Page 27 of A Murder on London Bridge
I thought of the ways one might protect a queen without ever drawing a blade. Watch the servants. Mark the dishes as they were brought forward. Note who lingered too near her cup, who whispered too intently at her shoulder, who pressed her to eat or drink. The danger might come from without or within, from enemy or supposed friend.
We left the chapel in silence, Anne guiding me toward my assigned bedchamber. Chilled as I was from the incense-laden air and cold flagstones, I welcomed the heat cast by the fire burning in the hearth.
Anne set to work at once, loosening the ribbons of my day dress with deft fingers. I stood rigid beneath her touch, my mind still replaying the priest’s warning:poison in her cup … a dagger at her breast.
After she drew the gown from my shoulders, she poured rose-scented water into a shallow basin and wrung out a linen cloth. “Here, my lady. Just a quick refresh before you take your rest.”
She pressed the cool cloth gently to my face, then passed it over my neck and hands. The faint fragrance of roses soothed me, though it did little to ease the weight of the priest’s warning in my thoughts. When she turned away, I finished the task myself, dabbing discreetly at the places no maid need attend. It was a small relief to feel clean.
Following the Queen’s advice, I took my rest and soon drifted into sleep. What felt like mere minutes later, Anne’s voice roused me. “Come, my lady—it is time to dress.”
She slipped a cool linen chemise over my head. Then came the new attire: a gown of pale ivory silk, its square neckline edged with delicate lace, the skirts embroidered with sprays of silver thread. Anne fastened the stomacher with quick, precise hands, then drew a sash of deep blue satin about my waist.
After stepping back to survey her work, she guided me toward the tall mirror set above the dressing table. “Sit, my lady,” she murmured, reaching for the jeweled box at hand.
I obeyed, lowering myself onto the cushioned stool. I stared down at myself as though at a stranger. How strange, to dress for splendor while thinking only of peril. The jewels Anne clasped at my throat gleamed cold as chains. The pearls she pinned in my hair might as well have been drops of ice.
Still, I reminded myself, appearances at court were armor of their own. If I could not wield a blade, I would wear my beauty as a shield, my eyes as weapons sharp enough to piercedeceit. I would watch. I would listen. I would protect the Queen, whatever it cost me.
“You look radiant, my lady.”
I forced a smile. “Then let us pray the light blinds our enemies before they strike.”
If I had no sword, then I would make my eyes my sharpest weapon.
Anne gave me a worried glance. “You are pale.”
“Too much incense,” I murmured, though we both knew it was more than that.
A knock came at the chamber door, and a young page bowed his head inside. “Her Majesty prepares to enter the banquet hall. You are wanted, my lady.”
I rose at once, smoothing the silk skirts that still felt more like armor than adornment, and followed Anne back through the corridors.
When the Queen emerged at last from her chambers, dressed in a gown of dark blue satin trimmed with pearls, I felt my stomach knot. She smiled faintly, but the sight gave me little comfort. Her very serenity seemed proof she suspected nothing of the venom brewing around her.
As we proceeded along the corridors to the banquet hall, the sound of viols and trumpets carried to us, along with the heady scent of roasted meats. Yet for me, the feast ahead was no celebration. It was a battlefield, and every dish a weapon waiting to be wielded.
The hall glittered with candlelight, silver chargers, and covered platters gleaming upon the long tables, while the restless murmur of courtiers eager for diversion mingled with the strains of music that filled the pause. Her Majesty took her place at the high table, her ladies gathered near, yet not a morsel was touched. All eyes turned expectantly to the great doors.
At last, they opened, and the King entered to a swell of music and the rustle of silks as the company rose in unison. Charles looked pleased with the spectacle, acknowledging bows and curtsies with a languid smile before taking his seat beside the Queen. Only then did the meal begin.
For me, the splendor blurred into menace. Each goblet poured might carry death. Each dish set before Her Majesty might conceal poison. I watched Catherine as closely as a hawk—her delicate hands lifting a cup, her lips touching the rim. My breath caught until she set it down again. A moment later, she sampled a morsel of fish, and my pulse hammered, waiting for her to falter, to pale, to fall. She did not.
I took some comfort in noting that her wine was drawn from the same decanter as the King’s, her food served from the same platters placed before him. Yet if treachery came, it would be Catherine’s cup singled out, her portion marked. She alone was the target.
From just behind my chair, Anne murmured a quiet prayer, the words scarcely reaching my ears. Across the table, Castlemaine’s mocking eyes caught mine, as though she guessed my terror and delighted in it. The courtiers laughed, jested, raised their glasses. I saw only peril.
At one point a servant stumbled, spilling wine across the rushes. The hall erupted in laughter, but I nearly leapt to my feet, certain it was some signal, some stratagem. Yet nothing followed—only red stains seeping into straw.
The banquet dragged on, course after glittering course. My stomach turned from dread. Though food enough was placed before me, I ate little. Each moment stretched, weighted with fear. But at last, the Queen rose, smiling faintly, her health intact. The courtiers bowed, the music swelled, and she departed unharmed.
Relief left me weak, but not reassured. The priest’s words clung to me like smoke—not if, but when.
As the hall began to empty, I lingered at the edge of the crowd, heart still hammering. No sooner had I drawn a steadying breath than a young courtier with carefully curled hair and a smile too polished for sincerity bowed low before me.
“My lady, you honor Whitehall with your presence. Might I escort you to the next dance?” His eyes gleamed with something more than courtesy. Speculation, perhaps? Or calculation.
Before I could fashion a reply, another gentleman pressed nearer, murmuring his name and offering a compliment so florid I scarcely heard it. Their eagerness unsettled me as much as the banquet had. I could not imagine why they should seek my company with such sudden ardor.
