“Enthusiastically?” I reached for the letter in surprise. “Are you sure?”
The King grinned. “It seems your visit was most persuasive. He says quite complimentary things about you.”
I raised my eyebrows as I scanned the florid words. “He did not say them at the time. Indeed, I had the distinct impression that he was horrified to see me.” And no wonder, for I’d made that visit shortly after bringing down Charlton Castle.
The King flipped to the next document. “Viscount Hatton writes in a similar vein.” He turned a few more pages. “Oh.”
“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?”
“No, no. It’s just a note from Sybil.” He smiled as he pored over it, though there was a slightly worried look in his eyes. “Er . . . a private note.”
I was surprised by the worry, but not by the smile. He and Sybil were a wonderful match—the King so steady, and Sybil so lighthearted, and each of them adoring the other. It made me happy to think of them together. Yet I felt wistful, too. Twenty months had passed—twenty months and two days—since I had last seen Nat. And what a painful parting it had been . . .
Don’t think about it, I told myself for the ten thousandth time.
After all, there was no chance our paths would cross anytime soon. Although Nat was often at Court, he’d departed for the Continent two weeks ago, just before I’d arrived at Whitehall. Certain delicate negotiations were said to require his presence in Paris and Amsterdam, and he would have to miss the opening. I didn’t know if this was true, but I had been relieved to hear it, for if Nat had planned to be at the opening, I would’ve had to find some excuse to miss it myself. Those were the rules. And I was grateful to be spared such difficulties. Nothing could take away the pain of our separation, but at least this way I didn’t have to deal with the additional humiliation of rearranging my plans, while everyone at Court gossiped about my leaving and speculated as to why.
Don’t think about it. . . .
“There.” The King was rifling through the papers again. “I think that’s everything of note.”
We were nearing Whitehall Palace. Already the oarsmen were slowing, the better to maneuver themselves close to the ornate landing.
“There should be more dispatches waiting for us in the State Rooms,” the King said. “And if there are any ambassadors waiting to see me, perhaps you could have a quick word with them in my absence?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
With great precision and a little splashing, the oarsmen brought the barge toward the landing. It was tricky work, as they had to take care that the barge’s gilded frieze of growling lions didn’t scrape against the pilings. I heard an impish note in the river’s music and made sure I had a good hold on my seat. If we bobbled about, I didn’t want to go flying.
“And there are some more papers on my desk you may wish to see,” the King said. “One is from Walbrook.”
From Nat? My fingers tightened on the seat.
“He’s found a way to get the seeds we need much sooner than he expected,” the King went on. “He’ll be back for the opening of Parliament after all.”
Nat? Here? My heart slammed into my shoes.
It was an effort to speak. “When does he expect to arrive?”
“As soon as possible. If his luck has held, he’ll be sailing over right now.”
Worse and worse.
“He made quick work of those negotiations, I must say,” the King mused. “But it’s possible there’s more to the story, something he needs to tell me in person.” The barge swayed and rocked. The King looked round. “Ah! We’ve docked.”
The master of the barge rapped on the glass door. “Lady Chantress, if you wish to disembark?”
Numbly I rose and bowed to the King. Nat could be at Whitehall any day now.
He must not find me here. That was one of the cardinal rules of the game, and so far I had never broken it. But what possible excuse can I find to leave just before the opening?
I went up the gangplank and stood between the great torches on the dock as the barge pulled away. As I waved good-bye to the King, it took all my self-control to present a cheery face.
“We’ll meet when I return?” he called out as the oarsmen sculled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He might not be back till midnight, but it was not unusual for us to work into the small hours as we prepared for the opening. “I’ll be waiting.” Unless I find some perfect way to vanish before then.
Once the barge was out of sight, I turned toward the looming bulk of Whitehall Palace. Built in a motley mixture of brick and timber and stone, it was almost a city within a city, boasting more than fifteen hundred rooms, all of them encircled by a high embankment that had been put up in Scargrave’s reign and never taken down. It was the King’s favorite of all the royal residences in London, a place that I usually returned to with pleasure.
But not now.
What on earth am I going to do?
The palace doors opened. I couldn’t ask for time to think; I was about to be swept up in my duties again.
As I went forward, however, I heard a flurry of female voices above and to the left of me. Caught by the note of fear in them, I looked up. The disturbance was coming from one of the Queen’s windows. As I listened, the babble of voices grew louder, and a terrible cry rent the air.
Was it Sybil? Was she in danger?
Forgetting my own problems, I broke into a run.
CHAPTER THREE
SYBIL
If Whitehall was the largest palace in Europe, it was also Europe’s biggest warren, with innumerable passageways and cul-de-sacs. Thankfully, I knew a shortcut to the Queen’s chambers, and I wound my way there as fast as I could. With me were two of the men in my command. They had been awaiting my arrival, had seen me rush into the palace, and had come to my aid.
There were no guards at the entrance to the Queen’s chambers—another sign that something was wrong. I sped up and flew through the doors.
On the other side, everything was in an uproar. The guards who should have been in front of the doors were standing awkwardly beside them. The ladies-in-waiting and maids-of-honor were buzzing around the room, some of them crying out in distress. Servants were frantically dragging all the curtains shut. One lady lay half-prostrate on the floor. And Sybil, with her exquisite face and blush-pink gown, stood like an avenging angel in the middle of the room.
“That’s quite enough,” she was saying to the lady on the floor. “Enough, I tell you. Get up.”
The lady moaned, and the sweet-faced girl beside her—whom I recognized as the King’s young cousin, Lady Clemence Grey—said, “Oh, I wish Lord Walbrook were here. He would know what to do.”
“What’s wrong?” I called out.
In all the commotion, they hadn’t noticed me before. Now they all turned and stared, even Sybil, until I started to feel quite out of place. Which in truth I was. Because of my magic, I occupied a strange position in the world. I sat in Council; I commanded my own men; I was almost an honorary man myself. In this domain, however, womanly grace and beauty were what mattered. And for that, I had the wrong manners, the wrong posture, the wrong everything.
Even my dress was unsuitable. Though well-cut and made of the finest wool, it was meant for the practicalities of a Chantress’s life. It had no bows, no jewels, no soft silken folds to flatter my neckline. I cut a sober figure next to these ornaments of the Court. I didn’t belong, and they knew it.
Still staring at me, a few of the ladies-in-waiting tittered behind their fans. Doing my best to ignore them, I looked at Sybil, who had gone very pale.
“I heard screaming,” I said. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” said Sybil. “A . . . silly game gone wrong, that’s all.”
The lady on the floor protested, “But I saw—”
“Nothing,” Sybil said more loudly this time, cutting her off. “Guards, if you will please resume your places outside?” As they shuffled out, sh
e turned to me. “It was kind of you to come, Chantress, but as you can see, we have no need of you. Or your men.”
So I was “Chantress” now? What had happened to “Lucy”? True, I hadn’t had a moment to see Sybil on her own since I’d arrived in London. Not a moment, really, since her wedding.
“You may go,” I said to my men, but I did not follow them. Looking directly at Sybil, I said, “But I shall stay, if I may?”
Her beautiful face froze. Had I been too informal? Perhaps she’d expected me to offer her the courtesies due a queen. But as I started to sink into a deep curtsy, something in her face changed, and she stopped me.
“Never mind that, Lucy. If you truly wish to stay—”
“I do,” I said quickly. “I’d like to talk to you—”
“Not here,” she cut in. “In my private chamber.” Propelling me toward a grand door at the back of the room, she waved away the ladies who tried to follow us. “I will be gone only a short while, and I expect all of you to be calm when I return. There will be no more silly talk. Do you understand?” To an older lady-in-waiting, the most sensible-looking of the lot, she said, “I leave you in charge. Send Lady Gillian to her room if need be—and keep the curtains closed.”
Frowning, she ushered me into her bedchamber. The room was so enormous and so laden with luxuries that it took me a moment to realize we weren’t alone. Over by a mahogany cabinet, two gray-haired women were sorting through scores of apothecary bottles. The spry, thin one—Joan, Sybil’s longtime maidservant—came right over to us. “Does Lady Gillian need more smelling salts, Your Highness? Or a calming tisane?”
“Both. Neither.” Looking strained, Sybil threw up her hands. “Oh, I don’t know, Joan. What do you think she should have?”
As they discussed the matter, I went up to the other woman, a steadfast, stocky figure clad in serviceable wool—my old guardian, Norrie.
“Lucy, dear, what a nice surprise,” she said as we hugged. “I thought you’d be out all night again.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem right, the way they keep you so busy—”
“The King works just as hard, Norrie. But I’m sorry; I don’t mean to leave you alone here.”
“Oh, I’m not alone at Whitehall, child. It’s you I’m thinking about.” She let me go. “Of course, it’s true that it’s quiet over in our rooms right now, what with Margery visiting her mother this month. But the Queen said I should come over here and keep Joan company. And it seems it’s just as well I did.”
Cheerful and capable, Margery looked after Norrie when I was away. I’d forgotten she was leaving today. Thank goodness Sybil had stepped in. I looked for her, to show her my gratitude, but she and Joan were still speaking in quiet tones. The door opened again, and Joan slipped out.
“So don’t worry about me,” Norrie went on. “If there’s anyone who needs looking after, it’s you. Too thin by half, you are—”
Sybil advanced on us. “You’re right, Norrie. She’s much too thin.”
“I’m fine,” I said firmly. As they started to disagree, I held up my hand. “No, really, I am. But what’s happening here?” As Sybil hesitated, I shook my head at her. “And don’t tell me it was just a game, because I don’t believe it was. That was quite a scream I heard. And the lady on the floor said she saw something.”
“Jenny Greenteeth,” Norrie said.
I stared at her. Jenny Greenteeth was a mythical figure said to lurk in rivers, where she lured the unwary into the depths and ate them. “You’re not serious?”
“Norrie, please,” Sybil said at the same time. “We agreed we would keep this to ourselves.” And then, to me, “It’s nonsense, Lucy. Absolute nonsense. Lady Gillian just wanted to cause a sensation. She was looking out at the river, and then suddenly she’s calling half my ladies over and shouting that she’s seen Jenny Greenteeth. What twaddle!”
Twaddle was what it sounded like, but why hadn’t Sybil simply laughed at it? There must have been more going on, to upset her so.
“What exactly did she see?” I asked.
“A greenish face, and hands wriggling under the water,” Sybil said dismissively. “Over by the landing, if you can believe her.”
I hadn’t seen any such thing when I’d been down there, but then, I’d been preoccupied. “Perhaps I’d better check, just to be sure there’s no mischief afoot.” It was possible, I supposed, that Lady Gillian really had seen something—a drowning, or a swimmer under the water. And the landing was where the King would come in later that night. “I’ll ask my men to help me. And if need be, I can send word to the King—”
“To Henry? Absolutely not!” Sybil looked like an avenging angel again. “You’re not to tell anyone, do you hear me? Not one word.”
Her vehemence startled me. “Why ever not?”
“Because I won’t have Henry thinking I can’t control my own court,” Sybil said. “And I won’t have the broadsides saying it either. This is just the sort of gossip they’d love. And the next thing you know, some horrible ditty about the Mad Queen and her hysterical court will be all over London. It will embarrass Henry, and it will embarrass me. My reputation will be in ruins again. I won’t have it.”
I stood, speechless. I hadn’t seen much of Sybil in the past twenty months, but I knew she’d been unhappy before the wedding. Small wonder, since so many powerful people had opposed and delayed the match between her and the King. Some had insisted he must marry a foreign princess; others had wanted him to marry their own highborn daughters. Almost no one had wanted him to marry a girl who’d spent years wandering around on the Continent with her eccentric mother.
Nor had the broadsides been kind. Ever since the King had lifted the censorship imposed by Lord Scargrave, chapmen had sold the sheets by the thousands—copies of popular ballads sung in the taverns and on the streets, complete with illustrations. I’d seen some about me, most of them rousing songs celebrating my defense of England, my defeat of the hated Shadowgrims, and my general fearsomeness. The ones about Sybil were different. While they noted her good looks, they claimed she was as crazy as her mother. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, her every gaffe had sparked another broadside declaring her flighty and stupid and common—an unworthy Queen of England.
I’d assumed that the situation was better now that they were married. She and Henry loved each other; I had no doubts about that.
Yet there was no mistaking the tension I saw in her now.
“Promise me you won’t say anything.” No longer giving orders, Sybil was pleading with me. “There’s no reason to. Lady Gillian is always seeing things, isn’t she, Norrie?”
“Loves a fuss, she does,” Norrie agreed.
“Last week it was ghosts in the music room,” Sybil said. “And before that it was a falling star portending doom for us all. So this latest scare means nothing.”
“Lady Clemence took it seriously,” I pointed out. “She wanted to report it to Nat. I heard her say so.”
Sybil rolled her eyes. “That’s only because Clemence wants to tell everything to Nat. She’s a good-hearted girl, one of my favorites, but she’s been besotted with him for months. Hadn’t you heard?”
I hadn’t.
“It’s very tiresome,” Sybil went on. “Her father—the Earl of Tunbridge, you know—hasn’t done anything to discourage the infatuation, which just adds fuel to the fire. Clemence talks about Nat all day long. I wish she would stop.” She gave me a crooked smile. “Not that I would mind if you talked about Nat. But you never do.”
I shrugged. “There’s nothing to say. We just had a parting of ways.”
“That’s what you keep telling me,” Sybil said skeptically, “but I don’t believe it. You’ve warned me off every time I’ve dared to ask any questions—”
“And me,” Norrie put in.
“—But I have eyes,” Sybil continued, “and this doesn’t look like an amicable parting to me. You come to Court only when Nat’s gone, and you leave before he returns, every si
ngle time. And it’s been more than a year. You can’t even look him in the face, can you?”
I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t, not when Sybil was right there in front of me.
Tiny earrings bobbing, Sybil took my arm. “Lucy, whatever it was that happened, you can tell me. We’re friends.” As I kept silent, her arm stilled on mine. “At least . . . I thought we were.”
“Of course we are,” I said quickly, but her arm had slipped away.
“If we are, then tell me what went wrong between you and Nat.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I insisted.
“It does matter.” Her voice was strained. “But you’re like Henry. You both think you can hide things from me. If I ask any questions, you pat me on the head and turn away. You both think you’re being kind, I suppose. But I’m not a lapdog, Lucy. I’m not an idiot. I know when someone’s keeping the truth from me.”
Was that how she really felt about Henry? About me?
“My dear,” Norrie began, reaching out to Sybil. “It’s not just you. She won’t tell me, either.”
Norrie’s sadness made me ache, just as Sybil’s desperation did. This was the cost of walling out the people I loved—a cost as heavy to them as it was to me. And yet how could I have told them the truth?
I looked up to find Sybil’s eyes fixed on me. “You don’t trust me, do you, Lucy?” she said. “It’s been like this ever since you started working for Henry. I know you have state secrets to keep, but these days everything’s a secret with you. For all I know, you hate Nat with a passion—”
I flinched. Only the tiniest bit, but Sybil noticed, and I didn’t avert my eyes quickly enough. I’d forgotten the way she had of seeing straight into me.
“Oh, Lucy.” Her frustration melted into sympathy. “You still care about him, don’t you? Whatever you say, you still care.”
How to recover from this? I should have kept her at arm’s length, just as I had for the past twenty months.
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