“Surely we will be there soon, Kate,” he said.
“I cannot wait to be next to a warm fire,” Lady Barnett, just ahead of them, said with a sob. “I vow that I shall not stir from the hearthside for a week!”
“You will change your mind soon enough, Lady Barnett, once you hear the dance music,” Mistress Berry said drily.
“I shall not! I won’t feel like dancing again for a very long time after this appalling journey,” Lady Barnett protested.
“We have been on worse journeys, to be sure,” Mistress Berry muttered.
“Will there really be dancing, do you think? Even if it is just in privy chambers?” Amelia said wistfully.
“If there is, will you be my partner, Mistress Wrightsman?” Toby asked.
Kate couldn’t help wincing at the sheer eagerness in his voice. Master Ridley seemed to be such a nice gentleman, always cheerful through the trials of travel, always most considerate. And, if Cecil trusted him, he had to be a loyal Englishman as well. Yet his infatuation with Amelia, who never took much notice of him at all, was all too clear. During their voyage, he had lost no chance to be close to her, to speak to her, to bring her small comforts such a sweetmeats and cushions.
Amelia, though, would just smile at him and thank him, patting his hand as if he were a loyal lapdog, and then send him on his way. Perhaps she still thought of Monsieur d’Emours.
Kate noticed Charles Throckmorton, who rode on Toby’s other side, give his friend a sad glance and a small shake of his head. He, too, seemed to wish to warn Toby away from Amelia.
“Of course I shall dance with you, Master Ridley,” Amelia said with a careless laugh. “But you may have to stand in line!”
“Or mayhap you shall have to wait, Mistress Wrightsman,” Brigit said. “Master Ridley will surely have his choice of Queen Catherine’s lovely ladies-in-waiting.”
“What do you know of such things, Brigit?” Amelia snapped. “You are always in the corner with your nose in your herbs and tinctures! You know nothing of dance partners.”
“Very true,” Brigit said.
“Be quiet, all of you,” Sir Henry shouted. “There is no time for such nonsense now. We have a great deal of work ahead of us.”
Everyone fell silent again, and Kate glanced at Rob. He gave her another smile, but his jaw was tight, his eyes taking in the forest around them. Toby rode ahead of them, and the intricate gold embroidery of his fashionable cloak gleamed like the only beacon in the mist.
Suddenly, the narrow path widened and flowed out into a clearing. The mist was still thick and white, but with no trees to cling to, it seemed to drift in lost wisps around a graveled lane, catching on the tall spikes of a metal gate.
It was not just any gate, though. The elaborate ironwork was gilded, sparkling even in the fog, and to either side rose tall stone pillars topped with carved lions, rearing as if to roar out fiercely. It was surmounted by the coat of arms of France, fleur-de-lis in gold.
“I am Sir Henry Barnett, delegate of the Queen of England, come to join Sir Nicholas Throckmorton’s embassy,” Sir Henry called to the guards in their blue-and-gold livery. They swung open the gates, and Sir Henry led them through.
When the gates shut again with a metallic clatter, Kate seemed to enter yet another new world. She was reminded of romantic poems of the fairy realm, or of masques where mortals found themselves tumbling into the kingdom of the gods. She could only stare, astonished, until Rob nudged her to move forward.
A long graveled pathway led in an arrow-straight line. Elaborately shaped trees and large square flower beds bordered the path on either side. The plants slept now for the winter, overlaid with a thin, sparkling layer of frost, but Kate could see that in summer tumbles of color would spill over green velvet grass.
To their right was a long palace wing made of mellowed red brick with white stone pillars, a steep gray slate roof, and a forest of brick chimneys looming above, which sent plumes of thick, fragrant smoke to join with the mist. From the many windows that sparkled there, Kate thought she could see clusters of pale faces peering out curiously.
Yet it was the wing straight ahead of the path that caught her attention. It looked like a fairy castle indeed. All gleaming white stone, it stretched across the length of five symmetrical pavilions like an enchanted princess’s towers. At its center, leading to carved double doors, was a gray stone staircase that swept upward in a double horseshoe shape.
At the foot of the stairs, servants hurried forward to take their horses. Rob helped Kate from the saddle, and she was glad of his arm to hold on to as she found her feet on the ground again.
Up close, Fontainebleau was even more beautiful than at first sight. It seemed all of one piece. Its white stone and brick, its pillars and towers, could have sprung up all at once under a fairy wand, instead of growing up wing by wing from a small hunting lodge. It was most unlike the jumble of Whitehall.
She thought of all the lovely châteaux they had passed on their journey, white and pale gray and elegant, and the long expanses of vineyards and orchards that in the summer would be bursting with the color and fragrance of sweet fruits. She remembered the well-dressed people who lived in those fine homes, their scarlet, lavender, and pale blue silks; snow-white lace; and pearls and diamonds. All of that had made France seem a fairy realm indeed, overseen by this enchanted palace.
But the image of the burned farmhouse suddenly appeared in Kate’s mind. The suspicious innkeepers and quiet people on the sides of the lanes watched them ride by. With a country where the people were at one another’s throats, surely nothing was as it seemed.
The doors opened and a lady appeared. She seemed to fit very well in this fairy poem of a palace, for she was tiny and delicate, pale brown curls piled high beneath a small lacy cap that frothed and frilled around an elfin face. She wore a plain Spanish-style surcoat of dark gray satin and black sleeves, but even those somber colors couldn’t dim her smile.
“Amelia, mon amie!” she cried. “You have returned.”
“Celeste!” Amelia cried in return. She dashed up the curving stairs to hug the fair lady.
The rest of them followed at a slower pace, with Lady Barnett leaning on Charles’s arm. Her husband seemed to take no notice of her fatigue. Kate watched everything with great curiosity.
“That is Mademoiselle Celeste Renard,” Brigit said quietly to Kate. “She once served Princess Elisabeth, until she went to Spain. Now she is lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine. She and Mistress Wrightsman were great friends when we were here before. Two chattering magpies in the same tree.”
Kate could certainly see how happy the two ladies were to see each other again, but surely they could not be called anything as plain as magpies. Their plumage was too handsome.
Celeste held out her tiny hand to Toby and Charles and laughed with them. Even Sir Henry smiled as she greeted him with a teasing exuberance. Kate remembered what Brigit had told her of Catherine de Medici, the plain queen who surrounded herself with beautiful ladies. For beauty had a power of its own.
“But come inside quickly, quickly,” Celeste said, clapping her hands. Kate noticed she wore a ring on her smallest finger, a black cameo set in gold, but she couldn’t make out the carved image. “This fog is horribly chilling. The Queen Mother waits to greet you most eagerly. And Queen Mary, naturellement. She does so pine for word from her cousin queen.”
“How fares Queen Mary?” Kate heard Amelia ask. “We heard she went on retreat to her aunt’s convent.”
“And so she did,” Amelia said, leading them through a small, cold stone foyer and along a corridor. “But our young dowager queen could never be happy among nuns and silence for long! Her grief for poor King Francis was so great and she fell most ill for a time, as she often does in difficult days. But her spirits are recovering.”
“Recovering enough for a dance?” Amelia said
hopefully.
Celeste laughed. “Or for a play. The Christmas season was a dark one; everyone will want to laugh a bit now.” She glanced back over her shoulder and gave Kate a quick smile. Or perhaps it was a smile for Rob, who gave a small bow in answer. “We heard you were bringing actors with you.”
“Only two actors, Mademoiselle Renard,” Sir Henry answered. “And one of Queen Elizabeth’s own musicians.” He gestured toward Kate and Rob, with Thomas peeking eagerly from behind them. “This is Mistress Haywood, and Master Cartman, who is head of the queen’s cousin Lord Hunsdon’s troupe. And he brought an apprentice with him.”
“Mademoiselle Haywood? We have heard of you,” Celeste said. She looked at Kate again, her blue eyes wide. “Do you not compose your own music? You must be very clever.”
Celeste looked at her so intently, Kate wondered if her words held some strange message. But she could read nothing else there. “When I have time to write, which I fear is not often. Usually I organize the rest of the queen’s musicians for her revels.”
“It sounds a most fearsome task! The royal musicians here would not care to be organized—they all think they are the finest performer at court—but they play well enough when it comes to it. Queen Catherine is most particular about her music. She is entertained now by an Italian theater troupe she brought from Florence. They are most amusing.” Celeste’s gaze flickered over Rob, and her smile widened. “And you, Master Cartman. You will be most welcome, I am sure.”
Rob gave her a low bow. “France is full of so many beauties already. How can anyone help but be inspired in his art?”
Kate tugged hard at his arm, and he gave her an innocent look. Celeste laughed merrily, and Kate had to push away a pang of something that felt horribly like jealousy.
They came to an imposing set of doors guarded by two men in the royal blue-and-gold livery, but Celeste did not lead them through those. She turned toward a narrow, winding staircase hidden behind a tapestry.
“I will show you to your rooms, and refreshments will be brought. There will be a reception tomorrow, but Queen Mary asks if you will dine quietly with her this evening,” Celeste said, leading them up the stairs. “As I said, she longs to hear all the news from England.”
Sir Henry and Lady Barnett exchanged a long glance. Kate had sometimes noticed on their journey that despite the Barnetts’ many quarrels and very different personalities, they seemed to be able to communicate with a look or a nod. Many long-married couples did such, like the queen’s cousin Lady Knollys and her husband, and even the fearsome Lady Lennox and her Scottish husband. It was an enviable thing and also a strange one.
“We would be most happy to dine with Queen Mary at any time, Mademoiselle Renard,” Sir Henry said carefully. “But should we not pay our greetings to King Charles and his mother?”
Celeste laughed, a sound like tiny silver bells. Kate wondered if she practiced it. “Oh, Sir Henry, you needn’t worry about that! King Charles is still at the day’s lessons with his younger siblings, and Queen Catherine will greet you at tomorrow’s official reception. But she always knows all that happens within these walls.”
She turned up another staircase and along a narrow corridor lined with tapestries that muffled sound and kept out any hint of draft. “Here are your rooms,” she said. “I hope they will suit. I fear court is most crowded at the moment. You are near Sir Nicholas Throckmorton and his household, though, and Queen Mary’s Scots family is just along the next gallery.”
Kate’s room was most suitable indeed, she thought as Celeste showed it to her after she led the Barnetts to their spacious bedchamber and sitting room. Kate’s room was a small one, more of a closet, just off Amelia’s chamber, but she had it to herself, a rare luxury at court. It was slightly round, as if in a tower, and furnished with a narrow bed with plain but fine dark blue hangings and coverlet, a cushioned stool by the small fireplace, and a writing table under the tiny window. It was much like her room at Whitehall.
Her traveling cases and lute were already there, and Kate quickly searched through her belongings, sorting through the clothes and books and pages of music. It did not look as if anyone had been through them again. She carefully examined the lock on her small jewel case and reminded herself to find a new box with a stronger lock. The letters were safe enough now in her secret pocket, but they needed a better hiding spot soon.
She closed the trunk and went to open the little window set high in the curved stone wall. She found herself looking down on an exquisite garden, all carefully symmetrical flower beds and trees in silver pots, along with another wing of the palace. In the distance she glimpsed a pond, as smooth and silvery as glass, with a beautiful little summerhouse set on an island at its center. How she wished her father could have seen it; she was sure he would have been inspired to compose a lovely song.
There was a knock at the door, interrupting her bittersweet musings, and servants brought in pitchers of water for washing and a goblet of fresh wine. They also brought a note from Charles Throckmorton, asking if he could escort her to meet with his kinsman Sir Nicholas as soon as possible.
There was work to be done.
• • •
Where is he?
Amelia Wrightsman paced along the path winding beside the decorative pond in the palace gardens, anxiously scanning the horizon. She barely noticed the mud clinging to her satin hem, or the cold wind that tugged her hair loose from her headdress. It would be full dark soon, and she was expected to help her aunt retire.
But she couldn’t leave until she talked to him. Surely he knew she was here now; he knew she would wait for him here, in their old place.
She swung around and stared across the rippling water to the marble pavilion set on an island at the pond’s center. It was a shimmering white in the gathering dusk, and for an instant she thought she saw a light flash in one of its windows. She had a wild thought of finding a boat, of rowing herself across the pond to hide in those stone rooms. She laughed at herself even as she desperately wished she could run away.
There was nowhere to run. She had made her choice long ago, and she had to finish it.
A fallen branch crackled somewhere in the trees beyond the pond path. Her heart pounding, Amelia whirled around. A bird took off from a skeletal-bare branch.
“Only a bird,” she whispered.
She started pacing again, twisting her hands together. Surely he wasn’t coming now; it was too late. Too late for so many things. She would have to find another way.
As she neared the turn of the path that would take her back to the palace, she heard another sound, this one softer, lighter. A man stepped out from behind the trees, but it was not who she was expecting.
She had not even an instant to smooth her expression into her usual mask of female frivolity, the mask that always served her very well. Who would ever suspect a silly young lady who thought only of gowns and dances? She flashed a flirtatious smile, but feared it was too late for cover.
“Were you expecting someone else, Mistress Wrightsman?” Charles Throckmorton asked, his dark brow arched.
Amelia did not like Charles. He always seemed to see too much, know too much, and say far too little. “I was merely taking a bit of fresh air, Master Throckmorton,” she said with a laugh. “Mayhap you have a rendezvous here? I was just leaving, so you will have the gardens all to yourself for your wooing. A fair Frenchwoman, perhaps? One of Queen Catherine’s ladies? They are renowned for their great charm.”
She knew her words were only teasing, though, and she saw they found their mark as his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Charles was a handsome man, but, like his uncle, he was a serious one. Always intent on work and studies. She wasn’t sure he even liked women. He was not easy to read, as most men were. Not easy to fool.
She had to be wary of him.
“You should leave him alone, Mistress Wrightsman,” he
said quietly.
Him? Did Charles know? Nay, she assured herself, he couldn’t possibly know. But she shivered with a cold feeling of doubt. “Whoever do you mean?”
“Toby, of course. You can only hurt him.”
Amelia laughed. So he did not know. He was only trying to protect his friend. Toby Ridley was a sweet man, so earnest and attentive. She feared she hurt him just by being, but there could be no help for that. Not now. “I would never hurt him. He is a kind man, and they are a rare breed in this world.”
“Indeed he is. That is why I would beseech you to leave him alone. I know you could never care for him as he does you.”
Charles was right about that. Amelia had only ever cared for one man, cared too deeply, too passionately. And look at the trouble it had brought her. Jacques d’Emours had been like poison, and she had yet to find the antidote.
Suddenly angry, she whirled away from Charles and started toward the palace. “You must speak to your friend, then, Master Throckmorton, not me. I cannot be responsible if others are so foolish as to leave their hearts open.”
“Just think on what I have said, Mistress Wrightsman,” he called after her. “I know you have a heart, too, hidden there somewhere. There is much you do not show to the world.”
Amelia didn’t answer him. She felt confused, frightened even, but she couldn’t let Charles Throckmorton see that. She lifted the mud-stained hem of her gown and ran toward the reassuring lights of the palace.
Her messages would have to wait for another day.
She hurried up the winding staircase that led to her aunt’s chamber, hoping she might have a moment to compose herself before Aunt Jane called for her. Yet she found she was not alone as she turned along the corridor. The musician, Mistress Haywood, was there, walking along with her lute in her hands.
“Mistress Wrightsman,” she said. She looked as startled to find someone else in the corridor as Amelia was herself. “Are you well? You look flushed.”
Amelia nodded. She did envy Mistress Haywood, with her quiet composure, her calm watchfulness. Her work as a court musician, work that was all her own. How lovely such a life would be, dependent on no one. Free to love as one chose. “I am very well. Thank you, Mistress Haywood. I was just taking a walk in the gardens and hurried back when I realized how late it was.”
Murder at Fontainebleau Page 8
