Murder at Fontainebleau (2 page)

“He is a fine employer indeed. He loves a fine play and is most appreciative and generous. To have the queen's cousin as a patron is higher than my uncle could have dreamed.”

“He would have been proud of you.” Kate poured them more wine. “And what else do they speak of at court besides the shabby quality of the revels?”

“Sir Robert Dudley seems back in favor, though not at the great heights he knew before his . . . unfortunate bereavement,” Rob said, talking of the mysterious death of Dudley's wife, Amy. She had fallen down the stairs of her distant country home in September, plunging the court into mourning and whispers of suspicion. The queen's favorite courtier had left court for a time, but Kate had heard that he returned after the coroner's jury declared the death an accident and cleared his name of wrongdoing. Yet he was not free of the gossip.

“The queen's comptroller, Sir Thomas Parry, died last month, and Dudley coveted his office of Master of the Court of Wards, but the queen has given it to Cecil. And she danced but once or twice with Dudley at the Christmas revels. Sir Christopher Hatton was much at her side,” Rob said.

Kate nodded. The queen was fond of Dudley—mayhap more than fond. Everyone could see the glow in her eyes when he was near. But she was, above all, the queen. “Are his hopes of marrying the queen truly ended?”

“To all but himself, I think. Dudley doesn't seem a man to give up easily.”

Kate laughed. “Nay, that he is not.” She had worked with Sir Robert a time or two and rather liked him. His vitality and vivid sense of life was hard to resist, but his ambition was enormous.

“Nor should he, or any man, when he knows his heart's desire.”

Surprised at the sudden serious tone of his voice, Kate glanced at him to find he watched her steadily. Flustered, she looked away into the fire.

Rob shifted in his chair as a silence stretched between them. Then he laughed and said, “They say Erik of Sweden wishes to come to England in person to press his suit. He sent the queen a fine pair of horses for a Christmas gift. There has also been talk of a new marriage for Lady Catherine Grey.”

“Lady Catherine?” Kate said. She hoped that was true; Lady Catherine seemed so sad, so alone, a woman who truly wanted marriage, a family, and a home. Her royal blood, something so many coveted, held her away from such normal dreams. “With Lord Hertford?”

“Hertford? Nay, they say he will be sent to the Continent soon. A betrothal with the Earl of Arran, to thus unite the thrones of England and Scotland, though most think this is impossible. There are also whispers the queen will adopt Lady Catherine and make her heir, though Queen Elizabeth seems in no hurry to secure the succession.”

“There are plenty of claimants if she was so inclined. Lady Catherine and her sister; Lady Lennox . . .”

“Most of the talk is of Mary, Queen of Scots.”

Kate nodded. Queen Mary had been widowed in November, King Francis of France dying at the age of sixteen. No one knew what she would do now. Return to Scotland? Marry again? “What is the talk?”

“It's said she seeks a new marriage, of course, though it would be hard to match her first. There's whispers of Don Carlos of Spain.”

“Indeed?” Kate gasped. Rumor said that Don Carlos, the only son of King Philip of Spain, was feeble-minded and violent, not to mention a hunchback. Mary's beauty and charm was legendary. But indeed, the throne of Spain was a glittering prize. “Anyone else?”

“The queen's other cousin, Lady Lennox, has sent her son, Lord Darnley, to carry the family's sympathies to Queen Mary, but few rate his chances high.”

“It would be wrong to underestimate Lady Lennox, I think. A most determined woman.”

“Also, there is an unfortunate new fashion for round collars of starched Antwerp lace. It makes everyone look like lions in the menagerie—it must be stopped. Along with the new style of yellowish green. Most bilious.”

Kate laughed. Whether it was the wine, the company, or the news of the world, she felt much warmed and restored. “It sounds as if there is indeed much work to be done at court. We must leave at
once.”

“V
ery nearly there now, Kate,” Rob said. “See? Aldgate is just ahead.”

Kate thought he sounded rather too cheerful. Her hands were numb from clinging too tightly to the horse's reins, and her backside was sore from the hours in the saddle, even through the layers of her woolen skirt and petticoats. She did not fear horses as she once had; riding constantly between royal palaces had taught her how to control them and understand them better, and they were surely far more comfortable than being bounced around in a rickety cart. But she would still prefer the solid ground under her feet.

She
was
very glad to be in London again, to leave the sad quiet and loneliness of the village cottage behind and slip into the stream of life once more. Strangely, away from her father's last home, his absence felt less sharp. It was as if she carried him with her into a new adventure.

And while the journey had passed swiftly, with Rob teaching her some new songs and telling her tales of
his acting troupe, she was glad to see the gates of the city. Curiosity over the queen's letter had her about to burst.

She peered out at the gray day from beneath the narrow brim of her velvet riding hat. The hours on the road had indeed brought them into a different world. The crowded, bustling, noisy life of London surrounded them. As she and Rob passed through the gate, they joined the vast, flowing river of humanity, everyone in a hurry, intent on their own important business. Carts jolted over the muddy ruts of the lane, along with horses, mules, and people on foot with their parcels and market baskets. Even a few rare, expensive coaches rumbled past.

The random shouts and cries amid the clang of the wheels hitting cobblestones sounded like a rare song to her ears.

Rob reached out and caught her lead rein so they wouldn't be parted by the crowd. Their progress was slow through the narrow streets, the grayish winter light turned even dimmer by the press of the tall close-packed buildings. The peaked rooflines nearly touched high above their heads, as if they would fall if they didn't have each other's walls to hold them up.

The shop windows, at eye level, were still open, counters spread with an enticing array of bright ribbons and embroidered gloves, finely wrought gold brooches and silver rings, and leather-bound books. Their color and glimmer flashed through the frosty light as she hurried forward.

She had quite forgotten the city smell, though, after weeks in the country. Usually she didn't notice the London perfume at all, she had grown so used to it, but now it made her eyes water. The cold wind helped; it was nothing like the heavy, warm air when the queen and her court fled Whitehall for Greenwich or Richmond in the spring. The latrine ditch along the middle of the lane was almost frozen over, a noxious stew of frost, ice, and human waste from the buckets dumped from upper windows. It was nearly covered by the smells of roasted meats, apple cider, the sugary scents of a nearby bakery, and the smoke of dozens of chimneys.

Eventually, they left the thickest of the crowds behind and turned toward the queen's palace at Whitehall. It was much quieter there; the press of beggars vanished, and the road widened as it passed the gates of fine mansions.

Most of the vast, winding puzzle of the palace complex, where Kate had lost her way many a time, was hidden from view, tucked away behind thick walls and long, plain-fronted galleries that gave away nothing of what lay behind them. Kate knew what was beyond: grand banquet halls, all carved and gilded and draped in gold-threaded tapestries; palatial chambers where courtiers would play cards and music and whisper together in masked desperation as they waited to catch the queen's attention; beautiful gardens of mazes, fountains, and flower beds.

It was the royal court. Her only real home now.

She drew in a deep breath, suddenly nervous even when faced with a place she knew so well. She felt as if she floated free, anchorless in the world.

She opened her eyes to find Rob watching her, his bright blue eyes dark, the lines around his mouth tight. “Are you well, Kate?” he asked gently.

Kate made herself smile brightly. “Very well indeed. I can't wait to start working again.”

Rob said nothing, but in his smile she could see the same twinge of sadness she felt in her own heart. He urged the horses forward again, and they made their way to the foot of a stone staircase that led from the narrow lane in St. James's Park up the queen's long privy gallery, shimmering with its gilded roof and many windows. The cold wind was blocked there, along with the sickly sweet, frosty smell of the river. Rob swung down from his horse and lifted her from her saddle. She swayed for a second, her legs weak from the hours of riding.

“You need your land legs back, Kate,” he said with a laugh.

She smiled and reached up to try to smooth the stray strands of hair back into the knitted caul beneath her hat. She had just brushed at her skirt and the fur-trimmed sleeves of her riding doublet when she heard the hollow click of footsteps along the flagstone stairs. She glanced up to see the queen's Mistress of the Robes, Mistress Kat Ashley, coming toward her.

Mistress Ashley looked just as she had when Kate left court, her graying dark hair braided and pinned
beneath a white cap; the lace at the edge of her dark green gown bright white; her eyes, deep-set in her lined face, watchful and serious. Her loyalty was to the queen, always and above all else; she had long been like a mother to Elizabeth. But Kate knew her to be kindhearted, perhaps even a secret romantic at heart.

“Mistress Haywood,” Mistress Ashley said. “I have been set to watch for your arrival. I hope your journey was comfortable enough?”

“It was blessedly short. Thank you, Mistress Ashley.”

Mistress Ashley nodded and gave her a small smile. “We will surely all miss your father here at court. His songs are among the finest I have ever heard. None have any but praise for him.”

Kate blinked against the prickle of tears in her eyes. She could not cry again, not now. “Thank you. He will be missed.”

Mistress Ashley nodded. “Her Grace is most eager to see you. I have orders to take you to her now.”

“Now?” Kate squeaked. The queen was always most insistent on her orders being obeyed right away, or there would be that Tudor temper to contend with. Elizabeth was ever impatient. Yet Kate had still hoped she might be able to change into one of her nicer gowns before facing the court again.

She glanced back at Rob, who shrugged and gave her a reassuring smile.

“The queen has many concerns right now making demands on her time,” Mistress Ashley said sternly. “She has been asking about your arrival all day.”

“Of course, Mistress Ashley,” Kate answered.

Mistress Ashley nodded. “Master Cartman, a groom is on the way to assist with your horses. Lord Hunsdon wishes you to attend on him right away, as well.”

Kate exchanged one more glance with Rob before she hurried off after Mistress Ashley. The stone gallery was spare and silent, with only a few liveried servants rushing past on their errands. They crossed over the lane through the old crenellated towers of the elaborately carved Holbein Gate and were then in the palace itself.

New tall windows of diamondlike glass looked down onto an empty, snow-dusted tiltyard. A shining blue-and-gold ceiling arched overhead, glowing like summer in the gray day, and a rare, thickly woven carpet muffled the footsteps of the well-shod crowd around them.

The queen's courtiers—clusters and pairs of people clad in brilliant satins and lustrous velvets—stood near the frost-dusted windows, talking and laughing, whispering intently. They watched Kate with curious eyes as she hurried past.

But she had no time to look in return, to stop and greet the people she knew well or to make curtsies. There was no time, either, to glance at the treasures on display, the paintings and tapestries, the crystals and cameos and clocks, the portraits of the queen's father, brother, and stepmothers that watched everyone walking past. They hurried down various corridors, up and
down stairs, until they reached the queen's own apartments.

The Privy Chamber was crowded with those waiting to petition the queen, and many tried to stop Mistress Ashley, knowing her great influence. She waved Kate ahead when she stopped to talk with one of them, through the Presence Chamber and the small dining closet, to the queen's sanctum, the bedchamber.

It was crowded, as it always was, but the atmosphere was lighter, the chatter free of the strained quality in the rooms outside, where no one was guaranteed a moment in the royal presence. Ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor in their pale shimmering silks gathered on cushions and low stools scattered over the floor and around the warmth of the large fireplace, giggling over their sewing, feeding tidbits to their little dogs.

Queen Elizabeth sat by herself next to the single window, at a table covered with documents and books. The grayish sunlight filtered hazily through the panes of glass, turning the red-gold loops of her braided hair into a fiery halo and making her pale skin glow. She wore a loose robe of crimson figured velvet trimmed with white fur, with rubies adorning her long fingers and a band of creamy pearls around her hair.

She looked every inch the Queen of the Sun that had been the subject of her most recent masque, a role she grew into more with each passing month of her reign. Yet Kate could see the shadows beneath Elizabeth's
dark eyes, which always meant the queen was not sleeping well, and her narrow lips were set in a tight line. Kate thought of the courtly gossip Rob had told her, of the scandals and worries that plagued the queen.

But Elizabeth smiled when she glanced up to find Kate waiting. “Mistress Haywood! You have returned at last.”

Kate curtsied and made her way closer to the window. Elizabeth tapped her long, pale fingers on the papers, her rings sparkling. There was an ink smudge on her thumb.

“I am glad to see you again,” the queen said. “I trust your father had a dignified and proper funeral?”

“He did indeed, Your Grace, and I thank you for sending mourners and the wreath. My father would have been most honored.”

“To lose a parent is a sad thing. But you must know always he loved you and was proud of you, aye?”

Kate couldn't help but think that the queen had no such reassurances about her own father. Kate felt a cold touch of sadness. “I will always know that. My father will surely always be with me in that way. But I am glad to be back at court, Your Grace.”

“You may not be so happy when you hear my task for you, Kate,” Elizabeth said. “Please, sit. Talk with me quietly for a moment.”

A page leaped forward with a stool at the queen's gesture, and Kate sank down onto it gratefully. She found she was still tired from the ride, yet her nerves hummed with curiosity.

Elizabeth glanced across the room as if to be sure her ladies were otherwise occupied before she said quietly, “As you surely know, Kate, my cousin Mary of Scotland was widowed in November.”

Kate nodded. Rob had said that was the main subject of courtly gossip over Christmas, and she had heard talk of it even in her quiet country days. Mary had been Queen of France for only a little over a year when the young King Francis died of an infected ear after hunting in a winter storm. Queen Mary—and her influential, fanatically Catholic Guise uncles—had been a great thorn in Elizabeth's side ever since her own ascension to the throne.

It was said that Mary and her late husband, while always loudly proclaiming a great affection for their dearest cousin and sister-queen, still quartered the arms of England with those of Scotland and France, thus declaring themselves the
real
rulers of England.

“I had heard that, Your Grace,” Kate answered. “They say Queen Mary has gone on retreat to a convent to mourn, yes? A time away from the French court and her mother-in-law, Queen Catherine?”

“Mourn?” Elizabeth said with a humorless little laugh. “She went into isolation for forty days when King Francis died, as all French queens do, but her time in a convent now is surely not for weeping. My ambassador in France, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, says her Guise uncles are not content to lose their power at the Paris court now there is a ten-year-old king, the late king's brother, under the control of his
mother, Queen Catherine de Medici. Queen Catherine has allied with the Guise before because she had no choice, but she is no true friend of theirs.”

“Nor is she a true friend to her daughter-in-law Queen Mary?” Kate asked.

Elizabeth shrugged. “Queen Catherine is a sly one indeed, a Florentine to her core, but she is no fool.” There was a note of grudging respect in the queen's voice. Queen Catherine was a devout Catholic, one who, it was said, had made jokes at Elizabeth's rumored betrothal to Dudley, her horse master, but Elizabeth knew a fine political mind when she heard one. “She has bowed to Queen Mary for a long time. She will no longer. Her day has come. Sir Nicholas says she immediately dismissed the idea that Mary might now wed the new king Charles and seized the regency for herself. I think Queen Catherine would like to see Mary gone from France—but not as the wife of Don Carlos of Spain, as they say the Guise are desperate to see happen.”

“Don Carlos?” Rob had told her that was the gossip, but she hadn't quite believed it, not if the sad state of Don Carlos's health was true. “Would she really want that?”

“Exactly so. They say he is a cruel, hunchbacked idiot. Yet a Spanish crown could make so many unappealing qualities quite vanish to one as ambitious as my cousin. I have heard that King Philip is not enthusiastic, as he has just married Queen Catherine's own daughter, Princess Elisabeth, and one connection to
France is surely enough for him. But Mary will have plenty of other suitors. A queen with her own throne is always an attractive mate, as I have seen myself. And she may indeed return to Scotland and try to rule there herself.”