team of eight weavers working at least a year. And the faces of the figures shown in the tapestries—they were so symmetrical. What control to create visages so lovely. There was more, too. I was accustomed to tapestries fastened to the wall; after all, their more practical aspect was to warm houses during the cold months. But these tapestries hung a few inches away from the wall, hanging from narrow poles. They moved ever so slightly, becoming live, colorful sagas rather than flat woven pictures.
Even with all the troubles of the day—and the looming troubles of what was to come—I could not restrain myself from making my way to the wall to get a closer look. I wanted to figure out the story being told and assess its craftsmanship. Now that I was inches away, I could appreciate the meticulous line of the weave. I grasped the edge and, to my surprise, a whiff of grease and smoke puffed into my nose. I also spotted some dulling of the colors here and there. The tapestry was dirty.
“This way, mistress—this way,” said the page, who had circled back to find me.
“Forgive me, but I weave tapestries, that is why I am summoned today,” I said, reluctantly moving away from the wall.
“This way,” the page repeated yet again with the same vacuous smile pasted on his face. I supposed that he took no interest in the people he escorted around the palaces. Something about him seemed odd. I found I did not want to follow him. Yet I suppressed my first twinge of suspicion. After all, I had little knowledge of the ways of royal pages.
A shallow set of stairs led to a landing crowded with servants carrying crates. While we waited to get around them, I peered out the window. It was dizzying how close I stood to the Thames; its waters seemed to lap the palace wall.
Minutes later, I found myself walking down another long gallery. Tapestries covered these walls, too. I wondered how many the king possessed and whether they traveled with him from palace to palace or if some were permanently affixed. With such a vast and magnificent collection, why would he commission anything from my humble home loom?
And then I was outside, blinking in the sun. The page had led me out a door that opened the way to a larger nascent garden and empty sporting yards: tennis, which King Henry helped popularize; bowling; cockfighting.
“Where is the keeper of the wardrobe?” I called out to the red jacket bobbing a short distance in front.
Without answering, he pointed at a building only one story tall, on the other side of the bowling yard. I hurried to catch up to him, which was not easy.
“Are you sure you know the way?” I asked. “This doesn’t seem right.”
“You’ve been to Whitehall before?” he asked, very polite.
“No.”
The page’s smile deepened. In the sun I could see he was not as young as I’d first thought. There were tiny crinkles around his brown eyes. Beneath his beard, I detected a weak chin.
“I know the palace and all its buildings very well, I assure you,” he said, with another of his bows.
We resumed our walk, past a neat orchard, but it still didn’t feel right.
“Trust your instincts always”— that is what Jacquard Rolin said. He had been a liar and schemer and murderer. A breaker of all holy commandments. But he was clever, too, fiendishly so . . . “Very well, Jacquard, what would you do?” I muttered to myself, exasperated.
Be ready, Joanna Stafford. I could hear his Low Countries accent in the master spy’s hiss. A chill shivered up my arms in the sunny courtyard of the king.
We finally reached the far building. It had fewer people in it, just three men near the entrance, talking together as they shared a look at a ledger. A maidservant scrubbing in the corner. Passageways stretched in two directions from the front.
“Come, mistress, it’s this way,” said the page, moving toward the one on the left.
At the end of the passageway was a door. The page walked to it, then turned to
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