My eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. Not her. Not her. Not her.
“Oh,” Phoebe said, “so I shagged the groom in the hayloft this afternoon after going to the market. Had to do it. Little ‘lady and the stable boy’ fantasy of mine. I don’t think Doug will mind, do you?”
“That’s nice,” I said absently. Then her words made it through, and I rounded on her. “Wait. What?”
My friend’s eyes crinkled as she exchanged a glance with her brother.
“Paying attention now are we?” Collum said. “We have a mission to complete. Quit whinging about, and get on with the job at hand.”
I wanted to smack him, but he was right. Nodding, I picked up the hem of my skirt and entered the Great Hall, determined to find my mom so we could get the hell out of there.
The long, rectangular hall was decorated for royalty. Trestle tables stretched the length of the room, set with pewter plates. Multitudes of candles glowed from deer-antler chandeliers that were twined with ivy and gold cloth. The astringent essence of evergreen wafted down from swags stretched across the sweeping rafters. Cinnamon-and-clove-scented steam boiled up from vats of mulled ale.
The delicious aromas, layered with the reek of stale sweat and dirty hair, made the place smell like Christmas at a hobo’s house.
Liveried servants passed among the guests with platters of steaming beef and pork. Spiced meatballs floating in tureens of hearty sauce. A savory, fatty smell flooded the air as trays of roasted goose and ornately decorated peacock were presented. At the head of the room, a dais dripped with scarlet and gold silk, waiting for the king and queen.
“We’ll split up,” Collum ordered, eyes scanning the crowd. “Cover more ground that way.”
At our answering nods, Collum’s gaze flicked back and forth between us, before fixing on me. His hazel eyes looked oddly sad as he whispered, “Take care. No matter what happens, get Sarah out, and make sure you’re at the glade on time.”
“What . . . ?” I started, but he pushed off into the crowd without another word. My pulse thrummed as I gave Phoebe a questioning look. She shrugged, frowning, as she moved off.
As each person passed that wasn’t my mother, I grew more frantic. I skimmed the crowd, desperate for the curve of her familiar cheek. The slope of too-broad shoulders beneath colored finery.
“Mistress Hope.”
I turned to find Rachel’s William Lucie looking resplendent in a blazing azure tunic, yellow diamonds stitched at the cuffs and along the hem. “I wish to thank you.”
He took two goblets from a passing servant and offered one to me. “I know what you did for my . . . for Rachel.”
“No,” I said, “you have it wrong. Rachel helped me.”
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
William captured my distracted gaze. “Rachel is . . . my friend, and Eustace Clarkson tried to hurt her. I shall take that up with him in due time. But that’s not why I wanted to speak with you. I came to warn you, Mistress Hope. Warn you that someone’s been making enquiries about you.”
That did it. I quit searching and gave William my full attention. “I beg your pardon?”
Instead of answering, he took my elbow and turned me toward the dais. A group of churchmen chuckled as they emerged from a side door to seat themselves at the head table. A fat archbishop in blinding white and gold sat down next to one of the thrones. Lounging behind him in humble black was Thomas Becket.
“Becket,” William announced quietly, though there was no need. A chill had skittered across my skin when I saw him, features pinched as he scanned the room. “Becket is a priest, yes, but he has eyes and ears everywhere. For some reason, you’ve drawn his interest.”
As if he’d heard us above the clamor, Thomas Becket’s eyes stopped roving the crowd and fixed on me. His mouth made a small moue of surprise. I took an involuntary step back. Then trumpets blared from the back of the Great Hall, and Becket’s malevolent gaze dropped away.
I thanked William and scuffled back against the wall as feasters scrambled for spots at the long tables.
Henry Plantagenet—second of that name. King of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Count of Anjou, Brittany, Poitou. Duke of Normandy, Maine, Gascony, and Aquitaine, as the herald announced—was short, stocky, and bowlegged. A russet-haired fireplug of a man who Eleanor topped by half a head. They strolled arm in arm down the wide space between the tables, like graceful ships in the middle of a cheering storm.
The disheveled woman I’d seen idling in her nightclothes was gone, replaced by regal opulence. She stunned in cascades of jade silk embroidered with golden lions that emphasized her round belly. Candlelight sparked off the emeralds set into her gold coronet. Henry looked like a man ready to burst with pride.
As they came level with me, Henry placed a square freckled hand on his wife’s belly and crowed, “Another job well done for England, eh, boys?”