The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [38]
“She said you thought too much of yourself. Or too little of her.” I realized I shouldn’t be saying this. I was supposed to encourage his delusions, not crush them. But I couldn’t help myself. Lord Robert Dudley deserved to be yanked down a notch or two.
His jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought he would knock my hand aside. Then he gave a terse laugh. “Well, well. So, she refused my token. Of course, she did. The royal virgin—always presuming on her chastity. It’s her favorite role. We’ll let her have her fun for now, eh?”
The icy mirth in his tone crept down my spine. Then he gestured magnanimously, all charm and ease once more. “Keep the ring. I’ll put a finer one on her finger yet.”
Cuffing my shoulder, he sauntered to the door. “Gather up your things. We’re going to Greenwich, but not by barge. Leave the river to weaklings and women. We’ll ride our steeds over good English soil, like comrades and friends.”
Friends. He thought we were friends now, accomplices in a sordid game of deceit. I bowed, turning to the table. “My lord,” I said in a low voice.
He chuckled. “That’s right, I forgot. I’ll leave you to change. Don’t take too long.” He paused. “Come to think of it, you always were particular as a maiden when it came to undressing,” he mused, and my heart leapt against my ribs. He shrugged. “It’s not as if you’ve anything I haven’t seen before.”
He strolled out, closing the door behind him. I waited until I was certain he wouldn’t return before I furtively divested myself of my rumpled new doublet and good shoes.
I stood in chemise and hose. I had to look. Hooking my hand in my hose, I lowered it to my groin. The large maroon discoloration spilled across my left hip, its edges like wilted petals.
It had been there since birth. Though not uncommon, such blemishes were often dubbed “demon bites” or “Lucifer’s pawprints” by the ignorant and superstitious. I’d learned early to conceal it from prying eyes, particularly those of the Dudley boys, who’d have tormented me all the more. Never had any of them seen me naked.
Mistress Alice had said it was a rose left by the kiss of an angel while I was still in the womb. A fanciful tale, which I’d almost believed. But as I matured, it had been the touch of a real woman, like the maid at the castle who introduced me to pleasure and eased its stigma, that taught me that not everyone was as sensitive to its significance as I was.
La marque de la rose …
I shuddered, yanking up my hose and reaching for my leather jerkin. Rolling up the doublets, I stuffed them into my saddlebag. I’d not told Cecil, not yet, but I would. As soon as I fulfilled my obligations I would ask him to help me discover the truth of my birth, no matter the cost. For now, being Robert Dudley’s new friend was a fine enough start. A friend was trusted, relied upon, confided in—someone we turn to in times of need. And wherever Robert went, there his new friend would be, like a shadow.
I had no doubt that the shadow trailing me wouldn’t be far behind.
GREENWICH
Chapter Twelve
Greenwich Palace materialized in a multitude of turrets and pointed blue slate rooftops, fronted by the southeastern swath of the Thames. From the slope where Robert and I halted to rest our mounts, I thought it a more graceful sight than Whitehall’s colossal sprawl, a secluded palace nestled amid woodlands, removed from the grit and chaos of London. It was difficult to conceive of any menace lurking there. Yet Cecil believed it was in Greenwich that the duke had sequestered the king, and here he would make his move against Elizabeth.
“She was born in Greenwich,” Robert said, breaking into my thoughts. “September 7, 1533.” He chuckled. “It was quite the occasion. King Henry had been striding about for months, crashing heads, and cutting off not a few, declaring to all who cared to listen that his beloved queen would bear him a son. But when Anne Boleyn took to her bed, all she brought mewling into the world was, as Henry himself put it, ‘a worthless