The Tapestry by Nancy Bilyeau Read Free Book Online

in a sordid attempt to procure my cousin Margaret Bulmer for the king’s bed. I could still see his reaction so clearly: his lower lip trembling as he glared at me, his obvious desire to tear me limb from limb, thwarted only by the presence of so many potential witnesses surrounding us.
    â€œThis is not over,” the Duke of Norfolk had whispered, his black eyes murderous, before leaving me behind on Tower Hill.
    It was a desperate gamble, to threaten the duke like that, and with a letter that did not even exist. His despicable procuring was real; he was known for his shoving of young women into the king’s bed. But I had no written proof of what he’d done to Margaret. It was the only thing I could think of, the only weapon that a powerless woman could wield against the senior nobleman of the kingdom. But now, should I come before the duke, I shuddered to contemplate his reaction.
    It was just another reason why coming to Whitehall today was an astoundingly risky decision.
    Culpepper, fortunately, led me to the far end of Westminster Hall, away from the crowd. We hurried to a narrow door, easy for someone like me to miss, but plainly my new friend was an expert of the court and all of its buildings.
    Inside was a narrow passage sparsely occupied. At the far end, I could hear the low rumble of many men’s voices. That must be the large hall where the commons and lords convened. As Culpepper had promised, the room in question was discreet. Inside was a dustychair by the narrow slit of a window and, on the other side, far from the light, a plain bench.
    â€œWhat is the room for?” I asked as I stepped inside.
    Culpepper shrugged. “A place to rest from the proceedings? Contemplation?” He pivoted. “I must hurry now, it’s to begin any moment.”
    And with that he was gone.
    I chose to wait on the bench. It was quiet here, giving me the first opportunity to collect my thoughts since I left Dartford at dawn. I was exhausted, and thirsty, too. So much had transpired, and there was so much yet to come.
    In this dim little room, recalling what happened since I set foot in Whitehall, it all became absurd. Why would a page wish to hurt me, a woman of a fallen family carrying a commission for tapestries? For there was no question that he knew who I was, he used my name in that passageway, when trying to convince me, against my judgment, to follow him. Had he used my name earlier? I thought back to the beginning, when I stood before the gatehouse, when I handed my summons to the official, when the page stepped forward to escort me, when I said good-bye to Agatha. And then it hit me, a realization so frightening that the breath rushed out of my body.
    Neither I nor anyone had ever said my name aloud at the gatehouse or in the palace. And the page never read the summons.
    Impossible , I whispered into the dusty quiet. For this would mean that he was prepared for my arrival, he was waiting for me. There was a plot to hurt me—perhaps to kill me—and the page was the instrument. He was not a deranged creature but an assassin.
    This was not a matter for chivalrous Thomas Culpepper, nor for any of my innocent friends. I should get as far away from the court as possible. The only question was where. Where?
    As I sat there, convulsed with fear, the door opened, and a man walked into the room. The ceremony must already be over.
    But this was not gentleman of the privy chamber Thomas Culpepper.
    He was thicker and older than Culpepper. He did not speak nor turn toward me, and as he moved toward the window, I saw at once that he did not know anyone else was within. He thought the room empty and did not detect my presence in the shadowy far end.
    I should declare myself—I opened my mouth—when something about his profile made the words falter in my throat. Had I seen this man before?
    Before I could place him in my memory, the man turned from the window and buried his face in his hands,