Into the Dim (21 page)

I filled my lungs and stepped through the door. Collum turned his back to me, but not before I saw the high color in his cheeks. Phoebe crossed the room quickly and took both my hands in her smaller ones.

“You look better today,” she said. “And that bruise on your head? Well, it just brings out that purpley tint in those lovely smoke-colored eyes of yours.”

“Thanks, I guess?” I made a scrunchy-face at her, then turned to narrow an annoyed glare at Collum's back.

You think I'm flighty? Whatever. Who got us in the castle?
Phoebe motioned to the long table set at the front of the room. “The gorgon brought out some kind of fishy stew even I won't touch. But there's bread and cheese. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

The bread was gritty and the cheese smelled a bit like feet, but I gobbled both down anyway. I sniffed at the cup Phoebe handed me and grimaced. “Beer?”

She shrugged. “It's that or nothing. I think old Hilde's a bit miffed that we didn't go to mass this morning.”

Hilde stomped into the room. “Milord,” she muttered, “someone at the door. Says she's here for
her.
”

The housekeeper pointed an accusatory finger at me. By the crimson patches on her nonexistent cheekbones, I knew who it must be.

“It is a
Jewess.
” She snarled the last word. “Right on the front stoop. Claims she has business here.”

“That's because she does,” I snapped as I stood, slammed the beer down, and hurried toward the entry hall.

Rachel was shivering outside the front door, muffled head to toe. Snow lay in a thick layer on her shoulders. She'd obviously been standing there a long time.

“Hilde,” I asked through clenched teeth, “how long did you leave my guest standing in the snow before you told us she was here?”

Hilde's florid face darkened.

“Do not concern yourself, Mistress Hope,” Rachel protested. “Truly. 'Tis no trouble.”

“Yes, it is.” I glared at the servant. “We should've been told immediately. You let her stay there and freeze on purpose, didn't you?”

Hilde sniffed. “Jews don't feel the cold like Christians.”

“Ugh,” I said. “You horrible old—”

Rachel interceded, her delicate cheekbones flaming under her hood. “Mistress Hope, perhaps we should away. Queen Eleanor will be expecting her posset.”

Hilde flashed me a defiant leer, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the house.

“That was blood—” Phoebe flicked a glance at Rachel and cleared her throat. “That was brilliant, Hope. I'm glad you told the old cow off. Totally worth it, even if we end up with spit soup tonight.”

Phoebe stepped forward and enveloped Rachel in one of her exuberant hugs. “I'm Phoebe. Hope's sister. Are you sure you wouldn't like to thaw by the fire, Mistress Rachel?”

Rachel, rattled by the unexpected embrace, shook her head. “No. I—I am not allowed to cross your threshold, Mistress Phoebe, and we must be on our way to Baynard's Castle. Her Grace will be especially anxious today and will need her medicine more than usual. Tonight she'll stay inside the Tower, where I cannot enter, and on the morrow, the coronation.”

Collum bowed in Rachel's direction. “I am Hope's brother, Collum. And as my sisters say, you are welcome here anytime.”

Rachel's nodded her thanks and glanced at the sky. “Shall we go?”

As we gathered our cloaks, Collum moved in front of me, eyes narrowed as he peered down into my face.

“What?” I stared back as I wrapped yards of scratchy wool around my neck.

He tapped two fingers against his lips, studying me for a moment. “Nothing. Just try to stay out of trouble.”

“Come on, you two,” Phoebe called from the stoop.

I hurried out the door, ignoring an uneasy, anxious feeling. Our plan to get into the castle had been flimsy at best. Now we were headed straight to the queen's apartments. If there was anywhere we'd find information about my mother, it would be there. In a moment, Collum followed, and the four of us headed out into a London covered in a new blanket of fluffy white.

T
HE SUN BLAZED IN SLIVERS FROM BEHIND THE NOW-EMPTIED CLOUDS
, glimmering on thatched roofs and the snow that blanketed the ground, covering the mud and muck. London spread out before us, looking like something from a storybook.

Magical.

“It is, isn't it?”

Though I didn't realize I'd said the word aloud, I only nodded while Rachel went on quickly. “On days like this, when the city is so clean and new, I sometimes imagine things aren't so ugly beneath.”

Up ahead, Collum howled as Phoebe dumped a handful of snow down the back of his tunic. Rachel and I exchanged a smile. When my new friend tripped over something beneath the snow, I snatched her arm. The pendant I'd seen the day before swung out on a chain between us as she steadied herself.

“Your pendant is lovely. An opal, is it?”

Rachel grimaced. “Yes, though I care not for it. My father bids me wear it. He is a goldsmith, you see, so it is good advertisement. The stone was a gift from the man I am promised to.”

“Promised to?” I said, confused. “You mean William?”

Shocked, she stopped in her tracks.

“Oh no, mistress.” Rachel's wide eyes skittered all around to ensure no one was near enough to hear. “Captain Lucie is but a friend. I—I am to wed another. A cousin in Spain, an arrangement made when I was but a child. Once the coronation celebrations are done, my father is taking me to him.”

Her head bowed, she fingered the pendant. “This opal is my betrothal gift. My—Isaac's—family trades in rare and valuable stones.” Her eyes fixed on the street before us. “It is a good match.”

“Oh,” I said. “Oh. Well, yes. Yes, I'm sure it is.”

I didn't know what else I could possibly say to erase the troubled look Rachel tried so hard to hide. I knew that girls in this time had no choice whatsoever in where they lived or who they married. I knew that love rarely entered the picture. Even grown women were nothing but property, their lives dictated and their fates decided by men.

I quickly changed the subject. “So your father is a goldsmith?”

“Yes,” Rachel, obviously relieved, answered. “In fact, on the morrow, my father—along with other leaders of my community—will present their majesties with a special coronation gift. Father is quite pleased with himself. A rare specimen of opal arrived only weeks ago, and he's worked day and night to set the jewel into the hilt of a fine dagger. It's meant to represent the Jews' bond with the new king.”

Collum, who obviously had ears like a bat, stopped short and was staring at Rachel as we caught up. His broad cheekbones, which always looked slightly wind burned, had gone scarlet with cold or excitement.

“Mistress Rachel,” he said, hazel eyes intent on the pendant, “I hear that some of the finest stones have a name. Does the one in your father's possession happen to be named, by any chance?”

Phoebe joined our huddle, shifting from foot to foot as people streamed around us toward the castle.

“Well, yes. I believe it does. Father called it the . . .” Rachel frowned, thinking. The three of us leaned toward her as if pulled by a thread. Tendons bulged from Collum's neck, willing the word to come. “I am sorry, but I cannot recall,” she said. “The Notharius, perhaps? Something akin to that?”

Air oozed from Collum's lungs as he stepped back. “I knew it.”

Phoebe let out a whoop that startled a nearby clerk, causing him to drop his stack of scrolls.

As we continued tramping through wet snow, Collum murmured under his breath to me. “If it really is the Nonius, that would explain why this particular pattern kept repeating.”

“What pattern?” I asked, forgetting my irritation at him.

“The ley lines. They kept repeating the sequence to this exact time and location. It's pure unusual for them to do that. It has to be the Nonius.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it's not like we can get to it, right?”

He huffed and stomped ahead. Guess I'd rained on his parade.

As we approached the gate, Rachel moved slower, hunched against the cold like an old woman.

When the guard waved us in with barely a glance, Rachel relaxed. “The first few times I came here alone,” she said quietly, “the guards were not kind. But after the queen's companion, Sister Hectare, had a word with them, I've had less trouble.”

We bypassed the steps to the main entrance and passed through a servant's portal. In the vast kitchens, steam rose from enormous pots of boiling liquids. The roof of the high, circular room was layered with smoke from dozens of open ovens set into the walls. At floor-level, the miasma of sautéed onions and roasting meat, simmering sauces, and bubbling soups made my belly gurgle. Servants in splattered aprons yawned as they diced vegetables or plucked feathers from seemingly every kind of fowl known to man. Huge, plump geese dangled from hooks, their blood draining into buckets on the stone floor. Everywhere were headless ducks and chickens. We dodged a young boy carrying a wicker basket filled with the limp carcasses of tiny, delicate larks.

We shuttled out of the way as two boys struggled to heave the ravaged carcass of an enormous boar onto the stained wooden block.

“Pork pies for supper tonight, lads,” a servant with a face like a bulldog called. Noticing Rachel, he leered. “You wantin' a taste, Jewess? Oh, I forget. Already had you some, didn't you? That delicious stew I brought up for you and the maidservants last week.”

He guffawed, elbowing his partner in the side.

Rachel blanched. But like a true lady, only raised her chin and moved steadily across a covered breezeway connecting the kitchens to the main part of the castle.

“He did that on purpose?” I asked, lips stiff in anger. “Put pork in your soup?”

“Yes,” she said. “One of them brought a stew up to feed the queen's servants after Her Grace went to dine privately with the king. I was hungry and they claimed 'twas beef. I should have known better. After I'd eaten a few bites, the boy crowed and told me to enjoy my Jewish hell, as I'd just eaten swine.”

Collum growled behind me and turned back toward the smirking kitchen boy. Rachel laid a hand on his arm.

“Please, Master Collum,” she said. “There is no need. It is far from the worst insult I've borne.”

“But how could they do that to you?” Phoebe complained.

“'Tis but the way of things.” Rachel shrugged as she led us up a dingy staircase to an elegant landing. Another, broader flight led down to the decorated entry hall.

“Master Collum,” Rachel said. “If you and Mistress Phoebe will kindly go down to the Great Hall, we shall meet you there. They are serving breakfast, and by the king's decree all are welcome today. Last eve, I asked permission only for Mistress Hope to attend me in the queen's chambers.”

I could see Collum gearing up to argue, but after a glance at Rachel's face he nodded.

“For God's sake, be careful this time,” he hissed, his hand gripping my arm in warning as Phoebe headed reluctantly down the steps. “While you're inside, Phoebe and I will ask around about this Babcock. See what we can find out. You do the same, but don't take any unnecessary chances. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” I jerked out of his grip. “I'm not an idiot.”

He stared down at me, eyes impenetrable as they searched my face. “I know that,” he said. “It's just . . .”

Turning my back on him, I stomped after Rachel, grumbling under my breath. I guess I wasn't quite over being pissed at him after all.

When I caught up with her at the door to the queen's chamber, I forced my jaw to unclench, then let out a long breath as I tried to focus on Doug's instructions of how to glide like a proper lady.

I suppose I'd expected a palatial chamber, with the queen perched atop a gilded throne. This was Eleanor of Aquitaine, after all. As Henry II proclaimed about himself, in my mom's favorite movie—or, well, the actor Peter O'Toole, who was playing him had proclaimed—“He married out of love, a woman out of legend.”

But when we entered the low doorway, and I stared at the faces packed into the stifling, tapestry-lined chamber, I hoped—prayed—that my mother would just pop out of the crowd and we could go all home.

Even in winter, the room was sweltering. Three enormous copper braziers radiated heat upward in undulating waves. The chamber was packed with women, their long gowns like a jewel-toned flower garden. I bobbed on my tiptoes, scanning the room.

Nope. Not here.

I swallowed back the pang of disappointment. It wasn't like I'd really expected it to be that simple. And yet the back of my throat burned.

Rachel frowned. “Are you all right, mistress?”

I nodded, unable to speak as we were motioned to a far corner. Blinking hard, I focused on the room.

A few bored lute players plinked in the opposite corner, and a steady stream of black-clothed clerks toted armloads of documents for the queen's signature. Rachel and I stood against the wall. As small groups split and re-merged, I caught partial glimpses of a very pregnant woman seated behind a desk, feather quill in hand.

Everyone was standing, except the queen and a child-size nun seated on a nearby stool. Despite my frustration, I gasped.

“It's her.” I grabbed Rachel's arm. “Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

Rachel smiled indulgently. “Yes. Our new queen is a rare woman indeed,” Rachel whispered. “And next to her is Sister Hectare, the queen's closest companion aside from Amaria, her former nurse.” Rachel's eyes went soft as she watched the tiny nun. “Sister Hectare is a wise and kind woman.”

Hectare was the oldest person I'd ever seen. Rheumy eyes, a veined nose like a toucan's beak, and wrinkled-parchment skin that draped from her face and neck like swags of melted wax. She looked as though she might keel over dead at any second. And yet, as Eleanor met with this guest or that, she often leaned in to consult with the old woman.