back the way we’d come, which led to the riverbank and maze of streets, or plunge into what looked like an impenetrable row of decrepit timber-framed buildings. Master Shelton seemed to hesitate, whirling his bay back around on its hindquarters to gauge the approaching men.
Then his scarred face broke into a ferocious grin, and he dug his heels into his bay to vault forth—straight at them.
I kicked Cinnabar into swift action and followed at a breakneck pace. The men froze in midstep, eyes popping as they beheld the charge of solid muscle and hooves coming toward them. In unison, they flung themselves to either side like the clods of dirt our horses tore from the road; as we thundered past, I heard a gut-wrenching scream cut short. I glanced back.
One of the men lay facedown on the road, a pool of red seeping from his mangled head.
We plunged between the ramshackle edifices. All light extinguished. The miasmic smells of excrement, urine, and rotting food overpowered me like a mantle thrown over my face. Overhead, balconies formed a claustrophobic vault, festooned with dripping laundry and slabs of curing meat. Night soil splashed as our horses bolted through overflowing conduits that emptied the city’s filth into the river. I held my breath and clenched my teeth, tasting bile in my throat as the torturous passage seemed to go on forever, until we burst, gasping, into open expanse.
I reined Cinnabar to a halt. Everything reeled about me, and I closed my eyes, breathing in deeply to catch my breath and steady the whirlwind in my head. I sensed sudden silence, smelled ripe grass and a tang of apple smoke on the air. I opened my eyes.
We had crossed into another world.
About us, looming oaks and beeches swayed. A meadow stretched as far as my eye could see. I marveled at the peculiarity of such an oasis in the midst of the city; turning to Master Shelton, I saw he was looking straight ahead, his face like weathered stone. I had never seen him behave as he had a moment ago, riding as if hell-bent over the body of a helpless man, as though he had sloughed aside the veneer of privileged chamberlain to reveal the mercenary underneath.
I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Then I said carefully, “That woman … she called her Bess. Was she … the king’s sister, Princess Elizabeth?”
Master Shelton’s voice was hard. “If she was, then she’ll only bring trouble. It follows her wherever she goes, just as it did her whore of a mother.”
I didn’t dare say more. I knew about Anne Boleyn, of course. Who didn’t? Like many in the land, I had grown up to the lurid tales of Henry VIII and his six wives by whom he had sired his son, our current king, Edward VI, and two daughters, the ladies Mary and Elizabeth. In order to marry Anne Boleyn, King Henry had cast aside his first wife, the Lady Mary’s mother, Katherine of Aragon, who was a princess of Spain. He then made himself head of the Church. It was said that Anne Boleyn laughed when she was crowned; but she did not laugh for long. Reviled by the people as a heretic witch, who had spurred the king to upend the kingdom, only three years after she gave birth to Elizabeth, Anne was accused of incest and treason. She was beheaded, as were her brother and four other men. King Edward’s mother, Jane Seymour, was betrothed to Henry the day after Anne died.
I knew that many people who had lived through Anne’s rise and fall despised her, even after her tragic end. Katherine of Aragon still prevailed in the common heart, her stoic grace never forgotten, even as her life was torn apart. Nevertheless, I was unnerved by the vehemence in Master Shelton’s voice. He spoke as if Elizabeth were to blame for her mother’s deeds.
Even as I tried to make sense of it, he directed my attention to a silhouette etched like thorns against the darkening evening sky. “That’s Whitehall,” he said. “Come, it’s getting late. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
We rode across the vast open park, into streets that fronted walled manors and dark medieval churches. I saw a large stone cathedral standing like a sentinel on a slope and marveled at its stark splendor; as we neared Whitehall Palace itself, I was overcome by awe.
I had seen castles before. Indeed, the Dudley estate where I’d been raised