Queen Anne was staring down at the food before her, unmoving. Even the sugared cherries at the side of her plate were left untouched. Her dark hair was coiffed perfectly, with not a strand out of place beneath her French hood. She wore a rich green gown, the bodice rising and falling rather fast. As Gwynnie watched, Anne raised a hand and reached toward her husband, trying to ensnare him in conversation, but the king did not look at her. He waved a pheasant leg and managed to knock over a jug of claret, tipping the liquid into her lap. He offered no words of apology and continued to talk to his son.
As Gwynnie turned once more to leave the hall, she heard a commotion.
On the other side of the chamber stood a sodden figure, water dripping from his clothes. Nearby, people pointed at him.
“You been for a swim, Renard?” one courtier shouted with a rumbling laugh.
“You old fool. You’ll catch your death in that,” another agreed.
Gwynnie stepped away, but not before she heard more voices.
“Where are you going, Renard?”
“You dragging the Thames in here with you?”
Gwynnie started to run. If Renard had seen her in the great hall, then he might be chasing her. Two maids yelped in surprise as she pushed past them. She threw an apology over her shoulder before running down a flight of stairs, grabbing at the carved wooden banister.
At the bottom, she darted through an archway and into another much narrower hallway that led back toward the kitchens. Gwynnie looked at the walls, draped in rich sage green and gold tapestries, searching for a place to hide or a door through which to escape. She found no door, but at the end of the corridor sat a guard. Perched on a low-lying settle bench, he was fast asleep. Beside him, a pike more for decoration than defence rested against the wall. His great red and blue yeoman’s cloak hung beside him on the back of the settle bench.
Gwynnie didn’t think for too long. She cast a glance around the hallway, but finding she and the sleeping guard were alone, she snatched up the cloak and threaded it around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head, then reached for the pike. It was heavy, unwieldy, and almost double her own height. She felt rather like a mouse gripping a tall candlestick.
Heaving the pike ahead of her and gritting her teeth, Gwynnie marched as she had so often seen guards do around the palace. She moved toward the nearest door that led outside and stood on the other side. The wind picked up, threatening to blow the hood down. She gripped at it with one hand, so in danger of dropping the pike that she had to lean the heavy iron blade against the wall beside her.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor she had just left. Gwynnie held herself still, her knuckles straining to keep hold of both the hood and the pike. Someone was running down the hallway, heading her way.
In seconds, a figure appeared beside her.
Gwynnie bowed her head, needing only to glimpse a pair of drenched leather boots to know it was Renard. He said nothing, not bothering to look past the yeoman’s colours. Then the boots retreated, the heavy footfalls sounding across the courtyard. As they disappeared, Gwynnie looked up, daring to peek around the edge of the hood.
Renard slipped through another door, back into the palace, his increasingly quick steps revealing his frustration.
Gwynnie smiled, until the blood dripped off her chin and landed on the edge of the cloak.
“Damn thing,” she muttered. Leaving the pike where it was, she stripped off the cloak, dropping it to the ground before heading back in the direction of the kitchens. Hurrying under an archway, she turned right when another stepped into her path. Gwynnie didn’t see them in time and ran straight into them.
“God’s breath!” She stumbled back.
“Good day to you too, Mistress Gwynnie,” the smooth voice of Elric Tombstone answered her.
Gwynnie shifted to face him, noting he looked almost as harassed as she was. His copper hair was tangled beneath a black felt cap, and his clothes were not as neat as they usually were. He looked past her, then his eyes flitted to her chin.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?” Gwynnie pressed a hand at her chin, trying to stem the blood, but it was no good. The pool in her palm only grew worse.
“Your chin — it is bleeding.”
Gwynnie looked over her shoulder, nervous of Renard or even Fitzroy making another appearance. By the time she turned back to face Tombstone, he was looking over her shoulder too.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.
Tombstone looked to the archway through which she had just passed, then back at her again.
“Are you hiding from someone, Mistress Gwynnie? Did someone do that to you?”
“Of course not. I was clumsy with the cutlery in the great hall, that’s all. Nicked myself with a knife. My ma will laugh at me.” She forced a laugh, one that was clearly so unconvincing that Tombstone was already shaking his head.
“Come with me.” He marched past her, along the palace wall. When Gwynnie didn’t follow, he halted and turned back, the thick black cloak that hung from his shoulders swirling around his legs as he moved. “I do not like giving orders. Do not make me give them again.”
“If you do not like them, do not give them in the first place.”
“You have a rather sharp tongue for a maid,” he said with raised eyebrows.
“I mean … of course, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy and moved to follow him, recalling something her mother had told her.
“To disappear in plain sight, one must act as another expects us. If you’re a maid, you’re obedient. If you work in the market, you catcall and jeer like the best of them. If you’re pretending to be a draggle-tail, you wear your skirt too high.”
Gwynnie kept her head bowed as she followed Tombstone out of the courtyard, leaving behind the scent of venison pie and roasted pheasant. They crossed the tiltyard to the lawyer’s rooms. She followed him down the corridor where she had been the day before, toward Pascal’s office.
Instead of stopping by Pascal’s door, they halted by the one beside it. Tombstone unlocked the door, stuffing his keys deep into a pocket hidden within his cloak, before leading the way in.
“Sit.” He pointed at a chair in front of the desk.
Gwynnie looked around the room. It was much smaller than Pascal’s office next door, clad in red brick on one side and wooden panelling on the other. The desk was covered in papers, all neatly lined up in rows, and behind Gwynnie there was a tiny fireplace, stacked high with wood that was already burning, emitting a strong scent of ash.
Tombstone shrugged off his cloak and looked pointedly at her. Gwynnie quickly sat down in the chair, the wood creaking beneath her weight.
