The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [121]
I looked after him. Too much had gone between us for friendship to ever develop, but if Elizabeth must have an amoral champion, she’d find none better than William Cecil.
Peregrine slouched behind me, half asleep. “Hold tight,” I said. “We’re not stopping till we get there.”
I spurred forth under a lightening sheet of a sky, over summer meadows and through copses of beech, until we came upon the red-brick manor nestled amidst towering oaks, the floury scent of baking bread rising warm in the morning air.
I slowed Cinnabar to an amble. As we neared, I saw that Hatfield was a working manor, with an enclosed pasture for livestock, fruit trees, orchards, dairies, and other outbuildings. I knew, without seeing them, that the gardens would be lovely yet slightly wild, like their mistress.
Solace stole over me. This looked like a place where I might heal.
When I saw the figure running from the house onto the road, her auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders, I lifted my hand to wave, in joy and relief.
I was home, at long last.
HATFIELD
Chapter Thirty-one
I did not dream.
Awakening to the chamber where Kate had brought me in a state of mind-emptying exhaustion, I lay under rumpled linen, absorbing the scent of lavender coming from a wreath on the wall, which mingled with the linseed polish of the chair, the clothes press, and the table.
I stretched my aching bruised limbs and rose. Stepping past a pewter pitcher and basin, I looked out the mullioned window to the parkland surrounding the manor. I did not know how long I had slept, but I felt refreshed, almost whole. I turned back to the room and began searching for my clothes, which I seemed to recall Kate peeling off my inert body as I dropped into bed.
Without so much as a knock, the door banged open.
Mistress Ashley bustled in, carrying a tray. “Breakfast,” she announced, “though in truth it should be supper. You’ve slept away most of the day. So has your dirty friend. He’s in the kitchen devouring a lamb.”
I gasped, my hands shooting down to cover myself.
She chortled. “Oh, don’t mind me. I have seen a man in his skin. I may seem a bit long in the tooth to you, but I’ll have you know I’m a married woman.”
“My—my clothes?” I was stunned. The last time I’d seen Mistress Ashley, she’d scoured me with her eyes. I barely recognized this stout partridge with her cheery voice and convivial manner.
“Your clothes are being laundered.” She whipped the linen off the tray to reveal a platter of manchet bread, cheese, fruit, and salted meat. “There’s a fresh shirt, a jerkin, and breeches in the press. We tried to match your weight and height to one of the grooms. Nothing fancy, mind you, but they’ll do until we have you properly fitted.”
She eyed me matter-of-factly. “You needn’t fret. Mistress Stafford found your things in the lining and has them safe. She’s in the garden now, picking herbs. It’s down the stairs, through the hall, and out the doors to your left. You can meet her there once you’ve eaten and washed.” She paused. “You’re too slight for a beard. There’s water in the ewer and lye soap in the basin. We make the soap ourselves. It’s as good as any you’ll find, including that silly perfumed stuff from France they charge a king’s ransom for in London.”
She marched to the door. Then she stopped, as if she’d forgotten something. Turning back to me as I whipped the rumpled sheet from the bed and flung it around my waist, she said, “We owe you our thanks. Mistress Stafford told us how you helped Her Grace visit with His Majesty her brother, God rest his soul, and then escape the duke’s clutches. Were it not for you, who knows where she might have ended up? Northumberland never wished anything but harm on her. I warned her not to leave this house, but she didn’t listen to me. She never listens to me. She never listens to anyone. She thinks she’s invincible. It’ll be her undoing one day, mark my words.”
She babbled like a brook! Who would have guessed?
I lowered my head. “I was honored