Murder at Fontainebleau

by Amanda Carmack

  Their small party had hired guards and outriders to keep them safe on their journey, as well as several pack mules to carry their considerable luggage. Mistress Wrightsman and Lady Barnett alone had many gowns, shoes, and jewels, and there were also gifts for the queens. They looked like an important group as they traveled, and outlaws had certainly not harried them, but they were not fast enough to outrun evildoers if any appeared.

  Kate had not minded the slower pace. It gave her time to study the country around them. Paris had been crowded, with narrow lanes and smoking chimneys much like London, but the countryside, even in the damp, cold gray winter, was beautiful. They had passed lovely châteaux, all built of gleaming pale stone with steep slate roofs, surrounded by moats and set amid carefully laid-out gardens that would surely be like vivid jewel boxes in the summer. The villages, too, had been clean and pretty, with cottages and shops glinting with candlelight, all quiet under the thin layer of new snow.

  But now she wasn’t sure where they were at all. It had been hours since they stopped at the last inn for a quick meal and short rest. The dour-faced landlord there had served them thin wine and a few oatcakes, and directed them tersely on a shorter route to the main road that would lead them to the edge of the famous forest that surrounded the palace at Fontainebleau.

  Yet this did not seem shorter at all. The lane was only getting rougher and even narrower. Their horses had to slow to a crawling pace to keep from tripping in the ruts.

  Kate peered ahead. Sir Henry Barnett, his wife beside him, led the party behind some of the guards. Like Amelia, Lady Barnett had been full of chatter earlier, but now even she was quiet. Charles Throckmorton and Toby Ridley rode behind them, just ahead of Kate and Amelia, and she noticed Toby stayed as close to Amelia as he could, watching Monsieur Domville, who rode just to the side of Amelia with narrowed eyes.

  Amelia’s words about sleeves trailed away, and she glanced back at Mistress Berry. Brigit gave her a grim smile, which strangely seemed to reassure her. She straightened in the saddle and stared ahead, unblinking.

  “I do wonder what we will find at court,” Amelia said.

  “It will be quieter,” Brigit answered. “They are in mourning, you know.”

  Amelia tossed her head, the white plumes in her black velvet hat dancing in the cold breeze. The feathers carried the scent of her violet perfume. “Surely not everything will be silent! There will be hunting, at least. Cards. Perhaps some archery contests or music . . .”

  “You wish to see all your old admirers again, oui, Mademoiselle Wrightsman?” Monsieur Domville said teasingly.

  Amelia laughed. “I have not so very many admirers, monsieur. Not as many as Queen Mary’s Scottish Maries, I would say, or as Comtesse Villiers. Or as Queen Mary herself, who is surely the most beautiful of all.”

  “Non? I had heard you had five proposals of marriage before you last left Paris,” Monsieur Domville said, still giving her that teasing smile. “My friend Monsieur d’Emours has been missing you a very great deal.”

  Amelia bit her lip and turned away from him to fuss with her reins. Kate noticed that her cheeks had turned bright pink, and she remembered the tale of the duel d’Emours, the kinsman to the Guise family, had fought over her. Or so the story went.

  “I doubt he noticed I was gone at all,” Amelia said. “Surely he is not even back at court.”

  “Ah, but he is,” Monsieur Domville said. Kate had the distinct sense he took a mischievous delight in teasing Amelia, but a duel seemed a strange thing to tease about. “He has been back since the autumn, before King Francis died.”

  Amelia’s blush deepened, and she tossed her head again. “Surely only to find a young mademoiselle with a fine Loire estate for a dowry. I care not for you Frenchmen and your forgetful ways. I have heard there are many rather ruggedly handsome Scotsmen at court right now. I wonder what their manners will be like?”

  “Not at all to your liking, I am sure, Mademoiselle Wrightsman. They cannot dance, for one thing, except to kick and fling themselves about.” Monsieur Domville gave Kate a smile and a wink. “Nor would Mademoiselle Haywood like them. They know naught of music, except for a strange, wheezing sort of pipe that sounds like a stable cat in distress.”

  Kate laughed. “I assure you, Monsieur Domville, I am interested in all kinds of music—especially instruments I have not seen before.”

  Monsieur Domville gave an exaggerated wince. “You will not like this, I can assure you, chère mademoiselle. These Scots have no—how do you English say?—refinement.”

  “I think manly strength is surely better than mere refinement,” Amelia said angrily. Her hands tightened on her reins, making her horse shy. “I cannot wait to meet them. I shall make them teach me their kicking dances!”

  “You should have a care, mistress,” Mistress Berry said. “After last time . . .”

  “Oh, hush, Brigit! What do you know about it?” Amelia cried. “You have never loved at all. You are just a—”

  “Be silent!” Sir Henry called. He held up his hand, and their slow procession drew to a halt.

  For a moment, Kate was confused by the sudden call for silence. Then she smelled it—the sharp, metallic smell of smoke on the clear, cold breeze. At first it was a mere whiff, as if from the chimneys of a village nearby. But it grew heavier, too thick, tinged with something darker.

  Her throat tightened, and she froze.

  Sir Henry and the guards at the front dashed ahead, and Monsieur Domville and Toby Ridley edged around the ladies to ride after them, then drew their swords. Kate instinctively followed, shaking her dagger from its sheath under her sleeve until she could grasp the twisted steel hilt.

  The narrow lane turned a sharp corner into a clearing, which had been hidden and blocked by the thick curtain of trees. Kate gasped, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth, at what they found there.

  It was a farmhouse, or once had been. It was now a charred, smoking ruin, the roof collapsed, the walls blackened. There was no sign of life, not even a chicken or milk cow. Only a crudely drawn cross of Lorraine in red on the one still partially standing wall, along with the outline of a lion. The emblem of the Guise.

  Amelia, who had come up beside Kate, screamed, and Kate whipped around to reach for her hand.

  She saw what had made Amelia scream, and nearly cried out herself. Two men were hanged from the bare, skeletal branches of a tall tree at the edge of the clearing. A rough sign dangled from one of them with large black letters that spelled out HERETIC. She remembered what they had heard at the inn, about Catholic churches pillaged and Protestants killed in punishment. It made her glad to be English, with a queen who cared not to open windows in men’s souls, as Elizabeth often said.

  She looked back to Amelia and wondered if the flighty, frivolous lady was going to faint. But Mistress Wrightsman did not look on the edge of hysterics at all. Her delicate jaw was set in a hard line, her eyes cold and angry.

  “Come. We must be away from this place,” Sir Henry said. He spurred his horse around and galloped back to the lane, where the others waited. Lady Barnett was tearful, demanding to know what was happening, but her husband ignored her. Mistress Berry offered her a vial of smelling salts.

  “Are you quite well, Mistress Wrightsman?” Kate asked quietly.

  Amelia gave her a hard, bright smile. “I am, Mistress Haywood. You will have to learn that things like this happen all the time in France. But we must keep moving forward, must we not?”

  She jerked her own horse around to follow her uncle, and Kate rode to catch up with her.

  “It is a sad thing indeed,” Monsieur Domville said solemnly. “But surely they were breaking the law of the land. These Huguenots think they can do as they like, but they must learn to keep the peace. It is a very dangerous thing to make enemies of the Guise and their friends.”

  • • •

  “Oui
, they were Huguenots,” the landlady at the inn said with a scowl. She waved to a maidservant to continue pouring ale into the traveling party’s pottery cups. The maid sniffled; her eyes were red, her plump cheeks blotched, as if tears were a common thing with her. She stopped only when the landlady gave her a stern glance.

  Mistress Berry, calm and expressionless, handed Lady Barnett a vial. Lady Barnett had been crying as well, and Mistress Wrightsman’s cold anger had quickly faded once they were on the road again, and she had almost fainted in new hysterics. Her swoon had led them to find an inn to rest for a time. The ladies looked a bit restored now beside a warm fire, with spiced ale and a hearty stew to warm them. It was a prosperous establishment, clean and well furnished, with an elaborate cross prominently displayed on the whitewashed wall.

  Kate took a sip of her drink, but she felt restless, watching everyone around her.

  “We had heard in England that things were much more settled now since the death of King Francis,” Sir Henry said.

  The landlady gave a snort. “’Tis the Duc de Guise and his family. They’ve become desperate; everyone knows that. Queen Catherine will rule now, and she is no true friend to them. She seeks peace with the King of Navarre and the Huguenots—so they say. Such leniency can never hold, not in a Godly kingdom.”

  “Can it not?” Toby Ridley said tightly. “Surely a peaceful realm is a laudable aim?”

  “In this district, monsieur, monks have been killed, an ancient statue of the Blessed Virgin destroyed by a Huguenot mob they say was emboldened by Queen Catherine’s mild words to them,” the landlady said, crossing herself. “How can there be peace thus?”

  The woman suddenly seemed aware she had perhaps said too much to foreign strangers. She bobbed a hasty curtsy and left the small sitting room, shooing the sniffling maid ahead of her. “I will send in more ale, monsieur.”

  For a long moment, silence fell heavily over the English group crowded into the little room. Kate sipped at her ale and studied everyone around her. Lady Barnett and her niece reclined on the cushioned settee by the fire. The men gathered around a round table, all of them looking grim. Rob and Thomas stayed near Kate, and she was glad of their presence. They made her feel not quite so alone in a strange land.

  “It would do these people well to listen to Queen Catherine,” Lady Barnett said, tearful and angry. Kate was surprised—Jane Barnett had never shown even a flash of such seriousness before. “She is a very clever lady. What is the use of losing everything over such trifles?”

  Sir Henry brought his fist down on the table before him, rattling pitchers and goblets. Amelia burst into tears all over again, and even Kate was startled enough to jump a bit. Everyone’s nerves seemed terribly on edge.

  “Be quiet, woman, about matters you have no knowledge of!” he roared, his bearded face red. “Queen Catherine is a Florentine to her very bones, and one day her Italian ways will bring France down with her. Kingdoms need strong kings, and one faith to unify them. I should have left you and your silly niece in London. Matters are much too delicate and vital to have such ridiculousness to deal with.”

  Lady Barnett let out a wail before she buried her face in her hands. Sir Henry slumped back in his chair, as if wearied by his outburst, something that seemed a common occurrence between the married couple. Everyone else went still and silent, which only made Lady Barnett’s sobs sound louder.

  Amelia took her aunt’s arm and helped her to her feet. The two ladies limped out of the room. “I will take her to rest,” Amelia said as the door closed behind them.

  “Women,” Sir Henry muttered as he raised his goblet for another long drink. “They understand naught.”

  Mistress Berry scowled down at him.

  Kate slipped out of the room and into the cool quiet of a narrow corridor. She could hear Lady Barnett crying from somewhere in the shadows. Mistress Berry came out of the sitting room as well, and hurried past Kate with a basin in her hands.

  “Is anything the matter, Mistress Berry? Can I help?” Kate asked.

  “Mistress Haywood, I did not see you there,” Mistress Berry said. “Aye, follow me, if you like. I fear Lady Barnett often has such fits. ’Tis only to be expected.”

  Kate wondered what she meant by that. Only to be expected because of the way Lady Barnett’s husband dismissed her? Because things are so uncertain there in France?

  “I thought Lady Barnett enjoyed her last time in France,” Kate said, watching as Mistress Berry took a vial from her valise and shook a drop into the basin. The scent of lavender filled the air. “I suppose things have changed a great deal since then.”

  “So they have, I fear,” Mistress Berry said. “In other ways, though, they haven’t changed at all. The Catholics and the Huguenots have been at each other’s throats for years, and men like the Guise brothers only make it worse. With King Henri’s strong hand, it was different. None dared defy him. Now . . .”

  “Now there is only a dead king, a sickly boy to take his place, and Queen Catherine?”

  Mistress Berry shrugged. “Queen Catherine, the Duc de Guise. Who knows? Is there any difference? But Lady Barnett was quite friendly with the queen when last we were here. She would sit and embroider and whisper with Queen Catherine for hours. I daresay the Queen Mother will have no time for such things now.”

  Kate nodded. “Did Mistress Wrightsman like the queen as well?”

  Mistress Berry laughed. “She liked Queen Mary right enough. The two of them would laugh and dance together at every banquet. I daresay Queen Catherine could have found great use for Mistress Wrightsman, though, if there was a thought of more than silks and jewels in her head.”

  Kate thought of that cold, still look in Amelia’s eyes at the farmhouse. “What do you mean?”

  Brigit gave her a strange smile. “What do you know of the French court, Mistress Haywood?”

  “Not as much as I think I will soon need to,” Kate said cautiously. “They say Queen Catherine is eager to wield her power on behalf of her children now.”

  “Queen Catherine is not a pretty lady, to be sure, and never has been, in a court that prizes beauty above all else. But she is a clever woman,” Brigit said. “Almost as clever as our own Queen Elizabeth, mayhap. I am sure she learned much in her Italian youth, and one of those lessons is the great use a clever person can put beauty to, when it is needed.”

  Kate frowned. “I do not quite see your meaning, Mistress Berry.”

  “You will find that Queen Catherine surrounds herself with ladies who are fair indeed. And they are most loyal to her. That is all.” Brigit held out a small bottle. “Would you carry that for me, Mistress Haywood?”

  “Of course.” Kate followed Brigit as she took up the basin again and made her way into a small bedchamber.

  Lady Barnett lay on a narrow bedstead while Amelia knelt beside her, pressing a damp cloth to her aunt’s pale brow. “I am sure my uncle is just worried, Aunt Jane,” she was saying in a beseeching voice. “He has much to concern him.”

  “And his wife is not one of those matters, as always!” Lady Barnett cried. “I have worries as well. What awaits us at Fontainebleau . . .”

  “I have brought your tisane, Lady Barnett,” Brigit said. “And Mistress Haywood has come to help. We shall be on our way again in no time at all.”

  Lady Barnett sat up with Amelia’s help. She did indeed look pale under the edge of her lace cap, her eyes red from crying, but she tried to smile cheerfully. “Thank you, Brigit. I do not know what I would do without your help. And Mistress Haywood! What must you think of us? I promise I am not usually such a watering pot.”

  “Not at all, Lady Barnett,” Kate said. “It has been a most trying day for everyone. Surely it will be better once you can rest at our destination.”

  “Of course,” said Lady Barnett, sipping at the herbal tisane Brigit had mixed up for her. “There is no pl
ace more luxurious than Fontainebleau! Wait until you see it.”

  She and Amelia talked on of the beauties of the palace, the rare comforts of hot water from spigots and brocade blankets on every bed, and Kate nodded. But she could not help but wonder, as Lady Barnett had, What exactly awaits us at Fontainebleau?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kate shivered at the silence that wrapped around them as they made their way through the forest of Fontainebleau, hopefully in the direction of the palace. It was an eerie quiet, almost absolute, like being muffled in a feather blanket. There was no whisper of the wind through the towering trees, no call of birds—no word from the people around her, who had been quiet and tense ever since they left the inn, since the quarrel between the Barnetts.

  It is probably the mist muffling every sound, Kate thought with another shiver. It had descended on the countryside in the night, and hadn’t lifted even when they mounted their horses at the innyard early that morning. Lady Barnett and Amelia had protested, but Sir Henry insisted they had to leave. So they had all ridden forth, carefully close together, launched into a half-hidden world.

  The mist was thick, a shimmering white-silver that seemed to catch on the treetops and around the underbrush piled at the sides of the path. A deer suddenly leaped past between the thick curtain of trees before vanishing, making Kate gasp.

  Rob, who rode close at her side, gave her a reassuring smile. He looked at ease, making quiet jokes with her as they rode, sometimes turning to say a quiet word to Thomas at his other side, but even Rob’s fine acting skills could not quite make her feel comfortable. Perhaps the forest was under an enchantment.