The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [113]
“I didn’t say I wanted anything more to do with you,” I replied.
He smiled knowingly. “Then why, my dear boy, are you still here?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
It was late afternoon when we emerged from the house. Having never been on a barge before, I had to concede it was the preferable way to travel when in London. Though the river surface was peppered with flotsam I didn’t care to examine too closely, exuding an acrid aroma that clung to one’s clothes, the periodic tides that washed in ensured the Thames remained cleaner than any city street and far more navigable. I was amazed by the speed with which the hired boatman, half drunk as he was, propelled us toward that great stone bridge spanning the river, over which ran the main road from Canterbury and Dover.
The cakelike structure was perched on twenty cramped piers, ornamented with a southern gatehouse and roofed with teetering tenements. As I gazed up, Cecil said, “Some people are born, live, and die on that bridge without ever leaving it. When the tide is full, ‘shooting the bridge’ can be quite an experience, if you survive it.”
The boatman grunted, displaying a toothless grin, and catapulted the barge with nauseating force through one of the bridge’s narrow vaulted arches. I gripped the edge of the wood seat, my belly in my throat. Catching a churning swell on the other side, the barge reared up and down like a leaf caught in a maelstrom. I tasted vomit.
I would stick to my horse henceforth.
We entered steady water, sailing toward a breathtaking view of a mirror-still tidal pool, where anchored galleons swayed against the lowering sky. The Tower brooded at the far end, guarding the city approach. Though I couldn’t see them, I was certain cannons protected every inch of those river-lapped walls. In the waning sunlight, the Tower’s weathered stone was tinted with a rusty hue like blood, confirming its repute as a foreboding place no one should willingly enter.
Cecil said, “You needn’t do this in person. There are many ways to deliver a letter.”
I stared at the central keep mortared in white, its four turrets tipped with standards. “No. She deserves this much, and you owe it to me.”
Cecil sighed. “Ingenious and headstrong. I hope you understand we can’t overstay our welcome. I’ve no idea what to expect after I relay the queen’s orders; regardless, in a few hours, curfew will be upon us and the Tower gates will close. Whoever gets locked inside, stays inside.”
The barge docked. Cecil stood. “Pull down your cap. Whatever you do, don’t speak unless you have to. The less they see and hear of you, the better.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” I muttered.
We mounted the water steps, turned past an open field to a gatehouse, where an alarming number of guards patrolled the entry into the Tower. I heard the muted roar of lions, lifted my hooded gaze to the edifice rising before me. Crenellated battlements studded with barbicans thrust into the sky, shielding the white keep.
A guard stepped forth. Cecil pushed back his hood to reveal his face. The guard paused. “Sir William?”
“Good day to you, Harry. I trust your wife is doing better.” Cecil’s voice was as smooth as the tidal pool shimmering below us. I hunched my shoulders, watching the guard from under my cap, which I’d yanked down about my ears. I was glad for once for my slim build and modest height. Dressed in my worn traveling gear, I looked like any other servant accompanying his master.
“She’s on the mend,” the guard said, with evident relief. “I do thank you for asking. Those herbs your lady wife sent served us in good stead. We are indebted to Lady Mildred and you for your kindness.”
I had to smile, despite my mistrust of Cecil and his wiles. Trust him to have sowed a debt where it most mattered by offering medical assistance to a Tower guard’s wife in need.
I heard him say, “Absolutely not. Lady Mildred will be pleased to hear her panaceas worked.