Gwynnie felt her arm taken by a yeoman, but she couldn’t look at him. She was too busy staring at Esme Battersby. Her eyes were on Renard as he was dragged to his feet by one of the guards.
Renard fought all the way, but he was much smaller than the yeoman, and could not fight him off.
Esme stepped forward, the heels of her shoes striking the floor so loudly that they competed with Renard’s cries.
“You cannot do this! We had a deal! If I told the truth, I would not hang. You told me so. You cannot hang me!”
Esme continued forward and pulled something out of the billowing sleeve of her gown. The candlelight glinted off the blade.
“Ma?” Gwynnie called to her mother. Emlyn was the only one who had ended up between Esme and where Renard stood fighting with the guard. “Ma!” Gwynnie shouted, unable to move as the yeoman took hold of both of her arms.
Emlyn looked between Esme and Renard. She had clearly seen what Gwynnie had seen.
“Ma, stop her!” Gwynnie bellowed.
But Emlyn stepped to the side, giving Esme the clear path she had been looking for.
She marched toward Renard, who did not notice her advance, for he was too busy fighting. Without hesitation, Esme lifted her arm, revealing the dagger in her grasp. She thrust it down into Renard’s back.
“Argh!” Renard’s cry of pain erupted as everyone turned to face them.
Tombstone, Pascal and Cromwell broke off from their panicked conversation.
Gwynnie hung limply in the yeoman’s grasp, unable to make sense of what she had seen.
Renard’s body slumped forward as the yeoman released him. He dropped to his knees, the dagger planted in his back, blood seeping through the thick doublet. Then he slumped forward, hitting the floor face-first. There he lay dying, his shoulders growing still.
“For my husband,” Esme said, stepping back. There wasn’t even a tremble in her hand. “Justice has now been served.”
Gwynnie looked at her mother, shocked as Emlyn stared back at her. This wasn’t justice. Esme had overheard a lie. She had overheard that Renard was the killer, when he was not. Emlyn could have stopped the wrong man dying, but she had chosen not to.
“What did you do?” Gwynnie shouted, unsure if she was calling to Esme or Emlyn.
“Arrest them all!” Cromwell snarled.
CHAPTER 31
“Some prison,” Gwynnie muttered as the yeoman pushed her into a cold chamber.
The flood was still too high and there were no wherrymen on the water. Since the guards were unable to send them to Newgate, Gwynnie and Emlyn were thrust into the palace bread store, a chamber deep below ground, underneath the kitchens, with a curved stone ceiling and no windows. A single candle was left with them, the flame shuddering in its tall holder as the yeoman shut the door behind them.
Gwynnie stood in the middle of the room, wondering where they had taken Esme. Mistress Battersby had also been dragged beneath the kitchens to be locked in another room, though Gwynnie had not seen where she had been placed.
“This is it, miting,” Emlyn mumbled as she slid down the wall and onto her haunches, where she sat on a hessian sack. “You have that justice you so craved, and where has it got us? They hang for larceny as well as murder — you know that, do you not?”
“Justice? You call this justice?” Gwynnie rounded on her mother, outraged. “This is not right, Ma. A man has died for murders he did not commit, and the king plainly has no intention of seeing the real killer punished for what he did.”
“Fitzroy is the king’s son. What did you expect? Did you think he would be paraded through the streets of London in disgrace before they chopped his head off on Tower Green? The world does not deal a fair hand of cards. That’s why we have lived the lives we have lived. In order to survive, you must cheat the cards.”
“Cheat the cards? Ma, you stood back today and watched a man die for a crime he did not commit.”
“He could have killed you.” Emlyn’s eyes narrowed. “Renard attacked you and was prepared to frame you. He was guilty of attempted murder, even if he didn’t manage it.”
Gwynnie stood back, her body trembling. She leant against the wall and slipped down, landing on another hessian sack opposite her mother. She stared at Emlyn.
In a way, what Emlyn had claimed made sense, but there was still something that made Gwynnie’s heart shudder. Her mother was perhaps capable of more brutality than she had realised.
“You said once…” Gwynnie swallowed, before continuing. “You said that the night you took justice for my father, it was self-defence. That in the end, you had no choice but to kill in order to save your own life. That you went to confront him, and the confrontation turned sour. Is that true?”
The woman she had glimpsed today, the woman she had seen step out of the way to allow Esme to plunge that blade into Renard, was a different woman.
“It is true,” Emlyn said simply.
Gwynnie was not sure if she believed her or not.
“One minute, that is all I ask,” a voice ordered on the other side of the door. Gwynnie scrambled to stand, the hessian sack getting caught on her gown. She threw it off and moved to the middle of the room.
The door opened and a yeoman’s face appeared.
“You.” He thrust a finger at her. “Come. Someone wishes to speak to you.”
Gwynnie hastened from the room, glancing back at her mother. She saw the twitch around her eyes. Emlyn was terrified of what would come next.
As she stepped through the door, Gwynnie’s gaze adjusted to the bright morning light that shone through the nearest window. Tombstone stood before her, the neck of his doublet loose and his cloak thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, with his copper hair wild.
The yeoman moved a few paces away, giving them a chance to speak alone.
“Is it true?” Gwynnie asked in desperation. “The king will not send his son to the Tower?”
