The Tudor Secret

HATFIELD





Chapter Thirty-one





I did not dream.

Awakening to the chamber where Kate had brought me in a state of mind-emptying exhaustion, I lay under rumpled linen, absorbing the scent of lavender coming from a wreath on the wall, which mingled with the linseed polish of the chair, the clothes press, and the table.

I stretched my aching bruised limbs and rose. Stepping past a pewter pitcher and basin, I looked out the mullioned window to the parkland surrounding the manor. I did not know how long I had slept, but I felt refreshed, almost whole. I turned back to the room and began searching for my clothes, which I seemed to recall Kate peeling off my inert body as I dropped into bed.

Without so much as a knock, the door banged open.

Mistress Ashley bustled in, carrying a tray. “Breakfast,” she announced, “though in truth it should be supper. You’ve slept away most of the day. So has your dirty friend. He’s in the kitchen devouring a lamb.”

I gasped, my hands shooting down to cover myself.

She chortled. “Oh, don’t mind me. I have seen a man in his skin. I may seem a bit long in the tooth to you, but I’ll have you know I’m a married woman.”

“My—my clothes?” I was stunned. The last time I’d seen Mistress Ashley, she’d scoured me with her eyes. I barely recognized this stout partridge with her cheery voice and convivial manner.

“Your clothes are being laundered.” She whipped the linen off the tray to reveal a platter of manchet bread, cheese, fruit, and salted meat. “There’s a fresh shirt, a jerkin, and breeches in the press. We tried to match your weight and height to one of the grooms. Nothing fancy, mind you, but they’ll do until we have you properly fitted.”

She eyed me matter-of-factly. “You needn’t fret. Mistress Stafford found your things in the lining and has them safe. She’s in the garden now, picking herbs. It’s down the stairs, through the hall, and out the doors to your left. You can meet her there once you’ve eaten and washed.” She paused. “You’re too slight for a beard. There’s water in the ewer and lye soap in the basin. We make the soap ourselves. It’s as good as any you’ll find, including that silly perfumed stuff from France they charge a king’s ransom for in London.”

She marched to the door. Then she stopped, as if she’d forgotten something. Turning back to me as I whipped the rumpled sheet from the bed and flung it around my waist, she said, “We owe you our thanks. Mistress Stafford told us how you helped Her Grace visit with His Majesty her brother, God rest his soul, and then escape the duke’s clutches. Were it not for you, who knows where she might have ended up? Northumberland never wished anything but harm on her. I warned her not to leave this house, but she didn’t listen to me. She never listens to me. She never listens to anyone. She thinks she’s invincible. It’ll be her undoing one day, mark my words.”

She babbled like a brook! Who would have guessed?

I lowered my head. “I was honored to be of service,” I mumbled.

“Yes, well.” She snorted. “Serving her is no charm, you’ll see. I should know; I’ve been with her since she was this high, and you never met a more contentious soul, even in her leading strings. Always did have to have her way. Still, all of us in this household couldn’t love her more. She has this way of stealing into your heart. You can’t help it. And before you know it, she has you wrapped about her pretty finger.” She wagged her finger. “That’s when you have to be careful. She can be canny as a cat when the mood takes her.”

She smiled. “Well, I’ll be off, then. You’ve the two of them waiting on you, and I’m hard-pressed to say which of the two is less demanding. Wash yourself well. Her Grace has a nose like a bloodhound. Nothing she hates more than sweat or too much perfume.”

The door closed. I descended on the fare with gusto. After I’d eaten my fill, I bathed and took out the clothes from the press. I was glad to find my saddlebag there. Gently, I removed the leather-bound volume, which was more battered for the wear. I opened it to that front page and the handwritten inscription in faded blue ink.

Votre amie, Marie.

I caressed the slanted writing, penned by a beloved hand I’d never felt. I set the book on the bedside table. Later, I would read Mistress Alice’s favorite psalm. And remember.

I was able to shave using lather from the soap, my knife, and a sliver of cracked mirror from my bag. Though I couldn’t see myself well in its fractured reflection, what I did glimpse as I washed away the hair-flecked spumes brought me to a halt.

The face looking back at me was bruised, pale, more angular than I recalled, its youth tempered by hard-earned and sudden maturity. It was a face not yet twenty-one years of age; a face I had lived with all my life, and it belonged to someone I did not know. But in time, I would come to know the stranger I had become. I would make myself his master. I would learn everything I needed to survive in this new world, and I would stake my place.

And I would not rest until I found Master Shelton.

For he knew far more about me than he had ever let on, of that I was sure. He had served the late Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, and mourned the duke’s wife, my mother. Had he also known that the golden leaf he’d conveyed to Mary Tudor was from the same jewel whose other leaf had ended up hidden among Dame Alice’s possessions? And if so, did he know Dame Alice had been entrusted with it, and why? I had so many questions that only he could answer.

I turned away to dress. The clothes were a remarkably close fit.

Passing through the great hall with its impressive hammer-beamed ceiling and Flemish tapestries, I proceeded to the open oak doors and into a lingering summer evening that drifted over eglantine and willow like a velvet rain.

Kate stood ankle-deep in an herb patch, a straw hat on her head as she bundled fresh-picked thyme into a basket. She glanced up at my approach, the hat slipping off to dangle on ribbons at her back. Gathering her in my arms, I indulged my starved senses.

“I assume you slept well,” she whispered at length, against my lips.

“I’d have slept better if you’d been with me,” I said, my hands running down her waist.

She laughed. “Any better and you’d have needed a shroud.” Her laughter turned husky. “Don’t you think to tempt me. I’ll not give in to any old tomcat that decides to wander home.”

“Yes, I like that about you,” I growled. We kissed, after which she drew me to a bench. We held hands, gazing at the diminishing sky.

Presently Kate said, “I have these.” From her skirt pocket, she brought out the leaf and, to my surprise, Robert Dudley’s silver-and-onyx ring.

“I’d forgotten about this,” I murmured as I slipped the ring on my finger. It was too big.

“Do you know what’s happened?” she asked.

“Last I had heard, the duke started to march on Framlingham when his army deserted.”

She nodded. “Word came today. He never reached it. The moment the council proclaimed Mary queen, Arundel and the others rushed to grovel at her feet. Arundel then went to arrest Northumberland, Lord Robert, and his other sons. They’re being taken to the Tower, where Guilford is already imprisoned.” She paused. “It’s said Mary will order them executed.”

My fingers closed over the ring. “Who can blame her?” I said softly, and as I spoke, my memory flew back to a time long past, when a bewildered boy crouched in an attic, fearing discovery and envying the tribe of sons who would never accept him.

I felt Kate’s hand on mine. “Do you want to talk about it? You still have the petal. Did you find out what it means?”

The memory faded.

“It’s a leaf.” I met her gaze. Opening her palm, I set the golden leaf in her hand. “I want to tell you everything. Only, I need some more time to sort it out. And she is expecting me. Mistress Ashley said she is waiting on me.”

I noticed the subtle stiffening of her posture. I knew she couldn’t help it, and it was something we’d have to learn to deal with if we were to build a life together. Elizabeth had become too much a part of both of us.

“She is,” said Kate. “She had another of her headaches this afternoon, which is why I came out to gather these herbs for her evening draft; but she did ask to see you as soon as you were ready. I can bring you to her, if you like. She’s taking her exercise in the gallery.”

She started to rise. I pressed her hand to my lips. “Sweet Kate, my heart is yours.”

She looked at our twined hands. “You say that now, but you do not know her as I do. A more loyal mistress cannot be found, but she requires undying devotion in return.”

“She has it already. But that is all.” I stood, cupped her chin, and kissed her lips. “Keep that leaf close. It’s yours now, a symbol of our troth. I’d match it with a ring, if you’ll have me.”

I was warmed by the luster in her eyes. I had time enough later to prove nothing would interfere with the love I wanted to share with her—a love far from the tumult of these days and the malice of court, a love in which the secret of my past could finally be put to rest.

I followed her back to the manor. At the entrance to the gallery, I paused. The slim figure with Urian at her side appeared taller, arresting in its solitude. I drew a quick breath to ease the sudden tightness in my chest, then stepped forth and bowed.

With an elated bark of recognition Urian bounded to me.

Elizabeth stood silhouetted in the diffused sun that slipped through the embrasure, her pale mauve gown catching the light like water. Her red-gold hair was unbound, loose about her shoulders. She looked like a startled fawn caught in a clearing, until she strode toward me with that determination that was more of the hunter than the prey. As she neared, I noted a parchment clutched in her hand.

I met her amber gaze. “I am overjoyed to see Your Grace safe.”

“And in good health, don’t forget that,” she teased. “And you, my friend?”

“I too am well,” I said softly.

She smiled, waved me to the window seat, the worn upholstery and stack of teetering books to one side indicating it was a favored spot. I perched on the edge, taking the time I needed to readjust to her presence. Urian sniffed my legs and then curled at my feet.

Elizabeth sat beside me, close but not too much so, her tapered fingers fussing with the parchment. Remembering how those pampered hands had wielded a stone against a guard’s head, I marveled at her mercurial duality, which was as much a part of her as her coloring.

It was only then that the reality of our situation struck me. I hadn’t considered how she might react when I told her. Would she welcome me as a long-lost member of the family? Or would she, like her formidable cousin the duchess of Suffolk, see me as a threat? I might be, after all; if Charles Brandon was my father, I most certainly could be, in her eyes. She might never understand that regardless of the Tudor blood in my veins, I had no aspirations to a throne.

As if she could sense my thoughts, she said, “You are comely.” She spoke as if she hadn’t noticed it before. “So lean, with your light gray eyes and hair the color of barley.… It’s no wonder Jane thought you looked familiar. You resemble my brother Edward, or what he may have looked like had he lived to be your age.”

Emotion welled in me.

Whether or not she could accept me as kin seemed not to matter in that moment, though I had decided this was not the time to confess. I still had to feel my way into this new world I inhabited. For no matter how true I was to Kate—and I was true, and would be to the death—I had no doubt I was also in love with this princess. How could I not be? Only, mine wasn’t the earthly obsession of a Dudley, and I was glad of it. To love Elizabeth Tudor would indeed demand more than it could ever give; it condemned one to eternal limbo, yearning for what could never be. In this respect, I felt pity for Lord Robert, whose physical chains could never equal those she’d forged about his heart.

“Where have you drifted, squire?” I heard her ask, and I pulled myself to attention.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I was just thinking of everything that has transpired.”

“Indeed.” She regarded me with unwavering focus.

I removed the loose ring from my finger. “I believe this belongs to you. Lord Robert gave it to me that night he sent me to you. I think he’d want you to have it.”

Her hand trembled as she reached out. “You risked much in order to get this to me, I know. Some might say too much.”

“Some might, Your Grace.”

“But not you.” She raised her eyes. “Was it worth it, everything that transpired?” As she waited for my answer, her regality faded. She reverted to what she was at heart—an achingly young woman, vulnerable and uncertain.

“Yes,” I said. “Every moment. I’d risk it all again to serve you.”

She gave me a tremulous smile. “You might find reason to regret those words.” She unfolded her other hand to reveal the crumpled parchment she held. “This is my sister’s summons to London,” she said. “Or rather, a summons from her new lord chamberlain. I’m expected to join her at court to celebrate her victory.”

She paused. When she next spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I will have need of your keen eyes. Mary and I … we are not like other sisters. There’s too much pain in our past, too much loss. She doesn’t know how to forget, though all I’ve ever done against her was be the daughter of her mother’s rival.”

I wanted to touch her. But I did not. “I am here,” I said. “So are others. We will see to it that you are kept from harm.”

She nodded, slipped Robert’s ring into her bodice. The letter drifted from her fingers to the floor. We sat in silence for a long moment before she glanced at me, and without warning she let out a clarion laugh. “So somber! Do you know how to dance, Brendan Prescott?”

I started. “Dance? No. I … I never learned.”

“Never learned?” She leapt to her feet, Urian springing up beside her. “We must remedy that. How do you expect to enjoy, much less excel, at court if you don’t know how to dance? It’s the weapon of choice for every well-heeled gentleman. Much more has been done on the dance floor to save a kingdom than in any council room or battlefield.”

I felt my grin emerge, lopsided, as her sudden clap brought Kate and Peregrine into the gallery. My suspicion that they’d been lurking close by, awaiting her cue, was confirmed by the lute in Kate’s hands.

Jaunting at her side, Peregrine was another boy altogether, scrubbed to shiny perfection, his lithe form in a suit of jade velvet that matched the hue of his eyes. His smile looked to split his face in two when Elizabeth ordered him to beat time on one of her books: “Slowly, as if it were a kettledrum or the hindquarters of an ill-tempered steed. And Kate, play that pavane we learned together last week—the French one, with the long measure.”

Strumming the corresponding chords, Kate gave me a mischievous smile.

With a look that warned I would take my sweet revenge later, I surrendered to Elizabeth as she took me by the hand and led me into the dance.





AUTHOR’S NOTE





It is important to note that this is a work of fiction. It takes as its premise: What if? and interweaves fact and fiction, rumor, deduction, and imagination to tell a story. While I’ve strived to remain true to the historical period and limit conjecture to a circumscribed realm of possibilities, I have made certain adjustments to create my narrative.

The most obvious, of course, is that history makes no mention of Elizabeth Tudor visiting the court during the days leading up to Edward VI’s demise. There is also no definitive proof that the young king was poisoned to extend his life. Nevertheless, the historical events I describe surrounding the nine-day reign of Jane Grey and Northumberland’s fall are true. The duke did in fact seek to supplant Mary Tudor with his new daughter-in-law, and his army did desert him in favor of Mary. Likewise, Robert Dudley was sent after the embattled Mary to capture her; had he succeeded, there is little doubt that Elizabeth’s arrest would have followed.

Kate Stafford, Peregrine, Archie Shelton, and Mistress Alice are fictional characters based on servants from the Tudor era.

Mary of Suffolk, Henry VIII’s younger sister, did in fact oppose her brother’s break with Rome and his marriage to Anne Boleyn. Mary refused to acknowledge Anne as queen and stayed far from court in the months before her death. Nevertheless, the supposition that Mary hid a pregnancy is fictional, as is Brendan Prescott—though the idea of a secret Tudor does fascinate.

* * *

Because writing by its nature is a solitary obsession and by profession a creative collaboration, I owe a debt of immense gratitude to my agent, Jennifer Weltz, who has championed my work with boundless enthusiasm. She and her colleagues at the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency are my touchstones in an often unpredictable business. My editor, Charles Spicer, has been a longtime supporter of my writing, and I’m privileged to be working with him and his assistant editor, Allison Caplin, as well as my copy editor, Kate Davis. Everyone on the publishing team at St. Martin’s Press, from publicity to marketing to creative, are phenomenal, and I thank them for giving this book their all.

On a personal level, my partner has stood by me with humor and sagacity as I struggled to make the transition from unpublished writer to author. I must also thank our beloved corgi, Paris, for showing me every day how to live with joy. My brother and his wife provided early feedback. My friend Linda read the manuscript several times. Fellow aficionado Paula jammed with me for inspiration. The two Jeans—Billy and LuAnn—and Jack of the Sunset Writers Group gave me laughter and encouragement. Sarah Johnson of the Historical Novel Society is a special friend, indeed, both for her tireless support of the genre and support of this book in its previous incarnations. My dog-walking friends in McLaren Park kept me humble, and my late friend Marie H., with whom I took long walks while this book was written, provided me with tea and wisdom. I miss her and remember her often.

I also must thank all the bookstores, sales reps, fellow writers, and the many bloggers who continue to champion the importance of books in our increasingly frenetic culture.

I wish to thank my mother, who gave me my first historical novel and ignited a spark in me that has never faded, and my father, who encouraged me to write. Though he did not live long enough to see my books published, he would have been proud.

Last, but never least, I thank you, my reader, because without you, books only exist as pages between covers. Your eyes bring my words to life. I am humbled to be one of your storytellers and sincerely hope to entertain you for many years to come.

For more information about my work, including scheduling book-group chats and features on my upcoming novels, please visit me at www.cwgortner.com.