“The daughter is accused of attacking Mistress Battersby,” Cromwell explained.
“You see? When murder is afoot, you busy yourself with theft. How ridiculous,” Fitzroy cut in.
“Would you like to know how she fares?” Tombstone asked.
“Did you speak to me?” Fitzroy grew louder in his outrage.
“It is simply that you pointed out, quite rightly, that murder, or the attempt of it, is a greater crime than theft. I presumed you would be interested to know if Mistress Battersby will recover?”
“Of course, I would like to know.” The words sounded forced to Gwynnie’s ears, but then she knew the truth of the matter. “I would have thought your priority would be hunting down her attacker, rather than a thief.”
“Even a thief of the queen’s jewels?”
What passed next, Gwynnie couldn’t hear. The voices grew quieter, and she assumed the king must have been speaking again, his muffled mutters weary. She pressed her ear to the door.
“You should arrest them for their accusation,” she heard Fitzroy say.
“Fitzroy.” The king spoke clearly. “I do not know what is happening in this palace, but I fear someone is playing some awful game with us. You shall return the jewels to Anne at once.”
“I did not take them!”
“And Cromwell, have your men find these two women. Find the one who struck down Mistress Battersby. They are the priority now.”
Gwynnie stepped back from the door, her shoulders slumping. It seemed that no matter what they did to shift attention onto Fitzroy, it kept coming back to them.
“They cannot find them. They have proved themselves so useless, they accuse me of theft. Might I suggest we enlist the services of one of my men to find them? Renard is diligent and loyal. He has proven himself many times in the past. Two maids should be an easy quarry for him.”
“Yes, yes, Fitzroy. Whatever you think.” The king’s words were weary once more. “Now leave me to my physicians.”
Gwynnie stepped back into the cupboard as Emlyn shut the door on her. As the door to the king’s chamber opened, a waft of medicinal herbs emanated from the room. There was mudwort hanging in the air, and most particularly, turpentine.
“Might I suggest one more thing?” It was Fitzroy, his voice now clearly audible with the chamber door open. “That knave, that excuse for a lawyer — I recommend we remove him from his role. Any man who accuses me of theft is not sensible of his position.”
The king’s answer was a tired one. “Cromwell, see that it is done.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tombstone’s protest came out high-pitched. “You are dismissing me from my position? But —”
“Not another word.” These words were quieter, uttered by Pascal in a low tone, as he evidently dragged Tombstone out of the bedchamber and down the corridor. The two continued to argue with one another as they walked away.
Gwynnie rested her head against the wall of the cupboard, her mood growing graver by the second. It seemed that in her effort to shift the focus onto Fitzroy, she had only succeeded in making the one man who potentially believed her story, lose any power he once had.
“We’ll only have a minute, so be quick.”
Emlyn stood guard in front of Mistress Battersby’s door as Gwynnie turned the heavy iron handle and stepped into the bedchamber. It was a relatively small room in the rafters of Greenwich Palace. The wooden beams were so low overhead that even Gwynnie had to think twice about whether she would hit her head.
Across the room, laid out on the bed, was Esme. She had no physician to attend her. In fact, she was completely alone and fast asleep, her skin as pale as curdled milk.
Slowly, Gwynnie stepped forward, being careful not to kick over the chamber pot that sat at the foot of the bed, and reached for the bedpost. The bandage across the back of Esme’s head appeared fresh and neatly bound. Gwynnie thought she saw Tombstone’s work in that bandage.
“Esme?” Gwynnie whispered to her, wishing the lady would wake, but she did not. She continued to breathe evenly and deeply, showing no sign of being disturbed. “I am so sorry.” It was feeble, Gwynnie knew that, but she longed to say the words regardless. She wished to tell the woman before her that she had failed her. Esme had tried to save her that night in the tiltyard, and yet Gwynnie had not raised a finger to help her husband. The guilt grew steadily worse, until Gwynnie’s hand shook upon the bedpost. “I…” She longed to say more, to promise that she would keep fighting for justice, but how could she now? Justice seemed an impossibility.
Backing up from the bed, Gwynnie noticed that Florian’s things were still strewn around the room. There was a thick sheaf of parchment with his name written upon it, and a man’s knife laid beside the papers. A white collar was thrown across the back of the chair with a black bonnet beside the inkwell. It was almost as if Florian had only just stood up and walked out of the room.
Stepping forward, Gwynnie peered at the notes Florian had made. She could barely read his handwriting, for it was so slanted, but there was a drawing she recognised. Neat and repeated across the page in a rigid pattern was a Celtic knot. Gwynnie stared at the diagram, knowing exactly where she had seen it before.
The unusual brooch she had found in Fitzroy’s chamber had been wrought in the same shape. Why would it be here? Why would Florian be recreating it on these notes? Unless it was merely a common symbol, and it was a coincidence, but the chances of that seemed unlikely indeed.
Beside the table was a wad of handkerchiefs that Esme had evidently used to dry her tears. The sight of those handkerchiefs urged Gwynnie to retreat from the room. She stepped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind her.
“Well?” Emlyn asked. “Did you find some comfort in seeing her?” When Gwynnie shook her head, Emlyn said, “I thought not. We talk of justice. We talk of what comfort it brings, but in truth, it brings little comfort at all. The desire for it eats us alive, and even if you get it, it does not bring back what you have lost.”
Gwynnie blinked, struck by the sincerity of her mother’s words. Emlyn was just like Esme. They had both lost a husband to murder. Yet Emlyn had taken revenge for the death of hers, while Esme was left not knowing who had committed the deed.
“We cannot give up now,” Gwynnie said, determinedly.
Emlyn cursed, so strongly that Gwynnie’s eyes widened.
“A sharp tongue you have there, Ma. I knew I got it from somewhere.”
“Do not turn such lessons on me now. Gwynnie, you and I are backed into a corner. Our best chance now is to swim through the flood come nightfall. It is only a matter of time before people start to question why there is an additional yeoman of the guard and a footman hanging around the palace.”
“If we swim through that flood, we will either drown or die from the cold.”
“Sooner that than at the end of a noose!”
“And would you leave Esme so unhappy? So desperate — as you have once been?”
“Miting, please.” Emlyn breathed in sharply and turned away.
