The Tudor Secret Read Free

of common folk. I watched, bemused, as barefoot urchins tiptoed among them, dogs skulking at their heels. Thieves, and not one over nine years old by the looks of them. It was hard to see them and not see myself, the wretch I might have been had the Dudleys not taken me in.
    Master Shelton scowled. “They’re blocking our passage. Go see if you can find out what this lot is gawking at. I’d rather we not force our way through if we can help it.”
    I handed over my reins, dismounted again, and wedged into the crowd, thankful for once for my slight build. I was cursed at, shoved, and elbowed, but I managed to push to the front. Standing on tiptoes to look past the craning heads, I made out the dirt thoroughfare, upon which rode an unremarkable cavalcade of people on horses. I was about to turn away when a portly woman beside me shoved her way forth, brandishing a wilted nosegay.
    “God bless you, sweet Bess,” she cried. “God bless Your Grace!”
    She threw the flowers into the air. A hush fell. One of the men in the cavalcade heeled close to its center, as if to shield something—or someone—from view.
    It was then I noticed the dappled charger hidden among the larger horses. I had a keen eye for horseflesh, and with its arched neck, lithe musculature, and prancing hooves I recognized it for a Spanish breed rarely seen in England, and more costly than the duke’s entire stable.
    Then I looked at its rider.
    I knew at once it was a woman, though a hooded cloak concealed her features and leather gauntlets covered her hands. Contrary to custom, she was mounted astride, legs sheathed in riding boots displayed against the embossed sides of her saddle—a sliver of a girl, without apparent distinction, save for her horse, riding as if intent on reaching her destination.
    Yet she knew we were watching her and she heard the woman’s cry, for she turned her head. And to my astonishment, she pushed her hood back to reveal a long fine-boned face, framed by an aureole of coppery hair.
    And she smiled.

Chapter Two
    Everything around me receded. I recalled what the guard at the gate had said—some nonsense of the Princess Elizabeth riding among us—and I felt an actual pang in my heart as the cavalcade quickened down the thoroughfare and disappeared.
    The crowd began to disperse, though one of the urchins did creep onto the road to retrieve the fallen nosegay. The woman who’d thrown it stood transfixed, hands at her breast, gazing after the vanished riders with the gleam of tears in her weary eyes. I reached out and lightly touched her arm. She turned to me with a dazed expression.
    “Did you see her?” she whispered, and though she looked right at me, I had the impression she did not see me at all. “Did you see our Bess? She’s come to us at last, God be praised. Only she can save us from that devil Northumberland’s grip.”
    I stood immobile, grateful I carried my livery in my saddlebag. Was this how the people of London viewed John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland? I knew the duke now served as the king’s chief minister, having assumed power following the fall of the king’s former protector and uncle, Edward Seymour. Many in the land had cursed the Seymours for their avarice and ambition. Had the duke incurred the same hatred?
    I turned from the woman. Master Shelton had ridden up behind me; he stared glowering from his bay. “You are a fool, woman,” he rumbled, “Careful my lord the duke’s men don’t ever hear you, for they’ll cut out your tongue sure as I’m sitting here.”
    She gaped at him. When she caught sight of the badge on his cloak, she staggered back. “The duke’s man!” she gibbered. She stumbled away. Those who remained took up the cry as they, too, fled for the safety of the tangled alleys or the nearest tavern.
    On the other side of the thoroughfare, a group of decidedly coarse-looking men paused to stare at us. As I saw the glint of blades being jerked from sleeves, my stomach