Tudor Rose Read online

  “Is this person intended to be … ” Dorothie asked quietly into Avis’s ear. “Anne Boleyn? You do know what happened to her, don’t you, Avis?”

  Avis nodded happily. She knew Dorothie and her love of the dramatic would truly appreciate what Avis had conceived here. And she could only imagine how the queen would embrace each lavish detail. All around her she could hear bits of other conversations as guests commented in hushed, more than likely awestruck, voices.

  “Lord above … ”

  “ … a bit deaf to taste, don’t you … ”

  “ … surprised she didn’t just show the beheading?”

  At that point, the actor playing Anne Boleyn chimed in, “And, as you can see, my glorious daughter has already started walking!” He directed everyone’s attention to the ground.

  Tiny footsteps painted in gold-flecked paint could be seen leading away from this first stop along the red carpet. The directions were clear, walk in the footsteps of the queen, and have the opportunity to travel through her life.

  The next point of interest was an elaborate chapel. The gold sign out front read 1533—10 September—Greenwich Palace Chapel.

  Inside were actors playing Archbishop Thomas Cranmer and the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset, Elizabeth’s godparents, at a reenactment of her baptism.

  Continuing on the path led to the Seymour household in Chelsea in 1547.

  After the death of her half-brother the king, Elizabeth was taken into the house by her stepmother and her husband Thomas Seymour. Once inside the replica, visitors were treated to a charming display.

  Actors portraying the adult couple playfully tickled the child Elizabeth. Yes, Thomas was later beheaded for his machinations to marry Elizabeth himself but surely, Avis had figured, those tickling sessions must have provided wonderful times of amusement and happy memories for the future queen. After all, Catherine Parr—the queen’s stepmother—took part in at least two of the sessions.

  Even better, the actors invited the guests to join in the fun and help them tickle young Elizabeth.

  Avis spotted Rose Castletown standing open-mouthed, some might say aghast, in front of the heart-warming scene. Clearly, like others in the room who looked pale and shocked, she was stunned by Avis’s success. She thought of the simpering smile Rose had given her over Agnes’s grave, the one that had nearly driven her into a violent rage, and she fired it back at Rose now.

  “There, there, dear,” Avis soothed. “Just think how cozy the barn will feel after all this time away.”

  Back outside, still arm-in-arm with Dorothie (who had noticeably stiffened, probably out of jealousy!), Avis managed to avoid running into Francois. However, he did always appear to be lurking on the periphery. His latest trick was to remove his watch from his pocket and stare very pointedly at it. Avis couldn’t be bothered. He would be paid, and then she would demand that the horrible balding Frenchman leave—and take all his negative feelings with him.

  As Avis and Dorothie visited the next stops of the masque, Avis searched the crowd for Sybille. She deserved a nice condescending smile and a withering comment as well. But she was nowhere to be found. Probably weeping in defeat in some far, dark corner. Avis also waited for more and more congratulations to pour in. They were more of a trickle now and delivered in low voices with quick sidelong glances. Such restraint was obviously a sign that people were made near-speechless by the spectacle she had assembled.

  Well, if they were awe-struck by the other displays, just wait until they reached this final stop.

  The large gold sign out front had this bit of clever verse which Avis had fashioned herself.

  Upon this seventh destination, the queen does rest,

  And does oversee the loyal hearts that beat within our chests.

  Next to her, Dorothie chuckled. Avis tensed. Was she laughing at her poetry?

  Quick to explain, Dorothie said, “No, darling, it’s just that … that’s not something I could ever write.”

  Avis smiled and patted her friend’s arm, and went back to admiring her handiwork. This really was the grand finale of the masque. A perfectly constructed replica of Elizabeth’s favorite residence, Richmond Palace, the very palace on whose grounds this entire masque sat. In fact, if you stood on the other side, you might think that your vision had gone batty—you could see Richmond Palace, and then right behind it another Richmond Palace!

  But the favorite element of this display was the mammoth throne of gold that sat atop a dais made of pure mahogany and inlaid with patterns of silver and bronze. The throne was a gift that the queen could have brought, along with dais if she wished, into the residence. In the future, every time Her Royal Highness sat on the throne she would think of Avis Scarcliff.

  “Well, Dorothie,” Avis asked proudly, “what words of praise do you feel bubbling up inside?”

  “I have no words, and have been struck speechless,” Dorothie responded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave my expression to Kit, my better self.”

  That was an odd answer, Avis thought. “Oh really, I think you can spare me the suspense and share a—”

  Abruptly changing the subject, Dorothie asked, “Is that Fulke I see at the entrance?”

  Fulke! Avis squinted against the glare of the bright sun, but was unable to make him out. She couldn’t wait to see his face and the remorse he would have in not asking her to marry him months and months ago.

  “Let’s go find him, shall we?” Dorothie said, and the girls headed back toward the pathway’s start. As they walked, a hand touched Avis’s shoulder. She turned to find her maid, Maggie, who had dared to put her hands on Avis. Such a bold and possibly dangerous move told her the news must be either very bad or very good.

  “Go ahead, Dorothie dear,” Avis told her friend. “I’ll find you shortly.”

  With a relieved nod, Dorothie went off quickly toward a servant carrying a tray of wine.

  “What is it, girl?” Avis demanded of Maggie.

  Maggie performed a little curtsy. “The queen is delayed by crisis, I believe that to be what your mother said, but she’s coming, my lady. She’ll be here in an hour’s time with your mother and father.”

  Very good news indeed! The queen was coming at noon, the perfect moment! The sun would be close to its highest point and all of Avis’s handiwork would be on clear display. By then Avis would have paid off the detestable Francois with the ten thousand she would soon extract from the mysterious Spaniard.

  As if God Himself were smiling down upon her plan, at that very moment the Spanish delegation arrived. There were six of them, ranging in age from a distinguished fifty to a strapping, beautiful twenty-two, each more handsome than the next.

  Time for Avis to smell out her prey and take what was hers!

  Her maid spotted them as well. “Remember the trick, my lady,” she advised.

  Remember the trick?

  Oh, of course. That drawing room game she had learned from Dorothie.

  Avis reached into her pocket for her handkerchief to clear her “odor palate.” But the handkerchief was gone. No, there it was, it just felt different for some reason. She brought it out quickly, touched the fabric to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Instantly her nose was on fire.

  “Oh!” she cried. This wasn’t her handkerchief. It was a piece of rough cloth, and she knew instantly that it belonged to that slut Rose Castletown. When Avis had put her hand on Rose’s shoulder last week she had felt the cheap dress, and this “handkerchief” was a strip of fabric from that dress. There was no doubt about it—and it had been doused in rancid musk oil.

  Avis’s eyes watered and her mind spun. When had Rose slipped it into her pocket? She thought back to when she had pulled those filthy tarts close to her at the opening of the masque. Rose must have done her dirty work then!

  But how did she know this might destroy Avis’ plans? Dorothie—or one of the girls who had been in the drawing room that day—must have told her the perf
ect way to sabotage Avis’s efforts. And it worked.

  As the bells tolled noon, Avis realized she had to at least try to find Valentyne’s lover. She stumbled into the group of Spaniards who greeted her warmly and praised her monumental efforts with the masque. Everywhere she turned, she saw them, but she couldn’t smell them. She had no way of identifying that unique smell of Valentyne’s lover.

  She was smell blind.

  When the burning of her nostrils grew even worse, Avis automatically put the handkerchief to her nose to soothe it.

  “Damn it!” she cried. Now her nasal cavity began to drain, and clear fluid poured out her nose and down around her lips.

  Putting his watch away for the last time, Francois heard—and saw—all of this, and instantly sprang into action.

  “Wait!” Avis called to him.

  But instead of responding, Francois shook his head angrily and stormed into the palace. When he reemerged seconds later, he was followed by a crew of surly-looking men and a few of the beggar children who had been hired to do light work.

  Rudely brushing past important members of court, the men started with the red carpet. They began tearing it up in strips, often times from beneath the feet of guests. Some stumbled and others leapt to the side, tumbling into the snow. Glasses were pulled out of guests’ hands by angry, unpaid servants. Visitors were driven out of displays by actors who removed wigs and tossed aside props.

  Turning in circles, Avis observed all of this.

  And, of course, at that moment the horns bleated, and the queen’s attendant announced, “Make way for Her Royal High … ”

  His words dried up in his throat as he took in the chaotic destruction unfolding in the grounds. Unable to gracefully correct course at this point, the queen continued walking past the courtyard entrance, with Avis’s mother and father a few respectful steps behind. Even from this distance, Avis thought she saw the queen’s eyes slide along the scene unfolding in Avis’s masque. Her Majesty and the Scarcliffs continued on as if they had never intended on stopping at this most regrettable of functions.

  Then the queen was gone.

  And, just like that, Avis was ruined.

  FIFTEEN

  “Oh, Howell!”

  “Hello, Pretty Petal,” Howell said with his sad smile. His incisors remained hidden behind his full lips. Rose knew she didn’t inspire such nervous expressions in him, and, even though it had taken on a different meaning, she fought but lost her own urge to cover the birthmark under her lip.

  How could Howell be even more handsome? Rose felt that horrible tug somewhere between her heart and her stomach. The ache was almost excruciating and yet she savored it. It was an agony but that agony was caused by Howell, and, as pathetic as Rose knew it sounded, that made it special.

  Just moments before, Rose had been wandering past the hideous scale model of Westminster Abbey, when she noticed one of the actors playing a clergyman looked very familiar—Howell Digby.

  “Why are you here?” she blurted.

  Howell held up his hands in mock protest. “Are you upset to see an old friend?” he teased. “A few other students and I are part of the play, or masque, or gala, or whatever you might call this waste of money and effort. Just think of the good someone could do with the funds thrown away here.”

  “Yes, yes,” Rose said. “But why are you here?”

  Chuckling, Howell answered, “Avis Scarcliff asked Abbot Carrey for our help. Said she wanted everything as authentic as possible. Why not do it? It seemed like a good way to ingratiate ourselves to the queen. Elizabeth will be there, right? And the word is she’s yet determine our fate.”

  The opening he provided was almost too perfect—it was just the opportunity Rose needed for this part of her plan. “I have heard things, Howell—”

  Without warning, a tall ruffian, who looked like he’d be comfortable in a back alley at midnight, pushed between Howell and Rose and pulled at one of the cathedral doors—not to open it, but to yank it off.

  “What are you about?” Rose demanded of the stranger. When the man continued tugging on the door, Howell gave him an amused look and said, “Run along before I do the same to you.”

  Delivered from Howell’s imposing frame, the words carried an undercurrent of threat that sent the man scurrying off. Before they could continue speaking, shouting drew Rose’s attention to the entrance of the masque. Something was happening over there, people were pushing each other and tearing at the displays.

  Howell had noticed the wave of violence that seemed to be spreading their way. “We need to get you out of here, Rose,” he said, and took her elbow. “Tell me your news as we walk. Do we need to worry about Sybille?”

  Enjoying the touch of his hand too much to let the mention of his “true love” spoil it, Rose said, “No, Sybille left a while ago,”

  As furious actors tore down displays around them, Howell and Rose picked up the pace.

  Knowing she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t, Rose needed to give Howell a warning. It might tip her hand and show what she had planned, but she couldn’t risk that Howell might get hurt. She chose her next words very carefully.

  “Howell, the queen … ” Rose began, and then started again. “She has a thirst for vengeance, and a man named Lord Northwood has convinced her to swear that all Catholic heretics will pay for their blasphemy. Elizabeth’s going to have you and the others in the priory arrested, or worse. You need to warn the Abbot, and you need to get out of there. Tonight. You have to leave tonight. Or tomorrow at the very latest.”

  “How in heaven’s name do you know all of this?” Howell asked.

  Do it, Rose, she told herself. Give him the answer he wants to hear. “Sybille. The queen confides in her. Sybille wants to meet you in two nights’ time at my gala to thank you.”

  “Thank me for what?” Howell sputtered. “Sybille wants to meet me?”

  Amazing. Having just been told he was in danger of imminent arrest and that Sybille wanted to see him … Howell chose to focus on the latter.

  Rose opened her mouth to respond, and there was a scream and then an angry shout. About twenty yards away, the ruffian from the cathedral was trying to rip the dress off the small man playing Anne Boleyn. The actor was about to take a pummeling. Howell was clearly torn between wanting to learn everything Rose knew and doing the right thing.

  “Go, you should go help him,” Rose said, making the decision for him and giving him a little push before he could ask more questions. “I’ll be fine and will see you in two days. Just be careful until then!”

  “Tear it all down, every last board and smash every last window!” A man with a French accent, pushed past Rose and shouted at a group of workers. “Hurry, I want it destroyed before the palace guards arrive!”

  All around Rose, the gala had exploded into a full-blown riot. The few remaining guests, including Rose were fleeing, as the mob of workers and actors continued to level the displays. To get to the exit faster and avoid the rushing crowd, Rose abandoned the walkway and cut across the park through the snow. Her escape path led behind the replica of the Seymour house in Chelsea. Elizabeth spent part of her early teens there with her stepmother and her stepmother’s husband, Thomas Seymour, the man who had so enjoyed “tickling” the young Elizabeth.

  As Rose trudged through the snow, a hand reached from the side and grabbed for her breast. With a scream she instinctively swatted it away.

  “Ow!” the owner of the hand cried pitifully and stepped in front of her. It was the actor who had been playing Thomas Seymour. The actor’s reddish wig was askew and the birthmark below his lip was peeling off his drool-soaked chin.

  “Pardon me, my daughter,” he slurred, clearly in his cups. “How’s about a tickle or two? That’s what I do!”

  Rose jerked out of the way of his groping hand and rushed off. But not before his appearance and the slurred word daughter had triggered something in Rose’s mind. She thought a
bout the sign she had seen from the walkway earlier in front of the house and did the math in her head.

  “Ha!” Rose laughed. She had been born in Chelsea while Elizabeth lived there with the Seymours.

  “Ha,” Rose said out loud again, and this time with a kind of dawning dread. Not because she thought the idea forming in her head could possibly be true but because she worried about her mental state for even contemplating it. No! The Challenge must be getting to her. Maybe she was already long gone and needed to be locked away. Was she to be diagnosed with gala madness?

  Rose touched the strands of reddish-brown hair that had fallen loose from her bun. Her fingers went to the birthmark under her lip. She thought of the completely inappropriate “tickling,” knowing that much more might have transpired.

  One of those people will prove of great interest to you, Dr. Dee had said about Avis’s gala. Was Thomas Seymour that person? Could the secret truth of the universe that he and Walsingham mentioned be that Rose was—

  No!

  Her mind pulled away from the thought like a hand from a hot stove, as Rose struggled through the snow, at last nearing the exit.

  To put everything in the right perspective, she needed to talk to Sybille and tell her about all these silly clues. Sybille would roll her eyes and laugh. “Oh, Rosie! You always did know how to lift my spirits. Now, we need to get serious. Have you noticed I look like the Pope? Perhaps he’s my papa?”

  But could she even joke around with Sybille with this insane notion? It would be a treasonous declaration to be sure. And who knew how Sybille was going to feel once Rose’s plans for her gala became obvious. Would she try to hurt Rose after that? This would certainly make a deadly weapon.

  Rose supposed she could tell Dr. Dee and Walsingham that she had discovered the secret. Maybe she could present it as joke, just to feel them out? But what if she was wrong and their secret had to do with something mundane like rocks or the ocean? They would pull her support from the gala and everything would fall apart. And Dr. Dee had been so helpful to her in setting up her event, she couldn’t afford to lose his backing now.