Murder at Hatfield House (17 page)

Which was no bad thing. Not with Braceton tearing through Hatfield. “It’s me. Kate Haywood. Her Grace sent me to see how you fared, and to give you this.” She held out the purse of coins.

Rob slowly lowered the sword, which she saw was not a blunted stage prop, but a raw blade, like the dagger he had carried earlier. He raked a hand through his rumpled hair, and Kate could see the weariness etched on his face, the slump of his strong shoulders under his thin linen shirt.

“How did you get away?” he said.

“The same way you did—while Braceton was not looking,” she answered. “He is too busy questioning the princess and the Popes to bother with me.”

“Nor hopefully with us. We will be away at first light.”

“Princess Elizabeth said to tell you she is heartily sorry for bringing you into her troubles.”

Rob gave a harsh laugh. “I would say we brought it on ourselves. For did we not seek you out on the road to Hatfield?”

“Because Cecil sent you? And asked you to perform that play for the princess?” Kate said, exceedingly puzzled. Did Rob work for Cecil? Or for more sinister forces? “He is usually more subtle than that, I’m told.”

“What do you mean?” Rob asked sharply.

Kate remembered what Elizabeth sought to know, what she’d whispered so quickly before she sent Kate out to find the actors. She remembered her own startled realization that the play was far more than it seemed. She needed to get to the bottom of it all before anyone else was hurt. “Is the play not about Jane Grey? The sweet young scholarly maiden, dethroned and imprisoned? The pawn to the power of others?”

“Hush!” Rob grabbed Kate’s arm, and led her beyond the light, beyond the hearing of the others. “I know not what you speak of. It is merely a classical myth, as so many other plays are.”

“It is not a myth I have ever heard,” Kate argued. “And why would Lord Braceton react so? What had he to do with Jane Grey that would make someone want to send such a message?”

“I don’t know!” Rob almost shouted. The woman in the cart sobbed louder, and he went on more quietly. “I don’t know. You would have to talk to my uncle. He is the one who brought us the play and said we must learn it quickly.”

“After you visited the Cecils?”

Rob shook his head. “Nay, it was before that. But I don’t know when he got it, or who wrote it. It could be by any number of the writers we patronize, and they would pen anything asked for a few shillings. My uncle has seemed nervous about something these last few days, and changed his mind several times. I questioned him most ardently whether we should perform it, sensing that it could be too dangerous to bring up such dark memories. Yet in the end we deferred to Sir William.”

Kate could make no sense of it all. “Can I speak to your uncle?”

“He has ridden ahead to see if we are still welcome at the next manor house. He told us to stay with the cart, as it’s not safe to move it on these muddy roads till daylight.”

“He has abandoned you here?” Kate cried. “So near to Braceton?”

“Our livelihoods are tied up in what’s in the cart, Mistress Kate, these expensive properties and costumes. Without them we are truly nothing better than vagabonds.”

It sounded plausible enough. But why would Master Cartman abandon his nephew and his possessions if he was not guilty of something? What was behind the strange play and his odd behavior? How were the play—about Jane Grey, who had been so passionately reformist in her religious ideas—and the Catholic priestly garb Ned wore connected? “Then you really know not what message was being sent in that play? If there was any message at all there.”

“Truly, I do not know, Mistress Kate, or I would tell your princess. After what I have seen in London, she is truly our only hope now.” Rob sighed wearily and leaned back against the tree. “There is one thing, perhaps.”

“What is it? Surely even a fragment of knowledge would help.”

“Lord Ambrose, our patron, was on the jury that condemned Lady Jane and her husband to death. But it is not a matter he is proud of, and he would never advertise it in a play to Princess Elizabeth. Not seeing that Lady Jane was her cousin.”

“If such a play would have displeased your patron, your uncle should never have mentioned it to Sir William. Truly, I do not understand,” Kate murmured, turning over everything she knew, all the jumbled-up, half-seen images. Who had paid the troupe to do the play? How did they know both the actors and Braceton, and poor Ned? The answers were out there somewhere, surely nearby. She just had to find them.

“Nor do I,” Rob said. “But it would seem, Mistress Kate, that we will pay for it all the same.”

*

Edward Cartman stumbled over a knotty tree root in the darkness and fell to his knees, almost sobbing with fear. He had counterfeited terror and panic on the stage hundreds of times, but never before had he felt it as keenly as he did tonight. A cold wind blew around him, rustling the leaves over his head and seeping through his doublet.

It had been a great gamble to present the play, but the promised payoff was so large it seemed worth it. Edward had lost much of the season’s receipts playing primero in the back parlor of the Rose and Crown, and with Lord Ambrose out of the country there was no chance of court engagements. The offer had seemed to come at a perfect moment, and at first seemed so easy.

Until he realized what was really going on beneath the harmless commission. Until Braceton knocked him to the floor, and he knew he had lost the gamble.

Edward pushed himself up from the dirt, the damp earth that smelled of rotten leaves and old smoke. His lungs felt as if they would burst. Surely he’d been running ever since they fled Hatfield. But it wouldn’t be far enough.

He’d been a fool. He’d spent a lifetime clawing his way up from a boot-boy and apprentice to the leader of his own troupe. His brother, who had stayed sensibly on the family farm, had laughed at him. Until Edward came home wearing velvet and plumes, under the patronage of the wealthy Lord Ambrose. He’d shown them. And now he even had charge of his brother’s treasured son.

But had they been right, in the end? Edward lost his head when he saw the great bag of coins on offer, just to perform one short play. And there was a chance the gamble could still pay off. He just had to ease his panic and think clearly.

He leaned against a tree, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly there was a soft rustle, a mere whisper of movement through the wind, and a figure slipped between the trees.

Just as on the night they met him to offer the coins and the play’s script, the tall figure was muffled head to toe in a dark cloak. In the deep shadows of the hood could be glimpsed a black velvet visor in place of a face. The only color visible was the glint of the moon on the eyes that peered through the mask’s slits. Edward couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, or even human. Perhaps it was a demon, such as the one whispers said had killed the kitchen boy.

“So you performed the play, as I asked?” the figure demanded, voice muffled by the mask and the cloak.

“We did,” Edward managed to say, even though he still couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The whole scene had such a nightmarish air about it, like a witch’s gathering at midnight. But it was terribly real.

The cloaked figure laughed. “And garnered a rare reaction, I’m sure.”

“Braceton did not like it. Just as you said. Nor did Princess Elizabeth, I vow. Her face was white as milk.”

“Good. You’ve fulfilled your bargain with me, then.”

“Our dealings are at an end?” A faint spark of hope kindled in him.

The figure reached a gloved hand into the folds of the cloak. For one terrible moment, Edward felt panic crawling like a cold, living thing up his throat. He feared he would see a blade emerge. He almost collapsed to the ground as a purse came out instead. The figure tossed it at Edward, and it landed with a metallic clink at his feet.

“Yes. Begone from this place,” the figure said, turning away. “And never speak to anyone of that play. It never existed.”

Edward scooped up the bag. The weight of it in his hand, the clatter of the coins, swept away the panic. The risky gamble had paid off! It truly had! His great luck had not deserted him.

The relief made him bold. Without thinking, he called out, “If you ever do wish the play performed again, or any other nobles disconcerted, we know the lines well now. Surely others would be interested in it.”

The cloak swept through the leaves as the figure spun around. “What
others
do you speak of?”

Horrified, Edward saw his mistake. “None at all! I only meant—”

“That play is for once and once only. But you go on to Leighton Abbey next, do you not? Or perhaps you wait for the return of Lord Ambrose.”

“Nay,” Edward protested. He took a step back, only to stumble over the root. “I only wished to see if we could serve you again.”

The figure moved so quickly, almost like a ghost. It was upon him in a swirl of the cloak, and gloved hands shot out to grab him by the neck.

“I see I was mistaken to think I could be merciful,” came a muffled whisper. “My enemies show no mercy. God’s justice must be done. I cannot afford to be merciful either.”

Suddenly the moonlight glinted on a blade, and it flashed down. Edward felt a sharp, horrible pain as the blade plunged into his chest and was pulled out again. The pain burned and then froze, and bitter blood bubbled up in his throat to choke him.

He tumbled to the ground, and the last thing he felt was the sweep of a cloak hem over his cold face.

CHAPTER 14

K
ate was torn out of sleep by the sound of shouting and the crash of furniture tumbling to the floor. At first she was sure it was only a nightmare, of the dark and confusing sort that had disturbed her sleep too often of late. But then a cry rang out again, along with a deeper, rumbling threat, and she knew it was no dream.

She sat up straight in her bed, and for a moment she could hear nothing past the rush of blood in her ears. She pushed the bedclothes back, and as she swung her feet down to the cold floor, she heard her father cry, “Nay, I beg of you!”

Kate snatched up her shawl from the foot of the bed and quickly wrapped it over her chemise as she ran to the door. She pulled it open to find her rooms invaded by Braceton and his men.

After what happened in the courtyard, Kate had taken the precaution of carefully hiding her lute, but their sitting room was being overturned. Papers were scattered over the floor, plates swept from the sideboard, the chairs toppled over on their sides. A trunk Kate recognized as her father’s, a small case he always kept locked and in his own chamber, stood open as Braceton sifted through the contents.

Her father knelt by the fireplace in only his nightshirt and cap, scrambling to try to gather up some of the papers. One of the men kicked them away, leaving a muddy bootprint over the musical notes.

“What are you doing?” Kate cried. She rushed over to grasp her father’s arm, trying to lift him to his feet. He didn’t even seem to see her, he was so intent on saving his work. “You have already been through all of our things!”

Braceton peered over at her, his eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. The girl with the lute. You should have a better care with your father. It seems he was hiding this box from us beneath the floorboards. Surely that is a signal of some guilt.”

“How ridiculous,” Kate said. She managed to get her father to sit on one of the stools, and kept her hands on his shoulders to hold him with her. “That box is always out on his table. There is nothing in it that has to be hidden.”

“Well, it was hidden.” Braceton held up a pamphlet, his face turning brick red as he studied it. “What is this, then?”

Kate’s father gave a strangled cry, and suddenly shot forward as if he would snatch it back. Kate grabbed a handful of his shirt, but it took every ounce of her strength to hold him.

“That is something very old; I don’t even know why it’s there,” her father said.

“Then perhaps it is your daughter’s,” Braceton said with a terrible smile. “Is it yours, Mistress Lute-girl?”

He took a step closer, and held it up where Kate could see it. It was a cheaply made thing, with smudged ink and rough-cut pages, as if it had been produced and distributed in haste.

It did not belong to Kate, but she knew what it was. She’d seen them after Jane Grey was killed, passed furtively around the neighborhood. It was a compilation of Lady Jane’s own letters and writings on the Protestant cause, along with a detailed description of her conversations with Queen Mary’s priest in the Tower. It was accompanied by an account of her execution, as well as a prayer for her written by John Knox himself.

It was to all appearances a martyrology, for a martyr of the new religion. It was not known how all the documents had been unearthed, but it was rumored that the pamphlet was produced at Sir William Cecil’s estate on a secret press.

And it was not at all a good thing to be found with. The death of young Lady Jane had blackened the queen’s name even more than the Spanish marriage had, and surely Mary wanted her cousin forgotten. Her priests condemned such memorials to a girl who was to them an avowed and passionate heretic.

But what was her father doing with it?

Braceton smiled. “Do you know what this is? Perhaps you agree with your father that this deluded, treasonous girl was a saint?”

“Nay, she knew nothing,” her father said. His face had turned an ill greenish color and he slumped down on his stool.

“You worked in the household of Dowager Queen Catherine, did you not?” Braceton said. “Surely you knew Lady Jane in the queen’s household. Perhaps you have fond memories of them both.”

Kate had no answer to that. She
did
remember Lady Jane, though only vaguely. She’d only been a child then, and Lady Jane not much older. A small, pale, deeply serious and earnest girl who was always deep in a book. She conversed mostly with adults about very adult matters, such as religion. Her name hadn’t been spoken at Hatfield in years, yet lately she seemed to haunt them all.

“Queen Catherine was a great lady,” her father said stoutly.