The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [104]
I mounted Cinnabar and spurred him back onto the road, where the dust wafted in the air like tattered veils.
“Where are we going?” Peregrine asked as we cantered toward London.
“To see an old friend,” I said. “By the way, do you know how we can get inside the Tower?”
* * *
“The Tower!” Peregrine exclaimed, as soon as we cleared the checkpoint at Aldgate, which had required distribution of most of the gold angels from the purse Walsingham had given me. “Are you insane? We can’t get inside there. It’s a royal fortress, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’d heard, yes. But I really must get inside. I’ve a letter to deliver.”
Peregrine blew air out of the side of his mouth. “The strongest fortress in England, and you have a letter to deliver? Why don’t we just knock on the gates? It’ll have the same result. Or haven’t you heard the saying ‘Once in, only your head comes out’? I’m beginning to think you’re as much of a unicorn as Kate says.”
I paused. “A what?”
“A unicorn. A fabled beast. A lunacy.”
I threw back my head and laughed with genuine belly-heaving mirth. I suddenly felt much better. “I’ve never heard that before. I like it.”
“I wager you’ll like it less if you end up trussed in a dungeon with your horn cut off. We can’t get inside the Tower without proper identification and leave, so forget about even trying. Any other wretched place you’d like us to try for instead?”
“No. But you’ve given me an idea.” My smile lingered as we rode into Cheapside. The streets were eerily quiet, shuttered windows converting taverns into bastions. Except for one lone beggar too physically wasted to crawl away from the doorway where she huddled, there were no people to be seen. All of London cowered behind closed doors, as if to await a calamity.
“We should stable the horses and take to the river,” said Peregrine. “We’re too obvious. There’s no one around but us. We’ll be arrested if a patrol happens to see us.”
“You’ll have to excuse my aversion to water at the moment,” I replied as we rode single file above the riverbank, where we might better avoid the conduits and refuse heaps, if not the ubiquitous sewage.
When I spied Whitehall’s turrets in the distance, I reined to a halt. “Which way to Cecil’s house?”
Peregrine looked leery. “Do you think he’ll still be there?”
“He’s there.” My voice hardened. “Now listen to me: I want you to do exactly as I say from now on. Do I make myself clear? If you make a nuisance of yourself, I’ll truss you up. This is not a game, Peregrine. One mistake and we could both end up dead.”
“I understand.” He gave a servile whirl of his hand. “This way, my lord and master.”
He led us back into the labyrinth of crooked streets. The feeling of impending disaster was palpable, stalking the dark pockets where the houses staggered into each other like drunkards. I was glad when we emerged onto a wider street that ran through the palace, though even here it was astounding how deserted everything was, like a kingdom in some romantic fable, frozen in time by a spell.
When we neared our destination, I left Peregrine with the horses and strict orders, and proceeded alone. A high wall enclosed the house’s exterior. I tried the postern gate first and found it unlocked. Moving toward the front entrance, I unsheathed my dagger. It would serve me little in a pitched confrontation, but the bow Barnaby had left strapped to Cinnabar’s saddle was too cumbersome for indoor fighting.
I glanced up at the windows. The house appeared as uninhabited as the rest of the city. A small gate opened to the side. I vaulted it, landing on soft turf. I stood in the garden, which sloped toward a private landing quay screened by willows. As