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-beat
en 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.”
“And is it better?”
Brigit shrugged. “About equal, I would say. At least I have been able to see France again.”
“You were there before?”
“Many years ago.” Brigit held out a small white pottery jar. “If there is bruising, you will feel the ache of it tomorrow, Mistress Haywood. This salve should help.”
Kate took out the stopper and gave a cautious sniff. She smelled the sweet scents of chamomile and lavender, along with something more sharp and medicinal. “What is it?”
“Merely a salve of herbs. It helps with bruising and aches. I made it myself and have found it most useful.”
Kate nodded toward the bottles in their little slots. “You seem to know a great deal of herbs and cures, Mistress Berry.”
The woman shrugged again. “Enough. I have found such knowledge most helpful in travels. One never knows what one may face on the road.”
“Would you teach me some of your recipes?”
“If you like. They are not complicated.”
Kate longed to ask her more about France, about herbs, about her work with Mistress Wrightsman and the Barnetts. A woman’s perspective was often sharper and clearer, especially that of a woman who was quiet and intelligent, as Mistress Berry seemed to be, yet was considered only a servant by the people around her. But it seemed Brigit was done talking for the moment. She sat down on her berth and took a pile of mending from her workbox. Her white cap bent low over it, and she hummed a soft tune as she worked, her hands quick and neat with the stitches.
Kate turned to her own trunk, hoping to glance through it before Monsieur Domville returned with the promised wine. She spread out her damp cloak over a stool and reached for a warm knitted shawl. As she smoothed back her folded garments in the trunk, she noticed some of them were out of place, slightly mussed, and the books and musical manuscripts that lined the bottom were not in the same order. It was as if someone had gone through it while she was on deck.
She locked the trunk and turned to her lute case. Her mother’s fine instrument was unharmed, thankfully, but there was a small tear in the silk lining of the case she had not noticed before.
Kate sat back on her berth and settled her skirts carefully around her. She felt the weight of the small secret pocket she had sewn beneath her petticoats, where Cecil’s letters were safely tucked away. She vowed to herself to keep them there for the rest of the journey.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“. . . And I cannot say I find the new style of sleeve at all flattering! Do you, Mistress Haywood?”
Kate shook her head with a smile as Amelia Wrightsman talked on, comparing the old, closer-fitting sleeve to the new puffs. Amelia could certainly talk a great deal without requiring any answers, which suited Kate very well as they rode slowly forward across the French countryside, up the slight hill
s and along steep riverbanks.
She was becoming weary of travel, and her mind drifted away too often to focus on serious conversation, so she was glad Amelia had fallen in beside her on the road.
The lady also knew all the best gossipy tidbits about French courtiers they would soon meet, which would surely be most useful later.
Kate glanced back over her shoulder. Mistress Berry rode behind them, grim-faced under the broad brim of her hat. She had been quiet on the rest of their ship’s voyage, and now, on the road, she kept close to Amelia. She had taught Kate some of her herbal knowledge, and one evening showed her how to mix a calming tisane she often gave to Lady Barnett, but other than that had kept much to herself.
Behind her were Rob and his apprentice, Thomas. Rob gave her a merry wave, but she saw how watchful he was, as he had been ever since she told him of what had happened on the ship. Thomas stared, wide-eyed and rapt, at Amelia, as he was so often wont to do. As so many men did when they were near her.
There was no room on the narrow, rutted, muddy lane to travel more than two across, so their party stretched long both back and ahead. When they arrived in Paris, they found the Louvre Palace almost deserted. Queen Catherine had taken the young king and the rest of the court to Fontainebleau until Easter, to take the fresh air and hunt in the forest.
Queen Mary, who had been on retreat at the convent of St. Pierre, where her aunt Renée de Guise was abbess, was meant to join them there. There was no word yet on what the young widowed queen had decided to do—marry again, stay in France as a wealthy dowager, or go back to Scotland.
The slow journey from Paris to Fontainebleau made it feel even more as if they were all trapped in a strange limbo, neither in one place nor another, unsure of what lay ahead.
They were warned in Paris that there had been some unrest in the countryside. Anger was still high over the bloody events in Amboise the autumn before, the gruesome executions under the orders of the Guise brothers and the imprisonment of the dashing Huguenot leader the Prince de Conde. Protestants had pillaged Catholic churches, while bands of Guise supporters roamed villages and farms, killing any Huguenots they found in retaliation.
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