Emlyn said nothing, but she stepped forward and helped Gwynnie to move the slabs, revealing the gap below. Pulling out the bound jewels, they laid them out on the bed, both kneeling before them.
“You know this could work. What other choice do we have?” Gwynnie asked. She had barely slept, her plan keeping her awake into the early hours of the morning. In her excitement, she’d knocked over the one tallow candle, the flame extinguishing and the noise making Emlyn jump so much that she nearly broke the cot bed. “It’s the one chance we have of pointing Tombstone and Pascal toward the guilty man. It’s the one chance poor Esme Battersby has to get justice.”
“Not everyone gets justice in this world. It’s like some twisted demon. It transforms before you when you reach for it.”
“What does that mean?” Gwynnie asked, her hands stilling over the jewels. Her mother gave no sign of hearing her now. She pushed back the dark hair that was still loose around her ears and continued to unwrap the jewels.
“We need to keep some,” Emlyn said slowly, “so that when we leave, we have something to pay our way. We’ll go to France, as we said before. We will start again.”
Gwynnie smiled faintly. If there was the smallest chance that she could still find the future she longed for, the future where Emlyn would no longer have to keep looking over her shoulder, then she would fight for it.
They unwrapped the linen they had bound Fitzroy’s jewels in.
“They are beautiful,” Emlyn whispered, holding up a golden medallion attached to a chain. Each link in the chain was twisted into an ornate figure of eight shape, the links bound together tightly. The centre of the medallion was ruby red, divided into four distinct stones and bordered with more filigree gold. A single pearl hung from the heavy pendant. “Think what this is worth.”
“Much,” Gwynnie said in agreement. Amongst the jewels that glittered on the bed, one stood out. It was the one she had noticed the night she had been in Fitzroy’s rooms, the one that had been hidden in the lid of the jewellery box.
Reaching for the Celtic brooch, she lifted it into the air. When compared to the other jewels, the metal looked dull, the silver in desperate need of a polish.
“Where did you get that?” Emlyn asked, nodding at the brooch.
“It was Fitzroy’s.” Gwynnie added the brooch to the others they were keeping.
“You could return it then, today,” Emlyn said hurriedly.
“He will not miss that one. It is not so elaborate, and it has no jewels.” Gwynnie gathered together the other items.
“You will not have long for this foolish plan of yours.”
“Your confidence in me, Ma, is my greatest source of comfort!”
“No sarcasm today, miting.”
“When did I agree to that? Ow!” Gwynnie winced as her mother tapped her around the arm in reprimand.
They bound some of Fitzroy’s jewels together in linen, then Gwynnie stood and tucked the linen into the opening of her gown. Seizing a cloak, she pinned it to her shoulders and wrapped it around her body, hiding any sign of the package.
“At the jousting tournament, no one will be looking at you,” Emlyn continued as she walked around Gwynnie, adjusting the cloak to make sure it lay flat. “The king will be in his element. The steward says he has been so looking forward to this tournament, that he has barely slept these last few nights. All attention will be on him. Just do your best to disappear into the crowd.”
“Ma, this is hardly my first time sneaking through a crowd, is it?” Gwynnie huffed. “I picked my first pocket when I was thirteen.”
“This time you are adding to someone’s pocket,” Emlyn reminded her, folding her arms. “Take care, Gwynnie. Please. If you are caught…” She trailed off, not needing to say the words.
Gwynnie’s breath hitched as she moved toward the small looking glass on the wall. She adjusted her hair and pulled on the white coif, tucking the brown strands beneath and pulling the coif so far down, part of her face was covered. It would help her to hide in plain sight.
“I will be safe,” she said aloud, trying to convince her own reflection as much as her mother. “Trust me, Ma. I can do this. I shall keep us both safe.”
The tiltyard was alive with colour and activity. As Gwynnie entered the area, lawned on one side and cleared to a pebbled path on the other, she winced at the cacophony of sound. It seemed that everyone in the palace had gathered, tired of being indoors after all the rain. On this sunny morning, the sky blue with wispy white clouds over the heath in the distance, they were determined to make the most of it.
Gwynnie slipped between the crowds as people cheered and welcomed those competing in the joust. Ladies dressed in crimson and celadon gowns waved handkerchiefs in the air, choosing their favourites. Young men jeered at the jousters, insisting that they could do better if they were just given a horse and lance with which to compete. Toward the back of the tiltyard, away from the wooden barrier that separated the people from the competitors, old men sat on benches with their faces buried in great thick cloaks of black and white fur, their wrinkled hands clutching walking sticks and gloves.
In the centre of the seating was a box, erected entirely on its own. Draped in red and gold cloth, embroidered with the emblems of a falcon, the box stood out as the royal seat.
Gwynnie halted when she saw just one robed chair in the middle of the box. Queen Anne sat alone. Her thin lips were pressed together, her hands thrust into a binding of ermine cloth. Two ladies stood behind her chair; the same two ladies Gwynnie had seen with Anne on the night of the robbery. All three ladies seemed just as anxious today, with not a single smile gracing their lips.
Gwynnie stepped closer to the box, for some reason curious to hear something of the queen’s conversation. She soon realised such a task was impossible. Anne lowered her voice too much and with the catcalls from the crowd, such delicate whispers were lost on the winter breeze.
To the left of the box was an important bench full of wealthy courtiers. Amongst the embroidered doublets, the fur-lined cloaks, and the heavy leather boots, was a figure Gwynnie recognised.
Fitzroy sat beside the other men; his head bent low as he conversed with another. He was in his element today, as if he was holding court, much as his father would. Many men listened to him, urging him on to tell some great tale. When he finished, all the men around him burst into laughter.
Gwynnie flinched at the laughter. If she ever did end up in Newgate Gaol, as her mother feared, then she would stand no chance against a man as influential as Fitzroy. He clicked his fingers, and two other men turned around to listen to him.
The clamour of the crowd grew louder and Gwynnie looked toward the jousting, to see what had caused such noise. Two competitors strode out from striped tents. Both were dressed ornately in the medieval style, with armour-plated chests and legs so bound in metal that they clanked as they walked toward the crowd. The first, bearing a sapphire and purple flag, lifted his arms into the air and the people cheered for him, though a few booed too, clearly taking sides. The second then thrust his arms into the air and received far more boos than the first. The crowd had their favourite.
As the two knights moved to their horses on either side of the tiltyard, the herald for the competition stood in front of the crowd, shouting the rules to be heard above the cheers. No one listened to him. They all knew the rules by now and busied themselves, making bets with one another. From what Gwynnie could overhear, the amounts ranged from a shilling to two whole pounds.
Gwynnie had to do it now. When the first joust began, every head would be turned in a particular direction. No one would be taking note of what she was doing.
“Where is he?” she whispered to herself as moved alongside the benches, looking for Renard. He was not with the other courtiers on the benches. As she reached the far side of the yard, she looked back, squinting into the crowd and against the bright sunshine, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
The knights atop their horses raised their lances, the blunted ends pointed into the air. Each lance bore a flag or some handkerchief, as a favour from a lady, to show who was their favourite to win.
The herald standing atop a crate before the crowd raised his hand into the air. A hush fell as everyone waited for the joust to begin.
“There you are,” Gwynnie whispered as she caught sight of Renard.
He stood at the front of the crowd, his elbows resting on the wooden barrier that bordered the arena. His eyes were on the jousters, and he did not speak to those around him.
