Murder at Whitehall (12 page)

Pinned to the bodice was a piece of parchment, written in stark black letters, the same as on the drawing that was found in the queen's chamber—
The Lady Beth.

Dudley rose up in his stirrups, slashing out with his dagger to cut the horrible thing down. It tumbled to the frosty ground, landing in a red-and-white jumble. The hounds crept closer to it, baying and snuffling, but even they wouldn't touch it. Surely it reeked of evil, of some traitorous intent.

More guards in the queen's livery came galloping over the crest of the hill from Greenwich. As they surrounded Elizabeth in an impenetrable wall, she rode away, leaving one of the men to scoop up the poppet and wrap it in a rag.

Kate glimpsed Senor Vasquez at the edge of the crowd, his face ashen beneath his beard. To her surprise, Lord Macintosh of the Scots delegation was beside him, and leaned toward him to say something. Senor Vasquez scowled.

Catherine Grey edged her horse close to Kate's. “Kate, are you ill?” she cried. “Your cheeks are so pale.”

And Lady Catherine's were too pink. Because of Lord Hertford? Or something worse?

Kate shook her head. “I just fell behind in the hunt, and then caught up to find—this.” She gestured to the ground where the crumpled doll had fallen.

Lady Catherine shuddered. “My cousin does have many enemies indeed. It's easy to forget how many still hate the Tudors on a fine day like this. One sees a tiny glimpse of freedom, and then . . .”

Lady Catherine bit her lip, and Kate wondered what freedom she sought. She shivered, and realized the wind had turned even colder. She had forgotten what
dangers were out there for a moment, and she should not have.

Rob seemed to see her shiver, and he reached out to cover her gloved hand with his for a moment.

Lord Hertford drew near to them, his gaze never leaving Lady Catherine's face. “Come, ladies, let me see you to Greenwich Palace,” he said. “The queen has been taken to her privy chamber, and the steward is preparing a fire in one of the rooms for her ladies until you can be taken back to Whitehall.”

“You do seem rather knowledgeable about our change in arrangements,” Lady Catherine said tartly, not looking at him. Had they had some quarrel? But she followed him toward the waiting palace, the other ladies hurrying after them. Kate glanced back to see Rob riding off with the guards, and she followed the ladies into the palace.

*   *   *

“I am no shivering coward!” Queen Elizabeth shouted. “I will not let some ridiculous mischief ruin my Christmas.”

As her ladies looked on, Elizabeth slammed her fist down on the table that had been hastily prepared for her in the Greenwich sitting room. A pitcher of wine crashed over, spilling a horrible, bloodlike splash of dark red onto the bare floorboards. The ladies cried out, and a maidservant scrambled to mop it up.

Cecil leaned on his walking stick, a look of long-suffering patience on his prematurely lined face. He knew to let Elizabeth burn out her temper.

Kate hoped she could be as patient as he was. He would surely prevail upon the queen to have more care now, even if he couldn't persuade her to his argument of curtailing the elaborate Christmas festivities to see to her safety. At least until the threatening villain, who seemed capable of creeping into the queen's own palaces—even into her chambers—was caught.

Which Elizabeth had said would surely not be long, since Robert Dudley and his men were tearing the Greenwich fields up even at that very moment. Dudley had organized the hunt himself; he would let no one ruin it.

“Your Grace,” Cecil said softly, “none could ever accuse you of being a shivering coward. But it is not wise to go among crowds when there is some plot at work so close to you.”

“Plot!” Elizabeth scoffed. “It was hardly a plot, I am sure. Just a bit of holiday mischief, perhaps directed at Robin and his carefully planned hunt. He could certainly stand to be taken down a peg or two.”

“I cannot disagree with Your Grace about that,” Cecil said wryly. His antipathy toward the flamboyant and obviously ambitious Dudley had long been well known, and anything that removed him from the queen's close favor for even a short time would be welcome to Cecil. “Yet we cannot be sure this was merely a prank. The fact that they have managed to infiltrate the gates of one of the royal palaces is most alarming. With the Spanish, and the French with the Queen of Scots all so close . . .”

“Do not speak to me yet again of the Queen of Scots!
I am sick of her name. She is all anyone thinks of. Can I not enjoy my Christmas at least without her interfering?”

“I fear we cannot stop her
interfering
,” Cecil said. “She is a constant threat. And surely she knows you have received the Scots rebels by now.”

Elizabeth shot a glance toward her ladies, who were listening most avidly. “We will speak of this later, Cecil. In the meantime, we must bide our time until Robin tells us it is safe to ride back to Whitehall. Ladies, shall we play a hand of primero? And Kate, mayhap you will fetch more wine?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Kate said quickly. As she hurried out the door, she saw Lady Catherine sit down with the queen, shuffling the cards between her pale hands.

She didn't know Greenwich very well, though its halls and chambers were not as labyrinthine as those of Whitehall, and most of the rooms were empty of furniture until the queen's next official visit. It took her a while to find the kitchens and send a servant with more wine and refreshments to the queen. On her own way back to the sitting room, she found a small table by one of the doors to the garden, its cloth blown about by a breeze from the half-open portal.

She rushed to close and lock it, remembering Cecil's concern that whoever the note-leaving culprit was, he had found a way to creep into the queen's own palaces and chambers. Before she swung the window shut, she glimpsed Sir Robert Dudley and a few of his men on horseback, outlined at the crest of a hill against the gray
sky. Sir Robert gestured angrily, his men nodding, before he spurred his horse forward. It seemed they had not yet found whoever left the note.

As she turned away, she saw there was a small basket on the table, halfway covered by the cloth. Inside, she caught a glimpse of a silvery shimmer, a flash of red, and she shivered when she realized it was the poppet that had been hanging from the tree. It seemed someone had left it there, half-forgotten, as if no one wanted to be near it for very long.

She didn't quite want to look, but she knew she should study it, to see if there were any clues left there as to its maker. She tiptoed closer and edged the cloth away. It was not quite as hideous as she remembered, rendered more harmless left there in a jumble than it was hanging from a tree. It was small, the face carved crudely of wood and painted with features, but the little silk gown with its lace trim was quite fine. The wig, almost the exact shade of Elizabeth's red-gold, seemed to be of real hair. But it was the small crown that was most interesting.

It was made of silver wire wrapped in cloth-of-silver ribbon, as so many of the headdresses were for the queen's masques and plays. The design was intricate, of Tudor roses and various fruits and nuts, trimmed with red ribbon and glass beads, with a band of lustrous sable fur at its base. The silver seemed slightly tarnished, but it was obviously an expensive piece.

Who could have found such a thing?

Kate reached out and lightly touched it. It wobbled and toppled from the doll's head, making her jump
back a bit. Perhaps the thing was just as sinister in the deceptive safety of the palace as it was in the tree.

She turned and rushed away toward the queen's sitting room, feeling colder than she ever had before.

St. John the Evangelist Day, December 27

K
ate drew the heavy folds of her fur-trimmed wool cloak closer around her as she hurried through the Whitehall gardens toward the building where the Office of the Revels had stored their costumes for the masque. The wind that swirled in off the river was biting, and she was glad she had the excuse of an errand to keep her from going ice-skating with Lady Catherine and her friends again.

But the errand wasn't a pleasant one. Tucked in the purse tied to her sash was the tiny crown from the horrid hanging effigy. It was a fine piece, much like a headdress the queen actually owned. It couldn't have been made at just any goldsmith's; it had to come from someone who specialized in making such headpieces, a tiring-maker who catered to the court and the theatrical troupes.

Surely someone who worked for the Master of the Revels would know which jeweler in the city worked in such a style, and they in turn might remember who had ordered such a thing. It was a small matter, but the only clue Kate could yet think of that might tell them
who had had the doll made. The queen had so many enemies—the Spanish, the French, who wanted to see their Queen Mary on the English throne, disappointed suitors, jealous rivals. But this one was getting much too frighteningly close.

The Office of the Revels was very busy organizing all the queen's Yule events, with pages and servants rushing back and forth carrying gilded props and bolts of glimmering silks. Someone was decorating a large backdrop with a snow scene and a clear blue sky, and the smell of the paint was heavy in the chilly air.

Kate managed to catch a harried-looking man in a rumpled brown wool doublet as he ran past. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said quickly, for she knew very well how annoying it was to be interrupted in the midst of a creative flurry. “But I have come on an errand for the queen. Where might I find Sir Thomas Benger?”

The page became a little more helpful at the mention of the queen, and led her to a small chamber at the back of the office where Sir Thomas was inspecting some of the props for an upcoming masque.

Kate had known him at Hatfield, where he helped Princess Elizabeth keep up a semblance of a royal court in her small household, and he had just become her Master of the Revels, an expensive honor to his purse it was rumored he was halfhearted about at best. But his eye was sharp as he studied the array of helmets and false swords before him.

“Ah, Mistress Haywood! A most welcome distraction,” he declared. “Come in, come in. Does the queen require us to examine another new play?”

“Not at all, Sir Thomas. I hope I bring you very little extra work, for I know well how busy this time of year can be,” Kate answered. “I have a question of my own for you.”

“I will be happy to help if I can.”

Kate unwrapped the little crown and held it out to him. “Would you happen to have an idea of who made this? I know you use many different seamstresses and artisans, but it seems rather distinctive.”

“Indeed. A very pretty piece, though quite miniature. It must be a prop for a play, though such a shame no one could see the intricate work close up from a stage.” He balanced the crown on his palm to study it closely. If he had heard of what happened on the queen's hunt, the poppet with its tiny crown, he gave no sign. “I do think the threadwork on the wires is rather distinctive. Master Orrens, perhaps.”

“Master Orrens?”

“He works on Monkwell Street, came from France many years ago, I think. He sometimes makes headdresses for courtly masquerades, though I seem to remember he worked more for King Henry's court. Do you have a new commission for him?”

“Mayhap, if he is really who I seek,” Kate said. “His work is quite lovely.”

Sir Thomas reached for a scrap of paper and his quill. “I will give you his direction. Tell him if he is still working, we would like to have him make some new costumes for the court. Mayhap for the summer progresses.”

“I will tell him. Thank you.” She just hoped he truly
was the man she sought, the one who could tell her more about the crown and where it came from.

Kate made her way back to the waterside gallery. She didn't see Lady Catherine and her friends there, so they were probably still on the river—or in secret romantic meetings. Robert Dudley and his followers were also absent, which meant the queen was still playing primero with him in her privy chamber, as she was when Kate had left. Kate paused to glance out the window at the garden below, and she glimpsed her father walking there with his stick, leaning on Hester Park's arm as Master Park pointed out a sight in the distance, and they all laughed. Kate smiled to see her father enjoying himself again.

She caught a glimpse of a silver flash against the dark brown of the winter hedges, and turned to see Rob Cartman walking with a lady on each of his arms. One of the ladies was giggling as Rob smiled down at her, and he suddenly twirled them both in a wide circle as if they were dancing in the winter wind.

Kate jerked her head around to turn her attention to the gallery again. Surely what Rob Cartman chose to do with his time was not her concern! She had better business to attend to.

But as she turned away, she saw something at the edge of the walled garden that made her pause. Lord Macintosh, of the Scots Protestant lords, and Senor Vasquez were standing by the stone wall, talking together closely. Their faces were dark, intent, and Senor Vasquez was scowling.

They seemed most unlikely friends. Curious, Kate
made her way to the staircase at the end of the gallery that led down into the gardens. It was crowded with courtiers passing the long hours whispering, laughing, and playing cards, and no one paid her any attention. She drew up the hood of her cloak and stayed behind the tall hedge so they wouldn't see her.

“. . . only a ruddy Spaniard would trust someone like that,” Lord Macintosh was saying. He tried to laugh derisively, but Kate could hear the barely leashed anger underneath. “Smugglers will only see to their own ends. If one thing goes wrong . . .”

“So pay them enough and they will do your bidding,
sí
?” Senor Vasquez said with a snort.

Kate remembered his glowers at the banquet, his dour attitude in such contrast to that of his friend Senor Gomez. She peeked carefully around the edge of the hedge, but she could see little other than the two men standing close together, watching to make sure they were not overheard. What were a Scotsman and a Spaniard doing together worrying about smugglers, of all things? Making some coin on the side while they were in England?

“There is no one else?” Lord Macintosh said.

Senor Vasquez laughed, a bitter sound. “Do you think one of the queen's captains would do it, and not go scurrying off to milord Cecil with word of it? We may be on an island, but even you must know it is no simple matter to find the right kind of ship for our purpose. These arrangements were made long ago, and
must be carried out at exactly the right moment. Why else would I come now to this barbaric land?”

Lord Macintosh was silent for a long moment, and Kate carefully edged forward again to study their faces. Macintosh was much larger than Vasquez, and the Spaniard huddled against the cold, but it seemed he was the leader in whatever scheme the two of them were arranging. She hardly dared breathe as she watched them. Even in a court full of whispered secrets, she was astonished at them.

Finally, after a long, tense moment, Lord Macintosh nodded. “I am new to Whitehall, and have only just received word of what must be done. I shall think carefully of what you have said.”

“Do not take too long about it. Time grows short.”

Macintosh scowled. “The lady does not seem enthusiastic. In fact, she has said nothing at all to me.”

Senor Vasquez shrugged. “How can she? She is carefully watched. But she, too, will follow the arrangements. The good of three nations depends on it now. . . .”

“Speaking of being watched . . .” Lord Macintosh glanced over his shoulder, and Kate ducked back around her corner. “I must go now. I will speak to you again soon, senor, but not here.”

“And what I was promised?”

“You shall have it,” Macintosh said, a sneer in his voice.

When Kate peeked out again, the two men were gone. She almost wondered if she had imagined the
whole thing—it seemed so very ludicrous. What were a Spaniard and a Scotsman, a
Protestant
Scotsman, doing conspiring together? She couldn't fathom how their interests could possibly align.

Of course, she thought, it could have something to do with King Philip of Spain wanting to keep Mary, Queen of Scots, off the English throne. He had no love of the Valois family, despite his new wife, or for France to take over England—it was said he even preferred a heretic queen to that prospect. Yet would he go so far as to enlist the Scottish Congregation lords to his aid?

And who was
she
, whose consent involved boats and smugglers? Kate's head whirled with wild thoughts, with fears for Elizabeth's safety. The threatening notes, the hanged effigy, the strange music, all the new foreign lords crowding the palace corridors—how could they be connected?

Kate shook her head as she suddenly remembered what her errand in the gallery was in the first place, to fetch her lute and some of the music from the chamber where they had worked on the masque. She hurried down the corridor, intent on retrieving them and then finding Cecil to tell him what she had heard.

Her thoughts were spinning as she climbed the stairs back into the warmth of the palace and turned down the corridor. She felt the need to write down all she knew thus far, which was precious little indeed. She needed to see the connections, like the bars of a song.

She turned into the chamber, and saw that it was not quite empty. A tall, lean man in a
black-and-dark-tawny-velvet doublet was bent over the table of music. For an instant, she was afraid that it was Senor Gomez, and that he had some part in whatever scheme his friend was concocting.

But then he straightened, and she saw it was not Senor Gomez at all. It was her father's friend Master Finsley, and in a beam of light from the narrow windows she didn't know how she could have mistaken him for the younger Spaniard. She had a sudden memory of him from when she was a child, his hair dark, his smile wide as he talked to his sister. He had been a handsome man then, and was still. She wondered why he had never married, what he had been doing since his days at Queen Catherine's court.

“Mistress Haywood—Kate,” he said with a little bow and a smile. “I was sent to fetch something for Mistress Park, and couldn't help but look at these. Are they all your own work?”

“Aye, most of it,” Kate answered. She went to his side to glance over the pages scattered over the table, all the odds and ends she had drawn together to help make the new masque. “This song was my father's, but we haven't yet used it this Yule season.”

Master Finsley studied the music carefully. “Matthew and I have played many of his old pieces together over the last few weeks, but I cannot remember this one.”

“It is not so very old. He wrote it when we lived at Hatfield. The queen's Christmases then, when she was a princess, were much quieter, and we didn't have a chance to play this one. It could be used for dancing.”
She remembered the secret manuscript her father had shown her, the one Queen Catherine Parr gave him.

She studied Master Finsley carefully, but she could see only kindness in his smile. He, too, had served Queen Catherine and her Protestant court. He must have seen a great deal in those days.

“You have much of your father's talent,” he said. “And your mother's, too. I hope Queen Elizabeth treasures that talent. It is a rare thing.”

“Her Grace has been very kind to me, and to my father,” Kate answered. “I am glad you came to visit him. I know he thinks much about the past lately.”

“We had some fine times together, your father and the Parks and I, to be sure,” Master Finsley said with a laugh. “And I fear we had some dark ones, as well. I am glad to see that promise you showed as a child has come to fruition.”

“I remember your sister from when I was a child, Master Finsley. She was very kind to me. Any seam I can sew now, which I fear is not so great, is thanks to her. She was most patient with my fumbling about with needle and thread.”

He smiled sadly. “Allison was a kindhearted woman indeed. It's been lonely without her.”

“You never married, Master Finsley?”

“I never met a lady as lovely as your mother,” he said with a smile. “Allison kept house for me, and I had my work for Queen Catherine. It was a most satisfactory life. But I am surprised
you
have not married yet, my dear.”

Kate laughed. “I, too, have satisfactory work, Master Finsley. It would be difficult to give it up.”

“Very true. I am sure the queen has much use for your talent.” He studied the pages of music again. “Do you perchance have any more of your father's work? I would love to look at it.”

“I have some,” Kate said carefully, thinking of the hidden pages. “Perhaps we could all meet after the queen's feast and play some music in my father's room? I would so enjoy hearing more about your time together in Queen Catherine's day.”

“I would enjoy that as well.”

Kate gathered up her music and made her way up the stairs toward the quiet corridor where her chamber waited. There was much to be finished before the evening's revels, and she had to send her message to Cecil. But there was a most unexpected sight waiting for her outside her door. Lady Catherine Grey sat on the floor in a puddle of black satin skirts and the black fur tippet she had worn for skating, sobbing into her hands.

At the sight of Kate, she scrambled to her feet.

“Lady Catherine, are you ill?” Kate cried as she ran to the sobbing girl's side. Kate glanced quickly around to see if anyone else was there, if anyone had seen the queen's cousin in such an unhappy state. But it seemed Lady Catherine was alone, and few people ventured very often to such a quiet part of the palace.