Free The Tapestry by Nancy Bilyeau Page B

here, and not one of the larger halls of the palace. The master of pages could say that this room afforded the strongest possible light to inspect their official wardrobe, supposedly. Most important, I’d get a good look at each of their faces.
    But it was an out-of-the-ordinary undertaking and this placed even greater strain on secrecy. A few curious courtiers gathered in the doorway to a connecting chamber, watching. I tried to angle myself so that I was out of their sight, shielded by a pillar running ceiling to floor.
    At last—it began. Each of the pages strode forward, to be scrutinized head to toe while Culpepper, nodding, stood to the side. Each time a new man made it to the front of the line, my breath quickened. Because the mask was pressed against my face, my exhalations banked at the top of the gaping frown meant for my mouth. And so my nervous breaths, which I could not suppress, made the oddest noises, like wordless whispers.
    It took no time at all to know that none of them was the man who’d attacked me. Culpepper was right, most of the pages were quite young, and beardless. There was one man who for a fleeting second fitted the description. But his beard was darkest brown, not the dull sandy color I recalled. And the page had round, merry cheeks above the beard. The physiognomy of this face was all wrong. Five pages later, I spotted a second bearded man, but his hair was so closely trimmed that I could see an Adam’s apple throbbing in his throat during inspection. He rocked from side to side, an ungainly youth. Neither of these was the man who’d turned to look at me, over and over, and said, with that flat smile, “This way, mistress.”
    The crowd of curious men in the doorway was growing. I could tell by the way Culpepper bounced on his heels that he, too, was unhappy with the attention we drew. Fortunately, we were down to the last three pages.
    The final trio of young men were inspected and moved toward the windows. Not one of them wore a beard or in any way resembled my attacker.
    He was not among this group assembled today.
    What could I possibly say to Culpepper now? Would he doubt my story—indeed, I was beginning to doubt it myself. Yesterday’s assault had been so unprovoked, so bizarre, and now it seemed the man who had twisted my arm and hurled me across that room did not officially exist.
    Thomas Culpepper hurried up the stairs and across the gallery to my side.
    “Which one?” he said in a low voice.
    “None of them,” I said, turning away to face the wall so I could drop the ludicrous mask.
    Culpepper sighed, not with impatience but genuine frustration. “I don’t understand,” he said. “None are missing. Thirty-six pages serve His Majesty’s court at Whitehall.”
    The murmur of young men talking to one another below was pierced by a louder voice, an older person’s: “The sleeves are filthy, sir, filthy—and do I see a missing button ?”
    We both glanced down. The master of pages was continuing to berate the tall young man, the one with a bobbing Adam’s apple. He was even more distressed now, waving his arms as he defended himself. I heard the word missing in the middle of a stream of excuses.
    I stiffened as it all fell into place.
    “Thomas,” I said hoarsely, “I know what must have happened.”
    “Hold up your mask again,” he pleaded. And then: “Tell me, Mistress Stafford, I beg you, for I am damn perplexed.”
    “The man who met me at the gatehouse and led me through Whitehall to that room, he was not a page,” I said, the words tumbling out from behind my mask. “He stole that page’s doublet, that’s why he is wearing one today that is dirty and torn during inspection, he had no choice. The other man, the one who harmed me, wore it and pretended to be in service. They are about the same height and weight.”
    Culpepper stared at me. “But for a man to do that, to select a royal uniform and steal it, to take such an audacious risk, he is most