The Tudor Vendetta Read Online Free Page A

under his beard; he did not need to say a word for me to know he disapproved of such uncontrolled access to the queen’s very person.
    At the great double doors leading into the hall, we paused to check our cloaks but weren’t given time. Behind us, courtiers pressed like an unstoppable tide, sweeping us into the expanse, the hammer-beamed painted ceiling suffused in smoke high above us, a fogbound sky; the black-and-white tile floor strewn with trampled rushes, which formed a slippery meadow under our feet.
    The cacophony was deafening; the air was suffused with the heat of dripping wax from the many candelabras in corners and hanging on chains overhead, of musk and perfume splashed on bare skin, of sweat, grease, and spilt wine. A posse of ladies sauntered past us; one of them, pretty enough in her dark blue satins, shot an unmistakable look at me. As unexpected heat kindled in my groin, I recalled with a start that I’d not been with a woman since—
    I looked away, banishing the memory, even as my admirer’s companions tugged her away into the crowd, one of them whispering loud enough to ensure she was overheard: “Comely enough, I suppose, but did you smell him? I warrant he hasn’t bathed in weeks! Only a papist would dare come to court bearing such a stench.”
    Walsingham commented dryly, “So, we’re papists now, are we?” Even as he spoke he searched the crowd, devising a path to the raised platform, where a cluster of privileged, bejeweled figures could be glimpsed. Having navigated crowds in this hall before, I appreciated the challenge. I doubted we could approach the dais without being detained, given our unkempt persons.
    “Perhaps we can take a drink first,” I said, eyeing a page as he hustled by with a decanter. I was suddenly parched and had my goblet in my bag.
    Walsingham said sharply, “Drink?” as if I’d suggested we swim across the Thames. Thrusting his bag at me, he marched forth, carving his way like a blade, his determination causing those in his path to shift aside, scowling and grumbling. I followed in his wake, carrying our luggage, and caught a fleeting glimpse of my admirer to my left. She winked at me. Her friends nudged her, giggling.
    Then, all of a sudden, yeomen in green-and-white livery barred our passage with their pikestaffs. Behind them stood the wide dais with its empty throne, situated by one of Whitehall’s famed Caen-stone hearths. The privileged nobles gathered about it turned to stare. I had a discomfiting impression of hawkish noses, trim beards, and contemptuous eyes before they parted, revealing another man, his hand casually poised on the throne’s upholstered armrest.
    It was none other than my former master, Lord Robert Dudley.

 
     
    Chapter Three
    He looked better than expected, though in truth I hadn’t been expecting him at all. I cursed under my breath at my lack of foresight. He wore rich, ash-gray velvet slashed with ivory silk, a profusion of seed pearls picking out his family emblem of bear and ragged staff on his sleeves. His broad shoulders offset the muscular legs he was so vain of; he looked nothing like the gaunt prisoner I had last seen in the Tower, and without warning all the pent-up rage inside me surged. Ever since I had been a foundling in his family’s care, Dudley had delighted in tormenting me. I could tell by the hatred igniting his dark eyes that he had not forgotten it, either.
    He took a step forward. “What,” he hissed, “are you doing here?”
    I met his stare. I too had shed all vestiges of the youth he had known. Hardened by my training, confident that in a fight I could more than match him, I was no longer afraid of his bark. Before I could react, Walsingham said with appropriate deference, “Begging my lord’s forgiveness, but I was summoned by my lord Secretary Cecil. This is my manservant and—”
    Dudley snarled, “Manservant? Since when was this cur anyone’s servant? He’s incapable of it; he bites every