The bed chamber is the most logical place to start.
Moving quickly through the study, I enter his bedroom and head straight for the enormous canopied, four-poster bed. The mattress sits on a platform and boasts intricate carvings along the edges of its frame are meticulously crafted. Wood carvings that resemble animal claws adorn each of the lower corners of the platform. A lion, perhaps? Or a bear?
The canopy is fashioned from royal blue velvet, trimmed with gold tassels and intricate gold embroidery of lions’ faces, perhaps to match the clawed animal feet below. It stretches halfway up the wall of the cavernous room. The ceiling must be sixty feet high if it’s an inch. The bedcoverings are red silk. There’s a fireplace to the left of the bed; a fire blazes in the grate. A sleeping gown is laid out on the bed.
When people say something is fit for a king, this is the scale they imagine.
The rest of the room is sparsely furnished: two small chairs and stools, padded for the occupant’s comfort, a small table beside the bed, and a large wooden chest sitting in one corner.
Henry might keep a piece of Anne close to him as he sleeps, so I start with the bed and the side table first. Unlike modern furniture, there are no drawers, just an upper shelf and a bottom shelf.
No luck.
I search down between the mattress and the platform. Under the pillows. Even under the bed, as far as I can see, in case the locket might have been knocked off the table.
Nothing.
Moving methodically through the room—thoroughly searching one quadrant before moving to the next—yields no results. I have to search the entire suite.
Merde.
Where’s the next most private place the king might keep the portrait?
Aside from the carnal passions he holds for Anne, the king still—at least outwardly—goes through the rituals of religious devotions. Maybe the limning is in the private devotions closet.
Inside the room, there’s an altar, lit from above by a clerestory window. Instead of sunlight, only the stars are visible through the glass. A padded kneeler, the king’s private prie-dieu, sits beneath a canopy made of the same electric blue velvet and thread of gold trim used on the bed.
On a nearby stool, a prayer book lies open. Sitting in the center of the binding, like a bookmark, is a rosary.
A crucifix strung with ten wooden beads. The initials HE8 and Ka are carved into either side of the largest bead.
Holy shit. Henry’s rosary.
The largest bead can be opened. Gingerly, I unclasp the hinge. Inside is an intricate miniature carving of a religious scene: holy men gathered for a service; a priest at an altar, and a sinner kneeling before him.
If the portrait miniature isn’t readily at hand, the next best thing is another item on the acquisition list. I pocket the rosary and keep searching.
Lifting the prayer book from the stool—Anne’s locket may lay beneath it—a specific passage catches my attention. I read it out loud. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.”
“Still thinking about that kiss, huh?” Nico’s voice is filled with swagger as he apparently misinterprets the reading as my poetic reaction to his touch.
“As kisses go, it was okay,” I tease, then hold the book up so he can magnify the text on the page through the contact lens cameras. “Zoom in on this.”
“King Solomon was an old smoothie, wasn’t he?” he says.
“Of much greater interest is that the king reads erotic literature during his private spiritual devotions. This raises the study of his obsessions to a whole new level.”
“Sex is as much a spiritual connection as a physical one.” Nico pauses. “Kinda like the first time we—”
“Dodger, status?” Fagin’s voice breaks into the conversation.
“Nothing, yet,” I say. “How are things progressing down there? Is Trevor still with you?”
“Nope. She just left the Great Hall. Nico, do you have eyes on her?”
“Yeah, and you’re not gonna like it. She’s not headed back to the kitchens. She’s moving in Dodger’s direction.”
“Oh, fuck me,” I breathe out in on one long breath. “Can’t anyone stop her? I don’t need help up here.”
“I’m pinging her on every frequency, but she’s ignoring me,” Nico says.
“We’ve got another problem,” Fagin says. “I overhead the king mention some new scientific instruments he received as a gift from the Flanders ambassador. He’s on his way up to his apartments to fetch a Shepherd’s Dial and an equinoctial dial.”
“Time to go, kiddo. Get outta there.” Nico says.
“I need more time,” I say, hurrying through the rest of the devotions room. No portrait.
“I’ve got Trevor on another frequency,” Nico says, “She knows we’ve been keeping her out of the communications loop, and she’s...annoyed. Patching her through now.”
“I need more time,” I repeat. “I found Henry’s rosary, but still looking for the portrait.”
Trevor’s annoyance would better be described as fury mixed with abject scorn. “What’s this? The infamous Thief of the Century is coming up empty?” she says, unforgiveness thick as venom in her tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be more clever and accomplished than anyone else on the Benefactors’ payroll? I think they would be sorely disappointed in your lack success finding one simple act locket.”
“Trevor, I swear to God, if you don’t get out of my ear. I’ll—
“You’ll what? I’m beginning to think you’re nothing more than the pettiest of thieves who ever lived. So far, I’m not impressed.”
“Do you know how tempted I am to leave your ass here when this mission is done? How do you think you’d fare among the locals with no money, power, or position to call your own?”
Trevor laughs. “Don’t worry. I have backup. As a reminder,” she continues, “you must produce Lady Anne’s limning by tomorrow morning. The rosary won’t cut it. If you don’t come through, both Nico’s and Fagin’s families are on the chopping block.”
“Good luck with that. I don’t have any family,” Fagin
