But as she did, the queen called, “No, Wilifred, let the girl approach and bring it to me herself. Her friend as well.”
Rachel hurried forward. I shuffled after her. Our skirts displaced layers of fresh rushes that covered the flagstone floor. Rose petals and twigs of lavender and rosemary, interspersed within the straw, sent up the smell of summer as we crushed them beneath our boots.
Women in colorful court finery made a pathway for us. I searched every face as we went, but my mother had not miraculously appeared.
A few feet from the cluttered desk, Rachel dropped into a low curtsy. I followed, though my legs shook so they could barely hold me. We stayed there, heads bowed, for a long moment, until a pair of gold and jewel-encrusted slippers appeared in my field of view. Peacocks and golden lions.
“You may rise.”
Rachel rose. Swallowing hard, so did I.
My breath left me in a silent whoosh. The statuesque woman before me wasn’t beautiful. Her nose was too long, her mouth too narrow, and a deep cleft split her square chin. But the strong bones of her face would never age, and as I squirmed, her pine-forest eyes studied me. In that moment I understood why people still worshiped this queen, even a thousand years after her death. There was strength and a fierce intelligence glowing behind those wide-set eyes.
“Good morrow, Rachel,” the queen said. She took the cup and propped herself against the front of the desk. Back arched, the bulge of her pregnancy pushed out toward us, flagrant and round as a basketball against the draping, periwinkle robes. “I thank you for bringing my tisane. This prince is strong. He kicks as though he were already riding into battle, without regard to his mother’s digestion. But that is men for you, no?”
A titter from the crowd as Rachel mumbled a reply.
Eleanor shot the liquid back in two long draughts. “Ahh, no one makes a medicament like the Jews. Do you not agree, Thomas?” Eleanor smoothed a hand over her belly as if to say, You can’t do this for your king, can you?
I tensed. For a moment, I’d completely forgotten about the priest.
At the edge of my vision, I saw Thomas Becket’s slash of a mouth tighten. The first crack in his cool fa?ade. “I do not, Your Grace. I trust my health to Christ alone. Not some heathen concoction.”
Eleanor leaned backward over the desk, whispering theatrically to the elderly nun. “The good father prays away his wind, Hectare. Oh, that I could rid myself of mine so easily.”
I couldn’t help it. The chuckle just popped out.
Becket stiffened and turned to me for the first time. “You understood your queen just now?”
Oh no. I gave an involuntary nod. The queen had switched to Latin and I hadn’t even noticed. Stupid.
The priest’s dark brown eyes narrowed on me. “Clearly the girl is no Jew, as she wears not the yellow veil,” he said in crisp Latin. “How is it that you consort with our Hebrew brethren”—his lip curled at that—“yet can speak the language of your betters and Holy Mother Church?”
“I—my mother taught me, Father.” I dropped my gaze to the floor, but he crowded me. His fingers dug beneath my chin, raising my face to his.
“Your speech,” he said, moving closer until his stale breath washed over me, “it is odd. And I do not know your face. What is your name? Tell me at once.”
Thrown off by the menacing tone, I completely blew any shot to use my aristocratic, fake identity as I blurted out my own name. “H-Hope, sir . . . F-Father. Hope Walton. I—”
Becket inhaled sharply and drew back. His hand fumbled for the bulky silver cross at his chest as his thin lips mouthed my name silently to himself.
With an abrupt half turn toward the door, he shouted, “Guards! Seize this girl!”
Two uniformed guards began hurrying toward us. I didn’t even have time for my utter confusion to turn to fear before the queen held up a hand, stopping the men in their tracks.
“Halt,” she told them, though her intense eyes sharpened on me. “Explain yourself, Thomas.”
“She is a spy, Your Grace,” Becket spluttered, crossing himself. “An agent of the French. I’ve had it straight from a trusted friend who warned me to watch for a young girl who speaks with an odd accent and knows all manner of languages. A girl with hair as dark as night and eyes the color of a stormy sky. She even gave me the traitor’s true name. An unusual name for a simple merchant’s child, do you not agree, Your Grace?”
When Eleanor didn’t answer, he went on. “I shall see her jailed. A few hours under the ministrations of—”
“No,” Rachel exclaimed at the same time I gasped, “That’s not true.”
“You lie,” Becket sneered. “She understood you, Your Grace. You spoke in Latin just now, and she understood. Explain that.”
Fear was beginning to eat away at my reason. The stifling room closed around me, and I had to force myself not to run. Everyone was staring at us, mouths open in shock.