The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [120]
Master Shelton had vanished. I started shoving and elbowing, battling to stay standing. I staggered over the inert bodies of those who’d fallen underfoot and been trampled. As I was dislodged along with the rest of the horde onto a landing quay, I looked about.
No sign of him anywhere.
Behind me I could hear the charge of the guards on horseback, followed by those with pikes. Scattering in terror, many of the men began leaping off the quay into the river, preferring to risk the tide than be caught and skewered alive.
“NO!” I roared, even as I too ran forward. “NOOO!”
I kept roaring as I plunged into the tide-swollen Thames.
Hours later, dripping and reeking of sewage, I reached the fields outside the city. Above me a bonfire-lit sky blazed. Behind me London reverberated with clanging bells.
I had managed to paddle my way to a set of crumbling water steps on the south side, avoiding the river depths, where whirlpools churned the surface. I also avoided the sight of those sucked under by the pools’ vortexes and those clambering back onto the quay like drenched cats, only to find the soldiers waiting. I could only wonder how many would die tonight for having served the duke, even in the most minor capacity, and if Cecil had gotten out. No doubt, he had. The master secretary possessed a knack for survival.
I tried not to think of Shelton, whom I doubted had ever learned to swim.
Even more painful was the thought of Jane Grey, who as of this hour had become a captive of the state, dependent on the queen’s mercy. Instead, I focused on putting one sloshing foot in front of the next, dragging the sodden length of my cloak behind me as I slogged to the road. I had no idea how far it was to Hatfield. Maybe I could hitch a ride on a passing cart after I dried off enough to not resemble a vagabond.
When I thought I’d reached a safe enough distance, I sank to the ground to search my cloak. I extracted the gold leaf in its drenched cloth, moved it to my jerkin. I was squeezing the excess water from my cloak and rolling it into a bundle to carry on my back when hoofbeats sounded, galloping toward me.
I crouched near a hawthorn bush, which of course offered little cover. Fortunately the night was dark, moonless. Maybe whoever it was would be too intent on their own escape to notice me. I huddled as close to the ground as I could get, holding my breath as two horsemen neared, both in caps and cloaks. When one came to a halt, I cursed my luck.
“It’s about time,” said a familiar voice.
With a weary smile, I stood.
Cecil looked me up and down. He rode Deacon. At his side, on Cinnabar, was Peregrine. The boy exclaimed, “Finally! We’ve been searching for you for over an hour, wondering what kind of trouble you’d gotten yourself into this time.” He chuckled. “Looks like another dip in the river. Are you quite sure you’re not part fish?”
I gave him a sullen stare.
Cecil said quietly: “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Almost.” Tying my half-bundled cloak to the saddle, I swung up in front of Peregrine. “It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”
“I never thought it would be.” Cecil followed my gaze back to the silhouette of the Tower. “The rabble’s gone wild,” he said. “They clamor in the streets for Northumberland’s blood. Let us pray Queen Mary proves worthy of it.” He returned his regard to me. I met his eyes in tacit understanding. Enemies we should have been; indeed, should have remained. But the times demanded more of us.
“To Hatfield, then,” said Cecil.
* * *
We parted ways many hours later, as dawn spilled over the horizon. Cecil’s manor lay a few miles away. He gave me detailed directions to Hatfield; there was an awkward moment when I uttered my gratitude that he’d stayed behind to help Peregrine. “Though I did tell the rascal not to wait for me,” I admonished.
Cecil inclined his head. “I was happy to oblige. It’s a relief to know there is still something to be redeemed in me. Please, give my regards to Her Grace and to Mistress Stafford, of course.” He jolted