Tudor Rose Page 12

  Rose took a breath. When she spoke her voice was strong, carrying a new purpose. “It’s just that,” she said, “I’d love for you to introduce me to your new friends.”

  SEVEN

  As the trio of plate-painters had predicted, the celebratory gala planned by the third highest lady-in-waiting did not go off quite as she had hoped.

  Lady Emily had been with Elizabeth nearly her entire adult life; the two had met when they were both fourteen in Surrey. Emily had been a supportive, affectionate handmaid during those dark times when members of all levels of society had openly wondered if Elizabeth would be imprisoned, murdered, or married off to her stepfather, Thomas Seymour. No one at the time ever believed she would ascend the throne.

  It was for Emily’s loyalty alone that the queen was allowing her marriage to Arthur Throckmorton, another young, prominent member of the queen’s court. Many other romances were budding—or in full bloom—all around the queen but all were conducted in terrible secrecy. The queen was jealous of love that did not focus its attention squarely upon her. In her mind, she should be the only companion anyone could possibly require. Even though the queen claimed to have accepted the idea of the marriage of Emily and Arthur, when it came down to embracing it … that was a different story. Such an act of rebellion could not go without punishment.

  To show her disapproval, the queen made sure to keep her royal distance from the ceremony. After Emily had spent weeks planning and orchestrating a celebratory masque more in thanks to Elizabeth than to celebrate her own wedding, the queen had declared at the last moment that she would spend the evening at her Whitehall residence.

  And she would not travel alone.

  Of course, her boundless benevolence would allow Emily and Arthur’s guests to enjoy the gala even if her royal highness would not be present. But the queen couldn’t possibly be expected to go a single evening without her ladies-in-waiting—and, for now, that list still included Emily, whether she was wed or not. It was whispered among the court that upon hearing the queen’s wishes, Emily had simply nodded and asked her servant to fetch her warmer coat for the journey.

  Within thirty minutes, the queen and her entourage, including a tightly-smiling Emily, were packed and riding out the palace gate. Emily’s husband would follow an hour or so behind.

  By early evening, the palace breathed that delicious sigh it always did when the monarch had vacated the household. An air of relief swept through the grounds and the apartments, blowing the young people out of the shadows. They emerged and descended upon the abandoned masque, which had been set up in the palace’s largest courtyard, like ravenous locusts on a vulnerable and abundant crop.

  Among the first to arrive to the courtyard, Avis Scarcliff breezed in on the arm of her gorgeous brother Valentyne. Avis was still giving everyone a moment to lay eyes on her immaculate white ermine jacket and her white cap, shoes, and gloves, when an open-mouthed Rose and a scowling Sybille stumbled in behind her. Both were coatless and dressed in dirty beige “gowns” they’d probably dug up behind their barn.

  Sybille gave Avis a nod that she must have thought looked regal instead of squinty and peevish. “Good evening, sister,” Sybille drawled.

  Rage was the only sisterly emotion Avis felt at that moment. “Away, Valentyne, away,” she said before Sybille could even say hello to him, and pulled her brother into the crowd of thirty or so young people who were gathered in the first section of the courtyard.

  Rose didn’t notice Avis. Her vision was overloaded by what Lady Emily had created for her wedding guests and the absent queen. Rose dropped her arms to her sides and sucked in a breath. And then laughed at the ridiculously futile task she had been given.

  The impossibility of her winning the Challenge hit Rose like a slap in the face.

  Yes, she had her grand plan that she had been developing since yesterday in the tower, but how on Earth would she ever produce something like this? Perhaps Avis had the resources and the knowledge to engineer such an evening. But Rose knew for a fact that she and her friend Sybille did not. Sure, Sybille might be better at playing the palace game, but she was still a bumpkin … just like Rose.

  Sybille trailed after Valentyne, leaving Rose alone. The plan for a masque she’d scribbled in the diary now seemed like something a little girl would dream up in her head.

  A palace … no, not a palace, more like a modern-day, life-sized Athenian temple had been sculpted entirely of ice. Two-story high columns supported a sharply pitched gable roof—all crafted from frozen water. The architect of this icy marvel was the very same man who had designed King Henry’s palace in Edinburgh, and Rose wouldn’t be surprised if this structure was even more grand.

  It wasn’t just the temple itself, there were all the brilliant accents and genius of the small touches. Paths of white pebbles wound through tables piled high with white ermine furs for the guests to wear when they grew chilly. Lamps shaped like icicles hung from the trees and eaves of the courtyard, casting soft light and causing the ice palace itself to glow.

  White wine poured out of spigots built into the walls of the temple, and dripped onto trays of wine-soaked white beef—how was white beef even possible?—and splashed onto bowls of white wine pudding. Servants dressed in white silk carried water pitchers crafted out of ice that had false bottoms filled with wine. When the servants filled guests’ cups, wine flowed out instead of water. The gesture supported the nearly blasphemous idea that the queen had the power to turn water into wine.

  The overall effect of the entire display was breathtaking. The sums spent, astronomical.

  Yet the queen would never see it. And poor Lady Emily, who had painstakingly given birth to the feast, had thrown aside this most spectacular event and gone with her queen.

  Only two other items of note were missing. First, the musicians—they too must have been ordered to travel with the queen. Their custom-made white instruments were laid out on a large table of ice, untouched. And, second, there were no doors.

  The spaces between the temple’s columns were walls of ice, preventing entry into the building’s interior. Bordered by the two middle columns, the central wall was the thinnest with torches lining its perimeter. These flames were melting the frozen wall and slowly turning it into a doorway. Rose could see the arched form taking shape as the ice thinned.

  Inside she could make out the glow of other candles and torches. Every hour a new chamber within the palace would open and the guests could explore. It was a wonderful way to build suspense.

  But it also turned the courtyard into a temporary prison of sorts for Rose. For the first time since the queen had challenged them, all three girls were in the same confined space, and Rose felt as if the cold walls were closing in around her.

  Unlike Rose, Avis found the ice soothing; it eased the heat of her temperament. Posing confidently, she and Valentyne glittered against this backdrop, almost as if their parents had planned their blond hair and pale features specifically for this evening.

  “Excuse me, darling,” Valentyne murmured to Avis as Sybille strode over toward them. “The weasel is in the coop, and this cock must fly.”

  He kissed Avis’s hand, bowed, and then was off, his graceful form and powerful shoulders sliding easily in and out of the cluster of young admirers. Sybille’s projected path changed as she veered toward Valentyne like a clumsy dog in pursuit of a sleek fox.

  Of course, Avis had her own quarry in mind. Unlike Sybille, the youngest Scarcliff believed in the expedience and simplicity of a well-designed trap. There was no need to pursue, Avis would stand right here in the good lighting and, well, just look beautiful. And when Fulke arrived, he would come to her.

  Avis watched as Rose hovered near the entrance, clearly unsure of what to do. Her square-necked gown and matching cap were slightly—very slightly—more fashionable than her previous attempts, but the fabric appeared to be … burlap?

  It was easy to imagine the thoughts racing t
hrough the quivering fool’s mind:

  Should I go over and join … ? Who is that? Who can I trust? Should I just run away?

  Avis tried to convey the answers with her eyes.

  No. Your betters. No one. Yes.

  Clearly needing something to do with her hands, Rose picked up one of the white instruments—a lute—and examined it as if it were the most interesting thing she had ever encountered.

  Perfect, Avis thought

  “Oh, everyone, our country friend is going to entertain us!” she announced. In an instant, she was across the courtyard, standing next to Rose, bringing the eyes of all the guests with her. The stricken expression that spread across Rose’s face was almost too tragic. She tried to move away from Avis, who stopped her with a gloved hand on the arm of her gown.

  “No, no, you can’t hide your light under that … ” Avis’s hand remained on the fabric as her face pinched. “What is that fabric?”

  Rose attempted to break free, but Avis kept her grip long enough for others to gather around them, including Sybille.

  “The lute!” Avis crowed. Now that Rose was cornered, Avis released her arm. “How cunning you’ve become since I first discovered you in the … ” To the crowd, she mouthed the word sewers, and was rewarded with a few chuckles. “ … outside the palace gates! Please play for us, Rose Castletown! After all, every lady-in-waiting should be able to entertain the queen on any musical instrument at a moment’s notice.”

  Appearing desperate for escape, Rose plucked a string on the lute. Twang. The sour note filled the courtyard. There was a giggle.

  To her credit, Sybille shot Rose a sympathetic glance. However that was followed by a shrug that said, You’re on your own.

  “Oh, wonderful! Wonderful!” Avis cheered. “But does that song have any parts that won’t damage our sensitive—”

  Rose plucked another string. This one produced a strong sweet note. Avis’s expression froze. Rose’s hand moved again. Another pretty note. And another. Faster and faster, and within seconds the notes began flowing into a song.

  Tilting her head slightly, Rose gave Avis a smile—the exact same one she had given her days earlier across Agnes’s coffin. As the sting found its target, Avis winced.

  “Rose is a quick learner, always has been,” Sybille told the uninterested boy next to her, as she grinned and clapped. A few of the younger people started to dance. With a wave of her hand, Avis put a stop to that, and then she turned her back to the crowd, indicating the performance was over. The guests drifted off into their clusters again and went back to their conversations. Still, Rose played on … beautifully.

  Just as her luck would have it, that was when Fulke chose to enter the courtyard.

  He wore his ornamental sword at his side; his white fur coat a stark contrast to his black hair and beard. He was immediately absorbed into a heated discussion about the price of wool with a group of older gentlemen, and had not yet registered that Rose was playing the lute with such expertise. Avis needed to move fast to make sure that didn’t happen.

  “May I see that?” Avis snatched the lute from Rose. “I think it needs tuning.” She pulled a string gently, then harder. Avis grunted with effort as the string bit into her gloved hand. But it wouldn’t break. Avis finally took the spoon from her purse and twisted it around the string until it snapped.

  “There you are, my girl,” Avis said, slightly out of breath. She gently placed the lute back in Rose’s arms. “That should suit you better, don’t you think?”

  With one last glare intended to paralyze the simpering tart, Avis swept away to go find Fulke and—

  “Please make your way into the temple!” an attendant cried. The doorway between the two central columns had melted, and the guests were now eagerly jostling their way through to the interior dining chamber. Avis would have to join the crush if she wanted to locate Fulke.

  Inside the first chamber sat a snowflake-shaped communal table, made of long slabs of ice that radiated outward like petals on a flower, capable of seating two hundred guests. In the very center of the table sat a chair that had been rigged to a dais that could be turned on command by one of the attendants. This chair was obviously intended for the queen and would have allowed her to turn at different times during the gala to shine her glory on all of her subjects.

  Of course, this seat remained empty, but the other chairs were being commandeered by guests of varying position as the white-and ivory-clad revelers poured in. The older crowd buzzed as they looked for seats assigned to their names or ones that had been abandoned. The younger group seemed unwilling to commit to just one spot, and remained on their feet, mingling, drinking, and picking morsels of roasted quail off nearby plates.

  Avis finally spotted Lord Northwood standing at the far end of the dining chamber, close to the next sealed doorway. He was flanked by that dim-witted Cicely—the same girl who had gotten her right hand twisted in a butter churn as a child—and some other twit—Alexandra? Her father was a merchant! Who sold fish! It didn’t matter, Avis thought, they would be leaving momentarily. She would see to clearing them out.

  After all Avis had an important perspective scheme to discuss, one that could benefit both her and Fulke, and bring her the funds needed for her masque, a masque that would make even this impressive display appear weak and pathetic. Once Avis secured the spot on the queen’s progress, she would be a much more valuable wife as a lady-in-waiting to the queen.

  And since she had every intention of marrying Fulke, this was for both of their good. As Avis picked up an ice-glass of white wine from a tray and approached the earl and the two girls, she realized she might not have to do a thing to shoo them away. From the distant, dismissive look in Fulke’s eyes, they were already as good as gone. Avis just had to wait for him to notice her, before he would leave them and approach her.

  “Oh, Fulke!” Cicely cackled, touching the earl’s arm as if he had just uttered the most clever thing. “Now, tell us really, why do you have your sword with you?”

  “It’s a secret, isn’t it?” the other girl cooed. “I can be trusted! After all, I’ve never told a soul that Cicely hasn’t bathed since the age of ten.”

  The horrified expression that spread across Cicely’s face sent cracks through her thick make-up. She brought her hands to her flaking cheeks where heavy layers of concealer had built up over the last nine or ten months, like sun-baked dirt in a drought.. In an instant, she yanked her friend away to curse at her in private, leaving Fulke standing alone. Avis was poised to take full advantage of the unattended earl.

  “Fulke, may I speak with you?” she asked blandly as she sidled up next to him. No clever witticism. No banter. He would appreciate her directness and—

  Damn it. Why did he have to be so handsome? The torchlight reflecting off the ice caused his green eyes to glitter even more than usual.

  “Mmm,” Fulke muttered, distracted, his gaze fixed on the melting doorway which led to the next chamber.

  Avis felt her cheeks flush with heat. Every other man in the palace would sacrifice a limb just for the chance to be in the same proximity as her. And she was getting a Mmm from this one?

  “I have a proposal,” Avis snapped, regretted it, and tried again in a softer voice, “I have a proposal, Fulke.”

  “Ah, I see,” the earl smiled. “Would this be a business opportunity?”

  “Yes.” She knew he would appreciate this straightforward tact. “I would like you to escort me to the chapel of my father’s family this evening. My maid has arranged with the … ” Avis struggled for the right word here. She didn’t want to scare him off the plan. “ … the staff there for us to have an hour of contemplation by my—” Another hesitation here she hoped he didn’t notice. “—my sister’s resting place.”

  She needn’t have worried. He had stopped listening one or two sentences ago. “You say it’s about business, do you?”

  “Yes,” Avis answered definitively.
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  “I’m sorry.” Fulke didn’t look a bit sorry. “I’ve put off all business discussions until next year.”

  “Fulke, come now … ” Avis attempted to leap on a more coquettish mask before it was too late.

  “You should be careful how you play the instruments fate has seen fit to place around you,” he said, turning fully away from her toward the frozen doorway. Instruments? Like the lute? Was he chastising her for her light teasing of Rose Castletown’s musical abilities? Had damnable Rose Castletown just interfered with her plans … again?

  A burning sensation churned in Avis’s belly. “Well … ” she sputtered, and then with nothing sensible coming out of her mouth, she decided to put something in it. She downed the glass of icy wine and, suppressing a cough, glanced over at her group of friends clumped together just a few yards away.

  Dorothie had her back turned to Avis and the girl was shaking her head causing her curls to bounce mockingly. It couldn’t be clearer that she was talking about Avis.

  For the first time in her long experience with red rage, Avis’s anger intensified to the point where it spread outside her body. She felt it as if it were a physical presence pushing her toward a cliff.

  To be fair, Lord Northwood somewhat enjoyed the company of Avis Scarcliff. Well, as much as he enjoyed the fawning fakery of any of his admirers. She could be tolerable, he supposed, but sweet Lord on His throne, that girl’s lips never stayed connected for long. And this evening, Fulke wasn’t interested in her endless conniving chitchat or anything that didn’t involve his little production.

  Fulke was a young man who was accustomed to being entertained, not the other way around, and he was not enjoying this feeling. Still, others of his status had performed similar outlandish deeds of romance, and tonight was his turn.