Also, I claimed to need more air—not entirely feigned. I found the house stagnant. Though young Edward had caused some repairs and reinforcements to be made during his reign, it still needed much work. This palace, of all the monarchs’ homes, was the farthest from London and therefore easy to neglect.
Stories had it that Henry the Second had built a bower on the palace grounds for his mistress, the Faire Rosamund, a legendary beauty. Their love had blossomed here, Henry besotted. I had to imagine that the house had been much more sumptuous then than it was now. I also wondered what Henry’s wife, the formidable Queen Eleanor, had thought of the arrangement.
As I studied flowers that covered a hedge in a riot of color, I heard a commotion at the gate of the outer courtyard. I skirted the house toward the disturbance, taking care not to be noticed by Bedingfield’s guards.
A young man who looked familiar stood in the courtyard, surrounded by armed men. A red-faced Bedingfield interrogated him at the top of his voice.
“Books,” he shouted. “What business have you to bring Her Grace books? There will be messages in them I’ll wager.”
“Indeed, no,” the young man replied haughtily. I recognized him then as the son of Thomas Parry’s wife by her first husband. Young John Fortescue was presently reading at one of the colleges at nearby Oxford and must have been sent here by Master Parry. “They are tomes my stepfather thought Her Grace would want. Her Grace is a learned woman.”
Bedingfield stared at Fortescue in grave suspicion, then turned to his guards. “Search the books, and search him, for any messages.”
The guards did not look happy to dip their thick fingers into the books, grumbling as they did as they were bid. Mr. Fortescue complained about having to turn his clothes inside out like a common thief, but he had to obey.
While Bedingfield’s attention was thus occupied, I slipped back to the garden and out a small gate that had been left unbolted for me.
I found the cottage not far up a woodcutter’s track, deep under a canopy of forest. The tiny house boasted one window, whose shutter, worn and cracked, appeared as though it should have hung askew, but someone had fastened it quite firmly over the window. Likewise, the door had obviously been broken once, but its hinges were newly mended.
The rest of the house was ramshackle—thatch sliding from the roof to leave patches like a balding man’s head, its whitewash gray, the chimney’s bricks crumbling. Seedlings surrounded the house, as did undergrowth, nature reclaiming what human beings had abandoned.
I stepped into the dim interior, which was a single room, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I appeared to be the only one present.
“Close the door.”
I stifled a shriek as Colby’s voice came out of the darkness. Admonishing myself to breathe normally, I obeyed and pushed the door shut.
“If I am caught, Bedingfield will write of it in great detail to Mary,” I warned him in some irritation.
Colby sent me a hint of his smile. “A young woman slipping into the woods might only be keeping a tryst.”
“You do not know Bedingfield. Should Elizabeth sneeze, he writes to Mary’s council to inquire whether they believe it a code. All her friends are suspect, and even some of her enemies.”
“I tease you, Mistress Rousell,” Colby said. “It is put about that Elizabeth’s enemies might think to infiltrate her ladies by flirting with them, but none would dare try it with you.”
I considered his words as I laid my summer cloak over a stool that was whole and somewhat new. “I believe that is vaguely insulting.”
“It should not be.” Colby’s tone lost its amusement. “I mean that you are shrewder than most and see through guile disguised as flattery. Your head is not easily turned.”
“I see.” I eyed him narrowly. “I had no idea I was such a paragon.”
“The primary source of this idea is Dudley.” Colby studied me, his arms folded across his chest. “He finds it difficult to take your measure.”
“Perhaps because I’ve taken his measure,” I answered with heat. “He knows his own charm and uses it to his advantage.”
Colby shrugged. “When his advantage runs parallel to my needs, I concede him his charm and let him use it.”
“I grant that,” I answered. “Is it law that conspirators have to love one another?”
“Decidedly not.” Colby softened enough to grin at me, appearing almost like an ordinary person.
“Well, I am here. What are we conspiring today?” I asked.
“Nothing.” Colby came out of his closed stance and spread his hands, his light cloak moving loosely on his back. “We only wish to know how Elizabeth fares. Bedingfield, we hear, is a strict master.”
I huffed a laugh. “He attempts to be. Elizabeth is far more intelligent than he, and she plays upon it. I’ve seen Bedingfield clutch his head trying to decipher what she has said to him. Her Grace speaks in roundabout ways, wheedling him into permitting her to do more than Mary would like. It is a good source of amusement, where we have so few,” I finished morosely.
“I heard that on her journey here, she was hailed by the farmers and their families she passed,” Colby said. “They rejoice that the princess is free.”
