Tudor Rose Read online

  “Sybille is about to be discovered, Howell,” Rose murmured, pushing her face deeper into his robes. Who needed a musk-scented cloth when you had the masculine smell of Howell?

  “She’ll bribe the old witch, I’m sure.” Howell chuckled bitterly. “And she’ll have her precious seal of approval. Hymen intactum.”

  “Shut up, Howell, there isn’t time,” Rose blurted. He knew a lot about books, but not always about real life. “Sybille struck a bargain with Hughie. He was to bring the money. But he’s not here—” A shadow fell over Rose, and her mouth clamped shut.

  It was Mrs. Scroggs. “Another silly country girl on her back with a boy?” One of her eyes permanently bulged as if stuck there by a lifetime of peering into girls’ nether regions. “Not to worry, I’ll bleed her in a moment.”

  Everyone knew doctors killed more patients than they cured. Rose couldn’t help it. At the thought of a bleeding, her eyes flew all the way open and she leapt to her feet.

  “As I thought,” Mrs. Scroggs tutted through blackened teeth. She gave Rose’s rump a swat that lasted a second too long.

  As Howell straightened up, he shared a look with Sybille. Help me, please, she mouthed. As usual, when he was worried or confused or thinking about Sybille, Howell chewed his bottom lip, making his two incisors poke out like fangs. On anyone else this would be disturbing. On Howell, Rose thought, it made him look like a lost puppy.

  “Come with me,” Mrs. Scroggs commanded, breaking the moment and grabbing Sybille’s arm roughly. Her face filled with fear, but managing to move with dignity, Sybille allowed herself to be dragged into the nearby bedroom by the hag. They were followed by Dr. Dee and the town’s parson, who closed the door behind them.

  The parlor erupted to new heights of buzzing gossip and loud speculation. Everyone talked at once, offering predictions on how Sybille would finally meet her downfall.

  Turning to Howell for help, Rose started, “Oh, what are we—” But Howell was gone. Probably couldn’t bear being in the room. He still believed his precious Sybille would be declared a virgin and she’d marry Valentyne Scarcliff. Even Aunt Clemence had left the parlor. Convinced all was well with the marriage plan, she’d most likely snuck off to eat the unspoiled meat she kept hidden.

  Rose imagined the events now taking place inside the bedroom. The same had happened to her when she was to wed Sybille’s brother, with a different cast of characters of course. Dr. Dee and the parson would stand to the side, faces averted. Mrs. Scroggs would lay Sybille on the bed, lift her skirts, and expect to find a small bag of coins tucked into her underclothes. When Mrs. Scroggs didn’t find it, she would stop with even the pretense of gentleness. She would coldly prod Sybille until she discovered what everyone else already knew. Without the money, the marriage would be off. The Maydestones would be disgraced.

  Rose would pay the price, too.

  Do something! she told herself. But what? The smells, the noise, the stuffiness of the parlor was closing in around her. Rose felt faint, this time for real.

  The bedroom door opened, and Dr. Dee and the parson emerged, leaving an angry Mrs. Scroggs standing in the doorway. It was like someone had sucked the sound out of the parlor. Silence fell over the guests like a shroud. Behind Mrs. Scroggs, Sybille sat up in the bed, fury flashing in her eyes. Defiant until the very end.

  And this was the end.

  Mrs. Scroggs opened her mouth, a judge about to hand down a death sentence—

  Just then, there was a rush of air as a figure hurried by Rose. Howell strode from the kitchen to just a few feet from Mrs. Scroggs, letting the coins in his hand ring like tiny bells. Murmurs rose from the onlookers. With a kind of dazed hopefulness, Sybille climbed from the bed and joined Mrs. Scroggs in the doorway.

  Trying to calculate the coins in Howell’s hand by sound, Mrs. Scroggs squinted. Would they be enough? Could she really accept a bribe so blatantly in front of Dr. Dee? In front of them all?

  Rose had a more burning question: Where had the money come from?

  As if drawn to the answer, Rose’s eyes flew to Aunt Clemence who had also returned to the parlor. She stood near the window admiring her new purchase, which glowed dully in the light.

  Howell Digby’s pendant. His family’s centuries-old treasure. Aunt Clemence’s pudgy fingers pawed at her gleaming prize greedily as if she couldn’t believe her good luck. That poor fool Howell must have sold it for a fraction of its worth.

  But Rose realized Howell didn’t care about the price. He’d needed to raise the bribe money and quickly. Now, once again, just like when they were children, he would be Sybille’s hero. Even if she were to marry another, she would owe him. He would finally have her heart. Just by the way Sybille looked at him with growing respect, Rose knew Howell was lost to her.

  Then everything happened at once.

  With a crashing sound, the window flew up and the curtains exploded inward. Aunt Clemence screamed in surprise as Hughie Mowfurth fell over the sill and into the room, tearing a curtain off the rod with him and sprawling at her feet. Hughie was never a clean boy, but when he tottered to his feet, he looked like he’d just emerged from a swamp. Vomit and mud caked the left side of his face and body, and he looked about blearily as if he wasn’t sure where he was.

  “Seebbillle?” he slurred drunkenly, gazing at Aunt Clemence. The other young people exploded with laughter.

  In her rush to get away from his slime-covered, groping hands, Aunt Clemence stumbled backward across the room and fell against Dr. Dee, who found her just as disgusting as she found Hughie. As everyone seemed to move at once, Hughie pulled something from his jacket. Sybille spotted it and rushed into the parlor, pushing the now-forgotten Howell aside.

  “Sorry, I was delayed, Sybille,” Hughie mumbled thickly.

  Without a word or another glance at Hughie, Sybille snatched the small pouch from him, spun around, and shoved it into Mrs. Scroggs’ hands.

  This is more like it, Mrs. Scroggs’ eyes said as she felt the coins’ weight. The pouch quickly disappeared into the folds of her dress.

  Across the room, Hughie was vomiting on Aunt Clemence’s feet, distracting most of the guests. But not poor Howell. He stood unsteadily, crushed. His hand rubbed his chest, either to soothe his broken heart or in search of the gone-forever pendant. And from near the kitchen door where he had paused before making his escape from this horrible place, Dr. Dee was giving Rose a look that said, Be careful what you wish for. But none of that mattered—it was Mrs. Scroggs’ next move that would count. Her words trumped every rumor, every known fact.

  Above all the commotion, Mrs. Scroggs said, “After careful examination, I declare Sybille Maydestone … a virgin.”

  Sybille let out a victorious laugh. She ran to Rose and they hugged fiercely. They were going to the queen’s palace.

  The marriage was on.

  TWO

  The journey from Gordonsrod to London took four days, two days longer than it should have. A week of slushy snowfall had turned the road into soupy mush—and transformed the carriage into a torture chamber on wheels. Alone inside the tiny compartment, Rose and Sybille were tossed about in an endless series of jolts, bumps, and sickening skids, as the horses jerked the unforgiving wheels through the mire.

  They’d started the trip with giddy anticipation and chattering excitement as the town’s last shabby farmhouses disappeared behind them. Neither girl could totally believe that their scheme had actually worked. London! They were going to London!

  Rose sat back with a happy sigh and wondered when she would see Gordonsrod again.

  “Hopefully never,” Sybille said out loud, guessing her friend’s thoughts. And then with a laugh repeated, “Never!”

  By the time they finally reached the outskirts of London, the girls were like two cats trapped in a bag of nails. Tempers were short and claws were out.

  “My backside is a better coachman than my brother,” Sybille sniped, after a vio
lent tilt of the carriage threw her to the floor with a painful whump.

  “It’s not his fault,” Rose said, pulling Sybille back up next to her on the cramped wooden bench. “Satan himself must’ve built this carriage. No wonder the Scarcliffs sent it for us. They’re probably hoping never to see it or us again.”

  “For me,” Sybille snapped. Her hair, unpinned by the last tumble, had gone wild around her head, making her look a little demented as she ranted. “The Scarcliffs sent it for me. Just as they sent this engagement ring to me.” She waved the thin gold band with a small ruby in Rose’s face. “I’m the one marrying their son Valentyne. Besides, soon everyone will have a carriage.”

  Rose doubted that. The carriage, which was basically a box slung over four wheels and dragged mercilessly by two horses, hadn’t really caught on over the past few hundred years. With the roads so rough, traveling by horseback was much more comfortable—why should now be any different?

  In fact, when the carriage had arrived in Gordonsrod to bring Sybille to London for her wedding next month, Sybille’s father took one look at it and claimed that he had business that would keep him at home for a few days. He’d join them in London the week after next, and he ordered Sybille’s nineteen-year-old brother Robert to drive the girls.

  Now, reaching over to repin Sybille’s hair—not an easy job with all the violent rocking—Rose sighed and said, “I’m sure Robert is up there doing the best he can, that’s all.”

  “Ohhh, you’re sure, are you, girl?” Sybille’s lips curled into a cold smile. She was tired and itching for a fight. “If you want a lover so badly, please find another suitor. I only have one brother left.”

  It was a nasty thing to say, another in a long list, and Rose was tempted to stick the pin in Sybille’s eye. It wasn’t Rose’s fault her husband—Sybille’s other brother—had died the day of her wedding. But Rose bit her tongue, finished fixing Sybille’s hair, and tried to find a comfortable position on the bench as they bumped along ever closer to London. They must be near Richmond Palace. All this misery would be worth it and soon forgotten.

  But Rose might not be allowed to forget. For years, her life had been tied to Sybille’s. As a girl with no family of her own, Rose had been forced into the role of grateful widow accepting scraps of charity from the Maydestones.

  Of course, she was grateful for the move to Richmond Palace. Who wouldn’t be? Since arriving in Gordonsrod as a baby, Rose had never been more than a mile or two away from home. Others were happy with that life—but not Rose. She’d always dreamed of traveling and, more importantly, of freedom. And she always imagined that Sybille would somehow be a part of her future life. After all, despite Rose’s position, she had always considered Sybille to be her equal and her closest friend. Rose had just assumed Sybille felt the same way.

  The closer they got to London, however, the more haughty and controlling Sybille became. Last night at the inn where they’d been forced to share a bed with two other women, she had started calling Rose “girl.” Rose had laid awake worrying about the price she might have to pay to escape Gordonsrod.

  Would living in a palace just make Sybille’s new attitude worse? Was their friendship to be replaced by a strictly master and attendant relationship?

  She didn’t have long to worry over the answers. There was a sharp rap on the roof of the compartment, and Robert shouted, “Welcome to London, ladies!”

  “Oh, Rosie,” Sybille cried and grabbed her hand. “Rosie dear, we’re here! Our new life!” Squeezing her hand back, Rose smiled and felt relief push through her. There’s Sybille, she thought, there’s my friend. Maybe the future would be all right after all.

  With a surge of hope, Rose swung open the small casement in the carriage’s only door and, in the gray light of late afternoon, got her first look of London.

  They were inching along a rutted, dirt-packed road and had just passed through the archway of a giant, stone gate. There were shouts as two men on horseback squeezed between the carriage and the gate and were nearly crushed. When Robert called out an apology, the men just scowled and made obscene gestures. Once on the other side, Rose gazed up at the top of the gate to find a man staring down at her with a slack mouth and unblinking eyes. But something was wrong. There was no body. It was just a head on a spike for all who entered the city to see.

  Rose screamed and fell back. Sybille laughed at her reaction. “Don’t be such a bumpkin.” But Rose could hear the tremor in her friend’s voice. Daring another look, she spotted two more heads on spikes up on the gate and shivered. England might have a young queen, but it seemed the punishment for treason was ageless.

  The carriage rolled between low wooden shops and homes that leaned up against each other like drunks coming home from the tavern, several looking like they might soon collapse. And the people! Hundreds of men, women, and children—doing business, pulling carts, pushing wheelbarrows, holding babies—but mostly celebrating. There were shouts of “Long live the queen!” and loud laughter.

  The innkeeper had told them that today Queen Elizabeth would be parading through London to celebrate the seventh anniversary of her coronation tomorrow, but Rose never expected so much commotion.

  At an intersection where five roads met, the crowds became thicker, and a woman’s grinning, toothless face popped up in the carriage window. Rose screamed again. She was acting like a bumpkin; she couldn’t help it. Other faces soon peered in for a look inside the carriage.

  “They must think I’m the queen.” Sybille gave her cheeks a pinch to add some color.

  “I doubt it,” Rose was about to say when the carriage ground to a halt. The door flew open, and Robert, drenched and filthy from driving the carriage, shoved the girls aside and threw himself into the compartment.

  “How about this?” he grinned through pale red peach fuzz. Years ago, Queen Elizabeth’s father, Henry, had made beards popular even out in Gordonsrod, but Robert’s attempt at growing facial hair could be described, at best, as a dusting. “We’ve arrived just in time for the world’s biggest party!”

  “Robert, if you’re down here, who’s driving the carriage?” Sybille demanded, pushing the door open. “Get back up there. Take us to the palace!”

  Laughing, Robert grabbed the door’s edge and tried closing it. “We can’t move, there are too many people. Just calm down, Sybille.”

  Big mistake, Rose thought. Robert knew better. the worst thing to do was tell Sybille what to do or how to feel.

  “I’m warning you, Robert,” Sybille growled, leaning out of the carriage to get better leverage as she pulled on him. The muddy snow directly beneath the carriage was stained a bright red. Now it was Sybille’s turn to scream.

  “Blood!” she gasped, and they all stopped to look.

  “That’s not blood, it’s …,” Rose said, her eyes following the scarlet trail to a nearby fountain. The pool, which would normally be filled with water, was crimson—and scores of people were scooping up the liquid with goblets and, in a few cases, buckets. “It’s wine! They must’ve rigged the fountain to work with wine instead of water as part of the celebration.”

  “Heaven! London is heaven!” Robert crowed, bursting out of the carriage like a rabbit from a hole.

  “Robert!” Sybille called angrily.

  “A fountain of wine and you want to sit in this box? Are you touched? I’ll be right back!” He spun away from them and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Now what do we do?” Sybille asked, still clenching the door. Then, as if the answer were perfectly obvious, she announced, “I’ll have a drink,” and climbed imperiously from the carriage.

  Rose reached for her. “Get back in here, Sybille.”

  “You can’t hold me back here, girl. I’m tired of being good.”

  Was she joking? Rose wondered, grinding her teeth at being back at girl. When had Sybille ever been good?

  Of course, Rose couldn’t let her go out alone. She’d heard enough a
bout London to know that it was the most dangerous place on Earth, full of thieves, pickpockets, and murderers. “Wait,” she sighed. “I’ll go with you.”

  Rose stepped onto the street, her cloth shoes sinking into the cold muck. The crowd continued to swarm around the carriage like ants on a discarded apple. Splattered with red mud, the black horses rolled their eyes back and skittered nervously. Even they knew this was a bad idea.

  We’re being stupid, Rose thought. All of our things are in the carriage. She leaned back into the compartment and dug into her bag, reaching for the small book she had hidden there. When she reemerged she found Sybille watching her.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” Sybille asked, leaning in to get a better look.

  “Just a diary.” Rose felt her cheeks redden. Dr. Dee had told her to hold it tight, not to share it with anyone, and only approach him when she had “learned its language.” He hadn’t offered any other instruction before fleeing Gordonsrod immediately after the purity inquiry. Even if Rose took Sybille’s latest snooty behavior out of the equation, she was glad she had keep the book to herself. Rose had never had anything of her own. The small taste of independence gave her a warm, pleasant feeling. Was this what ownership felt like? Well, no matter what it was, Rose would have to get better at lying if she wanted to keep the feeling alive.

  “Come on,” Rose said to distract Sybille as she tucked the book into her purse that hung from her side. “Let’s go, oh good one.”

  They girls climbed over the lip of the fountain, which depicted a bold, bearded god of the sea, his feet planted firmly on two dolphins. Giant fish leapt about the god’s head and a stream of wine spurted out the mouth of the largest fish. To get a drink before the wine landed in the fountain, Londoners were stepping one at a time up on the god’s arm and balancing themselves on his shoulder. From there they could lean out and get a taste of the sweet, sticky red wine.

  Robert was just taking his turn when the girls joined the line behind an old woman who was missing an arm. Robert tilted his head back—his hat nearly falling off his head—and opened his mouth wide. Wine poured in, spilling over his cheeks and down his chin. His throat muscle churned as he guzzled it down. Finally, the impatient shouts of those behind him or the need to breathe forced him to stop. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he announced, “Refreshing!” and leapt to the ground with a flourish much to the delight of the crowd who hooted and laughed.