Murder at Fontainebleau (16 page)

Q
ueen Mary's hawking party was just gathering in the Fountain Courtyard when Kate hurried to join them. Amelia Wrightsman had been buried only that morning, and Kate had stood in the churchyard with Lady Barnett and Mistress Berry as they said farewell to their kinswoman on that cold, bright, still day.

Now Lady Barnett had retired to her chamber, watched over by Mistress Berry and that lady's possets to comfort her. Kate wanted to ask Mistress Berry about the belladonna—if Amelia had ever used it—but there was not even a moment alone. She would have to find out later.

The laughter of the hawking party was jarring after such a somber morning. The chatter of everyone as they found their horses and the servants brought out the hooded birds, the excitement and anticipation that seemed to hang in the air seeming so ordinary and strange. Even in the coldness of death, there was life, and she had to think of her own place, her own queen, and what she had to do at Fontainebleau.

Kate watched, still feeling strangely distant from the scene as Lord James Stewart lifted Queen Mary into her saddle. Shockingly, she rode astride, dressed in men's doeskin breeches and a velvet doublet, her auburn hair tucked beneath a plumed cap. Kate found herself envying the practicality of the garb, and she wondered if she could bring the style to England somehow.

Queen Mary was surrounded by her Maries and other courtiers. She laughed at their jokes and reached out her gauntlet-clad arm for the falconer to hand her the bird. It was a pretty little peregrine, its bells jingling merrily in the breeze.

Charles Throckmorton hurried to join Kate, offering his arm to escort her to her waiting horse. It was the same placid mare she had ridden to Fontainebleau, saddled with Kate's own sidesaddle, and she was glad of the horse's quiet docility, even as it reminded her of the burned-out farm they had encountered on their journey, the sadness that had clung over everything, just as it did today. The beauty of the palace felt emptier than ever.

“How does Master Ridley fare today?” she asked Charles quietly as she settled her skirts over her saddle. Toby had not gone to the churchyard. No one had, except the Barnetts, Mistress Berry, and Sir Nicholas, in his official role as ambassador. Celeste Renard was the only French courtier who came, and stood quietly beside the grave in a black veil. For a lady who seemed to gather friends wherever she went, as Amelia had, it seemed most odd, and Kate couldn't help but think of
Queen Mary's accusations—that Amelia had been murdered in a plot against a royal throne.

“He is distraught, I fear,” Charles said. “He cared for Mistress Wrightsman very much, even though she was not worthy of him. Losing her, along with his fears of being accused of harming her, have laid him most low.”

Kate nodded, fussing with her reins as she tried to gather her thoughts. Charles voiced her fears of the sad situation. “I am sure he was the last person who would have wanted to hurt her. But there is no shortage of secrets that seemed to surround her here in France.”

Charles frowned. “Have you heard something about her death?”

Kate sighed in frustration. “Nay, nothing as of yet. As you say, she had many friends and also suitors. But with courtly friends surely come enemies.”

A servant brought Charles's horse to him, and he swung himself up into the saddle. “Suitors, aye. And she was too blind and giddy to see or care how she broke poor Toby's heart.”

Kate thought of Toby's wild grief over Amelia's death. But was it only grief?

Before she could answer, there was a series of horn blasts, sharp and shrill, and Queen Mary spurred her horse into a gallop out of the courtyard and toward the forest. Everyone else raced to follow, and the huntsman led them into the woods.

It was a cold day but a bright one, crisp and fresh, and even Kate found she forgot the sadness for a moment
as they ran into the wind. The crowd spread out on the pathway, and she glimpsed Monsieur d'Emours up ahead. Before he vanished behind his friends, she saw the grim, pale set of his face.

The horses dashed between the trees, leaping over fallen logs and ditches. Kate held too tightly to the reins, praying frantically not to fall off and embarrass herself, but Queen Mary's bright laughter kept everyone's spirits high and reckless around her.

They emerged onto a wide meadow between low, rolling hills beyond the shadow of the forest and in the light. The riders scattered. The hawks were unhooded, and Queen Mary led them into the hunt as she threw her peregrine high into the air. The little bird took flight, soaring into the gathering grayness of the sky and curling in a graceful loop. The day had grown colder as well as dimmer, clouds rolling across the sky, but no one seemed to care.

The peregrine dove out of sight, as if she had caught a glimpse of her prey, and Queen Mary rode off in chase. Kate followed at a much slower pace and found herself riding beside Celeste Renard.

Like Kate, Celeste had changed from her black formal gown and veil into stylish riding garb, in her case, breeches and a doublet like the queen's. She tossed Kate a half smile.

“'Tis good to breathe some fresh air, is it not, Mademoiselle Haywood, after such a sad morning?” Celeste said.

“Indeed it is,” Kate agreed. “Sometimes it is hard to think when between stone walls.”

“There is much to think about today.”

Kate nodded. There was indeed much to think about, and she would love to have someone she could truly discuss everything with—but perhaps Celeste, for all her welcoming friendliness, was not that person. She could talk to Rob, of course, but he was busy with the Italian actors that day. She knew she had to search him out later.

“You should find some French riding clothes,” Celeste said. “So much more comfortable.”

“I learned to ride sidesaddle, and I fear to change now,” Kate answered.

Celeste laughed. “Ah, but gentlemen find a lady in breeches so fascinating!”

“Perhaps a man would—until I toppled from my horse and he had to drag me out of a muddy ditch.”

Celeste laughed even harder and turned her horse to follow the queen's path. A burst of excited laughter sent everyone galloping ahead again. Queen Mary's bird had caught a rabbit, and now whirled overhead once more to find new prey.

They rode for a time, gathering more rabbits and small birds as clouds gathered and then blew away again. At midafternoon, as the huntsmen brought in the fruits of the hunt, they all gathered on a hillside for a repast. Blankets were spread on the grass and servants unpacked delicacies from the kitchens and poured
wine. Queen Mary seemed in high spirits, laughing with her ladies, and soon they were playing an intricate word game that made everyone laugh even louder as the drink flowed.

Kate, though, could not quite shake away the sadness of that morning in the churchyard, and the merriment seemed to be something she merely studied from a distance. She found a seat under a tree and nibbled at a bit of gingerbread as she examined the countryside around them.

It was indeed a beautiful scene, even as the weather grew colder and grayer. The low hills rolled gently into the dark fringe of the forest, and in the distance she could see the roofs and chimneys of the palace itself, floating white and ethereal on the horizon. In the other direction, she saw another house, painted the palest of pinks and crowned with a gray roof, like a smaller version of the fairy-tale château.

Claude Domville came to sit beside her, offering a goblet of the sweet, pale wine. Kate accepted it with a smile, glad of the company, the distraction from her melancholy. He smiled at her, as light as he usually was, and she wondered if he had any more interesting tales of gossip that might prove useful.

“What do you think of our hunt, Mademoiselle Haywood?” he said. He stretched out on the grass beside her, his head propped on his elbow as he smiled up at her. “Is it like those in England?”

“Somewhat so, of course. Queen Elizabeth, too, much enjoys a day's hunting, and she has a great deal of
energy for it,” Kate said. “I fear I am only barely able to stay in the saddle. But the fresh air is most bracing.”

Claude was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps it is a bit disrespectful, after what happened to Mademoiselle Wrightsman. She was buried this morning, was she not?”

Kate nodded, thinking of the lack of any French courtiers at the churchyard. “Queen Mary declares she was Amelia's friend, but it seems few here really knew her well, so how can it be truly disrespectful? They have been caught in mourning for the king for months, of course, and they want to enjoy themselves for a little while.”

“They always want only to enjoy themselves, except for Queen Catherine, who works all the time. All else is frivolity here.”

Kate gestured to the house in the distance. “Whose estate is that? It looks most pretty, and rather close to the palace.”

Claude scowled. “That is Jacques d'Emours's family château. It has been in their lineage for many generations, a gift to his great-grandfather from the Guise for their long service to that family.”

Kate studied the distant chimneys closer, intrigued. The Guise did seem to hover over the court at every moment, even now that everyone said their power was on the wane.

Suddenly, a deafening shout of thunder broke overhead, and cold drops of rain fell onto their heads. Queen Mary and her ladies shrieked and leaped to
their feet, running to their horses as servants scrambled to help them.

“It is too far to the palace,” Jacques d'Emours shouted, sweeping his feathered hat from his golden head. “Everyone, ride to my house—it is just down the hill!”

Laughter burst out again, for the party was taking a new, unexpected turn, and they all rode for the d'Emours house.

 • • • 

The d'Emours château is indeed beautiful,
Kate thought as they galloped into the courtyard, not large but a perfect jewel set amid elaborate gardens and marble statues and fountains.

Monsieur d'Emours had ridden fast ahead of the hunting party, and servants were already waiting with linen towels to wipe away the rain and offer pitchers of fresh wine. The house was not as grand as Fontainebleau, of course, but it was very pretty, decorated with painted scenes of gods framed in elaborate white plasterwork, all light and elegant, with gilded ceiling beams far overhead and patterned wooden floors. A fire roared in the great hall, with cushioned chairs and stools already drawn around the hearth.

Queen Mary and her ladies were soon ensconced next to its warmth, sipping at spiced wine, whispering and laughing.

Kate studied Monsieur d'Emours as he calmly directed the servants and saw to the queen's comfort, all cool, capable confidence. This man had once fought a duel for Amelia Wrightsman, the scandal that prompted
her departure from France. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the matter, except for a romantic folly to giggle about, and of course such things happened at Elizabeth's court as well. Close quarters in royal palaces and fast-burning passions meant tempers quickly flared. But what did d'Emours himself think of Amelia now? What did he seek from his future? Kate could not read him at all.

She remembered the diamond brooch on Kate's fur muff, her changeable moods when he was around. He did not mourn her as Toby Ridley did, with sobs and anguish, but most people at court were adept at hiding their true emotions. It was baffling.

Kate slipped out of the great hall and found her way to the foot of the winding white marble stairs. She wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for, but some instinct told her that d'Emours must know or feel something about Amelia's death. And she was not likely to find herself in the man's own house again.

She could hear the echo of laughter from the hall, but the rest of the rooms were silent. Surely all the servants were scrambling to provide the royal repast. Kate made her way up a twisting stone flight of stairs lined with tapestries. They were fine work, closely woven and highlighted with silver, yet she could see that the fringe work on the edges had frayed and moths had gotten to some of them. Much of the furniture in the rooms she peeked into were the same fine, heavy carved pieces, but with no cushions or hangings. The only painting she found was a portrait of a lady in a fine red-and-gold
gown, her blond hair piled high and bound with pearls, holding a small boy in black by the hand. She wondered if it was Jacques d'Emours and his Guise mother, in more prosperous days.

The chambers were chilly, the fireplace grates empty. She saw nothing that would possibly hold secret papers or letters.

As she turned down another corridor, she heard a burst of laughter echo on the paneled walls and the patter of footsteps coming closer. She glanced down another hallway to see d'Emours speaking to a lady in a black gown, her back to Kate. He was scowling, talking swiftly and quietly, and at an echo from another chamber he looked up. His expression was most fierce.

Kate didn't want to be caught wandering the halls of d'Emours's home. She quickly slipped through the nearest door and closed it behind her. Her heart was pounding, but it was cool and dim in the room, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw that she was in a chapel.

It was not large, but it was very beautiful. Unlike the rest of the house, it had the air of being well maintained. The gilded altar, crowned with a painted statue of the Virgin Mary, all pale blue, gold, and pink, shimmered in the shadows, with a silver-and-pearl monstrance on one side and a saint's reliquary on the other. Beneath her feet, set in the marble floor, were the gold letters of tombs and monuments to d'Emours ancestors. Kate had seen few places like it in England, where all the altars had been made plain and saints banished, and she was
enthralled by the incense-scented hush of it, the quiet peace.

In a tiny side chapel, just beyond the alabaster altar, she came upon a marble tomb gleaming white and bathed in the blue and red light of the stained-glass windows set high in the thick stone wall. It was the effigy of a couple, a bearded man in the long gown and cap of twenty years ago at least, and a lady in a fur-trimmed gown, a book open in her beautifully carved stone hands. The features were the same as those of the woman in the portrait, the lady who held the small child by the hand. Set in fine white stone now, the features were older but still finely carved and elegant.