“Pascal will be furious when he hears your mother has gone,” Tombstone whispered. He blinked, as if realising something. “If your mother got out of that storeroom, why did you not get yourself out?”
“I was not the one who was to be hanged,” Gwynnie reminded him. She had no intention of telling him that it was part of her plan. He and Pascal were now two of the few people who knew who the Shadow Cutpurses really were. She planned to keep a close eye on who they told.
Tombstone rubbed his eyes and yawned, clearly having had as sleepless a night as she’d had.
“You agree to my deal then?” he asked, checking over his shoulder that no one was paying attention to them through the kitchen hatch.
“I do.” Gwynnie firmly nodded, eating a piece of ham. “I will be your informant in the palace, and you will keep my name off the lips of those who whisper about the Shadow Cutpurses.”
“We have our bargain. Come, bring your food. Pascal will be growing impatient by now.”
Gwynnie hurried to follow behind him. As they stepped out from the kitchens and into the courtyard, the air was not so cold today and the frosted puddles had melted, leaving behind damp cobblestones. People walked by, shaking their heads and muttering between them. They passed two ladies who were gasping with great shock.
“Esme Battersby. I heard it. They say she took revenge on her husband’s killer. What a tale!”
Gwynnie’s gaze darkened as she followed behind Tombstone. It would be the tale that was told, even if it was far from the truth.
Tombstone didn’t lead her toward the lawyers’ chambers as she had expected, but out to Donsen Tower and under the archway, onto the dock. Gwynnie looked at the river, imagining her mother stepping out onto a boat in the middle of the night, and making her escape.
Gwynnie bit into her apple again as they came to a halt on the riverbank.
Pascal was standing off to the side with another group of lawyers, a group that included Cromwell, all whispering together. Beside a vast barge on the water, a man was taking his leave of the palace. When Gwynnie saw his face, she dropped the apple onto the riverbank, where it rolled away and splashed into the river.
It was Fitzroy.
He took his leave of his friends on the dock, patting them on the backs and enjoying deep, rather flamboyant bows, as he moved onto the barge.
“Goodbye, my friends. I am sure we shall see each other again soon. You will not miss me for long in palace life, I am sure.” He took off his thickly plumed hat and used it to wave to his friends as the barge pushed out onto the water, the silken blue peacock feathers shimmering in the morning light.
He halted in his waving, the false smile faltering as his eyes found Gwynnie’s across the water.
“That is not a kind look,” Tombstone muttered under his breath to Gwynnie.
“I think I am his new favourite person,” Gwynnie said, earning a reprimanding look from Tombstone for her sarcasm. “You have the same dismissive expression as my mother.”
Gwynnie could not smile at her jest though, as she watched Fitzroy turn away and wave once again to his friends.
“This is outrageous.” She looked around for her apple, but it was long gone. “A guilty man is escaping. Tombstone, you must do —”
“Do what?” he cut her off, shaking his head. “There is nothing I can do. The king has ordered he goes to the country, to spend time with his wife whom he sees so little of.”
“Why are you not more upset? Considering that he…” She just waved a hand in the air, uncertain how to refer to the relationship he’d once had with Woodville, and how that had ended with Fitzroy killing the man he had once cared for.
“My anger serves no purpose other than keeping me company at night. He cannot be sent to the Tower. Do you need me to remind you of Fitzroy’s position?”
“Pray, do not. I am tired of people repeating the words ‘he’s the king’s son,’ as if that makes murder forgivable.”
“Shh!” Tombstone waved a hand at her, looking around the riverbank. “Do you wish to be overheard? If anyone hears you say such a thing, it will cause great trouble. You will probably be accused of treason.” He sighed deeply. “My mother used to cling to an old saying: laws are like spiders’ webs, they catch flies, but let hornets go free. I’m sadder than I can say that she turned out to be right.” He looked at Pascal, who was now talking to Cromwell. “I shall tell Pascal of your mother’s escape.”
“I expect him to be no happier than you are.”
Tombstone glared at her again.
“What did you expect?” she whispered. “Did you expect her to prepare herself for death? She is not the monster you seem to think she is.”
“I never said she was a monster, but I am a lawyer. I expect people to pay for their crimes.”
Gwynnie waved pointedly in the direction of the retreating barge which carried Fitzroy away.
“Almost everyone,” Tombstone corrected himself. “The order came through this morning that Fitzroy was to spend the rest of the winter in his country house. I do not know if he’ll ever be invited back to the palace again.”
“How comforting,” Gwynnie muttered wryly, folding her arms across her chest.
“Stay here.”
Gwynnie bit her tongue, already disliking being ordered around by Tombstone as if she were a pup at his heels. She watched as Tombstone reported to Pascal and Cromwell about her mother’s escape. She saw the fury, the barked orders as yeomen were sent off in search along the palace’s perimeter. Eventually, Pascal nodded, as if resigned to the matter. He shot an uneasy glance in Gwynnie’s direction, but must have relented to something, for he waved Tombstone away with a cursory flick of his fingers.
Tombstone returned toward her, shifting his cloak as he walked, as if it was dropping from his shoulders.
“They are searching for your mother. Fortunately, Pascal has agreed that we will still use you as an informant.”
“What a fortunate day this is.” The wind whistled up from the river as the barge moved away, but Gwynnie didn’t shiver in the cold. It wasn’t half so icy as it had been before. “Who are you and Pascal to one another then?” Tombstone shifted his weight between his feet, nervously.
“I think you and I know enough of each other’s secrets, do we not?” Tombstone reminded her. “I’ll keep yours, and you keep mine. Do we have an agreement?”
Gwynnie stared back at him, sensing the subtle fear in his face. He shifted his cloak again and she caught sight of something silver and gleaming on his doublet. It was the Celtic brooch. He must have worn it in memory of Woodville. An ache developed in her chest, remembering the way he had cried at Woodville’s graveside.
“All your secrets are safe with me,” she said softly. “I guess you and I hold much power over one another now,” she said with a trace of humour. “Either one of us could reveal something we do not want others to know. It means we cannot quite be friends, does it not?”
