The Crown by Nancy Bilyeau Page B

at last, drove them back. Both rats scampered to a hole at the bottom of the tunnel wall and pushed their swollen bodies through it. The second rat paused halfway through, as if stuck, then, turning sideways, squeezed the rest of the way, its thick tail twirling and slapping the side of the hole like a whip before disappearing.
    “Thank you,” Bess said. In the candlelight she was pale as ivory, beads of perspiration bubbling on her upper lip.
    “Are we almost there?” I asked.
    “Yes—look.” She held up her candle to toss the light farther and show me the steps that appeared at the end. As she did so, her hand shook again, and she looked at me, her face an apology. We both knew that it was within the White Tower that we ran the greatest risk of discovery.
    I shifted my bundle to my left hip and laid my right hand on her shoulder.
    “ ‘Behold, now bless ye the Lord, all ye servants of the Lord. In the night lift up your hands to the holy places, and bless ye the Lord. I have cried to thee, O Lord, hear me; hearken to my voice when I cry to thee. And protect me ever after. Amen.’ ”
    “That was beautiful,” Bess whispered.
    I smiled sadly. “The words of Saint Dominic, the founder of my order.”
    “Mistress, I pray I don’t fail you.”
    “You have already done more for me than anyone else since . . .” My voice trailed away as Geoffrey Scovill’s young face flashed in front of me, his eyes brimming with pain over my insult, the last words he’d heard from me. There was no point to this now. I shoved him out of my thoughts.
    “Let us go forward, Bess.”
    We climbed the steps, and when we reached the top, Bess unlocked the door to the White Tower.
    We stepped into an enormous hall. The light from Bess’s candle didn’t even reach the back wall of it.There was not a sound. I knew that Sir William and Lady Kingston kept apartments in the White Tower, as did the king’s disgraced niece, Lady Margaret Douglas, and perhaps others down below, too, besides my father. Yet now, in this eerily silent space, we seemed quite alone.
    Bess and I hurried across the stone floor. The air felt much cooler than in the dank tunnel; a faint breeze fingered my bare neck, though I couldn’t make out any windows. I realized from the jutting shape of one stone wall that it was a massive bulwark. With a chill, I felt the strength of the keep’s creator: the greatness but also the fear and greed of William the Conqueror. He’d fashioned this citadel five hundred years ago to house his Norman pride and crush the Saxons. This must have been an enormous banquet or reception hall for early kings. I fought down an absurd fear that the conqueror himself would stalk toward me from the shadows, his chain-mail armor clanking on the smooth floor.
    We passed through a series of vaulted rooms. Larger windows shed more moonlight. I could see a faint gold and scarlet light shimmer at the other side of one of the rooms. It wasn’t from the moon or from candlelight; it was something else entirely. I tugged on Bess’s arm. “It’s the chapel,” she said hurriedly, without stopping. So those were stained-glass windows. I longed to go there, to pray for divine assistance, but of course there was no time.
    After a few more minutes, I saw another light flickering in the distance, stronger than a candle. It was a torch fixed to a wall. Bess straightened her shoulders in front of me, and I knew this was our destination. My heart beat faster as I followed her.
    Below the torch sat an empty chair and a table. I heard a footfall, another, and then a yeoman warder came into sight, a tall one with a long black beard.
    “Hello, Tom,” called out Bess.
    I raised the bundle higher, so that it covered the lower half of my face, even though doing so made my arms ache.
    “Bess, what are you about? I never see you down here.” Tom’s voice was friendly.
    “We need to get fresh bedding to the nobleman on the south passage,” she