Tudor Rose Page 19

  Throwing aside one of Rose’s tattered gowns on the bed, she grabbed a plate that Rose had concealed under the blanket that morning.

  “You were hiding a plate. Why? Is it worth anything? There’s a whole stack of them. Can they bring money?” Sybille stood as if ready to toss the plate to the ground or sell it off, depending on Rose’s answer.

  Rose chose her words carefully. “They’re my wedding gift to you.”

  “Plates? You’re giving me bloody plates?” Sybille held the plate in both hands as if she would snap it in two.

  “I thought about giving you a dress, but apparently you like to murder them,” Rose said, testing the water to see how hard she could start pushing back.

  Sybille didn’t smile but she didn’t grab the shears either. She touched the dry painted surface of the plate. “What is this pattern?”

  Something I don’t have time to replicate even if my dimming memory of the diary’s pages would allow it.

  “Did you destroy the rest of the plates?” Rose asked.

  The question hung in the air for a moment, and then Sybille shook her head. “No,” she said. “I was tempted, but they’re too pretty.”

  “So were my gowns,” Rose said, braver now. “Now that you’ve ruined my wedding surprise to you, will you tell me what’s wrong, please?”

  Sybille swiped away an angry tear. “You have to give me everything you’ve raised for your pretend gala. I need money to pay for the added elements I have planned.”

  Holding up her hands, Rose said, “Just explain what’s happened.”

  “Avis Scarcliff, that’s what’s happened,” Sybille said. “She must be behind all of this. Or that whore Dorothie or that twit Cicely. Or all of three of them. I won eight hundred pounds gambling on tennis, without even really knowing what I was doing.”

  “Ten-nis?” Rose asked.

  With an eye roll, Sybille flopped her rear end onto the end of the bed, and Rose took a seat next to her, keeping a foot or so between them. As they both stared into the cold fireplace, Sybille described her victory over Cicely on the tennis court, how she picked up the money from the lawyer, and how she was robbed between his office and running into Howell—

  “Howell Digby?” Rose interrupted.

  “That’s what you latch onto from what I just told you?” Snapping her fingers, Sybille commanded, “Focus, Rose.”

  “I am,” Rose said, inching closer to her friend. “But why would Cicely go through all that just to steal your money?”

  “Because she never thought she’d lose to me at tennis. The intention had been to put me in debt. And that Dorothie is as fast as a goddam thief with Avis. I don’t care how much she pretends otherwise.”

  “Why would you carry all that money? This is London!”

  Rather than getting upset, Sybille scooted closer to Rose. Their hips were touching and Rose felt the reassurance that came with the familiar contact. “That’s why we have to stick together,” Sybille said. “We’re the girls from Gordonsrod, and I feel like this whole filthy town is out to destroy us.”

  “It could’ve been anyone,” Rose said. “Let me see the fake purse. Look here, see how it’s sewn? These aren’t my stitches. I’m never this sloppy. Now, let me see your daily purse.”

  “It’s gone, too, Rose.”

  So it was, but the two strings that once held that purse to her side were still partially there, a few inches were attached to the waist of her dress. Rose leaned in, as if for a more careful examination. The cuts through the strings were clean, and at an angle that left one string longer that the other. It was almost like a signature on a page.

  “What are you doing?” Sybille asked “Stare all you want, you’re not going to make the purse reappear.”

  Leaning back, Rose nodded. “But maybe I can try. Please, give me a day or two before you decide to hack me to bits again.” A small smile from Sybille. “Let me see what I can learn, maybe we can figure out where your money went. All right?”

  A reluctant nod from Sybille. Rose turned to put her arms around her, and the taller girl allowed the embrace. After a moment, she even relaxed into it. Or so Rose thought. Sybille was actually just trying to get her mouth closer to Rose’s ear so she could whisper, “If I find out you robbed me, I’ll kill you myself.”

  ACT THREE

  January 1566

  Oh, W,

  Why do you act in ways that could reveal both our true natures? Do you not trust me? Or maybe you no longer trust your universal plan? Can’t we leave the acts of self-sabotage to the others? Just look at the feast of treason this Challenge presents us! Let’s dine on that … and not each other.

  Loyally,

  R

  TWELVE

  “Wake up, Sybille,” Rose said, giving her friend a nudge. “Good Lord, what’s wrong with you? Get up! It’s the day of your gala!” More nudges. “Come on, come on!”

  Sybille took her time waking up. Yes, it could be the most important day of her life, but she had been able to sleep soundly the entire night. And why not? After all, she had survived the abuses of a cruel father for eighteen years, the mysterious loss of a doting mother, and the intimate prodding of that old hag at Aunt Clemence’s—she knew she could deal with this day.

  Especially because she felt ready. Sybille was relieved to be first of the three girls in the Challenge to present her gala. No one, not even Rose, knew what she had planned. She couldn’t wait to show the queen—and the world.

  With a catlike stretch, and a loud “Mmmmmm,” Sybille rolled out of the bed in her shift and stood face to face with Rose who was already holding up Sybille’s dress for the day.

  “I’m so eager to see you in this gown,” Rose said. It was one of the few that had survived Sybille’s wrath with the shears five days ago. And that was only because it was intended to be Sybille’s.

  As Sybille slid her body into the new brown and gray dress, studded here and there with tiny crystals, Rose buttoned and tied her in. Sybille prepared the appropriate response … she didn’t want to gush or give Rose too much credit for making her appear gorgeous. After all, she thought, I’m Sybille Maydestone—beauty is something I already possess by the bucketful.

  She shouldn’t have worried about how to react. Even without peering into the small mirror, it was fairly obvious something was terribly wrong. “What is this?” she demanded angrily.

  The gloomy morning light sifting through the narrow window did nothing but flatten the crystals … they looked like the dull eyes of dead fish. On top of that, the dress didn’t fit. It was made for someone shorter, thinner and with fewer curves, someone like Rose.

  “Rose!” Where are those shears when she needed them?

  “Goodness, Sybille,” Rose soothed with a grin. “My, my, you’ve certainly let your sense of play go. The dress you have on was one of my first efforts, but this one … ” She walked to the hook and pushed aside Sybille’s jacket to reveal a different dress. “This one is the other part of my gift to you. I pray it’s worth the bags under my eyes. I’ve been up all night. Again.”

  Fingers moving quickly but carefully, Rose freed Sybille from the first dress and helped her into the second. This was better, and much more Sybille’s style. There were so many wonderful features—bows and ribbons and curled strings. And it was a pale white.

  “It’s perfect,” Sybille said. “The color … You know what I have planned, don’t you?”

  “Well, the hay is on the floor,” Rose said smiling, referring to how in Gordonsrod Sybille would indicate she had brought a suitor back to the barn. She would pull tufts of straw from bales and sprinkle fresh layers of hay next to the ladder leading up to the loft.

  “No more talk like that, not today.” Sybille turned to see her backside in the dress. “Today I’m as pure and untouched as my beautiful friend Rosie.”

  Describing Rose as beautiful might be overstating it. Stifling a yawn, Rose looked sufficiently mousy�
�and in no danger of outshining Sybille—as she had for the past week, wearing her one surviving dress from Sybille’s cutting rampage, which was frayed and dirty at the hem and sleeves. Sybille knew that Rose had been so busy working toward this day for her that Rose had let her hair go unbrushed and her face unwashed, and she felt a rush of gratitude and affection.

  “Did you hear me talking … or see me yesterday?” The night before Sybille had sought out Holstan for one last encounter and to ensure that he would be fully prepared for his role in today’s gala and that his part would begin at exactly five minutes after noon. Meeting with him was like having a rendezvous with a mountain, hard to be too secretive.

  “Well, yes, I’ve heard you talking and I’ve even seen you … for years!” Rose teased. “I don’t know the details but I can guess the main idea, and I’m so happy.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “Who would I tell, Sybille?”

  “I don’t know. My father. Dorothie. Cicely. Any of the maids. Your stable boy.” Rose laughed as the list grew longer and longer, and she laid her head on Sybille’s shoulder in a familiar way as Sybille kept rattling off names. “Howell Digby. Dr. Dee. Lord Northwood? The bloody Scarcliffs? That simple—”

  A pounding on the door brought the fun to an end. Even before she spoke, Sybille knew the signature sound of that fist and put her hand over her mouth.

  “Is that you in there,” her father called through the door, “You cackling, conniving wretches?”

  “Good morning, ladies!” Robert’s amiable voice chimed in. “Father and I are off to the pub and—”

  “We’ll be at the cathedral when we get there,” Mr. Maydestone interrupted, and they could hear him grumbling, “What kind of touched tart needs to rehearse a wedding?” as their footsteps faded down the hallway,

  Sybille squinted at Rose and sputtered through her hand, “Roth, yourth a connithing, cathling thretch!”

  Rose and Sybille burst into laughter, falling against each other and onto the bed.

  Three days earlier, it had not been all smiles and warmth. Sybille’s fury at being robbed of her eight hundred pounds intensified to the point of violence. Sybille’s claws seemed to be out permanently, and everyone was a target.

  For instance, a high-ranking official from Venice had gotten lost looking for the palace’s main entrance, and had stumbled into the hallway leading to their quarters. When he accidentally bumped into Sybille, you would have thought he had thrown her favorite dog under the wheels of a speeding carriage. Her hands curled into fists, and she leaned in close to unleash a volley of offensive language that would have made even her father blush.

  Luckily, the man’s response was a confused, “Che cosa?” He didn’t speak a drop of English, and Rose had quickly escorted him back to the front hall, giving Sybille a wide-eyed warning over her shoulder.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” Sybille had bellowed and flopped down into the nearest chair to sulk—and to pick the next target for her ever-growing rage.

  When Rose returned, she was grinning like an imbecile. Sybille sneered. “You shouldn’t smile so wide. I can see your crooked tooth in the back. It’s revolting.”

  In response, Rose dropped a purse at Sybille’s feet. It hit the floor with a clanging thud. Sybille didn’t move.

  “Perhaps this will help your mood,” Rose said.

  The purse! The missing purse! Sybille snatched it up and tried to untie the string holding it close. “Oh, Rose!” Sybille said excitedly as she struggled with the knot. “How did you do it?”

  Still grinning, Rose shook her head. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Who then?”

  “Howell Digby.”

  Sybille was too intent with the knot to fully react to that revelation. Rose took the purse from Sybille to see if she could untie faster. “He pointed me in the right direction. We have him to thank.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sybille said. “But you … dear, Rosie, what I thought of you.”

  Rose shrugged, and, finally untying the string, handed the open purse back to her. Sybille dumped the coins out on the window seat. Rose looked around nervously as her friend started counting. “Sybille! Don’t do that out—”

  “There’s some missing!” Sybille interrupted. “I can just tell!” She continued her tally and discovered that three hundred pounds were gone. But five hundred was exactly the amount she needed to complete her gala surprise.

  “How did you find it?” Sybille repeated. “Who was the thief?”

  Rose shrugged. “Thanks to Howell, I found the group behind it. They’re a bunch of nobodies, and I threatened to put the constable after them.”

  “Rose! Who knew? You’re a beautiful, wonderful liar!”

  For some reason, Rose blushed, her cheeks turning scarlet.

  “You don’t know the constable,” Sybille continued, and then her happiness began to fade. “Still they got three hundred pounds of my—”

  “No!” Rose interrupted, and took her arm. “You’re looking at it the wrong way around. You have five hundred pounds. You can pay the workers to turn your dinner into whatever you want it to be. You have to be happy with this, Sybille!”

  When Rose and Sybille arrived at the cathedral, Sybille felt another wave of excitement wash over her. She had never been so confident and powerful. By the end of the day, her future would be secure; she would win the Challenge and throw off the shackles of her father.

  She gazed down the long center aisle to the altar, where she could see the figures of a priest and possibly a few of the Scarcliffs. Of course, most of the lamps and chandeliers had not been lit for this supposedly run-of-the-mill occasion, and the cathedral was filled with deep pockets of shadows. It was perfect.

  Sybille took Rose’s hand. “You’ve proved yourself to be my sister. I don’t care if your bloody wedding wasn’t consummated.” She turned Rose by the shoulders and gave her a gentle kiss. “Thank you.”

  A shadow passed over Rose’s face, and Sybille guessed that Rose was trying to remember the last time she had heard those two words from her friend. Sybille smiled. “Ages. It’s been ages.”

  Giving a final squeeze, Rose freed her hand. “I’ll stay back here. That one,” she gestured with her chin at a girl who was lingering in the back near a side chapel, “she’s up to something.”

  It took a moment in the dim light but then Sybille could make out the long hair, and what she imagined was the bump on the nose, of Avis Scarcliff. Sybille disagreed with her friend. Yes, Avis’s stance spoke volumes of annoyance, but she didn’t look ready to pounce. Sybille knew that she was waiting for that evening to wield whatever sabotage had spawned in her angry little head.

  And that was exactly the way Sybille had planned things.

  Everyone, including Sybille, believed that Sybille’s gala would officially start that night, but the events of this morning were what would make the banquet a success. By now, Sybille understood the power of rumor and buzz around the palace, and this morning would propel both to new heights—the queen would not be able to resist attending.

  “Dear! Darling! Sweetheart!” Sybille called to Avis. “Soon-to-be-sister-for-eternity!” She couldn’t stop whatever mischief Avis had planned for the banquet so why not at least irritate her? Hard to say in the dim light, but Avis responded with what looked like an obscene gesture—before someone standing next to her pulled her back into the shadows with a whispered warning.

  With that task complete and a nod to Rose, Sybille began the long walk down the center aisle alone. She imagined the row after row of empty seats filled with the finest citizens of London, all smiling and jealous of her. Her fantasy included the saps of Gordonsrod standing along the sides of the cathedral—no seats for them, they would stand for the entire ceremony, if allowed inside at all.

  This delicious image was shattered when she discovered the scowling faces of the priest, Valentyne, and his parents waiting for her
, huddled together at the front of the altar. Three Scarcliffs were there in their sneering, blond glory and grace. And Sybille felt heavy and clumsy around them. But that was all about to change.

  She would win them over with a grand, bold gesture. “Good morning, my love,” Sybille said to Valentyne with a deep curtsy.

  He didn’t even glance at her. “You’re late,” he said and continued his hushed discussion with his parents and the priest.

  Sybille took it all in stride. Could Valentyne’s shoulders have grown even more broad overnight? The constant dark shadow of his beard accentuated the cheekbones and the cleft in his chin.

  When Sybille drifted too close to their group, Valentyne’s mother stepped between her and her son as if to save him. Her blue eyes bulged for a moment as she took in Sybille’s gown. But all Sybille could think was, Why had Valentyne never tried to protect her? Sybille would force his hand … in just minutes.

  Sybille wasn’t going to start their relationship with an apology. “I see my father and brother are not here. We’ll wait for them.”

  “No, we won’t,” Valentyne’s father snapped, speaking into the air over Sybille’s head, as if at no one at all. “We’ve already finished our business here. Your duty next week is to walk and nod. Fortunately for you, not at the same time.”

  Saving Sybille from concocting a witty retort, the bells overhead tolled. It was five past noon. Oh no. There was one person who didn’t know about the delay.

  Well, no matter. Her father would hear about it—and so would the world.

  Time to start.

  “Ho! Who is that dark figure approaching?” Sybille shouted, stealing the lines Fulke had delivered at the ice palace.

  Perfectly timed, the main door flew open with a bang. Cries of alarm from outside and the clopping of hooves echoed with the bells around the cavernous space. Dressed in black armor from head to toe, and atop a towering black Percheron, Holstan had to duck through the high doorway. A long black lance with a red paper heart impaled on its tip was cradled in the crook of his right arm.