Tudor Rose Page 14

  Avis reeled.

  Her sister. Her beautiful dear sister. Her friend. Agnes’s gentle heart rotting in her collapsed chest. Her cheeks sunken under eyes that once shone with compassion. Humor. Joy.

  “Oh.” She sucked in a ragged breath.

  Without realizing it, Avis had walked toward the open coffin. She now stood over her sister, gazing down at her as if from the moon itself. Avis imagined herself reaching down that impossibly great distance to take the hairpin. She pictured Agnes’s hair splaying out beyond her—or falling from her head—leaving her sister disarranged for all eternity.

  What had she been thinking? Avis couldn’t possibly do this.

  But the hungry expressions on the faces of the gravediggers said they could. Their eyes were locked on the pin.

  “Just as I thought,” Avis whispered, praying she sounded sincere. “That is a glass copy. Worthless.”

  The men shared a look, then a nod. They would take it later anyway and discover its value for themselves.

  Avis needed to prevent that further defilement. She raised her chin and drew herself up, pulling back the hood of her cloak. No more whispering, she spoke at nearly full voice, “Do you know who I am?”

  The men shrugged. No, they didn’t.

  “The queen does.”

  Avis crouched and removed her tiny prayer book from her purse. She gently laid it in the coffin next to her sister as if that had been her main objective all the time and ordered the men to rebury Agnes. Inside, Avis was quaking at how close she had come to doing the unthinkable. But she managed to keep her voice cool and threatening.

  Just as she had seen the queen do on many occasions, she made a point to hold each man’s gaze for a moment before commanding, “Leave her in peace.”

  The men nodded slowly, their eyes sliding away. The little one closed the coffin as casually as someone closing a cupboard, for they had done this many, many times. Not knowing what else to do, Avis pulled her hood up and left the chapel. She waited just outside, watching as the men covered the coffin in dirt again. They moved silently. Avis couldn’t stand guard for the rest of her life. And the men could violate her sister’s grave any night they wished.

  How could she fix things? Why had she done this in the first place?

  The answer to that last question was clear. Or actually the answers.

  That sewer spawn Sybille Maydestone and Rose Castletown. She would crush them for what they had done to her sister. She would—

  “Oh.”

  A groan snapped her to attention. Someone caught by surprise or in pain?

  Did it matter?

  A fourth person was in the cathedral.

  Scurrying back to her sister’s grave and the two men was unthinkable. She couldn’t let them see her weak and cowering. She’d never be able to control them.

  The chapel of her mother’s family was nearby! Just two away from her father’s. The cathedral was so dark the light was almost blue. Staying in the shadows, she walked soundlessly past the chapels of the Throckmortons and the Todds, ducking into the pitch darkness of her mother’s chapel and—

  She bumped into someone. Hands were moving. But not over her. They were rebuttoning clothing. Avis wasn’t the only who had decided the cathedral would make an ideal spot for nocturnal indiscretions.

  Avis was spun back against the cold stone wall as the figure pushed past her and out of the chapel. For a split second, a coat pressed against her face like a perfumed handkerchief, and her nostrils burned with the smell of musk and citrus.

  And then another figure rushed out after the first. Both men were gone, disappearing through a side entrance. The second man was someone Avis knew.

  After all, it was the man she had loved longer than any other in this world. Ogling boys along the Thames was one thing, but this could be a fatal mistake. If this kind of thing came to light, both men might very well hang.

  Valentyne. What have you done?

  Avis’s heart pounded. More with the birth of an idea than with the residual fear or the shock of discovering her brother with another man.

  After all, if one sibling wouldn’t give up the treasure needed for Avis’s plans, then the other certainly would.

  “Come along, keep up, keep up,” Sybille commanded.

  Yes, the temperature was colder than a harlot in holy water, but Sybille felt stronger and more powerful than she had since her arrival in London. The gargantuan Holstan trailed a half-step behind as they ambled right out of the gate of Richmond Palace and kept walking. Sybille didn’t bother trying to be sneaky about it. Why should she when there was nothing stealthy about her towering companion and his clanking armor? The man was a series of constant alarm bells. One of his hands held the hip armor in place, while the other kept the ermine fur wrapped around his waist.

  As they strolled along the length of the palace, Sybille in her thin “evening slippers”—actually they were just regular slippers to which Rose had attached silks ribbons—the hundreds of windows installed in a recent renovation glittered with lit candles and moving shadows. She knew those very same windows would allow for prying eyes, and they would have difficulty finding a spot hidden from view inside the palace.

  In all those endless hallways and hidden doorways, how could there be nowhere for a good roll around?

  She led the way, through the still perfectly white, powdery snow. Richmond Palace stretched out ahead seemingly for miles.

  Other girls might have found the metallic clanging of Holstan’s every step to be jarring, but Sybille felt intoxicated by it. It made it more dangerous—and danger, she had learned early on, could add to the level of titillation. She hadn’t minded her reputation in Gordonsrod, until of course the purity inquiry. Why should she care what these powdered twits in London thought of her?

  Because, if you’re caught and your purity is proven to be a fraud, you’ll be sent packing, that’s why.

  Well, it was true, the same priggish lot could find a way to halt her marriage to Valentyne. Or destroy it after she married him.

  Let them try. Thanks to the inspiration she had found earlier this evening, her gala in nine days would cement her future. She would win the spot on the queen’s progress and then do as she pleased. She imagined that Valentyne would remain in London, allowing her to sample the citizens of different villages and towns as she traveled with the queen.

  Yes, Sybille had finally landed on a perfect plan for her gala. Or at the least the general shape of it. When she had seen Fulke knock down the ice and reveal the “evil” Holstan, she knew her event needed a villain. She would abandon the hunt idea and have Holstan arrive on horseback to her wedding and attempt to whisk her away. It would make for marvelous entertainment, all the guests would be buzzing at the dinner after the ceremony, and she knew the queen would love it.

  She didn’t have the money to pay Holstan or the power to manipulate him into playing the villain again, but she did have all the skills she learned in the haylofts of Gordonsrod. When it came to men, you could always count on a surefire method of getting them to do your bidding.

  Besides, it would be just plain fun to give him a thrill or two. She had been denying that part of herself for far too long. Of course, Rose might scoff at this “too long” claim. It had only been a week or so since they had arrived in London, and she had enjoyed a mild romp or two. Still, as Sybille had told Rose, she was tired of the being the good girl, especially after an evening like tonight.

  She might not know seven different languages, be well-versed in the latest poetry, or skillfully play any stringed instrument someone might toss her way, but she did have one major talent that had served her well in life.

  Her eyes caught on something along a section of the palace wall, and she held up a hand to stop Holstan. No lights shone in the three or four nearby windows, and men had been digging into the earth here. It would be a tight fit for someone the size of Holstan, but the workers had created a cozy
trench from the street to just under the palace wall, with a roof of scaffolding covered in boards. The ground had been well protected from the recent snowfall and looked dry enough.

  “In you go,” Sybille said suggestively, but Holstan didn’t move.

  Those words should have been enough for any man. Maybe he had hit his head?

  At a mountainous eighteen, Holstan had all the qualities that make a grown man—except maybe a fully-functioning brain. As far as she could tell there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, he was just big, and Sybille felt sorry for his horse whose legs undoubtedly bowed under the weight of him in battle.

  She clapped her hands like she was getting the attention of her addled aunt who had been struck deaf by fever. “Poor simple man,” Sybille cooed, looking up the nearly two feet into his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “My lady, I’m feeling quite well.” He removed the partial helmet he’d been wearing and returned her gaze. His eyes were brown or near-black, it was hard to say in the dim light … but there was some hunger there.

  Ah, that was better.

  “What did the earl say?” Sybille asked as she worked to unstrap his chest plate. The damn thing was so tightly secured she wondered if maybe the crown jewels were concealed inside.

  When she glanced up, she could see the sluggish mind at work like a mill wheel with no river. It lurched into motion, and then ground to a halt. And then started turning again, very slowly. Finally, he produced, “He said I should do your bidding.”

  “Yes, those are some of the words he used,” Sybille purred, all the while continuing to remove his armor. She watched his face flicker as he struggled to recall the earl’s exact words.

  “Desire!” he announced.

  “Yes, desire.”

  Sybille gave up struggling with the chest plate. Maybe it would be more diverting to leave it on anyway.

  “We can’t forget about our desires, can we?” she asked.

  “No, my lady,” he said matter-of-factly, not in the breathless way she had hoped. “No, we can’t do that.”

  She blew out a frustrated sigh. Why did she keep wasting her clever words on these dunderheads? Enough talking. Her hands got to work on the armor protecting his arms, pulling on the straps to undo the clasps.

  He grunted as she pulled the armor that encircled his waist free. Suddenly memories of boys and horses came flooding back. But it wasn’t so much the boys she was thinking of.

  Lord up in heaven, what I am supposed to do with that?

  NINE

  “But this is all just for our entertainment, of course,” Valentyne said unconvincingly. His large, muscular body caused the chair to creak as he turned this way and that to catch different angles of his handsome reflection in the glass.

  Humming with forced gaiety, Avis sat on her own chair next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder. She had sent Maggie off on an errand for the architect of Avis’s masque, an errand that would take hours. What could be more ideal and relaxing than two siblings enjoying each other’s company on a dreary winter afternoon … and applying their make-up together?

  With an inviting, cocked eyebrow, Avis held out the brush to her brother; it was covered in thick white flakes.

  Valentyne scoffed, pushing her hand away. “I powdered my face once, quite infamously, if you’ll remember, darling. That drew us dangerously close to imprisonment. Besides, I believe I do attract more hummingbirds with these petals.”

  He raised an arm, and his cannonball bicep strained against the sleeve of the cheap short coat. She slapped his arm down like a defenseless maiden. “Please, sir, keep those sheathed in my presence lest I faint from their sheer size.”

  “Yes, they have been known to explode in mixed company,” he quipped saucily. Never taking his eyes off himself in the glass, Valentyne pushed the last of his golden blond locks up under his cap.

  Clothes showed your class, and Valentyne—with his ruffled high-collar, pants that tapered at the knee, and black stockings—was dressed as a mid-ranking merchant. In Valentyne’s mind, it was part of the game of dress-up in which they had always indulged as children. Their sister Agnes never had the will or the time to take part; she had always been off scheming about ways to help others or plotting to provide service to the queen.

  Avis didn’t ask why Valentyne had the clothes of a merchant. He must know how helpful they would be for someone to blend in with the strapping young men along the seedier banks of the Thames.

  “So tell me, dearest … ” Valentyne said, touching the brush and then placing a bit of powder on the bump on his nose—the one he shared with nearly all Scarcliffs. He lowered and raised his head to see if it changed the view and finally finished his thought. “Why did you invite me here?”

  Because I’m the only one of the three girls challenged by the queen to understand the importance of the masque! she wanted to shout. It was true. Those two damn idiots heard the words “‘masque” or “gala” and thought party. Avis knew it had to be a life-changing event. Her masque would last twelve hours. Such a magnificent display would require a fortune large enough to run a small empire.

  When she didn’t answer, Valentyne put his head on her shoulder for a moment. “I miss her terribly as well.”

  Who? Avis nearly asked, but thank the Lord she kept silent. Oh! Agnes!

  “Of course, my darling, as do I,” Avis assured him, and she did ache for Agnes. “But that needs no special mention. It is a feeling of sadness that will always be with us.”

  “The masque you’re planning?” Valentyne guessed again. “I’ve heard you’ve secured the palace gardens. I know Her Majesty’s rules prohibit me from helping you, but certainly telling me of your troubles cannot be against those restrictions.”

  “Yes, there is the masque as well that weighs on me,” Avis answered with a sigh. “It’s only eight days away now, and the builders, poets, musicians … everyone is hard at work. In fact, I’ll need to check on their progress shortly.”

  “But that’s still not the trouble?” Valentyne held up a hand and started ticking off items on his fingers. “It’s not our sister. It’s not your masque … oh, that leaves only one thing!” He held up a single finger. “I know your secret. You’ve been so very dishonest with your only brother.”

  In the split second it took Valentyne to say his next word, Avis’s stomach clenched as the damning list of her secrets flew at her. Valentyne missing the chance to say goodbye to Agnes thanks to Avis. Her abandoned attempt to steal from their sister’s grave. Finding Valentyne with another man in the chapel.

  That was why it was such a relief when Valentyne said, “It’s about love, then? Yes? I thought Cupid had bound your heart to our friend Fulke.”

  Avis relaxed. Finally, she had maneuvered Valentyne onto the right path!

  “Of course, yes,” she said, smiling shyly. “Fulke and I will be together. But I have had a bit of interest from another man … a member of the court. Or at least it’s my belief he is.”

  “Belief?” he asked, picking up on her intentional lack of detail. “Is he like some sort of religion?”

  “Stop!” She laughed. “It’s already so confusing as it is, Valentyne!”

  “As all affairs of the heart are.”

  “I don’t even know if he enjoys the company of … ”

  “Ponies? Lilacs? What, Avis?”

  “Girls.”

  “Well.” Valentyne swiped most of the powder off his nose.

  “Valentyne, you’re a man of the world. You know these things. I don’t want to waste my time or affection on someone who won’t return them.” Like Fulke already is, a darker part of her mind chimed in. Keeping up the pretense, she asked, “How can you tell what a man desires?”

  “We could … ” Valentyne picked up the brush, twirled it slowly in his hand, put it down, and picked it back up. “We could … let’s look at the law.” He was stumbling through what to say then caught his footing. “Queen Mary lif
ted the law against … well you know, those kind.”

  The name of those kind touched the tip of her tongue but didn’t leave it.

  “Our latest queen hasn’t turned her attention to rewriting the law,” Valentyne was saying.

  “But word is when she does, heads will roll.”

  “And naturally they should,” her brother added, meeting her eyes quickly and then looking away.

  Avis almost lost her resolve then. Valentyne. Dear Valentyne. She was going from thinking of robbing one sibling to extorting the other for information. But at least, she consoled herself, unlike their sister Agnes, her sweet Valentyne had asked for it. And Avis needed the funds quickly.

  All she required was the name of the man with whom Valentyne had shared that rendezvous in the chapel. Once she had that, she could blackmail the man for the coinage for her masque … all without directly involving her brother. She had hoped her sideways approach to the problem would at least tease out clues to the man’s identity. But she was running out of the will to continue. She felt the vileness of her mission mixing with the bile already churning in her stomach and the combination felt like the strongest of poisons.

  Out loud, she said, as if this could be the start of a wonderful game, “Then we better achieve our purpose before the queen makes any moves against them! How can we determine if my potential suitor and I are well-matched? Can you think of any examples of those kind of people we know?”

  “Right. Right.” Valentyne was all business now, and chose to ignore her last question. “Scholars tell us that we should be keeping an eye out for someone with small hands and small feet. Someone who might lean to the right when they walk.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course.” Valentyne was emphatic. “Heat rises in the male and when it can’t travel straight up it bends off toward femininity, carrying the masculine body with it. Or … ” he said in his deepest baritone, “you should simply prepare yourself to listen for a high pitched voice.”