The Tudor Vendetta (9 page)

“What exactly do you propose?” he asked in a tone that implied he did not care. But he had swallowed the bait. He did not trust me anymore than I did him and safeguarding incriminating information was something he himself would have done in my shoes. He also knew Cecil plotted against him and that evidence of his past treasonous activities was not a credential to earn him the crown of king-consort. In fact, if his actions during Mary’s reign were made public, Elizabeth would have no choice but to distance herself from him—permanently.

“Our queen is in danger,” I went on. “Perhaps for once, we can put our differences aside and find a way to work together.”

The suggestion tasted vile in my own mouth, as if I’d spewed my own brand of poison. It was the only solution I had, seeing as I couldn’t kill him. Much as I believed this world would be a better place without Robert Dudley in it, I would never survive it. He was a nobleman, the queen’s favorite; even if Elizabeth could forgive me and others breathed a sigh of relief at his demise, there were always the righteous highborn who would bay for my head, if only because an example must be made. Dudley, on the other hand, could slay me with impunity; and as he tightened his hold on the dagger, for a horrid moment I thought he would. God knew he was capable of it. Though I might gain respite by instilling caution and appealing to his self-interest, in the end he would have his revenge.

He knew it and so did I.

“Work together?” he echoed. “You think we should
collaborate
?”

I nodded. “Elizabeth has ordered us to find accord, and while you took the dog away I found a message hidden in the lid of the box. It is in cipher; she wants you to convey it to your astrologer. That message could reveal who is behind this attempt. Once Dee deciphers it, you will of course be the first to know. We can solve this mystery together and—”

“Reap the rewards!” He guffawed, with his familiar mocking gusto. “Ah, Prescott, you have not changed. You always did seek advantage in the mire.” His good humor faded. “Chaffing at Cecil’s shackle already, are we? It was all fine and good when she was a princess and you could sneak around, conniving behind my back, but now that she’s on the throne, you want a heftier reward.”

I gave him another smile. If that was how he saw it—indeed, with Dudley, it was the only way he
could
see it—why should I dissuade him? Let him believe I was as rapacious as he, as avid to betray my morals for sable on my cloak and gold in my pockets, providing it gave me the opportunity to find some way to bring him to his knees.

“A reward ample enough to earn my gratitude,” I said, and though every part of me recoiled, I made myself incline to him, with masculine camaraderie. “Ample enough to make me destroy the evidence I have and leave court, if you so desire it.”

“Oh, I desire it,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I do and you will, either of your own volition or wrapped in a winding sheet—it matters not.”

I watched his emotions flicker across his face, doubt leading into frigid consideration of what I presented, wrestling with base instinct to be done with it and sever my throat. Then, with a decisiveness that made me sag, he smiled. “Very well. I’ll bring the message to Dee so he can decipher it, and once we catch this varmint you can accept her reward and retire.” His smile turned cruel. “But if you try to double-cross me in any way, if you seek to betray or gain favor over me, I’ll see that you end up in the river.” He came so close I gleaned a chip on his front tooth. “But first, I will strip the skin from your bones. No one will recognize a faceless corpse. You will end up as you started: a foundling, fit for the pauper’s pit.” He slid his blade down my cheek. “I shall be watching you, Prescott. Every moment.”

He stepped back, his gaze fixed on me as he sheathed his dagger. I did not move until he turned heel and stalked back to Elizabeth’s apartments.

Only then did I let out my breath, touch the smarting wound he had made on my throat. It had stopped bleeding; my fingers came away sticky. Dabbing at it, I exited the alcove and made for my room, to gather my cap and cloak.

To hell with Walsingham and his necropsy. To hell with Dudley.

I had to get as far from this snake pit as I could.

*   *   *

I rode Cinnabar through the park of St. James. At first, I reasoned I needed some fresh air, to clear my head and exercise my horse, as he had been in the stable for too long and I could feel his extra girth under my thighs. Cinnabar reacted with enthusiasm, cantering with head held high and muscles flexing, but soon enough, I found myself guiding him toward the Thames and dockyards, to that inn where Archie Shelton lived.

I had not seen Shelton in years, not since he accompanied me to Cecil’s manor after Elizabeth was imprisoned in the Tower. I now knew he had had a forbidden liaison with my mother, Mary Tudor, duchess of Suffolk; it was entirely possible that he was, in fact, my father. I had no other explanation for why my mother had hidden her pregnancy or entrusted me to her intimate servant, Mistress Alice, who took me in secret to the Dudley estate. By strange coincidence, my birth had coincided within days of Elizabeth’s own. Only days later, my mother died of childbed fever, disguised as the fatal result of a long illness.

Thus, I had grown up unaware of my royal blood. Shelton spent years searching for me; when he did find me, he instigated himself in the Dudley employ. I had believed him my foe. Only later did I learn he had been protecting me all along.

We had reached an understanding. His own terrible experience during my first assignation at court had left him maimed. He now eschewed the life of a nobleman’s menial, opting instead to work as a publican with his love, Nan, a former doxy who had inherited her uncle’s tavern. This was the Griffin, where I headed now, drawn to the only family I had.

Riding down Tower Street near the old city wall, I had an impressive view of the forbidding fortress brooding on its blood-soaked hill, the crenellations of its keep stabbing into the early dusk. The district seemed seedier than the last time I had been here, ramshackle tenements, brothels, taverns, and warehouses leaning into each other, a corkscrew tangle of alleyways threading between them, the haunt of footpads and whores who plied their illicit trade across the river from Southwark, against city regulations. Packs of skeletal dogs skulked as I passed. Vagrants sat in pools of their own filth or wandered about shouting at devils in their heads, while night-soil collectors hauled their stinking carts beyond the walls. Those who lived or worked here moved quickly, heads down and eyes on the path before them; only slatterns lounging in doorways met my eyes, bony hips cocked and fingers snaking up their tattered skirts to offer a glimpse of cunny. I could see the effects of Mary’s persecution everywhere, from the desolation on the residents’ faces to rotten bodies swinging in scraps from gibbets, evidence of a fervor that had no compunction. I remembered what Cecil had said about the destitution of the realm. Elizabeth had a monumental task before her if she was to rebuild everything her sister had laid to waste.

I was heartened to reach the swinging sign over the Griffin’s threshold. Perhaps Dudley knew me better than I thought. Perhaps he was right and it was indeed only here, in common mire, that I truly belonged. It was what I knew, after all. I had grown up among people whose only experience with the court was watching the occasional royal procession.

Sliding off Cinnabar, I was looking around for a reliable place to tether him when a skinny jumble of knees and elbows with a thatch of unkempt hair raced out from a nearby side street—an urchin, no older than twelve by the looks of it. With an inept bow, he said, “Will my lord need a stall for his horse?”

I repressed a smile. Boys like him were ubiquitous in London, orphans or foundlings who made a meager living doing anything they could to keep body and soul together, from running errands to driving livestock to engaging in thievery and less savory deeds. This one looked honest enough, scrappy and none too clean, but with an earnest gaze that did not sidle away to assess the richness of my trappings.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Thomas. Or Tom to my friends, if it please my lord.” He bobbed another clumsy obeisance, bringing a lump to my throat. He reminded me of Peregrine.

“Well, Tom-to-your-friends,” I said, “I do need someone to watch my horse. However, I’d not look kindly on him disappearing.” I reached into my cloak, extracting several coins from my pouch. Tom’s eyes went wide. It was probably more money than he had seen in his entire life. “Can I rely upon you to take good care of him?”

Tom gaped. “Yes, my lord, on my life.”

“Let us hope not.” I flipped him two coins; he caught them in midair. “Two more when I come out,” I said. “I trust you’ll be close by, in case I have need of you?”

“Oh, yes. I work here in the mornings sometimes, helping the master and mistress.”

I remembered him now, the grubby boy whom Nan let sleep by the hearth. He had not recognized me, however. “Good.” I handed him Cinnabar’s reins, taking a moment to make sure he would not balk, as my horse could be skittish with strangers. The boy seemed to know what he was doing, though, murmuring to my steed and putting him at ease. I moved with confidence into the tavern, ducking under the low lintel.

Smoke from tallow lights thickened the air, making my eyes prickle. There were several patrons seated at tables, tankards of ale and platters before them. The rattle of dice and conversation hummed around me; I paused to adjust to the surroundings, wishing I had had the forethought to change my attire. I must be as noticeable here as a swan on the Fleet.

Nearing the hearth, I espied the battered armchair where Shelton often dozed, his old dog at his feet. The chair was empty, but the scarred mutt was there, opening one lazy eye to stare at me. Women in swishing skirts, loose-laced bodices that offered plenty of cleavage, and sweat-soaked caps weaved through the room, bearing trays and swatting away pinches to their buttocks. Approaching the serving hutch, I heard a voice call: “Get those pies out now before they burn!” and saw Nan herself at the counter, rubbing a meaty forearm across her forehead as she glared at someone unseen. Her serving girls, I noted, were all hips and saucy manner, adept at fending off inebriated advances. Former doxies, I surmised, who had abandoned their thankless trade for an honest living under Nan’s tyrannical employ.

I paused before her, smiling. A quizzical look crossed her flushed features as she took in my appearance. Then, as recognition dawned on her, she cried, “Scarcliff!” and a large, heavy figure limped out from behind the hutch, wiping dirty hands on his apron.

She had called Shelton by his assumed name. I still marveled at the change in him, struck for a few moments by the mutilated patchwork of his face, so that he appeared like a monstrous pirate from a child’s nightmare, his beard scarcely concealing the contorted shape of his jagged-toothed maw, his left eye a puckered welt. The damage inflicted on him had visceral impact, but his garbled chuckle at the sight of me was warm. Before I could utter a word, Shelton enveloped me in his arms, his yeasty beer breath in my ear as he said in his broken voice, “Of all the knaves to walk through the door, you are the last one I expected to see.”

I grinned, drawing back. “Still handsome as ever, I see.”

He slapped me on the back. “She likes me that way, don’t you, Nan?” He cast a roguish wink at his love with his good eye. Nan harrumphed, “Get away with your tomfooleries, old man,” and took my face between her palms. “Look at you,” she said softly. “Such a sight in your fancy sleeves. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Her maternal solicitude overwhelmed me. With a gentle pat on my cheek, she said, “You look tired. Go on: Take a seat. I’ll have one of the lasses bring you a nice quail pie and bottle of our best wine.”

“No wine,” I said. “Ale will do. My fancy sleeves don’t have fancy tastes.”

At my side, Shelton’s laughter rattled like nails on cobblestone as he guided me to his battered chair, yanking up a stool next to the rickety table. “Move, Crum.” He shoved his pet with his foot. The dog growled, grudgingly making room for us. As soon as Shelton sat, the dog settled down again, close to his side.

“Crum?” I asked. “As in, Cromwell?”

“Aye.” He reached down to ruffle the dog’s clipped ears. “I figured he needed a name. It was the first one that came to mind. He’s a good watchdog, my Crum. We leave him downstairs at night and no one dares break in. Much as I imagine Cromwell must have kept the friars from breaking back into their monasteries after he stripped them bare.”

I found myself laughing. It felt good. Normal. A few moments later, a blond girl with sparkling blue eyes appeared, placing a steaming pie and tankard before me with exaggerated flourish, her lascivious regard moving up and down me.

Shelton grunted, eyeing the lass as she sauntered away. “If you’re in the mood for a bed warmer, none’s saucier than Margie. But,” he added, lowering his voice, “don’t let Nan hear of it. She’s forbidden the girls from selling their wares during working hours, though after we close for the night, well … what they do then is no business of ours, eh?”

He had a bawdy humor, I thought. Who would have known the former Dudley steward would end up making jokes about the whores employed in his tavern?

He motioned at the pie. “Nan will want every bite accounted for. It’s her special recipe.”

I ate with relish. The pie was greasy, so fresh from the oven it burned my mouth, but it tasted like manna from heaven after days of stale bread and cheese. The ale was exactly as I remembered it: thick and foamy as it slid down my throat. I drank it down in two gulps. Shelton gestured to Margie for a pitcher. He served me himself this time, leaning over the table, his sleeve rucking up to display the latticed scars on his forearm.

He caught me staring and remarked, “I look like Christ’s passion. I vow those guards at the Tower whacked me so many times, it’s a miracle I am still alive to tell the tale.”

“Indeed,” I said. I remembered all too well that night of chaos when London declared for Queen Mary. The Tower shut its gates, trapping hundreds inside. I had escaped by throwing myself into the river—a memory that still made me shudder—but Shelton was not so fortunate. Assaulted by the guards cutting a swath with their pikes through those amassed at the gates, he was cudgeled unconscious. He might have died if Nan had not found him.