“I was in the rose garden and he fell on the path, so I was a good distance away.”
“It is a definite case?”
“That’s what the others said. My companion went to look, but he was further than I am from you now. He believed it to be so. He is informing the king as we speak.”
Catherine nodded. “And Ellen?”
“She was at the far side of the gardens.”
“So far,” said Catherine, “you are the only one of my ladies to be in proximity to the case. And there is a breeze, is there not?”
“A slight breeze.”
“It may carry the infection. You should not enter further. No doubt we will be leaving shortly for a safer location. My ladies will need to pack up my effects. Mistress Marwood, you must retire for now. Please leave.”
Uncertain, with her hands still shaking, Thomasin stepped out of the chamber. The long corridor stretched before her, with its doors leading to chambers, stores, steps and other places she had yet to explore. Where was she to go? Where would be safe? Should she be trying to protect others, in case she carried the illness?
At once she focused on her body. She did not feel unwell, but now she thought of it, her stomach was churning and her head pounding, and an almost overwhelming tiredness came over her. She needed to sit down. There was an antechamber where the guards sometimes slept when they were taking it in turns to be on shift at night. It was round the corner, down a side corridor, tucked away in an older part of the palace. Luckily, the door was unlocked; the place was tiny and cold, but empty. There were barrels of supplies, including wood and coal, and some glasses and plates stacked on a plain cupboard. Thomasin lay down on one of the truckle beds.
Darkness was falling outside the window. No one would be leaving at this hour. Dawn would see the carriages loaded up, the gold and jewel-adorned riders galloping away. By then, all would be decided, and the fallen man’s fate known.
At first, Thomasin resisted the urge to close her eyes. She lay awake, waiting for news, for footsteps down the corridor. As darkness fell, she strained to hear voices, or horse hooves, but nothing reached her. Eventually, sleep overcame her.
TWENTY-SIX
It was late when Thomasin awoke. The light was bright and full, ripened by the hours. She was used to rising with the dawn on these long summer days and helping Catherine dress, then waiting patiently whilst she prayed. Yet her senses told her that she had slept far past her usual hour, perhaps even as late as midday and clearly, no one had searched for her. Or at least, they had not found her.
When Thomasin tried to rise, she felt heavy. With effort, she pulled herself to her feet and straightened her dress. Her hair badly needed a brush, but fortunately she had been wearing a simple headdress, easy and quick to replace. Her fingers fumbled to set it into position, where it would at least cover the worst of her tangles. She must look a mess, but with the sweat such a fear, surely no one would notice a crumpled dress?
She pushed open the door gingerly. It was stiffer than she remembered. The corridor outside was still and quiet, so that not even an echoed voice or step reached her.
Suddenly, fear seized Thomasin. A presentiment of disaster. What if the sweat had spread through the palace at night, claiming lives? What if the king and queen lay dead, or dying? And Ellen too, and Will, and Rafe?
Thomasin’s mouth was terribly dry. Little sunshine filtered through the latticed window, but it felt like a hot day. A very hot day. She must find a drink somewhere, but was it safer to go to the kitchens or the queen’s chamber? Would she even be admitted?
After that long, deep sleep, she felt a little unsteady. Putting out her hand, she balanced against the wall for support and inched forwards. The corridor was impossibly long; she did not remember it being this drawn out, and each time she thought she had reached the end, there was yet more of it. And in all that time, no one passed the end. Not one soul. The butterflies in the pit of her stomach were beating their wings hard.
Finally, her hand slid along the wall and round the corner. Thomasin looked right towards the queen’s apartments and left, to the stairs. It was deserted. Her head began to swim, brimming with questions she could not formulate as she leaned against the cold stone, trying to get her bearings. It felt as if she remained there a long time, eyes fixed upon the pattern of interlocking stones. Time passed, but was it minutes or hours? A terrible realisation slowly dawned upon her.
Then, suddenly, the footsteps were close behind, echoing like thunder so that she almost jumped out of her skin.
“Here she is!” cried a voice. “I have found her.”
But Thomasin could not recognise the voice or face of her saviour, as her knees went from under her. Her last conscious act was to put out her hands to protect herself as she fell.
When Thomasin woke again, it was dark. She was lying in bed, with covers pulled up to her chin. She could see a glow of fire in the hearth but was shaking uncontrollably, shivering with cold. The room was shifting, too. Walls and corners absorbed all the darkness.
A figure passed in front of the fire, briefly blocking out the light. A woman, perhaps, with wide skirts.
“Are you awake?”
“Cold, so cold.”
“It will pass.”
Thomasin closed her eyes.
The next time she came round, it was dark again, dark as pitch because the fire had died. Thomasin lay still on her back, held in terror by what she was experiencing, but also by not knowing where she was, or who was tending her. Were they still present? Her ears keened in the darkness, reaching for any little sound. Was that the soft breath of another sleeper?
