terse looks. “Find Lord Huddleston,” the older one directed, and the other ran off. “Jerningham, keep that musket aimed,” he ordered the man with the firearm. The servants didn’t shift an inch. “Dismount,” ordered the man. Peregrine and I obeyed.
A moment later, a harried portly gentleman I assumed was the aforementioned Huddleston bustled out. “I advised her not to, Master Rochester,” he said in a worried tone, “but she says she’ll see them in the hall, providing they are unarmed.”
The man Rochester turned a stern eye on me. “Your lad stays here.”
* * *
Detecting the lingering scent of roast as I was escorted into the manor, my stomach rumbled. Rochester was at my side, the armed Jerningham at my back, and Huddleston ahead. At the entrance, Jerningham backed into the shadows, from where I had no doubt he would continue to aim his weapon at me. Rochester and Huddleston led me forth.
A slim figure clad in bucolic dress stood before a table. The men bowed. Dropping to one knee, I glimpsed a map on the table, alongside quill and paper, flagon and goblet.
A surprisingly brusque voice said, “Rise.”
I came to my feet before Mary Tudor.
She did not look anything like Elizabeth. She more closely resembled their cousin, Jane Grey—short and too thin, with a hint of red-gold in the graying hair parted under her coif. Unlike Jane, Mary’s age and her sufferings were written on her face, etched in the crevices of her brow, the webs cradling her lips, and the slackness at her chin. Her thickened hands were clenched at her girdle, each of her long fingers ringed. Only in her eyes could be discerned that indomitable Tudor strength—forceful gray-blue eyes rimmed in shadow, meeting mine with a directness that imparted she was a superior being.
I recalled Elizabeth’s words: She has always believed the worst of people, never the best. Some say it is the Spaniard in her. But I say it is our father.
Her voice came at me with strident force. “I’m told you bring a missive.” She thrust out her hand. “I would see it.”
I removed the envelope from my interior pocket. Turning to the light, she tore it open and peered. Her frown deepened. She looked back at me. “Is this true?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty.”
“You believe? Have you read it, then?”
“I would not be much of a messenger if I failed to memorize so important a missive. Such letters, if fallen into the wrong hands, can prove dangerous.”
She gave me an appraising stare. Then she paced to the table with brisk steps. “This dangerous letter,” she declared, with a hint of asperity, “is from none other than my lords Arundel, Paget, Sussex, and Pembroke, all of whom served my brother and who now inform me that while they’ve no desire to see me deprived of my throne, their hands are tied. The duke’s hold, it seems, is too powerful to resist. They fear they must uphold my cousin’s claim, though Jane has expressed no desire to rule.” She paused. “What say you?”
Her request took me aback. Though she hid it well, I sensed her trepidation. Thrust into notice after years of obscurity, forced to flee within her own realm, Lady Mary had been hunted before, too many times, in fact, for her to trust anyone’s promises, written or otherwise.
I’d not heard anything positive about her, from anyone; indeed, the very possibility of her accession was rife with tumult. Yet in that moment I felt only empathy for her. She was at an age when most women had wed, borne children, settled for better or worse into the rest of their lives. Instead she stood in someone else’s manor, a fugitive marked for death.
“Well?” she said. “Will you not answer? You were hired by them, were you not?”
“Your Majesty, if you’ll pardon my insolence, I would prefer to answer in private.”
“Absolutely not,” said Rochester. “The queen does not entertain strangers. You’re lucky we haven’t thrown you into a dungeon for conspiring with her enemies.”
“Dungeon?” I repeated, before I could stop myself. “Here?”
There was stunned silence before Mary’s gravelly laughter rang out. “At least he doesn’t mince his words!” She clapped her hands. “Leave us.”
Rochester marched to where the shadowy man with the firearm lurked; Huddleston followed behind. Mary motioned to her flagon. “You must be thirsty. It’s a long ride from London.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said. Her terse smile revealed bad teeth. She’s not had much occasion to smile in her life, I thought, as