The Other Henry VIII

The Thrill of the Chase

Morale hung lower that evening than it had since the Sweat. The sun absconded from its perch in a blaze of scarlet and night fell over the abandoned, starless sky, yet no news of the Queen arose. Clara felt as though a spell had been cast over the English court, engulfing them in thick, fearful silence. Gone was the flustered frenzy of the morning and the gossip-ridden titter of the afternoon — the halls of Hampton Court had fallen still, and every candlelit face one saw was daubed with woe. The newfound tranquillity was welcome on her part, for a quiet chamber allowed her mind to wander as it had not been able before. Something about this whole affair was not quite right, and by supper she was on the very cusp of understanding why.

Lizzie, on the other hand, appeared rather disconcerted by such peace. At the table she twitched and squirmed, rotating each piece of cutlery between her slim fingers one by one before setting them down beside her empty plate with a painful clatter. On her left, ever keen to please, Edward copied her with much frowning and furrowing of his brow, while his twin looked on in disdain.
"Would you please give it a rest?" requested Clara through gritted teeth, just as the heir to the throne sent his spoon flying across the room. Narrowly missing Lady Gill's ear, it glided past Lady Oxford's elbow and met with the tapestry on the opposite wall with a blunt thud. Edward bit his lip and gazed up at his sisters apologetically, only to beam as Lizzie shot him a laudatory wink.
"We are fed-up and hungry, and there is little else with which to occupy ourselves," was her frank reply.

A fair point, conceded Clara — they had been awaiting supper for at least half an hour, although she had been too focused on her own deductions to take note of it. Before she could think of a response that would quell the brazen look her sister's face, Lady Gill halted behind her shoulder and whispered, "My Lady, if I may."
Rising to her feet, she led her friend to the corner of the chamber where no-one else could do anything but shoot them puzzled glances. "Is there news? What says your father?"
Susanna sighed tremulously, and Clara knew at once that something was amiss. "Papa has examined Her Majesty and agrees that it is belladonna poisoning. The red flush, the lethargy, the delirium... but My Lady, when he went to test the tonic for its concentration..."
"Yes?" she prompted.
"It was gone."
"What?"
"Papa searched everywhere. He could have sworn he took it to his apartments after luncheon— he even returned to Her Majesty's chambers in case he had forgotten it — but it wasn't there. It had simply vanished."

Clara's lips parted as another wave of comprehension crashed over her rigid body. She met the other woman's eyes, and knew they were thinking the same thing. "Or... someone took it."
"But that means..."
"... that Lady Montrose is innocent."
There was a cold, unsettling silence as the murmured words dissipated into their minds. Then, frowning, Susanna added, "Perchance she had an accomplice, My Lady."
"Unlikely," said Clara, shaking her head, "Lady Montrose has few friends here. But if she was imprisoned at midday, then how could she have taken the tonic in the afternoon? And who else would take it on her behalf? Most of court would dearly love to see her hang. I believe..." She gulped as a knot of nerves rose in her throat. "... Susanna, Lady Montrose did not poison the Queen."

They stared at one another for a moment, quite unsure of what to do with this lation. Inside her chest, Clara's heart thumped vehemently with a bewildering combination of triumph and apprehension; if not Marianne, than whom? Nothing compared to the fire that blazed through her veins as their achievement sank in, yet how could she even pause for relief? They had vindicated Lady Montrose, yet in doing so exposed themselves to an even greater conundrum. All of a sudden, the English court was beginning to look very guilty indeed. Perhaps she could have paused to enjoy the sheer thrill of discovery, if Leia's life were not on the line.

After what seemed like a heartbeat and a lifetime all at once, the door creaked open and delivered one of the Princess' maids-in-waiting into the chamber. She was a small, elfin girl of around ten or eleven, daughter of a court-shy marquess, whose proficiency with animals had earned her the role of Flavia's minder. The little dog trotted by her skirts in a dignified manner, curls silky and golden in the firelight, not doubt sated by a walk in the twilight.
"Lady Audrey," said Clara in the poised, affable tone she was so accustomed to feigning, "You must be tired. Do join the other maids in the next chamber. We are awaiting supper at the present."