Gwynnie turned her back on the window. Slowly, she crept toward the door and pressed her face to the gap.
In the main privy chamber, the man named Florian sat in one of the high-backed chairs at the large oak table. From the light of the candles, she could see that he was smiling, completely at ease, his dark hair curling around his ears. He scratched languidly at the stubble on his jaw as he stared at the other man.
“I am not wrong, am I?” he asked, his voice husky. “You do not wish for another to hear this conversation, do you?”
Gwynnie’s eyes darted to the other man in the room.
Henry Fitzroy, the illegitimate son of King Henry VIII, stood by the window. He was young, practically still a boy. Tall and lanky, his body was yet to fill out. The doublet he wore was made of rich magenta silk, heavily embroidered with flowers and leaves. His dark auburn hair was neatly coiffed, without a single wisp out of place.
“Speak your mind,” Fitzroy said eventually, his light voice a stark contrast to the husky tones of the seated man.
“Well, Fitzroy, I thought you and I should have a little chat about a certain arrangement.” Florian sat forward, his face leaning further into the candlelight. He was older than Gwynnie had first thought, perhaps even twice the age of the king’s son. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the table, the confident smile never slipping from his face.
“What arrangement?” Fitzroy asked, folding his arms across his chest. He looked ill at ease, shifting his weight between his feet.
“An arrangement for silence. Some men’s tongues can be bound not to speak, when offered the right price.”
Gwynnie reached for the pouch at her hip. She could be discovered at any second if Fitzroy came toward her. She glanced back at the window, knowing it was time to make her escape. Yet she didn’t move.
“What is it you think you know, Florian,” Fitzroy asked, “which could possibly make me wish to pay you?” He attempted a nonchalant tone, even forced a laugh, but the youthful cheeks quivered, revealing a weakness.
“You do not have the strong expressions of your father. Do you know that?” Florian asked, tilting his head to the side. “Better you learn from him fast, boy.”
“You will not address me as ‘boy’,” Fitzroy declared forcefully. He stepped forward. “I am the king’s son, and I… I —”
“Command respect?” This time, Florian was the one to laugh. The sound reverberated around the room and made Fitzroy back up again. “Think what dear Pa would say if he knew your secret.”
Fitzroy ran a hand through his hair, making the tendrils dance and fall out of place. “What secret?” he asked.
“The secret I suspect your young wife must know by now…” Florian tipped his head to the side, watching Fitzroy as a falcon would its prey, his dark eyes gleaming. “She is in your country house, I suppose. Not particularly welcome at court. Yet your marriage was not consummated — you and I both know that.”
Fitzroy’s hands quivered at his sides and his breathing grew laboured.
“How many men have you entertained in your bedchamber?” Florian asked, pointing toward the door. “Such practices may be common in the theatre and in the streets of London, but at a royal court? The son of King Henry himself? What do you think your father would say, Your Grace?” He was enjoying himself now, leaning forward in his chair. “A man who prides himself on his masculinity and stands astride in every painting on these palace’s walls with a codpiece to rival some of the towers…” He broke off, laughing deeply.
The sound made Fitzroy flinch.
“The son who would sooner bed his manservant than his wife. Your father would despair of you.”
“Stop! Not another word, I beg of you.” Fitzroy dropped down onto a settle bench, his face in his hands. “Y-you want paying?” he managed to stammer eventually, lowering his hands enough that Gwynnie could see his cheeks were tear-stained. “What is your price?”
“That depends on how many secrets you wish me to keep.” Florian stood abruptly and walked around the table, reaching for a silver flagon of claret in the middle of the table. He poured out a glass for himself, as if he was the owner of this chamber rather than the visitor.
Fitzroy stopped trying to dry his tears, his gaze darting to Florian.
“What happened to Master Woodville, Your Grace?” Florian asked as he lifted the glass to his lips. “He has not been seen for some time, has he? I hear at one time you and he were great friends. Never seen without one another.” He took another sip of his wine.
Fitzroy wiped his cheeks abruptly, standing up with such suddenness that the settle bench behind him wobbled.
“The last I saw him was at New Year.”
“You see, if you could at least put on a stoney expression, then maybe I would have believed you knew nothing of his disappearance. As it is, your acting skills are as poor as those of the boys they get to play girls on the stages in Southwark.”
Fitzroy turned away, pacing in a small circle. His hands went to his hair again, pulling on the dark coppery tendrils. “I have not seen Master Woodville. I do not know where he is.”
“No? Your lover disappears, and yet you have no inkling as to where he could be now —”
“Do not call him that.” Fitzroy turned to face him. His tears could not be stopped, and they ran down his cheeks uninhibited.
“Yet that was what he was,” Florian said with a shrug. “Did you see him here, I wonder?” He pointed to the bedchamber door again. “I bet you did. Under the nose of your father, scarcely two corridors away from his chamber —”
“Enough!” Fitzroy shouted.
“You will not halt my tongue. I have told you already, there is only one way to make that happen. Pay me what I want, and these secrets shall stay with me. No other shall hear of them.”
Gwynnie breathed deeply. She too had now heard these secrets.
“I cannot pay you. My father would want to know where the expense was going. It cannot be done.”
“Was that an admission, Your Grace?” Florian asked, stepping free of the table and marching toward Fitzroy.
“What? No!”
“An admission that Master Woodville was your lover? Or the fact that you were responsible for his disappearance?” Florian halted beside him, the shorter of the two, yet the elder. “Did you end it, my lord? Was that why he vanished? Or perhaps he threatened to reveal the truth to your father? Maybe he wanted more…”
“Stop it, I pray you.” Fitzroy stepped around Florian, putting the table between the two of them.
“You have my price, Fitzroy. You want your secrets hidden? You want it to end, then you pay me.” He thrust his palm down onto the table between them, making the jug of claret dance and the glass topple over. It rolled off the table and shattered on the floorboards, the shards glittering in the candlelight. “You want me tongue-tied? That is the way to obtain it. Now, do I have your agreement?” He stared hard at Fitzroy. “Speak! Do I have your agreement?”
