The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [27]
And as if I’d known the answer all along, never knowing when or if this moment would come, I said, “I want to help Your Grace, wherever it may lead.”
She clasped her hands, glancing down. Dry wine stains soiled her hem. “I hadn’t expected to make a friend tonight.” She lifted her gaze to me. “Much as I appreciate the offer, I must decline. It would complicate your standing with your master, which seems to me none too firm. I would, however, accept an escort to my barge. My ladies must be waiting for me.”
Resisting sudden emptiness, I bowed low. She reached out, touched my sleeve. “An escort,” she said softly, “to see me safe. I’ll lead the way.”
Without another word she took me through the courtyard and back into a maze of silent galleries hung with tapestries, past casements shuttered by velvet drapes and embrasures that offered moon-drenched glimpses of patios and gardens. I wondered what she felt, being in this place built by her father for her mother, a monument to a passion that had consumed England and ended on the scaffold. I saw nothing in her expression to indicate she felt anything.
We emerged where we had started, in the mist-threaded garden leading to the quay. Standing there in anxious vigil were her women. Mistress Ashley bustled forth, the princess’s cloak in her hands. Elizabeth raised a hand to detain the matron’s advance. Her other attendant, the one called Mistress Stafford, remained where she stood, enveloped in her tawny cape.
I feared Elizabeth might nurse a serpent in her midst. She turned to me. “A wise man would look to his safety now. The Dudleys brew a storm that could rend this realm apart, and if there is any justice, they will pay for it. I’d not wish to be associated with their name, then, not when men have lost their heads for far less.” She drew back. “Fare you well, squire. I don’t think we’ll have occasion to meet again.”
She strode to her barge. Her cloak was thrown over her shoulders. Flanked by her women, she moved down the steps. A few moments later, I heard the boatman’s oars strike the water as the craft plied the rising tide, sweeping her away from Whitehall, from court. From me.
In the wake of her departure, I sought reassurance. She had said no to my help, but only because she cared. Much as it hurt, I hoped she left London while she still could. This court, I thought, echoing Master Cecil’s pronouncement only hours ago in this garden, was not safe. Not for her.
Not for any of us.
I passed a hand over my doublet, feeling the ring in my pocket. I had failed in my first, and probably last, task for Robert Dudley. I should indeed see to my own safety now.
I started back into the palace. After what seemed like hours of aimless wandering, I stumbled upon the stables, where the dogs greeted me with lazy barks, drowsy eyed amid slumbering horses in their painted stalls. After checking on Cinnabar, whom I found well stabled, with plenty of oats, I located a coarse blanket in a corner. Divesting myself of doublet and boots, I burrowed into a pile of straw, drawing the blanket around me as if it were linen.
It was warm and cozy, and it smelled like home.
Chapter Nine
I awoke disorientated, thinking I was back in Dudley Castle having once again fallen to sleep in the stables with a stolen book. I drowsily searched by my side for the book, before I recalled with a start the events of the past day and night.
I had to smile. Not the most auspicious way to start a career at court, I thought, as I righted myself on my elbows and reached for my boots.
I paused.
Crouched at the edge of the hay, wrist-deep in my doublet, was a young groom.
I smiled. “If you’re looking for this”—I held up the pouch—“I never go to sleep without it.”
The youth jumped to his feet, his mop of disheveled black curls and wide indignant eyes making him look like a startled