Boris said, “I do believe he’s weeping. He’s as weak as a woman.”
However, Lady Anne was not crying. Instead, she made a sign: her hand on her heart, the simple sign of love for Ambrose. Then she turned and her eyes met Catherine’s. Lady Anne moved her right hand up as if to wipe a tear, as her left hand went to her chest. It was a movement so smooth, so disguised, it was hardly noticeable. But Catherine had been reading signs since childhood, and this was one of the first she had learned. It meant “Watch me.” Then Lady Anne made the sign of a kiss with her right hand, while her left swept downward and clenched into what looked like an attempt at a fist. Catherine frowned. A fist held before the groin was the sign of anger, hate, a threat. To pair it with a kiss was strange. Then another sign: “boy.” Lady Anne turned to stare at the king and was making another sign, but the man holding her arm had moved in the way.
Catherine didn’t know Lady Anne; she’d never spoken to her, had seen her in court only once. Catherine was confined to her quarters for so much of her life that seeing other women was hardly more common than seeing and talking to men. Had she imagined the signs?
Lady Anne was brought forward and forced to kneel on a low wooden block. She looked down, and then turned so her eyes met Catherine’s again, and there was no mistaking their intensity. What was she trying to say, at the very moment of her death?
Bradwell, the executioner, was wearing his hood now, but his mouth was still visible, and he said, “Look ahead or I can’t guarantee it’ll be clean.”
Lady Anne turned to face the crowd.
Bradwell raised the sword above his head, and the sunlight bounced off it into Catherine’s eyes. The crowd hushed. Bradwell came a step forward and then to the side, perhaps to assess the angle of his cut, then he went behind Lady Anne, circled the sword in the air over his own head once, took a half step forward, swirled the sword over his head once more, and in a continuous movement made a sideways slice so fast that it appeared for a moment as though nothing had happened.
Lady Anne’s head fell first, hitting the wooden floor with a thud, and then rolled to the edge of the scaffold. Behind it, blood fanned from the neck of the slowly toppling body. The crowd’s cheer was like a physical blow, and Catherine swayed back on her seat.
Bradwell moved forward, retrieved the head, and held it up by the hair. A chant of “Pike her” went up. Bradwell’s assistant stepped forward with a pike, and the crowd’s frenzy increased further.
Somehow, across the scaffold and the roaring mob, Catherine’s eyes met Ambrose’s. She held his gaze, wanting to comfort him, to tell him she was sorry. She needed him to know that she was not like her father or her brother, that she didn’t choose to be here, that despite the impossible distance between them she cared.
Boris hissed in her ear, “You’re not looking at Lady Anne, sister.”
Catherine turned. Lady Anne’s head was being put on a pike, and there was Noyes standing at the foot of the scaffold, a half-smile on his lips as he turned his attention from her to Ambrose. And Catherine realized she’d been a fool: this wasn’t a punishment, a warning, or a lesson.
It was a trap.
AMBROSE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
“COULDN’T YOU, for once, do as I command?”
It felt like the old days. When Ambrose used to live at home he had a regular summons to his father’s study to be reprimanded about some disobedience or other, and now, two years after he’d left, Ambrose was back standing before his father’s desk. But things were different. The house his father had rented for his visit to the capital wasn’t the usual smart mansion but a shabby villa. His father too seemed worn. His face was sagging slightly and there were more lines around his eyes, and for all his bluster and noise he seemed smaller. And of course there was another significant difference—his sister was now dead, her head on a pike on the city bridge.
“Can you have the decency to answer me, sir!”
“Which command in particular were you concerned about, Father?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I told you what had to be said in the denouncement and told you to sound like you meant it.”
“Well, as it turned out, no, I could not in this instance do as you commanded.”
“What is it with you, Ambrose?” His father pushed back from the desk, shaking his head.
“What is it that means I can’t denounce my sister? I don’t know, sir. Perhaps I believe her to be a good person. A good sister and a good daughter. The bigger question in my mind is how you could do it, and do it so well.”
Ambrose’s father was still now. “You are as impertinent as you are naive, Ambrose. You are my son and I expect more of you.”
“And Anne was your daughter. I expected more of you. You should have protected her with your life.”
“You, boy, do not tell me what I should do.” Ambrose’s father lowered his voice. “She killed one of the king’s men. We’re lucky it wasn’t every one of us on the block. The king is looking for any chance to add to his income. We could have lost everything.”
Ambrose sneered. “Well, I’m glad you know your priorities. It must be a relief to still have your lands even though you’ve no daughter.”
“You are pushing me too far this time, Ambrose. I warn you to stop now.”
But Ambrose couldn’t stop. “And I wouldn’t worry about falling out of favor with the king. You denounced Anne beautifully. I’m sure the king, Noyes, and all the court were impressed with your words, your manner, your loyalty. And, after all, what does it matter to you about your truth, your virtue, or your honor?”
Ambrose’s father shot to his feet. “Get out! Get out of here before I have you whipped out.”
Ambrose was already leaving, slamming the door after him and striding down the corridor. Tarquin was running toward him.
“I could hear it all from across the courtyard.”
Ambrose strode past his brother. Outside, and with nowhere to go he stopped and roared his frustration, hitting and kicking the wall.
Tarquin came to stand by him. He watched and winced. And waited for Ambrose to calm.
Eventually Ambrose stopped and rubbed the blood and broken skin from his knuckles. “What is it with that man? A few words with him and I’m kicking walls and breaking my own fists.”
“He misses you and he cares about you. I admit he has a strange way of showing it. I suspect you miss him—and you have a strange way of showing it too.”
Ambrose gave a short laugh.
“It’s good to see you smile.”
Ambrose leaned his head against the stone of the wall. “There’ve been few reasons to smile recently.”
“For any of us.” Tarquin put his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. “You know Father loved Anne. Loves her still. This has hurt him deeply.”
“And yet he still denounced her.”
“What else could he do, Ambrose? She’d been found guilty. If he didn’t denounce her, the king would take our lands. All the people in Norwend who depend on him would lose too. The king would win more. Father had to be convincing.”
Ambrose couldn’t answer. He scraped his forehead against the rough stone.
“Anne would understand, Ambrose. She knew the law as well as anyone. She knew Father loved her. It’s not right what happened, but don’t blame him.”
“But what they did to her . . .”