The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [117]
Cecil’s jaw tensed under his beard. He stood silent for a long moment before he drew his cloak about him and tightened his hold on his valise. “May you find what you seek,” he said tersely, and he went down the staircase without a backward glance.
I resisted the claw of fear in my belly. Turning to meet the guards’ curious stares, I said, “If one of you might indicate the way to Lord Guilford’s room…?”
The yeoman Tom said, “I’ll take you to him.”
Chapter Thirty
I climbed worn stone flags to the uppermost story, Tom ahead of me. Despite my icy bravura, I dreaded the upcoming moment more than I’d admit.
We came to a narrow door. As Tom spoke with the guards there, I almost turned and fled. I could still catch up with Cecil, who was another kind of monster, yes, but one I’d prefer to deal with any day. I could meet Peregrine in the fields; by tonight I could be with Kate and Elizabeth in the safety of the princess’s manor. I could live out the rest of my days in ignorance and most likely be the better for it. Whatever lay beyond that door would only bring me more suffering.
Even as I thought this, my fingers strayed to the inner pocket in my cloak, seeking the almost intangible object I’d secreted there. The feel of it strengthened my faltering resolve. I had to do this, for Mistress Alice, if nothing else.
“Five minutes.” Tom handed me his weapon. “Be careful. She’s rabid as a dog, that one.”
He unbolted and pulled open the door. Shoving the pistol in my belt, I stepped inside.
A large leather coffer was in the middle of the room, heaped with clothing. Upon the floor were piled papers and books. Two figures labored in a corner, hauling a wooden chest from the wall. Near-identical shades of fair hair mingled damply, the lean bodies under sweat-stained clothing molded of the same rib and bone.
At the sound of the door opening, she reared around to face the intruder. At her side Guilford likewise looked up. He froze.
“It’s about time you deigned to—” she began. She stiffened. “Who are you? How dare you intrude on us!” She meant to sound commanding, but her voice was strained, her appearance so unlike the impeccable unforgiving matron I’d always known that I couldn’t formulate a word.
Then I remembered. I had a beard. I wore a cap.
I removed the cap. “I thought you’d recognize me, of all people, my lady.”
Guilford yelped. Hissing breath through her bared teeth, Lady Dudley stalked to me, her unbound hair showing streaks of silver, framing her gaunt, infuriated features.
“You. You are supposed to be dead.”
I met her empty eyes. I could see now that she was ill. She’d been ill for years, both in mind and spirit. She’d kept it hidden under her glacial facade, against which nothing had seemed to penetrate, but all the while it had consumed her, her husband’s betrayal after years of dutiful marriage exposing the raw, desperate creature she had become. Faced with abandonment after a lifetime of self-sacrifice, she had lashed out with all the cunning at her disposal. Lethal as she was, in the final say she had acted out of unbearable grief. And grief was something I understood, even if the realization brought no comfort.
“I’m glad to disappoint you,” I said.
Her mouth twisted. “You always did enjoy making a nuisance out of yourself.” She reached up a hand in a phantom echo of her previous elegance, pushed back tendrils of hair from her brow. “How tedious. I’d thought myself well rid of you by now.”
“Oh, you will be—as soon as you answer my questions.”
She paused. Behind her Guilford cried, “You—you stay away from us!”
“Be quiet.” She did not take her gaze from me. “Let him ask whatever he likes. It costs us nothing to hear him waste his breath.”
I flipped back my cloak, revealing Tom’s dag. Her eyes widened. “I may not be the best shot,” I said, “but in such a small room I’m bound to hit something. Or someone.”
She stepped before me. “Leave my son alone. He knows nothing. Ask your miserable questions and be gone. I’ve more pressing