“How did you know where to find this body, Renard?” Tombstone asked. “You must have been here when it was put in the ground. Why would you be trying to move it?”
Renard’s head flicked toward Gwynnie. She saw the light of recognition in his eyes as his gaze settled on her face, followed by a flash of pure fury. She had led him to this moment, and that seemed to cut deeply, as much as being caught.
“Did you kill Woodville?” Pascal abruptly stepped forward. “Did you do it? Did you strangle him? Did you strangle Florian Battersby too?”
“No. It was not me.” Renard moved his hands to his hips.
“Yet you know who did do it.” Tombstone’s voice grew louder, his anger building. “You know what they do to murderers, Renard? You must have been to a hanging or two. It is not a fair sight, is it?”
A muscle twitched in Renard’s cheek, and he raised a hand, scratching his jaw. There was a look of understanding on his face.
“You can avoid the noose,” Tombstone said, stepping forward. “You can avoid it if you tell us the truth.”
Renard’s head lifted slowly, his eyes widening.
“Put down in writing who did the deed, and you will not feel the noose.”
Renard looked at Pascal, as if waiting on his confirmation.
“It is the deal we offer,” Pascal seconded. “Will you do it? Will you name the killer?”
Renard turned to Gwynnie. He said nothing for a minute, seeming to weigh up his options. He must have known that with another in the room able to point the finger at Fitzroy, he stood a chance of being believed if he did reveal the truth.
Gwynnie smiled when she saw him part his lips. A maid’s word may not have been believed in court, but a man of the gentry would stand a better chance.
“It was Henry Fitzroy, the Duke of Richmond.”
CHAPTER 30
“Do not say a word.” Pascal waved his cane between Gwynnie and Emlyn. “You understand? Not a word.”
Emlyn nodded as Gwynnie raised an eyebrow, hardly appreciating being told to hold her tongue.
“Please, do not,” Tombstone said, evidently reading Gwynnie’s expression. “This will be a hard enough meeting without a thief speaking against the king’s son.”
Reluctantly, Gwynnie nodded. She knew what he said was true. Her position counted against her, and her best bet now was to leave the speaking to another.
They stood in the withdrawing chamber, tucked behind the great hall. It was a much more private room, with the walls cloaked in tapestries, and rather than a throne or any large chair, there was a much smaller seat placed on a platform. Canopies hung from the ceiling behind it.
“It’s a room for private audiences with the king,” Tombstone whispered in her ear.
“The king?” Gwynnie breathed out the words. “He is coming?”
“If he can walk,” Tombstone added, looking uneasy at the idea.
Gwynnie and Emlyn stood behind Tombstone and Pascal at the far end of the room, opposite the chair. Beside them, down on his knees, was Renard, as Gwynnie had never seen him before. He constantly looked around, his body hunched. He was a different man to the one who had threatened her with a knife that day on the dock.
The door to the chamber was opened by two yeomen and Cromwell walked in. He grunted as he moved, either in pain or muttering to himself, Gwynnie couldn’t be sure. He walked first to Renard, nodded unsatisfactorily, then moved to Pascal’s side.
“You are certain this time?” he asked under his breath.
“We are.” Pascal spoke for both him and Tombstone.
Cromwell’s eyes darted over Gwynnie and Emlyn before he turned away. His eyes, like glass beads, were unreadable.
Another door opened between two tapestries and a tall thin man walked in. Judging by the scent of turpentine on his clothes and the bag that hung from his shoulder, practically bursting with glass vials, Gwynnie judged him to be one of the king’s physicians. He stepped up to the platform and waited beside the chair.
The next person to walk in was Queen Anne. Strangely, she was not accompanied by any of her ladies-in-waiting. She walked alone, moving to stand on the other side of the chair. Her face was as pale as when Gwynnie had seen her last, and her body still carried the extra weight of having been with child. Anne didn’t look at any of them but kept her gaze on the empty chair.
Another entered the room.
King Henry couldn’t heave himself through the door. Instead, he was pushed through by another physician, in a chair on wheels that looked to be far too small for him. He was placed in front of the platform and was not moved to the chair behind him.
He croaked and yawned, hardly seeming dressed to have any audience. There was a loose shirt around his body, and a long embroidered robe that hid his shoulders and waist. His leg was bound thickly in bandages, right down to the toes, and the other foot had been thrust into a court shoe that hardly seemed to match the rest of his outfit. On his head was a crimson and gold cap. He blinked wearily, his eyes shooting to Cromwell.
“Well?” he snapped. There were no niceties, and scarcely any formality at all, as Cromwell stepped forward and bowed. “Speak, Cromwell. I need to return to my rest. You said you had news. You said you had proof as to who was behind Florian Battersby’s death. Well? Speak, man, in the name of God’s blood, speak!”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Cromwell said quietly. “Renard —” he nodded down at the man kneeling beside him — “was seen this very night digging a hole in the stables. A hole … where Jerome Woodville had been buried.”
Queen Anne looked up. She moved forward, standing beside Henry, who didn’t turn his head to acknowledge her. If anything, he moved his body slightly away from hers.
“Woodville never left the palace on New Year’s Eve,” Cromwell continued. “We now know he was strangled. Renard covered up the death. He was seen by one of the yeomen carrying the body out of the palace and into the stables. Tonight, Renard was trying to move the body, to prevent its discovery.”
“Bile and blood,” Henry cursed, a hand to his chest. “What have you brought him here for? Arrest him. Be done with him. Hang him!”
“He did not do the killing, sir,” Cromwell said, his voice soft and patient. “He merely hid the true killer.”
“Then who is the killer?” Queen Anne stepped forward as she spoke, her eyes on Renard. “He works for…” She trailed off as Henry held up a hand sharply.
