Murder at Fontainebleau (6 page)

“And is it better?”

Brigit shrugged. “About equal, I would say. At least I have been able to see France again.”

“You were there before?”

“Many years ago.” Brigit held out a small white pottery jar. “If there is bruising, you will feel the ache of it tomorrow, Mistress Haywood. This salve should help.”

Kate took out the stopper and gave a cautious sniff. She smelled the sweet scents of chamomile and lavender, along with something more sharp and medicinal. “What is it?”

“Merely a salve of herbs. It helps with bruising and aches. I made it myself and have found it most useful.”

Kate nodded toward the bottles in their little slots. “You seem to know a great deal of herbs and cures, Mistress Berry.”

The woman shrugged again. “Enough. I have found such knowledge most helpful in travels. One never knows what one may face on the road.”

“Would you teach me some of your recipes?”

“If you like. They are not complicated.”

Kate longed to ask her more about France, about herbs, about her work with Mistress Wrightsman and the Barnetts. A woman's perspective was often sharper and clearer, especially that of a woman who was quiet and intelligent, as Mistress Berry seemed to be, yet
was considered only a servant by the people around her. But it seemed Brigit was done talking for the moment. She sat down on her berth and took a pile of mending from her workbox. Her white cap bent low over it, and she hummed a soft tune as she worked, her hands quick and neat with the stitches.

Kate turned to her own trunk, hoping to glance through it before Monsieur Domville returned with the promised wine. She spread out her damp cloak over a stool and reached for a warm knitted shawl. As she smoothed back her folded garments in the trunk, she noticed some of them were out of place, slightly mussed, and the books and musical manuscripts that lined the bottom were not in the same order. It was as if someone had gone through it while she was on deck.

She locked the trunk and turned to her lute case. Her mother's fine instrument was unharmed, thankfully, but there was a small tear in the silk lining of the case she had not noticed before.

Kate sat back on her berth and settled her skirts carefully around her. She felt the weight of the small secret pocket she had sewn beneath her petticoats, where Cecil's letters were safely tucked away. She vowed to herself to keep them there for the rest of the journey.

“. . . A
nd I cannot say I find the new style of sleeve at all flattering! Do you, Mistress Haywood?”

Kate shook her head with a smile as Amelia Wrightsman talked on, comparing the old, closer-fitting sleeve to the new puffs. Amelia could certainly talk a great deal without requiring any answers, which suited Kate very well as they rode slowly forward across the French countryside, up the slight hills and along steep riverbanks.

She was becoming weary of travel, and her mind drifted away too often to focus on serious conversation, so she was glad Amelia had fallen in beside her on the road.

The lady also knew all the best gossipy tidbits about French courtiers they would soon meet, which would surely be most useful later.

Kate glanced back over her shoulder. Mistress Berry rode behind them, grim-faced under the broad brim of her hat. She had been quiet on the rest of their ship's voyage, and now, on the road, she kept close to Amelia.
She had taught Kate some of her herbal knowledge, and one evening showed her how to mix a calming tisane she often gave to Lady Barnett, but other than that had kept much to herself.

Behind her were Rob and his apprentice, Thomas. Rob gave her a merry wave, but she saw how watchful he was, as he had been ever since she told him of what had happened on the ship. Thomas stared, wide-eyed and rapt, at Amelia, as he was so often wont to do. As so many men did when they were near her.

There was no room on the narrow, rutted, muddy lane to travel more than two across, so their party stretched long both back and ahead. When they arrived in Paris, they found the Louvre Palace almost deserted. Queen Catherine had taken the young king and the rest of the court to Fontainebleau until Easter, to take the fresh air and hunt in the forest.

Queen Mary, who had been on retreat at the convent of St. Pierre, where her aunt Renée de Guise was abbess, was meant to join them there. There was no word yet on what the young widowed queen had decided to do—marry again, stay in France as a wealthy dowager, or go back to Scotland.

The slow journey from Paris to Fontainebleau made it feel even more as if they were all trapped in a strange limbo, neither in one place nor another, unsure of what lay ahead.

They were warned in Paris that there had been some unrest in the countryside. Anger was still high over the bloody events in Amboise the autumn before, the
gruesome executions under the orders of the Guise brothers and the imprisonment of the dashing Huguenot leader the Prince de Conde. Protestants had pillaged Catholic churches, while bands of Guise supporters roamed villages and farms, killing any Huguenots they found in retaliation.

Their small party had hired guards and outriders to keep them safe on their journey, as well as several pack mules to carry their considerable luggage. Mistress Wrightsman and Lady Barnett alone had many gowns, shoes, and jewels, and there were also gifts for the queens. They looked like an important group as they traveled, and outlaws had certainly not harried them, but they were not fast enough to outrun evildoers if any appeared.

Kate had not minded the slower pace. It gave her time to study the country around them. Paris had been crowded, with narrow lanes and smoking chimneys much like London, but the countryside, even in the damp, cold gray winter, was beautiful. They had passed lovely châteaux, all built of gleaming pale stone with steep slate roofs, surrounded by moats and set amid carefully laid-out gardens that would surely be like vivid jewel boxes in the summer. The villages, too, had been clean and pretty, with cottages and shops glinting with candlelight, all quiet under the thin layer of new snow.

But now she wasn't sure where they were at all. It had been hours since they stopped at the last inn for a quick meal and short rest. The dour-faced landlord there had
served them thin wine and a few oatcakes, and directed them tersely on a shorter route to the main road that would lead them to the edge of the famous forest that surrounded the palace at Fontainebleau.

Yet this did not seem
shorter
at all. The lane was only getting rougher and even narrower. Their horses had to slow to a crawling pace to keep from tripping in the ruts.

Kate peered ahead. Sir Henry Barnett, his wife beside him, led the party behind some of the guards. Like Amelia, Lady Barnett had been full of chatter earlier, but now even she was quiet. Charles Throckmorton and Toby Ridley rode behind them, just ahead of Kate and Amelia, and she noticed Toby stayed as close to Amelia as he could, watching Monsieur Domville, who rode just to the side of Amelia with narrowed eyes.

Amelia's words about sleeves trailed away, and she glanced back at Mistress Berry. Brigit gave her a grim smile, which strangely seemed to reassure her. She straightened in the saddle and stared ahead, unblinking.

“I do wonder what we will find at court,” Amelia said.

“It will be quieter,” Brigit answered. “They are in mourning, you know.”

Amelia tossed her head, the white plumes in her black velvet hat dancing in the cold breeze. The feathers carried the scent of her violet perfume. “Surely not everything will be silent! There will be hunting, at least. Cards. Perhaps some archery contests or music . . .”

“You wish to see all your old admirers again,
oui
,
Mademoiselle Wrightsman?” Monsieur Domville said teasingly.

Amelia laughed. “I have not so very many admirers, monsieur. Not as many as Queen Mary's Scottish Maries, I would say, or as Comtesse Villiers. Or as Queen Mary herself, who is surely the most beautiful of all.”

“
Non
?
I had heard you had five proposals of marriage before you last left Paris,” Monsieur Domville said, still giving her that teasing smile. “My friend Monsieur d'Emours has been missing you a very great deal.”

Amelia bit her lip and turned away from him to fuss with her reins. Kate noticed that her cheeks had turned bright pink, and she remembered the tale of the duel d'Emours, the kinsman to the Guise family, had fought over her. Or so the story went.

“I doubt he noticed I was gone at all,” Amelia said. “Surely he is not even back at court.”

“Ah, but he is,” Monsieur Domville said. Kate had the distinct sense he took a mischievous delight in teasing Amelia, but a duel seemed a strange thing to tease about. “He has been back since the autumn, before King Francis died.”

Amelia's blush deepened, and she tossed her head again. “Surely only to find a young mademoiselle with a fine Loire estate for a dowry. I care not for you Frenchmen and your forgetful ways. I have heard there are many rather ruggedly handsome Scotsmen at court right now. I wonder what
their
manners will be like?”

“Not at all to your liking, I am sure, Mademoiselle Wrightsman. They cannot dance, for one thing, except
to kick and fling themselves about.” Monsieur Domville gave Kate a smile and a wink. “Nor would Mademoiselle Haywood like them. They know naught of music, except for a strange, wheezing sort of pipe that sounds like a stable cat in distress.”

Kate laughed. “I assure you, Monsieur Domville, I am interested in
all
kinds of music—especially instruments I have not seen before.”

Monsieur Domville gave an exaggerated wince. “You will not like this, I can assure you,
chère mademoiselle
. These Scots have no—how do you English say?—refinement.”

“I think manly strength is surely better than mere refinement,” Amelia said angrily. Her hands tightened on her reins, making her horse shy. “I cannot wait to meet them. I shall make them teach me their kicking dances!”

“You should have a care, mistress,” Mistress Berry said. “After last time . . .”

“Oh, hush, Brigit! What do you know about it?” Amelia cried. “You have never loved at all. You are just a—”

“Be silent!” Sir Henry called. He held up his hand, and their slow procession drew to a halt.

For a moment, Kate was confused by the sudden call for silence. Then she smelled it—the sharp, metallic smell of smoke on the clear, cold breeze. At first it was a mere whiff, as if from the chimneys of a village nearby. But it grew heavier, too thick, tinged with something darker.

Her throat tightened, and she froze.

Sir Henry and the guards at the front dashed ahead, and Monsieur Domville and Toby Ridley edged around the ladies to ride after them, then drew their swords. Kate instinctively followed, shaking her dagger from its sheath under her sleeve until she could grasp the twisted steel hilt.

The narrow lane turned a sharp corner into a clearing, which had been hidden and blocked by the thick curtain of trees. Kate gasped, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth, at what they found there.

It was a farmhouse, or once had been. It was now a charred, smoking ruin, the roof collapsed, the walls blackened. There was no sign of life, not even a chicken or milk cow. Only a crudely drawn cross of Lorraine in red on the one still partially standing wall, along with the outline of a lion. The emblem of the Guise.

Amelia, who had come up beside Kate, screamed, and Kate whipped around to reach for her hand.

She saw what had made Amelia scream, and nearly cried out herself. Two men were hanged from the bare, skeletal branches of a tall tree at the edge of the clearing. A rough sign dangled from one of them with large black letters that spelled out
HERETIC
. She remembered what they had heard at the inn, about Catholic churches pillaged and Protestants killed in punishment. It made her glad to be English, with a queen who cared not to open windows in men's souls, as Elizabeth often said.

She looked back to Amelia and wondered if the flighty, frivolous lady was going to faint. But Mistress
Wrightsman did not look on the edge of hysterics at all. Her delicate jaw was set in a hard line, her eyes cold and angry.

“Come. We must be away from this place,” Sir Henry said. He spurred his horse around and galloped back to the lane, where the others waited. Lady Barnett was tearful, demanding to know what was happening, but her husband ignored her. Mistress Berry offered her a vial of smelling salts.

“Are you quite well, Mistress Wrightsman?” Kate asked quietly.

Amelia gave her a hard, bright smile. “I am, Mistress Haywood. You will have to learn that things like this happen all the time in France. But we must keep moving forward, must we not?”

She jerked her own horse around to follow her uncle, and Kate rode to catch up with her.

“It is a sad thing indeed,” Monsieur Domville said solemnly. “But surely they were breaking the law of the land. These Huguenots think they can do as they like, but they must learn to keep the peace. It is a very dangerous thing to make enemies of the Guise and their friends.”

 • • • 

“
Oui
, they were Huguenots,” the landlady at the inn said with a scowl. She waved to a maidservant to continue pouring ale into the traveling party's pottery cups. The maid sniffled; her eyes were red, her plump cheeks blotched, as if tears were a common thing with
her. She stopped only when the landlady gave her a stern glance.

Mistress Berry, calm and expressionless, handed Lady Barnett a vial. Lady Barnett had been crying as well, and Mistress Wrightsman's cold anger had quickly faded once they were on the road again, and she had almost fainted in new hysterics. Her swoon had led them to find an inn to rest for a time. The ladies looked a bit restored now beside a warm fire, with spiced ale and a hearty stew to warm them. It was a prosperous establishment, clean and well furnished, with an elaborate cross prominently displayed on the whitewashed wall.

Kate took a sip of her drink, but she felt restless, watching everyone around her.

“We had heard in England that things were much more settled now since the death of King Francis,” Sir Henry said.

The landlady gave a snort. “'Tis the Duc de Guise and his family. They've become desperate; everyone knows that. Queen Catherine will rule now, and she is no true friend to them. She seeks peace with the King of Navarre and the Huguenots—so they say. Such leniency can never hold, not in a Godly kingdom.”

“Can it not?” Toby Ridley said tightly. “Surely a peaceful realm is a laudable aim?”

“In this district, monsieur, monks have been killed, an ancient statue of the Blessed Virgin destroyed by a Huguenot mob they say was emboldened by Queen
Catherine's mild words to them,” the landlady said, crossing herself. “How can there be peace thus?”

The woman suddenly seemed aware she had perhaps said too much to foreign strangers. She bobbed a hasty curtsy and left the small sitting room, shooing the sniffling maid ahead of her. “I will send in more ale, monsieur.”

For a long moment, silence fell heavily over the English group crowded into the little room. Kate sipped at her ale and studied everyone around her. Lady Barnett and her niece reclined on the cushioned settee by the fire. The men gathered around a round table, all of them looking grim. Rob and Thomas stayed near Kate, and she was glad of their presence. They made her feel not quite so alone in a strange land.

“It would do these people well to listen to Queen Catherine,” Lady Barnett said, tearful and angry. Kate was surprised—Jane Barnett had never shown even a flash of such seriousness before. “She is a very clever lady. What is the use of losing everything over such trifles?”

Sir Henry brought his fist down on the table before him, rattling pitchers and goblets. Amelia burst into tears all over again, and even Kate was startled enough to jump a bit. Everyone's nerves seemed terribly on edge.

“Be quiet, woman, about matters you have no knowledge of!” he roared, his bearded face red. “Queen Catherine is a Florentine to her very bones, and one day her Italian ways will bring France down with her. Kingdoms need strong kings, and one faith to unify them. I should have left you and your silly niece in London.
Matters are much too delicate and vital to have such ridiculousness to deal with.”