The Fyre Mirror: An Elizabeth I Mystery: 1 (Elizabeth I Mysteries)

by Karen Harper

  “Mistress Dee was walking near the hunt park or the tents?”

  “Heading out of the palace, at least. Of course, Floris thought naught of it then. She also said that Mistress Dee asked Kat about me when she saw the two of them, and Kat told her that Elizabeth Tudor was not queen, but she hoped I would live long enough to rule someday.”

  Her voice broke. She crossed her arms over her breasts as if to hug herself.

  “I know Lady Ashley’s condition is a great burden to you.”

  “Much better now with Floris, at least. But I meant not to digress, because, my lord,” she said, turning away from the window to face him, “our focus must more than ever be on our handsome, smooth-tongued itinerant actor—and on someone else, I regret to say.”

  “You think Mistress Dee could be in collusion with Giles Chatam about the missing mirror—and more? Despite her husband’s skill with mirrors, you’re thinking John Dee is clear of suspicion now? Might not the Dees be working together and Giles Chatam be a wild card?”

  “I know only that John Dee seemed honestly shocked that his mirror was missing. Besides, Bathsheba did not resist King David’s charms for long, did she? As for motives, Dr. Dee may want to be more trusted by his queen, and his wife may be desirous of making that happen. Perhaps one or both of them realized a strange murder would make me summon him. But she also craves attention for herself.”

  “From Giles Chatam?”

  “From her husband, at least, she admitted that to me. And with that missing mirror, who knows what sort of plan she might haphazardly have concocted without her head-in-the-clouds husband’s knowledge? She’s very volatile, and as mentally dim as her husband is bright, I think.”

  “But, Your Grace, she was not at Nonsuch when Lavina’s portrait caught fire.”

  “Or was she? It’s only six miles, and John Dee gets so busy with his work he may not know where she is. And her maid, Sarah, told Jenks that Mistress Dee goes out and about a great deal.”

  “Then too,” Cecil said, scratching his chin so hard his beard bounced, “if she’s in league with Chatam, where was he then, eh? I can have Ned try to ask his uncle. Hell’s gates, this is rather like picking at a loose thread on one’s doublet, which then unravels in places you had not seen as damaged.”

  Elizabeth walked to another window. “Amazing, isn’t it, my lord, that we are not even up to the top of Dr. Dee’s pole, though I can see how he’s rigged that big mirror from here.”

  Cecil shifted to her window, and they stared at the ingenious contraption Dee had fashioned to both keep the mirror attached to the top of the pole and maneuver it with a rope from below.

  “If John Dee,” Cecil said, “for some reason, had wanted to burn a tent with a mirror—and not so much as leave the ground, or perhaps even be too near the site—he could have.”

  “Granted. And when Kendale’s tent burned, there was Dr. Dee, fortuitously just arrived at Nonsuch, available to be summoned and trusted by his queen. But if he was behind the fires, would he have helped us so much? I know only that we must consider as possible fire demons the Dees, Giles, and all three of my artists.”

  “You are resistant about Gil, of course. I know the boy has been a cause of yours, Your Grace.”

  She nodded, wishing that she didn’t think of her own brother every time she beheld Gil. The facial resemblance wasn’t extremely strong, and yet there was something that brought back Edward to her in the most disturbing way. Was it the fact that, however talented and glib Gil was, he lately seemed afraid of something or someone? Her brother, though beloved by their father, had feared him, and then, when Great Henry was dead, Edward had both adored and feared the powerful Seymour uncles who advised him. Was that the link between Gil and Edward in her mind? But who or what so frightened Gil?

  “Is there anyone else you suspect in the slightest, Your Grace?” Cecil’s voice broke into her agonizing.

  “Only someone,” she said, her tone sarcastic now, “who is powerful and hates me and who has been flaunting that hatred publicly in mirrors.”

  “That’s no riddle. Your Catholic cousin, Queen Mary.”

  “I fear so,” she said with a shudder. “She is like—like a ghost ever in the back of my mind, lurking there, wanting me dead and my throne for herself.”

  “But you don’t think she could have sent someone to set the fires?”

  “Sometimes, Cecil, I think so much that I don’t know what I think. Let’s go out to greet my people,” she said and started toward the stairs. “Though this holiday has long had a reputation for being wild and free, I only pray the fire demon does not strike again.”

  Despite her anxiety, Elizabeth enjoyed the day. She always adored being among her people, and their love for her warmed her more than did the sun. Chatting with many, patting children on their heads, she strolled the impromptu fair with her ladies, examining fancies and fripperies at various booths, even buying a few things from awed vendors.

  Traveling hawkers sang out the delights of feathered caps, scarves, and handkerchiefs on rickety tables or lying on bright baize cloths upon the grass. A fortune-teller’s booth had appeared next to one selling succulent sausage pies. Ale and beer flowed freely from the inn. Piled ribbons and woolen thread made a pyramid of color near the players’ stage, where the two lads who did the ladies’ parts were giving a crude puppet show, crowded with children. And in the center of it all, the beribboned Maypole stood ready for the dancing and light show come eventide.

  Elizabeth left her company behind, but for Clifford and Rosie, and walked around the makeshift stage while the crowd was entranced with the puppetry. As she had hoped, Giles Chatam was behind the scenes, sitting on a humpbacked trunk, reading what appeared to be lines for a play. He was mouthing his words, and occasionally gave a hint of a broader gesture.

  When he did not look up, Clifford cleared his throat.

  “Your Majesty, may I not fetch you a seat forthwith?” Giles asked, exploding to his feet to bow grandly and gracefully in that actors’ style which could outdo her courtiers’ any day.

  “I am fine, Master Chatam.”

  “The real drama is later, of course,” he explained, dazzling her with a broad smile that did not quite reach his startling blue eyes. “A Surrey Spring Frolic we’ve renamed it from an older piece set in France.”

  “I shall look forward to it. I regret my large entourage forced you and the players from your lofty chambers at the inn.”

  “We are glad to sleep elsewhere this night, Your Majesty. A haymow will do for the likes of us, of course, as, I must admit, I’ve slept far worse places than that. And far better, too, when fortune’s star was in the ascendant for the Queen’s Country Players.”

  “Isn’t Ned with you? He said that for old time’s sake, he’d like to spend some time with his uncle and you, of course.”

  “He was here but a moment ago. I can send him to you straightaway when he returns.”

  “That won’t be necessary. So, how did you find the accommodations of the old Riverside Inn when you stayed there? I suppose the view is lovely from the top floor.”

  “Oh, it is—of the river,” he said, smoothly masking what she read as surprise that she knew exactly where they’d stayed.

  Other than asking him if he knew the Dees, she wasn’t certain how to proceed. No good to tip off someone that she was watching him, especially an itinerant actor who no doubt had a hundred haunts to hide in.

  “I’ll be looking forward to the play,” she said again, and went back to her circuit of the town green.

  Floris emerged from the crowd with Kat, all smiles, trailing behind her. Her dear old friend had a tawdry red scarf tied on her sleeve, but Elizabeth could tell it pleased her mightily.

  “Did Floris buy you that, my Kat?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, no, that young woman who has the same name I do gave it to me,” Kat said, still fiddling with it.

  “No, we did buy it,” Floris whispered for the queen’s ears al
one. “She’s referring to Katherine Dee. She’s wandering around here somewhere, taking some food to her husband,” she added with a quick glance over her shoulder. “Since you thought it best Kat and I not stay with her, I thought we’d just stop by to look around outside her place. And guess who was there at the door, personally inviting Mistress Dee to see their play about a spring frolic?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Giles Chatam in the flesh?”

  “In the flesh, Your Grace, a good way to put it,” Floris said, rolling her eyes. “From what I saw, the two of them already knew each other, to put it politely.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “Not me or Kat.”

  “Were they passionate?”

  “More like familiar. And, I warrant, careful.”

  “Floris, you are priceless!” the queen told her with a nod. Though she was not used to Privy Plot Council members taking actions not earlier approved, this news was just what she needed. “I’ll wager,” Elizabeth added, “either Chatam took the mirror, or she gave it to him. Poor Dr. Dee.”

  “I’m afraid it only stirs the pot of possibilities,” Floris said, shaking her head. “One thing I’ve learned over the years tending elderly folk like your dear Lady Ashley is patience.”

  “Of course, we’ll jump to no conclusions. But we must watch young Mistress Dee and our clever actor even closer.”

  “I can help, and if Kat needs to go inside to rest, I’ll get Meg Milligrew to be vigilant.”

  “I think,” Kat said to Elizabeth, as if the lengthy whispered conversation between the queen and Floris had not occurred at all, “that Katherine is the same one your father married last. I don’t want her to find out who set the fire in the tent, of course.”

  Elizabeth’s insides plummeted. Kat was not only completely confused, but still tormented by the memories of the very fire years ago that haunted the queen.

  “Kat, hush now,” Floris said before the queen could speak. “That is just a bad dream you’ve had at night, and this is a lovely, sunny day.”

  As darkness descended, torches on poles set in a circle lit the village green, casting the May Day celebrations into flickering half shadows. But it seemed the festivities had only begun. The dancing around the Maypole was so lovely that the queen herself longed to join it. Songs from local musicians accompanied the interweaving of the dancers with their ribbons attached high on the pole, just below the mirror. She stayed among her people as she had all afternoon and evening, tapping her foot, clapping along.

  Yet, like others in her band of observers, she kept close watch on those upon whom suspicion rested. John Dee was the easiest to watch, as he stood within the circle of dancers, next to the pole, working his rope attached to the mirror high above. He’d been fussing with it all day. So that her young artist was also in plain sight, Elizabeth had suggested that Dee literally show Gil the ropes. Ever in awe of Dr. Dee, Gil had been glad to act as his assistant.

  Katherine Dee was doing nothing untoward; on the contrary, she had brought her mother-in-law to see the festivities in some sort of wheeled chair Dee must have rigged. More than once, Elizabeth had noted their maid, Sarah, darting hither and yon through the crowd. As for Giles Chatam, Ned was sticking tight to him, for both had managed to work their way into the dancing around the Maypole.

  Meg had stayed close to Lavina Teerlinc all day, and told the queen that she had been making many swift sketches of these activities. Henry Heatherley, Jenks had said, spent his time drinking in the public room of the inn and boasting about who he was.

  “It was worth a good laugh, Your Grace,” Jenks had added, “that when the tosspot bragged of once working for Hans Holbein, none of these countrymen knew a fig about who Holbein was.’Cept, that is, some rough-looking man with an I-tal-ian accent who’d been matching Heatherley bottle by bottle of wine. Heatherley may have gotten poor Will Kendale drunk the night he died, but no one can match the way HH himself downs that wine.”

  “Wait—you said a man with an Italian accent? And with enough coin to buy bottles of wine?” she mused. “Who did he say he is?”

  “Didn’t. And can’t go question the I-tal-ian now,’cause he’s disappeared. He asked Heatherley questions about your artists, all of them, that’s all I know.”

  “About Gil, too?”

  “Oh, yes. Even about Will Kendale.”

  Elizabeth tried to tell herself that one stray Italian at this crowded English country fair meant naught, but she knew she should ask Heatherley and Gil about the man later.

  Suddenly, she felt exhausted. Trailing two ladies and two guards, she went over to the entrance to the inn to sit on a long wooden bench the elderly Simon Garver and his dame had offered her earlier and now sat upon themselves.

  “I believe I will take a respite,” she told them. “No, do not rise, as I will sit with you. I find it quite agreeable to have the dancing and that magic mirror the center of attention for a while.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Simon said, and his wizened wife just smiled toothlessly and nodded. “I’m always glad to help set all this up, but it’s John Dee’s worry now.”

  “I understand the Maypole itself is yours.”

  “Oh, aye, one of the straightest trees e’er felled in these parts, much like the ones went for the interior walls at Nonsuch.”

  “I’ve always admired your fine work there.”

  Simon turned to his wife and bellowed, “Her Majesty admires the linenfolds at Nonsuch!” She nodded, and he turned back to the queen. “Had to have everything just right, your royal sire did, from the moment he tore down Cuddington.”

  “I regret the village’s demise. Do any of the former inhabitants still live about these parts?”

  “Some second generation over at Cheam, but most got dispersed, just lost. Why, it was twenty-seven years ago, you know.” The queen and the old carver nearly shouted to hear each other over the noise of the revelers. “Even the Moorings got scattered and lost,” he added.

  “The Moorings?”

  “The family what owned the manor house. Country gentry, relying on the bounty of the fields and local crafts to fill their coffers. Several fine timbered houses torn down too. The Mooring ancestors were buried in the Catholic church what got took down, but the family at the time was parents and two children. The breakup of the churches everywhere was one thing, but the entire village …” His voice trailed off as if he’d said too much.

  Elizabeth recalled that Lord Arundel had told her he’d tried to talk the king out of razing the village, but Henry had refused to put his palace at the other end of the meadow. How greatly the local people, as well as the poor Moorings, must have resented the death—the murder—of Cuddington, the queen realized. She always took great care with people’s feelings toward her, but her father had more than once let those be damned.

  Though Elizabeth had been long schooled never to doubt or criticize King Henry VIII, she felt ashamed of his acts to build Nonsuch. “I regret the demise of the village,” she repeated, more to her herself than the Garvers, “especially if it was anything like charming Mortlake. How old were the Mooring children then?” she inquired, remembering how devastated she had been to be sent away from court more than once as a child. She could not fathom losing not only her place in a home, but the entire home itself.

  “Glenda!” old Simon shouted at his wife, who finally stopped smiling and nodding. “How old were the Mooring heirs when Cuddington went down? How old?”

  “Not ten,” she yelled, her voice as crackly as old paper. “Maybe the boy six, the girl eight. Never saw such white-yellow hair, like little angels! Died, I think.”

  “Both of them died?” Elizabeth gasped.

  “Best left alone,” Simon answered for his wife. “Oh, lookie there! John’s got the mirror all rigged to get that firelight clear from Richmond Hill.”

  At least, the queen thought, there were no bonfires here. She rose to her feet, awed by the flash of flame that seemed to light the top of
the Maypole, then reflect itself in a bright beam through the dark night. The crowd noise hushed, then became a huge “Ahhh!” as if from one throat. Next to Dr. Dee, Elizabeth could see that Gil was entranced, jumping up and down and clapping.

  The dancers and musicians stopped as Dee worked his rope to tilt the mirror. From over two miles distant, it caught reflections of the bonfire on Richmond Hill and sent back the light in short bursts of flashes and pauses. Sometimes the glow from afar seemed to dwell within the big mirror itself and other times to leap from it to illumine the night. When Dee evidently moved the rope amiss, the beam would slash across thatched roofs, and once, even through the crowd.

  The light show went on for nearly an hour until everyone’s neck was ready to break from looking upward. Elizabeth had forced herself to scan the crowd rather than just watch these signals she knew Dr. Dee would discuss with her later, for he hoped to use the sun’s light to signal from ship to ship in England’s meager navy. But now she saw something below just as compelling as the events above.

  Giles Chatam was standing next to Katherine Dee, who had moved several steps away from her mother-in-law’s chair. And Floris, holding on to Kat’s hand, stood watching, perhaps even overhearing the two young people, though if they were speaking, it was circumspectly, out of the sides of their mouths.

  When Katherine finally wheeled the old woman closer to John Dee and Giles went the other way with Ned trailing him, Elizabeth hurried to join Floris and Kat. “Could you hear what they were saying?” she asked Floris.

  “He told her that her husband might be good with reflected light, but he could ignite a blaze in her to keep them both hotter than fire.”

  Elizabeth nodded grimly. It sounded indeed like the sort of ornate speech that smooth-tongued actor would give. At least they had apparently not yet cuckolded Dr. Dee. But they knew each other, and so one or both of them could have committed mayhem with that supposedly stolen mirror. But exactly who and why?