Tudor Rose Page 4

  The queen shot her a look. “I will not be—” Her mouth twisted like she was trying not to cough. And then she laughed. The room was transformed as the others joined in. Booming hilarity filled the space.

  “Avis, you witch!” the queen said, her voice descending to a deep baritone.

  Laughter exploded as the queen reached up and pulled off her red wig. She snapped her fingers and two footmen rushed forward to untie the dress, pulling it down to the ground. A handsome young man stepped out. This wasn’t the queen. It was all a joke, a cruel joke.

  “You led them in too soon! I barely had time to prepare,” the blond-haired man said. “Still I was doing so well before you went and ruined it with your girlish twitters.”

  “Maybe a little too well,” Avis responded. “You’re going to put all our necks on the chopping block, Valentyne.” She was joking, but several people stopped laughing—including the jester—and backed away. Losing your head was a very real possibility in these times, and the game had gone beyond drunken fun and a little too deep into treasonous territory. The jester pulled off her hat and cape, revealing long brown locks and a bird-like figure.

  Sybille hadn’t moved. “Valentyne?” she tried to say his name but her voice wouldn’t work. She cleared her throat and whispered, “Valentyne?”

  “Yes,” he said, not bothering with any courtly witticism, and adjusted himself rudely. He was a tall, beefy male version of Avis and even had the same bump on his nose.

  “It’s me … Sybille.” When Valentyne didn’t respond with anything but an arched brow, she took a pleading half-step toward him. “It’s Sybille Maydestone. Your betrothed.”

  “Yes,” he repeated. He strode over to a group of boys saying to his sister, “Avis, this really was too much. Next time you hatch such a scheme, I demand more than five minutes to ready myself.”

  Sybille felt like she was drowning. This was worse than if the queen had been present. The man she was to marry had been part of some awful game targeted at her. Her fantasies had been so wrong about their first meeting. Where was the magic moment of a lovers’ swoon? “I agree with my husband-to-be,” Sybille finally managed, turning her attention to Avis. “This was too much, sister. You planned all of this? You’ve been waiting to spring this on me for days? Where are your parents?”

  Avis smirked. “All of our parents are off at Westminster Palace with Queen Elizabeth. Our mothers and fathers are important courtiers in the queen’s court, and it’s only natural they should be with her as the anniversary of her coronation approaches.”

  “No chaperone?” Sybille asked.

  “Why?” Avis purred. “Do you have a complaint to lodge already? Please toddle over and tell it to him.” She pointed to an old man slumped in a chair in the corner, snoring. Someone had put the jester hat on his head. “He’s our chaperone.”

  Sybille realized he would be no help.

  Seeming to have rediscovered the party spirit, the semi-circle tightened again around Sybille and Rose. “You promised us entertainment, Avis,” a boy slurred drunkenly.

  “What else do they do?” the girl who had played the jester asked.

  Avis smiled. “Dorothie, just ask them about their fascinating lives!”

  The crowd began throwing questions at Sybille and Rose like daggers.

  “Doesn’t your pa raise hogs?”

  “Is he aware that he should be looking for two escapees?”

  “Is that where you picked up your fashion sense?”

  On and on and on. Tears of anger rolling down her cheeks, Sybille felt like a wild horse that’d been broken, cowering, waiting for the whipping to end. She was supposed to be a part of them not an object of ridicule. When the girls didn’t respond to any of the questions, Avis sighed, as if a pet were refusing to perform desired tricks.

  “Well, this is boring,” she announced.

  “Yes,” Rose agreed. She took Sybille by the arm and walked over to the sleeping chaperone to shake him awake. He came out of it slowly, watery eyes blinking up at her. “Take us to our room,” Rose said.

  Blearily he asked, “Room?” Then he shouted “Room!” and fell back asleep.

  More laughter from the others. Clutching her stomach as if this had been the height of hilarity, Avis called to another footman. “Very well. Take them to my sister’s apartment. Use the far door.”

  As the doe-eyed footman guided them to the door a hundred feet away, Avis called, “Musicians, if you please.”

  Now with each squishing step their wet shoes took on the marble floor, the musicians played a discordant note that echoed obscenely in the room. A torrent of laughter shoved the girls out of the door as if they were fish being tossed along by waves of humiliation. Rose and Sybille locked hands, but remained silent. What was there to say?

  Richmond Palace—their new home—was a den of vipers.

  THREE

  The next morning, Avis Scarcliff woke with a smile on her face, and stretched like a cat in a sunbeam. What a wonderful evening!

  Even the wine had proven to be an agreeable ally, leaving no headache and allowing her to relive memories of last night with savory enjoyment.

  Sighing happily, Avis rolled over to find her breakfast tray too far away on the bedside table. She couldn’t reach it from where she lay. Unacceptable.

  “Maggie,” she called to her maid, who was sewing by the window. The dark, mousy girl’s head shot up. Avis had to admit she liked the fear she saw in her maid’s eyes. “I can’t reach my breakfast.”

  Avis held out her hand an inch as evidence that she was being inconvenienced terribly. Forced to put down her sewing, her maid rushed to slide the tray—heaped with beef and ham—closer to her mistress.

  Let the others have their weak beer and stale bread for their breakfast. Avis preferred hardier fare, especially on an important day like today. This afternoon was the queen’s coronation anniversary. All the nobility would gather at Westminster Abbey to watch the bishop give a second blessing to the crown on Elizabeth’s head.

  “Did you cut the meat as I instructed, Maggie?” Avis asked. Her maid nodded, bowed slightly, and went back to her sewing.

  Now the morning is perfect, Avis thought, popping a piece of the ham in her mouth and biting down hard. Things—and people—came to Avis. She didn’t go to them.

  Well, almost everyone came to her, she admitted to herself. The one person she really wanted to lure, the one she wanted so desperately between her sheets, continued to refuse her advances.

  Lord Northwood.

  She felt heat spread across her lower belly just at the thought of the dark-haired, green-eyed aristocrat.

  Of her circle of friends, he was the most powerful … and the most delicious. Fulke Northwood was only seventeen, but thanks to his title of earl and his charm, he could move easily between Avis’s group of companions and the queen’s court. Fulke had everything—land, wealth, looks, family name—and that made him the perfect companion for her.

  But her chances of landing the earl could be seriously jeopardized by having the likes of Sybille Maydestone as a sister-in-law. While it bored Avis to hear the details, she knew her own family was in desperate need of money. Of course she understood the cost of the upkeep of their various estates, the employment of countless servants, and the entertaining of a never-ending parade of noble guests was simply obscene. The Scarcliffs were sinking further into debt. But why did their money woes need to be fixed by the dowry of that filthy doxie Sybille and her bumpkin family?

  My papa is involved in husbandry.

  Oh please, Avis thought remembering how Sybille had prattled on. What a monumental joke. The pigshit her father slopped every day had apparently filled his daughter to the brim.

  Fulke would never wed Avis if he knew he was marrying into a family that accepted such monstrous peasantry. That was why it was so important that Avis crush Sybille Maydestone. There was the chance that Sybille’s constant humiliation
in the palace would force Avis’s parents to rethink the wedding to her brother—or, better yet, that it would drive the country witch back to her disgusting little—

  A piece of beef lodged in her throat, and she coughed it up. “Too big,” Avis gasped angrily. “Cut it into smaller pieces, you foolish girl!”

  Without looking up, Maggie mumbled something and continued her sewing.

  Soothing herself, Avis turned back to memories of last night. She was just glad that Sybille had arrived when the court was away with the queen at Westminster Palace, giving Avis the opportunity to deal with events as she saw fit.

  As a child, Avis would have insisted on going along to Westminster. She might have even thrown a tantrum or two when told she couldn’t go. With nearly a thousand people in the queen’s court, there wasn’t always room for the entire Scarcliff clan to travel with the monarch—even if her father was a favorite of the queen.

  Now, of course, at seventeen Avis didn’t mind the second-best alternative: remaining in Richmond Palace. With the queen, the older adults, and the most powerful servants away, she had the run of the place. Like last night.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed as if tasting the memory of Sybille and Rose curtseying to Valentyne!

  And things had gotten even better after they fled the great hall. Maggie had arrived to report that Sybille and Rose wanted to stay in a vacant apartment—instead of in her sister Agnes’s room. Avis had said no, of course. Who did they think they were? They would stay in Agnes’s room on the pallets in the corner like the servants they were.

  As Avis sighed again, one of her sister’s maids, Hester, entered the room and waited for Avis to acknowledge her before speaking. “Lady Agnes has not moved or awakened, Lady Avis. I wasn’t able to tell her of your plans for attending the coronation celebration.”

  Avis sighed, waving Hester away. “Oh, best to let her sleep. Her new servants will care for her.”

  Her poor sister. Agnes had a kind heart and would have welcomed Sybille Maydestone warmly, while trying to convince Avis that it was only right that they make her feel like part of the family.

  But Agnes had been confined with illness to her room—one that was far bigger than Avis’s—for the past three days. Avis wasn’t too concerned. Her sister was always getting sick and recovering. But this time she had missed the queen’s parade through London and now she was going to miss the queen’s celebrations as well.

  The celebrations! Avis’s mind began running through her most enticing gowns. She was certain she’d encounter Fulke Northwood at one of the parties.

  “Maggie, I’m ready to get up,” she announced, waiting impatiently for her maid to pull back her blankets.

  Yes, last night had been incredible, but today promised to be even better.

  Just as Hester had said, Lady Agnes had not moved all morning, except to weakly thrash her legs and moan in her sleep. Her blond hair was matted with sweat that soaked through the down pillow. Her face was pale and waxy, but still beautiful. She was the only Scarcliff child fortunate enough to escape the womb without that telltale bump on her nose.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Rose was mopping Lady Agnes’s brow with a cool cloth when the gray-haired, flustered maid arrived, carrying an empty chamber pot. She thrust it at Rose and announced, “Your lady’s toilet.”

  “Oh.” Rose took the pot automatically, and started to tuck it under Agnes’s bed.

  “Ack,” the old woman said. “No, not her. Your lady.” She jerked a gnarled thumb at Sybille who was sitting by the fire, finishing the weak beer and bread with butter that Rose had managed to scrounge for them in the kitchen.

  “No,” Rose chuckled. “I’m not her servant.”

  “But you are, Rose,” Sybille said, the fire reflecting in her eyes. “Remember?”

  The old woman shrugged and left. Rose, however, was rooted to the floor. It was one thing to know in your head that you were a servant, but quite another to hear it out loud from a stranger.

  “Sorry,” Sybille said, watching Rose. “It’s true.”

  Actually, Rose doubted that Sybille was sorry at all. Clearly still stinging with the humiliation of last night’s ambush, Sybille would be feeling as if she’d been pushed into a hole with the lowest of the low. Rose knew she would try climbing out of that hole by stepping on whomever she could … and why not begin with Rose?

  But Sybille must have seen that Rose was upset. “Just until I get married,” she offered. “I’ll have that Avis Scarcliff as my maid before the end, not to worry.”

  Without speaking, Rose crossed the room and placed the chamber pot at the feet of Sybille, who said, “Let me guess, you doubt it?”

  “Lady Avis is a monster.” Rose shrugged. “You’d need several knights behind you to take her down.”

  Shaking her head, Sybille put down her empty cup. “She’s not a monster. Just a girl with power. But what is the ultimate power here?”

  “In the palace, you mean?”

  “Anywhere, Rose.”

  “The top power is the queen.”

  “And why did we fail last night?”

  “Because we looked like two rats drowned in wine and rolled in mud?”

  “No, think harder.”

  This lofty way of talking irritated Rose. “Sybille, you may be my mistress but you’re not my tutor,” she snapped. “What are you trying to say?”

  Sybille pulled her friend down into the chair opposite from hers. “We failed last night because we don’t know anything about the queen.”

  “You mean because Valentyne tricked—”

  As if the embarrassment and shock were still too painful, Sybille threw up her hands to ward off any more words about her fiancé. “We can’t wait for my father to arrive and set things straight. By then it might be too late—our standing here will be ruined beyond hope. We have to learn as much as we can. Knowledge is power. And when we know enough, when we’re powerful enough, we’ll make Avis pay.”

  This was new, Rose realized. Sybille’s fury could be like a storm, covering everything and everyone indiscriminately. This time, however, she seemed to be focusing her rage on one person: Avis.

  Rose shifted in her still-damp dress—it hadn’t really dried in front of the fire last night and was still uncomfortable. “So what do we do?”

  Sybille’s eyes gleamed. “We make allies, we get information. And quickly.”

  A moan from Lady Agnes brought Rose to her feet. She went back to the bed to check on her. After dipping the cloth in cool water, she wrung it out and continued gently dabbing the poor creature’s forehead.

  “And we can’t sleep in this apartment any longer than we have to,” Sybille called from her chair. “This arrangement is for maids and servants. As long as we’re here that’s all they’ll ever think of us. I’ll work on that.”

  Glancing at the pallet in the corner they had shared last night, Rose asked, “And me? What do I do first, mistress?”

  “We need fresh clothes,” Sybille said, rolling her eyes at the sarcasm. “You locate my idiot brother Robert and get our things.” She stood, crossed the room, and took the cloth from Rose. “Go, go. I’ll see to Lady Agnes.”

  Unsure of what else to do, Rose decided to make her way back to the sea god fountain to look for Robert. While it was a sunny morning, she wasn’t certain if it was safe to be wandering around the city by herself. But there had been no one else in the palace to escort her. All the servants were busily helping their masters finish preparations to attend the queen’s coronation anniversary.

  When Rose arrived at the intersection of the five streets where they had left the carriage, the fountain was empty of people. Water, not wine, spurted out of the sea god’s mouth—as if none of the celebratory madness in the queen’s honor had ever happened. Not surprisingly, the carriage was gone and there was no sign of Robert.

  Rose peered over the side of the fountain, happy to see he wasn’t floating fa
cedown in the pool. She went to the entrance of the alleyway where he’d disappeared with that young tart and gazed into the tunnel. She didn’t know what exactly she expected to see—maybe pieces of the carriage, maybe the girl lurking in the shadows, maybe Robert’s other ear—but the threatening darkness of the tunnel revealed nothing. She didn’t dare step inside.

  Now what? Rose wondered as she backed away. She couldn’t return to the palace empty-handed and possibly trigger Sybille’s rage. As if walking would somehow spark a plan to find Robert and their belongings, Rose wandered back to the fountain. She hoped her stride gave off a confidence she didn’t feel—or was she just an obviously lost lamb for any passing wolf?

  Luckily, the few people she did encounter—two cackling women who meandered by, lost in gossip, and a hunched man who hurried past with a small boy in his arms—didn’t even notice her.

  As Rose circled the fountain, Dr. Dee’s small book banged lightly against her thigh. It had remained in her purse since she’d stuffed it there yesterday and now it jiggled with each step, almost like a creature trying to escape.

  For a moment, she resisted the urge to take it out. Was this a safe spot for her to make another attempt at deciphering its bewildering pages? No, probably not. It was too open and someone could easily sneak up on her.

  Still Rose thought maybe she had earned a small treat of sorts. After all, the last few days had not been the easiest, to say the least, and she had been so obedient following Dr. Dee’s instructions. She had kept the book’s baffling contents a secret and, because she hadn’t yet deciphered the strange writing, she hadn’t tried to contact Dr, Dee this morning—even though she knew he maintained an apartment somewhere in the palace.

  Yes, she decided, I deserve to give into curiosity, and it might even lead to some of the knowledge that Sybille so desperately craves. Rose took a seat on the cold stone of the fountain’s rim, careful to keep her gown from dipping into the water on the other side. With one last look around to see if anyone was watching, Rose removed the diary-sized book from her purse and opened it to a random page of gibberish.