Beside Gwynnie, Tombstone bristled at the king’s words.
The king walked away, leaving the crowd of gentlemen gossiping and pointing at the retreating figure. Cromwell bent down over the body, sweeping his long grey cloak behind him.
Gwynnie had heard much about Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex and Lord Privy Seal to the King. Though she had heard people whispering about a man of great power, she saw only a man of slight stature with a rounded belly visible against his grey robes. His dark hair peeked out beneath his black cap, trembling in the cold breeze. He said nothing, his manner quiet and careful as his eyes darted over the body.
Gwynnie crept forward, wishing for another look at Florian. Her eyes fixed on the shoes and the shards of glass pressed into the soles. As far as she could see, it was the only hint that something more was amiss. To any casual observer, Florian could have been attacked here in the courtyard and left for dead.
“Take care.” A hand took Gwynnie’s elbow once more. She turned to see the tall figure of Tombstone, who had not moved from her side. “The stench is enough to make a man fall.”
“And you think the sight would be enough to make a woman swoon?” Gwynnie asked.
“What is your interest here?” Tombstone lowered his voice, stepping closer to her.
“A man has died. Nothing remotely interesting in that, is there?” she said wryly, yet Tombstone didn’t seem to understand her irony. The coppery threads of his brows drew closer together.
“Tombstone?” Cromwell called his name again as he stood from the body. Tombstone walked around Gwynnie, moving to the other side of Florian and talking to Cromwell in hushed tones.
Gwynnie did not know how long she stood there, staring at the immovable figure of Florian. She lost track of what the gossiping crowds were saying around her. She thought only of Florian and the way she had thrust her hands into the centre of his chest the night before, trying to rouse him.
Eventually, men started to walk away, but Gwynnie continued to stand at his side, her stare only broken when someone threw a discarded cloak over the body, masking from view the blood and the pale face with the slackened jaw.
“Gwynnie?” Emlyn took hold of Gwynnie’s arm. “Come away.”
“This is wrong,” Gwynnie whispered as Emlyn drew her aside.
“What is?”
“I mean, they have dumped his body,” Gwynnie hissed. “They’ve disguised the bruising.” She raised a hand to her throat, rubbing the spots where she had seen the bruises on Florian’s neck. “They’re covering it up.”
“Keep your voice down.” Emlyn tugged her into the corner of the courtyard.
Gwynnie breathed deeply. “Henry Fitzroy will never face punishment for what he has done,” she said. “Ma, that is not right.”
“And who will you tell? Hmm? Remember what I said.” Emlyn thrust one of the wooden pails of firewood back into her hands. When the steward for the household proper walked past, she forced a smile and wrapped an arm around Gwynnie’s shoulder. “If you breathe a word of it,” she whispered, her lips close to Gwynnie’s ear, “they will try to silence you.”
Gwynnie felt a shiver run down her spine.
“No one can know what you saw,” Emlyn continued, drawing her back toward the archway. “It is done, Gwynnie.”
“Done?” Gwynnie turned to stare at her mother. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean there is nothing we can do.” Once more Emlyn looked around them, clearly fearful of being overheard. “Trust me when I say that staying quiet is for the best.”
“But…” Words failed Gwynnie. It was contradictory to everything she had ever been taught by Emlyn. When it came to bloodshed, someone had to serve justice.
“Is that what you did? When you saw a murder?” Gwynnie whispered.
Emlyn flushed. They both knew which murder Gwynnie was speaking of. Emlyn stepped toward her, her dark hair escaping her coif now tangled by the wind.
“I am protecting you, miting. You may not like it, but justice cannot always be served.” She took Gwynnie’s arm, making their wooden pails clatter together. “Now, come. We must return to our duties.”
They walked through the archway toward the great hall. Feeling numb, Gwynnie tried to persuade herself that her mother was right. For the sake of her own life, she would have to stay hidden and silent.
“What if we are blamed for this?” Gwynnie asked, a new fear taking over. “I have already overhead one man say it must be the Shadow Cutpurses’ doing.”
“They haven’t found us yet.” Emlyn’s strained voice faltered as a woman in a green gown ran past them.
“No! No!” the woman screeched as she sprinted through the icy puddles. “Tell me it is not him. Tell me!”
“Who is that?” Emlyn whispered, pulling Gwynnie out of the anguished woman’s path.
She was barely dressed, and her black hair trailed behind her, without a hood or a bongrace to cover it. Her gown hung loose at the front as she flung herself into the courtyard, pushing past the men in her effort to reach the body.
“Let me see him — please, let me see,” she pleaded desperately.
“Mistress Battersby.” Tombstone emerged from the crowd and reached for her, taking her shoulders in a gentle grip. “Do not come any closer. You do not wish to see this.”
“By this light, I shall see my husband. Let me through.” She wrenched free of Tombstone’s hands and ran around him.
Gwynnie could no longer see the lady as she reached Florian, but the strangled cry that erupted was enough to make Gwynnie flinch. Emlyn took her arm and gently pulled her away, through the inner courtyard. Gwynnie glanced back and saw Tombstone doing his best to console Mistress Battersby.
Woodenly, Gwynnie allowed her mother to steer her through the nearest door and down a corridor. They reached the great hall, the vast fireplace that stood at the edge of the chamber unlit. This room, usually full of people in this weather, was empty. Every soul was outside, trying to catch a glimpse of Florian.
Emlyn dropped to her knees and attended to the fire, throwing wood from her pail into the grate.
Gwynnie stared into space as she thought about Mistress Battersby’s scream. It had sounded unearthly, her pain no doubt as great as Emlyn’s on the day that she had lost her own husband.
“Gwynnie?”
