Murder at Hatfield House (5 page)

“I was young, true, but I do remember that time well,” Kate said.

“Queen Catherine’s household was a place of great learning, of art and music and fashion,” Elizabeth said quietly, her hand slowly smoothing over the book as if she was far away, back in Queen Catherine’s rooms, where there were always books and conversation, music and dancing. Beautiful gowns, laughter, friendship.

Aye, it had been a place of great learning—
Protestant
learning. A place where a new, enlightened world seemed possible.

Kate had been young then, just learning to play the lute and the virginals, yet she remembered it all.

“It was a very good time, Your Grace,” she said simply.

“And one that was long ago,” Elizabeth said. She sighed and tucked the book into one of the trunks. “Ah, Kate, I feel so old sometimes, though I am only twenty-four. So weary.”

“Weary, Your Grace?” Kate cried, astonished. Elizabeth was always such a whirlwind of bright energy.

“That is why I’m glad to have your music, Kate. To remind me of those days. Even though it would be better for you if you went to another household.”

Kate gave a wry smile. “No one else would hire a mere female to play music, Your Grace. And as I am helpless at embroidery, I must stay here.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Then we have that in common. I can do naught with a needle too, though so many of my stepmothers tried to teach me.” She reached into the purse hanging at her waist and drew out a few coins. “Here, Kate. I need you to go into the village and fetch some spices. I think some mulled wine would do us all good tonight. I feel a headache coming on and I must retire to rest for a time.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Kate tucked away the coins and watched as Elizabeth unfolded a cloak and handed it to her. She recognized it as the same red velvet, satin-lined and fur-trimmed cloak she’d worn the night she and her father fled ahead of the queen’s soldiers.

“And if you happen to hear any bits of gossip . . .” Elizabeth said with a wink.

Kate tugged the hood of the cloak over her head to cover her laugh.

CHAPTER 4

“M
istress Haywood! It has been some time since we saw you here. I fear the new lute strings have not arrived from London yet.”

Kate turned to find Master Smythson, who ran the largest of the village shops, hurrying toward her along the lane. Or hurrying as fast as the muddy ruts would let him. The hem of his cloak was as flecked with dirt as hers was, his round, lined face red as if he had walked a long distance. His breath was labored as he rushed to join her.

For an instant she wondered what he could have been doing outside on such a chilly gray day, a fair distance from the village. But then she shook her head, feeling foolish. The dark atmosphere at Hatfield had infected her with suspicion of everyone. Master Smythson was merely an aging widower who had run his shop well and efficiently for many years, with nary a whisper against his honesty or loyalty.

But loyalty to whom? In these complicated days, it was impossible to tell.

“Master Smythson,” she said. “It is good to see you again. I fear things have been so busy at Hatfield I’ve had no time for outings. I can wait for the new strings. The last ones you so kindly procured for me are of such fine quality they still sound most excellent.”

“I am glad to hear it, Mistress Haywood. With this foul weather we’ve had few deliveries from London.” Master Smythson shook his head. “I fear we shall see yet another bad harvest if the rains do not cease.”

“I fear you may be right.” Together they turned toward the village, picking their way between the deepest of the puddles. “We must hope for better days soon.”

“Indeed we must.” Master Smythson studied her carefully from under the brim of his hat, but Kate had learned her lessons well from Princess Elizabeth. She merely smiled at him blandly. “So if not for the strings, what brings you to the village today, Mistress Haywood?”

“Princess Elizabeth has sent me on a few small errands,” Kate answered. Then, because she knew how quickly gossip spread through the neighborhood, she added, “We have visitors from London, emissaries of the queen.”

“Ah.” Master Smythson’s bushy brows rose and he nodded. “We did hear tell of riders late last night. Old Mistress Regan was out to deliver a baby and claims they nearly ran her down on the road as she walked home. A strange business. Were they not expected, then?”

“The princess has many people who call on her with court business,” was all Kate could say. She thought it best not to mention the murdered manservant, but to wait and see if the villagers knew something of it she did not yet know.

But Master Smythson said nothing of the murder, or of the attacker who had escaped into the woods. “Indeed, indeed. We all remember when the queen herself came to Hatfield.”

Kate remembered that visit too. It was the spring after Elizabeth had been released from house imprisonment at Woodstock and returned to live at Hatfield. Queen Mary had determined to make a show of how the sisters were reconciled, and had arrived with a large, gaily dressed retinue amid blue skies and brilliant sunshine. There had been a grand banquet in the gardens, exchanges of gifts and embraces. Kate and her father were kept busy playing dances and madrigals.

But that seemed long ago, and that elaborate rapprochement had turned quickly sour, as did the weather, ruining harvests and spreading disease and despair.

“I remember that as well,” Kate said. “But the queen was not able to come herself this time.”

“Her health does not permit Her Majesty to travel?” Master Smythson said.

“It is a difficult time of year for journeys,” Kate answered carefully. It was always dangerous to openly speculate about Queen Mary’s delicate health. “But we are in need of provisions for her emissaries.”

“Will the princess be wanting supplies for a banquet?”

“I don’t think so. I believe this will be a short visit.” Please God, let it be
very
short, Kate added silently. Braceton’s roughness would wear them all down soon, and all their unwary words would go straight to the queen. Braceton had made it clear he was Mary’s servant and no other’s, and that he had no interest in treating Elizabeth carefully in hopes of future preferment.

“That is a shame,” Master Smythson said as he unlatched the gate set in a low, rough stone wall and held it open for her. “We should all so love to hear your playing again. It is so cheering.”

“Thank you, Master Smythson. I do enjoy seeing people dance to my songs. Perhaps for Christmas.”

“May it be a merrier Yuletide than last, I say!”

Just beyond the wall they found themselves in the village proper. It was not a large settlement, merely one long main street with a few lanes leading off it, lined with double-story, half-timbered shops and thatched-roof cottages set in small gardens. The largest structure was the church, a square, squat building of faded stone built centuries ago, surrounded by a churchyard crowded with tilted, time-worn stones and new crosses. A vicarage was tucked away in the back, shuttered and empty at the moment because no Catholic priest had yet been sent to replace the ousted Protestant minister.

As they passed the wall around the churchyard, Kate peered up at the old bell tower. When Edward became king, his men had come to break out the stained glass windows and whitewash over the fresco of the Last Judgment that had looked down on worshipers for decades. The screen was torn down and the altar replaced with a linen-draped stone table.

Kate hadn’t been there to see it, as she had been a child still, living in Catherine Parr’s household at Chelsea, but she could imagine it. She had seen such scenes enacted all over London. She had attended Queen Catherine’s own Protestant funeral at Sudeley when that remarkable woman died too young in childbirth.

Then Mary became queen, and it all reversed. The screens and statues and vestments were all coming back, but slowly. Scaffolding had gone up around this village church and workers had been there for months, but the windows remained blank. It was silent, empty—watching and waiting.

But the village wasn’t silent. Kate had half expected everyone to be hiding in their houses, as if Braceton and his accusations had infected everything for miles around. Yet it seemed all wished to take advantage of the rain ceasing. The lanes were still rutted and thick with churned-up mud, but the doors to the shops were propped open, their meager wares laid out in the windows. People were hurrying in and out, their arms filled with packages, their cloaks and skirts tied up out of the mud.

Kate noticed several people whispering together on the rough plank walkways. They broke off as she came near, watching her approach with curious eyes. Though they gave her polite greetings, they didn’t press her to stay and talk more, didn’t ask questions.

So the seemingly normal, bustling day in the village wasn’t quite all it appeared—just like everything else. Surely more was known about Lord Braceton than the fact that he had almost run down the midwife in the road. Did they know of his servant’s murder? Did they know who had done it—and why? The servant’s death had infuriated Braceton even more than he already was, and yet everyone seemed intent on ignoring it, on keeping their secrets.

Would they let Princess Elizabeth bear the blame for it?

Kate smiled and bowed at their bland greetings, wishing with all her might that she could see past all the careful masks, all the heavy mist that seemed to hang over everything, and realize what was really going on.

She followed Master Smythson into his shop and gave him the list of spices they needed at Hatfield. While he filled the order, she examined a display of fabric near the bow window. Her father’s winter robes were wearing out, like all their garments, and he needed sturdier clothes to keep the chill away or she feared his joints would pain him even more. Even though her sewing skills were mediocre at best, she could make new robes—if they could only afford the finely woven wool.

“Kate! Is it really you?”

Kate spun around at the sound of the familiar voice, her heart suddenly lighter. “Anthony! I’m most glad to see you today. I was going to walk very slowly past Master Hardy’s rooms and see if I could wave to you through the windows.”

“No need. I have a day’s holiday while Master Hardy attends to business elsewhere.” Anthony’s handsome face was even more attractive when he was smiling, as he was now. It was a teasing grin, and he took her hand and bowed over it in an elaborate courtly gesture.

Kate laughed. Despite the worries that plagued her mind, the dark clouds that hovered over Hatfield, she felt her heart lighten even more. She had become friends with Anthony Elias, a lawyer’s apprentice the same age as herself, as soon as she met him at a musical party at Hatfield.

She’d never seen anyone quite as handsome as he—with his black hair and jewel-bright green eyes, his tall, lean figure—even at court, where there were dozens of handsome, peacock-clad men. When he’d come to sit next to her and asked her about the lute she played, for long moments she’d been frozen, tongue-tied. Men seldom paid attention to her like that; she was too young, too thin, too wrapped up in her music. Too insignificant in the complex web of the Tudor court.

She’d read sonnets, listened to other girls giggle about their suitors, but until she saw Anthony, she was mystified by what it all meant. When he smiled at her, she knew.

But she’d soon found there was much more to him than his green eyes and fine legs. He could make her laugh when she felt too solemn. He talked to her not as a mere girl, a child, but as an equal who could argue and discuss and understand any concept or idea. He told her about the law, about philosophy, and she talked to him of music and poetry.

But they met very seldom. Kate’s place was with her father and the princess, and for now that meant living quietly at Hatfield. Anthony’s time as apprentice in the law office of Master Hardy would soon be over, and he would have to go to one of the Inns of Court in London to finish his studies. His father, another lawyer, had died many years before, and Anthony had to work hard to take care of himself and his mother.

When they did have occasion to meet, Kate tried to make the most of it, to talk and listen and laugh and not waste a moment. She had so few friends; she wouldn’t take one for granted.

“How have you been keeping, Anthony?” she asked as they strolled together through the shelf-lined aisles of the shop. “It has been too long since we’ve seen you.”

“Since Princess Elizabeth’s last-of-summer banquet, I think,” Anthony said. The last party held at Hatfield, more than two months ago. “Master Hardy still speaks often of her generosity and kind spirit. But we have been kept busy with all the new heresy laws that are being passed in London.”

Kate shivered at the very mention of that word, “heresy.” She’d heard it too much that day in the furious voice of Lord Braceton. “There are no pending heresy cases here, I trust?”

Anthony hesitated, and Kate thought she saw a strange shadow flicker through his green eyes. “Not as yet.”

There was some darkness in those three words that made her freeze. She started to reach for his arm. “Anthony—”

“Here are your spices, Mistress Haywood,” Master Smythson said, interrupting her.

Kate’s hand dropped to her side, and she turned to take the parcel from the shopkeeper. She gave him what she hoped was a genuine-seeming smile, not too strained or fearful.

“Thank you, Master Smythson,” she said. “The princess will be most grateful for some mulled wine on these cold nights.”

She started to take the coins from her pocket, but Master Smythson shook his head. “It is a gift to the princess. Tell her we pray here for her good health.”

Kate’s throat suddenly felt tight at his simple, kind words. So often it seemed they were alone at Hatfield, buffeted by storms from every direction. But Elizabeth was not forgotten in the wider world. “Thank you, Master Smythson. I shall tell her.”

She drew up her hood again and followed Anthony out of the shop. The wind was brisker, sharp around the edges as it swept down the lane, but the sun still tried weakly to light the day overhead.