The Tudor Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

“You look as if you haven’t grown an inch.”
    “Not where you can see,” I said, with a tight smile. Matters could be worse. I could be serving Henry Dudley, who as a boy had enjoyed drowning kittens just to hear them mewl.
    “No,” spat Henry. “But even a dog can tell who its mother was. Can you?”
    He eyed me, eager for a tussle. His attacks on me had always been edged with more than derision, but he wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t been subjected to before, or indeed even contemplated myself, in the loneliness of the night. I refused to rise to his bait.
    “Given the chance, I rather hope I could.”
    “No doubt,” sneered Guilford. “I’d say the same if I were you. Thank God I’m not.”
    Robert glared at his brothers as they again burst into raucous laughter. “God’s teeth, you sound like a gaggle of women. Who cares about him? If I were you, I’d be more concerned about what’s happening around us. Just look at the council, hovering about the dais like crows.”
    I followed his stare to where a group of somber men stood close together, the black of their robes blending together like ink. They were indeed gathered before a dais draped in cloth of gold. Upon it sat a large velvet-upholstered throne; overhead, hung a canopy embroidered with the Tudor Rose. It suddenly occurred to me that I might see the king himself tonight, and I felt excitement bubble up in me as I looked into the hall itself.
    It was luminescent, its painted ceiling offset by a black-and-white tile floor over which nobles moved as though on an immense chessboard. In the gallery, minstrels strummed a refrain, while lesser courtiers streamed through the open doors, some moving to trestle tables laden with victuals, subtleties, and decanters; others assembled in small groups to whisper, preen, and stare.
    If intrigue had a smell, Whitehall would reek of it.
    I heard a footstep behind us. Turning about, I had a fleeting glance of a tall, lean figure in iron-colored satin before I bowed as low as I could.
    John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, said in a quiet voice, “Ah, I see you are all here. Good. Ambrose, Henry, go attend to the council. They look in dire need of drink. Robert, I’ve just received word there is need for someone of authority to see to an urgent matter at the Tower. Pray, go and attend to it.”
    Even with my head bowed I heard incredulity in Robert’s reply. “The Tower? But, I was there only this afternoon and all seemed well in order. There must be a mistake. Begging your leave, my lord father, but might I see to it later?”
    “I’m afraid not,” said the duke. “As I said, the matter is urgent. We’ve imposed an early curfew tonight, and nothing can occur that might unsettle the populace.”
    I could almost feel the fury emanating from Robert. With a curt bow, he said tersely, “My lord,” before he strode off.
    The duke addressed his remaining son. “Guilford, find a chair by the hearth and stay there. When Their Graces of Suffolk arrive, attend to them as befits your rank. And may I suggest you be a little more circumspect tonight with your intake of wine?”
    Guilford skulked off. With a pensive sigh, the duke turned his passionless black eyes to me. “Squire Prescott, rise. It’s been some time since I last saw you. How was your trip?”
    I had to crane my head to meet Northumberland’s gaze.
    I had been in his presence only a handful of times, his service to the king having kept him at court for most of my life, and I was struck by his imposing figure. John Dudley had retained the lean build instilled by a lifetime of military discipline, his height complimented by his knee-length brocade surcoat and tailored doublet. A thick gold chain slung across his shoulders bore testament to his wealth and success. No one would have mistaken this man for anyone other than a man of great power; few in fact would have looked beyond that to the hint of insomnia under his deep-set eyes, or the careworn