Murder at Fontainebleau (5 page)

K
ate stood on the narrow walkway of Gracechurch Street, studying the house across from her. It was the home of the lawyer Master Hardy and his wife, where Anthony had worked as an apprentice. Now he was on the edge of setting up a legal practice of his own, but he had asked her to meet him there, as it was an easy distance from the palace and in a respectably prosperous area.

And it was
respectable
indeed. Tall and narrow, but with expensive glass in all the windows, the tiny diamond-shaped panes glinting in the light like eyes that could see out but not let anything in. The plasterwork, so bright and new the last time she saw the house, had darkened in the city's smoke and fog, yet it was still finely done and spoke of a quiet prosperity.

Kate thought of Anthony and of how such a place suited him. When they first met, when Elizabeth was a mere princess at Hatfield and the future was so uncertain, Anthony had been a very junior law student working for Master Hardy, who, as a Protestant,
was not favored by Queen Mary. After Elizabeth was crowned, all his noble clients returned and Anthony's studies progressed quickly. Now he was on the cusp of a fine career, a well-to-do independence, and she served the queen.

But the memory of their friendship, of Anthony's great kindness and steadiness, his lovely green eyes, never left her—even though their lives seemed destined to follow such different paths.

The black-painted front door opened as she walked the path to the house, and Anthony appeared with a market basket in hand. He wore the fine black wool garments of a young lawyer and a black-and-tawny cap on his glossy dark hair, an austere style that suited his classically carved features.

“Kate!” he called out happily. He hurried across the lane to her side. “I'm glad you could find time to meet me. It must be busy days at court.”

Kate smiled up at him. He had such a simple, quietly happy way about him. She had forgotten how reassuring it could be after the drama and tension of court. “Not so much since Christmas is past.” She gestured to his basket. “It looks as if you are on an errand, though.”

Anthony laughed. “Mistress Hardy asked if I could fetch some vegetables and cinnamon from the market, since she saw I was going out, and I hoped to persuade you to walk there with me.”

“Of course. 'Tis a fine day for marketing.” The cold wind had ceased to race around the tall buildings and the sky was clearing, though the roads were still laced
with frost. Anthony offered her his arm, keeping her to the more sheltered side of the walkway. As they strolled through the marketplace, they talked of Kate's father, of Anthony's widowed mother, who lived back in the village near Hatfield, of the Hardys, and how Anthony was soon to move out of their household and into his own lodgings.

They did not speak of Mistress Hardy's pretty niece, who had visited London last year, and whom Kate knew the Hardys had encouraged him to court. Anthony had not mentioned her in a long while, and Kate was not sure she really wanted to know what was happening with the matter.

After the provisions for Mistress Hardy were acquired, they turned to stroll along the river. Boats were thick on the water that day despite the chill, ferrying people from one bank to another, the boatmen and passengers calling out to each other.

“So, your note to me said you are to go to France,” Anthony said, his tone now grown more serious.

“Aye, to carry Queen Elizabeth's messages to Queen Mary.”

Anthony nodded, though his expression was doubtful. He knew something of her secret work for the queen; indeed, he had helped her on more than one occasion. He had access to records and archives she did not, and he had a lawyer's way of making people say things they meant to keep silent.

“My friend Tom Overbury is in Paris right now,” he said. “Perhaps you remember him?”

Kate nodded. Master Overbury had assisted Anthony with looking through the dusty court records during the troubles at Nonsuch Palace. She remembered he had once been at school with Anthony. “He is studying to enter the Church, is he not?”

“Aye. His master, Bishop Grenfeld, sent a delegation to meet with the Huguenot King of Navarre, and Tom went with them.”

“I hope I shall see him there, then. A familiar face would be a most welcome sight.”

“I will write to him and ask him to look for you.” Anthony paused at the edge of one of the stone-and-wood bridges that crossed the river. He looked down at her, his face very solemn under the brim of his black-and-tawny cap. “You mentioned in your note that Sir Henry Barnett and his wife and niece are to go with you?”

Kate nodded. Anthony and Master Hardy knew everyone at court and worked for many of them. “I do not know them well, and thought mayhap you or Master Hardy came across their names. They have been to France before.”

“I have not done any work for them myself, but I have seen their names before. Or, rather, that of their niece. Mistress Wrightsman, is it not?”

“It is. I met her at a dinner in the queen's apartments. She is very pretty and vivacious.”

Anthony laughed, a wry sound. “I am sure she is. When Tom Overbury was first in France last year, he sent me a letter that related the tale of a court scandal.”

Kate frowned. “A scandal involving Mistress Wrightsman?”

“It seems several French chevaliers fell in love with her, and there were rumors she might even marry a certain Monsieur d'Emours, a kinsman to the Guise family.”

“Mistress Wrightsman was to marry a Frenchman?” Kate wondered how likely that would be. Amelia's uncle seemed a very English sort of Englishman, and surely a member of the Guise family would be expected to marry a French fortune.

“There was no official betrothal. And it seems that one night, Mistress Wrightsman danced too many voltas with a certain Monsieur Mamou, kinsman to the Constable Montmorency, enemy to the Guise.”

Kate nodded. It seemed the French court was just as complicated with alliances and betrayals as the English—probably much more so. “Then what happened?”

“Mistress Wrightsman disappeared with this fellow Mamou, and was found with him by Monsieur d'Emours in a cozy little garden alcove. D'Emours challenged Mamou to a duel.”

“A duel!” Kate cried. It was like a romantic poem. Duels were forbidden by Queen Elizabeth at her court, though, of course, many happened in secret. Was it so very different in France?

“Aye. And it seems the Queen Mother has banned dueling, on pain of execution, but this one went forward.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Monsieur d'Emours wounded Mamou, but he was not killed. D'Emours was declared the victor.”

“But he did not claim his prize, the fair Mistress Wrightsman?”

“Perhaps he found she was not such a prize after all. Tom said she was immediately sent back to England in the care of her aunt, and d'Emours and Mamou are friends once again, though Mamou left court when his kinsman Montmorency retired. D'Emours is said to be of a crowd that is most fond of gambling and good wine, who enjoy making mischief both among the court ladies and country maids.”

“How very strange,” Kate murmured. If Amelia Wrightsman had instigated a duel, why would the queen and Cecil send her back to France now? It was a puzzle indeed. Kate knew very well she would not be told every part of Cecil's plan in France. Yet she hated feeling as if she were stumbling through a darkened room, unsure of what obstacles lay in wait with every step.

She and Anthony walked onward along the river. She could hear the cries of merchants selling hot cider and apple cakes, fried fish and fresh bread. The spires and roofs of London gleamed in the gray light from across the water, and London Bridge lay ahead, with its crowd of houses, its heads of traitors grinning down at the city from the pikes high overhead. London was both great and terrible, and she wondered when she would see it all again.

Anthony tossed a coin to one of the merchants, an old woman with a cart selling warm gingerbread, and he handed the treat to Kate. She nibbled at it, the warm spices and sugars familiar and reassuring, and she wondered if she should tell the queen she could not help her in France. Almost everything she knew was here. Yet France . . . it beckoned to her, with its unknown people and places, its promise of rare adventure.

“Kate,” Anthony said intently, “I know you have been at the queen's court for many months now, and that you are a very clever lady. You know how to watch out for yourself. . . .”

She tried to give him a teasing smile. “Why, thank you, Anthony. I do try.”

He gave her a stern look, as if he faced her in a law court, but she could see his lips twitch with a smile. “But you are also kindhearted. The French court will be very different from anything you know.”

“Aye, I do see that. I have read much about it and heard tales from courtiers who have been there. Queen Mary is of constant interest to the court. But I must go where I am asked, where I can be of use.”

He reached out and took her hand. Even through their gloves his touch was warm, grounding her to that moment, that place. Warm—and safe. “You can be of much use here. To me.”

Surprised, Kate took a step back. “Anthony . . .”

“Please, Kate, hear me. We have been friends a long time now.”

She nodded. “So we have, and I am glad of it.”

“Then surely you must know my feelings for you are more than friendship. I am just starting my own law practice now, but I have many contacts. In a year or so, I know I could provide a fine home for a wife and family. You would be comfortable and protected always.”

Kate swallowed hard, trying to make sense of the feelings that were tumbling through her. She was tempted, very much so. Anthony was so kind, steady, and handsome. But there was the queen and her work at court. She owed Elizabeth so very much, and she wanted to think that what she did was important. That in some small way, she could use her skills to help keep England a bit safer in a rocky world. “Anthony, I do not know what to say now . . .”

He gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand before placing it on his arm again. “You needn't say anything now. I know you feel you must go to France for the queen. Just think about what I have said while you are there.”

Kate nodded. “I will think about it, aye.”

“And write to me, so I know you are safe.”

“Of course I will write.” She squeezed his arm. Her throat was tight with all the emotions rising in her. All the emotions that usually only found an outlet in music. “I care about you as well, Anthony. Please know that.”

He nodded. “Then I will be content with that—for now. Come. We should take Mistress Hardy her provisions, or supper will never be finished.”

He drew her close to his side again, and they pushed
their way through the crowd back toward the street. He said nothing more of love or marriage or of what might wait for her in France, but they talked of inconsequential things such as the new apprentices in Master Hardy's office and new styles at court.

When they parted at the gates of Whitehall, Anthony took her hand and bowed over it for a long moment. “Don't forget me while you're gone.”

Kate shook her head, her throat thick with tears she knew she could never shed. “I could not do that. I will write to you very soon.”

She spun around and hurried up the steps into the palace. In her quiet chamber, Kate laid aside her cloak and went to peer out the window at the garden below. She would miss Anthony, aye, but surely this time in France would be a good thing. She would have the space to think about her own life and where she wanted it to go now that her father was gone. Did she want to stay at court? Did she want a different home, a place of quiet and respectable comfort? She had never known that. Or would a life of adventure be best, with a man who could understand her love of music and her need of the challenge of courtly life? A man like Rob.

Kate shook her head. If only—if only—she could somehow have both . . .

 • • • 

Anthony sat down at his desk in his small chamber at the top of the Hardys' house. He meant to write to Tom Overbury in France, to ask his friend to help Kate and look after her, as he could not. But he found
himself staring out over the chimneys of Gracechurch Street, unable to forget the way Kate had looked when they parted.

The Hardys had wanted him to marry Mistress Hardy's niece, and it would have been an excellent match. She was a kind girl and a pretty one, who knew how to run a prosperous household and assist with a husband's law career. Yet something—or someone—had held him back, and Anthony knew it was Kate. They had been friends for a long time, and at certain moments he had been sure it was more than that. Yet he knew she had work to do, just as he had, important work for the queen, and she was reluctant to leave it behind.

Just as he was reluctant to ask her. Now she was going to France, beyond where he could persuade her, and all he could do was hope she would come back to England in a different set of mind.

He took out pen and paper and sat down to write to his friend Overbury. If Kate insisted on running away on this errand, he would do all he could to help her—and would pray for her safe return.

K
ate sat on a coil of rope in a quiet corner of the ship's deck, watching as the very last glimpse of England's shores faded from view. In an instant, there was only the gray sky meeting the edge of the gray water to be seen. She felt tossed out into a strange new world, unable to find her bearings, and yet there was excitement in her heart as well. Here, on the endless-seeming sea, real life was postponed for a while. Grief was left behind, and something completely new was ahead.

As the ship lurched farther out to sea, the wind grew sharper and colder. Kate drew the fur-lined hood of her cloak closer and watched the white-foamed waves surge around the prow. The sails whipped over her head, and she could smell the salt spray. She could see why most of their party had retired to their cabins, claiming seasickness. She herself didn't feel queasy yet, but her legs did feel rather unsteady, her head light.

She thought of the ginger tea infusion Brigit Berry had given to the others, and she knew she could go inside to her own berth and sip some of the brew to
warm her bones and steady her stomach, but she didn't want to leave the open view just yet. The sea, the changeable colors of the waves, the wheeling, shrieking birds overhead, were too fascinating.

“Mistress Haywood, are you not too chilled out here?” she heard Toby Ridley say.

She shrugged back her hood and turned to see that Toby had been strolling around the railings of the deck, wrapped in his own fashionable black cloak elaborately embroidered with gold, which made him stand out like a torch in the gray day. With him was a man she recognized as being from a small group that joined the ship when they paused at Dover. He was not quite handsome, but was most striking, with a red-brown beard and lively dark eyes.

“I think I prefer the fresh air for the moment, Master Ridley,” she answered. “Everyone belowdecks is ill, I am afraid.” Except for Brigit Berry, whom she shared a cabin with for the voyage. But Mistress Berry was buried in a book, and seemed not to want to be disturbed.

“Do you not feel the sea yourself?” he said.

“Not yet, thankfully. Nor, would it seem, do you.” Kate thought the voyage seemed to agree with him, for his eyes glowed with new energy, and the pale strain she had seen on his face at Whitehall was gone.

He laughed heartily. “Nay, but I have traveled by ship often before. It usually takes people longer to find their sea legs the first time.”

“This is your first voyage, then, mademoiselle?”
the other man said, his voice touched with the musical lilt of a French accent.

“Forgive me—you have not yet met,” Toby said, his laughter fading. “Mistress Kate Haywood, may I present Monsieur Claude Domville? He has lately been in England on business for his father, the comte Domville, and is returning home.”

So the newcomers to the ship were a group of Frenchmen returning from England. She wondered what the comte's business had been. “I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Domville.”

Monsieur Domville took her hand and bowed over it gallantly. His smile was wide and white, full of delight. “The journey has become much less tedious in this moment, Mademoiselle Haywood! My old friend Toby did not tell me how lovely his travel companion was.”

Kate laughed, wondering if all Frenchmen were tutored in flirtations. They said the queen's mother, Anne Boleyn, had learned much of flattery and disguise in her own time in France, as well as the management of men and their passions. Perhaps it was the same vice versa, men to women. “You knew Master Ridley before, then, monsieur?”

“I did indeed. We met the last time he came to Paris, and he was able to do some small favors for my father. I hope to repay the debt very soon.”

The two men exchanged a strange glance that Kate could not read. She gave him a smile, one she hoped was quite oblivious. “I would so enjoy hearing more
about your country, monsieur. I am told it holds so many rare beauties.”

“And so it does. But I have found England to be just as enticing as my homeland,” Monsieur Domville answered. “Perhaps we could all dine together tonight, those of us who remain in good health? I can tell you of France, and you can tell me more of England—and of your fair self.”

Kate agreed with a laugh, and the two men bowed to her once more. As they walked away, their heads bent close as they talked quietly, Kate made her way back to the railing. She was alone for a moment, the crew on the other side of the ship, the gentlemen vanished. She stared down at the gray waves that broke around the ship far below, their white foam soaring and cresting. The sky was growing darker as night began to close in, and she heard the distant shouts and laughter of the sailors. For a moment, it seemed she stood alone on the very edge of the world.

Suddenly, she heard a running footstep, a boot on the wooden planks of the deck, heavy and quick. Afraid she was in the way, Kate started to turn. Her hood fell forward, obscuring her view so she could see nothing. In the instant it took her to reach up and push it back, she felt a rough hand grab her arm. She was yanked backward, almost off her feet, and cold fear shot through her veins.

It happened almost in dream motion, her shock slowing her thoughts and making it seem as if she were
watching it all happen from above. She remembered what one of Cecil's men had taught her of fighting, to let the opponent's own weight and movements defeat him. There was no time to get her dagger loose from its sheath beneath her sleeve, and her cloak wrapped around her, hindering her movements. She instinctively kicked back and her foot, encased in its sturdy traveling boot, connected with a shin.

Her assailant let out a groan, too low for her to tell if it was male or female, and the iron grip tightened on her arm.

Kate tried to spin around to drive her fist into her attacker's eyes, but he was obviously skilled in stealth fighting. One hand tore the purse from her belt, and the other gave her a hard shove forward. She heard footsteps running away.

In a rush of raw fear, Kate tumbled over the railing. It hit her high on her torso, stealing her breath, and she flipped over, her ankle wrenching painfully beneath her. Her cloak suffocated her as she hung off the side of the boat in midair, the horrible cold waves beneath her.

“Help!” she screamed. She caught the railing with both hands. It was damp and slippery, the splinters of the wood digging painfully into her palms. Still she clung on, screaming as loudly as she could.

Luckily, in an instant there were sailors clustering on the deck above her, shouting and cursing as they pulled her up to safety. She collapsed onto the wooden planks, out of breath and shaking.

“Mademoiselle Haywood! What happened? Are you hurt?” Claude Domville knelt beside her, taking one of her trembling hands.

Kate shook back her hood. She looked up at Monsieur Domville, whose handsome, dark face looked gray and shocked. Toby hovered behind him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Kate couldn't help but glance down at their feet; they were both wearing tall, heavy boots.

“Did you see anyone running away from here?' she demanded. “Anyone nearby?”

Claude shook his head. “We were speaking with the captain on the other side of the deck. There were crewmen around everywhere. Did one of them . . .”

“Nay, I doubt it. I think—” Kate suddenly broke off her words, shivering hard. It felt as if a cold wave crashed down on her all at once as she realized that someone had stolen her purse, had tried to push her overboard. That she was not safe.

She studied the men clustered around her, Claude and Toby confused and concerned, the sailors unsure. She knew she couldn't tell them she had been pushed. They wouldn't believe her, would say she was just a nervous young lady on her first ship voyage. And what if one of them had done it? She did not want them to know she was suspicious of them, of everyone. Perhaps it was better if they all
did
think her a nervous, anxious young woman, prone to swooning. If her assailant thought she wasn't sure what had really happened, he might become careless, give himself away.

She had to be cautious at every moment, suspicious
of everyone around her. It was a lesson she would not forget on this journey.

Kate touched the place at her belt where her purse had once been tied. There would be a fine bruise there in the morning, and her twisted ankle would probably swell as well. She would have to be even more vigilant at every moment. And she was very glad she had hidden Cecil's letters and her own documents away instead of carrying them on her person. Though how could she know if they were after the papers or just a bit of coin?

“Did you slip?” Monsieur Domville asked. “The decks can be most treacherous. We should not have left you. Should we, Toby?”

Kate made herself laugh. “I must have slipped, aye. So careless of me. You and Master Ridley cannot be my nursemaids at every moment, though.”

The ship's captain, a grizzled, weather-beaten old Welshman, nodded sagely. He did not look terribly surprised by what had happened. Perhaps such things occurred on every voyage. He handed her a pewter flask, which she found was filled with strong port wine. She took a long gulp.

“Aye. I saw a man swept overboard just last month by a wave when he tried to use the privy,” the captain said. “Best to have a care, mistress. Most ladies keep to their berths for the voyage. Long skirts and velvet slippers are dangerous aboard ship.”

Kate nodded, thinking it best not to point out that she wore breeches under her plain wool skirts and sturdy boots.

“Shall I escort you to your cabin, Mademoiselle Haywood?” Monsieur Domville asked. Kate nodded and let him help her to her feet. Her legs shook, and she held on to his arm to keep from falling.

She glanced back over her shoulder at the surging gray waves and shivered.

Monsieur Domville fetched her cloak from where she had dropped it to the deck and carefully wrapped it over her shoulders. She noticed he exchanged a long glance with Toby over her head, and the Englishman hurried away. “The journey is not long, mademoiselle, but it can be a miserable one. I promise it will be worth it when you see France.”

“I have certainly heard that your country has many charms,” Kate said. She let him guide her to the narrow wooden stairs that led down to the cabins. It was dark there, the air warm and stuffy, smelling of salt and brandy and people. It was strangely reassuring after the open freedom of the dangerous sea. She could see all around her belowdecks.

“Indeed it does. The forests, the palaces . . .” As he chattered on, leading her along the corridor, Kate was glad of the distraction, the freedom from the need to talk. “The clothes! No one dresses like a Frenchwoman—or Frenchman.”

They found her cabin, a tiny space she shared with Brigit Berry at the end of the corridor. She opened the door to find their trunks and boxes piled up in every available space, half hiding the narrow berths tucked against the damp wood walls.

Mistress Berry was not there as Kate sat down carefully on her berth, and Monsieur Domville poured her some ale from a pitcher left on the small washstand, which was fastened to the floor. But the maid came rushing in only a moment later.

Mistress Berry was usually so tidy, even on their long journey, but now her gray-streaked brown hair was haphazardly tucked beneath a fine white cap with tendrils escaping. Her short cloak wrapped closely around her, concealing her gown. She set down a basin on the washstand and brushed off her gloved hands.

“Mistress Haywood!” she said. “Are you well? We heard you slipped on the deck.”

News did travel fast aboard ship. “Indeed I did. It was most foolish of me, Mistress Berry. I am well enough now, aside from a swollen ankle and a bit of bruising.” Kate surreptitiously glanced at Brigit's feet. She wore stout, worn boots, carefully polished, and the hem of her black wool skirt was damp. “I see there are no secrets on a ship.”

“I was with Mistress Wrightsman next door. She hears all the news immediately, almost as if she was one of Dr. Dee's clairvoyants.” Brigit studied Kate carefully, her eyes narrowed, and gave Monsieur Domville a suspicious glare.

“Let me fetch you a better wine, Mademoiselle Haywood,” he said. “That rough ale will do no one any good. You need a good Alsatian, which restores the spirits remarkably.”

“
Merci
, monsieur. You have been very kind,” Kate said.

He gave her a low bow before he ducked out the narrow doorway. As soon as the creaking door closed behind him, Mistress Berry let out a loud harrumph. “Frenchmen. Such flatterers all.”

Kate bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You do not approve of Frenchmen, Mistress Berry?”

“They are well enough, I suppose, in their place.”

“And what is their place?”

Mistress Berry shrugged. “I met many of them when I was last in Paris with Mistress Wrightsman, and I am told my own mother had some French blood, God rest her soul. The Frenchmen seem to do well enough with dancing and hunting. And their clothes are fine, I will grant you that. They are a grander sight than the men of Queen Elizabeth's court. But if you want them for some serious purpose—pft.”

Kate laughed aloud. “Then an Englishman would serve better in that case?”

“No man would be better for any serious purpose, Mistress Haywood. They just get in the way.”

Kate nodded, wondering about Mistress Berry's past. She knew so little of the woman beyond the fact that she was a kinswoman of sorts to Lady Barnett and served her. If Mistress Berry had some French blood, did Lady Barnett as well? “Have you been in the Barnetts' service for long?”

“Long enough, to be sure.” Mistress Berry opened her trunk and sorted through a variety of small pots and bottles, all stored in specially fitted little slots. “As you know, I am a distant kinswoman to Lady Barnett,
and she needed someone she could trust to wait on Mistress Wrightsman in France. I thought seeing a different country, one that my mother once knew, would be better than slowly moldering in some country cottage.”