Everyone was standing, except the queen and a child-size nun seated on a nearby stool. Despite my frustration, I gasped.
“It’s her.” I grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
Rachel smiled indulgently. “Yes. Our new queen is a rare woman indeed,” Rachel whispered. “And next to her is Sister Hectare, the queen’s closest companion aside from Amaria, her former nurse.” Rachel’s eyes went soft as she watched the tiny nun. “Sister Hectare is a wise and kind woman.”
Hectare was the oldest person I’d ever seen. Rheumy eyes, a veined nose like a toucan’s beak, and wrinkled-parchment skin that draped from her face and neck like swags of melted wax. She looked as though she might keel over dead at any second. And yet, as Eleanor met with this guest or that, she often leaned in to consult with the old woman.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, black-robed figure, a priest, enter and approach the queen. The genial chatter died away as he glided serenely forward to bow before the desk.
Chapter 24
“SO KIND OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN US, THOMAS.” The queen’s voice was throaty and rich as she spoke in the imperious French of the nobility. “Sister Hectare, isn’t it thoughtful of Thomas to take time out of his very busy day to answer a summons from his queen?”
The priest spoke from a low bow. “My apologies, Your Grace. I was with His Grace, the king.”
“Naturally.” Eleanor sounded amused, though I thought I could hear strain beneath the courtly manners. “You’ve kept my Henry much occupied since our arrival. I do believe the two of you have become thick as thieves.”
The priest started to murmur a reply, but Eleanor stood, interrupting him. “Of course, before we came to England, I was His Grace’s closest companion.”
Standing, Eleanor of Aquitaine was taller than most of the women. She was still swathed in a swirl of gossamer nightclothes, though it was nearly noon. Auburn waves frizzed down her back in the humid air, defying the rule that a married woman must cover her hair. White skin smoothed across sharp cheekbones and high, arched brows.
“Since His Grace the archbishop introduced you two,” Eleanor went on, “I’ve barely seen Henry. Do you not find that odd, Thomas? A queen who must make an appointment to see her own husband?”
I sucked in a breath. I knew the priest now.
“No way,” I whispered incredulously, forgetting my medieval speech for a moment. “That’s Thomas à Becket.”
Rachel looked at me sidelong from beneath her dark lashes, hesitating only an instant before her eyes flicked back toward the priest. Her delicate nostrils flared. A look of loathing passed over her usually placid features as she stared at the man who was murmuring smooth apologies to his queen. “Yes,” she said. “That is he, indeed.” She bit off the name. “Becket.”
I could only stare at the infamous priest. Thomas à Becket. Soon to be Henry’s chancellor, then archbishop of Canterbury. The person who inserted himself between Henry and Eleanor, causing a rift that widened through time until it ended in a devastating war between Henry and his sons. In less than ten years, Henry and Thomas would turn on each other too. A battle of church against state would begin, ending only when Henry inadvertently caused Thomas’s murder inside Canterbury Cathedral. A deed still spoken of a thousand years later as one of the most notorious crimes in history.
Thomas à Becket. One of the most powerful men in England. Or at least he soon would be.
“He despises my people, you know,” Rachel confessed under her breath, barely contained fury in her voice. “Becket had my cousin arrested a few weeks ago on a false charge.” Her arms contracted around her slim body. “Horse theft, they claimed. His wife, Anna, was in childbirth, and he was trying to get home to her when his own mount went lame. The Christian family who loaned him their horse wished to testify on his behalf, but Becket threatened them somehow.” Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Abram died in prison two weeks later. Head injury. They claim it an accident, but we all know the truth.”
I glanced back at the clergyman’s aesthetic features. Nothing I’d ever read about Becket implied that kind of cruelty. Just went to show you how wrong the history books could be.
I touched her arm in sympathy. “Rachel, I’m so sor—”
“Shhh.” Rachel began fumbling in the basket hanging from her arm as a wimpled servant appeared before us, carrying a steaming silver goblet.
Removing a twist of burlap from the smallest satchel at her belt, Rachel untied the piece of twine and—with practiced movements—tapped in a few grains of reddish powder. She took the cup from the servant and swirled the contents. When my new friend went to pass the goblet back, the sour older woman hesitated, as if she didn’t want to touch anything Rachel had handled. Sneering, she reluctantly reached out.
But as she did, the queen called, “No, Wilifred, let the girl approach and bring it to me herself. Her friend as well.”
Rachel hurried forward. I shuffled after her. Our skirts displaced layers of fresh rushes that covered the flagstone floor. Rose petals and twigs of lavender and rosemary, interspersed within the straw, sent up the smell of summer as we crushed them beneath our boots.
Women in colorful court finery made a pathway for us. I searched every face as we went, but my mother had not miraculously appeared.
A few feet from the cluttered desk, Rachel dropped into a low curtsy. I followed, though my legs shook so they could barely hold me. We stayed there, heads bowed, for a long moment, until a pair of gold and jewel-encrusted slippers appeared in my field of view. Peacocks and golden lions.
“You may rise.”
Rachel rose. Swallowing hard, so did I.
My breath left me in a silent whoosh. The statuesque woman before me wasn’t beautiful. Her nose was too long, her mouth too narrow, and a deep cleft split her square chin. But the strong bones of her face would never age, and as I squirmed, her pine-forest eyes studied me. In that moment I understood why people still worshiped this queen, even a thousand years after her death. There was strength and a fierce intelligence glowing behind those wide-set eyes.
“Good morrow, Rachel,” the queen said. She took the cup and propped herself against the front of the desk. Back arched, the bulge of her pregnancy pushed out toward us, flagrant and round as a basketball against the draping, periwinkle robes. “I thank you for bringing my tisane. This prince is strong. He kicks as though he were already riding into battle, without regard to his mother’s digestion. But that is men for you, no?”
A titter from the crowd as Rachel mumbled a reply.
Eleanor shot the liquid back in two long draughts. “Ahh, no one makes a medicament like the Jews. Do you not agree, Thomas?” Eleanor smoothed a hand over her belly as if to say, You can’t do this for your king, can you?
I tensed. For a moment, I’d completely forgotten about the priest.
At the edge of my vision, I saw Thomas Becket’s slash of a mouth tighten. The first crack in his cool façade. “I do not, Your Grace. I trust my health to Christ alone. Not some heathen concoction.”
Eleanor leaned backward over the desk, whispering theatrically to the elderly nun. “The good father prays away his wind, Hectare. Oh, that I could rid myself of mine so easily.”
I couldn’t help it. The chuckle just popped out.
Becket stiffened and turned to me for the first time. “You understood your queen just now?”
Oh no. I gave an involuntary nod. The queen had switched to Latin and I hadn’t even noticed. Stupid.
The priest’s dark brown eyes narrowed on me. “Clearly the girl is no Jew, as she wears not the yellow veil,” he said in crisp Latin. “How is it that you consort with our Hebrew brethren”—his lip curled at that—“yet can speak the language of your betters and Holy Mother Church?”
“I—my mother taught me, Father.” I dropped my gaze to the floor, but he crowded me. His fingers dug beneath my chin, raising my face to his.
“Your speech,” he said, moving closer u
ntil his stale breath washed over me, “it is odd. And I do not know your face. What is your name? Tell me at once.”
Thrown off by the menacing tone, I completely blew any shot to use my aristocratic, fake identity as I blurted out my own name. “H-Hope, sir . . . F-Father. Hope Walton. I—”
Becket inhaled sharply and drew back. His hand fumbled for the bulky silver cross at his chest as his thin lips mouthed my name silently to himself.
With an abrupt half turn toward the door, he shouted, “Guards! Seize this girl!”
Two uniformed guards began hurrying toward us. I didn’t even have time for my utter confusion to turn to fear before the queen held up a hand, stopping the men in their tracks.
“Halt,” she told them, though her intense eyes sharpened on me. “Explain yourself, Thomas.”
“She is a spy, Your Grace,” Becket spluttered, crossing himself. “An agent of the French. I’ve had it straight from a trusted friend who warned me to watch for a young girl who speaks with an odd accent and knows all manner of languages. A girl with hair as dark as night and eyes the color of a stormy sky. She even gave me the traitor’s true name. An unusual name for a simple merchant’s child, do you not agree, Your Grace?”
When Eleanor didn’t answer, he went on. “I shall see her jailed. A few hours under the ministrations of—”
“No,” Rachel exclaimed at the same time I gasped, “That’s not true.”
“You lie,” Becket sneered. “She understood you, Your Grace. You spoke in Latin just now, and she understood. Explain that.”
Fear was beginning to eat away at my reason. The stifling room closed around me, and I had to force myself not to run. Everyone was staring at us, mouths open in shock.
The tiny nun stood and limped around the table. She tugged Eleanor down to whisper in her ear. The queen nodded, eyes narrowing on Becket, before turning her attention to me.
“Yes, girl,” the queen repeated in a tone completely different from that of the priest’s. “Tell me again how it is you speak the language of scholars.”
Voice shaking, I said again, “My mother taught me, Your Grace.”
“Hmmm. And do you read and write it as well?”
“I do, Your Grace. My mother thought it wise that I learned. We are in the shipping business, and we visit many countries, and . . .”
The queen stopped me with a languid gesture, then tilted her head. “Oh, Thomas.” She gave an amused scoff. “So because this poor child knows the Latin tongue, she must be a spy? I myself speak many languages. I suppose, then, you must arrest me as well. Yes?”
“No,” Becket snapped. When Eleanor’s eyes flashed dangerously, a blotchy flush bled across his gaunt, pallid cheeks as he seemed to remember who he was addressing. He gave a jerky bow. “No, Your Grace. I believe she is a spy because a trusted ally warned me of—”
“And who, Thomas,” Eleanor said, imperiously, “is this trusted ally of whom you speak so highly?”
I knew what was coming, knew there was only one person who could have warned Becket against me. And yet it felt like a punch when he said her name.
“The Lady Celia Alvarez, Your Grace. A woman gifted with holy visions. She—”
I snorted at the “holy visions” description. Becket took a step toward me, but Eleanor threw her head back. Her shoulders shook with a full-bodied laugh. “Alvarez? A Spaniard? Oh well, then. We must, of course, believe her.”
Still chuckling, the queen yawned. She slid around the desk and retook her seat. “So,” she mused, watching me thoughtfully. “A merchant’s wife who teaches Latin and languages to her daughters. Perhaps England is not the barbaric country I feared.”
For an instant, relief began to trickle through me. But Becket’s hand snaked forward and fastened around my upper arm. I winced as his fingers dug painfully into my flesh. “The girl should be questioned, at the very least. By your leave I will take her, Your Grace. I will draw the truth from her myself.”
“You will do no such thing.” Eleanor shot to her feet. Everyone jumped as the queen’s voice resounded through the room. “Let her go. This girl is now under my protection.”
“Madam,” Thomas said. “Surely—”
Eleanor’s voice turned to a malevolent whisper. “I said release her.”
The priest’s fingers burrowed viciously into my skin before he let go. Dropping a choppy bow, he spoke through clenched teeth. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Becket backed toward the door, clearly furious. “If that will be all, madam, I shall get back to the king. I’m quite certain he’ll be interested in what happened here today.”
Still petrified, I wanted to rub my aching arm, but refused to give Becket the satisfaction.
“Ah, yes. I am told that since we’ve arrived, you are always buzzing in my husband’s ear. And that in turn you have a thousand little bees of your own, scattered throughout this city, whom you pay to buzz news of my kingdom to you. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.” The queen’s hand idly caressed her belly as she bestowed a malicious smile on the priest.
At the door, Becket turned and began to stomp toward the door, his earlier arrogant, gliding step forgotten.
“Oh, Thomas,” Eleanor called.
Becket’s lips were white as he swiveled to face the queen.
“You know what they say about bees, don’t you?”
Thomas Becket glowered but said nothing.
“Bees,” she said, “are ruled by a queen. Not a king.”
Thomas Becket jabbed a bow and fled. Dead silence ruled the chamber for a beat, before the tension slowly bled away. Everyone began chattering among themselves, though Eleanor’s eyes remained fixed on the door.
Sister Hectare placed a gnarled hand on the queen’s arm and whispered to her.
Eleanor blinked hard and shook her head as if throwing off disturbing thoughts. “Yes,” she said. “Of course he will. Henry’s always taken my view in the end.”
The nun mouthed a few more words to the queen that I could not hear.
“Tell me your name again, child?” I startled when the queen addressed me. For a moment, I thought she’d forgotten all about me. But her eyes were fixed on me now with a sharp curiosity.
“Mistress Hope Walton, Your Ma—Your Grace.”
Careful. I’d almost said “Your Majesty,” a term that wouldn’t come into play until the reign of Henry VIII.
“The good sister here informs me you’ve come searching for your cousin?”
My gaze shot to Rachel, who stood pale and shaking at my side. She nodded, though, encouraging me.
“Yes, Your Grace,” I managed. “My cousin Sarah de Carlyle.”
“Yes, yes.” She waved her royal hand dismissively and picked up her quill. “After Rachel spoke of you, Sister Hectare made inquiries, I believe. Tell the girl what you’ve learned, Sister.”
The ancient woman’s voice creaked like an unoiled door. “All the barons of the land will be here tonight at Your Grace’s precoronation feast. Lady Sarah’s name is de Carlyle no longer, of course, but she and her husband will be in attendance.”
For an instant, all I felt was an overwhelming thrill of exhilaration. Of triumph. My mother. Here. Then the rest of the nun’s words penetrated, and I could only blink at her.
Husband? The words tangled in my mouth. “I’m sorry, but my c-cousin is not married, sister. You aren’t . . . I mean, you don’t have the wrong person in mind, do you?”
“I don’t believe so, child,” Hectare replied kindly. “Though these old ears could have heard wrong.”
Thoughts of my father laughing quietly with Stella Montgomery began to thread through my mind. Shock turned slowly to anger at how easily they’d both given up.
Apparently I’m the only one in this family with any damn loyalty.
I had to go. Had to get out of there before I puked all over the queen of England’s pretty bejeweled slippers. I had to think this through. I knew my mom. No matter what kind of situation she’d faced, my mother alw
ays, always did what she wanted. Sarah Walton didn’t compromise. There must have been a reason. A plan.
A servant signaled to Rachel, who tugged on my arm. “We are dismissed.”
We backed away from the now-distracted royal. As we reached the door, Sister Hectare scrambled around the table and approached us.
“Mistress Hope,” she said, “the queen enjoys interfering with that prying priest. He hates women in general, and learned ones even more. But make no mistake, you’ve made an enemy in Becket here today, so take heed. The queen’s protection extends only so far.” The little nun bestowed a sweet, toothless grin to soften her words. Her face folded into a million wrinkles. “In any case, Her Grace would like to extend a personal invitation for you and your family to attend the feast tonight. There, I believe, you shall find the woman you are searching for.”
Chapter 25
“YOU’RE NOT BEING FAIR, HOPE.” PHOEBE’S TEETH CHATTERED as our rented sled lined up with hundreds of others. Sleds, sleighs, and riders on horseback, filed out the city gate, headed for the Palace of Westminster and its nearby Abbey. “First of all, you don’t even know for sure the woman they mentioned is our Sarah.”
I nodded, though I did know. I knew it in my heart. After we returned to the house and I revealed what I’d learned, I’d sunk into a depression that left me wrung out and numb.
Alongside the procession, hundreds of mounted soldiers bore blazing torches, lighting the frigid night until the fat snowflakes glowed like bits of fire falling from the sky. Shouts and cheers rang out. The smells of horse and ice and burning pitch. The jangle of bells on tack as people’s cheeks and fingertips froze.
It wasn’t far down the road called the Strand to Westminster that—in this bygone age—still lay a few miles outside the city proper. Based on the sprawling hamlets and great estates we passed, it wouldn’t be long before London outgrew its walls completely, and the great Abbey and Palace became the center of town.
Into the Dim Page 16