“I mean, somewhere that you should not have been.”
“Where?” Her voice was quiet.
He stepped forward, and Gwynnie instinctively moved back, toward the flooded dock. When her heels splashed in the water, she halted.
“Careful, Mistress Gwynnie. You wouldn’t want to end up in the water, would you?” His words were quiet, holding a threat within.
“Excuse me, sir.” She tried to walk around him, more forcefully this time, but he caught her elbow, jerking her toward the water. Gwynnie teetered on the very edge of the dock, her back jarring so that she squealed with pain.
She stared down into the watery depths. In places, the water was frozen, especially where the shallows met the frost-covered riverbank, and in other places it was so deep, she could not hope to see the bottom. A few minutes in that water and it would be far worse than when she swam through the flood the day before. She would struggle to pull herself back out of those icy depths.
“You have an injury,” Renard hissed in her ear. “How did you come by that?”
“I fell,” Gwynnie muttered. She tried to pull her elbow out of his hold, but his grip was too strong. Looking around at the riverbank, she searched desperately for another face, some witness she could call to, but the area was empty.
“Where are the jewels?”
Something silver darted in the corner of her eye. Gwynnie flicked her head back toward Renard. He held a blade to the tip of her chin.
“Where are the jewels?” he asked again. He leaned so close she could see the red veins in his eyes.
“I do not know what you are talking about.” Gwynnie barely moved her lips at all, in case her skin was cut by the blade. “Sir, you have me confused with someone else.”
“Do I?” He thrust the blade up a little. The action was minute, but enough to score her skin.
She grunted at the pain and acted fast.
Driving her knee into his groin, she connected hard, and he grunted loudly, releasing her. She hurried past him, and as he reached for her again, she pushed out with both hands, knocking him off the dock, straight into the icy water.
A great splash erupted around him as he flailed about, struggling to catch his breath from the sudden shock of the cold.
Gwynnie scurried back along the dock, spotting the blade he’d dropped. She could see it clearly now, a dagger no longer than the span of her hand, the blade sharpened so much that it was wearing away on one side. The handle was wooden and notched.
“Good day to you, sir!” she called loudly to Renard, putting as much distance between herself and the dagger as she could. “You should be careful with your footing out here. It’s quite dangerous.”
He latched a hand over the dock to drag himself up, just as she reached the riverbank and sprinted for the main gate.
Darting through the archway of Donsen Tower, she headed toward the inner court. A group of fine ladies wandered out of the main building, laughing, oblivious to what had just happened out on the dock. They filled the archway, forcing Gwynnie to creep alongside the wall.
As she emerged past the ladies, into the inner courtyard, she looked back, but she was too short to see over the ladies’ French hoods. Hastening to the fountain in the middle of the cobbled square, Gwynnie glanced around to ensure no one was looking her way before climbing up onto the stone rim of the fountain, using the extra height to see if Renard was following her.
His face emerged, scowling, his black doublet now sodden.
“God have mercy.” Gwynnie dropped down from the fountain and ran. She ignored the few flustered ladies who squawked like startled geese as she ran past them, down the nearest narrow lane and out into the middle court. She was dimly aware of something warm trickling down her chin, but she didn’t pay it any attention.
When she reached the edge of the courtyard, she could go no further. The kitchen doors had been flung open, and the servants hurried out with their trays of food, carrying them toward the great hall, ready for breakfast. There were trays of eels coated in saffron and yellow spices, trenchers of pike and perch, and a trout whose flesh had already been flaked with a knife. The stench of fish wafted in the air, not quite masked by the heavy spices and sweet scents of sugar.
Amongst the many familiar faces, Gwynnie saw Sarah. The elder woman was heaving under the weight of two jugs of claret.
“Sarah? Here, let me help you with that.” Gwynnie hurried to her side and took one of the jugs. It was so heavy that she nearly dropped it. “What is this made of? Lead?”
“Aye, it feels like it.” Sarah chuckled. “Thank you. Come on, the king will be wanting his claret.”
Gwynnie lifted the jug onto her shoulder. Renard appeared in the courtyard, skidding to a stop. Gwynnie shifted the jug a little, using the large vessel to hide her face as she walked past him with the other maids.
Only as they stepped through the doorway into the east wing of the palace buildings did she glance back. Renard had halted in the middle of the courtyard, turning back and forth as he searched the faces of the maids who passed him.
Gwynnie allowed herself a small smile as she followed Sarah into the building, though it didn’t last long. As she walked, she recalled the conversation with Renard on the dock. Rather than seeking to confirm his suspicion that she had witnessed Florian’s murder, he had instead asked her where the jewels were.
“Interesting,” she whispered aloud.
CHAPTER 11
“You stealing a sip?” Sarah pointed at Gwynnie’s chin as they placed the jugs down in the great hall.
Distractedly, Gwynnie lifted a hand to her chin. Her palm glistened red, and her chin was sore to the touch.
“No, I suppose I must have spilt some,” Gwynnie whispered.
“Go get yourself cleaned up.” Sarah waved a hand dismissively.
Gwynnie turned to leave the great hall, her eyes darting around the vast chamber as she searched for Renard. Rather than finding his face, she found another pair of eyes staring back at her.
At the top table, erected on a platform, sat Fitzroy. He seemed uninterested in eating, instead clutching a goblet of claret rather tightly. At his side, his father talked to him incessantly, morsels of pheasant falling from his lips and into his auburn beard as he laughed.
Gwynnie tore her gaze away from Fitzroy, eager to leave the room. She hesitated for a moment in the doorway of the hall, looking back to the table. Fitzroy no longer stared at her but talked to his father. On the king’s other side was his wife, Queen Anne.
The expression on her face brought Gwynnie to a halt.
