Page 28 of A Murder on London Bridge
From just behind me, Anne leaned close and whispered, “Plead a headache, my lady.”
I touched my brow, letting my shoulders sink as though weary. “You do me much honor, sirs,” I said, forcing a faint smile. “But the incense of the chapel has left me with a dreadful headache. I must beg to retire.”
The disappointment in the courtiers’ faces was plain, but I made my curtsy and slipped from their hopeful gazes into the corridor beyond. Anne fell into step beside me as we wound our way back toward my bedchamber, the hush of the passage a blessed relief after the press of the hall.
“Why do they come at me so avidly?” I asked under my breath. “I have done nothing to encourage them.”
Anne gave a small, knowing smile. “They see you as a prize to be won, my lady. Beauty, grace, and a place near the Queen. It is enough to whet any man’s appetite.”
Her words unsettled me, though I could not fathom what they truly meant. A prize? I quickly dismissed it. There was no time to dwell on such riddles.
Once inside my chamber, I turned to Anne. “I am to meet Lord Hollingsworth in the cloistered walk. There are matters we must discuss privately. You must not wait up for me.”
Anne’s eyes widened for only a heartbeat, then she inclined her head, as calm as if I had told her I meant to take the air. “Then you shall need a shawl. It is cold in the cloistered walk.”
She drew a dark wrap from the press and settled it about my shoulders, her hands lingering a moment in quiet benediction. I managed a faint smile of thanks before slipping out the door.
CHAPTER 15
WHISPERS IN THE CLOISTERED SHADOWS
The cloistered walk lay in half-darkness, its stone arches silvered by moonlight, its flagstones leeching chill through the soles of my slippers. A draught wound along the passage like a ghostly hand, carrying with it the faint strains of music from the hall. I drew my shawl closer about my shoulders, grateful for its thin warmth. No sensible courtier would choose such a place for a tryst, not when warm galleries and lamplit chambers stood ready. This was no lovers’ haunt. It was cold, silent, and watchful—an ideal place for secrets.
Hollingsworth stood beneath one of the arches, his face caught in a pale shaft of moonlight, his broad shoulders half in shadow. The merriment of the banquet clung no longer to him. He looked grave, intent, as though he too felt the weight of what had passed this night. When his gaze found mine, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or relief. The quickness of my step betrayed how much I had longed to see him.
“You came,” he said softly.
“How could I not?” My voice was steadier than I felt, echoing against the stones as I moved closer. “There is much you must hear.”
His eyes searched mine. “There is something new?”
I nodded, pulling the shawl tighter about my shoulders.
He glanced past me toward the arcade, his expression sharpening. “Wait here a moment.”
Before I could ask why, he strode the length of the cloister, his boots sounding low against the flagstones. He moved with a soldier’s economy, pausing at each arch to peer into the darkness beyond. At the far end he vanished into shadow, then returned, his cloak stirring faintly in the draught.
“No one,” he said when he reached me again, lowering his voice. “We are alone. Now tell me, what have you learned?”
“In the chapel tonight, after prayers, a priest stopped me. He said he had heard it too many times in confession to dismiss as rumor—poison in her cup, or a dagger at her breast. He told me it was not if but when.”
Hollingsworth’s mouth tightened. “Then the danger is nearer than even I feared.”
“You feared it already?”
“After leaving the King’s presence tonight, I was pulled aside by two men I trust. Old friends. They’ve heard the talk spreading through Whitehall and London alike. The whispers are no longer confined to idle gossip. Pamphlets pass from hand to hand—venomous things likening Catherine to Jezebel, calling her a foreign infection to be cut away. And it is not just scribblers. Members of Parliament mutter openly of removing her. Some call it exile. Others …” His jaw tightened. “Others call it justice by steel or poison.”
My breath caught.
He studied me gravely. “There is bluster—drunkards in taverns, like Sir Geoffrey Markham, boasting of daggers after too much claret. Such men are cowards. But there are names I take seriously. Sir Thomas Overton, a Puritan voice in Parliament, is one. And Lord Gabriel Parquier. He has both influence and the purse to hire men who do not flinch at murder. When their names appear in the same breath as pamphlets, I take heed.”
A chill swept through me, though the air was already cold. “Then the priest spoke truth. It is not if, but when.”
“It is.” He lowered his tone further. “But the King hears the whispers and laughs them off. Charles believes his charm is enough to silence hatred. But hatred has sharper teeth than wit can blunt.”
I pressed a hand against the cold stone of the pillar beside me. “Then she truly is in peril.”
“She is,” he agreed, his eyes never leaving mine.
