The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [42]
“The privy gentlemen watch over those rooms,” Peregrine explained as we entered an inner ward. “They’re charged with guarding the gallery to the royal chamber and preventing anyone from intruding. Of course, they can be bribed, but it’s risky. A privy gentleman who betrays the king’s trust can lose his post, and his head, if His Majesty gets mad enough.”
“Do you know any of Edward’s privy gentlemen?”
“You do. Your master Lord Robert is one of them.”
“I mean, one we can trust.”
He considered. “There’s Barnaby Fitzpatrick. He’s the King’s childhood friend. Sometimes he’d accompany Edward to the stables. He never said much, just stood and watched Edward like a bull. I don’t know if he’s here, though. I heard that most of Edward’s attendants were banished after he fell ill. Something about exposing His Majesty to contagion, though he looked well enough to me until the duke got hold of him.”
“Peregrine, you’re a veritable mine of information.” I donned my cap. “If you ever do choose to betray me, I won’t stand a chance.”
He gave me a sour look. “Do you want me to look for Barnaby? He might know a way to get into the Secret Lodgings, if that’s what you’re after.”
I glanced over my shoulder. As I did, I realized scouting the vicinity was becoming second nature to me. “Keep your voice down. Yes, he might be useful. Look for him but don’t tell him anything. I don’t know where I’ll be, but…”
“I’ll find you. I’ve done it before. Greenwich is not that big.”
I nodded. “Good luck, then. Whatever you do, please do stay out of trouble.”
Clad in his stable clothes, having discarded the groom’s coat, Peregrine dashed across the ward and up a staircase. With a whispered prayer for his safety, I went the opposite way, into the wing that housed the nobility. I’d decided to leave my saddlebag hidden in the straw near Cinnabar, where no one could steal it without getting their guts kicked in. My horse was tolerant but hardly amenable to searches in his stall by strangers. I’d removed only my dagger, which I kept in my boot, and so I moved easily, without visible burden.
The corridors were quiet. I faced a passage lined with identical doors, some shut, others ajar, all indistinguishable. I should have asked Robert exactly which room was his, I thought, as I began trying latches and peeking into chambers. They were similar in layout, containing a leather or faded cloth curtain separating a small front room from a much smaller bedchamber, some of which had primitive privies. As in Whitehall, the walls were uniformly whitewashed, the wood floors unadorned. What few furnishings the rooms had—a stool or bench, table, battered bed or pallet on rickety legs—were strictly utilitarian. Not luxurious by court standards, but at least they appeared free of fleas, rodents, and the ubiquitous smelly rushes.
It took a few tries before I located Robert’s room at the far end, recognizable because of his saddlebags tossed beside a leather coffer brought from Whitehall. His mud-spattered riding cloak was flung across a chair, as if he’d discarded it in a hurry.
He was gone, presumably to report to his father. I debated what to do next. Perhaps I could take advantage of this spare time to search his saddlebags for clues.
I froze in my tracks. There were footsteps coming. Bolting past the curtain into the bedchamber, with my breath lodged in my chest, I crouched down and put my eye to a frayed moth hole in the worn fabric.
I waited. A cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. For a paralyzing second I feared my shadow had found me. I forced myself to look, relief overwhelming me when I realized that despite the hooded cloak and scuffed boots, this person was shorter than me, smaller in build. Unless Peregrine had made a mistake, it couldn’t be our mystery man.
The figure