help, sounding an alarm? A horrible thought occurred to her... almost too horrible to entertain.
She had no idea where Patience was, but she had no choice. It was imperative that she enter Micheline's bedchamber. The increasingly strong smell of smoke told her that all their lives depended on her actions now.
Cicely ran as lightly as she could down the corridor, hoping that Patience had gone downstairs—or outside, in search of safety. Her palm was wet clutching the candlestick, and it seemed that her heart would burst with terror, but she found the latch. No sooner had her fingers touched it than she was savagely thrown to the floor. Sharp fingernails clawed at her face and closed around her throat, squeezing, but Cicely was younger and stronger than her attacker. She brought up the candlestick, aiming for the shadow above her, and struck repeatedly with all her might. Finally she felt the fingers go slack against her neck as a body slumped over her own. She recognized Patience's cloying scent and shoved her aside with revulsion.
An instant later Cicely was scrambling to her feet and feeling for the latch. She pushed it upward, opened the door, and felt as if she had stepped into the sun. The entire room was on fire, it seemed. Blinking, she discovered that the flames were centered on the bed. The velvet tester and curtains were ablaze, but incredibly Micheline lay sound asleep and untouched in the middle of the feather tick.
"Micheline!" she screamed, shaking her brother's wife. "Get up!" When the girl merely moaned in response, she grabbed her arms and dragged her off the bed. Sparks dropped onto Micheline's chemise and caught fire, but she rubbed them out with her own hands. "Help!" she screamed. "Someone—help"'
No one came. Cicely's heart seemed to be throbbing over every inch of her body as she ripped the fiery bedhangings down piece by piece and covered them with the Turkey carpet. She didn't feel the burns on her hands or notice the scorched smell of her own hair. When at last there was no more fire, Cicely collapsed beside the unconscious Micheline and sobbed hysterically.
* * *
"It must have been that horrid almond soup," Micheline murmured weakly. Propped against a carved chest, she surveyed the wreckage of her bed, then looked at Cicely. "Even the servants were drugged."
The younger girl nodded, glancing out into the corridor where Patience's body lay. "She's dead, you know."
"I'd say she deserved her fate, and that you have demonstrated incredible courage, ma soeur. We have to get you to a physician, though. Your face—and hands—" Micheline struggled to rise. She still felt as if she could sleep for days, and her limbs were like water, but whatever it was that Patience had put into the soup would have to be overcome. Staggering slightly, she reached out to Cicely, who warmly accepted her embrace. "I owe you my life," she whispered thickly.
They hugged tightly, tears mingling on their cheeks. "I'm only sorry for—"
"No. The present begins now," Micheline said firmly.
"It wasn't true, you know, what we told you about Andrew." Cicely began to weep, in reaction to the night's events as well as the confession she was making. "Lady Dangerfield tried to seduce him that night at Whitehall, but he was positively rude to her. I couldn't really understand it at the time."
Micheline stiffened as her mind began to return to normal. "Andrew!" she breathed as if terrified. "He's in London—with Rupert! Patience must have been in league with him. Oh, mon Dieu! I must go to him at once!"
Cicely looked equally stricken. "Micheline, you don't actually think—"
"I'll tell you what I think. I think those two plotted all of this very carefully. They tried to dispatch me before the wedding, and when that didn't work, they worked out an elaborate plan whereby they could kill each of us separately. An accidental fire for me—"
"But if you're right," Cicely interrupted, breaking into tears, "Andrew could already be dead!"
Chapter 36
June 11-12, 1533
Micheline arrived in London the next evening after a long ride on Primrose. Although it was pleasantly warm, summer also meant an intensification of some of the worst smells she had ever endured. She rode behind a groom through the city's impossibly cramped, twisting streets, following him to the home of Sir Jeremy Culpepper. Micheline feared that Rupert might be at Weston House, and she had no intention of alerting him to the fact that she was still alive.