ALSO BY ADELE JORDAN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Map of Greenwich Palace
CHAPTER 1
Greenwich, London,Thursday,20thJanuary1536
“Stick to the shadows, Gwynnie.”
Gwynnie Wightham tutted at her mother’s words. “I know, Ma. In the shadows we are safe. You’ve been telling me that for as long as I can remember.” Pulling the dark navy hood of her cloak over her head, she wrapped the garment around her body, masking the blue kirtle of the servant’s gown she wore underneath.
“Stick to the shadows,” Emlyn muttered again, striding forward down the narrow lane.
Gwynnie raised her head, her eyes fixed on her mother’s back as she realised that Emlyn’s words were meant for herself. Tall and grand in figure, Emlyn’s dark brown hair, twisted into a tight bun, could have been mistaken for black in this darkness. Around her shoulders hung a green cloak that had been mended many times, the patchwork visible, the hem resewn so often that it was now scraggy.
Gwynnie walked across the wet cobbles between the tall buildings of Greenwich Palace. The puddles were shallower here than in some parts of the grounds, yet her boots still sank into the water. The rain had continued for so long that parts of the palace estates were flooded, with the south road cut off completely. Greenwich Palace and its grounds had become an island in the Thames.
“You know what to do.” Emlyn paused at the end of the lane and glanced back at Gwynnie. The warm glow of candlelight escaping from a nearby lead-lined window in the palace fell on Emlyn’s features, revealing pale skin and dark eyes, which now darted about the lane.
Gwynnie nodded, remaining in the shadows as her mother continued down the lane. Where Emlyn had walked carefully before, she now strode with confidence as she approached the door at the base of Donsen Tower. The red-brick tower, visible from the Thames, was tall and domineering against the dark rain clouds scudding across the sky. A yeoman of the guard dressed in red silk robes and carrying a pike stood in the doorway, guarding the entrance to the royal apartments.
Gwynnie pressed herself against the cold brick wall as she watched her mother approach the yeoman. Whatever she said to the man made him smile, and by the time Emlyn laid a hand on his arm, the man was captivated.
The first time Gwynnie had seen her mother charm a man, she had just been a child herself. Emlyn knew how to make a man smile. She also knew how to lift his purse from his belt.
As Emlyn encouraged the yeoman to turn his back to the lane, Gwynnie took her cue. Slowly, she stepped out from the shadows and moved toward the nearest window in the tower. Planting her back to the wall, she shifted a thin metal rod out of her sleeve, balancing the cold metal between her fingertip and thumb.
Soundlessly, she pressed the flattened edge between the window and the frame, reaching for the catch to try and lift it. The window refused to budge, its heavy iron resisting her effort.
Cursing under her breath, Gwynnie raised a hand in the air, a signal she prayed Emlyn would see in the darkness.
A sudden loud laugh permitted Gwynnie to be harsher with the window. Gwynnie allowed herself a small smile. Emlyn knew their signals all too well to mistake this one. Thrusting the rod deeper into the frame, it clunked rather noisily, though the sound was muffled by the laughter. As the catch released, Gwynnie pushed against the window, and this time the glass swung inward.
Gwynnie exhaled, her breath a white cloud in the cold night air. She glanced around, but in the darkness of the winter’s night, no one but Emlyn and the guard were nearby. Bracing her hands against the frame, Gwynnie pulled herself up and through the window, being careful to close it behind her.
Inside, a corridor stretched out, a stark contrast to the cold, wet and dark world she had just left. On King Henry’s orders, the Palace of Placentia had been filled with light and heat. A fireplace at the end of the corridor raged with red flames, and the walls were peppered with burning torches that emitted a warm, buttery light. Gwynnie and her mother had broken into the palace two weeks ago, disguised as maids, to scope out the layout, and she quickly recalled the map of the corridors in her mind. As Gwynnie stepped forward, the heels of her boots tapping on the flagstones, she heard voices approaching.
Gwynnie acted fast. Spotting a coffer, she shrugged off her cloak and stuffed it inside before she straightened her gown, pulling the white coif she wore down over her ears as she attempted to hide as much of her light brown hair as possible.
Three ladies appeared in the corridor, their gowns so grand that even as Gwynnie dropped into a curtsy, her eyes trailed over their fine clothes, the damask and printed skirts of their kirtles glimmering in the torchlight.
Two ladies hurried behind the first, who clutched her slightly rounded stomach as she walked, betraying the fact she was carrying a child.
“Your Highness, all will be well. You need not fear anything,” one of the ladies muttered, her voice so high-pitched it bounced off the stone walls.
“Foolish girl.” The lady at the front spoke with clear derision, her voice inflected with a French accent. “You think any woman in my position is safe? Look at what happened to the last one. Where is she now, I ask you?” The lady abruptly stopped walking and turned to face her ladies-in-waiting. The two skidded to a stop and dropped into deep curtsies.
“I ask you, where is she?” she cried wildly, her anger making her nostrils flare. Her long, skeletal fingers gripped her hips, then brushed the bell-shaped sleeve of her purple gown. “I’ll tell you: she is dead.”
“They say with a black heart,” one of the ladies dared to whisper. “They cut it out of her chest. As black as ash. It is a sign of poison, is it not?”
The fine lady’s dark eyes shot to the younger woman.
“I will not have such words spoken here. You would think I would be dancing, would you not? Singing, performing in a masque, anything to celebrate that I am rid of that woman at last.” She turned and started pacing in a small circle as Gwynnie lifted her head a little higher.
Now, she could see the gold threading in the woman’s French hood and the pearl necklace at her throat, bearing a gold initial, ‘B’, and adorned with three pearls that hung from the bottom curve of the lettering. Gwynnie stifled a gasp. The elegant woman was Queen Anne Boleyn.
One of the ladies dared to speak again, standing from her curtsy. “Your Majesty, Queen Catherine is dead these last two weeks. You can rejoice.”
“Can I?” Anne halted, her hands on her hips. She no longer looked at her ladies but stared out of the nearest window. She didn’t acknowledge Gwynnie’s presence. As a maid, she was as important as the yellow stonework of the wall behind her. “Ghosts linger, Arianna. They walk this earth when they are not rested.”
She turned abruptly from the window, her heels clicking on the flagstones. “Enough of this; I cannot walk these corridors and fear seeing that woman around every corner.” She hastened down the corridor, calling, “Come, to my chambers.”
Voices continued to murmur, yet Gwynnie could no longer hear what they uttered as she stepped away from the wall. She watched the retreating figures and the last flap of the skirt of a farthingale as it disappeared up a staircase.
“Not the queen’s chambers then,” she muttered with a sigh and reached for the bare space at her throat, tapping on her collarbone.
She would have to change her plan. She followed Anne’s path down the corridor and toward the staircase, but at a much slower pace. The queen’s chambers had always been the target, with Gwynnie and her mother hoping that Anne would be elsewhere, entertaining at this hour. The fact that Anne would now be there made Gwynnie fidget, reaching for the light-blue wool of her kirtle and screwing it up between her fingers.
The plan for the last year had been these chambers. With the jewellery that Gwynnie could take from the queen’s chambers, she and her mother could turn their backs on this country at last. Emlyn would no longer have to rob and thieve, as she had done since she was a child. Gwynnie could see her mother safe, no longer looking over her shoulder in case she was being chased by a constable or a magistrate. Their lives could change.
“We were supposed to be safe,” Gwynnie murmured under her breath as she reached the top of the stairs.
Further down the corridor and bathed in candlelight, she caught a glimpse of Anne again. She stood against a wall, a hand over her face. It was a moment of weakness. The rigid spine was gone, and her ladies were doing their best to usher her into a chamber.
