Murder at Fontainebleau (20 page)

They had only a few moments to compose themselves when Kate heard the thud of booted footsteps on the wooden stairs outside, and the door was shoved open with a loud bang that made her jump. Jacques d'Emours appeared there, a pale ray of light in his white satin amid the dark, dank attic. He scowled as he looked at Celeste, who pushed herself away from the wall and strolled into the middle of the room as if she hadn't a care in all the world.

“What is this evidence you spoke of?” he demanded. His tone was icy, his burning anger apparent, as could be expected, but it also contained something Kate would not have expected of him: desperation. She hoped they could hear words of confession before he became violent. He had already dueled once.

“So you do admit you were responsible for Amelia's death?” Celeste said, as if she asked him about the weather.

“What is it you want from me, Celeste? You, of all people, know how I felt about Amelia.”

“
Oui
, and that is why I am sure it was you. She wanted to marry you.”

“And I her. But she felt the same as I did, that it was not possible. Our situations in life, our religions, would make such a match unthinkable.”

“Why?” Celeste cried, her calm, cool tone taking on a sharp edge. Kate tightened her grip on the tiny sheep, ready to leap out if needed. “Because of the Guise? You
are indebted to them; everyone knows that. Surely it was become of that, to keep your secrets, that you challenged Mamou?”

“You must stop this now, Celeste,” a quiet, low voice said from the doorway. “Jacques was prepared to be a fool for the sake of love, but I will not let him. I saw you creep away from the party, my dear, and I feared you were going somewhere just like this.”

Kate gasped at the sound of that familiar voice and reached for Rob's hand. She realized with a sick, cold certainty that she had not been able to put together the whole puzzle of Amelia's death, that she had misjudged the players. For it was Brigit Berry who slipped into the attic room now. Brigit, in her somber black gown and mild smile, moving so quietly. Seeing everything that happened around the Barnetts and their niece. Brigit who owned the herbal.

Brigit, who held a shining dagger lightly in her hand.

Even Celeste looked shocked, frozen in place. Jacques swung around to face Brigit, his cool distance shattered. “
Non!
” he said in a hard, furious tone.

“Madame Berry,” Celeste whispered. “What are you doing here? Are you and Jacques lovers?”

Brigit laughed, a chilling sound of merriment. “Of course not! Even a woman who works for a witch like Queen Catherine should know better than that. I am his mother. And who better to look after the best interests of her son? Queen Catherine and I do share that.”

Kate's free hand pressed to her mouth to hold back a cry. She thought of all she had missed, and it all clicked
into place. The herbs, the quiet looks, the web of family and secrets. Even the bright blue color of their eyes, Brigit's and d'Emours's both the same.

“Tell me you did not do this,” Jacques said hoarsely. “Not you, my real mother.”

Brigit looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she wondered that he would be angry. “I had no choice. She was spying for William Cecil. And you would not, could not, stay away from her. Just like a foolish man, giving up everything for the sake of a pretty, false smile. Just like your father. If the Guise found out about such a connection, you would be utterly finished. You would probably be dead—we have all seen what they do to traitors.”

D'Emours had turned completely white. “You did kill her? Your own kinswoman?”

“But you are my son!” Brigit cried. “I gave you up to your natural father and his wife when you were born so you could have a place in the world, an estate, the honor of a fine name. All I had in return was their promise they would remember me. You were just going to throw it all away. She was flaunting that brooch you gave her to all the court; I knew it meant you had gone back to her.”

“How did you . . .” he said in a strangled voice.

Brigit smiled—a sweet, terrible sight. “It was so easy. It wouldn't have been necessary at all if I had been able to get those letters from that silly musician girl. I am sure they mentioned Amelia and would have been intercepted. But then I realized that it would be better
for her to be gone. She would never cease to make trouble.”

Rob's hand tightened on Kate's, as if he knew the sick feeling that flooded through her at those words.

“I had a careful plan,” Brigit went on. “A slow-acting, small dose of poison in her perfume. Everyone would think she was merely ill, a sad wasting disease. But it had no time to work, not after I knew you were going back to her. I gave her a larger dose in her wine so she would feel giddy. And I followed her back to the pavilion that night. I sent that Italian whore of an actress to you so none would suspect you. I was only looking after you, as a mother should. That woman was vile, unworthy of you! A horrible creature. A witch. A spy, just like that musician girl. I tried to find the letters I knew she carried from Cecil, letters that could have mentioned you, but I failed in that. I could not fail with Amelia.”

She reached out to touch his arm, and he fell back a step with a disgusted cry.

Everything happened quickly then, in a blur of movement.
“Cochon!”
Celeste shouted. She lunged at Brigit and scratched at her eyes, as if in defense of her lost friend. Brigit was startled and stumbled off balance, but she sidestepped Celeste's attack and her dagger arced up into the air. Celeste ducked, tumbling to the dusty wooden floor.

D'Emours caught Brigit around the waist and swung her off her feet. She lashed out at him, kicking and
screaming. Rob dashed out from their hiding place, his own dagger drawn, Kate close behind him. She helped Celeste up and they scrambled out of the way of the melee.

“This ends now!” d'Emours shouted. His mother twisted in his grasp, as agile as a feral animal in her fury, her eyes glassy with her desperation. There was no sign of the old, efficient Mistress Berry or the cool Monsieur d'Emours.

“Nay!” Brigit screamed. “I have done all this only for you. How dare you repay me so? You are all I have!”

Her flailing dagger suddenly pierced his shoulder, moving through the white satin of his doublet, which was quickly stained with a scarlet bloom of blood. He let go of her and stared down at his shoulder with stunned disbelief.

Brigit screamed again, an anguished cry of despair. Before anyone could realize what was happening, she spun around and fled, her racing footsteps clattering away down the stairs. Rob took off in pursuit.

D'Emours collapsed to the floor, his hand pressed to his wounded shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers. Kate and Celeste ran to his side.

“Such fools,” Celeste muttered as she tore at the hem of her gown. She wrapped it quickly around the wound.

“Go after her!” he gasped. “She cannot be allowed to escape. She killed Amelia; she will not hesitate to murder someone else.”

Rob
. A cold panic rose in Kate, and she stumbled to
her feet. Celeste looked up at her, wide-eyed. “You go after Monsieur Cartman. I will stay here and call for help. But be very careful.”

Kate nodded and spun around to run after Rob. She dashed out of the farmhouse and past a few courtiers who lingered in the courtyard, laughing together, completely unaware of the drama that had just happened above their heads. They called after her in astonishment, but she did not slow down. She glimpsed Rob's golden head vanishing down the allée of trees, toward the pond, and she followed, stopping only to point the guards at the gate toward the farmhouse. They shouted after her, tried to snatch at her sleeve, but she evaded them. She wanted only to catch up to Rob before Brigit had a chance to hurt him as she had d'Emours.

Holding up the heavy hem of her skirt, she followed Rob down the winding path to the pond where Amelia had died. Her fashionable stays were tight and she was out of breath, unable to keep up with him. She thought that Queen Mary was quite right to wear breeches whenever possible. By the time she found him, he was at the muddy banks of the pond and Brigit was nowhere in sight. The pavilion gleamed bright white, reflected in the water, horribly beautiful.

“Where is she?” Kate gasped.

“You should go back, Kate,” he cried. “You should be nowhere near her!”

“I sent the guards to find Celeste and d'Emours. I had to find you. What if she hurt you, too?”

“I don't think—” Rob suddenly broke off and pointed out across the water.

Kate saw Brigit there in one of the boats that had been used the night Amelia died. She was pulling on the oars across the water, toward the pavilion. Rob shouted her name but she never slowed down. Halfway across the pond, she stopped, and as calmly as if she stepped from a carriage, she dove over the side into the icy water and vanished from sight.

Rob tore off his doublet and boots, shoving them into Kate's arms even as he waded into the murky water just offshore. Once it was deep enough, he too dove in. Kate watched in cold fear as he swam in quick, smooth strokes, his bright head breaking the greenish waves. He reached the boat bobbing alone and heaved Brigit's body over its side.

By the time he came back to Kate's side, Brigit was dead, a calm smile on her pale
lips.

“I
cannot believe this!” Lady Barnett wailed. “Brigit murdered Amelia? Why?”

Sir Henry sighed. He looked gray-faced and exhausted, as surely they all were, gathered by the fire in the Barnetts' sitting room, untouched goblets of wine on the table. Sir Nicholas had departed once he heard what had happened, gone to write to Cecil and Queen Elizabeth and, thus, in his mind, put it all behind them. Lady Barnett could not cease sobbing, and Kate felt frozen in place by the window. Even the warmth of Rob's hand on her arm could not chase away the cold. Brigit Berry had tried to kill her on the ship—and
had
killed Amelia. She even tried to kill her own son. It was hideous.

But Sir Henry had suddenly become patient. He explained to his wife once more that her kinswoman had once borne a French child out of wedlock and had killed Amelia to try to protect him now.

Lady Barnett shook her head, clearly still most baffled, her world upended. “But I was here with Brigit
when we were girls—how could she not tell me this? I gave her a position, a home, for all these years. And she repaid me by taking away my poor, innocent Amelia.”

Sir Henry awkwardly patted his wife's hand. His gaze met Kate's over Lady Barnett's bent head, and he nodded a fraction. Lady Barnett did not, could not, know of Amelia's work with Cecil, and now it would never be known. Her confusion and grief were already too great without politics tossed into the stormy mix.

“I will stay with her now,” Sir Henry said. “We all need to be ready to depart for England at the first opportunity.”

“Of course,” Kate murmured. England had never felt so very far away. Whitehall, Elizabeth, Cecil, all the familiar things seemed like something she had known only in a dream. She wanted to run back to it, but at the same time she feared to find it all changed while she was gone.

Or perhaps she was the one who had changed.

She let Rob lead her out of the chamber, Lady Barnett's cries drifting behind them. They made their way down the stairs and through a side door into one of the gardens, a small walled space with trees and marble benches, a quiet haven after the palace.

“Are you quite well, Kate?” Rob asked gently.

She gave him a small smile. “As well as I can be. Poor Amelia. Poor Mistress Berry and Monsieur d'Emours as well, despite their actions. Such a terrible story.”

“We will soon be home again,” he said. “Kate, I want to say—”

But his words were cut off when they turned a corner of the garden pathway to find Celeste and Toby standing near the stone wall. They were not alone. Queen Mary was with them, her Maries gathered around her. Her pretty face was streaked with tears.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Haywood! Monsieur Cartman!” the queen cried. She waved her white handkerchief to them before pressing it to her eyes again, the very image of grief and shock. “I heard of what you did today, finding the villain who killed my friend Amelia. You are so very brave.”

Kate and Rob quickly made their bows and hurried toward the queen, who pressed their hands. “We are most happy that is finished, Your Majesty,” Rob said.

“
Alors
, but you must be very brave,” Mary Seton said.

“Indeed,” said Queen Mary. “I do wish you could stay here with me, for I have much work to do now. But I understand from Monsieur Ridley that you are all going back to England. We will miss you so very much.”

Kate glanced at Toby. He also bowed to the queen, his usually open, merry face pale and somber. It seemed Queen Mary did not remember coldly accusing Toby of killing Amelia, but surely he would not forget.

“I have enjoyed a glimpse of the beauties of Fontainebleau, Your Majesty,” Kate said. “Yet I confess I will be glad to be at my own home.”

Queen Mary smiled sadly. “Home is always the best place to be,
n'est-ce pas
? I have decided, after all of this, that I too must find my true place. I must return to
Scotland, where I can keep my friends safe. I am sure my own people will be like my family now that I do not have my mother or my husband, and will welcome me. You will tell this to my cousin Elizabeth?”

Kate was surprised that Queen Mary had so suddenly decided to return to Scotland, a country she had not seen since she was a child, and confidently expected a loving welcome. But perhaps she
would
find it there. She was, after all, a princess of enormous charm, and had great loyalty to her friends. Kate would certainly tell Elizabeth all she knew, all she had learned and heard, as soon as she returned to London—but she did not know if Elizabeth would greet the news of Mary's return with equanimity or with an angry tantrum.

“I will take all my ladies with me, of course,” Queen Mary said. “I only wish I could have offered Amelia a place! But perhaps she would have been like Celeste here, determined to marry and leave me.”

Kate glanced at Celeste, who gave her a rueful smile. “You are to be married?”

“To Monsieur Ridley,” Queen Mary said, waving her handkerchief at them. “He will take her back to England, I am sure. But I hope you will give my cousin this message. We are family, two queens who shall be neighbors and must be friends. I send Elizabeth only love, as I am sure she does to me, and I hope we will meet very soon. I think we must thrive or fail together.”

Queen Mary turned and swept away through the garden gate, her white skirts ghostly in the winter
garden. Kate would certainly tell Queen Elizabeth all Mary said, but whether she meant it or not—that was something Cecil and his intelligencers would have to discover.

She smiled at Celeste and Toby, who stood close together but not touching. Celeste smiled and Toby looked distant, as if he were not quite with them. “You are to be married?” Kate said.

“Yes. You must wish us happiness,” Celeste answered with a little laugh. “I find I long to see England again, and Toby has been a kind enough friend to offer to help me. We will wed before we leave Fontainebleau.”

“I
do
wish you happy, indeed,” Kate said. She kissed Celeste's cool cheek and touched Toby's arm. He gave her a smile, and she hoped she glimpsed his old happiness somewhere beneath the grief. Somewhere that Celeste could help him find again.

“I am sure we will see each other often in England,” Celeste said. “I shall need friends in my new home.”

“Any friend of Celeste shall have to be brave indeed,” Toby said. “And you have certainly proven yourself to be that, Mistress Haywood.”

Kate waved at them as they followed Queen Mary out of the garden. She was not at all sure Toby was right. She did not
feel
brave, merely sad and homesick. Rob took her hand, and she glanced up at him. He smiled at her, and she turned to move away. He caught her hand.

“So, there is to be a wedding before we leave,” he said.

“Aye. One happy thing, I hope.”

“Perhaps we could make it a double wedding? Two couples in the church doorstep?”

Kate was shocked at his words. She turned back to him, half-sure he would be grinning, that it would be a jest. But he watched her intently, his sky blue eyes shaded by the brim of his velvet cap. “Are—are you asking me to marry you, Rob?”

“I am sure it can't be a complete surprise, Kate. I hope I have shown you my feelings. This time in France has only made me see things even more clearly. I love you, and I want to keep you safe. Lord Hunsdon's patronage is ensured, and I am sure I could make us a home. I know I could make you as happy as you make me. We are a fine team, are we not?”

Kate was absolutely certain he
could
make her happy—at least for now. How could any woman not love him? He was so handsome, so daring, so witty. He knew what the love of music and poetry was like to a person's soul, how it became as necessary to life as air and water. Yet he was also restless, moody, with a need for applause that would surely never leave him. He promised her a home, and she longed for just that. A fireside of her own, a family, peace.

Could Rob truly give that, be that? He fed her curious, adventurous side, but with marriage would come children, and children would need security. Elizabeth knew that. She knew the dangers and mysteries of marriage and romance. Seeing what had happened to Amelia Wrightsman made those dangers only starker.

If Kate wanted to stay with the queen, she would have to choose. And she found, now that she stood at the crossroads, she had to listen to herself, trust herself. What life did she want?

She did not yet know. “I do care for you, Rob, so very, very much,” she whispered. She went up on tiptoe and softly pressed her lips to his. It was a sweet, warm kiss and made her crave so much more. But she had to think very carefully, for she knew from the moment she truly answered him life would not be the same.

“But I cannot marry you yet,” she said. “Not until we return to England and I can speak with Queen Elizabeth.”

Rob gently touched her cheek, his eyes so very blue as he studied her face. “Is the queen the only one you must talk to, then?”

Kate swallowed hard. Nay, she also had to talk to Anthony Elias. He was her friend; perhaps he was more. His life and what he could give were the opposite of Rob's. As a lawyer's wife, there would be a home and security. But would it be too quiet? Would she miss the court, the theater?

“I will answer you when we are in England,” she said. “You must be certain as well, Rob. Can you be happy as a husband, with only one lady waiting for you? It will be very boring, I fear.”

He laughed and raised her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “If
you
are that lady, Kate, I could never be bored. There would be villains to chase every week.”

Kate sighed. “That is what I fear.”

They turned back toward the palace, and for a moment Kate was caught by the unearthly beauty of Fontainebleau. Truly, she had never seen anything like it, and she knew she never would again. The white towers, the alleys of giant trees, the shimmering silver roof—it was astounding. But beauty could hide far too much ugliness, and she could not be fooled by its illusions ever again.

As they climbed the winding horseshoe stairs toward the carved doors, a page in Queen Catherine's green-and-white livery came running toward her, a package in his hands.

“Mademoiselle Haywood,” he said with a bow. “The Queen Mother sends you this, a parting gift, as she has heard you are to leave for England soon. She said I must give it directly into your hands and no other.”

Kate took the parcel from him. It was light and square, wrapped in silk and tied with a ribbon, and she half dreaded opening it. What could Queen Catherine be sending to her? “Tell the queen I send many thanks,” she said.

As the servant rushed away, she quickly unwrapped it and found a leather-bound book. She turned it to its cover. Stamped there in gold were the words
T
HE
P
RINCE
BY
S
IGNOR
N
ICCOLÒ
M. She remembered what Queen Catherine had said, that a true monarch must be kind as well as ruthless. That loyalty was all.

She opened the gilt-edge vellum pages and a small note fluttered out.
For your queen, and for you,
Mademoiselle Haywood. If you ever wish to return to France, I know the value of a lady's mind.

“What does Queen Catherine send you?” Rob asked.

“Nothing,” Kate answered. She tucked the book into the purse tied at her kirtle and took Rob's arm to hurry into the palace. She had much work to be done still before they could leave for home. “Merely a small gift for Queen Elizabeth from
Fontainebleau.”