Authors: Tori Phillips
“Say nothing to Pappa or Kitt as yet. I will tell all in good time when I think Pappa will be inclined to listen.”
“That might take a year of Sundays,” he remarked.
That night, while her family slumbered around her, Tonia lay on the cot and tried to remember exactly how to form the
patrin
that Sandor had taught her. She would leave a trail of these markers all the way to Snape Castle so that her beloved could follow after her with little trouble. At least she had one ally in Francis. He seemed open enough to accept her love for a Gypsy—a most uncommon Gypsy.
Tonia smiled in the dark as she remembered her last night with Sandor. They had lain on this same hard, narrow bed and had made such sweet love together. How could she possibly tell that to her father? Or how could she explain to Guy that she knew she would waste away if she never saw Sandor again? He had promised that he would come for her. In her very bones, Tonia knew that Sandor would keep his promise.
Three-and-a-half
days after leaving Tonia alone amid the ruined fortress high in the northern mountains, Sandor led his weary horse through the jostling streets of London. After spending several weeks in the fresh country air, the fetid stench of the city’s crowded byways and alleys assaulted his nostrils. He patted Baxtalo’s neck as they avoided being doused with a potful of slops from a second-story window.
“’Twill be a day, no more, my friend, before we shake the mud of this place from our feet,” he soothed the horse. “Then we will go to my sweet wife, and she will make us two happy fellows. You will see anon.”
They climbed Tower Hill, where several lifeless bodies swung from the gibbets that were permanently erected there. Black-winged ravens circled overhead in the twilight, croaking over their grisly booty. London’s justice was particularly swift and the hangman’s noose rarely went unfilled for more than a day. Avoiding the unwholesome sight, Sandor elbowed his way down to the Byward Tower Gate that led into the dreaded Tower of London. He intended to make his business there as brief as possible.
When he announced himself to the guard and said he had King’s business with the Constable, he was led immediately into the Middle Ward. He looped Baxtalo’s reins through the ring of a nearby hitching post and promised that they would soon be gone from this evil place. The horse laid back his ears and did a little side step to show his nervousness.
“You and I are of one mind, my friend,” Sandor said, as he eyed the forbidding walls of mottled gray stone that hemmed them in on all sides. “I only hope that Demeo has not caught a fever in this pesthole.”
After
cooling his heels on the damp cobblestones for a quarter of an hour by the clock tower’s bells, Sandor was conducted to the office of the Constable of the Tower of London, a man whom Sandor had never personally met.
Sir Archibald Brackenbury looked up from a mound of papers on his polished desk. When he saw the box in Sandor’s hand, he smiled with a reptile’s warmth. “’Tis high time you have shown your face, Gypsy.”
Sandor had prepared himself for just this rebuke. “The weather in the mountains turned bad, my lord.”
The officer pointed to the brassbound casket. “Open it,” he commanded.
Though Sandor’s heart pounded in his chest, he kept his expression bland. He placed the box on the desk before the Constable, then lifted the lid. The pig’s heart, now over a week old, stank.
Sir Archibald lifted his clove-studded pomander to his nose. “’Tis the wench’s?” he asked.
Sandor inclined his head. “Aye, my lord.”
A gleam darted into the other man’s eyes. “Did she bleed much?” He almost salivated.
Sandor’s empty stomach rolled over with disgust. “I shed no drop of her living blood, as I was commanded, my lord, and the dead never bleed.”
Looking a little disappointed, the Constable prodded the inside of the box with the tip of his letter opener. He lifted a strip of gray woolen cloth with the point. “This does not look like something that a noble lady would wear. Explain, Gypsy. What thieving trick is this?”
Sandor’s
blood drummed against his temples. He drew in a deep breath slowly. “The woman at Hawksnest was dressed in plain garb and wore a wooden cross about her neck. I know not if she was a gentlewoman, but she spoke in the accents of one. She said her name was Lady Gastonia Cavendish, my lord.”
“Just so,” the other remarked. He dropped the cloth, then lifted the lock of Tonia’s hair. “And this?” Sir Archibald asked.
He is testing me, but why?
Aloud, Sandor replied, “I was ordered to cut some of her hair and bring it with the heart. I took that piece from the nape of her neck,” he added truthfully.
The Constable leered at him. “And was she a sweet piece to bed?”
Hot anger boiled in Sandor’s veins at this slur against his wife. He schooled his features to remain unchanged. “I am a Rom, my lord. I do not pleasure myself with
gadji
women.”
Sir Archibald sniffed. “I have heard of this strange philosophy of your kind. Pity. I should have liked to hear the details of that encounter.” He returned Tonia’s hair and gown snippet to the box, then closed the lid with a snap. He leaned against the back of his padded barrel chair.
“You have done right well, Gypsy.”
“Thank you, my lord. And my cousin Demeo Lalow? Does he also fare well?”
The Constable sneered. “As well as any who inhabit the lower depths of my prison.”
“Now you may release him,” said Sandor, hoping he did not sound too demanding. This
gadjo
was one who enjoyed cruelty.
Sir Archibald
cocked his head. “Indeed, for I understand the boy is an excellent gamester at cards and dice. My guards are much the poorer for his visit here.”
Sandor hid his grin. “Then I will relieve you of his company.”
The Constable rang a little silver bell that sat on his desk. The door opened behind Sandor and two guards entered. “The boy will be sent on his way, but
you
will take his place,” Brackenbury said with an evil smile.
“How now?” Sandor erupted, lunging forward. The guards grabbed his elbows and pulled him back.
The Constable patted the casket. “’Tis a neat piece of work, but how do I know that these…objects are genuine? Lord Cavendish is a very wealthy man. Mayhap you were bribed by his gold?”
Sandor tasted bile on the back of his tongue. “I have never met this lord, and I own no gold but the other half that you owe me for my services.”
Brackenbury raised an eyebrow. “Time will tell the truth of your tale. Until then, you are my newest guest.” To the guards, he said, “Take this man to the Salt Tower.” Then he turned to Sandor. “It has a fine view of the river and a great deal of fresh air blows through it at all hours. I trust you will be comfortable there while I make my inquiries.”
Sandor tried to pull away, but the guards held him tighter. “I have promises to keep,” he protested, thinking of the sweet lady who waited for him in her lonely eyrie.
“Ah, so do all of us.” The Constable snapped his fingers. “Away with this refuse. Release the brat, then send for my supper.” He shuffled among his papers.
The guards
dragged Sandor to the door. Just before they quit the chamber, he looked over his shoulder and spat at the floor in front of the Constable’s desk. Then Sandor muttered a Romany curse in an under-tone.
May the devil dine upon your heart!
Snape Castle
, Northumberland
July 1553
L
ady Celeste Cavendish’s usually cheerful disposition had turned sad, despite the glorious days of midsummer. Seated on a stone bench in the most beautiful spot of her rose garden, she abandoned her embroidery in favor of her thoughts. Not even the heady fragrance of her favorite flowers could lift her heavy spirits.
When Tonia had first returned to Snape, her eldest child had been full of joy and expectation for a merry life in the future, now that she had been delivered from the King’s wicked sense of justice. Celeste sighed as she recalled those happy first days. But as the weeks went by, Tonia grew more distant. Dark circles hovered under the girl’s pretty eyes, making her look older and more haggard. She glided along the galleries as silent as a ghost. Lately, Tonia’s once-healthy appetite had not only disappeared, but Celeste had noticed that she was ill in her chamber pot almost daily.
Celeste’s
younger unmarried daughter, Alyssa, had quickly grown weary of her sister’s moody silence and had sought happier pastimes at Wolf Hall, the nearby home of Guy’s brother, the Earl of Thornbury. Not even Kitt, the extended family’s master entertainer, could entice many smiles from Tonia. Only Francis and his wife Jessica had been able to penetrate the barrier that she had built around her. In desperation, Celeste had sent to York for a doctor. The learned man had arrived yesterday and had spent many hours in Tonia’s company. This morning, he related to Celeste the most distressing news.
“Your young lady is deep in a fit of melancholy,” Dr. Pincher began. “Her humors are muddled. She should be dosed with a spring tonic and mayhap bled to correct her balance. But, my Lady Cavendish, the seat of her distress is not in her heart, nor her blood, but in her womb.”
Celeste cringed. “How now?” she whispered.
The doctor nodded. “Exactly so. Lady Gastonia is with child, nearly three months gone, I wager.” He gave Celeste a piercing look that screamed his disapproval of unwed motherhood. “’Tis little wonder she is out of sorts. Methinks she would be best treated with the procurement of a husband as soon as possible. In the meantime, rest and a diet of good broth made from young chickens will suit her well.”
Celeste felt stricken by the doctor’s blunt diagnosis. No wonder Tonia had been so withdrawn! How many soldiers had raped her while she was in their clutches? Why hadn’t Celeste even suspected the truth before now? Poor, poor Tonia! How frightened she must be!
How could
she tell Guy this latest development? He would ride down to London, search out those wicked men and kill them in cold blood without a blink of an eyelash. And what were they going to do about Tonia’s advancing condition? It had been difficult enough to keep her return a secret from all but the closest servants. But how would Celeste explain a new baby in the household? And would Tonia want to keep it, considering how it was conceived? Best to foster the child as soon as it was born. Mayhap, Tonia need never see it.
“By the by,” Dr. Pincher added as he prepared to ride back to York. “Did you know that there is a rumor going about the city that Lady Gastonia is dead?”
“Dead?” Celeste repeated, still reeling from the news of Tonia’s pregnancy.
The doctor tied his travel cloak about his shoulders. “Just so. I hear that soldiers of the King have been asking about the marketplace if the Cavendish servants were wearing mourning bands for the young lady. Most perplexing,” he concluded.
Celeste thought quickly. This prattling fool must be kept silent. “
Oui,
but I beg you, good doctor, say nothing at all to anyone about Tonia or her…delicate condition. The scandal of wagging tongues would surely kill her and you do not want her real death on your hands,
non?
”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Fear not, good lady. Her health and well-being are of the uppermost importance to me.” Pocketing the heavy pouch of coin that Guy had paid him, the doctor took his leave.
While Celeste mulled over these unsettling developments, one of the footmen appeared on the garden path. “Yer pardon, m’lady, but m’lord requires yer presence in the great chamber. There’s a visitor from Londontown.”
“Very
well,” Celeste replied in an even tone that belied the sudden stab of fear in her heart. “Tell my lord that I will join him forthwith.”
The footman hurried away on his mission.
Celeste’s hands turned cold and damp. Visitors from London were rare enough at Snape since Guy and Celeste had chosen to live in the quiet countryside and eschew the dour pleasures of the Tudor courts. But this stranger may be the dreaded one that Tonia had warned her parents about when she had related to them the hideous details of the brassbound casket. Why else would those monstrous men of the little King’s court have demanded her heart if not to taunt Tonia’s parents? Thank
le bon Dieu
that the Cavendishes knew the truth of the substitution.
After gathering up her embroidery hoop, as well as all the courage she could muster, Celeste left her temporary retreat. Before she joined her husband and their mysterious guest, she dabbed her flushed face with lavender water. Hesitating outside Tonia’s closed door, Celeste was tempted to tell her daughter about the visitor. But that talk might lead to the greater matter of Tonia’s unwanted pregnancy and Celeste did not have the time now to give Tonia her full attention and comfort. They would speak in private later this evening.
Two men rose when Celeste entered the hall. She could tell by the fire in Guy’s eyes that her suspicions had been correct. Their uninvited guests were here on King’s business.
“This is Sir Roderick Caitland, secretary to the Duke of Northumberland,” Guy growled, waving at the somberly dressed courtier.
Lord
Caitland bowed. The servant behind his master’s chair was not introduced. With a start, Celeste noticed that he held a wooden, brassbound casket under his arm. It fit exactly the description that Tonia had given them.
Celeste pasted a false smile on her trembling lips. “Be seated, my lord,” she said. “Welcome to Snape. Have you taken refreshment?” She glanced at the empty table. Guy gave her a little frown. He had no intention of showing hospitality to this man, no matter how long a journey the gentleman must have had.
Sir Roderick perched on the edge of the wide armchair much like a crow on a stile. He clutched his deerskin gloves in one hand as if he sought to strangle the life out of them. “No need, my lady,” he replied in a high-pitched voice. “My business will not take long. I must return to York by nightfall.”
Celeste cast a quick look at her husband before she said, “And what is this business of yours, may I ask?” She avoided looking at the box.
Sir Roderick tapped his foot on the floor. “My…um…my lord, the duke, sends you his compliments and he has asked me to inquire after your daughter, the Lady Gastonia.”
“What about her?” snapped Guy.
Celeste placed her hand over her bodice, where her heart beat against her breastbone.
Play the role as we have planned,
mon cher.
Pretend to know nothing.
Lord Caitland dabbed a silken handkerchief at the corner of his mouth. “Have you heard from her recently?”
“Our daughter has renounced the pleasures of the world, my lord. She lives in a simple house some distance from here together with a small coterie of like-minded friends. We last received a letter from her some months ago, did we not, my dear?”
Guy’s
question jolted Celeste. “Indeed, my lord,” she answered in turn. “Tonia wrote that she enjoyed most excellent health.”
The visitor shifted in his chair. “Alas, I fear ’tis not so, my lord, my lady.”
“How now?” Guy asked, his tone becoming more velvet. “What news is this?”
Celeste did not trust her tongue to speak. She steeled herself for what she knew was to come. The man with the box stepped a little closer to Caitland.
Sir Roderick ran a finger under his plain, pointed collar. He cleared his throat. “On April the fifth of this year, the Lady Gastonia, along with her companions, was arrested in the name of the King for crimes against His Majesty.”
Guy pretended to laugh. “’Tis a jest! My daughter is the most retiring and modest of women. How could she possibly have offended the King? She has never met him. And by what right do you come here to distress my lady wife with this falsehood?” he added.
Tread very carefully, mon cher.
Celeste gnawed the inside of her cheek.
Caitland dabbed his mouth again. “This visit is none of my liking, I assure you, my lord. I am merely a messenger from my master, the duke, who speaks in the King’s name.”
“Then say your message and be brief.”
The visitor twitched. “The Lady Gastonia was taken to York, together with her friends, where they were brought before an
ad hoc
Star Chamber—”
“Mon
Dieu,”
Celeste murmured under her breath. She lifted her fan from her girdle and waved it before her face.
This mummery is worse that I had expected.
She felt very warm.
Caitland hurried on. “—where they were accused of treason—”
Guy leaned over the man. “Treason?” he hissed. “Are you addlepated?”
Caitland swallowed then wiped his forehead again. “I pray you, my lord, this message is as much an agony to me as ’twill be for you. Give me time and space to conclude it.”
Guy held him in a withering glare before he nodded. “Go on.”
“Treason by practicing heretical, popish rituals instead of the true faith as set forth by King Edward for the good of his people—”
“And for the further acquisition of power by his grasping ministers, such as your master.”
Caitland whimpered under his breath. His skin had taken on an unhealthy, pasty look. “The Lady Gastonia was charged with praying in Latin—instead of English as the King has directed his subjects—for burning blessed candles, for venerating relics and painted statues of the saints and for hearing the Mass, which is expressly forbidden.”
“The Princess Mary also hears Mass—in Latin—and burns blessed candles, whyfore is she not arrested?”
“Because she is…a royal lady,” squeaked the agitated man. “The King’s true sister of the blood. She is the undoubted daughter of our late King Henry—”
“And so your master seeks to punish the princess by persecuting members of the nobility who might practice the same old faith in the privacy of their homes?” Guy whispered. “The same faith that Great Harry himself followed? Remember, messenger, I knew the old King well.”
Celeste
shivered to hear the threatening note in her husband’s voice. She prayed that he would keep the Cavendish temper in check, at least until after this horrible man had left their home.
Sir Roderick slunk lower in his chair as if he sought to escape the tempest that was brewing. “My Lord Cavendish, the duke has sent me to tell you that he knows of your daughter’s whereabouts and to bear a warning to you and your whole family, most particularly to your brother, the Earl of Thornbury. Lady Gastonia was convicted of all the charges and was sentenced to immediate execution—”
“Oh!” Celeste gripped the arms of the chair. Though she had heard this tale before, first from Tonia’s friend, Lucy, then from Tonia herself, hearing it a third time from the lips of this royal official made it seem even more cold-blooded. She did not have to pretend her distress. It was real enough.
“And was this sentence carried out?” Guy asked, still whispering.
Caitland plastered himself against the back of his chair. “I…I regret to inform you that the Lady Gastonia was executed by the King’s headsman on or about the twentieth of April. I know not where, my lord. ’Twas done in secret.”
Guy pushed his face close to the perspiring Caitland’s. “I don’t believe this lie. You were sent here to test our loyalty with this vile tale. Is that how your master rules the King? With intimidation? Is this how the people of England will be ruled? By fear and hatred instead of love and loyalty?”
Celeste
fanned harder. A low humming sounded in her ears, a warning signal that she was close to swooning.
“My lord, I did not wish to come here this day—nor any day. I am bound to obey the duke.” Caitland turned his head away. “Look inside yon casket for your proof of my news.”
Celeste drew in several deep breaths in quick succession but her giddiness refused to leave her.
I will not look at it.
Caitland’s servant stepped between his master and Guy. Then he lifted the lid. Celeste shut her eyes as a foul, sickening stench wafted on the air. The silence in the room was more deafening than a thunderbolt at close range.
“’Tis… ’tis her heart,” mumbled the courtier, holding his handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “Your daughter’s. May God forgive me for bringing it to you. I had no choice.”
Guy slammed down the lid, catching the thumb of Caitland’s servant, who howled with the unexpected pain. Celeste placed a hand over her heaving stomach while she fanned herself even harder with the other. Her head swam.
“My daughter’s heart?” Guy shouted. “What manner of churl is it who would conceive of such a knavish, horn-mad, brazen trick as this to play upon a gentle mother and a loving father? Weep, England, for you are ruled by monsters!”
“Pea…peace, my lord,” jabbered Caitland. “Your own words could condemn you as well. ’Tis treason, methinks, to call the King a monster.”
“I
doubt young Edward had anything to do with this perfidy!” Guy ranted to the rafters. “I understand that he is not well, indeed he is very ill. Some say ’tis fatal.”
“Peace, my lord,” Caitland babbled. “I pray you. ’Tis also treason to speak of the King’s death.”
“Then speak to me of mine,” said a low feminine voice from the far end of the hall.
Opening her eyes, Celeste beheld Tonia, looking like a wraith with her hair unbound and her eyes darkened by the smudges of worry under them. The visitor’s servant dropped the grisly box. Mercifully the latch did not come undone. The man cowered behind the table and hid his face in the crook of his arm. Lord Caitland slid out of his chair onto the floor. His red-veined eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.