The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [5]
“Did you see her?” she whispered, and though she looked right at me, I had the impression she did not see me at all. “Did you see our Bess? She’s come to us at last, God be praised. Only she can save us from that devil Northumberland’s grip.”
I stood immobile, grateful I carried my livery in my saddlebag. Was this how the people of London viewed John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland? I knew the duke now served as the king’s chief minister, having assumed power following the fall of the king’s former protector and uncle, Edward Seymour. Many in the land had cursed the Seymours for their avarice and ambition. Had the duke incurred the same hatred?
I turned from the woman. Master Shelton had ridden up behind me; he stared glowering from his bay. “You are a fool, woman,” he rumbled, “Careful my lord the duke’s men don’t ever hear you, for they’ll cut out your tongue sure as I’m sitting here.”
She gaped at him. When she caught sight of the badge on his cloak, she staggered back. “The duke’s man!” she gibbered. She stumbled away. Those who remained took up the cry as they, too, fled for the safety of the tangled alleys or the nearest tavern.
On the other side of the thoroughfare, a group of decidedly coarse-looking men paused to stare at us. As I saw the glint of blades being jerked from sleeves, my stomach somersaulted.
“Best mount now,” said Master Shelton, without taking his eyes from the men. He did not need to tell me twice. I vaulted onto my saddle as Master Shelton swerved about, scanning the vicinity. The men started to cross the road, partially blocking the route the cavalcade had taken. I waited with my heart in my throat. We had two options. We could go back the way we’d come, which led to the riverbank and maze of streets, or plunge into what looked like an impenetrable row of decrepit timber-framed buildings. Master Shelton seemed to hesitate, whirling his bay back around on its hindquarters to gauge the approaching men.
Then his scarred face broke into a ferocious grin, and he dug his heels into his bay to vault forth—straight at them.
I kicked Cinnabar into swift action and followed at a breakneck pace. The men froze in midstep, eyes popping as they beheld the charge of solid muscle and hooves coming toward them. In unison, they flung themselves to either side like the clods of dirt our horses tore from the road; as we thundered past, I heard a gut-wrenching scream cut short. I glanced back.
One of the men lay facedown on the road, a pool of red seeping from his mangled head.
We plunged between the ramshackle edifices. All light extinguished. The miasmic smells of excrement, urine, and rotting food overpowered me like a mantle thrown over my face. Overhead, balconies formed a claustrophobic vault, festooned with dripping laundry and slabs of curing meat. Night soil splashed as our horses bolted through overflowing conduits that emptied the city’s filth into the river. I held my breath and clenched my teeth, tasting bile in my throat as the torturous passage seemed to go on forever, until we burst, gasping, into open expanse.
I reined Cinnabar to a halt. Everything reeled about me, and I closed my eyes, breathing in deeply to catch my breath and steady the whirlwind in my head. I sensed sudden silence, smelled ripe grass and a tang of apple smoke on the air. I opened my eyes.
We had crossed into another world.
About us, looming oaks and beeches swayed. A meadow stretched as far as my eye could see. I marveled at the peculiarity of such an oasis in the midst of the city; turning to Master Shelton, I saw he was looking straight ahead, his face like weathered stone. I had never seen him behave as he had a moment ago, riding as if hell-bent over the body of a helpless man, as though he had sloughed aside the veneer of privileged chamberlain to reveal the mercenary underneath.
I took a moment to collect my thoughts.