Elizabeth I - 05 - The Thorne Maze

by Karen Harper

“Mayhap the end of it was that she decided to eliminate you in some sort of demented jealousy over Lord Hatton’s devotion to you. Or she meant to make you grateful to her by appearing to help you after she’s the one who really hurt you. Once she kills poor Templar, she hopes you’ll keep her at court in gratitude and sympathy for your own salvation, where she can pursue Lord Hatton. But when she tells him or gives him such a note, they argue and he—”

  “Meg, you leap too far afield. If it is Chris Hatton who killed her, it must have been an accident, for I cannot believe it of him. And then there is the problem of Jamie, for he’s ever protective of his friend.”

  “Look, Your Grace, Bettina had this tiny filigreed box of cloves, and it is Lord Hatton who uses those.”

  “With about half of the court,” the queen clipped out and turned back to the coffer. The maze murderer simply could not be Chris, and not only because he seemed so loyal and honest: truth was, he didn’t have the wit to pull it all off—did he?

  Meg’s gasp made Elizabeth look up again. “What now?”

  “Your Grace, there’s gillyflower petals in her pomander. See? Smell it?”

  The moment Meg thrust the netted pomander on its waist ribbon toward the queen, the scent brought so much back, including that day in the haunted gallery at Hampton Court when she fancied Catherine Howard’s ghost passed by.

  “But the Suttons had barely arrived at court that day someone might have eavesdropped at Mary Sidney’s keyhole to hear I was meeting Robin in the maze,” Elizabeth said, reasoning aloud. “Surely, Bettina had not found her way to me through that vast palace so quickly, even before I walked them through the maze. It cannot be. But I am going to face down Chris Hatton first thing in the morning with this note—and without his watchdog Jamie.”

  “Lady Rosie would be devastated if Jamie had aught to do with this,” Meg reminded her. “How can you bring her into the Privy Plot Council if we’ll be discussing whether Jamie or his friend is to blame?”

  “You’re right about that,” Elizabeth said, closing the coffer lid. As she had surmised, neither of Bettina’s two remaining skirts were good enough to bury her in, and neither of them had been black or even dark-hued. So far, though it was the flimsiest piece of evidence, it was Mildred Cecil’s discarded gown that matched the one for which she’d been searching. After seeing Chris Hatton, she was riding to Theobalds without Cecil’s knowledge, to speak with his wife alone.

  Jenks could not believe his continued good fortune, even if he was spending the night in plague London. Hugh Scott had shared some bread and cheese with him, moldy though they were. Hugh loved to talk and had been downing mug after mug of his own store of sack, which only made him talk the more. Jenks was wishing he’d slow his drinking so he could assure Her Grace that his source of information had been sober.

  “So you really liked Jamie better than Chris,” Jenks tried to get him on track again.

  “What the deuce, wouldn’t you?” Hugh challenged, reaching over to slap Jenks’s knee where they sat in the large window bay of the library. “Barstow came from the workaday world like you and me, while most lads here was in on their sire’s pedigree and purses. ‘Sides, it always riled me how Handsome Hatton had to beat the maids off with a stick—e’en though no wenches were ’round here much but the cook, scullery maids, and the lecturer’s wives.”

  “You mean like Mistress Sutton? Chris mentioned her,” he lied.

  “I’ll bet he did,” Hugh said with a snicker. “She was hot for him, and no doubt, other way ‘round too, a pretty pair they’d make, eh?” he added, sitting up straighter with a hiccough. “But if she thought her late-night activities was secret, she was cracked. Students like to compare notes, if you get my drift. Aye,” he went on importantly, “I might have been only a watchman porter, but my eyes and ears took in a lot, I’ll tell you that. Hey, bet Hatton wouldn’t want none of that ’bout him and ’the mistress’ noised ’round the queen’s court, but you can tell him I won’t let on,” he added, guffawing and slapping his own knees this time.

  “So you heard Mistress Sutton bedded with some of the students here?” Jenks asked, then repeated the question more loudly. “What about Jamie Barstow?”

  “Barstow? No—all business, that one, just trying to keep his footing around his betters, like I said. ‘Sides, I swear your friend Hatton kept him too busy—you know, under his thumb or Barstow could have got the heave-ho. But since you asked about others, what the deuce, come on and let me show you something—my little secret,” Hugh said and got unsteadily to his feet. “Bring that lantern, Ned, my man.”

  Jenks had to admit that Hugh Scott, beslubbered or not, knew his way through the tangled halls at Gray’s, probably just as he knew all about the teachers and students here. Now Jenks had a firsthand report to give Her Grace, so she’d have to forgive him for coming into the city. Despite how much she favored Chris Hatton, she’d best consider him hostile to the Suttons. And poor, hardworking, base-born Jamie Barstow sounded like a good man to have in anyone’s corner, because he knew well how to serve another.

  “Over there,” Hugh said, pointing out a casement across a corner of a courtyard at rows of black windows, “Suttons’ chambers. Now, over here, just down the hall a ways …”

  Jenks followed him around two more turns to what appeared to be a dark pigeonhole of a closet until Hugh took and thrust their lantern in. Shelves with ink jars, stacks of parchments—and a long bench with a padded seat.

  “So?” Jenks asked, though he was starting to catch on. For one moment, he even wondered if Hugh was going to brag that he’d bedded Bettina, too.

  “This is where she met or brought them, one and all—one at a time, a course—while the old man did his preparations or turned in early.”

  “You looked in here?”

  “Not ’xactly, but all the queen’s men couldn’t put Mistress Sutton’s reputation together again,” he said and howled at his own humor. “Even her top man …”

  “What top man? Whose?”

  “The queen’s, you pukewit!”

  “What?”

  “Cecil, man! I’m talking ‘bout Lord William Cecil, the queen’s high-and-mighty advisor or whatever he is.”

  “No, you’re sadly mistaken and better keep that flap mouth of yours shut,” Jenks said, getting more vexed by the moment. “Lord Cecil’d never have any truck that way with Mistress Sutton, and he was gone from here before her time.”

  “Cecil—came—back—to—see—Templar—Sutton,” Hugh said, drawing out his words as if he were talking to an idiot. “Not only that, but Cecil’s lady come looking for him and saw him a-kissing Bettina good-bye, like I saw it right here with my own two eyes.”

  “I can’t believe it. And there was a huge row?”

  “Naw. ’Fore the two of them saw her, Cecil’s woman run off real downhearted. I let her out into the street myself, since I’d locked the door where she came in. Guess she was thinking she’d surprise her lord to spend some time with him and the Suttons, but was she surprised. Cecil, he once came often, and maybe not always to see his old mentor, know what I mean?” Hugh said with a roaring laugh.

  Jenks leaned shakily against the door to the small, dark room. He’d found out more than he meant to or wanted to. The queen might not lose that Tudor temper of hers for his disobeying orders, but she just might kill the messenger of such news.

  From a distance, Elizabeth stared silently at the piece of parchment nailed to her “accession oak,” as folks had begun to call it, on the grounds of Hatfield House. The stiff paper shifted and rattled in the early morning breeze. She had just summoned Chris Hatton to her chambers when Ned had run in breathless to tell her about this—and that the handwriting looked the same to him as the note they had saved as earlier evidence, the one telling Stackpole to leave off guarding the queen in Mary Sidney’s room.

  “I didn’t want to remove it,” Ned Topside explained as Elizabeth strode closer, “that is, before you saw it just the way i
t was posted, Your Grace.”

  “Has anyone else read it, besides the blackguard who put it here, I mean?”

  “Not that I know of, or I think it would have been fetched to you.”

  “Draw your sword,” she ordered. “The trees get thicker here and someone may be lurking, hoping I would come.”

  The scraping of sword on scabbard made her shiver. She stepped close to the parchment and read:

  “Therefore, behold, I will hedge up your way with thorns,

  And wall her in, so that she cannot find ber paths.”

  “What does it mean?” Ned asked, so close behind she jumped.

  “It is from the Bible, but I cannot offhand recall what book. It may refer to Bettina’s body being left in the knot garden, but more likely it is a challenge and threat to me. Pull this nail out so I don’t tear the note, and bring it along.”

  Elizabeth strode toward the house with Ned soon hard on her heels. “Should I go fetch Cecil?” he asked.

  “He’ll know soon enough.” She spun back to take the note and the nail from him before they re-entered the building. “Tell no one of this. I must speak with Chris Hatton, and then I’m riding to Theobalds. I’ll take you and Robert Dudley with me, since Jenks is not here—and Clifford, all of you armed, so go fetch him out of the north hall. And Cecil is to be told I’m merely venturing out for a ride.”

  “I hear Sir Christopher has the gripes this morning, so he won’t be available,” Ned called after her.

  “The gripes, is it?” she threw back over her shoulder, wondering how he managed to get a bowel complaint when no one else at court was sick. “I don’t care if he has the plague or even the pox,” she added, leaning over the banister to Ned, “he will see me and now.”

  Chapter the Fourteenth

  NED WAS RIGHT, THE QUEEN THOUGHT. CHRIS HATTON looked sick.

  “I regret to hear you are somewhat indisposed, and I will ask you to stand back a bit,” she greeted him in the room she was using as her presence chamber at Hatfield. Elizabeth had sent everyone out, because she needed to proceed with care. She didn’t even want Cecil in on this, since she was beginning to believe his wife could have something to do with Bettina’s—and perhaps Templar’s—demise.

  Chris grimaced in pain, even as he rose from his bow. Amazingly, he looked as handsome as ever. Even his mussed hair and pale face did not detract from his allure. Rather, it made her want to comfort and protect him. Had Bettina felt that way?

  “Jamie and I are a bit the worse for wear, Your Grace.”

  “He still has his disorder?” They spoke louder than usual since they did not stand dose.

  “Your herb woman’s been dosing him. When he heard Mistress Milligrew was providing tonic for both Lady Ashley and Lord Cecil’s wife, he asked for something from her. I daresay he’s a bit better, and I shall try to follow his lead.”

  “Then this will be quick. Did Mistress Sutton come looking for you or vice versa the night she died?”

  He looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Absolutely not, Your Grace. I went to bed early as I was starting to feel the effects of this malady.”

  “I saw you poke your head out into the hall when she and Kat Ashley had their row.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it seemed one-sided. That is, Bettina was beside herself, but Lady Ashley was cutting into her with a vengeance.”

  Elizabeth sat up even stiffer. Perhaps Chris was not as wanting in wit as he pretended. How adroitly he had deflected her attention from himself, and how, though knowing such, she went for his bait. “Tell me then,” she said, leaning forward, “do the others think badly of Kat, too?”

  “The word’s out that she’s become a bit—ah, deranged,” he admitted, evidently choosing his words carefully. “But yes, some say she could have been jealous of your kindness to Bettina, and to Master Sutton, too. Some say Lady Ashley could have tried to harm them since she’s in such a lunatic state at times.”

  “Tried to harm them?” Elizabeth repeated, rising. “Kat Ashley is merely senile and would never hurt another person. What else are they saying?”

  “My repeating such does not mean I agree with it, Your Gr—”

  “What are they saying?”

  “That Lady Ashley should be at least—well, detained and examined somehow by the local bailiff or some such.”

  Elizabeth fought to keep control. Never would she let that happen. “Let’s get back to you, Chris. Although you were in your chamber when Kat and I were in the corridor last night, and though you are ailing, did you see or meet clandestinely with Bettina at any time after that—between then and when her body was found, let us say?”

  “I did not, Your Grace. I swear it. Though I should not speak ill of the dead, I tell you Mistress Sutton used to favor and fancy me much more than I did her, as I did not care for her that way. And now since I know you, Your Majesty, and am blessed to live in your court, I admire and adore only you.”

  He went down on one knee, but she noted he kept an arm wrapped around his belly. That’s the way she felt, too—sick to her stomach. She still could not fathom that Chris was guilty of anything, and she could not bear to think ill of Kat. Though she fully intended to question Jamie Barstow and to rake Henry, Lord Darnley over the coals of her questions, she must question Mildred Cecil next.

  Jenks was deeply shaken when he heard Hugh’s testimony that could implicate Cecil in adultery and Lady Cecil in Bettina’s murder. He started drinking Hugh’s sack with him, and their conversations slowly collapsed into sodden sleep on pews in the back of the chapel.

  Just after dawn, sounds—voices—from the library nearby roused them. Hugh whispered that he thought some student had wandered back in, but Jenks was certain it must be Bettina, maybe come with friends to take not only her husband’s books but all those others, too. They got up and stumbled down the hall.

  Several men were ransacking the dim room. Too late, Jenks realized he’d left his sword behind.

  “What, ho!” Hugh cried. “Halt and give your names!”

  “Not likely,” someone shouted with a sharp laugh.

  “Thieves!” the still besotted Hugh cried. And then all hell broke loose.

  Jenks cursed himself for not being sober and alert. As if caught in a nightmare, he felt leaden-footed and heavy-handed. The onslaught of blows had already sent Hugh to the floor. Jenks cuffed and kicked his first assailant, but another of the blackguards jumped him. Still, he swung hard, giving nearly as good as he got until a third man leaped on his back.

  Someone, something hit him over the head and the whole world went black.

  At mid-morning, Elizabeth spurred her horse away from Hatfield with Ned, Robin, and four armed guards in her wake. She was riding east on the road that would take her the nine miles to Cheshunt, a former nunnery where she’d also once been imprisoned. Theobalds was only two miles south of that, so she’d question Mildred Cecil, then be back by nightfall with hard riding. It was the speed at which Robin had wanted her to come to Hatfield, so at least he was keeping up. Ned and the guards hung back a bit, and she felt a flicker of annoyance that Jenks had not returned.

  But where the road crossed the first small brook, she reined in.

  “What is it, Your Grace?” Robin cried, halting his horse so hard the big beast reared. “Did your mount balk?”

  “No, I did,” she said, and amazed her entourage by spurring her horse back toward Hatfield.

  She had almost made a dreadful decision. William Cecil had been with her since before the days she was confined at Cheshunt, Hatfield, and in the Tower of London. At age fourteen, she had written Cecil a letter of thanks for his aid and signed it, “Your friend, Elizabeth.” He had given her advice, and more than once stuck by her when he need not. All he had and would ever be hung on serving his queen, and Elizabeth knew that well. It would be traitorous of her to question Mildred without him.

  “Besides,” she whispered aloud, “if I first saw his precious Theobalds withou
t him, he’d never get over it.”

  “Your Grace,” Robin shouted, riding abreast of her again, “what did you say? Did you forget something?”

  “Indeed I did!”

  She was going to level with her Secretary of State, her chief minister, she vowed. Though she didn’t trust many—actually any—men, Cecil came as close to perfect as the so-called stronger sex would ever be.

  Jenks heard voices but he couldn’t place them or unscramble their words.

  “They both look dead.”

  “This one who challenged us is, I think.”

  “The Black Death could have killed them anyway. Can’t see worrying ‘bout two more corpses ’midst the hundreds. Lem, you load up the books and whatever decent plate or other goods you see. In case there’s more guards than these two, we’ll toss their bodies somewhere.”

  “Wait ’til after dark, you mean?”

  “Holy hell, we’re not waiting ’round here all day, you numbskull. Maybe we can find a handcart to put them in, then plant them in one of the gardens.”

  Jenks’s head hurt horribly, but he smiled inside his mind as dreams drifted by. Meg had looked so fetching going from garden to garden with her handcart of plants and herbs, stooping over to plant them, busy, intent, happy. When he could, he watched over her, though she didn’t know it. He’d almost died when he’d learned she was married—with her memory loss and all, she’d been shocked, too. Now Meg was patting him all over, her hands ungentle in her desire for him.

  “This brawny one’s got a full purse,” a sharp voice said.

  Jenks heard coins jingling like bells, bells like Meg wore that time a lot of the queen’s servants were playing hide-and-seek and he caught and kissed her. He had hoped that she had wanted to be caught, but he’d never had the nerve to ask.

  Someone prodded Jenks with a boot toe. Pain shot through his ribs, so they must be broken. But he felt so exhausted, so—floating—he didn’t or couldn’t move.