tunnel.
“Don’t use my true name,
please
.”
She ducked her head, and I regretted having to scold her. But Bess risked her life for me, and I had to do everything in my power to protect her.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound came from behind me, like long ragged fingernails clawing a wooden stake. This time I didn’t turn around. Bess had warned me that vermin overran the underground tunnel. “We keep setting loose more cats, but it’s the cats that disappear, not the rats.”
Ever since I’d set foot in this dank tunnel, I’d heard them: mostly behind us, but sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of one ahead, a long shiny tail whipping across the narrow passage, on the edge of our quivering circle of candlelight.
“Rats and ravens,” Bess muttered. “My sister’s friends think I put on airs. Humph. It’s rats and ravens everywhere. Not the sort of royal palace they expect.”
I let her go on. Nervous grumbling could help settle her nerves.
Not more than an hour ago, I’d managed to persuade her to help me on my mission. Wearing a makeshift white hood, I posed as Susanna, toting a bundle of clean bedsheets. The male prisoner who faced questioning the next day by the Duke of Norfolk needed new bedding—that was what we would tell anyone who made inquiry. Susanna and I were of similar height and figure, with the same black hair. She was some five years older, but at night, with my eyes cast down, wearing hertrademark hood, I hoped to pass for her, scuttling after Bess. She was a maid of the prison, while Bess served Lady Kingston. It was to be expected that Susanna would walk behind.
We’d come across only one yeoman warder so far, checking some papers on the main floor of Beauchamp Tower. I’d held my bundle of sheets as high as I could, so that my face was nearly obscured. It worked as well as I’d prayed. The warder glanced at Bess and me and then returned to his papers. Within minutes Bess had unlocked the door to the underground tunnel and we were down the steps.
At the other end was the White Tower . . . and my father.
I’d thought of him so often, it felt unreal that I would finally come face-to-face with him, speak to him, gain his counsel on what I should do when interrogated tomorrow. Bess said we dared stay only a few minutes. Would there be time, I fretted, would it be possible for me to ask the question pressing on my mind for months. It was, unfortunately, the same question that the Duke of Norfolk tossed at me in such a crude fashion: “Your father almost blew himself up with gunpowder—why would he do that for his dead brother’s bastard?” I simply did not know. My darkest fear was that, without the company of wife or child, my father had gone a little mad at Stafford Castle. If through some miracle he and I were to be freed from the Tower, I’d already vowed to make him the center of my life. There was no question of returning to Dartford. My offenses against the Dominican Order were too serious. But if I could look after my father, at Stafford Castle or anywhere else he deemed best, I would never stop thanking Christ for His mercies. I cherished a picture in my mind, of ladling soup into a bowl for my father as he smiled at me, restored to hale health, his hounds at his feet, a fire roaring.
Bess suddenly stopped short, and I bumped into her. She nearly dropped her ring of keys.
Two enormous rats squatted in front of us, in the center of the tunnel floor. They didn’t scuttle away like all the others. They half turned to face us, the candlelight reflected in their fiery red eyes.
“Lord keep us,” whispered Bess. “They’re like demons, aren’t they? It’s a bad omen, I know.”
I needed to vanquish these rats, or Bess could lose courage. Slowly, I edgedaround her to get out in front. My heart pounding, I took one step forward, then another.
The rats did not budge.
“Be gone!” I cried, and stomped my right foot hard, just a few inches from their heads.
This,
“Don’t use my true name,
please
.”
She ducked her head, and I regretted having to scold her. But Bess risked her life for me, and I had to do everything in my power to protect her.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound came from behind me, like long ragged fingernails clawing a wooden stake. This time I didn’t turn around. Bess had warned me that vermin overran the underground tunnel. “We keep setting loose more cats, but it’s the cats that disappear, not the rats.”
Ever since I’d set foot in this dank tunnel, I’d heard them: mostly behind us, but sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of one ahead, a long shiny tail whipping across the narrow passage, on the edge of our quivering circle of candlelight.
“Rats and ravens,” Bess muttered. “My sister’s friends think I put on airs. Humph. It’s rats and ravens everywhere. Not the sort of royal palace they expect.”
I let her go on. Nervous grumbling could help settle her nerves.
Not more than an hour ago, I’d managed to persuade her to help me on my mission. Wearing a makeshift white hood, I posed as Susanna, toting a bundle of clean bedsheets. The male prisoner who faced questioning the next day by the Duke of Norfolk needed new bedding—that was what we would tell anyone who made inquiry. Susanna and I were of similar height and figure, with the same black hair. She was some five years older, but at night, with my eyes cast down, wearing hertrademark hood, I hoped to pass for her, scuttling after Bess. She was a maid of the prison, while Bess served Lady Kingston. It was to be expected that Susanna would walk behind.
We’d come across only one yeoman warder so far, checking some papers on the main floor of Beauchamp Tower. I’d held my bundle of sheets as high as I could, so that my face was nearly obscured. It worked as well as I’d prayed. The warder glanced at Bess and me and then returned to his papers. Within minutes Bess had unlocked the door to the underground tunnel and we were down the steps.
At the other end was the White Tower . . . and my father.
I’d thought of him so often, it felt unreal that I would finally come face-to-face with him, speak to him, gain his counsel on what I should do when interrogated tomorrow. Bess said we dared stay only a few minutes. Would there be time, I fretted, would it be possible for me to ask the question pressing on my mind for months. It was, unfortunately, the same question that the Duke of Norfolk tossed at me in such a crude fashion: “Your father almost blew himself up with gunpowder—why would he do that for his dead brother’s bastard?” I simply did not know. My darkest fear was that, without the company of wife or child, my father had gone a little mad at Stafford Castle. If through some miracle he and I were to be freed from the Tower, I’d already vowed to make him the center of my life. There was no question of returning to Dartford. My offenses against the Dominican Order were too serious. But if I could look after my father, at Stafford Castle or anywhere else he deemed best, I would never stop thanking Christ for His mercies. I cherished a picture in my mind, of ladling soup into a bowl for my father as he smiled at me, restored to hale health, his hounds at his feet, a fire roaring.
Bess suddenly stopped short, and I bumped into her. She nearly dropped her ring of keys.
Two enormous rats squatted in front of us, in the center of the tunnel floor. They didn’t scuttle away like all the others. They half turned to face us, the candlelight reflected in their fiery red eyes.
“Lord keep us,” whispered Bess. “They’re like demons, aren’t they? It’s a bad omen, I know.”
I needed to vanquish these rats, or Bess could lose courage. Slowly, I edgedaround her to get out in front. My heart pounding, I took one step forward, then another.
The rats did not budge.
“Be gone!” I cried, and stomped my right foot hard, just a few inches from their heads.
This,
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