The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [30]
“It is. I serve his son Lord Robert.”
“Oh.” He pointed down the path toward the bulk of the palace in the distance, rooftops and turrets and gateways digging into the sky. “Through there and to your left. Once you reach the first courtyard, you’ll have to ask someone for directions. I’ve never been inside.”
I bowed. “Thank you, Master Peregrine. I hope we meet again.”
His smile lit up his face. In that instant he appeared very much his age, reminding me again, with a pang, of myself—precocious and striving for attention in a hostile world. “If Lord Robert ever has need of another page,” he said, “or just someone to help out with the odd chore, I’m your man. I can do more than feed horses, you know.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said, and I started down the path, wind-tossed leaves at my feet.
I glanced over my shoulder. Peregrine had disappeared. I frowned, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two figures emerge from the trees on either side of me, daggers in hand. I spun about to bolt back the way I’d come.
The men pounced. Shouting, flailing with my arms, I succeeded in landing a kick in a groin before a massive fist crunched my jaw and sent me to the ground. As everything about me overturned, I heard a cold voice say, “That’s enough. I don’t want him bloodied.”
The men eased back, one of them clutching his groin and letting loose an obscenity. Despite the pain in my head and jaw, I mustered a chuckle. “Too late,” I said, to the unseen man who’d called off the attack. “I think he broke a tooth.”
“You’ll recover.” My cap was tossed at me. “Get up. Slowly.”
He stepped into view, a cloak hanging from emaciated shoulders: Walsingham, looking even more austere in the dawn than he had under moonlight. He couldn’t have been much older than me, judging by the timbre of his voice and unlined sallow skin, yet he seemed ancient, like someone who had never known a moment of spontaneity. At least I knew now what his training was. Evidently, Walsingham was an expert henchman.
“You might have asked to speak with me,” I said.
He ignored me. “I suggest you not attempt to flee or otherwise resist. My men can yet break a tooth, or other things.” He motioned. The ruffians flanked me. There was no way to extract my dagger from my boot.
One of the men grasped my arm, hard. As I spun about to fend off his attack, the other thrust a sackcloth over my head and bound my hands with rope. Blinded and restrained, I was forced off the path, in a direction I assumed led away from the palace.
They marched me at an unflagging pace through the hunting park and into winding streets, where the clatter of wheels vied with heels on stone, vendors shouting, and the hawking cries of beggars. I smelled the Thames, rank with rot; and then I was shoved through a door, protesting, for which I earned another ear-ringing clout.
Pushed down a passageway and through another door, I staggered into a sudden silent space, filled with the scent of oranges. I’d eaten an orange once, years ago. I had never forgotten it. Oranges were imported from Spain. Those who could afford them had luxurious tastes and the wherewithal to indulge them.
The rope about my wrists was undone. The door shut behind me. I tore off the hood. A familiar figure rose from a desk set before a casement window that offered a sweeping view of a riverside garden, willow trees bending over wrought-iron benches and boxwood hedges.
I stared. “You,” I breathed.
Chapter Ten
“I’m afraid so,” said Master Secretary Cecil. “I apologize if you were mishandled. Walsingham thought it best if we gave you no other choice than to accept my invitation.”
I knew without asking that Walsingham stood outside the door, preventing any attempt I might make to escape. I clamped back a retort, watching Cecil move to an oak sideboard, upon which sat a platter of victuals, the basket of oranges, and a flagon. I was fairly certain this alleged invitation of his had something to do with last night, which made my curiosity a little stronger