“Where did you get those?” Gwynnie asked, nodding at the weapons’ belt.
“Yeomen are always sleeping on patrol.” Emlyn grinned, pulling the red and yellow bonnet down across her brow. “King Henry should probably hire men that are more vigilant in their roles. I thought I told you to stop fidgeting.”
Gwynnie abandoned pulling at the loose jerkin on her shoulders. She was rather short to pull off the guise of a yeoman, so they had chosen to dress her in a footman’s uniform that they had found in the laundry room. She wore a large hat on her head, with such a wide, heavy brim that if she pulled it down completely it would have swamped her face. For now, it did a thorough job of casting her face in shadow, so she was unrecognisable to anyone who walked past. With gloves on her hands, the dark brown leather masked her small and feminine fingers.
“I hear something,” Emlyn muttered, tilting her head to the side. “To your position, Gwynnie.”
Turning away, Gwynnie pretended to wipe down the nearest window as Emlyn sat in a nearby chair, looking close to sleep, just like many of the other guards they had seen around the palace at this time of the evening.
On the staircase there were hurried feet.
“This is absurd. Surely you do not mean to search the duke’s rooms?” It was Pascal’s voice. “If he knew, you’d find yourself in the Tower.”
“That is why I am doing it now, as he and Renard are at the feast.” Tombstone appeared at the top of the stairs. He didn’t glance Gwynnie and Emlyn’s way, as if they were simply part of the furniture in the corridor. “Pascal, I know this is mad — perhaps I have gone mad myself — but someone has sent this letter for a reason. What if they are right? If Fitzroy does have something to do with the queen’s jewels going missing, are we just supposed to ignore it?”
“I … well … I didn’t say that. Yet one has to remember our position. Fitzroy is the son of —”
“The king. I know.” Tombstone marched toward Fitzroy’s door at the far end of the corridor. “Please, just watch and be sure that Fitzroy does not return. If I find nothing, then we know whoever wrote that letter was simply out to cause trouble, and we need not pay it any further heed. Fitzroy need never hear that we searched his chambers.”
“Well…” Pascal sighed. When Tombstone took his shoulder, he nodded reluctantly. “I hope you know what you are doing, boy.”
As Tombstone stepped into Fitzroy’s chambers, Pascal leaned against the wall, his breathing fast.
Gwynnie glanced at Emlyn, who affected a rather large yawn to cover up her whisper.
“Those two seem to know each other rather well,” she observed.
Gwynnie gave a small nod.
Silence followed for a few minutes. Pascal grew restless and started pacing, his cane striking the wooden floorboards. Inside the chamber there was a heavy thud, which caused him to stop pacing and fix his attention on the door.
The door opened and Tombstone’s face appeared.
“Well?” Pascal barked. “Have you lost the power of your tongue?”
“You need to see this.” Tombstone opened the door wider.
Pascal paused, reluctant to enter, then stepped inside the chamber.
Gwynnie and Emlyn exchanged an uneasy look.
“We are still expecting a lot,” Emlyn muttered under her breath. “If they find those jewels, they’ll be accusing one of the most powerful men in London.”
“In the country,” Gwynnie corrected her mother.
A few seconds later, Pascal burst back out of the room. In the moonlight, Gwynnie saw a resemblance to Tombstone she hadn’t noticed before. They both bore the same cheekbones, even the same jawline when viewed in profile.
“They’re related,” Gwynnie whispered to herself.
“Shh,” Emlyn hissed, yawning dramatically once more. Gwynnie shifted her focus to the window again, straining to hear what was said further down the corridor.
“Never in all my days…” Pascal was dabbing his brow. “The king’s son. The king’s own son! I cannot tell him. Imagine what he would do to me if I told him! No, no. Another must do it.”
“It has to be reported.” Tombstone stepped out of the room. He carried the jewels in his hands. “You know who we must speak to, do you not? We must go to Cromwell. He is the only one who could report such a thing to the king.”
“That’s if the king will see him at all. Oh, I fear this.” Pascal clutched his chest. “I fear it more than I can say.”
Tombstone walked toward them, and Pascal hurried to follow. Gwynnie continued to wipe down the window, waiting until the sound of their footsteps had retreated down the staircase, then she turned to Emlyn.
“What do you think Cromwell will do?” she asked. Emlyn shook her head and tipped the bonnet back across her brow.
“Let us hope he believes in justice. We need that for someone to accuse the son of a king.”
“We must wait,” Emlyn ordered.
Gwynnie glanced restlessly at the door. They had moved to stand just outside the great hall, listening to the sounds of the feast happening within. Tombstone and Pascal had entered the hall a few minutes ago.
But cowering outside in the corridor told her nothing of what was happening in the feasting room. Had Tombstone gone to confront Fitzroy? Or was he reporting to Cromwell after all?
The door to the corridor opened, and a line of maids walked in, each carrying a tray of sweetmeats or sugar in bowls made of gold. The maid at the back of the line tripped on the doorjamb. Hurrying to place her tray on a ledge, she bent down, reaching for the laces on her boots to retie them.
“Gwynnie…” It was as if Emlyn could read her mind, but the muttered warning was not enough to stop her.
Gwynnie checked the footman’s uniform she wore, pulling tightly on the jerkin and flicking up the collar so her chin was masked, then she hurried across to the tray the maid had discarded and held it high in the air, half covering her face as she followed the other maids into the room. She heard Emlyn sigh behind her, but there was nothing she could do to stop Gwynnie now.
The scent of cooked meat and heated flagons of wine hung in the air, while cinnamon and clove spices were either floating in wine goblets or spread across the meat. As Gwynnie walked between the tables, taking small pots of honey and rosewater from her tray and placing them on the tables, her eyes furtively searched the hall.
King Henry’s table was practically empty. Queen Anne sat quite alone, staring at her plate. She moved around chunks of pheasant with her fork, but from what Gwynnie could see, she made no effort to eat.
