Free Traitor's Kiss by Pauline Francis Page B

money to take us back to France.”
    â€œDo you expect me to believe you?” I moaned. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t. She’s in Bedlam because of you .”
    I did not know what to believe. It is in this way that plots are skilfully woven. Each thread is so perfect that its subtleties cannot always be seen. If this was a plot to bring me down, then Bedlam was the supreme deception. Devious, designed to mislead. If I entered its dreadful doors, I might swiftly disappear.
    â€œSo, do you still want to speak to her?” he asked.
    I have many weaknesses – my temper, my dropsy, my impatience – but it is my reluctance to make decisions that plagues me more than anything else. If I did not have maidservants to dress me, I would stay in my night robe all day. If I must make a decision, I put it off. Kat is driven insane by it.
    My heart thudded with sudden panic. How could I go to Bedlam? Such things are impossible for princesses. How could I escape Kat’s eyes? How could I escape other prying eyes? Bedlam was more than two miles from Chelsea Palace. I saw danger everywhere: in the dark river that could take me to hell or to my death, in my sister’s hatred, in Seymour’s fingers across my neck.
    I wanted to be safe in the pink palace behind me with Kat and Lady Catherine and Robert Dudley. As I pondered it all, a long shadow fell across me. Oars creaked in the icy darkness and the wash of Francis’s boat lapped against the steps as he pushed away.
    Francis had seen my stepfather, who was snatching a fire torch from the guard to hold over the water. “Who is that boy?” he asked me. He wrinkled his nose. “I can smell his stench from here.”
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œI’m not a fool, Bess. Princesses don’t talk to stinking boys in stinking boats. Kate has told me about such a boy…the one you saw on your brother’s birthday. Is he another pup mewling for its master?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean, Kate says he has the look of your father. London is full of such pups, claiming to be his son. They should be drowned at birth.” Thomas Seymour took me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. My legs barely supported me as he led me towards the fire brazier to warm me. “Look at you, child. You’re angry. You’re distressed. What has he said? Tell me his name and I can warn him off. Princesses are easy prey, Bess.”
    For just one moment, I was tempted. I wanted to trust my stepfather. I wished that I did not feel so alone. But I knew how Thomas Seymour would warn Francis – with the mud at the bottom of the Thames. If I gave up Francis now, I would never hear the truth about my mother.
    He touched my cheek. “Who is he, Bess?”
    â€œNobody,” I insisted.
    We returned to the warmth of the Great Hall. I was still shivering with shock. Jane lent me her gloves. Kat brought me dry shoes. Edward was waiting, drumming his thin fingers on the table. Mary was already seated at his right hand. My chair waited empty, at his left. I sank into it, shaking with cold, cursing that I had missed my chance a second time.
    â€œAll my children gathered together,” Lady Catherine said.
    â€œAn ill-assorted trinity, no ?” Mary snapped, her voice cold.
    My face must have been terrible to see, for Mary whispered her apologies and blamed the wine. But my distress brought no other comment. It was nothing unusual. Twelve days of cramped chambers, stale air and overindulgence had made us all red-eyed and irritable.
    The Twelfth Night cake was brought in towards ten o’clock. It was a masterpiece. Baked in the shape of the palace, it gleamed with gilded marzipan. As tradition required, a pea and a bean had been hidden inside. Whoever found the bean would be King of Twelfth Night. Whoever found the pea, would be his Queen. As tradition also required, Edward spat the bean from