anything!” Elizabeth cried, holding up both arms stiffly as if to keep bullies from cuffing each other. She saw her guard had come closer as the voices rose. “Clifford,” she called to him, “take this ruined portrait into custody and escort my two artists back to the encampment straightaway, for I would see the very place this was discovered.”
Elizabeth was relieved to see that Floris and Kat were going back inside the palace as she and the others headed toward the cluster of tents. Her poor Gil would have to wait for his interview a little longer.
“Which tent?” she inquired of Lavina as they approached them. The queen noted thankfully that few courtiers were still in the area, for they must be about their various duties and pursuits. Most were probably within the palace, thinking she was there.
“This one next to where Master Kendale’s was—and Master Heatherley’s yet is,” Lavina said as Heatherley shot her another hot glare.
The three artists’ tents, which the queen had heard all but Kendale had shared with servants other than their own, had stood in a nearly perfect triangle. Since the three lady’s maids who also resided within Lavina’s tent were gone, it was deserted. The maids would be easy to question, the queen thought, for she had daily access to them. She stepped inside; her eyes skimmed the small, dim interior of the tent.
“My sleeping pallet is there,” Lavina told her, entering and pointing a trembling finger, her voice deadly calm now. “And the few canvases I brought are there, against the inside of the tent.”
Elizabeth went closer. Three stretched canvases leaned on their sides, shrouded in separate hemp sacks. She bent to pull each forward in turn and unwrapped a corner of each to peer at the canvas. The partial portrait of herself was the second one in and, thank the Lord, undisturbed.
“Was this,” she asked Master Heatherley, “where the maids—or maid—say they found the slashed portrait?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. They admitted they wanted a peek at the one Mistress Teerlinc had begun of you—and found the ruined one.”
“’S teeth, Henry,” Lavina cracked out, “if I’d harmed Vill, I’d hardly have secreted his painting vit mine!”
The queen let them rail at each other this time. If they were guilty, they might let something slip. Indeed, Lavina’s accent was doing just that. “And vat a coincidence the maids ran right to you!” the woman repeated, pointing straight-armed at Heatherley.
“Because I happened to be here, not out in the middle of some field as if you were skulking away or feeling guilty!”
“Guilty! I vas mourning the poor man in my own vay, though you seem not to give a fig vat happened to him!”
As Elizabeth put Lavina’s canvases back against the edge of the tent, she noted how loose it was. Hadn’t Jenks said the tent stakes were pounded in tight?
She moved the canvases out again and pressed the toe of her shoe against the side of the tent. It poked out so far that she almost went off balance, though she was certain her broad skirts hid from others here how loose the tent wall was.
She placed the canvases on Lavina’s pallet and asked them all to wait there a moment. Alone, though Clifford stood in the entry to the tent, keeping a nervous eye on them and her, she circled the exterior to its loose section. The stake which should have secured it was pulled completely out of the ground, as was the one next to it.
Aha! Elizabeth thought, feeling she was getting somewhere—but where, she did not know. This meant, at least, that Lavina could have crawled out of the tent without being seen by the sleeping maids. Or it could be just the opposite: someone had reached in, pulled out the portrait, slashed and then replaced it. But it was far too early for accusations: the background sketch of this double murder was barely filled in, and many details were yet needed.
Again, the stench of smoke crept into her nostrils and
Elizabeth was relieved to see that Floris and Kat were going back inside the palace as she and the others headed toward the cluster of tents. Her poor Gil would have to wait for his interview a little longer.
“Which tent?” she inquired of Lavina as they approached them. The queen noted thankfully that few courtiers were still in the area, for they must be about their various duties and pursuits. Most were probably within the palace, thinking she was there.
“This one next to where Master Kendale’s was—and Master Heatherley’s yet is,” Lavina said as Heatherley shot her another hot glare.
The three artists’ tents, which the queen had heard all but Kendale had shared with servants other than their own, had stood in a nearly perfect triangle. Since the three lady’s maids who also resided within Lavina’s tent were gone, it was deserted. The maids would be easy to question, the queen thought, for she had daily access to them. She stepped inside; her eyes skimmed the small, dim interior of the tent.
“My sleeping pallet is there,” Lavina told her, entering and pointing a trembling finger, her voice deadly calm now. “And the few canvases I brought are there, against the inside of the tent.”
Elizabeth went closer. Three stretched canvases leaned on their sides, shrouded in separate hemp sacks. She bent to pull each forward in turn and unwrapped a corner of each to peer at the canvas. The partial portrait of herself was the second one in and, thank the Lord, undisturbed.
“Was this,” she asked Master Heatherley, “where the maids—or maid—say they found the slashed portrait?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. They admitted they wanted a peek at the one Mistress Teerlinc had begun of you—and found the ruined one.”
“’S teeth, Henry,” Lavina cracked out, “if I’d harmed Vill, I’d hardly have secreted his painting vit mine!”
The queen let them rail at each other this time. If they were guilty, they might let something slip. Indeed, Lavina’s accent was doing just that. “And vat a coincidence the maids ran right to you!” the woman repeated, pointing straight-armed at Heatherley.
“Because I happened to be here, not out in the middle of some field as if you were skulking away or feeling guilty!”
“Guilty! I vas mourning the poor man in my own vay, though you seem not to give a fig vat happened to him!”
As Elizabeth put Lavina’s canvases back against the edge of the tent, she noted how loose it was. Hadn’t Jenks said the tent stakes were pounded in tight?
She moved the canvases out again and pressed the toe of her shoe against the side of the tent. It poked out so far that she almost went off balance, though she was certain her broad skirts hid from others here how loose the tent wall was.
She placed the canvases on Lavina’s pallet and asked them all to wait there a moment. Alone, though Clifford stood in the entry to the tent, keeping a nervous eye on them and her, she circled the exterior to its loose section. The stake which should have secured it was pulled completely out of the ground, as was the one next to it.
Aha! Elizabeth thought, feeling she was getting somewhere—but where, she did not know. This meant, at least, that Lavina could have crawled out of the tent without being seen by the sleeping maids. Or it could be just the opposite: someone had reached in, pulled out the portrait, slashed and then replaced it. But it was far too early for accusations: the background sketch of this double murder was barely filled in, and many details were yet needed.
Again, the stench of smoke crept into her nostrils and
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