said, “is not my real name.”
“Oh?” His brow lifted.
Another wave of hesitation engulfed me. There was still time. I could still offer an explanation that would not stray too far from reality. I had no idea why I didn’t, why I felt the almost overpowering need to speak the truth. I had never willingly imparted the mystery of my birth to anyone. From the time I had discovered that what I lacked made me the brunt of taunts and cruel suppositions, I decided that whenever asked I would admit only what was necessary. No need to offer details that no one cared to hear or to invite speculation.
Yet as I stood there, I perceived a quiet thoughtfulness in his regard that made me think he would understand, perhaps even sympathize. Mistress Alice had often looked at me like that, with a comprehension that never balked at admitting the most difficult of truths. I had learned to trust that quality in others.
I took a deep breath. “I am a foundling. Mistress Alice, the woman who raised me, gave me my name. In olden times, those called Prescott lived by the priest’s cottage. That’s where I was found—in the former priest’s cottage near Dudley Castle.”
“And your first name?” he asked. “Was that Mistress Alice’s doing, as well?”
“Yes. She was from Ireland. She had a deep reverence for Saint Brendan.”
A laden moment ensued. The Irish were despised in England for their rebelliousness, but until now my name had not roused undue curiosity. As I waited for Cecil’s response, I began to fear I’d made a mistake. Illegitimacy was a handicap an industrious man could turn to his favor. Lack of any lineage, on the other hand, was a liability few could afford. It usually sentenced one to a lifetime of anonymous servitude at best, and beggardom at worst.
Then Cecil said, “When you say ‘foundling,’ I assume you mean you were abandoned?”
“Yes. I was a week old, at best.” Despite my attempt to seem unaffected, I could hear the old strain in my voice, the weight of my own sense of helplessness. “Mistress Alice had to hire a local woman to nurse me. As fate would have it, a woman in town had just lost her child; otherwise, I might not have survived.”
He nodded. Before another uncomfortable silence could descend, I found myself rushing to fill it, as if I’d lost control of my own tongue. “Mistress Alice used to say the monks were lucky I wasn’t dropped on their doorstep. I’d have eaten their larders dry, and what would they have had then to withstand the storm old Henry brewed for them?”
I started to laugh before I realized my error. I’d just brought up the subject of religion, surely not a safe subject at court. Mistress Alice, I almost added, had also said my appetite was exceeded only by the size of my mouth.
Cecil did not speak. I began to think I’d done myself in with my indiscretion, when he murmured, “How dreadful for you.”
The sentiment failed to match the scrutiny of his eyes, which remained fixed on me as if he sought to engrave my face in memory. “This Mistress Alice, might she have known whom your parents were? Such matters are usually local in origin. An unwed girl got in the family way, too ashamed to tell anyone—it occurs frequently, I’m afraid.”
“Mistress Alice is dead.” My voice was flat. Despite my previous honesty, some hurts I could not willingly reveal. “She was beset by thieves while on the road from Stratford. If she knew anything about my parents, she took it with her to her grave.”
Cecil lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear it. Every man, no matter how humble, should know from whence he came.” He suddenly inclined to me. “You mustn’t let that dissuade you. Even foundlings may rise high in our new England. Fortune often smiles on those least favored.”
He stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure, Squire Prescott. Please, do not hesitate to call upon me should you require anything. I’m easily found.”
He gave me another of his cryptic smiles, turned heel, and walked away.
Chapter Three
I watched Master Cecil disappear down the gallery before I sucked in a deep breath and turned to the door. I knocked. There was no reply. After another knock, I tried the latch. The door opened.
Stepping in, I found that the apartments, as Cecil had called them, consisted of an undersized chamber dominated by a bed with a sagging tester. Scarred wainscoting adorned