Betrayal (35 page)

             
“Elisabeth! Her Majesty has a headache. She requires you to go to the kitchen for chamomile tea and perhaps…yes, and some lavender oil for scent.”

             
“But my lady, where is the kitchen? I am new here and do not know my way.”

             
“Then ask someone. Go now and do not stop to gossip, thy lady is ill.”

             
Elisabeth bowed a deep curtsy and ran off down the stairs in search of the kitchen. It was an hour before dusk as Elisabeth crossed the Tower Green; she paused to watch as a mob of great black birds noisily flocked around a soldier’s feet. “They’ve come for their dinner,” he called above the rising shrieks of the hungry birds. “The guardians of the Tower, they are.”

             
Elisabeth tried to ask the way to the Tower’s great kitchen, but she could not make herself heard above the screeching birds. Pausing by the small church on the Green Elisabeth asked a groom and he directed her to the basement of the White Tower.  There she gathered the herbs and oil and hurried back to the Queen’s apartment. The Queen lay on the Great Court bed, her forehead swathed in a cool rag. Her attendants had removed themselves to the Queen’s outer chamber to await Elisabeth’s return.  Lady Boleyn was the first to speak.

“What took you so long? My lady cousin cries upon her bed and you loiter on your way. Have you no care for your lady to leave her suffer so?”

Elisabeth dipped a deep bow and began to mumble her apology. “Beg pardon lady, but I am new here and knew not where the kitchen was. I had to ask. I am sorry for my tardiness and have here what is needed,” she continued, as she held up the small vial of lavender oil and a sachet of dried chamomile flowers. “If you excuse me, I shall see to my lady.”

After having administered the tea and oil Elisabeth settled on a rush pallet on the floor at the foot of the Queen’s bed. While she waited Elisabeth tried to remember the Prayer of St. Francis. “Lord Jesus, make me an instrument of your Peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love,” she prayed softly.

A groan from the high bed made Elisabeth pause.

“Elisabeth, is that you?” called a sleepy voice.

“Yes, my lady, forgive me if I disturbed you. I was practicing the Prayer of St. Francis. Shall I leave you alone to rest?”

“No, I find the prayer soothing, please continue.”

              “Of course, my lady,” Elisabeth paused to draw a deep breath. “Lord Jesus, make me an instrument of your Peace, where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is injury, pardon. Where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope. Where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.”

             
“That will be enough for now, Elisabeth.  I must rest but will you sing it tomorrow on the Saint’s Feast day?”

             
“If you wish, my lady.”

             
“I do, in the hall, after Mass. Mark will accompany you on the lute. Go now and find him and practice. Send Lady Boleyn in to keep watch as I sleep.

             
“Yes, my lady,” Elisabeth whispered as she backed her way out of the chamber. Not knowing where to find the Court Musician Elisabeth walked around the Tower Green wondering where Sarah and her father lived.

             
Turning, she walked toward the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula; she paused remembering from her Latin lessons, that the name of the small church was St. Peter in Chains. As she pushed open the heavy door she thought of an illuminated drawing that Brother Michael had done of the blessed saint in his chains. She was surprised to find the musician kneeling before the altar. “Pardon, Master Smeaton, I have been sent to find you.”

             
“Well,” he said unfolding his tall lean frame, “you have found me.”

             
“My lady wishes us to practice for tomorrow’s feast.”

             
“Do you know the words to the prayer?”

Elisabeth nodded.

              “Then we need no practice,” he said dismissing her.

             
“But…”

             
“No buts. I am waiting for the priest.”

             
“Yes, but. . .”

             
“If you insist, we can meet in the morning, here in the chapel, to practice.”

             
“Yes, thank you,” Elisabeth said as she turned to leave the small church. She paused, then turned back to the musician “My lady has a headache and releases you from your duty to entertain her this evening.”

             
“Thank my lady,” he said turning, to kneel again before the altar.

             
“Do you know where the mason de Roche lives?”

             
“I have seen him near the Broad Arrow Tower, perhaps near there. Allow me to please return to my prayers,” he said as he fell back to his knees.

             
Elisabeth made her way through the narrow passageways to the Constable Tower where she asked again after the mason and his daughter.
              “They be housed in the casemates across from the Broad Arrow Tower. That one,” the man pointed as he turned back to his business of loading his handcart with small stones.

             
Elisabeth brushed past a group of soldiers, one of whom made a lewd remark as he reached for her arm. She blushed red as she hurried on to an open door. “Pardon, does the mason John de Roche live here?”

             
“Aye, but he is not here. You will find him on the south wall near the Wakefield Tower.”

             
“Is Sarah here?”

             
“No, she has gone with Mistress Abernathy.”

             
“Do you know where?” Elisabeth asked hopefully.

             
“It is not my business. Nor yours either, if you have to ask.”

             
Elisabeth was frustrated. She had failed to convince the musician of their need to practice and now she couldn’t find Sarah.  Disappointed, she made her way back along the outer walls to the Queen’s House.  It was dark in the Queen’s chamber and her Mistress was asleep.  Elisabeth stumbled to the rush pallet at the foot of the bed to await her lady’s call. Soon Elisabeth was asleep too.

             
A shout from below woke her just before dawn. Elisabeth ran to the window, pushing aside the heavy brocade drape. Peering out into the dawn’s half-light she saw Henry Norris, Master of the King’s Horse, mounting his roan stallion. The horse’s hoof scratched noisily at the uneven paving stones of the Tower Green as he waited to be joined by two other riders. She craned against the window to get a better view.

             
Then came Norris’ shout, “Ho, open the gate! The King is leaving the Tower!’

             
Elisabeth watched awestruck as the three men rode through the gate at Bloody Tower, disappearing from sight.

             
Pulling the heavy drape closed Elisabeth wondered as she crossed the chamber to stir the fire’s dying embers. ‘Why was the King leaving? Where was he going? Today is the Saint’s feast day, there was to be a masque tonight. Where could he be going at this hour?’

             
Elisabeth turned back to look at the sleeping Queen. ‘Should I wake her?’ she wondered as she stirred the coals. After much thought Elisabeth decided it wasn’t her place to tell the Queen. Crawling back on to her pallet she pulled the rough wool blanket close. Drifting on a sea of questions she fell back to an uneasy sleep.

             
It was Lady Rochford, striding into the chamber; that woke both the sleeping women. “Sister,” she hissed. “Are you aware that the King has left the Tower? He rode out with Edward Seymour and Norris before dawn. Where has he gone? When will he return?” She clicked her tongue as she wandered about the room picking up ornaments one after the other only to set them down again in the same place. ‘He should have asked George to go. Why didn’t he take George?”

             
Elisabeth struggled to her feet, pulling her light robe close. She made a move toward the hearth, but stopped when Lady Jane challenged her. “You, what are you doing? Fetch my lady’s fur robe and be gone.”

             
“But my lady,” Elisabeth began, indicating the dying fire.  Turning to the Queen Elisabeth paused.

             
“Fetch the robe and be gone,” Jane repeated.

“Yes, my lady,” Elisabeth murmured; dipping a low curtsy she hurried to the wardrobe. Lifting the heavy robe from a traveling box she brought it to the Queen, curtsied and left the room.

TWENTY-FIVE

DECEMBER 26
TH

              The grinding of the landing gear being lowered woke Lydia from her daydream. Outside her window the lights of Halifax reflected on the rain-swept streets. Ribbons of red and white crowded the roads as families traveled home from their Christmas celebrations.

             
Lydia paused to reflect on leaving Dan and flying off to England. Was she insane? Perhaps, but she was driven by forces she did not understand to re-connect with her family, but most of all with the girl Elisabeth.

             
As she watched the Halifax skyline below other memories crowded her mind; memories of that first arrival in Halifax so many years ago, of apartments, schools and friends. How much time did she have between flights? Lydia looked at her wristwatch. No, not enough time to call Germaine, just enough to call Dan to say she had arrived. Lydia thought of her school-mate, Germaine Chevarie, a French speaking girl of Acadian extraction, who was now happily married with a new-born set of twin boys. She longed to be able to speak with her friend.  She was jolted out of this thought as the airplane bounced to its landing on the tarmac.

             
Lydia collected her small bags and buttoned her jacket pulling up the thick shawl collar in preparation to crossing the tarmac to the terminal. Once inside she was directed to the main terminal. Asking directions to the Departures Lounge, she searched for and found Gate 32. A quick glance at the television monitor revealed her flight was on time. Lydia took a seat in a long row of hard plastic chairs, checked her passport and ticket. She checked her watch again and decided to look in the shops. She really should bring a gift of some type, but what?

             
In the duty-free shop she found a bottle of Napoleon brandy for Uncle Henry. She smiled as she remembered his very proper English accent. Yes, Napoleon brandy would be perfect. Now Aunt Ella. Perfume would be too personal, candy might be all right, but suppose she is a diabetic? Lydia’s eyes scanned the duty-free store until she saw a glass case tucked in a corner. Crossing the crowded room she came face to face with a display case of Inuit art, carvings and small paintings. And there in the middle of the second shelf was the most beautiful carving of a polar bear standing on an ice flow.   Perfect!

             
“May I show you something?” asked the young girl behind the perfume counter. She crossed to behind the display case acknowledging Lydia’s interest. “Oh, the bear, yes, I thought as much, he is very popular.”

             
Lydia leaned forward as the girl handed her the little sculpture.

             
“Wow! He’s heavy.” Lydia gasped.

             
“Yes, he is made from soapstone.”

             
“It’s so beautiful. The detail work is incredible. Look, you can see the pattern of the bear’s fur and it even has claws. It’s amazing.”

“Yes, it’s one of the finest pieces in the collection. If you look closely you will see a tiny fishtail sticking out of the bear’s mouth. See here,” the sales clerk said.

              “Incredible. Where are they made?”

             
“We have pieces from Iqualit and from Whale Cove near Hudson’s Bay. But most of our pieces are from Labrador, from the area of Saglik Bay, including this little fellow, right here.”

             
Lydia sighed as she stroked the small bear with her fingertip.

             
“Can you wrap this for me?”

             
“I’m afraid not, airport security doesn’t allow it. But I can put it in a pretty box for you. Will that do?”

             
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

             
“Will that be all for today?”

             
“Let’s see, I have the brandy for Uncle Henry, and now this little delight for Aunt Ella, yes.  No.  I’ve forgotten Christine, my cousin.”