Into the Dim (23 page)

My gaze shot to Rachel, who stood pale and shaking at my side. She nodded, though, encouraging me.

“Yes, Your Grace,” I managed. “My cousin Sarah de Carlyle.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved her royal hand dismissively and picked up her quill. “After Rachel spoke of you, Sister Hectare made inquiries, I believe. Tell the girl what you've learned, Sister.”

The ancient woman's voice creaked like an unoiled door. “All the barons of the land will be here tonight at Your Grace's precoronation feast. Lady Sarah's name is de Carlyle no longer, of course, but she and her husband will be in attendance.”

For an instant, all I felt was an overwhelming thrill of exhilaration. Of triumph. My mother. Here. Then the rest of the nun's words penetrated, and I could only blink at her.

Husband?
The words tangled in my mouth. “I'm sorry, but my c-cousin is not married, sister. You aren't . . . I mean, you don't have the wrong person in mind, do you?”

“I don't believe so, child,” Hectare replied kindly. “Though these old ears could have heard wrong.”

Thoughts of my father laughing quietly with Stella Montgomery began to thread through my mind. Shock turned slowly to anger at how easily they'd both given up.

Apparently I'm the only one in this family with any damn loyalty.

I had to go. Had to get out of there before I puked all over the queen of England's pretty bejeweled slippers. I had to think this through. I knew my mom. No matter what kind of situation she'd faced, my mother always,
always
did what she wanted. Sarah Walton didn't compromise. There must have been a reason. A plan.

A servant signaled to Rachel, who tugged on my arm. “We are dismissed.”

We backed away from the now-distracted royal. As we reached the door, Sister Hectare scrambled around the table and approached us.

“Mistress Hope,” she said, “the queen enjoys interfering with that prying priest. He hates women in general, and learned ones even more. But make no mistake, you've made an enemy in Becket here today, so take heed. The queen's protection extends only so far.” The little nun bestowed a sweet, toothless grin to soften her words. Her face folded into a million wrinkles. “In any case, Her Grace would like to extend a personal invitation for you and your family to attend the feast tonight. There, I believe, you shall find the woman you are searching for.”

“Y
OU
'
RE NOT BEING FAIR
, H
OPE
.” P
HOEBE
'
S TEETH CHATTERED
as our rented sled lined up with hundreds of others. Sleds, sleighs, and riders on horseback, filed out the city gate, headed for the Palace of Westminster and its nearby Abbey. “First of all, you don't even know for sure the woman they mentioned is
our
Sarah.”

I nodded, though I did know. I knew it in my heart. After we returned to the house and I revealed what I'd learned, I'd sunk into a depression that left me wrung out and numb.

Alongside the procession, hundreds of mounted soldiers bore blazing torches, lighting the frigid night until the fat snowflakes glowed like bits of fire falling from the sky. Shouts and cheers rang out. The smells of horse and ice and burning pitch. The jangle of bells on tack as people's cheeks and fingertips froze.

It wasn't far down the road called the Strand to Westminster that—in this bygone age—still lay a few miles outside the city proper. Based on the sprawling hamlets and great estates we passed, it wouldn't be long before London outgrew its walls completely, and the great Abbey and Palace became the center of town.

I burrowed deeper under the musty furs. Every exhale turned to a cloud of frozen mist that iced my blood in a world gone cobwebby and cold. In the orange haze, Collum rode beside us on a sway-backed mare. He seemed twitchy and anxious. I'd never seen him nervous before. I did not care for it.

Dismounting, we merged with the crowd as they flowed toward the castle's entry. Phoebe's emerald dress—purchased secondhand at market—suited her auburn hair and pale, freckled skin to perfection as she puffed beside me. “Let's just find Sarah and get the story from her, okay?”

My own gown of rich indigo, embroidered in whorls of scarlet, swept down in a cascade of plush wool. With Phoebe's needle, the long, belled sleeves, lined with crimson silk, draped to the ground in swooping elegance.

When I'd come down the steps at Mabray House, my hair braided and pinned in place by Alice's clever fingers, Collum had stared at me for a long moment before mumbling a begrudging “You'll do.”

The knot on my forehead from my previous tumble pulsated
.
The freezing wind whipped at the filmy veil as—for the hundredth time—I adjusted the bronze circlet that ringed my scalp like a torture device.

Phoebe glanced over at me. “You all right, then?”

“Peachy.”

People lined up before the torchlit entrance to the Palace of Westminster, dressed in their glittering, courtly best. Butterflies cartwheeled in my gut as we joined the queue of invited guests.

She's here—I know it. My mother's here and she's married.

Phoebe gave me a concerned look as we crossed the scoured cobbles and mounted the steps. “It'll be okay, Hope. Honestly. We'll find Sarah, and then . . .”

My eyes never stopped scanning the crowd.
Not her. Not her. Not her.

“Oh,” Phoebe said, “so I shagged the groom in the hayloft this afternoon after going to the market. Had to do it. Little ‘lady and the stable boy' fantasy of mine. I don't think Doug will mind, do you?”

“That's nice,” I said absently. Then her words made it through, and I rounded on her. “Wait. What?”

My friend's eyes crinkled as she exchanged a glance with her brother.

“Paying attention now are we?” Collum said. “We have a mission to complete. Quit whinging about, and get on with the job at hand.”

I wanted to smack him, but he was right. Nodding, I picked up the hem of my skirt and entered the Great Hall, determined to find my mom so we could get the hell out of there.

The long, rectangular hall was decorated for royalty. Trestle tables stretched the length of the room, set with pewter plates. Multitudes of candles glowed from deer-antler chandeliers that were twined with ivy and gold cloth. The astringent essence of evergreen wafted down from swags stretched across the sweeping rafters. Cinnamon-and-clove-scented steam boiled up from vats of mulled ale.

The delicious aromas, layered with the reek of stale sweat and dirty hair, made the place smell like Christmas at a hobo's house.

Liveried servants passed among the guests with platters of steaming beef and pork. Spiced meatballs floating in tureens of hearty sauce. A savory, fatty smell flooded the air as trays of roasted goose and ornately decorated peacock were presented. At the head of the room, a dais dripped with scarlet and gold silk, waiting for the king and queen.

“We'll split up,” Collum ordered, eyes scanning the crowd. “Cover more ground that way.”

At our answering nods, Collum's gaze flicked back and forth between us, before fixing on me. His hazel eyes looked oddly sad as he whispered, “Take care. No matter what happens, get Sarah out, and make sure you're at the glade on time.”

“What . . . ?” I started, but he pushed off into the crowd without another word. My pulse thrummed as I gave Phoebe a questioning look. She shrugged, frowning, as she moved off.

As each person passed that wasn't my mother, I grew more frantic. I skimmed the crowd, desperate for the curve of her familiar cheek. The slope of too-broad shoulders beneath colored finery.

“Mistress Hope.”

I turned to find Rachel's William Lucie looking resplendent in a blazing azure tunic, yellow diamonds stitched at the cuffs and along the hem. “I wish to thank you.”

He took two goblets from a passing servant and offered one to me. “I know what you did for my . . . for Rachel.”

“No,” I said, “you have it wrong. Rachel helped me.”

“I think we both know that's not true.”

William captured my distracted gaze. “Rachel is . . . my friend, and Eustace Clarkson tried to hurt her. I shall take that up with him in due time. But that's not why I wanted to speak with you. I came to warn you, Mistress Hope. Warn you that someone's been making enquiries about you.”

That did it. I quit searching and gave William my full attention. “I beg your pardon?”

Instead of answering, he took my elbow and turned me toward the dais. A group of churchmen chuckled as they emerged from a side door to seat themselves at the head table. A fat archbishop in blinding white and gold sat down next to one of the thrones. Lounging behind him in humble black was Thomas Becket.

“Becket,” William announced quietly, though there was no need. A chill had skittered across my skin when I saw him, features pinched as he scanned the room. “Becket is a priest, yes, but he has eyes and ears everywhere. For some reason, you've drawn his interest.”

As if he'd heard us above the clamor, Thomas Becket's eyes stopped roving the crowd and fixed on me. His mouth made a small moue of surprise. I took an involuntary step back. Then trumpets blared from the back of the Great Hall, and Becket's malevolent gaze dropped away.

I thanked William and scuffled back against the wall as feasters scrambled for spots at the long tables.

Henry Plantagenet—second of that name. King of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Count of Anjou, Brittany, Poitou. Duke of Normandy, Maine, Gascony, and Aquitaine, as the herald announced—was short, stocky, and bowlegged. A russet-haired fireplug of a man who Eleanor topped by half a head. They strolled arm in arm down the wide space between the tables, like graceful ships in the middle of a cheering storm.

The disheveled woman I'd seen idling in her nightclothes was gone, replaced by regal opulence. She stunned in cascades of jade silk embroidered with golden lions that emphasized her round belly. Candlelight sparked off the emeralds set into her gold coronet. Henry looked like a man ready to burst with pride.

As they came level with me, Henry placed a square freckled hand on his wife's belly and crowed, “Another job well done for England, eh, boys?”

The crowd went nuts.

Phoebe wormed her way to my side. “No sign of Sarah yet. But there're a lot of people here. It may take a while.”

She was still talking, but her words faded into nothing when I saw something that froze the breath in my lungs.

“Hope?” Phoebe said, “Did you hear me? I said I don't know where Collum went. I think he's up to something. He's disappeared.”

Tomorrow, the course of England would change forever, when two of England's greatest rulers were crowned in Westminster Abbey. A dynasty empire was being born before my eyes. None of that mattered, because I'd just caught a glimpse of someone on the far side of the room. A tall woman with athletic shoulders.

“Cripes,” Phoebe muttered. “I have to find him. I'll kill him if he does something stupid.”

Mute, I grabbed for my friend's sleeve to tell her what I'd just seen, but she'd already darted off. My hand fell slowly back to my side. My attention lasered in on one thing. The spindly pale-strawberry braid that hung limp down the woman's broad back.

S
HE LET IT GROW OUT.

It was a frivolous thought. Mom had always kept her hair bobbed to shoulder length, claiming middle-aged women with long hair were trying too hard to hold on to something that was long gone. But here, where only nuns chopped their hair, she'd had little choice, apparently.

Go. What are you waiting for?
My snarled thoughts trapped me in place.

When she turned, just enough for me to catch sight of her profile, my body leaned in her direction, until I was poised on my toes.

Move,
I commanded my feet.
She's right there. Your mother, your supposedly
dead
mother, is right there. Why can't you move?

I clenched my fists. Took a step.

“Not yet, child.” A gnarled claw, with cracked yellow nails, gripped my forearm. Its strength startled me. I hadn't even seen her approach.
How can someone so old move like that?

“Hold,” the ancient nun, Sister Hectare, whispered as she towed me back toward the wall.

As I started to protest, a man appeared at my mother's side. His greasy bald head barely reaching the level of her chin. His pudgy fingers clutched her elbow.

“Lord Babcock is a venal man,” Sister Hectare's rusty voice said. “Though that is only part of his charm. He's also cruel and overproud. And he has the brains of a beheaded fowl, besides. You must not approach until he leaves her side.”

“Wait.” I blinked as it hit me. “
That's
her husband?”