The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [82]
“With Walsingham, it usually is. But I’ve no idea what he wants. He didn’t say anything other than that I fetch you.” She grimaced. “Now that I’m no longer required, I’ve reverted to being another ignorant woman in his eyes. Never mind that I’m as able as any hooligan he could hire, or can pick locks and intrigue with the best of them.”
“Not to mention, you’ve a temper. If I were him, I’d watch my step.”
“You’re the one who needs to watch his step.” Kate faced me as she’d done that afternoon—it seemed ages ago—in the gallery at Greenwich. “Whatever he wants of you, you can rest assured it won’t be safe.”
“I thought he helped save my life,” I reminded her.
“He did. That doesn’t mean I trust him with it. He’s a serpent, out for his own advantage. I don’t think even Cecil can control him.” Her voice wavered. “Promise me you’ll not agree to anything dangerous. I said I’ll go to Hatfield and I will, but I don’t want to spend all my time sick with worry over you.”
I nodded solemnly. “I promise. Now, show me the way.”
She pointed to the door. “Down the stairs and to your right. He’s in the study off the hall.” She turned away. “I’ll be in the garden, hanging sheets.”
The image brought a smile to my face as I took the stairs to the ground floor and moved through the country house, which was sparsely furnished, a refreshing change after the spiked opulence of court. Outside the hall I paused before a door and took a deep breath.
I pulled it open. Like Kate, I likened Walsingham to a serpentine presence. His alleged contribution to my survival had done nothing to change this impression. Rather, it was unnerving to know that the man had been ghosting me since Whitehall, watching but not interfering, until that night on the leads. I wasn’t convinced of his motives but hid my discomfort at the sight of his gaunt figure seated at the desk, Urian’s head resting on his thigh.
“Squire Prescott.” His spidery hand caressed Urian with hypnotic repetition. “You’ve recovered with alacrity, I see. The vigor of youth, and of a woman’s care, are indeed a marvel.”
His tone indicated he knew more of said care than I preferred. I had to force myself not to order Urian away, appalled by the dog’s lack of discernment.
“I was told you wanted to see me?”
“Ever to the point.” His bloodless lips twitched. “Why waste time on the superfluous?”
“I hope you weren’t expecting a friendly chat.”
“I never expect anything.” His hand paused in its stroking of the dog’s ears. “That’s what makes life so interesting. People never fail to surprise.” He gestured to a stool opposite his. “Pray, sit. All I require is your attention.”
Because my shoulder was starting to pain me, I obliged. I had that vague feeling of unease I now recognized. Cecil and his men seemed to exude it like disease.
“Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley have been taken to the Tower,” he said without warning.
I bolted upright on my chair. “Arrested?”
“No. It’s traditional for a sovereign to lodge there before the coronation.” He eyed me.
“I see.” My voice tightened. “So, they’re going to do it. They’re going to force the crown on that innocent girl’s head, regardless.”
“That innocent girl, as you call her, is a traitor. She usurps another woman’s throne and now awaits her coronation with all the dignitaries of the court at her side. Thus far, the only compunction she’s shown is her continued refusal to allow her husband to be crowned alongside her—to the collective Dudley fury.”
I contained my revulsion. Of course Walsingham would brand Jane Grey a traitor. It was always easier to view the world through the prism of his convenience.
“By ‘another woman,’ ” I said, “I assume you mean the Lady Mary.”
“Of course. Any change in the succession would require the sanction of Parliament. I doubt our proud duke has gone so far as to request official approval of his treason. So, by law, and Henry the Eighth’s will of succession, Lady Mary is our rightful queen.”
I paused, deliberating. “But the council has agreed to uphold Jane as queen? Northumberland doesn’t act alone?” I was thinking of