Tudor Rose Read online

  Looking at the odd letters and symbols elicited a kind of vibration of recognition in Rose. The mental tickle reminded her of passing a finger over a candle flame. The feeling would gain heat for a split second but then disappear.

  She flipped through a few more pages, thoughts sliding over the symbols, unable to catch hold on the drawings, producing nothing but that now irritating tickle. With a frustrated sigh, Rose turned one more page and—Finally!— saw something she recognized. After all she could see it on any clear night in Gordonsrod, at least during this time of year. It was a view of the winter stars that swirled overhead.

  At the bottom of the page, taking up about a tenth of the space, was a semi-circle. Sitting on its highest point sat a simple drawing of a cathedral and on top of that was a more elaborate illustration of a crown. A solid line rose from the cathedral, up through the crown, into the heavens where it connected the stars and planets above—but not in the shape of a constellation, or at least not any of the ones Rose’s father had pointed out to her. This was simply a straight line that bound stars and planets together.

  The line had been thickened repeatedly until it had become something like an exclamation point, as if it were shouting on the page, “Look at this! It’s very important!”

  But what was important about it? The stars? The building? The crown? All three? The only cathedral Rose had really heard about was Westminster Abbey where the celebration of the queen was to begin later today. Did the line indicate an alignment of the stars over the cathedral? Perhaps the bizarre symbols near the drawing of the crown represented today’s date, January 15?

  Oh, who the hell knew?

  Shouting coming from the alley snapped Rose out of her thoughts. Almost happy for the distraction, she froze and listened. A man pulling a rattling cart prevented her from hearing much else for a moment, but once it had passed, she heard the shouting again. Did that sound like Robert?

  Not giving herself a second to hesitate, Rose shoved the book back into her purse and rushed to the alleyway’s dark entrance. Before she let fear push her back again, she plunged into the gloom. Even in the daytime, rats were scurrying around in the narrow passage and the smell of garbage and human waste was almost unbearable.

  Gulping in the fresh air, she emerged into the light on the other side and found herself on a long, open strip of abandoned property—it might have once been a wharf—along the Thames River. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pack of boys rushed past her, coming close enough so that she could smell their sweat. Too surprised to scream, Rose staggered back and nearly fell.

  “Get that git!” one of the boys cried, and another shouted, “Kill ’im!”

  The calls were friendly, and she could see it was just a game of no rules football—which she knew to be a bloody sport with a field that could stretch for a mile or more. The boys seemed to revel in it, throwing their heads back and baying like wolves as they dodged and sprinted and tackled each other. Rose had to admit it did look like fun.

  A young man with torn clothes and a dirty face was chasing a larger, crate-shaped boy who was clutching the ball against his chest. The one with the dirty-face jabbed out his elbow and caught the larger boy in the nose. Bright blood spurted in a stream of red. The boy stumbled, but held onto the ball. He reached down to grab a broken broom handle with one hand and began swinging it wildly at the other boy’s head.

  Now Rose knew why this sport had been banned by nearly every monarch for the last century or so. As the name stated there were no rules.

  The dirty-faced boy took a blow to the legs, but managed to pry the ball free from his opponent, running toward Rose. As he sprinted closer, she could see that what she thought was dirt was actually peach fuzz. “Robert!” she shouted.

  Sybille’s brother saw Rose and, like a disobedient child running from his scolding mother, changed course heading closer to the river to avoid her.

  “Come here right now, Robert!” Rose commanded.

  “Robert! Robert!” The other boys mocked him in a high-pitched voice, all the while chasing him. Robert turned his head to shout something obscene at them as his body carried him directly into a lamppost. His head snapped around from the impact and bounced hard off the pole. His legs collapsed and he crumpled to the ground, losing consciousness.

  The other players laughed, and, after a skinny boy greedily scooped up the ball, they kept playing. Only one boy bothered to stop to see if Robert was all right, leaning over him as Rose hurried their way. The boy’s pants had been torn in the action and his back was to Rose. One perfect, muscular butt cheek poked out at her; it had a slight dusting of downy hair, like a perfect melon.

  She felt a rush of blood to her cheeks, and her two fingers flew to cover her birthmark under her lip.

  “Howell Digby?”

  The boy standing over Robert turned. It was Howell. A smile lit his face when he recognized her. “Hello, Rose. So you’re in London, are you?”

  “Howell Digby!” she repeated, nearly hysterical to see a friendly face from home—especially his face! They were in London, not Gordonsrod. Now was the time to start fresh with him.

  He was looking over her shoulder as if searching for someone else. She steeled herself, knowing what the next words out of his mouth would be.

  “Is Sybille here?” he asked. “How is she?” Nothing had changed.

  I’m fine, thanks for asking.

  “Wonderful,” she said and then, unable to resist the jab, added, “She’s back at the palace preparing for her wedding. I’ll see if I can get you an invitation.”

  “No.” Howell gazed down, crestfallen. “No, that’s not something that I’d like to see.”

  Stop being a witch, Rose told herself, and shifted her attention back to Robert who was still out cold. “How’s he look?”

  “Oh, him?” Howell crouched and patted Robert’s still face. “You know—not the brightest flame in the candelabra to start so I don’t think any damage will even be noticeable.”

  To be closer to Howell, she kneeled on the other side of Robert and touched his forehead. A bump was forming near the ear that his father had cut as punishment. He looked a mess. He must have been out all night, carousing and playing these ridiculous games.

  Howell assured her, “Not to worry, Petal, he’ll come out of it.”

  The nickname brought heat to her face. “How are your studies?” she asked, just for something to say.

  “My teachers—the monks—they’re all wondering if they’ll soon lose their livelihoods. Rumors say Elizabeth might close down the monasteries like her brother did.”

  “Oh, I hope not.” Rose said, not because she really cared about religion but because she didn’t want Howell to leave London.

  “Me, too. But the monks’ focus on higher matters gives me some time free from Richmond Priory, and the chance to raise hell with these ruffians.” He gave a friendly cuff to the back of a player’s head as the group of boys ran by again.

  “So you’re at school in the Richmond Priory?” Rose asked hopefully.

  “Yes, right next to Richmond Palace. It took some doing, but I was able to switch from Westminster to there.”

  “Why did you switch schools?” But she knew the answer even as she spoke. “Because Sybille is at Richmond.”

  Howell shrugged. “But who knows how long I’ll be there. Queen Elizabeth is bound to shut down the monasteries again in a month or two. If I want to stay I’ll have to become a Protestant.”

  “You’d change how you worship God for Sybille?”

  “Sybille is my God,” he said simply.

  Rose wanted to shake him. This was too much! When was he going to wake up and see that Sybille would never love a poor monk? “For pity’s sake, Howell!” She raised her hands in frustration.

  “Are you going to slap him, too?” a voice called.

  She turned to find the bearded boy from the fountain strutting their way. She stood quickly and moved behind Ho
well, who was also suddenly on his feet.

  “And here I thought I was special,” the young man said with that same arrogant smile.

  “Call the constable, Howell,” Rose ordered—even in her sudden fear, she was grateful for the opportunity to press against Howell’s hard back.

  Pulling her back around next to him, Howell said through clenched teeth. “Rose, this is Lord Northwood.”

  “What?” she asked, her mind trying to connect what she knew of him—consorting with drunks and playing illegal games—with his position. An earl was about the highest level of nobility—other than the royal family.

  “Lord Northwood, this is Rose Castletown.” Howell finished the introduction and made a twirling motion with his hands. He wanted her to curtsy or bow or something. But Rose suddenly felt distracted, paralyzed by all the things she should be doing.

  Lord Northwood waited, too, and then as if intrigued by her lack of respect took a more flirtatious air. “Please call me Fulke,” he said. “While I love a good game of football, I prefer a different kind of contact.”

  Rose felt a slight shudder of dislike run through her. Lord Northwood didn’t have a scratch on him. Almost as if the others in the game were too scared to actually tackle him. He seemed like the type who’d always been allowed to win—never aware he owed his victories to the fears of others.

  “Gone swimming in any good fountains lately?” Fulke asked with slick charm.

  When Rose was nervous or scared and alone, she often felt a little bit of Sybille rise up inside her. “No,” she fired back at the earl. “I find the waters a bit too full of slippery things for my taste.”

  “Rose …,” Howell warned.

  Anger, then something else sparked in Fulke’s eyes. He seemed to like that she didn’t give him his way.

  “Not to worry, my friend,” Fulke chuckled giving Howell a swat on the shoulder. Then to Rose, “Should I escort you back to Richmond Palace before I attend her majesty’s anniversary celebration? That is where you are staying, isn’t it?”

  How did he know that? When she didn’t respond, Howell gave her a look that clearly said, Rose, you can’t afford to make him an enemy.

  He was right, of course. Fulke was an earl, after all. She thought again of Sybille’s plan of making allies and gathering information. What better place to start than this young, powerful man?

  But she shook her head. “I can’t go back without Robert. He knows where are all of our things are, and the carriage and the horses.”

  “There’re two more hurt players just past the pier.” Howell pointed down the river. “With so many injuries, the constable’ll be along to break up the match. You really should go, Rose. I’ll stay here with Robert until he wakes up.”

  Rose wanted to stay with Howell, but she supposed she didn’t have a choice. “Will you have him bring the carriage and our bags around to Richmond Palace?”

  Howell nodded.

  “Don’t leave him,” she insisted, stalling for just one more moment with him.

  He smiled, already crouching back next to Robert. “I won’t take my eyes off him.”

  “Too bad for you, Digby,” Fulke oozed, his gaze traveling up and down Rose’s body. “My eyes have found a much more pleasurable target.”

  Before Rose could protest, Howell prodded, “Off you go,” and shooed them both toward the alley.

  “It’s a shop up here somewhere,” Valentyne Scarcliff said, his deep voice echoing off the nearby ramshackle buildings. “It sells the perfect flowers to throw at the feet of Queen Elizabeth.”

  Strolling along next to him, his sister Avis narrowly avoided stepping in a pile of—well, she didn’t even want to think of what it could be—and asked, “Why didn’t you just send Gil?” She didn’t like coming to this part of London. It was beneath them.

  Valentyne chuckled patiently. “As I told you, I like to attend to these things myself.”

  Avis loved her brother. Valentyne was a tall, handsome, strapping creature—and she knew they made quite a gorgeous pair in the palace and on the streets of London.

  But Avis wasn’t an idiot. She was quite aware of the real reason for this outing: Valentyne didn’t care about flowers—he was hoping to catch a glimpse of the shirtless boys romping about in the mud in their weekly game of football down by the Thames. Dragging her along was just part of his disguise.

  Yes, Valentyne was one of the most masculine of young men in the palace, but his eye for the boys could have him sent to the gallows.

  They finally arrived at the flower shop’s dismal storefront and Valentyne reached for the door. “Coming in?”

  Avis shook her head. “No, all that perfume makes my head ache.” It was true. Smell was the most powerful of Avis’s senses—and her over-sensitive nose was often too quick and eager to pick up and retain even lesser odors. Scents of a flower shop might linger for days.

  Nodding, Valentyne said, “I’m just going to duck in here. Then, before going to the queen’s celebration, we can take a walk together along the river. Just like when we were children.”

  Except as children we weren’t in this stinking part of town and we weren’t both ogling half-naked young men, Avis thought. But she said, “Of course, darling. Whatever you want.”

  He tipped his hat to her and went into the shop. Avis was now alone, something she didn’t handle very well. She liked to be in constant motion. When on her own Avis felt twitchy and a little anxious, as if she were wasting time that could be spent maneuvering others.

  So, when Avis’s attention was drawn to the end of the street by the sound of hurrying footsteps, she was glad to see her friend Dorothie and her maid rushing toward her—even though it was clear they were coming with bad news.

  By the time she reached Avis, Dorothie was so out of breath she couldn’t speak. Then again, as Dorothie had proved last night when she played the jester, her friend did have a flair for the dramatic.

  Taking Dorothie by the shoulders, Avis said, “Heavens. What is it?”

  Between wheezes, Dorothie said, “Your sister. Lady Agnes. She is … ” Her words trailed off and she put the back of one hand to her forehead.

  “What? She is what?” This was getting silly. Just say it, you twit.

  When Dorothie didn’t respond, her maid said, “She’s dying.” Dorothie gave her an angry look as if another actor had just stolen her line.

  “Dying?” Avis breathed. Agnes was dying?

  Not her beautiful sister. That couldn’t be possible. Agnes was forever getting sick and recovering. Surely she would emerge from danger in a few hours. She always did.

  Besides, she wouldn’t doubt if this was all Sybille Maydestone’s doing. She had probably made up the symptoms and sounded the alarm in an attempt to spoil Avis’s day. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to allow that.

  “Thank you, Dorothie, you can go,” Avis said.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” Dorothie nearly begged.

  Now it was clear to Avis. Dorothie was hoping to turn this “tragedy” into a moment that would strengthen their friendship and increase her own power at the palace.

  “Oh, yes,” Avis assured her. “My brother and I will be at her side shortly.” After the queen’s celebration.

  “I see,” Dorothie said, meeting her eyes. And she did seem to understand. Maybe she really was a good friend.

  “Now go, please,” Avis said. “I don’t want Valentyne to hear the news from anyone else. I will tell him myself and we’ll follow.”

  Dorothie nodded and rushed off with her maid.

  Seconds later, Valentyne came out of the shop carrying a bouquet of red roses.

  For a moment, Avis considered telling him about Agnes, then decided against it. He’d just make a fuss and insist they miss the celebrations.

  If she appeared flustered by the quick encounter with Dorothie, Valentyne was too eager to watch the boys to notice. “Ready for that walk along the Thame
s?”

  She beamed, taking his arm. “Yes, my handsome brother. Let’s go.”

  As they headed off toward the river, a figure emerged from the shadows of an alley about a hundred feet ahead of them. Avis couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Fulke! Her heart leapt—now was her chance!

  Holding out his hand, Fulke turned back to help a girl—some tart, Avis imagined, certainly not a real threat—step over a puddle.

  Then the girl walked into the sunlight, and Avis recognized her.

  The couple moved in the other direction and disappeared around a corner.

  “Who was that with Fulke?” Valentyne asked. Then added without much emotion, “Stunning girl. Absolutely stunning.”

  Without thinking about it, Avis hand sunk her nails into the skin of her brother’s hand. “Darling!” Valentyne shouted, pulling his arm free of hers. “What are you doing?”

  Beyond a mumbled apology, Avis was unable to speak. She was too busy considering all the ways she was going to destroy Rose Castletown’s life.

  Lady Agnes died that afternoon, and she didn’t go gently. Her body was racked with fits of pain as she coughed out dirty bubbles of spit.

  Most of the palace staff steered clear of the room, fearing it might be the sweats or the plague. Rose knew better, though. Her mother had died of the plague—and Agnes had none of the signs.

  Only Sybille, Rose, and Agnes’s maid Hester, were with her as she thrashed and convulsed. The girls had begged Avis’s friend Dorothie to let the Scarcliffs know or to send a physician. Later they found a guard and requested a priest who could perform last rites—but still no one came. Everyone was attending the queen’s celebrations. It seemed the entire world had disappeared.

  So the girls soothed Agnes and held her hand. They wiped her forehead with damp cloths, whispered prayers in her ear, and sang softly. This went on for hours. Then, with one last spasm, she just slipped away. Her body went limp and finally came to rest.