Tudor Rose Page 16

  The girls’ heels clacked on the hardwood floor, echoing in the high-walled, nearly-empty room. At one end sat a box that contained paddles and held rows of balls on all four sides. Across the center of the room, a rope with tassels was strung just above waist height.

  Was the room under construction? Maybe the rope was an indication of where a future wall would stand when this space was finished?

  “What will go in here?” Sybille asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance. She had only accompanied the bizarre girl this far because Cicely had proven that she could gain access to private passageways from attendants and palace guards with little if any questions asked. Each time the girls had been stopped, Cicely removed a black disc the size of a crown coin from her purse. She simply waved it at the guard, almost like a tutor waggling a finger at a petulant student, and the girls had been waved along.

  “What do you mean what will go in here?” Cicely asked. “We go in this room. Or at least you go here.” She pointed a few yards away to a spot on the floor where lines and boxes had been painted. “And I go over there.” She pointed to the other side of the rope. Cicely grabbed four balls and put them in her pocket and then removed two paddles from the box, shoving one at Sybille. Curious, Sybille ran her fingers over the strings interlaced at the top of the paddle.

  Cicely made her away across the room where she eyed Sybille suspiciously. “Is your ‘confused’ performance some kind of trick? An act you’re putting on, thinking I’ll change the odds?”

  Done with keeping her thoughts to herself, Sybille said, “Odd is the right word when it comes to you, I think.”

  “I love candor,” Cicely said happily. “Fine then.” She trotted to one of the poles holding up the rope and laid one of her small black discs on top of it. “We’ll play with this 50-pound marker, shall we?” Cicely stepped back so she could examine Sybille better. “I’ll spot you the first fifty pounds.”

  Spot me?

  Sybille stood there, with the paddle loosely swinging at her side. Cicely lifted hers, and in a blur of motion, a leather-covered ball flew at Sybille, hitting her shoulder and drawing a curse from her lips. Her paddle clattered to the ground. She bent to pick it up when another ball fired over the rope, striking her bare upper arm. The stinging burned—like the time her dimwitted brother Robert had bumped into her with a hot kettle.

  Across the room, Cicely was ready to swing at another ball but paused in her onslaught. “That’s thirty-love,” she creaked, and then off of Sybille’s confused expression, asked, “Have you never played tennis? You have—”

  Sybille held up a hand. “Let me guess,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have now.”

  Another eerie smile from Cicely. “Here’s a little strategy. Try hitting the ball with your racquet instead of your body. Ready?”

  She hit the ball again—this time Sybille at least swung at it, but only after it had already soared by her.

  “Forty-love!” Cicely crowed.

  “I don’t understand,” Sybille said. “Forty is your score?”

  “Before I win the game … ” Cicely hit the last ball she was holding, and it landed with a small bounce at Sybille’s feet. “ … like I have now. Excuse me.” Cicely clacked across the floor, pulled open the door, and stuck her head out to speak to the nearby attendant.

  When she came back to the court, she announced, “Now we switch sides. It’s your turn to serve the ball and I shall return. The wager will double to one hundred pounds and will do so with each game. Is that satisfactory? After all, as Dorothie informed me, you do need your funds. Isn’t that right?”

  One hundred pounds! Insanity. Sybille had two pounds at most back in her room. But she nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  Other girls might have stormed out of the room, angry or embarrassed. And been fifty pounds in debt. But the competitor in Sybille had been awakened. She knew there was a good chance she had been set up as a pawn in this little game by Dorothie. She wasn’t going anywhere. Unfortunately, though, her “serve” was as unsuccessful as her “return,” and she quickly lost the next game.

  The wager rose to a ridiculous four discs—two hundred pounds! Running and lunging to swipe at the balls Cicely sent her way, Sybille quickly lost her breath. Speckles of sweat rose through her many layers of her clothing. Now she knew why Cicely’s face was so streaked! As she struggled, Sybille started to get the hang of the sport, but still couldn’t master it.

  The rules seemed to be constantly in flux. She began to wonder if Cicely was just making things up as they went along. The holes in the walls that provided extra points when a player hit a ball through them—that idea must certainly be the product of a cheating mind!

  When the first three girls arrived and walked along the side of the court to stand next to the pole with the discs, it became clear that Cicely had called for an audience. Still Sybille waited until two other girls their age—both whom Sybille recognized from her first night in the palace—entered and stood next to the others. All five gave little nods to Cicely and clapped quietly when she scored a point.

  Finally, Sybille thought. She knew Cicely’s type. She couldn’t truly enjoy a victory without an audience. And, in this case, Sybille wanted one as well. Both to make sure Cicely wasn’t openly cheating and to witness what Sybille was about to do—and thereby instill a sense of fear and awe in the palace.

  Besides, the wager was now four hundred pounds, and that would just about cover her expenses. It was love-forty, against Sybille. But that would soon change.

  “Cicely, have you ever lost at this game?” Sybille asked, and before her opponent could answer, she served the ball, sending it to the far corner of Cicely’s box. Cicely didn’t even have time to swing.

  As a collective hush came over the spectators, Sybille quipped, “You have now.”

  Cicely’s smile disappeared.

  Lucky for Sybille, she’d always been a natural athlete. Growing up on a glorified pig farm with two older brothers, she had to learn to play their often-violent games, and quickly, or she would become the tortured object of those games.

  Another of Sybille’s serves caught Cicely off guard again (fifteen-forty), but then the bulky girl started to fight back. Whereas before she had been able to remain with her feet planted in the same spot, Cicely was now forced to chase after the balls to return them. Still, Sybille was on her toes now. Thirty-forty. And then … deuce.

  That was when the true battle began. Back and forth the girls went, grabbing and losing the advantage, over and over, struggling for power and the game. Sybille’s back was drenched with sweat, and Cicely’s made-up face was streaked with fresh dark lines.

  The five girls in attendance went from cheering for Cicely, to a kind of stunned silence, to small claps each time Sybille scored a point. “That’ll do,” Cicely finally snapped at them.

  But she was gracious when it was Sybille who won the game. And the next. Cicely wiped an arm across her sweaty brow leaving a new wide trench in the powder on her high forehead, and then shook a reluctant Sybille’s hand. “Well done,” she creaked.

  Mathematics was not Sybille’s strong suit. She glanced at one of the girls who had arrived first. The girl was surreptitiously holding eight fingers down near her waist.

  “That will be eight hundred pounds,” Sybille said, suddenly short of breath again. Could it be as simple as that? She would have the funds for her gala—and hundreds in reserve!

  “Good,” Cicely said. “We will apply it toward your debt.”

  Sybille blinked. “My debt?”

  Without answering Sybille, Cicely shooed the other girls out the room by flapping her hands at them. As they left, each one gave Sybille a look that combined admiration and … what was that she detected? Was that a little fear? How wonderfully satisfying! When they were gone, Cicely turned to Sybille. “Sorry for that business about your supposed debt,” she said with a frightening eye roll. “I must maintain the idea that
everyone in the palace owes me.”

  “Everyone except me,” Sybille clarified.

  A curt nod, and Cicely reached into her purse and counted out sixteen discs. She held them out to Sybille. “Here.”

  Holding up a hand, Sybille said, “No, no, not those things. I need real coins.”

  “These are as good as any coins around the palace. They’ll buy you whatever you need.”

  Sybille drew herself up. “I’m not the fool you once believed. Real money, if you please.”

  Cicely grimaced. “I don’t have that high of an amount on me. And, no, it’s not because I think you’re a fool … it’s because I never lose. You’ll need to visit my lawyer who handles my finances and redeem these for gold. I’ll give you directions to his place of business. It’s not far.”

  As if that were settled, Cicely put both their racquets back in the box and headed out the door.

  Still dripping sweat on the floor, Sybille caught up with her back in the hallway. “Why can’t you bring the money to me?” Sybille asked.

  Without breaking stride, Cicely answered as if it were obvious. “Spies.”

  “What?”

  “Spies are everywhere. Just waiting to follow me because they know how powerful I am. Spies!”

  Sybille had no idea what she meant. More orange broach madness?

  “Can’t you send a servant?” she asked. “Your maid?”

  The very idea seemed to startle Cicely. “I don’t think you realize how much money eight hundred pounds is. Families could live for years off—”

  “There you are!” a voice called from behind them. Hester, Agnes Scarcliff’s maid, rushed at her. “Your da is here.”

  At the news, Sybille actually stumbled and had to catch herself on Cicely’s wide shoulders.

  Cicely cackled. “Goodness. It can’t be all that.”

  But it was all that, and much worse.

  TEN

  Avis Scarcliff needed to be careful. She couldn’t overplay her hand.

  Wrinkling her nose, she shifted in her seat. “Oh, my. Did Rose Castletown just pass by?”

  “Hmm,” Dorothie mumbled. Seated across the chess table from Avis, she was concentrating on her next move, twirling a curly string of hair around her finger.

  “Why is it that the English smell so poorly?” Avis mused out loud.

  Dorothie repeated, “Hmm.” Avis’s fist clenched. First, she was unforgivably late for the scheduled game and now she was being annoyingly obtuse. Did she need another slap?

  Finally, Dorothie slid her queen diagonally, keeping her finger on the piece for a moment before lifting it. Avis pounced, knocking the piece aside with her own queen. Rather than snapping Dorothie out of her thoughts, the move sent her deeper into a reverie as she clearly replayed the last few moves in her mind.

  “You really should pay better attention to the dangers around you,” Avis advised, and the daggers in her voice brought Dorothie out of her fog.

  Her eyes lifted and focused on Avis’s hands. “Of course, Avis, dear. Too true what you say.”

  Avis was tempted to test her by asking her to repeat what she had heard. But she let it go. “Do you find some women’s perfumes reflect their personality?”

  “Too true,” Dorothie repeated blandly, clearly still trying to gauge if this was a trap of some kind.

  Taking a different tact, Avis chuckled. “Come now, Dorothie. Meet me on this conversation’s pathway at some point. I will become lost and tired if I’m forced to go it alone.”

  This turned out to be the right approach. A smile danced on Dorothie’s lips. “Does talk of scent have something to do with your gala, my dear?” she asked.

  “Darling, I have no agenda,” Avis said. “I’m just making conversation. You know I’ve always had an overly sensitive sense of smell!”

  “No, do not protest.” Dorothie held up a hand. “I can tell you won’t speak truthfully with me one way or another. It’s just that you rarely have time for games such as chess lately, with all your planning, so it makes me think this must pertain to your gala efforts.”

  Before Avis could respond, Dorothie rose to her feet. “Well, Avis dear, let’s cut to the heart of your scent question and have our senses deliver the answer for us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Let’s take a turn about the room, shall we? We can make visits along the way to illustrate my point.” She held out a hand and Avis stood as well. Soon they were arm in arm walking the perimeter of the drawing room. Their first stop was a high-back chair with thick red velvet fabric. The queen’s first lady-in-waiting always sat in this chair when she wasn’t traveling with her majesty, as was the case now.

  After dipping her head down to take a whiff of the seat cushion, Dorothie clapped a hand dramatically over mouth. “I will be as silent as one of her ghostly farts, except to say there is an odor there that is as recognizable as a face, is there not? Let’s keep going. After all, Avis, your question was about perfume.”

  Before their next stop at the seat of a lanky girl who had fallen asleep while embroidering, they were joined by several other girls. They all giggled as they sniffed at the sleeping girl and then continued around the room.

  “Here, let me show you a trick to clear your nose palette, so to speak,” Dorothie said. She touched her handkerchief to her nose and inhaled deeply through the fabric. Then she removed it and instantly smelled Gertie, a tiny, sickly thing. Gertie laughed and squirmed as Dorothie’s nose ran up and down her like a hound on the hunt.

  “You try,” Dorothie directed Avis. “The key is to clear your senses by breathing through the handkerchief first.”

  Avis sniffed lightly at her handkerchief. She didn’t think she needed any tricks to improve her already overly-keen sense of smell.

  “No, dear.” Dorothie chuckled. “Really take a deep breath through your nose. Now try again. There you are!”

  Maybe it had made a difference, Avis thought as she took away the handkerchief and smelled Gertie. The smell was stronger. The other girls pushed next to Gertie and started smelling her, too.

  “What does she smell like?” one asked.

  “The cellar of my grandfather’s house in the country,” the girl doing the smelling responded. “Musty. Mucky.”

  “Do you think we could do the same for men?” Avis asked, trying to get more value out of this diversion. “Particularly … I don’t know, Spanish or French men?”

  “What?” Gertie asked giddily. “Proclaim them to be mucky? Or musty!”

  The girls giggled, and Avis joined in for exactly two seconds, and then got them back on track. “Spanish men? Perhaps French? I’m just curious about their perfume, if it would be something as distinctive as ours.”

  While the twitters continued, only Dorothie seemed to be listening. She rested a cool hand on Avis’s arm. “I think I have something that might help. You continue on. I’ll be right back.”

  Curls flopping gaily—and irritatingly to Avis—Dorothie quickly slipped out of the room, and the girls pushed a new victim toward Avis. But Avis was tiring of this game, despite it being something that she would have enjoyed only a few days earlier. Now, her perspective had totally changed. She had only brought up the subject of perfume so that she would be more prepared at her masque to smell out her victim.

  Not having a specific name, Avis had sent invitations to her masque to all the male members of the French and Spanish delegations:

  Psalm 1.20.66 A Letter to the Nighttime Apostle of St. Thomas: For 10,000 days you have toiled in secret chains. The same in pounds shall set you free on 1.30 as the noon bells toll for Angelus at the Masque of Masques. The angel shall find you … be prepared!

  The Spanish and French were terribly Catholic, so thinly veiling the blackmail into some kind of prayer seemed fitting. While it would cause confusion in most of the recipients, the guilty party would be used to living a double life and be able to read into the subte
xt. The psalm number referred to the date Avis had encountered the male lovers in the chapel of St. Thomas. Her target would know to come prepared to pay for her silence on the thirtieth of January at her masque. Avis would collect the 10,000 pounds, pay her workers and artisans, and no one would be the wiser.

  The girls were still enjoying the diversion. “Clear your nose palate!” a girl with an unfortunate single eyebrow squealed.

  “Your motto should be clear your plate!” a twit named Dominique quipped and gave the other girl a whap on her well-padded ass. More shrill laughter, and Avis realized she wasn’t going to be able to tamp down her rage much longer. She should be out with her team overseeing the construction of her masque, not playing silly games with this bawdy lot.

  Finally, Dorothie came back into the room. “Here you go, my dear,” she said and handed Avis a book with the title Manual de Mujeres.

  “Women’s Manual?” Avis translated easily. As daughters of courtiers it was only natural they should know at least two other languages.

  “I’ve marked a pertinent passage,” Dorothie said. “It’s about how women can make their husbands more appealing to the nose.”

  Avis flipped to the bookmarked page and her eyes landed on a passage written in Spanish that her mind automatically translated.

  Two pounds of rose water and a pound of citrus blossom water, a pound of benzoin and half of balsam, an ounce of amber and half of musk, a quarter of civet. All together and ground, put it with the water in a flask, and put the flask on the fire over some embers. Stir it with a stick and cook until it reduces three parts from one. And when it is reduced, remove the paste from that and make it into tablets, if you wish tablets, and if not, keep it thus in paste.

  Dorothie waited for Avis to look up again, and then asked, “Does that smell sound … familiar to you?”