Tudor Rose Page 17

  Why the little bitch! Avis thought. She’s rooting around for information like a pig after a truffle. Time to end this whole encounter. Avis had what she needed. The clever trick with the handkerchief had made her time here worthwhile.

  “Oh, I have nothing in mind,” Avis said casually. “It’s just a trifling matter, and I’m through with this silliness and discussing my gala.”

  A fake pout touched Dorothie’s face. “Really? Shame! Because I’ve just had a bit of news from my dear athletic friend Cicely that might be very helpful to one of those endeavors.”

  That was when the sounds of a man shouting, “Sybille! Sybille! Where the hell are you?” echoed down the hallway from somewhere in the palace, and Avis’s mood instantly lifted.

  Sybille’s father arrived at Richmond Palace like a bear escaped from the ring. Mervin Maydestone was spitting mad, lashing out at servants—his own and any who were unlucky enough to cross his path as he stormed through the palace looking for his daughter.

  Following a trail of stricken maids, Sybille went straight to her room thinking she might find her father furiously pacing the floor. But neither he—nor Rose (Where was that girl?)—were in the apartment.

  The bellowing of a single word being shouted repeatedly rang down the hall, and it took her a moment to realize it was her own name. By the time Sybille caught up with her father in the far drawing room, he was making even wilder demands of a group of cornered valets and maids, not bothering to disguise his harsh northern country accent. Mr. Maydestone wanted “two buckets” of the finest wine and a hunk of meat “the size of his head.” His gaze swept past Sybille as he turned on another unsuspecting servant.

  “Find my son, you goddam twit,” he growled, prying the muddy hat off his shoulder-length greasy hair and tossing it aside. The hat slid across the wooden floor and smacked into the wall like a dead rodent, leaving a smudge on the pale wallpaper.

  “Your son? Who’s your son?” the servant stammered. Another servant, this one bolder, asked, “Who are you, sir?”

  One terrifying look from his dark brown eyes sent them scurrying off to find their own answers and to do his bidding.

  Then he spotted his daughter’s mouth agape. “Shut it,” he said, not able to hide the gleam of satisfaction at causing such chaos. He collapsed onto a chair, his dirty black short-waisted merchant’s jacket sending up plumes of dust.

  “Hello, Sir,” Sybille said, and just barely stopped the curtsey she was about to deliver. Mr. Maydestone wouldn’t appreciate such fancy airs especially in his current mood. She knew her father had to come to the palace sooner or later, but she had hoped it would be closer to the wedding itself.

  He grunted a greeting and then immediately launched into a rant. “Curs in the palace are just like curs in the street—none of them cower to silence. They jump at commands if you say them loudly, forcefully, and once. And from the looks of you, you haven’t made a sound since you’ve been here.”

  You’re wrong! Sybille desperately wanted to cry. Only he could make her feel this way. She pushed her hair behind her ears and saw that her dress was still stained with sweat. Sybille wanted to throw the black discs at him, to shout that she had a shot at the being part of the queen’s progress, to take him into her apartment and show him the fireplace, the bed—her piece of the palace, and proclaim: I got this place. I did this. Well, truth be told, perhaps the room had been more Rose’s doing; but Rose was her servant, not the other way around.

  She wanted to tell him of the plan for her gala event. One that would show him once and for all that she was a Maydestone to be reckoned with. But all that had an air of defiance that would be far too negative for her father’s ears.

  When Sybille was six, seconds after her had father had delivered a beating, he instructed her that he only wanted to hear the words “Yes, Sir” out of her mouth. And never the word “No.”

  Sybille’s mother had said that forbidden word once too often, and then she disappeared. She went to the barn one night and never came back to the house. A passing thief had taken her captive and quickly left Gordonsrod, not leaving any signs of a struggle or a trail anyone could follow. Or at least that was the improbable story her father had told to Sybille and her brothers, even as Mervin Maydestone stood with one foot on a body-sized patch of freshly dug dirt in the far field.

  “You will see, Sir,” Sybille murmured now, too softly for him to hear. She never called him father out loud. They had more of a business arrangement than a paternal one. He had fed and clothed her up to this point, and now it was time for his investment to start paying off.

  “Where’s that little harlot?” her father asked. “That Rose Castletown?” To those who knew him and his normally foul mood, his current tone would have struck them as comparatively affectionate. One finger disappeared up his nose and stayed there as he rotated it back and forth.

  Now Sybille knew he was just playing a part. The worse he acted the more it reminded those around him how far he had clawed his way up … or just how far they had fallen. Here he was in Richmond Palace rooting around his nose; wasn’t he on the way to legendary status?

  Sybille forced herself not to cringe or look away. “Rose is on an errand. She’s gathering fabric for me,” she said. Or at least she had better be.

  “Then you should get to work.” He indicated his boots, and without pointing out that they were in a public room, Sybille crouched and tried to unbuckle them.

  Mr. Maydestone watched her struggle for a bit. “You have not done a damn thing, have you, you little shit?” He spoke as he would to a dog he was fond of. “I wasted so much on you and … ” his finger wiped against the gold fabric of the chair, and his voice became mockingly haughty for a moment. “ … engineering this undertaking. And here you’ve been resting on that fat ass, haven’t you.” Not a question, just a matter of fact.

  But, as she finally unsnapped one buckle, Sybille answered her father anyway, in just the way he taught her. “Yes, Sir.” And then added, “Yes, I have.”

  “Mother,” Fulke Northwood said, “I’d like to ask your advice.”

  He knew this was a role reversal that his mother would appreciate. Lately, he had been the one from whom she sought advice.

  “Of course, my dear,” Lady Northwood beamed. She was the perfect female mirror of Fulke, just as beautiful and with the same deep green eyes. “Just allow me a quick moment with Her Royal Highness.”

  Only his mother could make such a statement sound so run-of-the-mill. Queen Elizabeth was currently on the other side of the stuffy, crowded audience room, holding court. She stood next to her throne in a casual pose, a pose that contrasted sharply with her resplendent gown and glittering high collar. The queen waved Lady Northwood over, even as she continued a conversation with a dark-haired man in his late twenties.

  As her majesty’s most important unofficial advisor on matters of religion, Fulke’s mother’s counsel had been in high demand as of late. Elizabeth was deciding what to do about the Catholic churches and monasteries, and whether to close them. The pressure was often too much for Fulke’s mother to bear alone. With his father in his grave these past three months, she relied on Fulke’s suggestions and guidance, often passing them on to the queen as her own.

  While Fulke waited for his mother to finish her business with the queen, he drifted closer to a clump of seven middle-aged courtiers. The return of one of the queen’s old friends—a mysterious sort of figure who had left the country in the unfriendly atmosphere of Queen Mary—had them buzzing. Now he was back. And the men in the circle were musing as to whether the man would run for Parliament.

  As the courtiers spoke, their gazes kept turning to the man speaking with the queen. Obviously this was the “friend” who had just returned from abroad. Fulke knew better than to ask anyone the man’s name; that might indicate he wasn’t part of the queen’s close circle.

  Then one of the courtiers said the newcomer’s name quite clearly
, Francis Walsingham.

  As Fulke watched, Walsingham backed away to allow Fulke’s mother to get closer to Elizabeth.

  When an attendant bumped into him, Walsingham actually apologized to the servant, and spoke to him for a moment. While not exactly dashing, the man had more than just ten or so years on Fulke, he clearly had a way with even those of a different class, Fulke’s father had always tried to nurture that manner in Fulke.

  Fulke knew he often wore that manner like an ill-fitting costume, such as when he played no-rules football or chatted with children of merchants. It probably appeared like a contrived act but Fulke hoped if he wore the costume enough it would become second nature and as comfortable as his own skin.

  Now Fulke’s mother had the ear of the queen, and he watched Elizabeth nodding along to the conversation, clearly appreciative of the counsel. Still Fulke wondered if his mother‘s advice to him advice was truly helpful. After all, she had noticed his gaze falling on Rose Castletown and she been making suggestions about the company he kept. Unlike his father, his mother was a firm believer in everyone knowing their station and never mixing classes either romantically or socially. At a dinner the other night she had even gone so far as to quote to him from the Bible, “When I was a child … I thought as a child … ” In other words, now that he was an earl, it was time to grow up and be more selective about his friendships.

  And maybe she had a point. Maybe it was time he gave up on Rose Castletown. But, even as the thought flew across his mind, he fired a mental arrow that pierced its heart and sent it crashing down.

  A gentle cough caught his attention, and Fulke turned his head. There was Avis Scarcliff, perhaps the only other of their circle of young friends who could gain admittance to the room, thanks to the power and influence of her family. She was looking at everything and everyone except Fulke in a way that made it clear she was only looking at him. This performance made maneuvering herself next to him rather difficult, he imagined, but she managed. He decided to reward her efforts with a greeting.

  “Hello, Avis,” Fulke said. “Here about the queen’s Challenge?”

  Carrying on with the act, Avis’s head snapped around as if surprised to see him. She met his eyes with daggers, then quickly lowered her gaze angrily to glare at the floor. Girls often did this to Fulke, often deservedly so, and he was used to it. If he just pretended as if everything were normal, they would emerge from their funk on their own. Many just needed to make their own sting felt.

  “Hmm?” Fulke prompted and stroked his beard in a way he knew was charming.

  “I’m here to speak with Lord Harrell,” Avis said reluctantly, still looking down. Lord Harrell oversaw all renovations and construction in the palace. “At one point, he asked me to be his eyes and ears in regard to what needs to be done, and I have some ideas for necessary projects.”

  “Is that right?” Fulke teased, he couldn’t resist. “I believe I was at the function where he made the same request to all of us. We were seven at the time.”

  “Well, I’m taking Lord Harrell for his word,” Avis shot back. “You may not be aware but some men are like that. They are true to their word.”

  There it was. Now that the stinger was gone, he knew she would return to her usual, overbearing self. And just like that, she did. She lifted her face. “Oh, Fulke, let’s not argue.”

  “Were we?” He could almost feel his own green eyes glittering.

  With a smile, Avis held out her hand, and it hung in the air, waiting for his own to connect. Fulke didn’t move. Why did Avis always overreach? How would he escape this situation?

  Luckily, his mother must have read the scene correctly and swept between them to save him. “Son, are you ready to speak now?”

  “I must run,” Fulke explained to Avis over his mother’s shoulder. “Goodbye.”

  As he took his mother’s elbow and moved away, Avis’s hand still dangled in the empty space. She made it wave and when even that wasn’t returned by Fulke, she turned the whole gesture into an elaborate means to smooth her hair.

  “Thank you, Mother,” Fulke said once they were safely in the corner near the room’s entrance.

  With a nod that indicated, Of course, we’ve all been there, his mother said, “Now, what is it I can help you with, my darling?”

  But Fulke wasn’t sure he wanted to seek her advice any longer. Avis’s display had shown him he needed to be direct. No more dancing around, no more indirect grand gestures. As if on cue, Holstan appeared at the door.

  Fulke touched his mother’s hand. “I’m sorry to raise the alarm, dear,” he said. “I believe I can handle this dilemma on my own.” He gallantly excused himself with a bow and joined his giant friend Holstan.

  “Have you seen her?” Fulke asked.

  “Who, my lord?” Holstan asked, and then remembered why he was there. “Yes,” he said. “Outside the monk’s house.”

  “Thank you, H,” Fulke said. “I’ll find you later for a game of billiards. I may even let you win.”

  His man Frederick already had Fulke’s cloak ready, and Fulke swept it over his shoulders as he strode out into the great hall and through the palace entrance. Once outside the gates, it was an easy, if not chilly, stroll to the monastery.

  Just as Holstan had reported, Rose Castletown was there, next to the door to the kitchens. Between her and the door was a heap of dirty rags nearly knee high. Her back was to him, long brown hair down trailing almost to her waist. Unlike other girls her age, her beauty had not yet been marred by too much fashion or powder. Maybe it wasn’t her passion, but her simplicity that drew him to her. Or that she seemed to be in need of his assistance … again. She suddenly put her head in her hands, looking visibly shaken. Time to be the hero, Fulke told himself.

  “My Rose,” Fulke said, stepping close behind her. “What is it? Did you not like the book on masques I gave you?”

  He meant it as a gentle reminder that she never thanked him for the gift and as a small joke. Rose stiffened, but didn’t move away as she had in the past. Encouraged, Fulke stepped even closer until there was just inches between them.

  Rose turned to face him, and their bodies were so near, he was inhaling the plumes of her breath in the cold air. “These children,” she said, moving again toward the monastery door.

  Children? Oh, now Fulke saw what he had missed earlier. Emerging from different levels of the pile of rags were dirty limbs and unwashed heads. They belonged to street children who appeared to be sleeping in a heap.

  “I’ve seen how he helps these poor lost souls,” Rose murmured. Her head lifted so she could take in more of the three-story monastery.

  “Who, darling Rose?” Fulke asked, following her gaze. Did she mean God?

  In a clear attempt to be more attentive, Rose shook her head and turned her eyes to Fulke. “I apologize for being … ” She made a flighty gesture at the sides of her head. Taking a breath, she said, “How are you, my lord?”

  That’s better. Let’s keep the focus where it belongs. “Interesting news, really,” he said. “A powerful new courtier has arrived. Francis Walsingham.” As he told her what he knew of Walsingham, Fulke took her arm and tried leading Rose away from this awful place. But her face had clouded over again, and she gestured toward the children.

  “They want to be productive,” she murmured, and touched two fingers in a charming way to the birthmark just below her lip. “If only they could find work of some kind, perhaps some menial tasks around the palace?”

  Gently, Fulke guided her away from the doorstep, a few feet back toward the palace. “I might be able to assist. But there is the matter of payment.”

  “They wouldn’t need anything really,” Rose assured him. “Food? Clean clothing?”

  Fulke gave her a small smile. “I meant for my assistance.”

  A visible shudder ran through Rose and gooseflesh broke out on her bare forearms. She must be cold, he decided.

  “I’ll
need to have at least the touch of your hand upon my face,” Fulke said.

  “Oh,” Rose said. “That … well … ” She seemed unsure of how to continue. “It’s just that my heart belongs to another.” She gazed up at the monastery again.

  Now Fulke understood, and felt a lightning bolt of jealousy. That other boy with the monk’s robes. What was his name? Lyle? Samuel? One of his chums from no-rules football. Her feelings for that boy had been so obvious that day during the game and didn’t appear to have waned.

  “If this place were to close soon,” Rose said sadly, “Howell would have nowhere to go. He might have to leave London altogether.”

  Right, Howell.

  “Oh, that would be a shame,” Fulke said. His father would not be proud of the thoughts spinning in Fulke’s head, of all the bad things he would to like to have happen to Howell.

  Rose was telling Fulke how the beggar children could help with small jobs in the palace. Not really listening anymore, Fulke was already constructing what he would tell his mother to suggest to the queen regarding the monasteries. His new advice would start with the sentence, “Mother, I believe the queen should close the monasteries—and she should do it now.”

  ELEVEN

  Cicely’s maid delivered a note to Sybille the next morning. The directions to Cicely’s lawyer’s office were precise and accurate. There were a few words that Sybille had difficulty comprehending—only because of the indecipherable handwriting, she told herself. With no one else around, not even Rose, that she could trust, Sybille was forced to ask Hester for help. She just hoped some of Lady Agnes’s reported honesty and kindness had rubbed off on her maid. Without even a raised eyebrow at this lady-in-waiting in training who could barely read, Hester bent her head to the task and together they were able to piece together the meaning of Cicely’s message.

  When you leave the main gate of the palace, turn right. The first street you should find is Violet Street. Turn right again. Walk past two more streets. The third street you come to will have no name. Enter that street, and walk until you find yourself at the door marked with 6½.