The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [6]
Master Shelton’s voice was hard. “If she was, then she’ll only bring trouble. It follows her wherever she goes, just as it did her whore of a mother.”
I didn’t dare say more. I knew about Anne Boleyn, of course. Who didn’t? Like many in the land, I had grown up to the lurid tales of Henry VIII and his six wives by whom he had sired his son, our current king, Edward VI, and two daughters, the ladies Mary and Elizabeth. In order to marry Anne Boleyn, King Henry had cast aside his first wife, the Lady Mary’s mother, Katherine of Aragon, who was a princess of Spain. He then made himself head of the Church. It was said that Anne Boleyn laughed when she was crowned; but she did not laugh for long. Reviled by the people as a heretic witch, who had spurred the king to upend the kingdom, only three years after she gave birth to Elizabeth, Anne was accused of incest and treason. She was beheaded, as were her brother and four other men. King Edward’s mother, Jane Seymour, was betrothed to Henry the day after Anne died.
I knew that many people who had lived through Anne’s rise and fall despised her, even after her tragic end. Katherine of Aragon still prevailed in the common heart, her stoic grace never forgotten, even as her life was torn apart. Nevertheless, I was unnerved by the vehemence in Master Shelton’s voice. He spoke as if Elizabeth were to blame for her mother’s deeds.
Even as I tried to make sense of it, he directed my attention to a silhouette etched like thorns against the darkening evening sky. “That’s Whitehall,” he said. “Come, it’s getting late. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
We rode across the vast open park, into streets that fronted walled manors and dark medieval churches. I saw a large stone cathedral standing like a sentinel on a slope and marveled at its stark splendor; as we neared Whitehall Palace itself, I was overcome by awe.
I had seen castles before. Indeed, the Dudley estate where I’d been raised was reckoned one of the most impressive in the realm. But Whitehall was unlike anything I’d seen. Nestled by a curve in the river, Henry VIII’s royal residence rose before me—a multicolored hive of fantastical turrets, curved towers, and galleries sprawling like somnolent beasts. From what I could discern, two major thoroughfares dissected it, and every square foot teemed with activity.
We entered under the northern gate, cantering past a crowded forecourt into an inner courtyard crammed with jostling menials, officials, and courtiers. Taking our horses by the reins, we started to make our way on foot to what I assumed would be the stables, when a trim man in a crimson doublet walked purposefully toward us.
Master Shelton stopped, bowed stiffly. The man likewise inclined his head in greeting. His pale blue eyes assessed us, a spade-shaped russet beard complimenting his lively features. I had the impression of an ageless vitality about him, as well as a keen intelligence.
As I lowered my eyes in deference, I espied crescents of dried ink under his fingernails. I heard him say in a cool tone, “Master Shelton, her ladyship informed me you might be arriving today. I trust your travels were not too arduous.”
Master Shelton said quietly, “No, my lord.”
The man’s gaze shifted to me. “And this is…?”
“Brendan,” I blurted, before I realized what I was doing. “Brendan Prescott. To serve you, Your Grace.” On impulse I executed a bow that demonstrated hours of painstaking practice, though to him I must have seemed inept.
As if to confirm my thoughts, he let out a hearty laugh. “You must be Lord Robert’s new squire.” His smile widened. “Your master may require such lofty address from you in private, but I am content with a mere ‘Master Secretary Cecil’ or ‘my lord,’ if you do not mind.”
I felt heat rush into my cheeks. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“The lad is tired, is all,” Master Shelton muttered. “If you would inform her ladyship of our arrival, we’ll not trouble you further.