Tudor Rose Read online

  She put her hands on either side of her face and pushed them forward. Absurd grinned, getting the hint. He pulled the hood back up over his head and darted off.

  With a smile still playing on her lips, Rose waved over one of the adult workers and handed him two notes. “Do you know these two people?” She pointed at the names on the envelopes. When the man nodded, Rose said, “Can you see that she receives this note when she arrives tonight, please? To deliver his, you’ll have to go to Richmond Palace now.”

  An hour later, when Avis Scarcliff breezed into what remained of the priory, she wanted to dance like a joyful little girl.

  Yes, her gala had ended in utter disaster, but not in ashes. The queen would never step foot into the priory. And if she did, Avis would be sure to let her royal highness and her guards know that the severely damaged building was unsafe and that she was in grave, mortal danger.

  While Avis was irritated about being forced to attend due to the rules of the queen’s Challenge, she had willingly obeyed the invitation’s instruction not to wear any bright colors. Only dark browns, grays, and blacks were allowed. Fine with Avis. She wouldn’t waste one of her gorgeous gowns on this event anyway.

  As requested everyone wore one bright glittery object. For once, Avis’ cameo of her grandmother’s sneering, withered face seemed appropriate to the occasion. Even with sparkling jewels and shining gold, the somber dark colors of the clothing made it feel more like a funeral than a masque. At least it would be blissfully short—an hour long and only with forty or so invited—the event would be an unpleasant memory flash that would fade in a day or two.

  Avis had come alone. Valentyne was too ill, his wound still healing. And, until Avis discovered who put the musk-scented cloth in her pocket, Dorothie couldn’t be trusted. Experiencing the new sensation of isolation, Avis looked around, tasting what it felt like to be an observer, not a ruling participant. Other guests turned away from Avis as her gaze passed over them—or, as in the case of that white-faced trollop Cicely, openly mocked Avis by pointing at her and cackling, “She does now!”

  Clenching her fists, Avis felt a satisfying connection between her sharp nails and her palms. Somehow, it grounded her. She dreamed of all the ways she would destroy this night, drive it in farther into the realm of disaster.

  Rose was nowhere to be seen but Sybille slumped in the far corner, appearing to be already drunk. Odd, small waiters wearing hoods carried trays of plain wooden chalices filled with wine. In an even odder turn, the servers hovered extremely close—and at times even bumped into the guests—until they finished drinking the wine, and then the waiters would take the empty chalice away.

  Just as Avis’s nails threatened to break the skin of her palms, a waiter held out an envelope for her and she had to release the tension in one hand. She took the note without acknowledging the disgusting little man, and when he lingered far too close, she waved him off impatiently.

  Avis opened the note and read:

  I must confess,

  Fulke

  Elation surged through her. Avis wasn’t alone! She knew her true love wouldn’t abandon her! And how touching that he had sent her this coded message.

  While no one discussed such things these days, she knew Fulke had grown up as a rabid Catholic. And God knew those Catholics had loved their confessionals! Avis could say without absolute certainty just where to find him.

  “You there.” Avis snapped her fingers at a hooded man who was fiddling with some kind of giant lantern. “Did the confessionals survive the fire? Where are they?”

  Following the man’s pointed finger, Avis wandered past all the other dully-dressed guests and their snickering faces. Feeling bright and alive and brave, she made her way out of the great room into the back hallway. Down the short passage riddled with debris from the fire, she found a doorway to a small chapel, and within that chapel was a freestanding confessional. One side had caved in during the fire, but two of the three doors—the one in the center reserved for the priest and the one on the left—had withstood the flames.

  Without hesitating—no more of that!—and without knocking, she opened the door on the left and pushed her way inside the pitch black chamber, against the person already occupying the small space, and closed the door quickly behind her.

  Avis was no stranger to the affections of men, both giving and receiving. Yet, she had never been fully intimate with a man. She had always been reserving that part of herself for the man she would one day wed. And since that man was now pressed up against her, she thought to herself, Why not?

  She couldn’t seem to catch her breath with her heart pounding so hard. Happiness was a word she had clearly never understood before … because she was finally truly experiencing it.

  “My darling,” Fulke said, and his strong fingers danced over her face. He smelled so wonderful, something like wood and apple, deeply masculine. His fingers had stopped on the small bump at the bridge of her nose, as if curious. Then they moved on, down her neck and trailing lightly across her bosom, as he murmured something in her ear.

  “Hmm?” Avis asked, nuzzling her face against his neck. The stubble of his jaw was like tiny jolts firing up all her senses. “What did you say, my love?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Only your name,” Fulke responded. “Rose. My Rose.”

  The words were slaps.

  Stinging.

  Humiliation.

  As Fulke’s hands continued down her body, Avis’s pounding heart froze mid-beat, and now she truly was breathless.

  Was Avis willing to take the kiss even though she knew it wasn’t for her? She never considered it for a moment.

  She fumbled at the door behind her and shoved at it. The door flew open with a bang and Avis tumbled out into the chapel, slamming the door shut behind her. She didn’t want Fulke—or anyone!—to realize what had just happened.

  Too late.

  Rose Castletown was standing there, smiling. She held a finger to her lips and, linking an arm through Avis’s, pulled her quickly into the hallway. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ll be wanting to talk to the queen, no doubt, to warn her about some kind of danger or other. I’ve just received word that she’s on her way. You better hurry.”

  Avis’s head was swimming as Rose gave her a little shove back toward the great room. The momentum alone carried her forward at first, but with each step Avis’s confusion and hurt transformed into that familiar rage, giving her direction a purpose.

  She would. She would do it. She would crush that smug Rose Castletown with just a few words to the queen.

  As she reentered the great room, someone grabbed her arm again. This time much more roughly, and she winced. She turned to see it was her brother! His sunken eyes and his mouth were tight with pain and Avis could see blood seeping through the bandage around his shoulder.

  “Valentyne!” Avis cried. “You should be in your bed.”

  Instead of loosening his grip, Valentyne actually tightened his hold on her. “I received a note and I want you to tell me if it’s true.”

  This was too much. Avis didn’t have time or the patience for this. “Let go of me this instant!”

  Now his grip was a vice, crushing bone. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “The note describes how you planned to use to me to lure men so you could blackmail them. Did you do that?”

  Avis tried to shake free. “I have no idea what you’re—”

  “It says our sister cried out for us as she was dying, and you did nothing!” Valentyne hissed. “You kept me from the last moments I could have had with her! And then you continued your betrayal by using me—your only brother—for your own purposes like some kind of pathetic puppet.”

  Avis felt tears in her eyes. Was it from the pain of his grip or that of his words?

  Valentyne released her arm and pulled back slightly. “You did nothing when our sister was dying, and that is just what you will do now. Nothing. Or I will share t
his note and its contents with everyone we know, our parents, our queen, your precious Fulke. Everyone. You and I are already finished but are you ready to say goodbye to them as well? You will stay at this party and you behave accordingly. If you do not … ”

  Valentyne held up the note like a question. And Avis gave the only answer she could. With watery eyes downcast, she nodded slowly, agreeing to his terms.

  “What happened?” Fulke asked Rose, his deep green eyes warm with longing. “Why didn’t you return to me, my love?”

  “Return to where?” Rose asked. “I don’t believe I was ever there to start. Is the dream of me that strong that it took actual shape and form? Perhaps I can enlist this new phantom’s help. After all, it is very difficult for me to be two places at once.” The situation demanded bold talk, but this kind of fancy speech did not come easy for her.

  Fulke’s brows furrowed. “Are you saying that you were not in the confessional just a few minutes ago?”

  Rose was armed with a response, a clever retort to throw Fulke off track. It wouldn’t serve her for him to know the truth, especially now that the humiliated Avis had been successfully neutralized as a threat by her brother. That just left the drunken Sybille who might still destroy the evening for Rose … but she had a plan for that as well, one that would cost her dearly.

  Rose didn’t have the chance to respond, however. Just then all the others in the room were turning toward the entrance.

  As always, there was a vibration in the air, a kind of hum that heralded the queen’s arrival. Like the change in temperature before a massive storm, the very air seemed to quiver. The forty or so guests and the small waiters fell silent and dove into deep curtsies and bows.

  And then Queen Elizabeth was in the great room.

  She didn’t arch an eyebrow or show any signs of how she felt about being in the dingy, dimly-lit room with such a relatively small number of guests.

  But Rose knew she didn’t have long. She could almost hear the ticking of a clock that marked the limits of the queen’s patience and attention.

  “Are you ready, Fulke?” Rose asked.

  He hesitated over their unfinished business, but nodded, and headed toward the platform. Silently, he bowed before the queen and held out his hand. She smiled and took it, and he led the queen up the three steps to the platform. He seated her in the chair, and then went back down the steps. He stood in front of the guests, but faced the queen, who began to fidget slightly.

  From her spot in the back of the room, Rose cleared her throat, signaling to Fulke that they would begin now. Rose needed to tap into Fulke’s authority and social standing. She was not a public speaker. But he was.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Rose said loudly, and as she spoke, Fulke moved his mouth as if he were speaking. He would be her puppet, and the queen stopped her fidgeting, intrigued.

  Rose and Fulke continued the performance. “Tonight we, your loyal subjects, stand before you to present you with our most elemental of jewels. Like the false idols of ancient religions they have no power over us and we will not allow them to cloud our love for you.” Without turning his back on the queen, Fulke angled his head slightly so it was clear the next words were for the audience. “Please lift your single most prized possession now.”

  Broaches, tiaras, necklaces, an engagement ring, bracelets, a relatively dull cameo—all were raised into the air around the room. The effect was immediate. Suddenly the rationale behind the clothing requirement and the location of the gala in this dark, dingy space became clear.

  Every guest had been transformed. Now every man and woman was nothing but a dull backdrop for their most glittering and prized possession. They were dark, isolated lighthouses that shone thanks to the beacons in their hands not due to anything about themselves.

  The queen watched all this a bit skeptically, but still interested.

  It was time for Rose to go off script. As she spoke, Fulke’s mouth continued to move but his lips no longer matched the words.

  “These possessions are meaningless when compared to our love for you, Your Majesty,” Rose said. “We will now break them to prove that to you. These objects are like so much worthless pottery and cheap glass.”

  She saw Fulke’s shoulders tense, as he must be wondering what she was talking about. She watched his fingers run over the gold and bejeweled ornamental dagger he held in his hand. Something wasn’t right here … his other hand came up and touched the blade, and then with the slightest bit of effort he snapped the blade in two.

  Pieces of it fell to the ground at his feet.

  Gasps came from the guests. Now the queen’s eyebrow most certainly arched. Others in the crowd began feeling their valuables and testing their resistance. All around the room there were sounds of objects snapping and shattered pieces hitting the ground.

  From her corner, Avis Scarcliff screamed … either in rage or in victory, Rose couldn’t be sure. Over in her corner, Sybille stared down at the broken engagement ring in her palm. And then she looked up and met Rose’s gaze.

  Was that a look of admiration on Sybille’s face? No, it was pure malice.

  Fulke was speechless. Clearly, he couldn’t go along with this. With a quick, “Your Majesty,” he bowed and turned back to Rose. She watched the adoration in his eyes dim slightly, and make room for something darker. Doubt. She could see him wondering about the timeline of tonight. Had he been manipulated into that confessional? What else had she involved him in?

  Rose was ready for this. She moved quickly through the murmuring crowd, which was growing ever louder, her feet crunching on destroyed possessions, and walked in front of Fulke. From the corner of her eye, she saw Howell enter the room, right on time. Rose curtsied before the queen, dead calm in the chaos that was exploding around her.

  “I assure you all will be well, Your Majesty,” Rose said. “If I might just finish.”

  The queen lifted a finger and there was silence. She raised an eyebrow for Rose to continue.

  “I wanted to show the imperfect nature of our love for these temporary objects,” Rose said, “when compared with the permanence of our love for you, Your Royal Highness.”

  “I think that point has been made,” the queen said drily.

  “Your Majesty, I agree,” Rose said. “Maybe a little too strongly. To mend that, if everyone would please inspect their purses and pockets, you will find what you believe to have been destroyed there. And something more.”

  Hands went to purses, fingers slid into pockets. There were cries of shock and laughter born of relief. Inside, guests found the actual objects they thought had been ruined and lay crumbled at their feet.

  “You have no doubt discovered our little game tonight,” Rose said. “Those objects on the ground were cheap replicas. In the dark, everything is equal. But, when we shine the light of our hearts upon an object, it glitters. Now, if you please, one last indulgence. Hold up that extra item you found high above your heads.”

  Hands went to work again, and emerged wrapped around palm-sized wooden handles. At the top of each handle was a crystal, and up into the air the crystals went.

  Behind them workers brought torches to the lanterns, and the beacons flared to life like six miniature suns, their light directed in straight lines toward the front of the room. The curtain behind the lanterns was dropped, revealing a series of mirrors that covered the entire wall.

  Light from the beacons traveled through the raised crystals and smaller beams were redirected. Beams danced off to one side and a few above the queen, and then with some corrections all were directed squarely on the queen, and she stood bathed in light. The effect was breathtaking.

  She was the connector of everything that was bright and good.

  The mirrors at the back allowed the Queen to see herself transformed. Rose watched Elizabeth’s bright eyes settle on her reflection and there was a moment where the master gamesman stepped aside, and Rose could see the real woman there, t
ransfixed and admiring herself for beauty sake.

  Behind the queen, the light of the beacons that had not been redirected by the crystals formed a six-pointed constellation. Fulke was nowhere to be seen. No matter. She wouldn’t need Fulke to stand in for her anymore tonight or in the future.

  Rose had found her voice and, as she pointed at the constellation, she said proudly, “I give you Astraea Magnifica. Astraea is the celestial virgin or star-maiden—the ancient Greek goddess equated with innocence and purity. The stars called the constellation Virgo home, the same sign under which Her Majesty was born.”

  Here she paused, to silently thank the absent Dr. Dee for selling her the crystals and for his advice on the stars, and to allow the guests and the queen to absorb her words, Then she pronounced, “From this day forward, what was once chaos in the sky has now found beautiful order—and our eternal love!”

  The queen smiled, and cheers and stomping feet filled the room.

  Slouched against the back wall, Sybille held her real engagement ring in her hand for a moment. She put that back in her pocket. And felt around for the crystal that all the others had. But she didn’t find one.

  Instead there was a chain. She took it out. On the end of the chain hung a pendant.

  Even here in the dark corner, she instantly knew what it was.

  Howell’s pendant. His family legacy. The one he had sold to buy Sybille’s virginity in Gordonsrod.

  So, this had been the point of sending the stable boy on his secret undertaking. Rose must have paid him to travel to Gordonsrod and purchase the pendant from Aunt Clemence, who probably demanded an enormous sum to part with the treasure. Where had Rose gotten the funds for such endeavors, including tonight’s gala?

  From Sybille herself.

  She knew that must be the answer. Rose had engineered the robbery—and the recovery—of Sybille’s purse. Just as she hired all these little pickpockets masquerading as waiters to do her dirty work tonight.