The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [54]
“Oh, I do hope you’re not going to play the innocent when she gets here. That will not do. No, not at all. False modesty never impressed Her Grace. She knows all too well why you were brought to court and why Cecil shows such interest in you. And she’s not pleased. She does have the Tudor temper, after all. But you’ll learn that soon enough.”
With theatrical flair, he waved his hand at me. “Don’t go anywhere.” He yanked the door shut. A bolt outside it shot into place. Pitch darkness plunged over the cell.
In all my life, I had never been so afraid.
Chapter Sixteen
I closed my eyes, drew in slow even breaths. I let my eyes adjust to the gloom. Gradually the darkness lightened, shadows peeling from shadows. Judging from the chill, I determined I was underground. I could also discern the murmur of water nearby. Was I near the river?
I crept around the cell. I didn’t like what I found. Despite the wet algae on the floor and walls and the overall unpleasantness of the place, there were no droppings or other signs of rodents, though rats must infest Greenwich as they did every place where food could be found. There was a wide barred grate at the base of one wall by the floor; crouching down to look beyond that black hole I found a miasmic stench and clearly heard the gurgling water. I also discovered that although I could scratch clumps of mortar from the grate’s crevices, it was solid.
I must be under the ruins of the old medieval palace, perhaps in an ancient dungeon. But we’d come a distance from the lake, and not enough rain had fallen to explain this palpable moisture. Greenwich had been built after the age of feudal warfare. It had no ramparts or defensive moats, as independent-minded lords with armies of vassals were allegedly no longer a threat. Yet the slimy floor and moldering air indicated this cell had been flooded recently.
None of which eased my anxiety.
After circling the cell twice, I thought I knew how a caged lion must feel. Stamping my feet to stir the blood in my legs, I squatted back by the grate. My attempts confirmed that I could not dig or break it out from the wall. Even if the mortar around it could be dug out, the grate loosened or broken, I had no way to do so without a pick of some sort.
I was trapped, while in the hall the festivities for Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley’s wedding would soon commence, and the hour of Robert’s meeting with Elizabeth neared.
I sank to my haunches. I couldn’t have said how long I sat there, waiting. At one point I slipped into exhausted sleep and awoke, gasping, thinking I was drowning in a viscous sea. Only then did I realize that the smell permeating my skin was of river water, and that a muted clamor approached.
I came stiffly to my feet. An exasperated voice declared, “By the rood, Stokes, was there no other place to lock the wretch in?”
“Your Grace,” said Stokes. The bolt slid back. “I assure you this was the only place I could find on short notice that proved suitable to our needs.”
The door opened. Torchlight flooded the cell, blinding me. Seeing only shadows in the doorway, I brought up a hand to shield my eyes. A bulk pushed inside, swatting about with a cane. Then it went still, peering. “Bring in that torch!”
Stokes squeezed in behind the bulk. The torch he carried illuminated what first looked to me like a mastiff swathed in carnelian, a ludicrous pearl-dotted coif perched on its oversized head. I blinked repeatedly, forcing my one eye to focus. The swollen one had completely shut.
Frances Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, glared back at me. “He looks smaller. Are you certain it’s him? It could be someone else. Cecil is wily. He’d substitute his own mother if it would further his cause.”
“Your Grace,” said Stokes, “it’s him. Let my man handle this. It’s not safe.”
“No! I am not some lily-livered girl. If he so much as looks at me the wrong way, I’ll bash in his skull and be done with it.” She blared at me, brandishing her stout silver-handled cane, “You! Come closer.”
I advanced as calmly as I could, making certain