The Tudor Conspiracy

  
Chapter Three
 
As we went into the courtyard, I saw Peregrine holding the reins of his horse, swathed in a cloak, his thick curls shoved under a wool cap. Mistress Ashley was right: If I tried to leave him behind, he’d not stay. I loathed exposing him again to the dangers of court, but he had always served me well. He had even saved my life-twice, as he liked to remind me. I could do no better when it came to a loyal companion.
Kate turned from checking Cinnabar’s harness. “Ready?” she asked, with brittle cheer.
“Except for him.” I motioned to Peregrine. He started to open his mouth in protest, but I cut him off. “You’re to do as I say at all times. No questions. No second-guessing me. You’ll act as my squire, and a squire must be at his master’s beck and call at all times. I don’t need to be worrying about what kind of mischief you’re getting yourself into. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, master,” he said indignantly.
Kate tucked my cloak about me. “Be safe,” she said. Her voice cracked.
“Kate.” I reached out.
She took a step back. “No. No good-byes.”
I gazed into her eyes. “I promise I’ll send word as soon as I can.”
“Don’t.” With that one word, she conveyed everything we dared not say aloud, the mere fact that by setting quill to paper I might betray myself. “Just come home,” she said, and she pushed past Mistress Ashley, going under the archway back into the manor.
I started to go after her. Mistress Ashley stopped me. “Let her be. I’ll look after her. You go now, before she changes her mind and orders her own horse saddled.”
I turned back to Cinnabar. My horse snorted, eager to be off. Jumping onto a mounting block, Peregrine scrambled onto his dappled gelding.
We rode to the road. I glanced over my shoulder to see Mistress Ashley framed by the redbrick house, the tenacious ivy turning brown where it curled about the windows. She raised her hand in farewell. I kept looking back as she and Hatfield faded from view.
Though I did not see Kate, I knew she was at one of those windows, watching me.
* * *
The day was crisp, the sun an opaque halo in the bone white sky. Once we cleared the manor grounds, we took to a canter, the horses impatient to stretch their limbs. I didn’t want to fill the silence with idle talk. Sensing my mood, Peregrine kept quiet, at least until we stopped to eat our midday meal. As I sliced the cheese, venison, and bread, he finally let loose the one question I was sure he’d been burning to ask since Cecil’s visit. As usual he’d been listening in on every conversation he could, ferreting out the purpose for our trip.
“Is she in danger?” he asked, munching down his bread. He had an insatiable appetite but never seemed to gain weight. Whenever I saw him eat like this, I wondered how much hunger he had experienced in his short life.
“Chew your food. And yes, she might be. Or she might not be in any danger at all. I don’t know yet. That is why I am going to court, to find out.”
He looked doubtful. “But I heard Kate and Mistress Ashley talking. Kate said the imperial ambassador was trying to have the princess arrested for treason.”
“Did you really? Those big ears of yours are going to get you into more trouble one day than you’re worth. Have you already forgotten what I told you?”
He sighed. “No second-guessing you.”
“That’s right. I’m serious, Peregrine. This is not a game.”
“Who said it was?” He sounded insulted. “But if she is in danger, you might as well tell me now. You wouldn’t want me to wander about not knowing.”
“You’re not to wander at all. You’re to do as I tell you or I swear, I’ll send you back to Hatfield hog-tied, if need be.”
“Yes, master.” He snatched the last slice of venison and crammed it into his mouth. “Just answer me one thing,” he said, chewing.
“What?”
“Tell me you’re not planning on falling into the river again. Because sometimes the Thames freezes in the winter and it would be hard to rescue you-” He laughed, ducking from the hand I swiped at his head. He had a wonderful laugh, like a young boy’s should be. For the first time since we left Hatfield I found myself smiling.
“You’re impossible,” I said. “Let’s go. I want to reach the city before dark.”
We resumed our journey. We passed few travelers on the road, an occasional farmer and band of merchants with carts of goods, trudging with heads down and wary greeting. Soon, however, the snow-flecked countryside of Hertfordshire began to give way to clusters of hamlets and lesser townships that indicated our proximity to London. The thoroughfare became more crowded; people were hustling to get through the city gates before curfew. As we passed a small stone church where bells tolled, I noted a recently repaired crucifix askew on its steeple, mortared clumsily back in place. Women with shawls draped about their heads clutched shivering children by the hand, answering the bells’ summons.
Peregrine stared at the scene. I glanced at him. “Do you believe in the old faith?”
He shrugged. “I never much cared for religion. I don’t think God does, either.”
I was struck by how he had unwittingly described my own opinion. I, too, often wondered if one faith was any better than the other, considering how much blood had been spilled, but I kept my doubts hidden, for it was never safe to speculate aloud about religion.
Dusk fell, thick with snow flurries. Cinnabar snorted impatiently. I patted his neck. I, too, was tired, not to mention cold. My hands in their gauntlets felt frozen to my reins, and my buttocks and thighs were saddle-sore. In my mind, I fled back over the road we’d just traversed, back to Hatfield, where Kate must be lighting the candles for the evening meal-
“There’s Cripplegate.” Peregrine broke into my thoughts. “From there, we can take to the Strand and ride to the palace.”
I brought myself to attention as we maneuvered our way through the horde pushing into the city before the gates closed for the night. As I paid the toll, I had a vivid memory of the first time I’d come to London. I had had no idea at the time, as I’d gazed in awe at the sprawling walls and the Thames’s distant coil, of the adventure that awaited me. Just like then, I now felt an excited prickle in my belly.
There were people everywhere, closing up shops and hurrying home from last-minute errands while others, eager for the night, threw open doors to smoke-filled inns and raucous taverns. Already the ravaged doxies were patrolling the darker alleyways, garish in their paint, sidestepping the ubiquitous beggars, thieves, and skulking pickpockets. Emaciated dogs scurried underfoot, scavenging in the conduits that carried sewage to the river. Overhead, timber tenements leaned into each other, upper floors conjoining to form fetid vaults, from which denizens emptied chamber pots into the streets, showering unwary passersby with leavings.
At first, I didn’t see much change. London appeared as dirty and unpredictable as it had been during the late King Edward’s final days. Yet as we made our way toward King’s Street and the palace, I began to notice graffiti scrawled on walls, declaiming, DEATH TO ALL PAPISTS! and SPANIARDS BE GONE! There were placards strewn on the ground, too, muddied now and illegible but no doubt offering equal dissent. It would appear the common people of London were not happy with the arrival of the Hapsburg delegation.
Whitehall reared into view. We rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Disgruntled officials trudged past us with cloaks yanked about their shoulders and caps shoved low on their heads. None paid us any mind. The snow was falling faster, whitening the flagstones. Cinnabar stamped his hooves.
“The horses will need feed and stabling,” I said.
Peregrine gathered both pairs of reins. I gave him two angels from the purse Cecil had sent. He’d not been parsimonious. I had enough for a comfortable stay, providing I didn’t stay too long. “Wait.” I grasped Peregrine’s wrist. “How will you find me?”