The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [8]
Again, I received his curious smile. “I don’t live here. I have my own house nearby. Rooms at court, such as they are, are reserved for those who can afford them. If you seek my business, I will tell you that I am master secretary to his lordship the duke and the council. So, in a manner of speaking, we all eat from the same hand.”
“Oh.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “I see. I didn’t mean to offend, my lord.”
“As I said, Master Cecil will suffice. There’s ceremony enough here, without us adding to it.” A mischievous gleam lit his pale eyes. “And you needn’t be so humble about it. It’s not often a courtier has the privilege of conversing with someone untainted by pretense.”
I kept quiet as we mounted a flight of steps. The corridor we entered was narrower than the galleries, devoid of tapestries and carpets, revealing functional plaster walls and plank floor.
He came to a stop before one of several identical doors. “These are the apartments of the duke’s sons. I’m not certain who is in at the moment, if anyone. They each have their duties. In any event, I must leave you here.” He sighed. “A secretary’s work never ends, I fear.”
“Thank you, Master Cecil.” I bowed with less effect due to the saddlebag in my hand, though I was grateful for his kindness. I sensed he had gone out of his way to make me feel less uncomfortable.
“You are welcome.” He paused, regarding me in pensive silence. “Prescott,” he mused, “your surname has Latin roots. Has it been in your family long?”
His question caught me off guard. For a second, I plunged into panic, unsure as to how, or if, I should answer. Would it be better to brazen an outright lie or to take a chance on a possibly newfound friend?
I decided on the latter. Something about Cecil invited confidence, but even more compelling was the possibility that he already knew. He was aware I’d been brought to court to serve Lord Robert. It stood to reason that Lady Dudley, or perhaps the duke himself, had shared other, less palatable truths about me. It wasn’t as if I was worthy of their discretion. And, if I spoke an outright falsehood to one who held their trust, it could ruin any chance I had of furthering myself at court.
I met his placid stare. “Prescott,” I said, “is not my real name.”
“Oh?” His brow lifted.
Another wave of hesitation engulfed me. There was still time. I could still offer an explanation that would not stray too far from reality. I had no idea why I didn’t, why I felt the almost overpowering need to speak the truth. I had never willingly imparted the mystery of my birth to anyone. From the time I had discovered that what I lacked made me the brunt of taunts and cruel suppositions, I decided that whenever asked I would admit only what was necessary. No need to offer details that no one cared to hear or to invite speculation.
Yet as I stood there, I perceived a quiet thoughtfulness in his regard that made me think he would understand, perhaps even sympathize. Mistress Alice had often looked at me like that, with a comprehension that never balked at admitting the most difficult of truths. I had learned to trust that quality in others.
I took a deep breath. “I am a foundling. Mistress Alice, the woman who raised me, gave me my name. In olden times, those called Prescott lived by the priest’s cottage. That’s where I was found—in the former priest’s cottage near Dudley Castle.”
“And your first name?” he asked. “Was that Mistress Alice’s doing, as well?”
“Yes. She was from Ireland. She had a deep reverence for Saint Brendan.”
A laden moment ensued. The Irish were despised in England for their rebelliousness, but until now my name had not roused undue curiosity. As I waited for Cecil’s response, I began to fear I’d made a mistake. Illegitimacy was a handicap an industrious man could