Fitzroy turned his back on Florian, his hands pulling at his hair once more. When Florian took his shoulder, the young man spun around, pushing the hand away, and reached for Florian’s throat. He pushed Florian back until he collided with the table behind him.
Florian grappled with the hand at his neck, the shards of glass crunching under his feet as he coughed and spluttered.
Fitzroy raised his other arm and gripped Florian’s throat with both hands. He may have been younger, but his greater height gave him the advantage in this fight.
“There is more than one way to tie a man’s tongue,” he said darkly, leaning over Florian.
Gwynnie stifled a gasp and took a step back from the door. She couldn’t bear to watch anymore.
Florian tried to speak, but the words he attempted to say were just gargled noises. Thuds followed as he must have kicked out, fighting for his life. When something heavy hit the floor, Gwynnie inched toward the gap in the door, her whole body trembling.
The table had toppled over in the tussle. Florian was now on his back on the floor, with Fitzroy above him, squeezing the life out of him. With wild hands, Florian tried to pull at Fitzroy’s arms, even attack his face, but Fitzroy had longer arms and could simply raise his head out of the other man’s reach.
Gwynnie couldn’t take her eyes off Fitzroy’s face. The tears were still there, but his face was now flushed red. Sweat gleamed on his temple and at the base of his jaw. With his breathing so laboured, spittle formed at the edges of his lips.
Florian’s legs twitched a few times as he tried to kick out, to dislodge Fitzroy from him. Fitzroy merely pinned him down further.
Gwynnie held herself as still as possible, her hand over her mouth to stop the cries of terror that nearly erupted from her body.
She wished to go and help Florian, to fight Fitzroy and push him away, but what good would that do? She was scarcely as tall as his shoulder, and much weaker. If she tried to fight him, she could end up dead too.
As Florian’s life was drained, Gwynnie stumbled back into the corner of the garderobe, half falling onto a coffer. She didn’t know which was worse, the guilt that swelled within her, her fear for her own life, or her sorrow for Florian.
CHAPTER 3
Gwynnie crept back to the door and pressed her face to the gap, watching as Fitzroy stumbled backwards away from the unmoving body on the floor. He collided with the fallen table and cried out, as if he had been wounded.
“Ah! No! No, this cannot be happening. Not again.” Finding his feet, he reached for the main chamber door, but simply leaned against it for a moment. Great gasping cries wracked his body. Then, inhaling sharply, he wiped his cheeks with the sleeves of his doublet and stood straight, laying a hand on his stomach as he attempted to breathe evenly.
Abruptly, he opened the door and fled through it. The door slammed shut behind him and the key turned in the lock. Gwynnie heard his footsteps the other side of the door, running fast.
Her legs trembled as she opened the garderobe door. Her eyes immediately darted to Florian. Hastening toward him, she dropped to her knees and reached for his face.
“Come on, sir, please.” She tapped his cheek, but there was no response. His eyes stared sightlessly upward. She reached for his neck, trying to find a pulse. There was no flutter beneath the skin. “You cannot be dead. Please,” she whispered, somehow hoping that her desperate pleas could rouse him.
Sitting back on her haunches, she reached for the middle of his chest and pressed down upon his ribcage. She’d seen a man revived in the street once by such an action. She continued to press down repeatedly, feeling her eyes well with tears although she refused to let them fall. It didn’t matter how many times she thumped his chest; Florian did not move. She inched forward to look at his face, but her eyes darted to the newly formed bruises on his neck instead. Already, they were black and purple, the finger marks plain against the pallid skin.
“I am so sorry,” Gwynnie whispered, guilt threatening to overcome her.
Suddenly there was a sound in the corridor, two people shouting at one another. One of the voices was distinctly recognisable as that of Henry Fitzroy.
“Do not say it, Your Grace. Do not say it,” another man was urging.
“How can I not? It has happened again —”
“I shall remedy it. I sorted it before, and I can do so again. Now, give me the key to your chamber.”
Gwynnie scrambled to her feet and ran back into the garderobe, closing the door so only a gap remained.
The key clunked in the lock and the door to the main chamber swung open. Gwynnie tiptoed to the window of the garderobe, her body trembling so much that she struggled to undo the window latch.
“Shut the door,” the voice Gwynnie did not recognise ordered. It struck her that the accent was distinctly French.
The door clicked shut.
“It’s the same as before,” the same voice said. “Fitzroy … with your bare hands.”
“He would not stop, Renard,” Fitzroy said in panic. “He knew! He knew everything. About me and…” He trailed off, his breath ragged.
This time Gwynnie managed to unlatch the window and it swung open. Peering out, she swallowed, realising the danger she was in.
Not only was she trapped with a murderer, but her only means of escape was a lead guttering pipe that led from the rooftop down to the ground far below. The clouds had gathered, and rain was falling again. The cobbles beneath her were wet and shiny and the rooftop that was a short climb away would no doubt be slippery.
“Listen to me,” Renard instructed from the other room. “I can remedy this, but to be certain, we need to make sure no one saw Florian come to your chamber. Now, think, Your Grace. Did anyone see you together in the corridors? Anyone at all?”
“No, no. We took the back stairs. He was plain about not wishing to be seen.”
“Then he signed his own death warrant.”
“I did not mean to do it.”
Gwynnie glared back at the door. She had seen the rage; she had witnessed the way his hands had clamped around Florian’s throat. Squeezing the life out of a man was no short task, yet he had done it anyway. At any point he could have stopped, but he didn’t — he was a brutal murderer.
Gwynnie stepped up onto the windowsill. The stone was even damper than she had been prepared for and her boot slipped. She grappled with the iron frame as the thud echoed loudly.
“Shh,” Renard commanded Fitzroy.
Gwynnie held herself still, her body half through the window as she looked back into the garderobe. Her heart raced as she stared at the door.
