The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [55]
The end of her cane stabbed out, missing me by an inch. She guffawed. “Well, well. He has no idea. Did you hear that, Stokes? He’s no idea of how he’s offended.”
“I heard, Your Grace,” twittered Stokes. “An actor he most certainly is not.”
The cane slammed down. “Enough!” She lumbered to me. I had to stop from flinching. During my wandering through Whitehall the night after Elizabeth left, I had come across a portrait of Henry VIII, his gross ringed hands on his hips, bulging legs apart. Standing face-to-face now with the late king’s niece, I found the resemblance daunting.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I met her vicious stare. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, I believe we were introduced. I am Brendan Prescott, squire to Robert Dudley.”
I choked on a cry. With savage accuracy, her cane slammed up between my legs. I doubled over as white-hot pain seared off my breath. Another whack brought me gasping to my knees, my groin pulsating in agony.
She stood over me. “There, that’s better. You will kneel when I address you. You are before a Tudor, daughter of Henry the Eighth’s beloved sister Mary, late duchess of Suffolk and dowager queen of France. By all that is royal in my blood, you will show me respect.” She jabbed my concaved shoulders with her cane. “Again, who are you?”
I gazed up at her contorted visage. Her mouth turned inward, like a venomous bloom. “Seize him.” Stokes’s henchman, who was broad as a wall and twice my height, lumbered in. He hauled me up, pinioning my arms. I didn’t have the strength to struggle, limp from the pain of her blow to my genitals.
Stokes asked, “Shall we start with kicks to his ribs? That tends to loosen the tongue.”
“No.” She didn’t take her eyes off me. “He has too much to lose, and Cecil has no doubt paid him well for his silence. I don’t need him to say anything. I have eyes. I can see. Some things cannot be forged.” She stabbed her hand at me. “Strip him.”
Stokes handed her the torch and tore off my chemise. “He has very white skin,” he purred.
“Get out of my way.” She shoved Stokes aside, thrusting the torch at me. I tried to recoil, but the henchman’s grip manacled my wrists. Her eyes scoured me. “Nothing,” she said, “not a mark. It’s not him. I knew it. Lady Dudley has deceived me. That she-bitch forced me to surrender my claim to the throne for nothing. By God, she’ll pay for this. How dare she set her drunkard of a son and my own mealy-mouthed daughter above me?”
My blood congealed.
“Perhaps we should be thorough,” Stokes suggested. He instructed his man, “Turn him around.” The henchman started to pivot me. As he did, to my horror, I felt my breeches slip a notch, over my hip.
Silence fell. Then a hiss escaped her. “Stop.” She thrust the torch at me again. I clamped down on a cry as the flame singed my skin.
“Where did you get that?” she said haltingly, as if she couldn’t trust her own sight. I hesitated. Pain speared through my shoulders and across my chest as the henchman yanked up my arms farther.
“Her Grace asked you a question,” Stokes said. “If I were you, I’d answer.”
“I—I was … born with it,” I whispered.
“Born with it?” She reared her face at me, so close I could see tiny broken veins threading her nose under her powder. “You were born with it, you say?”
I nodded, helplessly.
She met my eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
Stokes peered. “Your Grace, it does look like—”
“Yes, I’m certain. It’s not him. It cannot be.” She handed Stokes the torch, grabbed back her cane. “If you want to save that pretty white skin,” she said, her fist clenching about the silver handle, “you’d best tell me the truth. Who are you, and what has Cecil paid you to do?”
I felt nauseous. I had no idea what to say. Should I spill out the truth, as I knew it, or pretend to know something I didn’t? Which was more likely to keep me alive?
“I am a foundling,” I said. “I … I was raised in the Dudley household,