The Tudor Conspiracy - Gortner Christopher W. - Страница 54
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I shook my head. “It’s nothing. There is no need-”
“Don’t argue. Take off your doublet and shirt and let me see. If it festers, Kate will never let me hear the end of it.” She opened the casket as I reluctantly shed my upper clothing. When I looked at her, she had set out a jar of salve and folded linen cloths. Taking up the pitcher of water from her sideboard, she bent over me and cleaned my wound. With the crust and dried blood washed away, I saw it was deep but not large.
Her fingertips felt cool as she probed the ragged skin. I winced.
“You’re like a bear after a baiting,” she said. “Stay still. This might sting. It is Kate’s special salve; she made a batch for me before I left Hatfield. I always carry it with me.”
Taken aback by her determination, I let her salve the wound with the rosemary and mint concoction, releasing the very aroma of Kate into the air. She worked efficiently, without revulsion. I’d forgotten that she had lived most of her life far from court, in a country setting where even princesses must learn rudimentary healing skills. The salve eased my pain, inducing a welcome numbness. I reached for my chemise immediately after, my breeches sagging perilously low on my hips.
“There. Better, yes?” She returned the items to the casket. “You should use the salve at least once a day, twice if you can manage it.” She scrutinized my face. “That other wound on your temple should be tended, too. No matter what most physicians say, even such minor hurts can gather dirt. If corruption sets in, you will sicken.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, as if I had not informed her that a revolt could at this very moment be upon London and that she was far from safe-indeed, that all of us were in danger.
“What are we going to do?” I finally asked.
“What can we do? We wait.” She paced to the side table, her long fingers hovering over the cylinder. “Whether Wyatt succeeds or fails; whether my sister chooses to believe in my guilt or innocence; whether I’m left alone or taken-only time can tell now.” She glanced at me. “Though if the situation is as dire as you say, I should think that we’ll have our answer sooner rather than later.”
She picked up the cylinder.
“What does that letter say?” Though I had told myself that I would not ask, I couldn’t stop myself. All of a sudden, I had to know exactly what I had sacrificed so much for.
She paused. Cylinder in hand, she moved past me to stand for a long moment before the hearth. She pulled back the grate; with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the cylinder into the fire. “I told you at court, you had one chance. Now, it is best if you do not know more than you already do. You’ve suffered enough for my sake.”
Her rebuke did not surprise me. It had been presumptuous to assume she’d deign to confidence now. Her words to Robert Dudley would remain a secret between them, the evidence even now curling to ash in her hearth.
“Will you eat?” she asked. “You must be famished.”
Holding on to the chair, I hauled myself to my feet. “No, I just want to sleep.”
“Go, then. Mistress Parry will see to your chamber. We’ve hardly a full house here; there are several rooms to choose from.” She remained at the hearth, the firelight limning her figure in a reddish glow. As I moved to the door, I felt her gaze follow me. My hand was on the latch when my question came out, unbidden. “Will you allow me one thing?”
She nodded. “If I can.”
“Was it worth it?”
She sighed. “I have found it’s always worth fighting for what we believe in, regardless of the outcome. Risk is never without consequence.”
I inclined my head.
“And you?” she asked. “Would you have fought for me as you did, had you known the entire truth?”
I hesitated for only a moment. “Yes,” I said. “No matter what you have done, I believe in your cause.”
She gave me a dry smile. “I’d expect nothing less. Rest, my friend. You’ve earned it.”
* * *
I feared that I might not be able to sleep, that the events of the past days would haunt me in the silence of unfamiliar quarters. In fact, as soon as I disrobed and climbed into the musty bed, I fell fast asleep, without dreams, for the first time since I had left Hatfield.
When I awoke, it was past midday. I could tell by the angle of light filtering through the window. Mistress Parry had sent someone up while I rested, who’d seen to my needs. Along with a fresh shirt, my breeches and hose were folded in a neat pile by my saddlebag, crinkled and stiff from having dried by a fire but blessedly clean and scented with lavender. After I washed and tended to my arm, I went to the hall. In the daylight, Ashridge was visibly as well appointed as the manor at Hatfield; it had the requisite furnishings and size, but the feel of disuse hung in the air, as in all places that are rarely inhabited.
I ate my fill, seated alone at a wide table, served by a blushing maid I didn’t recognize but assumed had been the one who attended to my clothes. I was told Elizabeth remained in her chamber, so I went out to check on Cinnabar. I found him well stalled, with a warm blanket to cover him, and plenty of feed. Urian nosed the straw around his hooves; as the hound recognized me, he let out a joyous bark. Tears sprang in my eyes when I recalled Peregrine’s love for this dog. I buried my face in Urian’s fur as he licked my hands, whining low in his throat as though he could sense my sorrow, and let myself grieve.
Then I wiped away my tears and took Urian into the snowy courtyard to toss a stick, delighting in his eager retrieval, his lopsided gait, and his barks for more. It had been so long since I’d done anything so ordinary, so normal-it felt odd and wonderful at the same time.
Finally he was panting, his tongue lolling, and my hands felt like frozen mutton. Turning back toward the house with Urian at my heels, wondering if the princess was awake yet, I discerned the clangor of hooves. Even as I turned toward the road, I knew what I would see: men in cloaks and caps, galloping toward the manor.
I bolted into the house. Our answer had come.
* * *
Mistress Parry had also heard the approaching party. She was halfway down the staircase, kneading her skirts. She took one look at me and said, “Her Grace says you must hide. No one can see you here. You might be recognized.”
“What of her?” Her anxiety was infectious; I found myself looking over my shoulder as I spoke, half-expecting the front door to burst open to reveal men at arms.
“She’s staying in bed.” Mistress Parry shook her head at my concern. “With a disposition like hers, she’s prone to fever. She’ll live, but she’s too ill to rise or”-she set her jaw in a hard line-“greet any visitors. Those fine lords, whoever they are, will be in for a difficult time if they think they can come here to berate her.”
It was a ploy, I knew it at once. A sick princess would be hard to move. I didn’t comment as the other servants on the staff-the serving maid and kitchen personnel, a few idle grooms-crowded into the hall. To a person, they looked terrified.
“Get,” Mistress Parry said with a wave of her hand, and the staff hurried back to their posts. She turned to me. “You, too. The last thing we need is one of them asking how the man who once served the queen is now in Her Grace’s house.”
She was right. I had to disappear. Fast.
I ran up to my room and started cramming everything I had pulled from my saddlebag back into it. I was looking around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything when I heard the men’s horses cantering into the courtyard, followed by rough demands of the grooms as they dismounted.
They were inside the manor before I could reach my door; I could hear their booted heels, monstrously loud, and Mistress Parry’s indignant protest. “My lady is abed! She has taken with fever. You cannot intrude on her-”
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