The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [115]
We strode onward toward the keep.
* * *
I barely had time to reflect on the fact that I was in the infamous Tower of London. The murmur of the Thames at the water gates echoed through the inner ward, magnified by the breadth of unrelenting stone walls. Guards, pages, and functionaries rushed to and fro, attending to their business without a smile to be seen among them, adding to the claustrophobic air.
Cecil didn’t acknowledge anyone. In his unadorned hooded cloak and flat velvet cap, he could have been any one of the numerous clerks looking for their shifts to end. Indeed, any of said clerks could have been other than what they appeared. I scanned the ward. For a heart-stopping moment I thought I glimpsed a slim figure pause to mark us. When I focused, however, there was no one there.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. It couldn’t possibly have been Stokes; he’d be with the duchess on her way to her country manor, seeking to put as much distance between her hapless daughter Jane and herself as she could. I must be more tired than I’d thought. I was letting fatigue get the best of me. And I was beginning to think I must be mad to have insisted on this errand. Impregnable walls closed in around me; under my feet unraveled miles of pits and dungeons, where men suffered the most agonizing of torments. Death on the scaffold was considered a mercy compared to the array of devices inflicted on those imprisoned here, some of which were so horrific many never made it to the scaffold.
Fear rooted in the pit of my stomach. I concentrated on keeping my expression impassive when we were detained again at the keep’s entrance. Once more Cecil parlayed his credentials and astonishing recollection for first names and familial details, not to mention a discreet use of coin, to earn us admittance.
Inside, torches on the walls gurgled flame. The hall we traversed was damp, cold; the sun never penetrated here. We climbed a turnpike staircase to a second floor roofed in timber, where two stern-faced yeomen in uniform, with snub-nosed dags at their belts, stopped us.
“Master Cecil, I regret to say no one is allowed in,” a burly fellow informed us, though not without an apologetic note in his voice. Did Cecil know every guard of import in the Tower?
Evidently, for Cecil smiled. “Ah, yes, Tom. I was told the lords had ordered the lady confined for her own protection.” He removed Mary’s letter to the council from his pocket, the broken seal showing. “However, this man brings news from Lady Mary. I don’t think we should interfere with Tudor family business, do you?” His tone was light, almost amiable. “We might soon find ourselves having to explain our own rather insignificant roles in this unfortunate affair, and I for one would prefer to say I did what was right. Besides, he needs only a moment. ”
Good guard Tom didn’t need to be told twice. Motioning brusquely to the other, he had the door unlocked. I waited for Cecil to move forward. Instead he stepped aside. “I actually do have some papers to fetch,” he told me. “You’ve a few minutes. That is all.”
I stepped inside.
Though small, the room was not unpleasant; it looked like any lady’s bower, hung with tapestries, fresh rushes strewn on the plank-wood flooring. She sat in a chair positioned at the casement window, which offered a circumscribed view of the city.
Without looking around Jane Grey said, “I’m not hungry, and I am not going to sign anything, so put whatever you have on the table and go.”
“My lady.” I bowed low. She stood, her anxiety showing in her quick movement. She wore a fustian gown, her ginger-colored hair loose over her thin shoulders. In the gloom of the chamber, where premature dusk already began to settle, she seemed tiny, a child in adult garb.
Her voice caught in her throat. “I … I know you.”
“Yes, my lady. I am Squire Prescott. We met at Whitehall. I am honored