“Go,” I urged.
“Help us,” I screamed to the guards as we thundered toward the gate, playing my only card. “Sister Hectare sent for us, but there are thieves on our tail.”
The guards exchanged a look. One shrugged and stepped aside. We plunged through the gate just as the other shouted for the crew behind us to halt.
“What now?” Phoebe asked as we thundered across the courtyard to the front entrance.
“Now we pray Sister Hectare is here,” I huffed. “And that she’ll help us.”
After dismounting, I quickly untied Phoebe’s hands. It took every bit of breathless coaxing before the stern-faced guard at the front entrance agreed to send a servant to see if Sister Hectare was there.
He allowed us inside the entrance hall but set a pimply guard to watch us. The castle had an empty feeling. Only a few torches, set at intervals, lit the long hallway as the minutes passed.
Come on. Please be here. Please.
I heard a woman’s raised voice just outside the massive front doors.
“Oh crap,” I whispered to Phoebe. “I think they got in the gate.”
“What is your business here?”
I whirled to find a wimpled servant approaching, one I’d seen in Eleanor’s chambers—Was it only yesterday? She was scowling, which didn’t bode well for us.
I assumed what I hoped was an imperious demeanor. “It’s imperative that we see Sister Hectare immediately.”
The servant eyed our soiled, wrinkled gowns. “I assume that the good sister has gone with the queen to the Tower, where she and the king reside until coronation on the morrow. And even if she were here, it is late and I would not disturb her.”
Idiot. I chastised myself. You knew that. Even in our own time, the king or queen traditionally stays at the Tower of London the night before their coronation.
“Thank you, Wilifred.”
My knees went weak as Thomas Becket, still disheveled and out of breath, slithered out from a side door.
Where the hell did he come from? I forced myself not to flinch. Beside me, Phoebe let out a quiet groan.
A malevolent smile played around Becket’s mouth. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, good madam,” he said to the servant. “I’ll see these young ladies returned to their rightful place.”
“Father Thomas.” Wilifred’s age-spotted hand rose to her chest at the sight of the priest. Blotches of red spread across her withered cheeks, and I swear she fluttered her drooping old eyelids at him. “You know I would do anything for you. It is so nice to see a decent English face among all these . . . foreigners.”
With a last glance over her shoulder, the aged servant mounted the steps. Thomas Becket turned to us with a triumphant sneer.
Ignoring Phoebe, Becket reached forward and grasped my chin in a pinching grip. His malicious eyes bored into mine. His breath stank of old meat. “Lady Celia claims that besides being a spy for the loathsome French, you seek the stone as well. I guarantee, however, that I shall learn your secrets before this night is over.” His long fingers squashed my cheeks against my teeth so hard, I tasted blood. “You silly, stupid little girl.”
“And yet,” a vibrant voice spoke from a darkened doorway, “you seem somehow afraid of her, Thomas. Why is that?”
With a wrench, Becket released me. I spun, then sank to my knees as a round, magnificent figure glided toward us.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stuttered, bowing. “What are you doing here? I had thought you abed in the Tower.”
Eleanor of Aquitaine ignored the question. She brushed by Becket and waved a pale hand to Phoebe and me. “Get up, get up.”
Inserting herself between us and the priest, Eleanor turned to Becket. “The better question, I think,” she said, “is why are you here, Thomas? Henry was bellowing for you earlier. Why is it that you are not stuck to his side?”
A shadow rippled over Becket’s face. He glanced over at a set of steps. From the damp, fishy smell that wafted from that direction, I thought they must lead down to the river landing, where boats could transport people quicker from one castle to another.
“I wouldn’t tarry, Thomas.” Eleanor’s voice stabbed at the next word. “My Henry is not a patient man.”
With a fierce exhalation and whirl of black robes, Becket lunged down the steps. As Eleanor watched him go, I released a breath that flapped the jewel-encrusted ribbons sewn onto the queen’s sleeve.
“Hectare took to her bed earlier this evening.” Eleanor turned to us. I could see worry flit across her face before she began to ascend the steps toward the upper chambers of the castle, where Rachel and I’d been the day before. “I summoned the Jewish apothecary and his granddaughter to tend her. She . . . She is dear to me.”
Fatigue carved faint lines in the queen’s face. She grasped the rail and hauled herself up.
When we didn’t immediately follow, she snapped over her shoulder, “Well, come on, then. Hectare insisted the two of you would appear here this night and that I must bring you to her at once.”
Phoebe and I exchanged a look.
How? Phoebe mouthed.
I shrugged in answer as we followed Eleanor’s train up the marble steps.
Chapter 32
SISTER HECTARE LAY BENEATH A MOUNTAIN OF FURS, her small form dwarfed by the huge four-poster bed in a chamber that rivaled Eleanor’s own. She shivered, despite the heat from two enormous copper braziers and a crackling fire in the small open fireplace, the first I’d seen in this time.
Papery eyelids closed, the little nun’s cracked voice whispered for Rachel to add more coal. An elderly man brewed a pot of medicine over the fire as Rachel dumped more coal into one of the braziers. The moment we entered, Eleanor rushed to Hectare’s bedside. Rachel’s tired face transformed with delight at the sight of us.
I breathed in the scent of simmering herbs and camphor as we watched the queen take one gnarled hand in hers and kiss it. “The girls were below, just as you said they would be.”
Without opening her eyes, Hectare smiled. “Thank you, my child. Now, please, go back to the Tower. Your babe needs a rested mother. And you have much to do on the morrow.”
“And how many nights did you and Amaria sit at my bedside, nursing me through childhood illnesses? How many nightmares did you soothe after my father died and left my sister and me all alone? How many times did you stand at my side when everyone else in Louis’s court turned on me?”
“Yes, child.” Hectare’s eyes opened. She turned her head on the pillow and fixed her rheumy eyes on the queen. “But you are precious. Your name will last through the ages as a queen of legend, though there is yet great sorrow in your path. You’ll bear Henry more children. Too many, I think,” she said with a chuckle. “Mayhap you’ll want to bolt your door from time to time, eh?”
Phoebe and I exchanged a startled glance. How could she know all those things?
Eleanor’s response was cut off when Hectare’s laugh morphed into an alarming cough. It racked the woman’s bird-like frame. Between them, Rachel and Eleanor raised the sister up. The old man hurried to the bedside and handed the queen a pewter cup. She placed it to Hectare’s cracked lips.
When she’d taken a couple of sips, her breath eased, though the map of wrinkles around her mouth remained a dusky color. “Thank you, kind physician. I wish we had more with your skills here.”
The man bowed. His clothes were plain. A clean, but patched, brown tunic. A conical yellow hat slumped on his head. As he approached, I saw Rachel’s honey eyes peer out of his leathery face. “I take it you are the friends of my Rachel, yes?” He gave a quick bow, speaking in a thick accent. “I wish you good eve. I am Aaron ben Yitzhak, and I owe you my thanks for helping my granddaughter. If I may ever be of service, you have but to ask.”
Even from our place near the foot of the bed, I could hear Sister Hectare’s labored breath. Without waiting for a response, Aaron hurried back to his concoctions.
“You shall not leave me.” Tears roughened Eleanor
’s voice. “I am your queen, and I order you to stay.”
“Sweet child,” Hectare rasped. “Even someone with your strength cannot tell God when to call His children home. And why have me moved from my own chamber? All this”—her gnarled fingers flicked toward the animal skins covering the floor, the lush pastoral tapestries, the heaps of plush pillows behind her head—“seems rather like setting an old crow into a lark’s cage.”
Ignoring the comment, Eleanor settled her bulk on an embroidered chair next to the bed and swiped a hand beneath her eyes. “Nonsense. And besides, now you have room to receive your guests properly.”
The old woman’s gaze shifted in our direction. “Ah, the lost lambs who are so very, very far from their own pasture.”
A fierce urge overtook me, to fall sobbing at the little nun’s side and confess everything that lay so heavy on my heart. How I’d always been such a coward. How I’d disappointed my mother so many times, and how I was going to fail her yet again. How I was petrified for Collum. How I felt so small, and how badly I wanted just to forget everything and go home. A strangled sob escaped. Though I tried to stifle it, Sister Hectare’s gaze lit on me.
With a gesture, Hectare drew Eleanor close and whispered in her ear for a long time. When she was finished, the queen drew back, stunned. Her head pivoted incrementally toward us, her face gone moon pale.
As the queen stared at us in wonderment, Hectare whispered, “Yes. It is as I told you, child. And we must help them return to their rightful place.”
Chapter 33
“HOW CAN THIS BE?” ELEANOR WHISPERED.
The smile that crinkled Hectare’s craggy face was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. “The sisterhood knows many things, child.”
Eleanor stared hard at Hectare for a long time before she nodded.
“Rachel,” the queen called, though her voice sounded shaken. “I believe I hear boots in the hallway. That would be Captain Lucie, with word of the girls’ brother. Would you kindly allow him entry?”
Rachel’s hand tightened around a lump of coal. When she opened the door, the longing on her face was so plain, I wondered that no one else noticed. William Lucie stared down at her for a long time. Then, remembering himself, he hurried to present himself to his queen. He brought the smell of outdoors with him. Smoke and winter air.
“You found where the brother is kept?” Eleanor asked without preamble.
“Yes, Your Grace.” William bowed low to his queen, then turned to Phoebe and me. “The city watch took the prisoner to one of the lower cells. They will allow no visitors.”
Eleanor grimaced. “I wish I could assist, but even I cannot be seen supporting a thief who stole from the king.”
Next to me, I felt Phoebe bridle at the word “thief.” I reached for her hand, squeezing to keep her quiet as fear, sharp as shattered glass, raked my insides. When Eleanor and Hectare began speaking in low voices, I gestured William and Phoebe to a spot near the wall, so the queen couldn’t overhear.
“There’s no chance we can see him?” I asked William in a hushed voice.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Will—Captain Lucie?” Rachel joined us. “Are these the cells on the south wall, by chance? The ones with the window at ground level?”
William braced himself before he looked at Rachel. A charged moment passed between them as he stared into her eyes. “Yes. I believe so.”
“Mistress”—Rachel turned to me, excited—“I know of these cells. My cousin was held there before he died. There is a small, barred window where you may kneel down and speak with your brother.” She frowned then. “Though I doubt the guards would allow you access to the grounds.”
She bit her lip in thought, then took William’s arm and escorted him to the door. They spoke quietly together. He shook his head, but Rachel persisted. After a moment, he sighed and stared at her, drinking her in as though she was the last cup of water on earth. My mind began to sift through all the sketches I’d ever seen of the medieval Tower of London.
When Rachel returned, she was grinning. “Be near the southwestern corner of the Tower walls at dawn. There is a small gate there, little used. Captain Lucie will let you in.”
As Phoebe thanked her profusely, my mind raced. “Rachel, how big is this window? Could a man get through it?”
“Well . . . yes, I think so.” In seconds, she saw what I wanted to do. But then she shook her head, sadly. “But there are iron bars set across the opening. It would be impossible.”
I gnawed at a cuticle, glancing across the room to where the queen sat, still holding Hectare’s hand. Eleanor’s head was bowed, and her lips moved in silent prayer.
Iron bars. Iron bars.
Chemical formulas wrote themselves in the air before my eyes. My fingers twitched as I discarded one after the other, growling with irritation.
Not invented yet. Too weak. Too volatile. I hesitated, calculating the odds.
“What are you thinking, Hope?” Phoebe whispered.
I looked to Aaron, who was adding a handful of herbs to his pot on the fire. “Rachel, does your grandfather’s apothecary shop carry oil of vitriol by any chance?”
Rachel’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, he makes it, then cuts it with water to clean his steel tools. If he makes an excess, he sells it to the blacksmith.”
My lips struggled to form the words fast enough. “Does he have any now? Uncut? And could you get some and bring it to the side gate at the Tower?”
The confusion on Rachel’s face cleared. “Oh! I see. Yes, of course. Of course I can.”
“Would someone please tell me what you’re talking about?” Phoebe said. “Because I’m about to pop my bloody—” She broke off, clearing her throat as she glanced at Rachel. “Er . . . I am soon to become quite angered.”
I shushed her as Eleanor called for us to join her at Hectare’s bedside. “Later,” I whispered as we obeyed.
“We shall speak more of this on the morrow,” Hectare was telling Eleanor, cutting off her queen’s protest. “I give you my solemn vow that I shall still be in the land of the living. Go back to your husband. And for the babe’s sake, if not your own, get some rest. In any case, I wish to speak with these girls alone.”
When Eleanor sighed in defeat, Hectare placed a hand on her cheek in a sweet blessing that stung my eyes. We both dropped into a curtsy as the queen stood. Eleanor’s eyes were bloodshot. She stared down at Phoebe and me as if we were ghosts.
“There is to be a masque at Westminster Palace tomorrow night, after the coronation. I will take chambers there. Come to me before it begins, and I will see that Lady Babcock attends me. And I . . . I would speak with you.”
She’s going to help us! Mom will have to obey a summons from the queen. She’ll have no choice. Then I’ll move heaven and earth to get her out, whether she wants me to or not.
“Thank you,” I breathed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The queen crossed to where Phoebe and I knelt, surrounding us with her unique smell. Roses laced with a spice I didn’t recognize.
“Rise.”
Her intelligent green eyes scanned back and forth between us. “I trust Hectare with my life.” She paused, licking dry lips. “But this?” She took a step closer and looked deep into my eyes. Her voice husky with emotion, Eleanor whispered, “I wonder . . . will this world always belong solely to men?”
Slowly, carefully, without taking my eyes from hers, I shook my head. “No, Your Grace. Not always.”
Eleanor’s eyes closed. A smile edged her mouth as she sighed. “I shall, of course, not live to witness such a thing. But perhaps . . . to help sow the seeds of that glorious harvest?”
I didn’t answer, though I knew that in the years to come Eleanor of Aquitaine would endow convents and be as much of a champion for female education and rights as was possible in her era. A thought startled me as I wondered how much of that was due to this moment in time.
Smiling, I allowed all the admiration I f
elt for the brave queen to shine through.
The queen of England nodded to herself. “Yes,” she whispered as she departed. “Perhaps.”
“What was that all about?” Phoebe said.
“Dear physician,” Hectare called. Aaron hurried toward the bed and bowed low. “I thank you for your efforts,” the nun said. “But like me, I believe you’d as soon rest those old bones of yours? If you will but allow your granddaughter to stay? She comforts me.”
“Of course, learned sister,” the apothecary said. “I shall return on the morrow.”
Aaron left, and Sister Hectare asked Rachel to see about getting Phoebe and me a place to sleep for the night. When Rachel shut the door behind her, the nun patted the side of her bed. “Come, come, we haven’t much time.”
Hectare spoke in a voice like crinkling paper. “One of the few advantages to being very old is that one has seen so many mysteries, one can pick and choose which to believe.”
“Sister?” I paused, but my gut was telling me to speak truth to this woman. “You . . . you know who we are, don’t you?”
Phoebe’s sharp elbow jabbed into my back. What are you doing?
“More than fifty years ago, when I was but an eager young novice at the abbey at Saint Evre,” Hectare went on as though I’d not spoken, “I met a woman who had come to view one of our reliquaries.” The nun’s watery blue eyes studied us from behind her veined nose. “I was called to speak to her, as the woman’s accent was difficult to understand and the saints had blessed me with an ear for languages.”
Despite the overheated chamber, a chill skated up and down my spine. I asked in a quaky voice. “Was this reliquary decorated with a great opal, by any chance?”
I heard Phoebe’s sharp intake of breath, but I couldn’t move. Every muscle in my body strained for Hectare’s answer.
“Yes.” She nodded proudly, as if I were her student and I had come up with the correct cipher. “A stone of some repute, if the rumors were true.”
Swallowing, I pressed on. “Do you happen to remember what the woman looked like?”
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