The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .txt) 📗

I sensed it was a lesson Elizabeth would never forget when her time came.

Chapter Twenty-four

Shelton returned by midafternoon, riding Cinnabar, Urian bounding beside him, spattered with mud from the road and leaping on me in excitement. As I petted him and endured his rapturous licks, Shelton told me he’d had a time of it getting the grooms to release the animals, though the overall chaos in the stables had helped.

“I had to empty my purse,” he said, with an apologetic look at Nan. “They’re getting ready to move to Hampton Court, so a few less animals were not to their disadvantage. But they wouldn’t let me near the princess’s Arabian. He’s well cared for; apparently Her Majesty has decided to give him as a gift to Philip when he arrives.”

“My lady’s not going to like that,” I muttered. I could imagine the roar when Elizabeth heard of it. Her rage would drown out the very lions in the Tower.

“The court leaves tomorrow,” Shelton added. “Whole pack of ’em, headed off to get the palace ready for Philip and his entourage. Have you thought of what you’re going to do next? I’m guessing you’ll not want to stay here and serve quail pie to sailors.”

“And why not?” demanded Nan. “It’s a respectable trade. Not to mention a tad safer, I’ll wager, than whatever it is he’s been up to.”

“Indeed,” I said, repressing my laughter. I felt lighter all of a sudden, witnessing this domestic squabble. It was a relief to see some people could actually be normal. “I’ll wager it would be. But I should leave London. I’m not a problem you need.” I looked at Shelton. “I have only one option.”

“Cecil,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes. He’ll be anxious for news, and he can hide me.”

The flush in Nan’s cheeks faded. “You’re not thinking of…?” she asked Shelton.

He cupped her chin, leaning over to kiss her. “Just for a little while, love. We can’t let the lad go off on his own, now can we? With his luck, he’s liable to end up in a ditch.”

I was about to remind him that I certainly would not. I was one and twenty years old, a man grown, who’d faced more perilous ventures than an expedition to the countryside. Then I sensed his intent and kept quiet.

A trip to Cecil’s manor was an opportunity we might never have again.

* * *

We departed the next day at dawn. It would be easier to evade unwanted inquiries, Shelton suggested, seeing as the court would be lumbering out of London, and everyone occupied watching the queen’s procession.

I donned my borrowed clothes and kept my head lowered under my cap when we were detained at the gate, where Shelton spun a magnificent yarn about his time in the Scottish wars of Henry VIII, claiming he’d thus earned his impressive facial badge of honor. The sentries were duly impressed. One of them-a gnarled old man whose uniform seemed to wear him, rather than the other way around-had fought in the same wars and proudly pushed up his sleeve to display a ragged scar on his arm. He waved us out, excusing us the exit fee. Soon we were cantering down the rutted road, the city behind us.

I took a long look at London over my shoulder. Though I could not see it, I conjured the Tower in my mind-its White Keep looming over the surrounding walls, the narrow parapets over the leads-and lifted a prayer for the safety of the four beloved women I had left there. I would be waiting when they were released. I would be waiting and I would be ready. Sybilla Darrier had imparted a lesson I would not squander; the time had come to embrace who I was: a spy for Elizabeth, devoted to her welfare. Next time when danger struck, I would not be caught unawares.

Then I cast my thoughts to the church where Peregrine lay.

“Farewell, my friend,” I whispered. “I’ll never forget you.”

Shelton and I rode in quiet companionship through hamlets where people were recovering from the aftereffects of the rebellion, turning our faces from the gibbets where dead rebels swayed. Urian ran before us in delight, romping through woodlands and open meadows, splashing into streams fed by the thaw.

Finally I breached the silence. I’d had plenty of time as we rode to come up with an opening salvo; instead, I found myself asking hesitantly, “Was my mother beautiful?”

He let out a sigh. “Oh, she was. Like no other woman I’d ever seen. There was a reason her brother King Henry called her his Rose. She could bring his entire court to a halt just by walking into the hall. But it was more than that: She had a light in her. It shone even when she was sad. And she was loyal to those she loved. She was never discourteous or demanding; she treated everyone as her equal.”

I stared at him, fascinated. He had known her. He had known my mother.

“Were you…?” My voice faltered; I couldn’t say the words. I felt abruptly as if I were intruding on deeply cherished and private memories.

He kept his gaze fixed ahead, but recollection softened his face, so that I could envision the burly young steward he’d once been, all those years ago.

“Naturally I was,” he said at length. “Any man who met her must have fallen in love with her. She invited desire, through no fault of her own.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But it’s not what you think. It wasn’t a love affair like minstrels sing about.”

The air about me seemed to solidify. “But you and she, you were…?”

He finally turned his head to me. For what seemed an eternity he did not reply. Then he said, “Yes. It happened when her husband, my master the duke, Brandon of Suffolk, went to France with the king and Mistress Boleyn.”

“Elizabeth’s mother,” I clarified. “Queen Anne.”

“Yes. But she wasn’t queen yet. Your mother wouldn’t allow anyone in her presence to call her by any other name. She hated her, you see; she blamed her for stealing the king from Queen Catherine. She was mistaken. Henry wanted what he wanted and didn’t care whom he trampled to get it. He obliged your mother to surrender her best jewels to adorn Mistress Boleyn for the French trip. Your mother was enraged; she and the duke quarreled bitterly over it. I was there. I heard them shouting at each other in the hall.”

A muscle in his face twitched. “Mistress Boleyn had heard of the jeweled artichoke, and she wanted to show it off, to prove to the French king, in whose court she’d served, that she was worthy of being England’s future queen. My lady would not hear of it. When the duke went to retrieve it she locked herself in her chamber and refused to come out. Later she sent me to court to deliver her other jewels. Mistress Boleyn understood the insult and turned her wrath on Queen Catherine, stripping her of every last jewel she possessed. My master, in turn, vented his wrath on me.”

“On you? Why?” I began to understand his prior behavior, when he first brought me to court to serve the Dudleys, his taciturn attitude, his insistence that I obey my betters.

He shrugged. “He wasn’t really angry at me; he was angry at himself. He had supported the king, though he privately disagreed. He did not think Anne Boleyn was worthy of anything more than a bedding, but he also knew telling Henry that wouldn’t be wise. Your mother and he had been at odds for years over it; so much so, in the end it destroyed their marriage. She wouldn’t attend the court, no matter how much Henry threatened. She stayed steadfast to Queen Catherine and made no bones about it. Her husband the duke, on the other hand, bowed to the strongest wind. And he was right. Before they left France, Mistress Boleyn gave in to the king and Elizabeth was conceived.”

I bit my lip, caught between the past and the present. “You did not go to France.”

“No. My master ordered me to his manor in Westhorpe.” His tone lowered, as though even in the midst of these open fields, he might be overheard. “When I arrived, I found my lady, your mother, bereft. She, too, had realized that her brother the king was willing to plunge the realm into ruin for Anne Boleyn, and it caused her no end of despair. A few nights later, a great storm arose, as if God himself showed discontent. One of her women came running to summon me to her chambers. She was having trouble with one of her casements. The wind had thrown it open, and rain was drenching everything. My lady was soaked to her skin, but she kept yanking at that window as if her life depended on it. Her health had been precarious; the births of four children had taken their toll. She didn’t show it outwardly, but I worried she’d catch her death of cold, so I … I tried to-”