“Ow!”
“Walk on,” Emlyn whispered. “What did I say about ignoring it?”
They walked around the group of gentlemen, aiming for the doorway that led to the gallery chambers and the great hall.
“It is not to be borne,” one elderly man huffed, pulling at his long fur-lined cloak and tucking the collar around his chin. In the icy wind, he blew into the collar. “The Shadow Cutpurses are not just thieves, not from what I hear. There’s blood on their hands too.”
Gwynnie and Emlyn exchanged a look.
“Not now,” Emlyn whispered. “Now is not the time.”
“I know.” Gwynnie nodded and reached for the door.
A sudden cry from the other side of the courtyard made them turn.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” a young woman cried, running through the archway from the middle courtyard, her light blonde hair falling from her French hood in her panic.
“They’ve found him,” Gwynnie murmured.
“What is it, Mistress Ellenheim? What is wrong?” The elderly gentleman with the fur collar hurried forward, taking her arm.
“Master Florian Battersby is dead — murdered! Oh, the blood!”
“Blood?” Gwynnie frowned. “There was no blood. Something is wrong.”
“Where is this, Mistress Ellenheim?” others called. “Tell us, what is happening?”
“See for yourself. Oh, it’s madness. Death, as pale as this infernal frost. Oh!” Mistress Ellenheim swayed on her feet. A gentleman reached for her, catching her before she could fall to the ice-covered ground.
A group of gentlemen hurried toward the archway. Most of the ladies hung back, trying to attend to Mistress Ellenheim.
Gwynnie strode forward.
“Gwynnie!” Emlyn tried to pull her back, but Gwynnie did not stop.
She walked past the crowd of well-dressed ladies and darted under the archway, hastening into the middle courtyard. The gentlemen that had gathered in front of her were in uproar, some complaining loudly at the sight of the blood on the ice, others sending prayers to heaven, with the red-cowled clergy crossing themselves.
Gwynnie crept between the men, her stature so small that no one glanced her way. She reached the front of the group and saw for herself the sight that had left Mistress Ellenheim stricken with horror.
Prostrate on the red and black tiled ground of the courtyard was Florian, yet not as Gwynnie had last seen him. His throat had been cut.
CHAPTER 5
Gwynnie’s eyes darted over the scene, noting how the bruising on Florian’s neck had been completely masked by the ruthless cut to his throat.
“We have a killer in our midst,” said a man behind her.
“It’s what you were saying just now, is it not? That the Shadow Cutpurses have blood on their hands.”
Gwynnie looked up at the speaker. It was the elderly gentleman with the fur collar. He crossed himself, sending a prayer to God.
“It seems they have more blood on their hands today.”
“No,” Gwynnie whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear her as she looked down at Florian again.
She and her mother were to take the blame for the murder.
Casting her eyes over the body, she tried to take in as much of the scene as she could. In order to cover up Fitzroy’s crime, Renard had dumped the body out here in the open and cut the throat to cover up the bruising. Any hint that Fabian had been in Fitzroy’s chambers was gone. Something glinted in the sunlight, and Gwynnie realised that she had been mistaken. There was one thing. On the bottom of Florian’s boots were the shards of glass he had trodden on in Fitzroy’s rooms.
“Out of my way.” A booming voice erupted across the courtyard.
Gwynnie’s arm was grabbed, and she was pulled back. She scrambled to look around and see who it was. A young man, perhaps even younger than herself, stood at her side. His dark copper hair and heavy beard did a good job of masking his features. The hand he had on her arm was covered in black ink spots. His grey eyes flitted between the corpse and the two men who were now marching toward it across the courtyard.
When Gwynnie saw the king, she immediately bowed her head along with everyone around her. She lifted her chin a little, watching King Henry as he calmly stood beside Florian.
She had only seen the king from a distance during her time in the palace, and now she could see him up close, she realised he was not quite the fine figure of a man some had described. He was broad-shouldered, and certainly masculine in build, with a heavy chin bearing ginger hair. The small beady eyes were without expression as he stared down at Florian. His clothes were yellow — shocking, considering his first wife had only recently died. He plainly wished to make a statement: he would not be mourning her.
“Well?” he barked at the small man beside him, making his rotund belly jiggle. “Who did this?”
“We do not know yet, Your Majesty.” The man bowed his head, his black cap hanging over his haggard features. “May I advise the body is moved, with your permission? Such scenes as this —” he paused and cast a glance around at the gathered gentlemen — “they can cause scandal.”
“Who is it?” King Henry didn’t answer his man’s question but stepped forward, peering at the face of Florian. His top lip curled, and he raised a lavender-scented handkerchief to his nose, warding off the stench of death.
The small man’s eyes found the bearded young man standing beside Gwynnie. “Who is he, Tombstone?” he asked sharply.
“Master Florian Battersby,” replied Tombstone in a West Country accent. “He was the Lord Chamberlain’s man.” He again bowed his head in acknowledgement of the king.
“Then he was a man of gentry.” King Henry huffed and turned away, his yellow robes trailing across the ice. “Cromwell,” he said in a low tone to the small man beside him, “find out who did this. And find somewhere to put the body: dump it in the river if it will keep the crows away.”
