The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [23]
Before she could speak, a strident voice boomed, “Why the fuss over there?” And the ringed hand gripping the cane banged it twice, hard, on the floor. “I would know this instant!”
I recoiled. Lady Dudley went perfectly still. Then a peculiar smile tilted her lips. She motioned to me. “Well, then. It seems Her Grace of Suffolk would meet you.”
Chapter Seven
With a knot in my throat, I followed her. As we neared, Elizabeth glanced at me from her stance at the hearth. There wasn’t a hint of recognition in her cool amber gaze.
“Kneel,” Lady Dudley hissed in my ear. “The duchess of Suffolk is of royal blood, daughter of the younger sister of our late King Henry the Eighth. You must show her your respect.”
I dropped to one knee. I caught a glimpse of a spaniel huddled on a massive lap, its red leather collar encrusted in diamonds. The dog yipped.
I slowly lifted my gaze. Ensconced on a mound of cushions, constrained by a gem-encrusted bodice and galleon-sail nectarine skirts, was a monster.
“Her Grace Frances Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk,” lilted Lady Dudley. “Your Grace, may I present Squire Prescott? He’s newly come to court to serve as a squire to my son.”
“Squire?” The civility in the duchess’s high voice was brittle as piecrust. “Well, I can’t see the churl bowed over like that. On your feet, boy. Let us have a look at you.”
I did as she bade. Metallic eyes bore into me. She must have been handsome once, before inactivity and overindulgence at the table had taken their toll. The phantom of a once-robust beauty could still be discerned in the tarnished auburn hair coiled under her enormous jeweled headdress, in the strong line of her aquiline nose, and in the pampered translucence of her skin, which was taut and white, without blemish or wrinkle.
But it was her eyes that transfixed me; cruel, appraising, and appallingly shrewd, those eyes belied the indifference of her expression, tyrannical as only those born to privilege can be.
I couldn’t hold her stare for long and dropped my discomfited gaze to her hem. I saw that her left foot, squashed into a ludicrously delicate slipper, twisted inward, grossly misshapen.
I heard her chuckle. “I was an expert rider in my youth. Are you? A rider, that is?”
My reply was low, cautious. “I am, Your Grace. I was raised among horses.”
“He was raised at our manor,” interposed Lady Dudley, a perverse challenge in her voice. “He came to us by chance twenty years ago. Our housekeeper at the time found him—”
A terse wave of the duchess’s ringed fingers cut her off. “What? Have you no family?”
I glanced at Lady Dudley, though I knew she’d give me no succor. Her lips parted, showing teeth. With a sudden drop of my stomach, I wondered if I was about to be cast off. It happened. Masters transferred or exchanged servants for favors, to pay off debts, or to simply dispose of those who ceased to please. Was this why she’d brought me to court? Had all my aspirations been mere fanciful notions?
“No, Your Grace.” I couldn’t keep the quaver from my voice. “I am an orphan.”
“A shame.” The duchess’s tone indicated she’d heard enough. She said briskly to Lady Dudley, “Madam, your charity is to be commended. I trust the boy proves worthy of it.” Her hand flicked at me. “You may go.”
Overcome by relief, I bowed, remembering not to turn my back on a person of the blood royal. Just as I took a step backward, praying I wouldn’t bump into another chair, Lady Dudley leaned to the duchess and said: “Il porte la marque de la rose.”
She couldn’t realize I understood her words, unaware I’d studied French with the aid of one of Robert’s discarded lesson books. The duchess sat as if petrified, her ferocious gaze fixed on me. I froze in my tracks. What I saw in her narrowed eyes chilled my blood.
He bears the mark of the rose.
I felt sick. Lady Dudley stepped back from the chair, offered the duchess a brief curtsy. The duchess seemed unable to move. Behind her, lurking at the fringe of the group, I caught a tawny flicker. I blinked, looked again. It