“Who gave it to her, do you think?” Anne asked, stammering between her tears. “She carries a locket at her throat.” Her fingers were splayed around the ornate gold ‘B’ hanging from her own necklace. “It is pure gold, and those gems…” Her breath hitched. “He must have given it to her. Who else would give Jane Seymour such a gift?”
“Your Highness, I beg of you, come inside.” One of the ladies-in-waiting ushered her into the room, glancing back in Gwynnie’s direction, clearly fearful of how much a passing maid could hear.
Gwynnie waited until the door shut firmly behind them, then she hurried forward. Moving to a long bank of lead-lined windows, she raised herself onto her toes, her short stature making it difficult to see out. Down below, she saw her mother in the courtyard, still talking to the yeoman of the guard.
Emlyn was smiling at the guard, but Gwynnie saw something in her mother’s face. There was a tightness around her lips, a hint at the stiffness with which she held her body.
Soon, they would be free. She would see her mother smiling genuinely again, with a happiness that Gwynnie had not seen for fifteen years. All Gwynnie had to do was find her new target — the king’s chambers.
Turning away from the window, Gwynnie recalled the rough path her mother had outlined to her earlier that day. The queen’s and king’s private chambers were placed on either side of the main tower, set in the frontage of the palace.
She walked calmly in the opposite direction to the queen’s chambers until she found a discarded tray on a window ledge nearby, laid with pastry doucets and dates. She collected the tray and carried it on her shoulder, half covering her face as she walked down the corridor. She passed an open doorway that led to another corridor.
This corridor was darker with fewer candles, but she could hear sounds emitting from within. When a cry of pain pierced the air, Gwynnie lowered the tray and peered down the corridor. She could see nothing beyond the shadows, but someone was mumbling something. The sound was followed by the laughter of a man and a woman.
Gwynnie glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Queen Anne knew there was a woman in the king’s chambers, then she walked on, heading toward the other royal apartments, reserved for special guests and members of the court whose company was highly valued by the king.
Stepping out into a wide corridor with multiple doors, Gwynnie held her tray higher, masking more of her face. There were ladies giggling in the corridor, whispering to each other. The French hoods that covered their heads flicked back and forth, the pearl trims twinkling in the light of the candles. The ladies didn’t even acknowledge Gwynnie as she passed by; it was as if she was a ghost, invisible to the living.
“I heard the tale this morning,” one of the ladies said to another as Gwynnie reached the end of the corridor. “They struck last night. The steward is certain of it. The lawyers and the clerks were robbed. What jewels they and their wives had with them were taken.”
“It is not possible,” another voice argued fervently. “How can anyone steal from a palace? Least of all this one. It is impenetrable. The king declared so himself.”
“Yet it is true. I saw it with my own eyes,” a third woman claimed, her high-pitched voice betraying her youth. “The chambers were turned upside down. Some say it was the Shadow Cutpurses.”
A sudden heat made Gwynnie’s palms clammy on the tray and as she paused at the end of the corridor, she chanced a glance back.
“Nonsense, child,” another lady said. “The Shadow Cutpurses are just a legend. You mark my words. They do not exist.”
Gwynnie turned away, unable to keep the smile from her face.
At the end of the corridor, there was a vast door. The carving of the wood suggested whoever occupied such a chamber had to be wealthy indeed. Even the framing around the door suggested affluence and respect from the king, for the stonework had been carved into a myriad of cherubs and angels, their faces shining amber in the candlelight.
Gwynnie knocked lightly on the door and waited. No one answered. She knocked again, louder this time, but there was still no answer. She turned the handle and, finding the door locked, she placed the tray down on the floor. Taking out the metal rod she had used to lift the latch on the window before, she thrust it into the lock and turned it back and forth. She didn’t watch what she was doing, but trained her eyes on the corridor behind her, searching for shadows or any movement that could indicate someone had seen her.
She’d picked locks for many years. The first lock she had ever picked was of the shackles that were secured around her mother’s wrists. Since then, no lock had defeated her. Each one had their trick.
With two turns to the left and a flick of her wrist, Gwynnie popped the lock out of place. The door swung open, and she stepped inside, her eyes darting about the room.
No candles were lit inside the chamber, but the moonlight streaming through the windows revealed it to be empty. The main privy chamber was full of furniture, with a grand oak table and high-backed chairs, and settle benches pressed against the wall. Tapestries draping the walls flanked two doors that led to more rooms.
Gwynnie hurried to close the door behind her and moved toward one of these doors. The first led to a bedchamber, the four posts draped in thick curtains with the bedding laid flat. The second door was a garderobe. Stepping inside, Gwynnie reached for the coffers first. They held fine clothes, each garment made of silk or precious satin, embroidered with gold and silver thread. As finely made as they were, they were not what she was here to seek out.
Turning her back on the coffers, she crossed to a buffet cabinet and opened a mahogany box, more akin to a small bible box than any coffer. Inside, gold chains and bright jewels glittered. Gwynnie lifted the lid higher.
“There you are,” she whispered, a smile creeping across her face.
A floorboard creaked and a door opened in the outer room. Gwynnie froze, her head jerking toward the door of the garderobe. Someone had returned to the chamber.
CHAPTER 2
“We need some light,” a man grunted.
Gwynnie jumped toward the door of the garderobe and pushed it so it was nearly closed, leaving a gap just wide enough for her to peer through. Her heart thudded as she saw two men enter the room, their figures indistinct in the darkness. The taller of the two moved toward a tinder box resting near the window to light some candles.
Gwynnie glanced around the garderobe. There was one window. It wasn’t much of an exit, but it was the only choice she had. She moved to the window, then glanced back at the box of jewellery.
If she left it, then her mother would have to continue stealing to survive. Gwynnie could not pass up this chance now, not when there were so many jewels before her. Tiptoeing back to the mahogany box, she collected the jewels one at a time and slipped them into a leather pouch she carried at her belt, trying to avoid chinking the pieces together.
“Light,” the voice from the other room said impatiently once more. “If we are to have this discussion, Your Grace, I must first see the whites of your eyes.”
The choice of words made Gwynnie pause, but not for long. She lifted the jewels hurriedly, spying thickly ridged gold brooches, some inlaid with red rubies, others bordered with pearls. Three brooches designed with triskeles were peppered with blue and red jewels, while on two medallions, designed to be worn from heavy chains, white enamel had been shaped to form the initials H and F.
Gwynnie dropped them into the pouch and was about to close the box when something glinted in the roof of the lid. A much smaller brooch was pressed into the velvet lining of the box. She took the brooch, turning it over in her fingers. To see it better in the darkness, she raised it closer to her eye. In contrast to the other brooches, this one formed a Celtic knot, the gleaming silver pattern turning back on itself multiple times. There were no jewels on this brooch. It was a plainer item, one that did not belong with the rest.
“Ah, light at last,” the man said with satisfaction from the adjoining room.
Fearing discovery at any second, Gwynnie dropped the Celtic brooch into the leather pouch with the others. Seizing the hem of her gown, she tucked it into her belt, knowing that if she was going to clamber out of this window, she would need to do so without being incumbered by her long skirts.
“Why did you wish for this meeting, Florian?” the other man asked. “You know any discussions with me should be conducted through my father first.”
Gwynnie froze as she recognised the voice of the man who had spoken. When she and Emlyn had first crept into the palace two weeks before, to act the parts of maids in the household, she had seen this man performing at court and in masques.
“Woe betide whoever wishes for a private audience, eh?” the amused voice of the first man asked. “Mind if I sit down?” The unmistakable sound of a chair being moved revealed that this man was not waiting for permission before he took a seat.
“Your arrogance, Florian, knows no bounds. I should call Renard now to tip you out of that chair.”
“We both know you do not want him here. Not yet anyway.”
