Rose Bride (8 page)

She thought of Hugh Beaufort. A quiet, charming gentleman, and strikingly handsome, she had seen him frequently about the court this year. ‘Master Beaufort works closely with your husband, is that not so?’

Kate nodded. ‘And he is a good friend to Wolf. He will not betray us.’

‘Must it be tonight?’

‘I am afraid so.’ Kate kissed her on the cheek, and Margerie realised that her friend was trembling. ‘Forgive me, I would not ask but I am desperate. My husband’s temper is most uneven at the moment, I cannot risk his displeasure by not returning at once to bed. I have been told you will find Master Beaufort with Lord Wolf. Merely knock and ask to speak with him outside the chamber. What harm can there be in it?’

‘Very well,’ she agreed, though in truth she was unnerved by the prospect of delivering a secret message on the same day that Anne Boleyn had met her death. The whole court was on edge, everyone watching everyone else. The chances of being followed and accused of some crime – perhaps even treason – were higher than ever. ‘What is the message I am to deliver?’

Kate whispered it in her ear, and made her repeat it back. ‘Only be sure not to be overheard when you deliver it to Master Beaufort. Lord Wolf is still closely watched by the king’s spies.’ Kate’s smile was bitter. ‘Those highest in the king’s favour are also those he fears the most, it seems.’

‘I shall be careful.’

‘You have my thanks.’ Kate embraced her. ‘Now I must return to my husband. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

Margerie bade her farewell, then fetched her shoes and a hooded cloak, for she suspected it would be best not to announce her identity too openly as she wandered the palace that night. Her red hair was too well known at court, she thought ruefully, tucking it away beneath the heavy hood. If her visit to Lord Wolf’s quarters was noted, her intimate history with him might mark her out as another to be suspected too.

There was a terrible hush over the palace. She slipped through long, darkened corridors, the wall torches allowed to burn down as though most courtiers were expected to be abed at this hour. Though in truth it was not so very late at the court; most nights would still see noblemen carousing at this hour.

There was a short man in a cloak leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching Lord Wolf’s apartments. She hesitated, then swept past him, her chin high, and knocked at the door. His gaze followed her, then he shrank back into the shadows.

To her relief, it was Hugh who came to the door. ‘Mistress Croft?’ he asked, frowning. No doubt he knew her history with Wolf. He glanced back over his shoulder, then stepped outside into the corridor, pulling the door shut. ‘How may I help you, mistress?’

‘I have an urgent message for his lordship,’ she whispered, only too aware of the spy watching from the shadows.

His eyes met hers, then he nodded slowly. ‘Not here,’ he muttered, then raised his voice. ‘You are looking for Lord Carlyle, you say? No, his lordship is not here, nor have I seen him. You have mistaken the room perhaps? His quarters are further along here . . . Come, let me escort you there.’

She fell in with his pantomime, pretending to look grateful as they walked past the watching spy. ‘My thanks, Master Beaufort. I . . . I admit I mistook the room for Lord Carlyle’s apartments.’

They came to the corner, passing out of the man’s sight, then Hugh Beaufort whisked her more swiftly along the next corridor. He was a tall man, she realised, just a little taller than her, and in truth a very handsome one, green-eyed like herself, with shining fair hair hidden beneath a black velvet cap.

‘I see the king’s spies are still watching us,’ he murmured, checking over his shoulder, but the corridor behind them was empty.

‘Forgive me, it was not my idea to come. My message is from Mistress Langley. She said it must be delivered tonight.’

‘I am glad you came then, regardless.’ He nodded towards a door set into an alcove. ‘Those are Lord Carlyle’s rooms, in case that spy is still watching when I leave.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘And what reason might I have for visiting a peer at this hour?’

Hugh Beaufort grinned. ‘A lady of your skills? Come, Mistress Croft, I suspect you could think of a likely reason.’

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she felt uncomfortable under his look of frank admiration. He meant no harm by the jest, she was sure. Nonetheless, she could not help wishing she were just
a little
less notorious at court.

‘Now, what is this message?’ he asked briskly.

She glanced up and down the corridor, suddenly fearful that she had heard a rustle in the shadows. But there was nobody in sight.

Leaning close, she whispered, ‘The king knows that Wolf lied about his wife, and intends revenge. His Majesty is looking for some business that will send Wolf away from court, leaving his bride unprotected.’ Her voice shook, for she knew what danger she stood in simply by delivering such a message. ‘If any summons should come from the king, Wolf must ensure his bride’s safe return to Yorkshire, for His Majesty is unlikely to pursue her there.’

Hugh drew a sharp breath, his head close to hers. ‘I see.’ His face had hardened as he listened, but now he managed a terse smile. He laid a hand lightly on her arm. ‘I thank you for coming here tonight, I know it cannot have been easy. But there is a friend I need to consult on this matter. And at once. May I leave you here, Mistress Croft? Or do you require safe escort back to your chambers?’

Suddenly uncertain, Margerie met his earnest gaze. She heard the tower bell chime midnight. If she returned to the women’s quarters now, she might lie awake for hours, fearful of what might happen if she let herself fall asleep. For she had run out of her supply of sleeping draught, and without it, she knew her body capable of rising while she was still dreaming and wandering the palace in her nightgown. The shame of what she might do while in that dream-state filled her with horror.

‘No,’ she said, and smiled back at him, her manner equally terse. ‘I too have someone I must see before I sleep tonight.’

‘Then I shall bid you good night, mistress.’

Hugh Beaufort bowed, raising her hand to his lips, then strode away down the corridor, surprisingly graceful for one so tall.

She watched him go, then wished she had asked for his escort anyway. For now she was alone, Margerie became uncomfortably aware of that rustling sound again in the shadows. She turned, narrowing her eyes as she searched the torchlit corridor, then caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone was watching her!

Startled, and more than a little afraid, Margerie hurried towards the door in the alcove, hoping that Lord Carlyle would not be in his quarters. If she could make it look as though her errand there had indeed been to visit the nobleman, perhaps as his mistress . . .

But by a happy chance the door was already ajar. Instead of knocking, she opened it, meaning to slip inside and hide until the spy had gone.

The sight that greeted her took her breath away. A fair-haired woman, whom she did not recognise, was bent naked over a day-bed, with one naked man entering her vigorously from behind and another – Lord Carlyle, if she was not mistaken – thrusting into her mouth.

She gave a cry, stifling it with her hand, and stumbled back from the door. It swung closed as she hurried away, her cheeks hot. But even while her mind protested, she knew that the sight had aroused her.

Swiftly, she made her way towards the tower where Master Elton lodged, wondering if he would ever indulge in such decadent games. But no, the doctor was too controlled a gentleman. Though if he were ever to lose that control . . .

She shivered, a chill draught about her feet and ankles as she raised her skirts, climbing the unlit tower stairs to his room. Her footsteps echoed on the stone stairs, and once or twice she paused, frowning as she heard some faint noise below. But the darkness only mocked her and she carried on, keeping one hand cautiously on the wall for balance.

The narrow landing at the top was poorly lit, the one torch almost burnt down to its bracket. She hesitated, still sure someone was following her. It would be foolish to knock at Master Elton’s door if she were under scrutiny. Better to wait and see if anyone was coming up the stairs behind her . . .

She waited, holding her breath. Sure enough, a figure soon emerged from the entrance to the stairs, keeping to the shadows as though trying not to be seen. But it was a woman, not a man.

Margerie stared, almost outraged that she had been scared for nothing. ‘Who are you?’ She frowned, taking a few steps towards her pursuer, whom she was sure she had seen about the court recently. ‘Wait . . . You are Lady Wolf’s young sister, are you not?’

‘Yes.’ The young woman straightened, her air defiant now she had been discovered. ‘My name is Susannah Tyrell. My father is Sir John Tyrell. And who are
you
?’

Margerie looked at her more closely, and could see no malice or ill will in the girl’s pretty, heart-shaped face. She pushed back her hood and smiled, wondering why Lady Wolf’s sister should have been following her. This was a case of mistaken identity, surely. Margerie decided to proceed cautiously though. Not only was Susannah Tyrell allied to the Wolf family, but there had been rumours about the young maid ever since she arrived at court. She had been a runaway bride, or some such nonsense, dressed as a man! And there had been whispers about the king’s interest in her . . .

She did not wish to be dragged into some foolhardy venture by this girl, not tonight of all nights.

‘Me?’ she said drily. ‘Oh, I am nobody.’

But Susannah Tyrell was not satisfied. ‘Do you have a name? And why were you so deep in conversation with Master Hugh Beaufort?’

‘My name is Margerie. But as for your other question, I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss that matter. You must forgive me, Mistress Tyrell.’ Margerie curtseyed, then very deliberately turned her back on the girl. ‘I am late for my bed.’

‘Wait, I must know!’

Margerie glanced back at her, her eyes narrowed at that impulsive command, then suddenly understood. Susannah Tyrell had been watching her with Hugh Beaufort, the gentleman who had brought her back to court after her wild escapade.

‘He means something to you, Master Beaufort?’

Susannah’s eyes widened. ‘Not particularly, no. I just wondered if he meant anything to
you
.’

It was hard not to smile at such naivety. The girl was so very young and in love. Yet who could blame her?

‘Master Beaufort is a handsome gentleman, is he not?’ Margerie felt a twinge of sympathy as she tested the girl, noting how her gaze wavered, her cheeks tinged with a most revealing blush. ‘Those broad shoulders, that narrow waist . . .’

Susannah’s hurt shone out of her face. The girl bit her lip, saying nothing, but there were tears in her eyes.

Margerie looked at her, stung by remorse. Had there not been a recent scandal about Susannah Tyrell and King Henry? She recalled some whispered conversation between the other seamstresses. This girl on the king’s lap, and stern Thomas Cromwell interrupting their love play . . .

Seeing this pretty creature, the story made sense. She was everything the king desired, and perhaps still a virgin, for all the tales about her.

Margerie sighed, and closed the gap between them. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you. May I speak plainly?’ She placed a hand on Susannah’s arm. ‘I have heard certain tales about you and His Majesty. No listen, I do not condemn you, for I know what it is to be in a man’s power. And an offer from the King of England is not easily refused by any woman, let alone one who has left the safety of her father’s protection as you have done. Oh, I can tell by your face that you think yourself free to do whatever you choose and live however you wish. But you must be careful, child. You are so very young.’

‘I am eighteen,’ she said proudly, meeting her gaze without flinching. The girl had courage, that was for sure. ‘That is hardly young.’

‘So bold, such a firebrand.’ Margerie smiled, though in truth she felt suddenly sad. ‘When I was young, I made a terrible mistake over a man because I thought myself in love. It was only a moment’s error, but it ruined my life. Do not, I beg you, take any more false steps that might lead you away from your good reputation. Or you may live to regret it, as I have done. Now please stop following me. I have given you my name, and will tell you nothing more.’ Margerie put up her hood again. ‘Goodnight, Mistress Tyrell.’

She watched as Susannah Tyrell turned and slowly returned the way she had come. After a moment, she hurried to Master Elton’s door and knocked. Her hand faltered, and she found herself wishing she too could run away down the stairs.

What would he think of her, calling on him so late?

Then she lifted her chin and knocked more loudly, three times, and heard movement within.

What did it matter what he thought? It was rather too late to be worrying about her lost reputation now.

The door opened cautiously. It was Master Elton in his sombre physician’s robe, belted at the waist, but with his dark hair dishevelled as though he had been asleep.

His dark eyes met hers, widening slightly, and there was a sudden flare of desire in his face. Then it was gone, hidden behind that shuttered control as he bowed.