The Tudor Vendetta Page 5

  The clamor of bells announcing the hour greeted me when I emerged, dressed in my stiff new finery. Walsingham had failed to provide directions but I assumed Elizabeth resided in the same royal apartments her sister had once occupied. After taking several passages, I found the sumptuous privy gallery fronted by mullioned bays overlooking the Thames.

  The green river glittered in the sunlight, as if raw diamonds floated across its murky waters. It was a beautiful day, despite winter’s approach. The storm clouds of yesterday had disappeared, blown away by a brisk wind that ruffled the hedges and pruned trees in the gardens; the palace itself was like a mausoleum, but it had never been warm, its gargantuan expanse ill-suited to comfort, regardless of how many braziers and hearths were kindled.

  Around me, people began to appear—courtiers in finery, the rustle of weighted hems and embroidered sleeves, the clinking of pomanders and ropes of pearls and gold imbuing the air with chiming music. Sentries guarded an archway that allowed access into the royal abode; as I paused, feeling my dagger hilt press into my calf (I had stashed it in my boot, though weapons were forbidden in the sovereign’s presence), I took a wary look about. I did not recognize any of those around me. For an unsettling moment, they all looked the same to me—polished peacocks with the sharp, hooded eyes of birds of prey, gauging my arrival as they might a fresh victim. All gathered in groups according to rank; all engaged in idle chatter. But none, I suspected, was actually interested in what the others had to say. They were intent only on the closed double doors behind which lay the beating heart of their existence: the queen herself.

  Recalling how Mary had sometimes granted public audience at this hour, following her noon meal, I wondered if Elizabeth had summoned me to take my place among those eager to curry her favor. I had served her faithfully, yes, we had gone through trials together, but in the end, who was I to her? Certainly, I could not compete with the history she shared with Dudley. I had experienced firsthand the changes that being queen could wreak; Mary Tudor, whom I helped to win her throne, became a monster before my very eyes. Cecil had said Elizabeth’s newfound power was going to her head. Had she, too, embarked on a transformation? If so, how would she welcome me?

  As unexpected doubt assailed me, taking on a looming menace, as I recognized once more how precarious my position truly was, I nearly turned to depart. The sudden emergence of Cecil from behind the doors stopped me. He wore a dark robe, his chain of office heavy on his shoulders. He appeared flustered, pushing through the courtiers who surged at the sight of him. When he espied me at the edge of the crowd, he motioned.

  I felt every pair of eyes cleave to me as I passed, heard someone whisper, “Who is he?” and then I stepped past the doors into the antechamber beyond. Cecil motioned to the guards. An outcry from the courtiers issued before the closure of the oak doors muffled it.

  Cecil grimaced. Pulling off his cap, he dabbed at sweat beading his receding hairline. “It’s a nightmare,” he said. “They’re at her night and day like Pharisees. They think that if they crowd her passage, she will have to notice them. I am considering drafting restrictions regarding the distance they must maintain from the sovereign’s person. As it stands, she cannot set foot outside her doors without encountering that mob.”

  “You did want this,” I reminded him. “You worked tirelessly to its end.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I did.” Repositioning his cap, he glanced around us, though the splendid antechamber was empty. Behind the spangled curtain covering a nearby archway, I discerned voices. “Now, you must heed me. Lord Robert is with her,” he began. He set a hand on my sleeve, detaining me. “I couldn’t persuade her to see you alone. She says it is high time you and Dudley cease sparring. Indeed, she commands it. She told him as much, when he learned of your summons.”

  “I can only imagine his excitement,” I said, wishing I had brought more than my dagger, though it was unlikely he would dare attack me in front of her.

  Cecil sniffed. “Regardless of his sentiments, like all of us he must abide by her rule. She has taken this opportunity to begin opening the congratulatory gifts sent by foreign princes. She wishes to greet you informally.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “She has also expressed interest in bestowing you with a title and estate, in recompense for your efforts on her behalf. If she offers it, I want you to thank her but refuse, saying it is too great an honor. Humility is your weapon of choice.”

  “An estate?” I repeated. Without warning, hope flared in me, vanquishing the uncertainty of my future. A grant of land would solve everything; Dudley would rejoice to see the back of me and I would prefer to oblige him. If I accepted Elizabeth’s offer, I could woo Kate back, marry, and raise a family. I could be free of the mayhem, the intrigue, the claustrophobia of life at court. Yet even as I welcomed the thought, my hope must have shown on my face, for Cecil’s grip tightened like a vise.

  “Would you deny everything we have fought for, to go off and play country squire?” he asked. “Is that what you want, to see her in thrall to Dudley and the rest of us on the scaffold?”

  I knew. I knew it as if he had spat the betrayal in my face. Kate’s appearance in the stables had not been coincidence. He had sent her to me, to rupture whatever frayed thread still bound us. “Up to your old tricks, I see.” I yanked my arm away. “What did you tell her? That there is no place for me in her life because I devote myself body and soul to your service?”

  “You did tell me you had forsaken her,” he replied. “Only yesterday, in fact.”

  “God’s teeth,” I whispered, “just when I think you could not be more heartless. You had no right to interfere!”

  He did not flinch. “Kate understands more than you suppose. She realizes we all must sacrifice,” he said, as if he were talking of a piece of merchandise and not the very girl he had raised. “She knows how much is at stake now that Elizabeth is queen.”

  “Does she?” I riposted. “Because the way she spoke to me, it felt like—”

  “Are you ready?” asked a woman from behind us. “Her Majesty is waiting.”

  With a furious glance over my shoulder, I saw one of Elizabeth’s damsels peering from the curtain. I drew a taut breath as Cecil tugged at his robe and moved to the chamber where the queen and her company awaited.

  A vivid recollection of the last time I had been in this airy room assaulted me. Here, during Queen’s Mary reign, I had first met Sybilla. I shut my mind to the memory of her gliding toward me and focused on the chamber with its wide window bays offering a view of the windswept parkland outside.

  Wrapped boxes, enameled caskets, and other containers sprouting ribbons and gewgaws were heaped on the central table, where Elizabeth’s ladies had assembled to sort through the trove. I scanned their ranks; saw with a clench in my chest that Kate was among them, clad in blue velvet, her face drawn. She avoided my gaze, her somberness in marked contrast to the eager faces of her companions, all of whom were unfamiliar to me. Though the number of Elizabeth’s attendants had of course increased, I found it unsettling to find no sign of the other two women who had served Elizabeth throughout her life. Times past, she would rarely have been seen without her protective chief gentlewoman, Lady Blanche Parry, or her former governess, the redoubtable Mistress Ashley.

  Two contented spaniels dozed by the hearth. The atmosphere was warm, redolent with the bittersweet scent of crushed herbs underfoot. The carpets, I noted, were threadbare, as if our late queen had worn them out with her anxious pacing.…

  Elizabeth’s husky laughter rang out. Turning to my right, I found her seated near an alcove, clad in a high-necked gown of silver brocade. Tight-sleeved, with cuffs of black lace at her wrists, her garb showed off her perfect skin and slim hands to perfection—beautiful hands, which she liked to display, and which at this moment beckoned Dudley. He bent to her. Her head cocked to one side as he murmured in her ear. Her next burst of laughter was a purr in her throat. “You’re too bold, my lord,” she declared and she sl
apped him lightly on the cheek, even as a flush crept over her face, indicating that bold or not, she rather liked his suggestive whisper.

  I tasted bile. Cecil’s warnings returned to me, about her open indiscretion with Dudley, even as his wife lay secluded, perhaps already dying, in a manor far away. I had to resist the urge to stride to him and haul him from her side. As if she sensed my anger, she shifted her gaze in my direction. I immediately bowed, fumbling at my head. As I realized with a cold start that in my haste I had forgotten to don a cap, Dudley guffawed. “Lost your headgear again, Prescott? I seem to recall you mislaid it often when you were our foundling. I suggest you nail it to your head, seeing as you are so apt to roll around in the muck.”

  Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “Come now.” She extended her hand with its signet ring to me. Her smile was inviting as I approached. Besides Cecil, Dudley and I were the only men in the room. She said softly, “Lest I am mistaken, it seems absence has not been kind to you, Master Prescott. You look tired.”

  I absorbed the tenor of her voice, seeking the underlying meaning in her words. With Elizabeth, there was always more than one meaning and I was not mistaken in detecting faint reprimand in her manner. It took a few moments to ascertain the cause; when I did, I replied, “Exile is never easy, Majesty. But my absence helped me return to serve you.”

  Her lips twitched. She held up a hand, prompting Dudley to reach for a nearby decanter and pour. He did not take his eyes from me. I ignored him, for in the daylight I could now discern the invisible burden she carried, though she disguised it with her usual skill. Triumphant as her accession was—indeed, some might say, miraculous—the violet smudges under her eyes and taut pull to her mouth, the slightly hollowed cheeks and pallor betrayed more sleepless nights than anyone supposed. Elizabeth had fought to attain this zenith; after a time, it had become her sole purpose in her otherwise imperiled existence. Betrayal, deception, even death had become her allies, and compassion welled in me as I watched her raise the goblet to her lips. Under her regal aura, a lonely woman sat before me—one who doubted my allegiance because I had left her, as she must doubt everything and everyone around her.

  It was her curse—a curse which Cecil, for all his insight, and Dudley, in his arrogance, failed to understand. From the hour she had discovered how thin the line was between life and death, Elizabeth had learned never to fully trust.

  Cecil said, “Master Prescott is entirely at Your Majesty’s disposal.”

  “Is he?” She preempted Dudley, who started to scoff. She went quiet again, contemplating me. “Then we must give his disposition some thought.”

  Though it sounded like a dismissal, I knew it was not. I finally gleaned her purpose. This so-called informal gathering was as much a part of her ploy as her avoidance of overt acknowledgment of me in the hall the night before. She needed time to assimilate my return, to gauge where I could best be employed and set me on a course. She did not plan on setting me to dance attendance on her or relegating me to a country estate. Elizabeth had something specific in mind. All I needed to do was wait for her to reveal it.

  Dudley, however, did not realize this. Focused only on his need to see me disgraced, he gloated as if I were about to be consigned to cleaning out the privies, preening at her side in his jeweled doublet, a hand at his hip. He looked exactly what he was—a handsome predator, whose only interest was the destruction of all rivals. Cecil’s concerns were unfounded; though Dudley might have snapped his fingers and had any girl in this room on her back, for now he did not yet have the one he most desired.

  All of a sudden, my trepidation about him vanished. I had dueled with him before. I was prepared to do so again to protect her.

  “Majesty,” I murmured. Bowing again, I stepped back. When I reached Cecil, he said under his breath, “You will stay.” I had no choice but to watch as Dudley sought to dominate Elizabeth’s attention once more by swaggering forth to the gift-laden table, swatting the women on their backsides and eliciting mock cries of protest and not a few surreptitious looks of admiration at his thighs in their fitted silk hose.

  “Now, then,” he said, “whom of these royal applicants most honors our queen with his largesse? Who among them is worthy to earn her consideration?”

  With an indulgent smile, Elizabeth reclined in her chair, twirling her goblet as she watched her Master of Horse paw through her fellow sovereigns’ offerings as though they were trinkets.

  “Is it His Benevolent Highness the prince of Sweden?” Dudley flipped open a satin-lined box; within it nestled a necklace of pink rubies shaped in the form of the Tudor rose. He held it up to the light, examining it for flaws. He frowned. “Unimaginative,” he announced. He dropped the jewel back into its box and swept both aside, prompting a genuine outcry from the ladies as they hastened to gather it off the floor.

  Elizabeth chuckled.

  The excitement at the table stirred the dozing spaniels, both of whom leapt up to round the table, barking as Dudley dug again through the pile and extracted a bigger case this time, bunted in scarlet. “Or is it His Imperial Majesty of Russia?” Throwing off the lid, he unloosed a length of white fur. “Another stole?” he groaned. Elizabeth could not contain her laughter. “Her Majesty has dozens,” Dudley declared, and he flung the fur aside. The women squealed, losing all sense of dignity as they scrambled for it.

  At my side, Cecil stiffened. It was evident that Dudley intended to distribute all the gifts among Elizabeth’s women, thus consigning these first suitors for her hand to ridicule.

  “Or is it—” Dudley paused with theatrical timing, dramatically extending the moment as he retrieved a narrow black-satin box. “His Majesty Philip of Spain?”

  Silence fell in the wake of his words. Philip had been the late queen’s husband; during my previous mission at court, I had contended with his ambassador Renard’s fervent quest to see Elizabeth executed for treason. Renard had gone far beyond his master’s orders; in truth, the young Spanish king had wanted only to hold her in captivity until the time came when he became a widower. His union with Mary had kindled the pyre of persecution, his Catholic stringencies inciting our late queen to burn hundreds of English martyrs and send hundreds of others into exile. His name was no laughing matter, and Elizabeth responded accordingly, her voice turning sharp as she said, “That is sufficient. I’ll not hear anointed princes mocked.”

  “Who is mocking?” exclaimed Dudley, and I heard Cecil gasp at his confident rebuttal of her. “I merely wish to discover which of these exalted princes is best qualified to pay suit to Your Majesty’s person. We all know how eager Philip of Spain is to impress. The question is, how much is he willing to spend?”

  Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed, but I could tell she was enjoying this. She could not help but relish hearing disparagement of the very king whose machinations had cornered her during her sister’s reign, though Philip had intervened on her behalf and persuaded Mary to release her from the Tower. I had not been in England when she and the Spanish King met face-to-face, having already gone abroad, but I could imagine the merry jig she had led him on, the insinuations she must have dangled before him as she determined to safeguard her person. Indeed, I had no doubt that Philip must now regret that he had both released her and failed to convince Mary to kill Dudley, as rumor must have already reached him of Dudley’s intent to supplant him.

  “I said, that will suffice.” Gaining control of her better judgment, Elizabeth thrust out her hand. “I will open his gift and judge for myself whether Philip of Spain can impress.”

  Dudley froze. It was only a fraction of a second, but I saw the rage flicker across his expression as he proceeded to her, bowing with flourish before presenting her with the box.

  “Have some wine,” Elizabeth suggested, and as he stomped to the board in the alcove and the decanter, my breathing inexplicably turned shallow.

  Elizabeth plucked at the embossed wax seal, which bound a ribbon around the box and held the lid in place. Leaving the oth
er women, Kate hastened to take a jeweled letter-opener from the table and went to assist the queen, the spaniels scampering at her heels. Elizabeth smiled—“How thoughtful of you, Mistress Stafford”—and Kate said softly, “Allow me, Your Majesty,” swiveling the box in the queen’s lap toward her, kneeling down to slide the blade under the seal.

  I did not know that I had moved toward her until Cecil said, “What are you doing?” His rebuke brought me to a precipitous halt. In rapid succession, the seal on the box cracked apart and Kate rocked back with a little cry of surprise. The lid fell off. Elizabeth tried to hold on to the box as it slipped from her lap, tumbling its contents to the floor—a mess of gilded tissue, wrapped about something leathery.

  Kate scrambled up, making a grab for the bundled article. But one of the spaniels dove at the same time and clamped the gift between its jaws, shredding the tissue, worrying it as if it were a rat.

  Elizabeth gazed at the dog as it tore apart the king of Spain’s gift. “Are those … gloves?” she asked, bemused. Her tone indicated that Philip had indeed failed to impress.

  I didn’t hear Kate’s response, however, deafened by a warning roar I did not realize was in my head, as I remembered another broken seal on an unexpected letter, the curiosity on Peregrine’s face as he held it, then his gasp as he lifted fingertips already singed from—

  The women shrieked as I leapt forth, pushing them aside. Elizabeth recoiled in her chair. From the alcove, where he had been drowning his humiliation in wine, Dudley flung aside his goblet and barreled at me. I scarcely felt the bone-jarring impact of his body nor the fist he slammed into my gut, quenching my breath as he cried, “Now, I’ve got you, mongrel!” Twisting sideways to evade his yanking me to the floor—a maneuver learned through Walsingham’s tests of endurance—I rammed my own fist under his jaw as hard as I could.