Tudor Rose Page 10

  Avis lifted a hand from Dorothie’s hair. She turned the cameo toward her chest so she didn’t have to risk catching her grandmother’s glare, and announced, “I need to speak with Fulke.”

  SIX

  “Rose, go over with the other servants.”

  “Why?”

  “Discover what you can. Information.”

  “About what exactly?”

  “I don’t know,” Sybille fired back impatiently. They were outside the cathedral on the cracked marble steps. A few yards away a gaggle of attendants clustered together, their words hard to hear but their accents were clear: low class. “Things you servants talk about. You’re such a chittery breed, gossiping senselessly about your masters. Still … ” Sybille waggled a maddening schoolmarm finger at her. “ … even the most vicious rumor has some kernel of truth.”

  Rose looked at the ground and mumbled an obscenity.

  “I’m not sure I heard you, dear,” Sybille said generously, with an imperious smile. “Now off you go.”

  She watched Rose shuffle over to the servant women with smug satisfaction. The young Castletown hadn’t been fooling anyone with her whole “Let’s pray” performance. Rose was clearly considering some kind of rebellion, and Sybille needed to make sure she knew her place. That place was as her servant, assisting her in all things, including winning the competition. Rose had done well with the queen the night before but that had to be the last time if Sybille was going to be the one to shine. And shine she must.

  After her humiliating experiences at the palace, Sybille was beginning to wonder if the Scarcliffs would try to weasel out of the wedding. Another defeat for Sybille would give them all the ammunition they might need to break the contract. Sybille’s absolute need to win the queen’s Challenge far outweighed any girlish desires for attention that Rose might have.

  Now with Rose looking uncomfortable and out of place, Sybille was left in a bit of a predicament. Two steps down from Sybille were the servants and at the top of the steps near the cathedral doors was a gathering of ladies. Sybille was standing in between and couldn’t just linger here by herself indefinitely. Bravado lived in abundance in Sybille, but thanks to her palace introduction, she knew how cruel the ladies and their class could be. Still, if Sybille’s gala was going to be the towering success it must be, she needed to start her campaign to win them over now.

  She lifted a foot to step up—

  A robed person rushed at her, and Sybille reacted with disgust. Not another religious fanatic yelling that she was going to hell. Even in Gordonsrod they had had plenty of traveling clergy passing through the small village, insisting the filthy pig farmers and near-starving cloth dyers were all going to pay in the afterlife for their sins. As if that weren’t the case already.

  Then Sybille saw the man’s face.

  Howell Digby.

  Oh hell. Sybille had a gala to dream up, a best friend to wrangle into submission, a demented blond Scarcliff to fend off, and a wedding to plan. Did she really have to deal with this, too?

  Instinctively, she turned to tell Rose that the boy she’d been panting over all their lives had arrived. But when she saw Rose’s smiling face and how easily she was blending in and chatting away with the servants—clearly ignoring Sybille—Sybille felt her anger rise and stopped.

  Howell still barreled toward her. He appeared ready not to just talk with Sybille, but to merge with her.

  “Slow down!” Sybille hissed, and held up a hand that connected with his chest. It was more of a protective measure for herself than a flirtation. They were standing where hundreds of eyes could see them. It was one thing for her to tug the French Ambassador’s son into a discreet corner of the palace; this, however, was a stage with an audience she couldn’t control. She didn’t need sordid rumors interfering with her wedding to Valentyne. It was a light touch, only meant as a way to keep him at a distance, but Howell reacted oddly.

  His cheeks turned red and his eyes blazed, and he mumbled something under his breath. It sounded like a prayer. Was he asking God for help against her? Maybe Howell had grown into a fanatic after all.

  A rather handsome fanatic, Sybille had to admit.

  Howell had shaved his beard, revealing more of the strong jaw and broad cheekbones underneath. Had he put some more meat on his bones, too? Was that why he looked more … substantial? The dark curls on his head framed his flushed face and his blue eyes locked onto hers like two archers taking aim. She felt herself gazing back with new interest.

  Then, still mumbling, Howell’s incisors poked out over his lower lip.

  And ruined the effect.

  Sybille sighed dramatically. “Yes? Howell? I can’t understand a word you’re muttering.”

  “I said … I … ” Howell started again, his hand touching the bare fabric on his chest as if looking for something. The gesture seemed to snap him out of his daze. Switching speeds, he said quickly, “You need to talk to your brother.”

  “Robert?” Sybille asked. “I’ll converse with my comb in his stead. At least when its teeth move, it serves a purpose.” Hmm, was that witty or just irritating? Sybille had been trying out a new courtly voice and manner on Rose this morning and, based on Howell’s blank stare, decided maybe she was taking it too far. “Oh, Howell. Just tell me for God’s sake.”

  Heads in both clutches of servants and ladies were starting to turn their way. Sybille needed this encounter to end.

  “Your brother has fallen in with the wrong crowd, Sybille,” Howell blurted out and then told her about seeing Robert at the School.

  Robert at a school for pickpockets? That sounded exactly like something her brother would do, and it annoyed Sybille to no end.

  Hadn’t Robert learned his lesson when their father chopped off part of his ear? The way he was going, Robert would most certainly get stabbed by one of his victims or hanged by an angry constable. A scandal like that could only set Sybille farther back and was not the wedding present she wanted. How the hell did Robert think he could be an inconspicuous sneak-thief with his ridiculous red hair and his tall, lanky body?

  “Not to worry,” Sybille said. “I’ll hunt him down myself and put a stop to this idiocy.”

  “When he’s caught, his head will be on a spike,” Howell said, echoing Sybille’s thought that there was no if in this situation. Robert’s life of crime would be short lived. “I don’t suppose even your friend the queen would help him then,” Howell added.

  Sybille laughed. Then realized the fool was serious. She liked the idea that someone—even if it was Howell Digby—believed that she was powerful enough to have the ear of the queen.

  “You’re aware the queen’s not afraid of spilling blood,” Howell said, still staring at her intently.

  Yes, Sybille knew the queen had a certain level of bloodlust. Heads on spikes, battling bears, and warring girls—all things she enjoyed. Those and a good hunt.

  Sybille seized on that idea. Maybe a hunt was the answer … maybe that could be her gala.

  A magnificent hunt! Something Sybille could combine with her wedding! She really was on to something. She wouldn’t require much in the way of funds, since the wedding was already being paid for by her father. She wondered briefly if that would count as a disqualifying act. Could that be considered taking money from her family? But she discarded the concern. The wedding was taking place anyway, she would simply find a way to raise supplemental funds to add to the event. The only thing of real value she owned was her engagement ring but if she sold that would she even be engaged anymore?

  Sybille would need to turn her attention to that financial problem soon. Right now, however, she was too busy imagining herself arriving on horseback to her own wedding. Sybille had been raised on a farm—a large, complicated business—but still a farm. As a girl she had excelled at riding bareback, until her father had put a stop to that. Now she pictured herself galloping past guests and leaping off her powerful steed in her flowing wed
ding gown … and then skittering headlong into the altar rail, flipping skyward with her bare legs and her O-thing waving for all in attendance to see.

  All right, maybe she shouldn’t ride into the wedding but she could combine the ceremony and the after-celebration with her gala. She would be the queen’s champion. It was perfect!

  The only problem, Sybille had never been on a formal hunt. She would need to find the perfect teacher, someone who knew his way around horses and hunts and all the things that would capture the queen’s attention.

  “Sybille?”

  Howell Digby’s voice sounded far away. Was Howell still here? She had touched his chest. She had even spoken with him. How much more did he expect her to give? Couldn’t he go bother his “Pretty Petal” and leave her be?

  Still the robes, the black curls, the odd praying … those sparkling blue eyes … all made him tempting quarry.

  Plus, there was her good friend Rose. Sybille trusted her earlier instincts. She knew Rose wasn’t really going to surrender easily and give all her support to Sybille. Maybe there was something to be gained by stoking Howell’s desires. His affections might make an interesting bargaining instrument Sybille could use with Rose in the future.

  “We’ll see each other soon, Howell,” Sybille purred. She offered him a sweet smile, the one she brought out only when she wanted to be certain of her trapping her prey.

  Masque.

  Rose’s finger tapped the word on the book’s cover. So that was how you spelled it. No K. It must be French, she decided.

  Interesting, Rose, but not extremely helpful. Will you have a spelling theme for your masque?

  Ach. She wasn’t any closer to figuring out what she would present to the queen on her night of the Challenge, but at least she had this book with the sleep-inducing title A Masque and Its Possible Meanings in her possession. That was a start.

  She was in one of the palace’s many hallways, standing in a beam of morning light that streamed through the frosted window panes.

  Rose had awakened that morning with a decision already fully formed: It was time to find Dr. Dee and talk to him about the strange book he’d given her in Gordonsrod. Yes, he had made it clear that Rose shouldn’t try to contact him until she had learned the secret, other-worldly language, or whatever twaddle he wanted to call it, but she couldn’t wait anymore. Enough was enough. She wanted answers on how to decipher the book’s code or at least a little guidance on finding them. The book had already won her the room; it could be just what she needed to put on the perfect gala for the queen.

  So, after fetching a breakfast of bread and weak beer for herself and “her lady,” Rose had taken a different path back to their room. She gave two slices of bread and her share of the beer to three servants and asked if they knew where she could find Dr. Dee in the palace. None of the three seemed to have any insights. One told her the palace’s immensity would make it easy for a thin man like Dr. Dee to hide in one of the cracks. Another replied that when she spotted that bony, skeleton of a man wandering the hallway, she often confused his pale face for that of the angel of death.

  Hungry and frustrated, Rose had returned to the apartment to find a book propped up outside the door. Was it a love present from one of Sybille’s secret suitors? To be honest, Rose wasn’t sure if Sybille could even read. Sybille’s father had begrudgingly paid a young tutor in Gordonsrod to teach his daughter the basics, but Sybille had quickly seduced him. It was Rose who followed his lesson plans, supplementing the education her father had given her, while the student and master were off walking in the far fields.

  As Rose picked up the book, she decided it must be from Dr. Dee. Maybe he had a penchant for communicating through the passing of books? Tucking the book in her purse next to the diary, Rose popped inside the apartment to give Sybille her breakfast and make a rambling excuse about heading out to try to locate the laundry. Sitting on the edge of the bed, distracted by two little paper puppets she had made—one appeared to be a horse—Sybille had waved Rose off. Clearly, Sybille had her own agenda for the day and didn’t want her servant girl around.

  Fighting the urge to flip through the new book right then and there, Rose had made it as far as this spot in the hallway, before she stopped and turned to the inscription on the cover page.

  Gentle Rose,

  Your visage is gala enough. Smile upon your guests, and surely the queen will shine upon you.

  —Yours, Fulke

  Rose shook her head, disappointed it wasn’t from Dr. Dee. She was flattered, too, of course. Who wouldn’t be? Even if she continued to find his every move a contrived exercise in entitlement and found her dislike growing for him each day, Fulke was still a fantastically handsome earl, sixth or seventh in line for the throne. And he was pursuing a simple country girl like Rose who had done nothing but discourage his advances. It was the story from a romantic song. Not her life.

  “Clear the way, if you please!” a servant shouted, jolting Rose out of her thoughts and sending her stumbling back till she was pressed against the wall. Being shoved aside by four men grappling with an enormous purple velvet sofa—now that felt more like Rose’s real life. As they hurried past and disappeared around a corner, Rose could detect the panic in their steps and knew the sofa must be yet another item the queen had requested, probably on a whim.

  Rose remained with her back against the wall for a moment so she could examine the inscription again. Maybe if she reread it enough times, she could change the name from Fulke to Dr. Dee … or Howell Digby … at least in her head.

  Even as she thought it, she could hear Sybille scoff. Are you touched? Why not just accept Fulke’s gifts and attentions?

  If Rose was honest with herself, it wasn’t just her undefined love for Howell or her distaste for the earl that caused her to resist seeing Fulke, it was a specific fear. She knew that it might take just one more moment with Fulke for him to recognize what she truly was: An unpolished girl with, at best, average appeal from a forgotten, backwater village. Better to keep her distance from him and allow her inaccessibility to be further enticement. She might need an ally at some point in the future when she presented her masque.

  Her masque …

  Something to do with language? She did love words and reading. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea after all. She could encourage everyone to create their own sonnet in tribute to the queen. That would certainly save her from doing the work.

  Good Lord above! Rose was tempted to strike herself in the head with the book. She laughed, wanting to share the ridiculous idea with Sybille. She knew it would make her laugh as well. But she was on her own, isolated without her friend.

  Time to change that. Rose pushed away from the wall and began to drift through the palace, using being lost in a book as an excuse to wander aimlessly, or at least to create the appearance of wandering aimlessly. While one half of her gaze picked up on words from the book such as “ … masque, the most glittering of all extravagances … ” and “ … months of preparation … ” the other half was on the lookout for signs of Dr. Dee and possible new contacts she could make.

  There! Walking toward her was the teenaged son of the head of the Earl of Surrey’s privy chamber. Rose still couldn’t get over the convoluted titles people were so insistent on forcing others to remember. She had met him on their second day in the palace, and his name popped into her mind instantly. John.

  With her head down as if lost in reading, Rose directed her path toward his, and soon, well, didn’t they just accidentally collide? In a last second attempt to avoid her, John spun off to the side and actually stumbled before falling to his hands and knees.

  “I’m so sorry, Michael!” Rose cried, rushing to help him up.

  With an embarrassed smile, the young man straightened up and said in a comical voice, “I’ll be sure to tell Michael that if I see him.”

  “You’re not Michael?” Rose asked, feigning innocence. From her recent encounters
with potential contacts, Rose had learned it often paid to come into a situation from a different, unexpected angle. “It’s Tom … no … wait!” She snapped her fingers. “It’s John, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, John.”

  Rose touched his arm, and suddenly John didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to continue down the hallway.

  “Please don’t bother yourself,” he said, attempting to smooth down the cowlick of brown hair that poked up on the back of his head. “Of course, one meets so many people in the palace. It can be quite confusing.”

  “Such kindness!” Rose gushed. “I don’t want to forget your name again. Perhaps if I think of other Johns I know when I see you that will help. Like, um, that friend of the queen’s, Dr. Dee! Doesn’t he share your first name?”

  Rose cringed inside at how obviously she was trying to lead him. She had to get better at this kind of game. Still John appeared happy to go along.

  “Yes, it is Dr. John Dee,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone calling him by his first name, other than Her Majesty. Though he might allow someone with certain qualities,” his eyes took in Rose’s chest, “to take such liberties.”

  Just at that moment, John’s cowlick popped back up and Rose stifled a laugh. “Such a very interesting man that Dr. Dee … ” she said, fishing.

  “And mysterious.”

  Now they were getting somewhere! “Really?”

  Nodding, John said, “Were you not aware that he disappears at dusk every evening?”

  Rose blinked as if in wonder and echoed, “Disappears?”

  “Ha! Not really. Don’t worry your pretty self,” John soothed as if speaking to a child. “He’s not a warlock! My servant has seen Dr. Dee stride purposefully into the north tower every evening and no one knows why or for what purpose!”