The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [103]
“You can’t have known,” he said, eyeing me. “I made sure to stay at least fifteen paces behind you at all times, and Deacon has a light step.”
“Yes, but you forget that horses, especially those who’ve ridden together, make all sorts of signals when they sense the other near. Cinnabar practically bolted away last night toward that glen where you were hiding. You should have joined me. I had rabbit for supper.”
“Aye, and with that fire you made you’re lucky every poacher in the county didn’t drop by to sample it,” retorted Peregrine. He paused. “You’re not mad at me?”
I sighed. “Only frustrated. I asked Barnaby to watch over you.”
“Don’t blame him. He did his best. He told me that under no circumstances was I to follow you. He said you had private business to attend to and we must honor your decision.”
“I’m glad you paid such close attention.” I raised my hand to my brow, scanning the road. “I’m surprised he isn’t behind you. You two must think I’m incapable of tying my own points, what with the way you fuss and fret.”
“I wasn’t going to let you leave me behind again.” Peregrine squared his narrow shoulders. “You need all the help you can get. I told you before we left Greenwich: You’re no good on your own. You only get into trouble.”
“Is that what Barnaby thinks, as well?”
Peregrine nodded. “He was going to be the one to come after you. I convinced him to let me come, instead. No one would miss me, while Barnaby would have had to ask leave of Rochester, who isn’t about to let a brawny lad like him get away from the queen’s service, not with the duke hot on her trail.”
“True. But you should have heeded him anyway. You’ve no idea what you risk.”
“I don’t care.” Peregrine’s eyes were earnest in his grimy face. “I’m your body servant, remember? I go where you go, no matter what. I must earn my keep.”
I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. “By God, you’re stubborn as a pit bear and smell almost as bad. How did I end up with such a tenacious mite?”
Peregrine scowled, about to retort, when a startled flock of pigeons caught my eye. I turned back to the city. When I saw a cloud of dust snaking toward us, I hissed, “To cover!” and we spurred our mounts into the nearby fringe of bushes and beech.
We slid from our saddles and held the horses close, hands on bridles, barely breathing. A militant thunder came closer and closer. It reminded me of the night we’d sat at the roadside and watched Robert Dudley and his men gallop past. Only this time the noise was like that of some great lumbering creature, composed of hundreds of metallic hooves striking the road. Its approach vibrated the air around us, sent the dust rising in gusts.
The standard bearers appeared first, carrying banners emblazoned with the Dudley bear and staff. The cavalry followed on leather-caparisoned horses, swords and bows strapped to saddles. Then marched the foot soldiers, line after line in chain mail, interspersed with oxen and mule-drawn carts; I detected the bulk of cannon under tarps and assumed those carts also contained a supply of equally lethal weaponry.
Then I saw the mounted lords. Each wore quilted battle gear and rode behind the duke, who, defiant at their head, was distinguished by his audacious crimson cloak. He wore no cap, his dark hair framing his granite face, which, even from my distance, appeared to have aged years in a matter of days.
At his sides were three of his sons—Henry, Jack, and Ambrose, outfitted in martial splendor. For the first time in all the years I’d known them, the brothers I had feared and hated, envied for their camaraderie, were not laughing. Like Robert before them, they understood they confronted the ultimate challenge, one that would end in triumph or tragedy for their family.
In tense formation they rode past, this army assembled to defeat Mary Tudor. I waited in silence long after they’d disappeared down the road,