The Tudor Vendetta by C. W. Gortner Page A

to a conspiratorial hush. “She has also expressed interest in bestowing you with a title and estate, in recompense for your efforts on her behalf. If she offers it, I want you to thank her but refuse, saying it is too great an honor. Humility is your weapon of choice.”
    “An estate?” I repeated. Without warning, hope flared in me, vanquishing the uncertainty of my future. A grant of land would solve everything; Dudley would rejoice to see the back of me and I would prefer to oblige him. If I accepted Elizabeth’s offer, I could woo Kate back, marry, and raise a family. I could be free of the mayhem, the intrigue, the claustrophobia of life at court. Yet even as I welcomed the thought, my hope must have shown on my face, for Cecil’s grip tightened like a vise.
    “Would you deny everything we have fought for, to go off and play country squire?” he asked. “Is that what you want, to see her in thrall to Dudley and the rest of us on the scaffold?”
    I knew. I knew it as if he had spat the betrayal in my face. Kate’s appearance in the stables had not been coincidence. He had sent her to me, to rupture whatever frayed thread still bound us. “Up to your old tricks, I see.” I yanked my arm away. “What did you tell her? That there is no place for me in her life because I devote myself body and soul to your service?”
    “You did tell me you had forsaken her,” he replied. “Only yesterday, in fact.”
    “God’s teeth,” I whispered, “just when I think you could not be more heartless. You had no right to interfere!”
    He did not flinch. “Kate understands more than you suppose. She realizes we all must sacrifice,” he said, as if he were talking of a piece of merchandise and not the very girl he had raised. “She knows how much is at stake now that Elizabeth is queen.”
    “Does she?” I riposted. “Because the way she spoke to me, it felt like—”
    “Are you ready?” asked a woman from behind us. “Her Majesty is waiting.”
    With a furious glance over my shoulder, I saw one of Elizabeth’s damsels peering from the curtain. I drew a taut breath as Cecil tugged at his robe and moved to the chamber where the queen and her company awaited.
    A vivid recollection of the last time I had been in this airy room assaulted me. Here, during Queen’s Mary reign, I had first met Sybilla. I shut my mind to the memory of her gliding toward me and focused on the chamber with its wide window bays offering a view of the windswept parkland outside.
    Wrapped boxes, enameled caskets, and other containers sprouting ribbons and gewgaws were heaped on the central table, where Elizabeth’s ladies had assembled to sort through the trove. I scanned their ranks; saw with a clench in my chest that Kate was among them, clad in blue velvet, her face drawn. She avoided my gaze, her somberness in marked contrast to the eager faces of her companions, all of whom were unfamiliar to me. Though the number of Elizabeth’s attendants had of course increased, I found it unsettling to find no sign of the other two women who had served Elizabeth throughout her life. Times past, she would rarely have been seen without her protective chief gentlewoman, Lady Blanche Parry, or her former governess, the redoubtable Mistress Ashley.
    Two contented spaniels dozed by the hearth. The atmosphere was warm, redolent with the bittersweet scent of crushed herbs underfoot. The carpets, I noted, were threadbare, as if our late queen had worn them out with her anxious pacing.…
    Elizabeth’s husky laughter rang out. Turning to my right, I found her seated near an alcove, clad in a high-necked gown of silver brocade. Tight-sleeved, with cuffs of black lace at her wrists, her garb showed off her perfect skin and slim hands to perfection—beautiful hands, which she liked to display, and which at this moment beckoned Dudley. He bent to her. Her head cocked to one side as he murmured in her ear. Her next burst of laughter was a purr in her throat.