Holding Court

by K. C. Held

  “Oh?” I say, wondering what he’s heard but afraid to ask. “I’m not really sure about that. It’s more like I have this weird habit of blurting out random stuff that sometimes comes true.”

  “I see. How interesting,” he says, but doesn’t look the least bit interested.

  I walk over to the rack of costumes, eager to change the subject. “These clothes are so amazing. How long does it take you to make one of these gowns?” I ask, realizing this could be the perfect opportunity to see if I can get Geoffrey to let me look at the costume bible Angelique mentioned.

  “It varies. King Henry is a stickler for historical accuracy, which means no theater shortcuts with these costumes, so some of the more complicated pieces can take quite some time.”

  “How many have you made?”

  “Oh, I’ve lost count by now. I’ve done at least three different ensembles for King Henry and one or two for each of his wives. And then there are all the knights and servants and other assorted characters.”

  “How do you keep track of it all?”

  “Ah,” he says, and smiles. “I’ve got my costume bible. It has photographs of all the ensembles and who wears what. Thank goodness for digital cameras these days. Makes it so much easier. Not like the days of the Polaroid.”

  “Wow, your bible thingy sounds awesome. Could I see it?”

  “Certainly,” he says, but he gives me kind of a funny look.

  “That’s a fantastic fanny pack, by the way. The black leather is very posh. And I love your costume. Did you make it, too? I’m just so fascinated with all the costumes you’ve created.” I’m babbling but I can’t seem to stop myself. What if I see a picture of the dead girl in the bible? What if I don’t?

  Geoffrey goes to one of the shelves and pulls out a large black binder.

  “Be soft and attend thy soiled slops!” I blurt while his back is to me.

  He turns and hands me the binder. “Here’s the bible,” he says, “and I assure you, my slops are quite clean, although I prefer the term ‘trunk hose.’”

  I have no idea how to respond to this so I say, “Of course. Thank you. Is it okay if I just…” I wave toward the stools tucked under one end of the table.

  He nods, so I pull a stool out and open up the bible. I start flipping through the pictures, keenly aware that he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye while he irons Angelique’s veil.

  “These costumes are so elaborate, “ I say. “I can’t imagine how much it must cost to make one of these dresses.”

  “Money is no object for King Henry. And he insists that everything be exactly as it would have been in the sixteenth century.”

  “Does that mean the jewels are real, too?” I’m looking at a picture of a dress that looks absolutely encrusted with pearls, and thinking Hank Bacon must be a bazillionaire if they’re real.

  “Only for King Henry’s personal garments and all except the diamonds. We use Swarovski crystals for those. Aside from the jewels, some of the fabrics cost over $200 a yard. A museum could never afford to commission that kind of reproduction, which is one of the reasons the British Museum has asked to borrow King Henry’s Whitehall ensemble.”

  “That’s amazing. I had no idea King Henry, uh, Mr. Bacon was that…dedicated.” Translation: loaded.

  On each page of the bible there’s a picture of a Tudor Times staff member in costume followed by a detailed list of the costume pieces.

  “Oh, hey! Trunk hose are pants!”

  “Of course they are,” Geoffrey responds.

  “And a doublet is a jacket?”

  “You’re a quick study, Mistress Verity. Your veil is ready for you. I’ll help you put it on if you promise not to need my services again until the end of your shift.”

  “Deal.” I’ve reached the end of the book, and there’s no sign of the disappearing dead girl. “And thanks so much for letting me look through your bible. You must be really proud of your work here.”

  “You could say it’s the fulfillment of one of my greatest dreams.” Geoffrey beams as he takes the book and puts it back on the shelf.

  I hop down from the stool and stand still while he pins my veil into place, then brushes the dust off the hem of my habit.

  “There you are, Sister Elizabeth. You’re ready to channel the spirits, or whatever it is you do.”

  “Thanks, Geoffrey. You, uh, keep rocking that fanny pack.” Ugh. Did I really just say that? I sound like a Bree wannabe. I cringe inwardly and flee the Great Wardrobe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Don’t Play Coy

  I now know about trunk hose and doublets and have verified that everyone at Tudor Times has a way less embarrassing costume than I do, including the King’s Fool and the guys who wear codpieces, but I’m no closer to proving I didn’t hallucinate a dead girl.

  I decide to head to the Rose Tower since I’m not sure what else to do. When I get to the Oratory I find a schedule for the day’s readings already on the wooden table. I only have one private reading, but it’s listed as a group reading, which is not something Angelique mentioned as a possibility. I feel a trickle of sweat slide out from beneath my wimple. I use the tent flap on my habit to wipe it away. All I have to do is act like a crazy nun. Should be easy peasy, right?

  I prop open the Oratory door and prepare for the first tour group. According to Angelique, when I’m not doing private readings, and am just hanging out acting nunly while waiting for the next group of castle guests to come trooping through, I have a couple of options: I can kneel on the floor pillow and pretend to pray, or sit at the wooden table and pretend to write letters to supplicants, or I can study my Bible. Angelique suggested I bring a magazine to hide inside the Bible, which would allow me to look properly pious while secretly catching up on my celebrity gossip.

  I decide to sit at the wooden table and write down what I know about the dead girl while pretending to write a prophetic letter to a sixteenth-century petitioner of the Holy Maid of Kent. I pick up a quill, dip it in the inkwell, and quickly discover that writing with a feather is easier said than done.

  I’ve managed to scrawl, Dead girl not pictured in Geoffrey’s bible. What does this mean? And if she was murdered, who killed her and why??? when Floyd, aka the Keeper, knocks on the open door.

  “There you are, Mistress Verity. I understand you’re on your own today?”

  “Yeah, Angelique’s a bit busy having a baby.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Um, I’m pretty sure that’s not how she’d describe it.”

  “I was referring to the fact that she’s not available to answer any questions about all the excitement going on in the castle.”

  “Excitement?”

  “Oh, come now, Mistress Verity. Or I suppose I should call you Sister Elizabeth? Either way, don’t play coy with the Keeper.” He gives me a wink and I suppress a shiver remembering Angelique’s suggestion to flirt with him. He must be at least seventy-five years old.

  “You’ve been snooping around where you don’t belong.”

  “You mean the spirit world? I’m pretty sure that’s my job.”

  Floyd gives a sinister-sounding chuckle. “I know everything that goes on around here, Mistress Verity. Everything. And I know you were in the secret passageway last night.” He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “How, may I ask, did you come to discover the entrance behind the suit of armor?”

  “Oh, um, it was kind of an accident.” Instead of feminine wiles, I’m now thinking about busting out my stun gun.

  “I see. And who else was involved in this ‘accident’?”

  “You mean besides the sacrificial goat and the vestal virgins?”

  Floyd is standing directly in front of the door, effectively blocking my only escape route. Unless I want to jump out a stained glass window.

  “I mean, I would like to know who is sharing my secrets.”

  “Are you here for a reading? Because I don’t have you on the schedule.” I h
old up the handwritten sheet of paper with the day’s readings. With my other hand I grasp the stun gun in my pocket and flip the lid off. “And I need to leave the door open if I’m not doing a private reading.” I stand up and make a move toward the door, stun gun at the ready.

  “Then tell the Keeper what you know, Sister Elizabeth.” Floyd takes a step toward me and I jump back. He smiles, then pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the wooden table. “Do you truly have the gift of visions? Or are you a snooping charlatan like your predecessor?”

  “Is there a third choice?”

  “Come, Sister Elizabeth. I would hate to have to report you to His Majesty. He has far more important things to worry about than finding another Maid of Kent. In fact, I insist on a private reading. And since there is no one else here I don’t see what’s preventing you from fulfilling the Keeper’s wishes.”

  “Perhaps if the Keeper weren’t so creepy I’d feel more inclined to oblige,” I say under my breath.

  Floyd does his villainous chuckle thing again. “It’s part of the Keeper’s charm, is it not? The one-eyed bodyguard of a bloodthirsty king? The Keeper has to keep up appearances.”

  “The Keeper needs to make an appointment for a reading and Sister Elizabeth will be happy to oblige.” I make a dash for the door and throw it open. And am ridiculously pleased to see a tour group coming my way. “Greetings, lords and ladies,” I say loudly. “I have just finished a private consultation. Make way for the Keeper, if you please.”

  Floyd stands and pushes past me. “The Keeper hopes you find your time with the prophetess more illuminating than I,” he tells the crowd, and disappears down the stairs.

  The costumed guide leading the group, a young woman who plays another of Henry VIII’s many wives, introduces me as the Holy Maid of Kent and explains my gift of prophesy.

  “If we’re lucky,” she stage-whispers to the group, “she may have a premonition for one of us.”

  The group waits in hushed silence, and I take my time studying them. I hope they can’t see the sweat that’s starting to soak through my wimple. I spot a little girl in a pink T-shirt with a horse on it edging her way to the front of the crowd.

  “Am I going to get a pet for my birthday?” she calls out. “I know I’m probably not going to get a pony, right?” She raises her eyebrows and looks at me with eyes full of hope. The crowd laughs.

  I kneel down in front of the girl. “Greetings, fair maiden. What be thy name?”

  “Hi. Uh, I be Maddy.”

  “Well met, Mistress Maddy. I am not at liberty to say whether or not you will get a pony of your own but I can tell you I see lots of pony rides in your future.” This seems like a safe enough prediction.

  “Awesome!” Maddy says and turns to the woman now standing behind her. “Hey, Mom! Can we do the stable tour next?”

  “Sure, honey,” the woman says, and smiles at me.

  I give them a solemn nod, and the guide is gesturing for the group to move on when I feel a blurt coming on. “Pink toes make perfect pets!” I yell at Maddy, and then heave a sigh of relief that I’ve blurted something seemingly inoffensive.

  Maddy cocks her head at me. “Pinktoes? Do you like tarantulas, too? Did you hear that, Mom? She said I should get a pinktoe tarantula!”

  Her mom gives me an alarmed look, and I take back my sigh of relief.

  “That’s what you said, right?” Maddy asks me.

  “Um.” I pause, trying to figure out how to phrase my response. “The messages from the spirits can be very mysterious,” I say. “My job is just to pass them on.”

  Maddy leans close and whispers, “Where are the spirits? Are they invisible? Do they like tarantulas, too? Pinktoes are the cutest. Terri Hoffer says I’m a weirdo because I like spiders, but Mom says everyone has their quirks. Do you have quirks?”

  Ha! “Absolutely. Do you know what my Gran says?”

  “Is she a spirit?”

  I stifle a laugh. “Not yet. She says that you not only have the right to be an individual, you have an obligation to be one.”

  “Does your Gran like tarantulas?” Maddy asks, and her mom gives her hand a tug.

  “I think our time’s up, kiddo. Thank you, uh, Sister Elizabeth.”

  “Good day, milady. Thank you for visiting, Mistress Maddy. I hope you enjoy the rest of your time at the castle.”

  “Bye,” Maddy says. “Tell the spirits I said good-bye to them, too. I’m so excited for my tarantula! But I still wouldn’t mind a pony.”

  “Duly noted,” I say. “For now I think your stable tour will have to do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  You Are so Dead

  I settle back down at my table, grateful to have survived both my encounter with the creepy Keeper and my first solo tour performance. A couple more tours go through and not only do I manage to avoid blurting out anything that might get me fired, no one looks at me like I’m some sort of freak when I bark out a completely random statement to a total stranger. They actually seem to like it. I’m starting to think this whole Tudor Times nun gig might be okay.

  I just have to get through my private group reading and the dinner performance, and I’m home free. Oh, and somehow prove I didn’t hallucinate a dead body. Without risking becoming the next disappearing dead girl. My group reading is due any moment, and I’m wondering if I’m going to bomb it, and then I think how handy it would be if I were legitimately psychic, because I would already know.

  “Hey, Sister. Are you ready for us?” a voice calls from the doorway.

  I look up and groan.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  “I’m here to find out what my future holds,” Cami says.

  “And I’m here to make sure you’re staying out of trouble,” Gran says. “Do you have your Hot Lips on you?”

  “My what?”

  “Your stun gun. I hope you have it on you. I was going to sneak up on you and test your response time but Miss Stick-in-the-Mud over there wouldn’t let me.”

  “Miss Stick-in-the-Mud doesn’t like having to do CPR on little old ladies who sneak up on their stun gun–toting granddaughters,” Cami retorts.

  “Who you calling old, missy?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s right here in my Bible pocket.” I pat the front of my nun habit.

  Cami snorts. “I can see why you hid from Grayson. You look like an extra from The Sound of Music.” She starts singing, “How do you solve a problem like being a nu-un? How do you catch a knight and pin him down?”

  “Shut. Up. What are you guys really doing here?”

  “Can’t your grandmother visit you at your place of employment without being suspect?”

  “No. Especially not if you’re plotting to jump me.”

  “Fine. I told your mother I’d check up on you. And I’ve been wanting to get a good look at the inside of Lunewood Castle for years. This place is the bomb-diggity.”

  “Oh, jeez. Please don’t ever use that word again.”

  “I thought I’d see if they need a trumpeter or a Lady of the Bedchamber,” Cami says.

  “You’re going to be way too busy rehearsing My Fair Lady,” I say.

  “Yeah, but that’s not until August. Maybe there’s another pregnant employee I could fill in for in the meantime?”

  “Would you both please go away?”

  “Not on your life, missy. I paid for a private reading,” Gran says, “and I intend to get my money’s worth.”

  “How’s it going, anyway? Any more dead bodies?” Cami asks.

  “No, but I think I found proof that the girl I saw was real.”

  “Really? What’d you find?”

  I tell them about snooping around with Angelique and finding the pearl and then Angelique going into labor.

  “Thank God you didn’t have to deliver a baby in the dungeon,” Cami says.

  “Let’s see that pearl,” Gran says, and holds out her hand.

  I give her the pearl, and she puts it in her mouth.<
br />
  “Hey! What are you doing?” I demand. “That could be valuable evidence.”

  “It may be evidence, but it’s definitely not valuable,” Gran says, and hands it back to me. “It’s fake.”

  “Seriously?” I wipe the pearl off on my habit.

  “It’s too smooth.”

  “Do you think that’s important?”

  Gran shrugs. “She could have been strangled with a necklace containing fake pearls just as easily as real ones.”

  “Angelique suggested I look through Geoffrey’s costume bible—it’s this book that has pictures of all the costumed staff—to see if I recognized the dead girl, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like her.”

  “You’re sure she was wearing a costume?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Can you find out if anyone’s missing from work?”

  “I can check the staff sign-in sheet. I guess I’ll do that when I sign out tonight. But I don’t know how to tell who’s supposed to be here and who isn’t. And since Angelique’s gone, I’m stuck up here for the time being.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay being up here all by yourself?” Cami says, looking around the Oratory.

  “Yeah. I was a little freaked out when the Keeper cornered me in here but—”

  “What? Who cornered you?” Gran demands.

  “The Keeper. His name’s Floyd Bean but he likes to refer to himself in the third person as the Keeper. He’s a total creeper. He’s King Henry’s bodyguard-slash-castle-caretaker. Angelique told me to flirt with him to see if I can get him to give me some inside information because apparently he’s all up in everyone’s business, but”—I shudder—“that’s so not going to happen. Besides the creep factor, he’s like, seventy-something years old.”

  Gran clears her throat.

  “No offense to seventy-something-year-olds in general. Hey, maybe you could have a go at Floyd?”

  “He sounds like a real keeper,” Gran says.

  “Ha ha. Anyway, there are tour groups coming through all the time and I’ve also got the private readings, so I’m not really by myself much.”