Page 24 of A Murder on London Bridge
I schooled my features to bland disinterest, though inside my thoughts raced. Arlington—the name rang in my ears, tethered to some half-formed memory I could not yet place. I glimpsed a folded parchment passed from hand to hand, caught the phrasesealed under the rose, a murmur of ships. And then—darker still—they spoke of the Queen’s barrenness, of replacing her. My blood chilled. There was only one way to unseat a queen. She would have to die.
A tall man with a hawkish nose turned sharply, caught me staring, and narrowed his eyes.
Anne pulled harder, her voice tight. “Come, my lady. There’s no safety in lingering here.”
This time, I let her lead me on, though my mind stayed rooted to that shadowed corner of the gallery, where secrets simmered beneath the surface like embers waiting for breath.
Our skirts whispered along the floor as we quickened our pace, but their words clung to me like smoke.Papers. Ships at Dover. A bargain struck.The Queen’s barrenness.”
Those very phrases might be written in the murdered antiquarian’s manuscript.
Anne led me to the small chamber allotted to me and barred the door firmly behind us. Her face was pale in the rushlight. “Mind this, my lady, you hear much at court, but you speak of nothing. Promise me.”
I nodded, though my voice trembled and my thoughts clamored otherwise. “I promise.” After a pause, I added, “But who were those men? The one with the hawkish nose. He looked at me as though I had already betrayed him.”
Anne hesitated, her hand tightening on the latch. “Sir John Denham,” she said at last. “The others were Edward Montagu, Sir William Coventry, and Henry Jermyn. All of them cleverer with their tongues than wise with their souls. And all of them dangerous.”
“The names mean little to me,” I admitted. “Are they important enough to direct such efforts toward the Queen?”
Anne’s mouth tightened. “Important enough to lend weight but not to lead. Men such as these follow another’s banner. A greater lord sets them whispering, and they are glad to carry his words.”
I pressed her. “Their words hinted at some conspiracy. I heard enough to know it was more than idle talk.”
Her eyes darted to the door, though it was barred fast. “That I cannot tell you. Not because I would not, but because to speak of it is peril itself. Best you forget what scraps you caught.”
But forgetting was impossible. The names burned in my mind, and with them the fragments of treasonous whispers. Arlington. Dover. Sealed under the rose. And, most assuredly, a conspiracy against Her Majesty.
Anne turned away, busying herself with the tinderbox, coaxing a spark to the waiting candlewick. “Trust me, my lady. The less you know, the safer you are.”
Safer, perhaps, but no wiser. And wisdom, I thought grimly, might be the only thing to keep me alive in Whitehall.
Yet even as I lay that night beneath heavy damask curtains, I knew silence would not be enough. If treason stalked the queen, I was already caught in its snare.
CHAPTER 13
FOLLOWING THE CLUES
Sleep proved impossible. The courtiers’ whispers haunted me, twining with memories of the murdered antiquarian and his cryptic manuscript.Papers… proofs… a scheme to cast aside the queen.
By morning, my resolve had hardened. If I were to endure this strange masquerade, I must do more than curtsy and smile. I had to investigate.
Anne fussed with my gown as we prepared to attend the queen. “Keep your eyes low, my lady. It is safest.”
Safe. The word clung like dust. Anne meant well, trying to shield me with obedience and silence, but it was not in my nature to look down and walk past danger. Not when whispers of plots coiled through these gilded halls, not when a queen’s life might hang in the balance. I had to look closer. I had to know.
I caught her hand. “Anne, if there is danger to Her Majesty, I cannot look away.”
Her grey eyes flicked to mine, troubled but loyal. She said nothing more, though her silence was answer enough.
The day unfolded in a blur of duties—handing the queen her embroidery silks, holding a basin for her ablutions, listening as she murmured prayers in Portuguese. The other ladies watched me with suspicion, especially Lady Castlemaine, who lingered like a cat waiting to pounce.
By early afternoon, Her Majesty declared herself weary of close air and candle smoke. “A little sun, a little breeze,” she said softly, her Portuguese accent lilting. “Come, Lady Halloran, you will attend me.”
Grateful for the errand, I followed as we descended to the garden walks. The air was temperate, touched with the faintest edge of autumn. Roses still bloomed, their perfume mingling with the damp scent of clipped yew.
But scarcely had we begun our promenade when the King himself appeared, striding toward us with two gentlemen in tow. The courtiers melted back with bows, leaving him space.
Charles Stuart was taller than I expected, his dark hair tumbling loose about his shoulders, his long face made striking by a hooked nose and quick, searching eyes. There was an ease in his gait, a restless energy in every movement, as though he could never stand still long enough to be pinned down. He smiled often, but the smile sat crooked on his lips—half-mockery, half-mirth, revealing little of what he truly thought.
