The withdrawing chamber was vast, with a dividing screen down the middle that they now darted behind. As they reached the corner of the room, where one of the tapestries overhung a small door in the wall, someone stepped into the room through the main archway. They crept forward on their toes, clearly not wishing to be seen or heard.
“Who is —” Before Emlyn could say any more, Gwynnie pushed her mother through the door. She stumbled into the corridor beyond as Gwynnie shoved the wooden pail in after her. She quickly turned back, hiding behind the tapestry as she strained to get a glimpse of the newcomer. A man moved toward the fireplace they had just left, the toe of his boot brushing the stone as if inspecting it for dust. He huffed under his breath and looked around, his eyes narrowed.
He was well dressed, in a rich black doublet that wasn’t overly embroidered. His breeches were tucked tightly around the tops of his legs, and his long boots showed signs of water from the puddles outside.
Gwynnie suppressed a gasp. It was Renard.
When another set of footsteps crossed the tiles, Gwynnie lowered the tapestry and ducked back through the doorway, her ears straining to hear their conversation.
“Well?” an all-too-familiar voice asked. “Have you found her yet?”
“I do not know.” Renard’s voice was quiet in comparison to the shrill tones of Henry Fitzroy.
“You said you could find her. Renard, if we do not find her —”
“Patience, Your Grace. If Pascal and Tombstone have come to question those two maids, then there has to be a reason for it.”
“You think a maid is a jewellery thief? Pah! Like they would have the wherewithal for such a thing.”
Gwynnie glanced back at her mother in the shadowy corridor. Emlyn raised a single eyebrow, clearly irked at the criticism.
“You and I saw the same thing,” Renard said. “The person that climbed out of your window last night was a woman. You know it, as do I.”
“But a maid?”
“Anyone is capable of anything, Your Grace. I would have thought you of all people would have known that.”
Renard’s words made Gwynnie step back. Indeed, who would have thought the son of the king would be a murderer? He was so young, so fair of face and innocent in his appearance. She still remembered the heavy tears and despairing expression before he had wrapped his long fingers around Florian’s throat.
Anyone was capable of anything, when given the right push.
Gwynnie took her mother’s arm and urged her down the corridor.
“Was that them?” Emlyn whispered, when they were far enough away not to be heard.
“No. It was pups barking adorably.”
“By this light, Gwynnie, you never say anything serious.”
“Well, how about this, Ma.” Gwynnie’s hand tightened on her mother’s arm. “If Renard is hoping to discover who witnessed Florian’s murder last night by watching Tombstone and Pascal’s movements, then we need to make sure they do not realise that I was the one in Fitzroy’s chambers.”
CHAPTER 7
“You’re injured. You need to rest,” said Emlyn.
“I do not have time to rest, Ma.” Gwynnie lifted the trug of sheets, her nose wrinkling at the stench as she crossed the orchard toward the outer walls of the palace, ready to do the laundry. “Were you not the one who said we have to continue our act as maids? I’m beginning to realise why we ended up as cutpurses in the first place.” She dropped the trug and reached for her back, which still ached from her fall, trying to stretch it out. “Any other task would be preferable to this.”
As she bent down to retrieve the trug, pain radiated up her spine and she yelped.
“That’s quite enough. You need to rest.” Emlyn took Gwynnie’s arm and steered her toward the servants’ quarters and their own chamber. Gwynnie didn’t argue.
Inside, the corridor was busy with servants going about their tasks. As they passed by, Gwynnie caught snatches of whispered conversation.
“What thief would kill too?” one maid whispered to another as they carried baskets of vegetables down the corridor, heading to the kitchens. There were onions and cabbages piled high, along with bunches of parsley and rosemary that had been tied with string. “They must have been desperate.”
“I hear they were a killer already,” the other maid said. “Murderer. When judgement day comes, they’ll burn in the fires of hell. That’s what my mother says.”
Gwynnie’s head spun toward her mother. Emlyn avoided her gaze as they climbed the spiral staircase.
“What she said —”
“Not now, Gwynnie.”
“But … do you think it’s true?”
“It depends whether you’re asking a Catholic or a Reformer. They all have their beliefs, and one should run for the hills if you have the wrong beliefs these days.” Emlyn laughed, as if the idea of any religion at all was baffling to her. When she reached the top of the staircase, Gwynnie pulled on her arm.
“But do you think there’s any truth in it? About the burning?” Gwynnie felt sick as she stared at her mother.
Emlyn stared back, a sudden tightness around her lips. “No, I do not.”
“You mean you pray it is not true? After what you did…”
Emlyn took Gwynnie’s shoulder and steered her toward their chamber. “Today I am just worried about keeping you and me out of the Tower of London. I can worry about the flames of hell another day.” She pushed open the door to their room.
Inside, the chamber was in chaos. Their cot beds were turned over, the straw pillows pulled out of their coverings so loose straw was scattered across the room. Even the rush matting that had once covered the floor was rolled up, cut in places, as if sliced through with a blade. The latticed window had been pushed open and rain entered through the gap, soaking the windowsill and the matting beneath it.
“Ma…”
