare war on Northumberland.”

“Your Majesty, that is indeed good news.” As I righted myself, I took note that despite her vigor, which must in no small measure be instilled by the spontaneous demonstration of loyalty she’d received, Mary looked strained about the eyes and mouth, and too gaunt. She had the look of someone who has not eaten well or rested in weeks.

“Good? It is more than good!” Her laughter was curt, derisive. “Our proud duke is not so proud now. Tell him, Waldegrave.”

She swerved to her secretary, her ringed hands clasped, beaming like a school teacher as the man recited: “Six cities garrisoned by the duke have vowed allegiance to Her Majesty, offering artillery, food, and men. Her Majesty has also sent a proclamation to the council, demanding—”

Mary couldn’t stop herself from interrupting. “… Demanding to know why they have yet to acknowledge me as their lawful sovereign in London. I also demanded an explanation as to why they dared to bestow my crown on my cousin. Do you know what they replied?” She grabbed a paper from the table. “They say my brother authorized a change to the succession before his death, denying my claim to the throne because of serious doubts concerning my legitimacy.”

She flung the paper aside. “Serious doubts!” This time, her laughter was tinged with a darkness that stirred the hair on my nape. “They’ll soon see how well I take to such. Heretics and traitors are what they are, to a man, and thus shall I deal with them when the time comes.”

Silence followed her outburst. Her eyes shifted from face to face before fixating on mine. “Well? You are the council’s courier, yes? Have you no opinion to impart?”

It was a similar inquiry to the one I’d faced in Huddleston’s manor, only this time I felt sure Barnaby would not be dragged in. As though in confirmation, Rochester took a prudent step back. A pit opened in my belly. It seemed impossible that after everything that had occurred, I might still have to prove my loyalty. But then, how could she know where my ultimate allegiance might lie? How could she begin to trust a stranger, after what she had been through?

“Your Majesty,” I said, “may I have your leave to examine this letter?”

At her gesture, I retrieved the paper, scanned down to the appended signatures and seals. I met her stare. “Those lords whose letter I first conveyed, are they represented here?”

“They are not, as you can see.” Though her voice remained terse, her rigid posture eased somewhat. She moved to me, saying over her shoulder to the others, “Leave us. I would speak alone with our friend.”

I had passed her test, though it did not ease my apprehension. The council had persecuted Mary without mercy because of her religious faith. My association with them, however tenuous, had put me at a perilous disadvantage.

She paused at the table. “I’m starting to wonder about you. You come out of nowhere and neglect to give us a name. Then you risk your life to help us escape. You’re considered reliable enough to carry confidential letters yet feign ignorance of matters you should, in fact, know a great deal about. I would know exactly whom it is I am dealing with.”

I swallowed against my dry throat, measuring my words: “Your Majesty, I assure you I am of no importance. I did what I was paid to do. As for my risking my life, you should know that Lord Robert’s men had already decided to abandon him. And you must know by now that my name is Daniel Beecham.”

“I do, though not by you.” She fingered a quill. “Why were you chosen to deliver the council’s missive? There are surely others they might have sent, men I would know personally.”

I heard Elizabeth in my head: I love my sister, but she is not a trusting woman. Life has made her that way.

I mustered a smile. “Your Majesty must know how such matters go. I’d done a few errands in the past and was offered a fee, the lords being disinclined to travel. In addition, should anything have befallen me on the road … well, I’m not easily linked to any one in particular.”

She snorted. “In other words, you are expendable—a man for hire?”

“Aren’t most men, Your Majesty?” I replied, and she stared straight into my eyes.

“I’ve little experience with men, Master Beecham. What little I do possess tells me there’s more to you than you care to let on. Life has taught me a thing or two about hidden motives.” She held up a hand. “But, there is no need to say anything else. I will not query further. Barnaby Fitzpatrick speaks highly of you, and you’ve proven your fealty. You will, of course, be welcome at my court once I’m proclaimed queen. For make no mistake, queen I shall be. Not even the duke can prevail against those whom God has ordained.”

“I pray it will be so,” I said. I believed her conviction. No matter what else she might be, Mary Tudor was no coward. Dudley had underestimated more than one princess, it seemed.

With a brittle smile, she retreated to a chair, putting more than mere distance between us. Her next words were spoken with the remoteness of a woman who has more important concerns to attend to. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, I’m not in the position to reward you at this time. However, you have my solemn word that you will be compensated as soon as I secure my throne. Until then, if you require anything, you must let Rochester know.”

I bowed, resisting the sudden urge to retreat. I might never have another chance.

“I expect no reward for having served my queen,” I heard myself say, and I marveled at the calm in my voice, for my heart had quickened. “But there is something I would ask of Your Majesty, if I might be so bold?”

“Oh?” She set her hands on her lap, her head tilted in curiosity.

“A few questions, is all; an indulgence.” I paused. Though I knew it wasn’t visible, I could feel myself start to tremble. “Your father King Henry the Eighth, he had two sisters. The Duchess Mary of Suffolk—was she the youngest?”

“She was. Margaret Douglas, dowager of Scotland, was the eldest.”

“I see. Your Majesty, I don’t mean to pry, but was your late aunt, Mary of Suffolk, also known as the Tudor Rose?”

She regarded me with that unwavering stare I now knew stemmed less from an innate perspicacity, such as Elizabeth commanded, and more from a basic goodness of nature tainted by years of corrosive betrayals. At length she nodded. “It’s not widely known, but yes, thus was she called within the family. How is it you came to know of this?”

My throat knotted. I wet my parched lips. “I heard it once, at court, in idle talk.”

“Talk, you say? Yes, well, my Aunt Mary always did lend herself to talk.” She went still, her eyes turning distant. “I was named after her. She was like an angel, both to look at and in her heart. I adored her. So did my father. It was he who called her the Rose.”

The sorrow flooded my chest. An angel, beautiful to look at, inside and out …

“This interest in our history,” she said. “I find it unusual for one of your class.”

Despite the chasm within me, the lie rolled off my lips as if I’d practiced it a thousand times. “An amateur enthusiasm, Your Majesty. Royal genealogy is an interest of mine.”

Her smile was infused with warmth. “I commend it. You may proceed.”

“I know of the late duchess’s surviving daughter, of course,” I heard myself say, and it was as though I stood apart, listening to someone else. “Did she ever have a son?”

“She did, indeed. She had two sons, both named Henry. One died in 1522, the other in 1534, a year after her. It was a tragedy for his father. Only a few years later, Suffolk lost both his sons of his subsequent marriage before his own death in 1545.”

“How did his other sons die?” I asked, and an icy shiver crept up my spine.

She paused, considering. “I believe it was the sweat, though children are apt to die of so many things.” She sighed. “I seem to recall my cousin Frances helped care for them during their illness. She’d had the sweat before; she was immune to contagion. Their deaths must have been hard on her. To lose one’s brothers is a terrible burden.”

I clamped down on my horrified burst of laughter. The Suffolk male heirs had all perished in childhood. This was how the duchess had inherited her estate! And somehow, everyone thought this was a coincidence?

“And Mary of Suffolk…?” I asked. For regardless of the answer, I had to know. I had to be sure, no matter how much pain it might cause. “How did she die?”

“Of a fever, I was told, though she’d been ill for some time. The swelling sickness, other ailments … She was not old, however, nearly the same age as I am. We hadn’t seen each other in so much time. She deplored the state in which my father had chosen to live and retired from court to her manor in East Anglia.” Her face tightened. “Few took the time to mourn her. It was June; everyone awaited the outcome of that woman Boleyn’s pregnancy.”

She went silent. Though she didn’t say it aloud, the struggle within her was apparent. Here then lay that seed of discord between her and her younger sister.

Then she added, “I remember the details because a few weeks after Charles of Suffolk’s funeral, his squire came to see me. A stalwart man—very proper. He had a terrible scar running from his temple to his cheek. I asked him about it. He said he had served in the Scottish wars. Poor man; he seemed most affected by his master’s death. But what I most recall is that he brought me a piece of a jewel that apparently Mary had left me in her will but was never sent to me. I still have it. One of the leaves from a golden artichoke given to her by that rogue King Francis the First, who conspired to wed her to Charles Brandon after her first husband Louis of France died.”

I felt my knees start to buckle under me, as if I were disintegrating from within.

Mary chuckled. “That jewel meant a lot to her; it was almost all she had when she was finally allowed to return to England. It turned out well enough in the end, but for a time my father threatened to throw both Mary and Brandon in the Tower for their presumption. He also exacted a stiff fine that they never succeeded in paying off entirely, even though she pawned her jewels. But not that one; she once told me that artichoke represented the best and the worst in her life, the sorrow and the joy. She would not part with it.” Mary leaned forward suddenly. “Master Beecham, are you not well? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“I’m tired, is all,” I managed to utter. “Thank you for indulging me. I cannot begin to tell Your Majesty how much it has meant.”

“Oh, I enjoyed it. It has been far too long since I thought of my late aunt. Perhaps one day you’ll consider penning a family history for me. I’d happily commission it.” She wagged her finger. “I daresay it would keep you from less-reputable sources of income.”

“I would be honored.” I forced out a smile, glad of the dimness in the room. “I should like to retire awhile, by your gracious leave.”

“Of course.” She held out her hand. As I bowed low she said, “I believe I owe your current employers an answer. Come back tomorrow, and let’s see if I can arrange one.”

“Your Majesty.” I kissed her dry, bejeweled fingers.

Rochester led me to a building off the bailey. There was a trough in the quadrangle where I could bathe and a room upstairs with the essentials. I stripped to my hose, careful to keep them above my hips as I washed in the mossy water, then went up and closed the door.

A cold meal waited on the table. I had no appetite, wondered if I ever would again. Still, I tied back my damp hair and ate my fill. The needs of the body rarely care about the desolation in the heart.

After eating, I sat on the edge of the straw-filled cot and removed the jewel from my bag again. It shone like a fragment of a star. I marveled that I could have mistaken it for anything else. I ran a fingertip along a sculpted vein, as if it were alive, knowing now how far it had traveled to reach me, across the Channel from France, through a cherished lifetime. I looked down to my concave groin, and to the left, to the hip which bore my own mother’s birthmark.

The only ones who would have known of it are those who were intimate with the late duchess’s person.…

Charles of Suffolk’s … squire came to see me. A stalwart man …

I closed my eyes. I had to rest. I slid the jewel into my cloak lining and pulled the coarse linen bedsheet over me.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought Kate would be as surprised as me when she learned the jewel was not a petal, but a leaf.