The Tapestry Read Online Free Page B

the wardrobe master.
    But would it be possible to see anyone today? The desperate petitioners formed a near-impenetrable wall before the gatehouse. Even with the efforts of the stalwart Master Gwinn, I might not succeed.
    A part of me did not want to succeed. From a distance, the gatehouse was majestic, and I assumed that on drawing nearer, it would diminish in grandeur, as official buildings often do. But the effect was the opposite—now that I was yards from it, the palace gatehouse dazzled. The entire building was made of stone carved and painted in a white-and-black checkered pattern. The raised squares gleamed, as if they had been not merely washed but polished. Two rounded towers stretched three stories high. Between the towers sparkled tall windows. The busts of four crowned heads stared sightless into the distance, representing members of the pitiless Tudor family. Fleurs-de-lis graced the stones, along with carvings of lions and dragons, greyhounds even. I couldn’t begin to guess how costly it must have been to fashion such a building, resembling a game board more than a gatehouse.
    I took a step backward as I strained to look all the way to the top of the octagonal turrets. To my surprise, two distant human heads peeked over the wall. From lofty heights, the people of the king’s court surveyed us. With a start, I realized that people peered at us from behind the thick glass of windows as well. Perhaps it amused them, to survey the grubby pack from within their lavish stronghold.
    The crowd shifted before me, and an opening yawned. Master Gwinn surged forward. Now we were in front and could finally be seen by the man in charge, tall and wide-bellied, planted in front of the gatehouse door.
    With an oath, he waved off a gray-haired clerk, jabbering his pleas for entry. When the clerk edged toward the side of the archway, as if to scramble into Whitehall uninvited, a soldier surged forward, waving his picket. The clerk shrank back into the crowd.
    â€œIn the name of the king, state your business here, sirrah,” called out the tall man. It took me a few seconds to realize that he addressed Master Gwinn, who in answer turned toward me.
    I took a deep breath and stepped forward, declaring, “I am summoned to appear before the master of the king’s wardrobe.”
    â€œThe master of the king’s wardrobe— you ?” he said scornfully, his eyes scanning my shabby garments.
    Without another word, I handed him my summons. His eyebrows knotted in skepticism until his gaze reached the bottom. “Signed by Cromwell,” he said.
    â€œCorrect,” I said crisply.
    â€œBut even so, I must send word to—“
    â€œI shall be honored to escort the lady,” said another voice.
    A smiling young man with a neatly trimmed brown beard emerged from the doorway of a turret tower opposite the entrance. He wore the uniform of a royal page: a red doublet with a large Tudor red-and-white rose on the left side.
    The page bowed to me with courtesy that seemed extravagant, considering my uncertain status. The man in charge of entry to the palace shrugged. Evidently all that needed to be done was produce a paper bearing the name Cromwell for doors to be flung open. It all felt a little strange, but what did I know of palace procedures?
    I turned to say good-bye to the Gwinns. We had worked it out that one servant would wait a short distance up the King Street with two horses, and when my business was finished, I would find my way back to him. He’d take me to Southwark and my waiting friends.
    A hand grabbed my arm, so tightly I gasped. Agatha dragged me away from earshot of the men, of husband, gatehouse official and royal page, giving me a shake, just as she used to when she was novice mistress and I needed correction.
    â€œYou don’t have to do this,” she said. “All the things you’ve always said about London, about this ”—she pointed at the palace