Death At The Tower (Shadow Cutpurses Tudor Thrillers Book 2) by Adele Jordan

Author:Adele Jordan [Jordan, Adele]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2024-11-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

A few days later, Gwynnie stood amongst the other maids and staff that had gathered on Tower Green. All heads were turned toward the block building at the north side of the fortress as they waited for the court case to finish.

Gwynnie looked down at the drawing on the front of the ballad sheet in her hand.

In the centre was an image of Queen Anne’s brother, Lord Rochford. He was wrapped in the arms of a woman who was supposed to be the queen herself, dressed in her usual French hood and with an ornate letter ‘B’ hanging from her throat. Behind the pair of them, a long-toothed depiction of the devil whispered in Lord Rochford’s ear.

Her eyes darted down the page. She’d found the parchment discarded in the courtyard that morning on her way back from giving Daundelyon his latest delivery of food. He had avoided her eye once again, but she noticed his hope was starting to fade. His eyes had lingered on the empty cell beside him as he called to the other cellmates, asking them what they thought would happen with the men’s trial.

Gwynnie read the list of names of all of those on trial today. There was the groom of the stool Sir Henry Norreys, Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton and finally, the musician Mark Smeaton. Each man had been accused of bedding Queen Anne at some point or another, and in the ballad sheet someone had actually turned the salacious gossip into a song to commemorate the event, listing the queen not by her name but as ‘the whore queen’. Lord Rochford was missing from the list, for his trial was set for another date.

Gwynnie looked up from the ballad sheet as the doors to the block creaked open and the prisoners were dragged out.

Mark Smeaton was crying, his face as red as the morning sun as he tussled with the guard dragging him away. He was more child than man now. Gwynnie stared at him, her heart thundering in her ears as she watched.

The others all bore a similar look of grief, whether they were praying to the heavens, as Sir Francis Weston did, or crying as Smeaton did. Sir Henry Norreys walked at the back of the group, slower than the rest. Clearly, the guard beside him wished for him to be seen. He was red-faced, but not from embarrassment, for his cheeks appeared to have been struck repeatedly and there was a long cut across his jaw. He walked at an odd angle too, one shoulder not appearing to sit in its socket.

The people gathered all stared, and from what Gwynnie could see, a number believed the accusations, for they were looking at Norreys with disgust, as if the devil had come up and danced before them, tauntingly.

Norreys did not look at any of them. He had the look of a resigned man as he held back tears.

Gwynnie inched away as more people left the block. Councillors and statesmen followed, all wearing their black and red robes.

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