“Yes, yes.” She waved her royal hand dismissively and picked up her quill. “After Rachel spoke of you, Sister Hectare made inquiries, I believe. Tell the girl what you’ve learned, Sister.”
The ancient woman’s voice creaked like an unoiled door. “All the barons of the land will be here tonight at Your Grace’s precoronation feast. Lady Sarah’s name is de Carlyle no longer, of course, but she and her husband will be in attendance.”
For an instant, all I felt was an overwhelming thrill of exhilaration. Of triumph. My mother. Here. Then the rest of the nun’s words penetrated, and I could only blink at her.
Husband? The words tangled in my mouth. “I’m sorry, but my c-cousin is not married, sister. You aren’t . . . I mean, you don’t have the wrong person in mind, do you?”
“I don’t believe so, child,” Hectare replied kindly. “Though these old ears could have heard wrong.”
Thoughts of my father laughing quietly with Stella Montgomery began to thread through my mind. Shock turned slowly to anger at how easily they’d both given up.
Apparently I’m the only one in this family with any damn loyalty.
I had to go. Had to get out of there before I puked all over the queen of England’s pretty bejeweled slippers. I had to think this through. I knew my mom. No matter what kind of situation she’d faced, my mother always, always did what she wanted. Sarah Walton didn’t compromise. There must have been a reason. A plan.
A servant signaled to Rachel, who tugged on my arm. “We are dismissed.”
We backed away from the now-distracted royal. As we reached the door, Sister Hectare scrambled around the table and approached us.
“Mistress Hope,” she said, “the queen enjoys interfering with that prying priest. He hates women in general, and learned ones even more. But make no mistake, you’ve made an enemy in Becket here today, so take heed. The queen’s protection extends only so far.” The little nun bestowed a sweet, toothless grin to soften her words. Her face folded into a million wrinkles. “In any case, Her Grace would like to extend a personal invitation for you and your family to attend the feast tonight. There, I believe, you shall find the woman you are searching for.”
Chapter 25
“YOU’RE NOT BEING FAIR, HOPE.” PHOEBE’S TEETH CHATTERED as our rented sled lined up with hundreds of others. Sleds, sleighs, and riders on horseback, filed out the city gate, headed for the Palace of Westminster and its nearby Abbey. “First of all, you don’t even know for sure the woman they mentioned is our Sarah.”
I nodded, though I did know. I knew it in my heart. After we returned to the house and I revealed what I’d learned, I’d sunk into a depression that left me wrung out and numb.
Alongside the procession, hundreds of mounted soldiers bore blazing torches, lighting the frigid night until the fat snowflakes glowed like bits of fire falling from the sky. Shouts and cheers rang out. The smells of horse and ice and burning pitch. The jangle of bells on tack as people’s cheeks and fingertips froze.
It wasn’t far down the road called the Strand to Westminster that—in this bygone age—still lay a few miles outside the city proper. Based on the sprawling hamlets and great estates we passed, it wouldn’t be long before London outgrew its walls completely, and the great Abbey and Palace became the center of town.
I burrowed deeper under the musty furs. Every exhale turned to a cloud of frozen mist that iced my blood in a world gone cobwebby and cold. In the orange haze, Collum rode beside us on a sway-backed mare. He seemed twitchy and anxious. I’d never seen him nervous before. I did not care for it.
Dismounting, we merged with the crowd as they flowed toward the castle’s entry. Phoebe’s emerald dress—purchased secondhand at market—suited her auburn hair and pale, freckled skin to perfection as she puffed beside me. “Let’s just find Sarah and get the story from her, okay?”
My own gown of rich indigo, embroidered in whorls of scarlet, swept down in a cascade of plush wool. With Phoebe’s needle, the long, belled sleeves, lined with crimson silk, draped to the ground in swooping elegance.
When I’d come down the steps at Mabray House, my hair braided and pinned in place by Alice’s clever fingers, Collum had stared at me for a long moment before mumbling a begrudging “You’ll do.”
The knot on my forehead from my previous tumble pulsated. The freezing wind whipped at the filmy veil as—for the hundredth time—I adjusted the bronze circlet that ringed my scalp like a torture device.
Phoebe glanced over at me. “You all right, then?”
“Peachy.”
People lined up before the torchlit entrance to the Palace of Westminster, dressed in their glittering, courtly best. Butterflies cartwheeled in my gut as we joined the queue of invited guests.
She’s here—I know it. My mother’s here and she’s married.
Phoebe gave me a concerned look as we crossed the scoured cobbles and mounted the steps. “It’ll be okay, Hope. Honestly. We’ll find Sarah, and then . . .”