Gwynnie folded her arms beneath the lawyer’s black cloak, staring at the water and the frozen patches that bobbed together and then parted again. She needed a new plan. Trying to frame Renard with the jewels had not worked, and telling Tombstone what had occurred in the tiltyard had failed too. Now, she would have to do something drastic, if she and Emlyn were to ever walk away from Greenwich Palace.
“It is strange to me.” Emlyn broke the silence. “I believed Pascal thought women incapable of being thieves, certainly incapable of murder. He must have changed his mind.”
Gwynnie looked back at the palace in deep thought. It was true that Pascal had not thought she could be a thief. Therefore, he must have thought that she had another reason to attack Esme Battersby.
“They’re still looking for the thieves then.” A smile twitched across Gwynnie’s face.
“Whatever you are thinking, take care,” Emlyn cautioned. “None of your recent plans have gone well, miting.”
“So good to know you believe in me, Ma.”
“That is not what I said. You have a good mind,” Emlyn said, nodding. “You get that from your father. Yet whatever your plan is now, I urge you to think it through carefully. What we do next must be foolproof.”
Gwynnie continued to smile. A plan was forming in her mind. Slowly, she turned her back to the palace, staring out over the water.
“I have had a thought. Give me the evening to think through all the possibilities. If I am right, then when night comes and the moon rises, we must act.”
“It will be a new moon tonight.” Emlyn lifted her chin and nodded at the horizon. In the distance, the clouds were parting as the sun drifted toward the thatched roofs of London in the distance. “My ma once told me new moons were for new beginnings.”
“Perhaps they are,” Gwynnie agreed, though she was not disposed to believe such superstitions. “We need to go. It will not be long before someone spots two strange men staring at the water.” She pulled on Emlyn’s arm, and together they retreated under the gate of the palace and back into Greenwich’s grounds.
“Do it,” Gwynnie ordered Emlyn.
Dressed in full yeoman’s garb, at a glance Emlyn was tall enough to fool anyone into thinking that she was a man, but her sour expression and the way she struggled with the pike were not so persuasive. The uniform had been taken from the laundry room, for a stubborn stain across the front had rendered it useless to its usual wearer.
“I do not like this.”
“Trust me,” Gwynnie pleaded. “Just do as I ask and this time next week we’ll be in France, far away from Pascal, from Newgate, and from this flood.”
Emlyn didn’t argue. She walked toward the top of the staircase in the queen’s tower and looked down the stairs. On the very top step stood a suit of armour, one said to have belonged to King Henry VII, the king’s father. It was rather short compared to Emlyn’s stature. She pushed the tip of the pike into the breast plate, and glanced back at Gwynnie, who nodded. With one firm thrust, Emlyn knocked the suit of armour over.
It clattered down the staircase. The metal plates shattered, breaking apart from the bolts that kept them joined together as it crashed to the floor below, the pieces scattering widely. In the quiet of the night, the sound was cacophonous.
Voices erupted from the distant ends of the corridor.
Emlyn pulled on her yeoman’s cap and hurried down the stairs, deepening her voice.
“Ho! We have an intruder!” she bellowed. “Someone has knocked over the late king’s armour.”
Gwynnie shrank back into the shadows, pulling the coif low over her head.
Ladies and gentlemen of the court hurried past, some appearing in little more than their nightwear, with cloaks thrown over their shoulders. Others were still fully clothed, glancing rather disapprovingly at those who were not so well dressed.
Gwynnie pulled at the deep mulberry-red gown she wore. It was a maid’s dress, but finer than any that she would usually wear, for such colours were reserved for the maids that attended the queen’s chambers.
She waited, glancing at the queen’s door.
“Come, please,” Gwynnie whispered under her breath. “Let your curiosity defy you.”
As if the door had heard her, it opened. Queen Anne strode out, her face pale.
Her dark hair was loose and a cloak hung from her shoulders. Her ladies-in-waiting followed her.
“Your Highness, you are still too unwell. Please, return to your chambers.”
“If the king knew you walked about —”
The queen halted and turned abruptly to glare at her ladies. “I do not believe the king concerns himself much with what I do at present.” The queen moved forward once more to the top of the stairs. “What is all this commotion?”
Gwynnie waited until they had passed her by, then she stepped out from the shadows and moved toward Queen Anne’s chambers. Slipping in through the door, she pushed it shut, but didn’t quite click the lock into place.
Inside, the room had been transformed into what appeared to be an apothecary’s back room. There were herbs dangling from the ceiling, and small glass vases full of lavender and rosemary posies, the scent hanging in the air. A large fire blazed in the corner of the room, so vast that the flames practically licked at the fire screen.
More voices sounded in the corridor.
“Who pushed the armour over? Someone must have done it.”
“Quick, gather it together, before the king hears of this.”
Knowing she had little time before Queen Anne returned, Gwynnie hurried into the queen’s private chamber. In the corner of the room, she found a large black box resting on a buffet cabinet. The edges were carved with roses and vines. In the middle was a single falcon, the symbol for Queen Anne.
Lifting the lid, Gwynnie peered inside, gulping at the jewellery that appeared before her. She had thought Fitzroy’s selection of jewels luxurious, but this was otherworldly. The jewels were spread across a crimson cushion and glittered in the candlelight from the room.
There were great brooches, with teardrop-shaped pearls dripping from their golden mantle surrounds. Necklaces glistened with blood-red rubies, and there were golden pins made for the hair, the metalwork so detailed that the beaks of the carved falcons looked pointed enough to tear the skin.
Gwynnie opened the leather pouch attached to her belt and stuffed the jewels inside, clattering them together in her haste. She didn’t have time to take them all, but she took most, then drew the bag shut.
Darting back to the door, she heard voices on the other side.
