The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [116]
“Whitehall,” she repeated, and I saw her shudder. “That horrible place…”
I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her close. She looked as if she hadn’t known an hour of peace in years, as if nothing except tragedy would ever touch her again.
“I’ve little time,” I told her, and I took a step closer. “I’ve come to tell you not to despair.” I removed Mary’s second letter from within my cloak. “Her Majesty sends you this.”
She recoiled, as if she’d been struck. “Her Majesty? Is it over, then?”
“It will be soon. By tonight, the council must declare for her; they can do nothing else. The duke’s army has deserted him. It is a matter of time before he surrenders or is captured.”
She gnawed at her lip, glancing at the letter in my hand. “God knows in His Wisdom, I never desired this,” she said. “The duke and his wife, my parents and the council … they forced this on me. They made me marry Guilford and do their bidding. Thus shall I tell Mary, if she ever finds it in her heart to forgive me.”
“She already has. Her Majesty knows how grievously you’ve been used.”
Her voice was as firm as the hand she held up. “Pray, do not seek to lighten my burden. I’ve committed treason. There is no other remedy than to suffer the punishment. I will not shirk my duty, not even for my life.”
I felt tears perilously close. I extended the letter to her. “Her Majesty won’t let you suffer anything. As soon as she’s seen to the true culprits in this affair, she will release you. You will go home, my lady, back to your studies and your books.”
“My books…” Her voice caught, and I couldn’t resist anymore. I strode to her, engulfed her in my arms. She sagged against my chest. Though she didn’t utter a sound, I felt her weep.
Ebbing light slanted through the window. In that moment, I wanted to tell her everything I had discovered, so that she would know she was not alone, so that she would always find in me an uncle who cared for her.
But the words stuck in my throat. I could never tell her the truth; it was too dangerous. It would only darken the terrible burden she already carried. Though I might one day come to understand why the Dudleys had done what they had, I knew in that instant that I would never forgive them for the devastation they had wrought on this fifteen-year-old girl.
She drew back. She was composed, the wetness on her cheeks fading as she took the crushed letter from me and slipped it into her gown pocket. “I’ll read it later,” she said, and she was about to say something else when she was interrupted by the sudden disquieting toll of bells.
“You must leave,” she said. “You cannot be found here. It wouldn’t bode well for you.”
“My lady,” I said to her, “if you ever find need of me you have only to send word.”
She smiled. “Not even you can save me from the path God has ordained.”
I bowed again, went to the door. I glanced over my shoulder. She had returned to her vigil at the window, twilight gathering itself about her.
Cecil rose from a stool in the passage. Thanking Tom, who locked the door once more, he took me by the arm. “I was about to come in after you. Did you hear the bells? We must leave at once. In an hour at most, the gates shall close in Mary’s name. This will be her prison.”
I shook his hand away. “God speed, then. I still have unfinished business.”
He stared at me. “No. I know what you’re thinking, and it is madness. She is not a prisoner. She’s free to move about, tell anyone she pleases that you are alive and well.”
“She won’t. She’s too busy trying to save her precious son. Besides, there was never any proof. Alice is dead. I’m no longer a threat, if indeed I ever was.”
“Be that as it may,” he said, and for the first time since we’d met I sensed genuine concern in his voice. “Would you put your life in her hands? Think before you do this. I will not be held responsible for whatever may befall you.”
“I never expected you to. I’ve asked Peregrine to wait for me in the fields outside the city with our horses. If I’m not there by nightfall, he’s to go to Hatfield. You can meet him and ride