The Tudor Secret - C. W. Gortner [95]
When dawn finally broke over the horizon, I mounted once more to ride through fields dotted with faded golden irises. I tried not to think of anything until I reached the River Orr.
There, rearing on the other side of the banks atop its mound, was Framlingham Castle.
Its thirteen towers and immense ramparts overshadowed three moats. In the hunting park glittered an ocean of steel. As I forded the river and approached, I gleaned hundreds of men hauling cannon and firearms, stockpiling boulders, felling and stripping trees. I gave rein to Cinnabar’s eager canter, for he sensed stables, oats, and a well-deserved respite.
Guards stopped me on the road. After a rough barrage of questions, I was obliged to dismount, give my name, and wait under their watch before word came that Rochester bid me to the castle. Shouldering my bag, I took Cinnabar by the reins and trudged to the looming edifice, which swallowed half the sky. Few men paused to mark my passage, the majority engrossed in labor, their ribaldry interspersed with barking dogs and the lowing of livestock, tended by urchins and women.
Despite everything, I felt my spirits lighten. A makeshift city had sprung up around Framlingham practically overnight, composed of ordinary people and retainers of local lords who had come to defend their rightful monarch. In less than seventy-two hours, Queen Mary had amassed her army. At least here, things were as they should be.
The main bailey was thronged with men and animals. Rochester strode to me, sweating profusely but otherwise looking like a completely changed man. He clamped my hand in his.
“Master Beecham! I failed to recognize the name. You’re fortunate your friends informed me of it. Leave your horse to the grooms and come. Her Majesty wishes to see you.”
Looking past Rochester, I had to laugh. Peregrine and Barnaby, both stripped to the waist and as filthy as they could be, waved at me before they returned to the arduous task of pushing a cannon into a forger’s shed for repairs. I returned my gaze to Rochester.
“I’m pleased to find you all safe,” I said with genuine relief.
“We might not be, had it not been for you. We owe you much. After we separated, Robert Dudley’s men chased the others for miles before he realized his error. He then turned and came after us. Praise God he’s since been apprehended.”
My smile slipped. “Apprehended?”
“Yes. But of course you wouldn’t know.” Rochester steered me toward an incongruous red brick manor flanked by timber lodgings, all situated inside the castle’s curtain wall. “It seems that when he discovered where we were headed, Lord Robert decided to seek reinforcements. He must have thought we’d have no means of defending the castle once he returned to set siege.”
Rochester chuckled. “To be honest, we never expected to find old Norfolk’s son waiting here with his retainers. But here he was, and by nightfall another five thousand had arrived. Word of Her Majesty’s plight has swept before her, a call to arms has gone out. Men are arriving from all over England. It’s as if God Himself watches over her.”
“Indeed,” I said quietly. “You were saying about Lord Robert?” As I spoke I thought of Elizabeth, standing in that anonymous room. I do not want him harmed, she had said. All of a sudden, to my disconcertment, I realized neither did I. Perhaps because he had been the closest thing I’d ever had to a sibling; or maybe because while a Dudley to his very marrow, she was right: In truth, Robert was a victim of his upbringing.
“He made it as far as King’s Lynn,” said Rochester. “By then, several of his men had deserted him. When he got there, his soldiers also deserted, and he was forced to flee. He sought refuge in Bury Saint Edmunds and sent urgent word to London. His messenger got away, but he didn’t. Baron Derby arrested him shortly after, in the queen’s name. Fitting justice, you might say. He’s being held in the ruins of the very abbey that his father helped destroy.”
“And … what will happen