Tudor Rose Page 20

  Glee flooded Sybille, and she felt like a taut, vibrating fortepiano string about to snap. “Stand still, you bawdy shrew!” she could hear her father’s voice in her head. And she was sorry that he wasn’t here to see her victory.

  As they had planned, Holstan pointed the lance and the heart toward the ceiling. The cloak Sybille had acquired for Holstan was twisted behind and between his seat and the saddle, but otherwise the effect was flawless. The dark villain had arrived to battle whomever stood in the way of Sybille’s heart and his own.

  “Just wait,” Sybille breathed to everyone, but no one listened to her. They were statues focused on Holstan. The black giant cleared his throat, preparing to deliver a speech.

  As promised, Dorothie—or Kit, as she liked to be called when wielding her pen—had written the words for this moment. Upon discovering that her purse had been stolen by strangers, Sybille had decided to trust Dorothie again … up to a point, of course. Both Rose and Sybille had carefully scanned the speech Dorothie had written, searching for any hidden meaning intended to humiliate Sybille. But neither had been able to find anything. Sybille had read it many times, at first with Rose’s help, and she knew each line like her own name.

  When a knight defends his bride

  ‘Tis like the sun shading the moon

  I’ll put this pretend evil aside

  With a happy invitation for the groom.

  While no one would ever accuse “Kit” of being a writer for the ages, it would do. At the end of the speech, Holstan was to lower his lance and wait for Valentyne, the groom, to walk toward him. Valentyne would take the heart and bring it to the altar where he would defend her honor, just as Fulke had done for his love at the ice palace party.

  And then, swept up in the emotion of the moment, even though the queen was not in attendance, Sybille would demand that the priest marry them today. Not in the near future, but right now, right here!

  Her gala that night would actually be a wedding banquet and she knew that would please the queen. Of course, the Scarcliffs might possibly be startled by the change of plan, but the spectacle of Holstan’s performance would help distract them from their distaste.

  Unfortunately, Sybille’s plan began to unravel almost immediately.

  As the giant horse huffed and hoof-danced nervously, there was whispering from the back of cathedral. Holstan struggled to free the cloak. Once again, she had relied on Dorothie to find it; the girl said it was a costume from a production of a play called “The Spanish Valet.”

  Holstan hesitated for a second, his helmeted head darting about as if looking for the words of the speech in the air. After a moment, he mumbled something that sounded like “evil die!” turning the poem into a bizarre, malevolent threat.

  He finally shouted, “The groom!”

  When Valentyne didn’t move, Holstan hesitated for a moment. Sybille could almost sense the giant man’s inner struggle: Should he wait? No, if Valentyne wouldn’t come to the lance, Holstan was going to bring it to him.

  Lowering the tip of the lance so it was pointing toward the altar, Holstan gave the horse a kick and the beast flew up the aisle. Hooves clopped, and Sybille could hear century-old tiles cracking under the weight. The horse skittered, plowing through two rows of chairs, knocking them aside. Holstan rose in the saddle to correct course, and the cloak was freed from beneath his body.

  The priest cried out in panic and fled from the altar, while the Scarcliffs stood dumbfounded. Finally, Martin Scarcliff pulled his wife behind him and reached to his side, instinctively grabbing for a sword that was not there.

  “Stop!” Sybille shouted.

  But Holstan continued his gallop. Sybille had underestimated the simplicity of the poor man. He had a job to do and he was going to do it, no matter what the cost.

  “My Lord, if you please!” Holstan cried, angling the lance so its tip was on a collision course with Valentyne’s chest. Still the young Scarcliff bravely held his ground—until the freed cloak flapped up behind Holstan in a blur of bars of red and yellow.

  For some reason, it was only when Valentyne registered the cloak that Sybille saw real fear hit him. He ran one or two steps toward the rear of the cathedral. He might have kept going, abandoning his family … and more importantly, in Sybille’s eyes, his bride. Then, suddenly he stopped and turned back toward the front of the altar just as Holstan was closing the gap.

  “I’m glad this secret is revealed,” Valentyne said, standing proud. “There is no reason for me to run!”

  He was wrong. Valentyne had changed direction so suddenly that Holstan didn’t have time to adjust.

  “No!” Valentyne’s mother screamed.

  The lance caught Valentyne in the arm and spun him around like a rag doll. With a shriek, Valentyne came off his feet and twisted in the air, blood spraying out in a wide arc. And then he collapsed in an already growing pool of red, the paper heart crumpled beneath him.

  For a moment, Avis Scarcliff didn’t move from her spot at the front of the cathedral.

  Was this part of a show? she thought, idiotically.

  A horrified shake of the head from Dorothie, who stood next to her, gave Avis her answer. Without another thought, she ran up the aisle, racing to her brother’s side, where her mother was kneeling next to Valentyne, her dress soaking up her son’s blood. She was moaning and rocking back forth.

  Avis’s father immediately attacked Holstan, dragging him off the horse and striking him with his bare hands. But it was like hammering his fists against an immovable wall. Holstan had flipped up the visor on his helmet, and the blows weren’t even registering on the giant man’s face. Only his horse reacted to the onslaught, backing away and then turning awkwardly toward the door.

  Even as Martin Scarcliff pummeled him, Holstan gazed sadly at Sybille. “My lady, I apologize.”

  Mr. Scarcliff stopped mid-blow and whipped around to face Sybille. “You know this man?” he spat at the stunned girl.

  Rose and Dorothie had joined the little group by then, but the priest was nowhere to be seen. Rose pulled on the back of Holstan’s cloak, perhaps to get his attention, or maneuver him away. But the effect was to fan out the cloak so its red and yellow stripes were even more apparent.

  “You did this? On purpose?” Avis hissed at Sybille. Even as the rage surged through her body, her eyes kept returning to the cloak. She took in the colors and then replayed the last few moments in her mind, deciphering all the new information.

  The colors.

  Avis thought of the reaction her brother had when the cape had unfurled. Valentyne had remained rooted to the ground, even with the horse and lance-wielding rider bearing down on him, until the colors became clear. He was more terrified of them than being pierced by the lance.

  Of course!

  Holstan was wearing the colors of Spain! Valentyne must have mistakenly believed that a vengeful Spaniard, the lover or perhaps a relative of the lover, was here to extract justice for the affair. It solved her question … who to blackmail for the money she needed for her gala: the French or the Spanish delegation. She knew the answer!

  Filled with a new energy that her body didn’t know how to handle, Avis let out a laugh. Heads turned, and her mother’s tear-stained face stared at her, her mouth agape. To cover the outlandishly inappropriate response, Avis spun and slapped Sybille across the face.

  Apparently, this was an instance where a slap was socially acceptable and, for once, all seemed good with the result. Even Sybille on some level must have known it was well-deserved because she did nothing but nod.

  Avis crouched next to Valentyne, her own face burning, somewhat shocked by her mind’s cold calculations. She loved her brother more than any creature on this Earth. Still, even as her brother lay bleeding on the altar of the cathedral, it was hard not to feel intense exhilaration—and perhaps a smidgeon of gratitude toward the fool of a girl whose prospects for happiness had just come crashing down.

>   After all, Sybille had just saved Avis’s gala, and her future.

  THIRTEEN

  Any sane person would have simply cancelled that evening’s banquet to be held in Richmond Palace’s main dining room. But apparently there was very little sanity left in Rose’s friend Sybille today.

  The priest had finally been located, cowering in a stairwell, and he and Mr. Scarcliff carried the wounded Valentyne back to Richmond Palace, with Dorothie, Avis, and Mrs. Scarcliff in tow. Holstan was so confused that he just wandered off, apparently in search of his horse. Born to a higher-ranking family than the Scarcliffs, Holstan would probably walk away from the whole debacle unscathed.

  A few streets over in a filthy excuse for a pub, Rose found Mr. Maydestone and Robert. Somehow Sybille’s father had already heard about the “attack” on his future son-in-law and actually laughed. “Good, toughen him up a little,” he said as he smacked Robert who sat next to him. “Don’t let those damn Scarcliffs think this invalidates the contract. The wedding takes place next week even if they have to drag that boy’s corpse up the aisle. Now piss off. My son and I are busily drinking all the beer out of this pub.”

  Upon learning that not even her own father would attend, Sybille had shouted, “The gala banquet will go on as planned! I’ve spent a fortune … and I’m not giving up!”

  All the way to the end, Sybille had insisted on keeping her “artistic” contribution to the banquet a secret. Yes, it had originally been scheduled by the Scarcliffs as a very basic dinner, a near-meaningless nod to the fact that the Scarcliff and Maydestone families were merging. But for the sake of the Challenge, Sybille insisted she be in charge of all details. Truth be told, the Scarcliffs had been only too happy to leave those details and extra funds needed to the country girl. If they had planned to attend the dinner at all, it would have been merely to pass by the door. But of course, now the Scarcliffs would not even do that.

  Indeed, piles of money had been spent on the evening. Rose could see that immediately upon entering the dining room. But it had not been spent well.

  Sybille had selected a hunting theme for the gala after all. Everyone knew it was one of the queen’s favorite pastimes and Rose supposed it might be hard to find anything that could be more appropriate. Not knowing whom to hire to help execute her vision, Sybille had relied on the advice of Hester the maid in choosing her gala’s architect. Unfortunately, the usually drunk merchant was better skilled at choosing a mug for beer than the proper decoration for a formal event.

  The entire room was a threat. Shapes of sharp objects—from swords and knives to horns and fangs—were carved into every available wood surface. Each chair had the face of its intended occupant etched into the thick wood of the high seat back. The faces were unintentionally grotesque and frightening, with exaggerated features, gaping mouths, and black bulging eyes. Lances had been lashed together to make the long table, and arrow shafts had been whittled down into spoons and knives. Dressed as prey, the servants wore horns tied around their heads with rope and tails made of ribbon, and they looked around nervously as if they could be skewered at any moment.

  Maybe this was a bit prideful of her, but Rose noted the only bit of true beauty and design lay in the plates that sat on the table in front of the one hundred and twenty-five chairs. Rose had enrolled nearly all the girls she had met in the palace to help her finish on time, and they had just barely made it. Each brown and white pattern was unique, but as directed by Rose, all used a selection of symbols and nonsensical words. Many of the girls had asked Rose what they meant—was it some kind of foreign language?—but each time the question came up Rose had touched her birthmark and said, “No, I just think the markings are pretty.”

  With guests abandoning the dinner in droves, many of the plates would go unused. But Rose wasn’t concerned about everyone seeing all of her plates. Just one person seeing one particular plate.

  “Over here, Rosie!” Sybille called with a wave. She stood expectantly on the other side of the table, toward the middle, and she was breathtaking. Yes, Sybille’s eyes appeared tired and her hair a bit untidy, but the room’s dancing candlelight caressed her smooth, gorgeous skin and what was supposed to her wedding dress with golden light. Somehow her beauty in the midst of this gaudy, hunting nightmare made the gala that much more tragic. Even her undeniable splendor couldn’t save this night. Smiling—what was the point of doing anything else?—Rose went to join her.

  “Do you think Valentyne will be here soon?” Sybille asked. “And the queen, when will she arrive?”

  The chattiness was not like Sybille, and her questions had only bad answers. Rose had learned from Dorothie that Valentyne was definitely not coming—he was bedridden, being seen after by the finest physicians who were soaking his wound in vinegar.

  Under the pretense of trying to calm her, Rose took both of Sybille’s hands in hers. “Listen to—”

  “Rose!” Sybille interrupted, pulling free. “What is wrong with your hands? They’re so clammy!”

  Before Sybille could say anything else, Rose picked up two full wine glasses and gave one to her friend. As they touched glasses in a silent toast, Rose tried to convey with her eyes how truly sorry she was … about everything.

  That was when Avis swept into the room and was greeted not only with sympathy for the attack on her brother—many nodded gravely—but also giggled. A few guests had observed that the face carved into Avis’s chair had been given an obscenely bulbous nose. A vandal—or a comedic genius—had stuck what looked like dough on the carving as a kind of cruel impression of the famous Scarcliff bump.

  “Oh, that is unfortunate,” Rose said dryly, and pointed out the chair to Sybille, who even with everything that had happened today, erupted into laughter, one hand clapping against her wine glass happily.

  “Sybille, your fingernails,” Rose warned. Her friend’s fingers appeared to be dipped in something like dough, very similar to what was on Avis’ chair.

  “Ach, where’d this mess come from?” She made her fingers into claws and scratched them against her dress as if trying to quickly clean them. They left brown streaks along the white fabric. Sybille was already well into the wine and didn’t register them.

  But Avis certainly did, Rose noticed. It must be obvious to Avis who had tried to make a fool out of her.

  More than likely Avis would have stormed out if not for the rules of the Challenge set by the queen. Rose was also certain Avis had planned to sabotage this dinner, but, one look around the room would tell her there was no need.

  “Where is the meal?” Avis demanded, taking a seat at the end of the table that had been reserved for Mr. Maydestone. “The sooner we eat the quicker this disaster can be declared over.”

  Sybille agreed with her, at least partly. “Maybe we should eat, Rose,” she said hopefully. “Her Majesty could be waiting for the dinner to be served.”

  Rose didn’t have the heart to tell her, no, it definitely didn’t work like that. Instead, she guided Sybille into her central seat, before taking her own five chairs away. As guests began to fill in the empty spaces, Sybille insisted the seats with faces of Valentyne and the queen remain empty.

  “Get off of there, you stinking lout!” she told a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen when he tried sitting in Valentyne’s chair.

  Once Sybille had given them a signal, servants began slopping out the meal of venison stew, covering Rose’s beautiful plates. Next to her, a lowly marquis immediately began shoveling the food into his mouth by the spoonful. It took a moment for Rose to recognize Dorothie’s father, Mr. Marlowe, who had the same curly hair, even in his beard. He frowned at something crunchy or foul in the venison, and winced. “They say we should suffer for what we hold deer,” he quipped, speckling her with a bit of the meal.

  Apparently, Dorothie’s mastery of language came from her mother.

  Dr. Dee entered the room. Finally! He looked around, his eyes passing over Rose, unti
l he found the replica of his face on the still-empty chair almost directly across from her.

  “Uncle!” Avis called from the end of the table. “Come sit next to me, please. You can ignore these seats—they bear no resemblance to reality.”

  With a courtly nod, Dr. Dee walked toward Avis.

  “No!” Rose screamed in her mind. Or maybe she did so out loud. She must have said something because the droopy eyes of Mr. Marlowe grew merry.

  “You protest, but it’s true!” Mr. Marlowe enthused, obviously proud his wit had inspired such an impassioned response in the young woman.

  You’re over-reacting, Rose told herself. After all, no matter where Dr. Dee sat he would be welcomed by a plate with symbols from the diary. Unwilling to risk having a servant put the wrong plate in front of Dr. Dee, Rose had stacked the deck this evening. But it would be so much better if he were across from her when he discovered it.

  As if delivered by providence, a woman sneezed on the plate next to Avis. In one smooth motion, Dr. Dee backtracked to his original seat and sat down, declaring, “I think the orientation of my body in this position is most conducive for digestion.”

  From the corner of her eye, Rose watched Dr. Dee eat and cursed his fussiness. Still ignoring her, he produced his own spoon and began moving the food around in piles as if searching for a morsel that he might possibly be able to choke down. His bulging Adam’s apple spasmed a few times at something he spotted, and his handkerchief was on its ways to dab his lips when it froze.

  Meanwhile, Sybille drank her way through jug after jug of wine. She sat alone, the seats on either side of her reserved for the absent Scarcliffs and the rest of her family.

  “You can bet your family fortune that the queen will not be arriving anytime soon,” Mr. Marlowe said to Rose. “When people are stabbed by lances at their aborted secret wedding, the list of those attending the reception can’t be expected to include Her Royal Highness.”