Tudor Rose Page 13

  One last time, Fulke ran his eyes over the room. Rose Castletown lingered in the corner. For some reason, she was watching Dr. Dee pick at the food on his plate.

  What is it about this girl? Fulke wondered. She was beautiful, of course, even in that odd beige gown. But simple beauty didn’t answer why he was considering the romantic gesture he was about to make.

  He had never thought about pursuing a woman of Rose’s background and much lower social status—so why now? Why her? Perhaps it was her lack of guile or because their first meeting hadn’t started with a fawning handshake but with a fiery slap across his face. That slap! No one had ever dared touch him like that. Everyone else treated him as if he might break or bruise, and he loved the honest passion that sent her hand flying through the air and onto his cheek.

  Making one final check, he turned his gaze to the melting door of ice and could just make out the dark form of a hulking figure on the other side. Well, he thought, putting his hand on his sword. Now is as good a time as any.

  “Ho!” Fulke cried loudly enough to get the attention of the guests. “What manner of beast dares threaten my lady?” He hoped his outburst was transparent enough not to cause alarm but not so comical as to induce laughter. He had even practiced the line a bit in his head. Fortunately, when faces turned to see who was making the fuss, any initial amusement turned to true interest when they saw it was Fulke speaking. This was not like him!

  “What dark creature is that lurking in the palace of ice?” Fulke shouted at a lower volume now that all were listening.

  Sure, his lines were overly dramatic, but his friend Kit had suggested them. She assured him he had to play act in a large way, otherwise his performance wouldn’t penetrate the thick skulls of many of those in his audience. And she had been right. There was a light buzz as the crowd wondered what the handsome earl was up to.

  With three quick strides, Fulke reached the door of ice. He pulled his sword free of its sheath, lifted it above his head and—

  —pausing for the gasps he knew would come—

  —Fulke swung the sword around. It struck the door of ice perfectly, causing the door to shatter, and revealing the giant of a man dressed in black armor on the other side.

  Holstan Matthews. He had been standing back there for at least two hours but Fulke couldn’t detect a single shiver, though he did appear frozen. He had a line to deliver and when it didn’t come, Fulke announced ridiculously, “You’re here to ravish the loveliest lady in the land? Is that what you say?”

  His green eyes turned from the giant back to the women in the crowd. Now the buzzing in the room intensified as the audience realized this was all a romantic gesture for one of the lucky girls in attendance. Who would it be?

  Avis knew.

  That was why Fulke hadn’t wanted to talk. He had been planning this for her and didn’t want to ruin the surprise!

  Fulke’s eyes slid right past Avis and landed on Rose Castletown. But Rose did not meet his gaze. She was too busy staring after someone—who was that? Dr. Dee?—leaving the gala.

  Avis snatched up another glass of wine and downed it. As the rage grew, she felt the cliff get closer. To hell with it, Avis thought as she stormed out of the chamber. Once I reach the edge, I’ll spread my black wings and fly.

  Distracted by his search for Rose, Fulke forgot where they were in the choreography of this awkward drama. He needed it to end. When he brought his attention back to Holstan, the big man was dangling his blade behind his back, trying to keep it as far as possible from Fulke.

  This timid movement just confirmed the damning words Rose had said about him. Everyone was too scared to challenge him. For once, couldn’t someone show a little backbone?

  Fulke swung his sword, turning the blade flat, so it would smack harmlessly against Holstan’s side. The plan was for him to go down, pretending to be mortally wounded.

  But, seeming to realize he had failed in his performance so far, Holstan rose to his full height and turned his body at an angle. The effect made him a more meaningful target for the sharp edges of Fulke’s sword, which connected with his hip, just above his groin.

  Fulke was shocked as Holstan fell to the ground. The blow had loosened the armor around his hip and it popped free, revealing that Holstan had neglected to put on any undergarments and that he was staggeringly well-endowed, even in this ice-cold environment. It was comedy at its best. While no one dared offend Fulke by outright laughing at his little play, he could see gloved hands rising to women’s mouths to block giggling and men’s faces lowering to hide their guffaws.

  Holstan held out his hand and said in a flat voice near a whisper, “My Lord. Let us end this battle now. You are the lady’s hero.” He finally had his lines correct but it was too late.

  “For God’s sake, Holstan.” It was ridiculously aggravating. Fulke was angrier with himself than Holstan. They had known each other all their lives. Holstan was a lord as well and a military hero, one just returned from some skirmish or another in France. He’d managed to go unscathed in all his battles, and now Fulke had nearly chopped off his manhood. No small feat.

  A shadow fell over them. Without turning, Fulke crouched in front of Holstan. He certainly didn’t need Rose Castletown to catch an eyeful of that. Her expectations of what to expect from him would soar to heights that would be matched only by a trip to the stable.

  Not wanting to embarrass her, he kept his eyes on Holstan and joked, “It’s said that the Heavenly Father delivered Holstan onto this Earth already equipped with his own lance.”

  Fulke pulled one of the ermine furs from a nearby pile and draped it over the lower portion of his exposed friend. Meanwhile, Holstan kept up the pretense of having been slain. With one eye squeezed shut, he squinted through the other to see if he should continue the ruse or not.

  “He is a champion of the joust?” the girl behind him asked. That wasn’t Rose. Fulke stood up and turned. The voice belonged to Susan. Or Sally? Sybille? Who knew?

  He searched the room again, but Rose was gone. Had this all been for nothing? Why did he ever think this might be a good idea? The only saving grace was that Fulke had not identified Rose as the object of his affection as he had planned, so no one would think she had snubbed him.

  “I thought that was just wonderful!” Sybille enthused. “Wonderful!”

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Fulke responded coldly.

  Not noticing his tone, the girl batted her eyes at him. “I wonder if I could speak with your man here. I have something in mind that I think he might be able to help me with.”

  Taking in her ample curves and pleasing figure, Fulke thought maybe there was a way he could make up for hurting his friend.

  “Holstan, you will do as this lady commands. Whatever she desires. Do you understand?” He gave Holstan a wicked wink. But the big man missed its meaning and looked concerned that Fulke might have something in his eye.

  Fulke could no more salvage the wreckage of this plan than he could his friend’s intellect. Time for Fulke to find a suitable distraction among the crowd and leave this party. As he drifted away, Holstan was still on the ground with Sybille moving in for the kill.

  “Here, Holstan,” Fulke heard Sybille say. “Let me remove that fur for you.”

  EIGHT

  “May I speak with you?”

  Rose’s near-whisper went unanswered.

  The dark outline of John Dee slid silently along the passageway, and Rose followed, just as she had all the way from the temple of ice. Or at least she believed the person rushing headlong through the twists and turns to be Dr. Dee. But honestly, she didn’t know anymore. The real Dr. Dee could have ducked into any one of the rooms lining the different hallways in this unfamiliar part of the palace. Lamps and candles grew more sparse, and Rose worried she would trip on a misplaced rug or collide with a chest of drawers.

  She had waited patiently at the gala for Dr. Dee to finish the meal on the pain
ted plate so he would see the strange symbols she had copied from the diary. Jane and the other girls had been true to their word: Rose was certain that the plate she had painted was in front of him. Watching Dr. Dee push his food around without eating it had nearly driven her mad with frustration.

  Just look! Look at the damn plate!

  She wanted to see his reaction and be there when he looked up for an answer as to how the symbol got there. It would hopefully shock him into communicating with her. Rose might not understand the symbols in the diary, but she was prepared to fake it if that meant she could get Dr. Dee’s help in putting on her gala.

  Then, of course, there had been some kind of disruption involving that jackass Fulke—what he’d been up to she had no idea—and Rose was distracted for a split second. In a blink, Dr. Dee had risen from the table and rushed out of the temple. She couldn’t be sure if Dr. Dee had left because of the disruption or because he had seen the symbol on the plate. Her brief hesitation before pursuing him back into the palace might have cost her.

  Now, as she came around the next corner, the person she had been following was gone, and Rose was faced with a closed door at the end of a hallway.

  “Dr. Dee?” she whispered and again waited in vain for an answer. Before she could lose her nerve, she touched the latch. Locked.

  Relieved in a way that this adventure was over, she sucked in air, realizing only now that she had stopped breathing. Rosie, you’re chasing ghosts. About to go back the way she had come, and wishing she had paid more careful attention to the turns, she heard a click from the other side of the door.

  It was the unmistakable sound of a latch unlocking.

  Rose’s breath caught again. Was the door about to open? Why did she feel panic and the need to hide? Forcing herself to remain still, she stared at the latch, waiting for something more.

  When she reached for the handle this time, she moved even more slowly. The door was a living creature now, something that could possibly harm her.

  Her fingers connected with the metal and kept pressing down. When the door opened, Rose stepped timidly inside.

  A torch, made from a single log and balanced perfectly on a marble perch, burned in the center of the room next to a bathtub. Other than that, the only other visible items were crystals of all sizes and shapes. Some hung from string, other larger ones sat on shadowy shelves. Rose walked toward the tub. A single red rose petal floated in the steaming water.

  The door slammed shut. She chose to believe it was a draft. Rose touched the water and then stepped back, a drop of liquid trickled down to her dress. The invitation was clear, but did she dare accept it?

  Would she know when eyes were on her?

  Would she be willing to take a chance?

  Removing her clothes took a good ten minutes. Plenty of time for the water and her resolve to cool. There was no place for her to hang her hat, gown, or her corset, so she rolled them as neatly as she could and placed them on the floor. Finally, she removed the book from her purse and placed the precious item atop her clothing.

  What will you tell them?

  She was shaking slightly. Rose wasn’t ashamed of her body. She was, however, angry at being put in this position, and tried to remember the last time she had been completely naked in anyone’s presence—never mind, a stranger.

  And she wasn’t about to start now, no matter what the stakes. She removed her stockings but kept her square-necked, close-fitting silk shift on.

  She was quite aware that she didn’t have Sybille’s brash, pushy beauty. Hers was a more subtle, sleeker type. She sat on the edge of the tub and then brought her legs up and around into the water. She slid in as gracefully as she could. Because she didn’t wear the powder or perfumes that other girls did, the water remained clear. Too clear for her liking, considering the suddenly sheer state of her white shift.

  Rose pulled the cheap hairpins out of her bun and tossed them on the nearby pile of clothing. She pulled the rich reddish brown strands free of their braids and let the ends float in the water around her.

  Rose was completely and utterly exposed.

  Still no sign of anyone else in the room. Even the torch appeared to stop flickering, awaiting her decision.

  She had gone this far. Why not?

  She placed the rose petal on the edge of the tub and lowered her head beneath the water. She knew this might be a mistake. But she had no choice.

  When she reemerged and had wiped the water from her eyes, she wasn’t surprised to discover that both the rose petal and the diary were gone.

  Winter curfew in London was dusk.

  But for Avis and her friends with powerful connections, that had never really applied. They came and went as they pleased, and she had traveled beyond the palace walls much later than this on many occasions. Always in the company of her parents or friends, of course. Never alone.

  She worried briefly about getting past the night watchman. But that proved simple. She didn’t need the coins stashed in her purse or the threats she had prepared in her head. She just slipped out amidst a company of revelers who were heading home—the reason for their early departure clearly demonstrated by the constants streams of vomit ejected by three out of four of them.

  Avis peeled away from the group and clattered loudly down the rock-strewn street in her hard shoes. She was a white fluffy lamb inviting the wolves to attack. Again, she worried that she was being foolish. And that Fulke had been right to distance himself from her, and in such a publicly humiliating way.

  Damn Fulke, Avis thought tipsily, pulling the white fur hood up around her head and letting her residual rage propel her forward. I’m going to get my sister’s hairpin and then all will be well and Fulke will crawl to me.

  Digging up anyone’s grave, Avis thought, was not something you did sober. Digging up your sister’s grave was something better to do drunk. Lucky for her, Avis currently qualified for the latter category.

  There weren’t really that many items in her plan to be concerned about. And that was unfortunate. Avis was a detail-oriented young woman, and she loved checking off tasks in an undertaking.

  Detailshhh! Even her thoughts were a bit slurred after the buckets of wine she had consumed. She needed to treat this night like one of her projects with details!

  Here was an interesting detail: Avis could be certain that her plan must be against the laws of queen and country. Not to mention God’s. And that she—and more than likely her current and any future family—would pay harshly for such an offense in this life and perhaps the next. But it was a risk Avis was willing to take.

  Once Fulke had abandoned her, Avis considered involving Maggie in tonight’s adventure. They had been together since Avis was eight and the maid was twelve. Maggie had already arranged for a side entrance to the cathedral to be unlocked and for the men who would damn their souls to hell by aiding her to be waiting for her. If Avis needed someone to take the blame if she was caught, Maggie would make the perfect candidate. But in the end, Avis decided she couldn’t trust anyone in the lower classes when it came to such a treasure—or her methods of acquiring it. How easy it would be for her maid to casually slip the pin into her cloak.

  Then what was Avis to do? Ask the queen to punish the maid who helped her steal a pin from her dead sister’s head and subsequently stole it? It would be off with both their heads as Sybille and Rose wormed their way into the life Avis was meant to have.

  That was, if the pin hadn’t already been pilfered. Avis wasn’t a fool. She thought of the way the pin had sparkled even on that gray and snowy day. She knew if she didn’t do it, someone else would. Probably the gravediggers who would bury Agnes when the ground thawed. Avis was sure they made it their business to help themselves to whatever treasures were headed into the ground.

  Avis swept into the cathedral through the side entrance, carrying all the confidence and breeding of the centuries with her. She needed to be powerful, purposeful, and unafraid,
now more than ever. But it wasn’t easy. The dark-shadowed cathedral was lit by a single flame that illuminated the altar and which appeared to be a mile away in the cavernous space, and a few sputtering votives along the entrances to the private chapels lining the cathedral’s perimeter. Still the frightening atmosphere served a purpose—it sobered Avis’s mind just a bit.

  Two grizzled men dressed in work clothes, one comically larger than his partner, waited for her in the chapel of her father’s family. The light of two dim lanterns cast eerie shadows on their faces, allowing her to recognize them immediately. Every awful detail of her sister’s funeral had been seared into her thoughts. She gave them a nod, and their eyebrows went up at the sight of a lady of her stature being the one to make this visit, but there was no need for words. Thanks to what Maggie had told them earlier, the men knew exactly why they were here.

  Just as Avis had suspected, the gravediggers were clearly experts in this kind of midnight escapade. They moved in unison, and on the whispered count of three, lifted a flat stone tile in the floor and silently rested it back against the wall. As they removed the second tile, there was the slightest of scratching sounds. Avis reacted as if the bells overhead had pealed.

  The men grinned toothless reassurances as they reached for shovels.

  Avis found herself backing away, leaving the tiny circle of light and fading into the shadows when they scooped away the thin layer of ceremonial dirt. With each shovel-full of dirt, she felt a wrenching in her chest. The gravity of the situation was more than she could bear. Avis knew she shouldn’t be here and her fortress of confidence began to crumble. This was madness on so many different levels.

  But the dirt continued to come up easily. The coffin was opened, and there she was.

  Agnes.

  The odor attacked Avis’s senses. The flowers that had decked Agnes’s body were soggy black clumps dotted with putrid specks of color. They’d leaked obscenely onto the white sheet that had been wrapped around her corpse. Aside from that small detail, only Agnes’s head was visible. Just then, as if begging Avis’s interest, the hairpin caught the candlelight.