Gwynnie looked up, thinking of Jane Seymour and how she had been sent to new rooms that very evening.
“He wished to hear from Cromwell. He believes someone may have spooked his horse on purpose. He insists his riding skills are as great as ever, and that the only reason he could have fallen from his horse was if it was sabotage. You should have heard him.” He laughed humourlessly. “Some madness about omens… How Battersby’s death was a sign of what was to come. He fears his own death.”
“I know, Your Grace.” Renard cut him off. “That is why we need her alive — you need a scapegoat. You need to blame her, to make Pascal see her for what she is — just a common cutpurse.” He tossed her forward.
Gwynnie fell face-first into the dirt, the jolt re-opening the cut on her chin. She snatched the gag from her mouth and knelt up, facing Fitzroy.
“I know who you are,” Gwynnie said, her eyes blazing. “And I saw what you did to that poor man.”
Fitzroy’s nostrils flared as he marched toward her.
Gwynnie scrambled back as he halted above her, his voice booming.
“The man was a rat,” Fitzroy seethed. “Nothing more than that!”
“Shh,” Renard ordered. “You will be heard, Your Grace.”
“Heard?” he hissed. “She heard everything that night. Renard, she knows.”
“I know —”
“No! Not just what I did, but who I…” Fitzroy trailed off.
Gwynnie said nothing. She cared not if Fitzroy preferred the company of men to women. It was the matter of murder that upset her.
Fitzroy took another step toward her, his hands clenched at his sides.
Renard abruptly stood in front of Gwynnie. She blinked up at him, startled that he had put himself between them, before realising that he only wanted to keep her alive long enough to see her take the blame for the murder.
“She’s no good to you dead,” Renard insisted.
Gwynnie looked about the tiltyard, desperate to see where she could run for her best chance of escape when she saw a shadow move.
Someone was standing at the edge of the yard, watching them. Was it her mother? Her heart thudded in her chest.
Yet the person continued to stand there, watching them. It was a beat later when Gwynnie realised this person was too short to be her mother, only a little taller than Gwynnie herself. But it was a woman. The skirt of her gown and her long cloak rippled in the breeze.
A sound must have escaped Gwynnie’s lips, for Renard turned around.
“Who’s there?” he called to the figure.
Slowly, the woman walked forward into the moonlight. Gwynnie blinked up at the unmistakable face of Esme Battersby.
She looked down at Gwynnie, her eyes wide. “What is this?” she asked. “What are you doing to this maid?” She reached a hand toward Gwynnie.
Gwynnie moved to her knees, reaching for the proffered hand, but Renard batted her arm down.
“Sir.” Esme stood tall. “You must understand how this appears from my perspective.” Her eyes settled on the other man, and she must have realised for the first time just who it was. “Your Grace,” she whispered and dropped a deep curtsy.
“Ah, Mistress Battersby.” Fitzroy clasped his hands together, attempting to adopt a familiar tone, as if they were talking in the banqueting hall over a great feast. “It is nothing important. Merely a misunderstanding. You are out late tonight. May I escort you back to your rooms?”
Esme shook her head. “I cannot sleep these days, not since…” She blinked back tears as her gaze returned to Gwynnie. “Release the maid into my care. If you have a complaint against her, then it should be made to the steward.”
“Now, truly —”
“Hand the maid to me, Your Grace.”
Gwynnie felt a rush of admiration for the lady. It didn’t matter to Esme that Fitzroy was the son of the king. She was not going to back down.
Gwynnie also knew that the lady deserved to know who had killed her husband. She should know that the man before her was to blame.
“I am afraid I cannot do that.” Fitzroy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Renard, I have had a thought.” He pointed to the breast of Renard’s doublet. “Do it.”
Renard reached into his doublet, finding a secret pocket that must have been missed by Tombstone, and pulled out a thin glass vial with a cork in the top. The vial was thrust before Gwynnie’s face as the cork was removed.
All too late did she realise what was happening. Renard’s hand caught the back of her head as he forced the vial toward her lips. She caught the end and stopped it before it could reach her mouth.
“What are you doing? What is that?” cried Esme.
Renard shoved Gwynnie’s hand away, just enough to tip the vial and force the liquid into her mouth.
It tasted overly sweet. Gwynnie gagged on the mixture and tried to spit it back out, but Renard took hold of her nose, and she was forced to swallow it. Coughing and spluttering at the bitter aftertaste, she retched into the ground, hoping to make herself vomit.
Esme pushed Renard aside and knelt before Gwynnie, lifting her head up.
“What was it? What did they make you drink?”
“I…” Gwynnie couldn’t describe the taste. She had never had it before in her life.
