Tudor Rose Page 3

  Sybille and Rose had to wait several minutes before their turn, and when Sybille stepped out onto the god’s shoulder, she took too long trying to get her jacket and hair out of the way. The twitchy man behind them gave her an “accidental” shove causing Sybille to tumble into the pool, flailing under the wine’s surface. She came up sputtering, her breath smoky in the cold air. Thick red liquid matted her hair down so she looked like a wet dog.

  From up above, Rose gestured for the twitchy man to take her place in line as she watched Sybille, waiting for the explosion of rage. But no one else had noticed her fall into the pool. And since Sybille gauged everything by what others thought, she had no reason to be upset. Instead, she let out a laugh, and started spinning around in the fountain saying, “I’m not a good girl!”

  Rose climbed down and stood at the edge of the pool calling her over. Ignoring her, Sybille continued to splash about, lap up wine with her hands, and shout, “I’m not a good girl!” Rose looked for Robert so he could help and spotted him stumbling down an alley with a young woman. He gave Rose a wave that said, Back in a bit.

  With growing alarm, Rose noticed Robert wasn’t the only one leaving. The queen’s procession had moved on long ago and now so had all the decent folk, leaving only the crowd’s dregs—the ruffians and the drunks—behind.

  We have to get out of here.

  But it was too late. Someone rushed up behind Rose, crushing her against the lip of the pool and tugging at her skirt. She couldn’t turn to see her assailant, but she felt the prickle of whiskers on her neck and sour, drunken breath at her ear. “You see that over there?” the man’s voice rasped.

  Rough hands turned Rose’s head so she was looking at a woman kneeling down in the pool of wine. The woman’s face and dark scraggly hair were encased in an iron mask. A long metal nose sprouted and curled from the front. The woman was trying to pour a cup of wine through a crack in the mask, but it just dribbled down the sides.

  “You know about the mask? It’s what we do to gossips in this city,” the man’s harsh voice told her. “If she opens her mouth to talk—or scream—a spike in the mask will slice off her tongue.”

  His words drove fear into her heart as his hands groped along her legs. “Just keep watching her,” the man said. “She just has to be quiet and take it, too.” Then she felt a tugging at the cord that held her purse. He was about to steal her book!

  “I’ll just have—” the man started, and then, with a violent jerk, the probing hands were suddenly gone and he was no longer trapping her against the fountain. Rose took the opportunity. She spun around, slapping the first face that came into view.

  It belonged to an elegantly dressed young man her age with a fur-lined cloak and velvet hat. His black beard was tightly cropped but full. His green eyes were half moons of arrogant amusement, though the red print of her palm was still clear on his cheek.

  He held out his hands as if dealing with an unruly kitten. “I was only trying to—”

  “Stay away from me,” Rose demanded, and hated that her voice was shaking.

  “Very well.” The young man reached down. He plucked Rose’s purse from beneath the arm of a ragged-looking man who lay crumpled at their feet. She hadn’t even noticed him. Was this boy with the beard actually her savior, or was he the man who had attacked her? She was too scared to think straight.

  “At the risk of being struck again, can I make a recommendation?” the young man asked, still smiling. “You need to get out of here. I can escort you—”

  “No,” Rose insisted, snatching her purse from his hand and pushing away from him.

  “As you like,” he called after her with a laugh. She spotted Sybille leaning against the fountain with her head back unaware that five or six men were beginning to move closer to her. Rose waded over to her and grabbed her by arm.

  “Don’t you tell me what to—” Sybille started but Rose cut her off.

  “We’re not safe here.”

  The urgency in Rose’s voice penetrated Sybille’s mood. She suddenly became aware of the men—and the hungry look in their eyes—and she nodded. The ruffians splashed wine and jeered at them, angry at losing their prey, but otherwise let them leave the fountain. The girls made their way arm in arm to the carriage. Neither of them could drive it, and Robert was off doing God knew what.

  Sybille eyed the men who were still watching them. “We can’t wait for my idiot brother to return.”

  “We’re going to have to walk the rest of the way to Richmond Palace,” Rose said.

  Her teeth chattering in the cold, Sybille nodded, “Let’s go.”

  “Sybille, are you sure this is it?”

  “What do you think, Rose?” Sybille fired back. After their long journey, she was torn between shaking her friend and dancing a jig.

  The girls were on a low hilltop on the outskirts of the city. A half mile away, set afire by the setting sun, Richmond Palace sprawled over ten acres, meandering along the Thames River like some kind of slithering beast. If all the homes, barns, and shops in Gordonsrod were pushed together, the result would only be half as big.

  “So? Do you like your new home?” Sybille grinned, and the friends hugged—but they were both still soggy and it was a short embrace.

  As they headed down the sloping road, it became impossible to see more than a small section of the palace at a time. Both because it was so enormous and because darkness was falling quickly.

  Two wine-soaked girls asking for directions in the middle of a snowy London day provoked more ridicule than respect and it had taken them too long and many wrong turns to get here. Still, Rose was almost happy to be trudging through the dirty slush and wading through muck—at least they’d escaped the carriage.

  Finally, they were here. They would be safe!

  “Just think,” Rose said, “a warm fire, a cup of ale … ”

  “A hot meal, a real bed,” Sybille added. “And my husband to be!”

  While the Thames River bordered the palace on one side it was walled in on the others. The only way through was by passing under a gatehouse, which was twice as large as Aunt Clemence’s house. A lamp hanging from the arched passageway created a warm pool of light, and the girls rushed toward it.

  A guard with the skinny legs of a boy but the barrel chest of an overfed man, stepped out of the gatehouse and glared at them, stopping a few feet away. A firearm was strapped to his waist. Before they could speak, he waved his hands at them as if shooing a swarm of flies. “Run along now.”

  “Hello?” Sybille said. “We’re—”

  Not interested, he shook his head, the tassel on his hat swinging like a chiding finger. “Back to Southwark with you, ladies.”

  “But we’re supposed to be here,” Sybille told him. “I’m getting married—”

  The guard laughed, cutting her off again. “If the gentlemen of the palace would like a cuddle, they’ll search you out in the stews.”

  Sybille didn’t understand, but evidently Rose got it. “Stews are whorehouses,” she said to her. “He thinks we’re prostitutes.”

  Sybille’s eyes went wide. “What?” she cried, but her outrage was drowned out by the sound of approaching hooves. Four young men and four young women around their age arrived on horseback, laughing and singing a bawdy song. Wind-swept, clean, and vibrant, the riders radiated the healthy beauty of the wealthy.

  A girl wearing a scarlet cloak and riding sidesaddle at the head of the pack raised her hand and the singing stopped. She brought her horse—a giant brown hunter normally reserved for men—toward them. “Guard, who is that?” she demanded, pointing at Sybille and Rose.

  The guard stood up straighter. “No one, Lady Avis. They’re just leaving.”

  “See that the same can’t be said of you.” She was urging her horse forward when Sybille rushed in front of them, blocking their way.

  “Lady Avis? Avis Scarcliff?”

  The girl’s lips twisted as if Sybi
lle had just spit on her. Sybille came around to touch the rider’s dress, and the girl jerked her foot in the stirrup. “Don’t. Don’t ever put your hands—”

  Quickly, the guard took Sybille by the shoulder to pull her back. Shaking him off, Sybille reached out to the girl again, but this time didn’t touch her. “It’s me, Lady Avis. It’s Sybille Maydestone. Soon to be married to your brother.”

  With a gasp of surprise, the rider dismounted and threw back her hood, revealing a girl of about seventeen, blond hair swept around a face that was perfect except for a round bump on the bridge of her nose. “Sybille Maydestone?” The girl peered at her doubtfully, eyes running up and down Sybille’s body. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes!” Sybille said eagerly. “Will you please tell this man who we are!”

  The girl’s gloved hand patted Sybille’s shoulder. “Not to worry, my dear, we know how to deal with buffoons at the palace.”

  This drew snickers from one or two in the party, and the girl spun toward them—her face and gestures concealed from Rose and Sybille. “The rest of you run along,” she commanded after a moment. Her group, seemingly chastened, nodded and rode on through the gate.

  The girl turned back to Sybille as gracefully as a dancer. “Now, let’s start again,” she said, taking a breath and smiling. “I’m Avis Scarcliff. And you must be my new sister.”

  Without waiting for a response, Avis leaned in and kissed Sybille hard and full on the lips. In Gordonsrod, this would mean they were courting.

  Flustered, but happy, Sybille stammered, “We had the devil of a time getting here.”

  Avis looked her up and down again in the lamplight. “You would never know it.” Sybille was grateful for her kindness—or blindness—she herself could see their dim reflection in the guardhouse window. They were frightening. She was surprised the guard hadn’t shot them on sight.

  “My brother Valentyne will be so glad to learn you’ve arrived,” Avis gushed. “We expected you at the Palace two days ago. Did you walk?”

  “Yes, I mean—no.” Sybille shot Rose a look. “We … ”

  “I’m joking, my dear.” Avis chuckled. “What about the carriage? It was my idea to send it for you. I do hope you enjoyed the transport.”

  Before Rose could speak, Sybille put in, “Thank you. Very generous of you.”

  “Of course, of course.” Avis looked around. “Where is your chaperone? And the carriage … ?”

  Sybille had recovered her wits a little by now. “My papa is involved in a husbandry endeavor and my brother had some business in London to attend to,” she lied. “We expect him along shortly.” Then to deflect further questions, she introduced Rose. “And this is my sister-in-law, Rose Castletown.”

  “Ah, yes.” Avis leaned in to deliver another hard kiss on Rose’s lips, then clapped her hands. “But why are we standing out here in the cold? Let’s get you inside. Come in, come in!”

  Avis patted her horse’s neck. “Have someone take Dante to the stables,” she told the guard dismissively as the three girls passed through the passage that led through the gatehouse and across the immense courtyard. Most of the palace appeared dark, though lights flickered behind a few windows. Like a moth, Sybille gravitated toward the huge cathedral-sized doors up a long series of stone steps.

  “No, not that way,” Avis said. “Let’s go around through the kitchen. Much more cozy in there.”

  Entering by a side door, they found themselves in an enormous kitchen. Though otherwise deserted, three of the four hearths were still lit, and the warmth wrapped around them like the most welcome embrace.

  “Shall we enjoy by the fire for moment or two?” Avis suggested. As they stood with their hands outstretched toward the glowing embers, the heat had a most unwelcome effect.

  The stench of their clothes from the journey and their adventure in the fountain had been calmed by the cold, but now the warmth was making it worse.

  “Uck,” Rose groaned. “Can’t wait to get out of this stinking dress—I smell like the backside of a doxie.”

  Sybille shot her an angry look that clearly said, Don’t embarrass me, country girl! Avis caught it, too, and just laughed. “Please, sister! Speak freely. We’re all adults after all, aren’t we? And it is time to retire.” She chose a taper from a candelabra, lit it from a hearth’s embers, and led the girls out of the kitchen through a dark passageway.

  As they followed her down the hallway, which became narrower and darker with each step, Avis chatted away. “Oh my sister Agnes will be so happy that you’ve finally arrived. As a lady-in-waiting to the queen, she’ll have so many duties for you. Especially since she’s been ever so ill, as you know.”

  Sybille nodded, not really listening. She wasn’t feeling well herself. The trip, the cold, the wine—everything was catching up to her. Avis must have noticed it and tutted sympathetically. “We’ll get you right into your beds.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Sybille said, mimicking Avis’s clipped aristocratic accent. “I just don’t want your sister—or your brother Valentyne, most especially—to see me like this.”

  “Of course, child.”

  They reached a closed door at the end of the passage. Avis stepped back politely, opened the door, and pushed Sybille and Rose gently forward. “Just through here.”

  Sybille blinked as they stumbled ahead several feet. There was sudden blinding candlelight. And music. “What … ?” Sybille stammered.

  The music came to a halt, replaced by shocked gasps. And then laughter.

  “Oh goodness,” Avis announced in a flat, stage voice. “I guess I made a wrong turn.”

  Sybille’s eyes were adjusting to the light from hundreds of candles and three blazing fires—the flames reflected off thousands of mirrored surfaces. She could see they were at one end of a great hall. By far the largest room she’d ever been in—it was forty-feet wide and stretched for a hundred feet.

  Leaving Sybille and Rose on their own, Avis swept off her scarlet cloak, tossed it to a maid, and strode over to a crowd of fifty or so young people who stood waiting in a semi-circle.

  They were gorgeous, even as they sneered and giggled and pointed at Rose and Sybille. Unblemished faces, perfectly coiffed hair, and the most fashionable clothes. The men had trimmed goatees, starched linen ruffs, and wide shoulders that tapered sexily to narrow hips. The women’s painted eyes and lips were framed by long hair banded by strips of jewels. Their gowns—so different than the old-fashioned ones of Gordonsrod—had low, square-cut necklines and a framework that pushed out the dress around the buttocks, emphasizing their figures.

  It was everything that Sybille had always wanted. But not like this. Humiliation drove into her like a punch as the stuff of her dreams reconfigured into her worst nightmare.

  Next to her, Rose shot a look back the way they had come. The door had disappeared into the wall. To find it again would mean clawing along the wood paneling.

  The semi-circle closed more tightly around them, as if they all were waiting for something.

  “What is this, Lady Avis?” Sybille murmured, her words halting and raw. For some reason, her future sister-in-law had tricked them. Avis ignored the question and clapped her hands once.

  As if on cue, a short, bony jester pushed her way through the crowd. “Ah, it’s the famous virgin!” cried the jester, dancing excitedly around Sybille as if she were a long-lost relative. “Her idea of a country diversion?” the performer asked the onlookers. “She had a party where her flower was the excursion! What a glorious perversion!”

  A few bursts of laughter and applause followed the conclusion of the little poem, but Sybille wasn’t thinking of clunky verse … her mind was running over what she knew about life at court. Didn’t the jester perform only for the queen? And if the jester was here, didn’t that mean … ?

  Oh no.

  A strong, loud voice rang out, “We do enjoy a fool, but not when we are made to play the part.”


  The beautiful faces turned and several people called, “Your Highness.”

  Sybille was stunned. Queen Elizabeth. Here. Now. Rose was equally frozen. They couldn’t meet the queen of England like this. Not in their condition—with wild, sticky hair and muddy, drenched clothes. They would never recover.

  But it seemed they wouldn’t have a choice. A tall figure with flowing red hair and resplendent in a jeweled gown tottered through the aisle made by the onlookers who bowed and curtsied as she passed.

  “Our eternal love for our people extends only to the people,” the queen said in a strange, high-pitched voice. “We do not invite common beasts who do not meet the definition of ‘people’ into our court.” She stopped several feet in front of Rose and Sybille. Her blond eyebrows went up expectantly and, while the others watched, the two girls sunk into deep curtsies.

  Sybille had heard that the queen showed the strength and the determination of a man, but Sybille didn’t know she would be so manly. There appeared to be actual whiskers poking through the thick powder on her face. “Who are these creatures?” she demanded, and the jester leaned over and whispered in her ear. The queen nodded and shot a look at Sybille.

  “So this is the famous maiden of Gordonsrod, is that correct?”

  Sybille stammered, “Your Highness … I … ”

  “Is that correct!”

  “Yes—I—I—”

  “I am the only virgin in England who matters,” the queen intoned as if she were making law. “Let that thought and that thought alone penetrate and probe you. I will … ”

  Avis giggled and clapped a hand to her mouth.