The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [92]
“He’s as full of the devil’s pride as his father,” one of the men groused. “I’ve had enough of those Dudley upstarts lording it over us. Why didn’t he just let someone else go back for the soldiers, I ask you? Because he doesn’t want to sully his hands, lest Mary wins the day and he finds himself at her mercy. Well, I say leave him to it. Papist or not, bastard or legitimate, she’s still our rightful queen, no matter what Northumberland says. Remember, old Henry beheaded the duke’s own father for treason. Treachery runs in their blood.”
The other two grunted their agreement, glancing at the trim figure standing apart from them, sniffing the air as if he might scent the way Mary had gone.
“What say you, Stokes?” asked one.
The duchess’s man turned with a swirl of his velvet cloak, revealing a glimpse of scarlet lining. “I think we must each act as our conscience dictates, Master Hengate. But I’ll wager you’re not the first these days to question the Dudleys’ authority.”
Hidden behind the boulder, I had to smile. Trust him to ensure his mistress’s neutrality. The duchess was Mary’s paternal cousin, and her daughter was about to don Mary’s crown. Lady Suffolk stood to lose a great deal should Mary triumph, including her head.
Hengate stared at Stokes. “And you? What would you do if we decide to return to our homes and wait to see how this all ends?”
Stokes shrugged. “I’d go home myself and inform my lady that the duke needs a new hound. The one he sent has obviously lost its skill.”
The men guffawed. Hengate hesitated before he went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He swerved to Stokes. “If you betray us, you should know my master Lord Pembroke’s arm is long. He will find you, no matter whose skirts you hide behind.”
“I’m not an informant,” Stokes retorted. “I’ve no stake in what befalls the Dudleys. Neither does my lady, I can assure you.”
“Good,” said Hengate, as his accomplices mounted. “In times like these, it’s the pliant man who survives.” Digging heels into his horse, he and the others thundered off, leaving Stokes to wave a fastidious gauntleted hand before his nose, as if to dispel a noxious smell.
He started to move to his own idling steed when my arrow hissed over his head. He whirled about and froze, glaring toward the boulders with more arrogance that I would have expected from a man in his position.
I stepped out, extracted another arrow from the quiver strapped to my back, and fitted it to the bow. It was one of the first times in my life I had the chance to put my years of weaponry practice to action. I wasn’t disappointed in Stokes’s wary recoil.
“What do you want?” he said. “Money?” He unhooked a purse from his belt and flung it on the road between us. “That should be enough.”
I pushed back my cap. “Don’t you recognize me? It hasn’t been that long.”
He stared. “It … it can’t be.”
I adjusted the bow, aiming the arrow between his legs. “I’m thinking if I shoot you there, it will take you a few hours to die.” I leveled the bow upward. “Or I could just shoot you between the eyes. Or you can start talking. Your choice.”
He snarled, yanked his sword from the scabbard at his waist.
I let the arrow soar. It struck Stokes in the thigh, brought him howling to his knees. He grasped the protruding shaft, blanching with shock. There was little blood. I walked to him and pulled the bow taut again, ignoring the flare in my shoulder from the ball wound.
As I took aim, Stokes reared a vicious face. “Whoreson! You’d kill a defenseless man in cold blood!”
I paused. “Now, there’s a start. A whore’s son: Is that what I am?”
“A murderer is what you are. I’m going to bleed to death!”
“Not if you let that arrow be. You need an experienced surgeon to extract it; the tip is barbed. Without proper care, the wound will corrupt. Still, you’ve a better chance of survival than you gave me.” I lowered the bow. “Back to my question: Was my mother a whore?”