“Ah,” Sir Nicholas sighed. “If only one of these two queens in the isle of Britain were a man, and could make a happy marriage to unite the countries into one. But that is beyond even Sir William’s work. We can only hope Queen Elizabeth shall marry soon and have sons. Now, Mistress Haywood, if you would excuse Charles and myself, we have business to discuss which I am sure would not interest you.”
Interest me? What, then, was the purpose of her coming all the way to France? Kate felt a burst of anger but she pushed it away. Her work there was secret; it was the only way she could discover any little tidbit that might help Queen Elizabeth. A man like Sir Nicholas would never understand. She curtsied and hurried out of the small office and made her way back to her own room, getting lost only twice.
To Kate’s surprise, when she opened her door she did not find her chamber empty. Celeste Renard was there, piling a gleaming heap of silks and satins onto the bed.
“Mademoiselle Renard,” Kate cried. “What are you doing here?”
Celeste looked up with one of her dazzling smiles. She sat on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs carelessly beneath her velvet skirts. “Mademoiselle Haywood, there you are! Queen Mary sent these to you. She thought you might like to wear some French fashions to the reception in the grand gallery later today.”
“Queen Mary sent me clothes?” Kate said, amazed.
“Indeed. She is always most thoughtful.” Celeste held up a satin bodice. “What do you think? I think this blue will suit you. Perhaps with these black-and-silver sleeves? The ribbons are the newest style . . .”
Kate studied the lustrous fabrics, the narrow-cut sleeves and lace-trimmed bodices. “They are very pretty indeed. I shall not feel at all like myself wearing them!”
Celeste laughed. “That is the point of fine fashions, is it not? An armor for us ladies to hide behind.”
Kate glanced at Celeste’s own gown, violet velvet and cream silk stripes with embroidered flowers. “Your own gown is the loveliest I have seen.”
Celeste gave a little twirl. “Do you like it? My aunt sent me the fabric. She lives in Burgundy, where my family is from, and they have weavers renowned for their silks.”
“Burgundy? How did you come to court?”
“My aunt once served Queen Eleanor, very long ago. When she heard Queen Catherine required new ladies, she got me the post through some of her old friends.” Celeste’s glance fell. It was merely a blink, but Kate had the sense that there was more to the story. Or perhaps a different story indeed. But she knew Celeste would not tell her anything yet.
“And you are friends with Queen Mary as well?”
“Queen Mary is the kindest of souls, as well as very merry.” Celeste held up a length of blue ribbon against Kate’s hair. “Until she lost her husband, anyway, poor little queen. Now she has nothing.”
“Nothing? Except palaces and servants . . .”
“Her power here in France is gone. Queen Catherine will see to that.”
“Does she not care for her daughter-in-law? Everyone says Queen Mary came here so young, she remembers no other parents.”
“Queen Catherine has her own children to see to now, and she will let nothing get in the way of those ambitions. Her children are everything to her. She was powerless for so many years, but now she is in charge.” Celeste frowned. “And we all must remember that.”
Kate feared she would never keep all the alliances and enemies at Fontainebleau straight. How could she know whom to trust? What was real? “Will Queen Catherine deal well with Elizabeth, then?”
Celeste laughed. “How could I know such a thing, Mademoiselle Haywood? I am merely a lady-in-waiting. Now, what do you think of this petticoat for tonight? The embroidery is so exquisite. You will be thought a true Frenchwoman.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As Kate followed Lady Barnett and Amelia into the grand gallery, she was glad Celeste had given her the French gown to wear, for the crowd gathered near the tall, gleaming windows was sparkling indeed.
Queen Elizabeth’s courtiers thought themselves most fashionable, often spending the equivalent of a year’s wages for a prosperous London artisan to try to impress the queen with their embroidered velvets and feathered hats, but most of them would look like mudhens beside the French. Even in their muted colors of mourning—black, gray, violet, and midnight blue—they were elegant beyond compare, their simple perfectly tailored lines and rich trimmings giving them an air of crisp, careless perfection. Though Kate was sure they must have spent hours dressing and choosing jewels, they looked as if they always woke up looking just that way.
They watched the English party as Kate and the others made their way past, their ceruse-painted lips smiling faintly, their eyes bright with curiosity. A few of the older courtiers showed their disdain plainly. There were muted whispers behind fans of feathers and painted silk, but mostly there was only silence, strangely loud in the vast space around them.
And what an awe-inspiring space it was. Kate focused on the gallery rather than the stares of the French courtiers, and hoped she was not gaping like a country mouse. Elizabeth had some beautiful palaces—Nonsuch, Richmond, Greenwich, Whitehall—all of them filled with tapestries, portraits, porcelain, and silver plate. Yet Kate had never seen a room as perfectly proportioned, as graceful and opulent, as this one. It fit perfectly with the fairy tale she had seemed to be living in ever since they rode through the Fontainebleau gates.
From the stark vestibule where they had first entered the palace, carved doors had been thrown open to reveal a space that seemed all gleaming gilt and pure white alabaster. Beneath the sea of satin shoes and jeweled hems, the floor was of an inlaid pattern of light and dark woods in intricate triangles and diamonds, echoing the coffered ceiling above. Tall windows with deep embrasures lined the walls and were hung with brocade draperies. Interspersed between the windows were gold benches and small chairs that no one dared sit upon. Fantastical creations also adorned the wall.
The lower wall was of sculpted wood, French walnut as finely grained as marble, formed into tumbling cornucopias of fruit and flowers. The royal arms of France were everywhere, surmounted by the initial “F”—for King Francis, who had been Queen Catherine’s father-in-law and had built this very gallery to reflect his glory.
Kate caught a glimpse of a painting of an elephant and she longed to stop to examine it closer. The whole scene created a song in her mind, a tumble of notes, an elaborate, elegant, lighthearted tune that hid a world of swirling danger beneath, and she wanted more than anything to write it down, to not forget it. But she stumbled a bit over the hem of her new skirt and was abruptly reminded where she was and what she was meant to be doing: watching the French court and learning what they really thought and intended toward Queen Elizabeth.
Amelia tossed her a glance over her shoulder, her eyes wide. For an instant, Amelia seemed almost frightened, yet she quickly covered that flash of fear with her usual careless smile. Kate smoothed her skirt and folded her hands carefully in front of her, staring straight ahead.
At the far end of the room, an enormous tapestry covered the wall, a scene of a royal procession in some ancient city, all gold-edged flowers and prancing horses. A small raised dais sat before it, and on a high-backed gilded chair waited a small child, dressed grandly in dark blue velvet edged in sapphires and pearls, but kicking his velvet shoes with impatience. Queen Mary sat to the other side of the dais, gently smiling in her white gown and veil, whispering to her uncle Guise, who stood behind her.
But it was the woman who sat in the center of the group on the royal dais who captured Kate’s attention. In the midst of so much sparkle, she was like a shadow, one that cast its darkness over everything, like the slow-moving encroachment of night.
Kate was sure that could only be Queen Catherine de Medici. She was seated on a gold chair cushioned with black velvet next to her son, her feet
on a stool that hid how short she was rumored to be. Her seat was only a little lower than that of the bored-looking boy king, who was now fidgeting and tugging at his short satin cloak.
Queen Catherine looked anything but bored. She sat very still and straight, very solemn, yet her gaze was moving, taking in everything in the crowded gallery around her. She wore widow’s black, as they said she always had since her husband died, a matte black velvet that reflected no light. A black silk veil fell from her cap. The only color in her garb was from a collar of ermine and a pair of pearl drop earrings.
Just as everyone had said, Queen Catherine was not beautiful, especially seated so near Queen Mary’s statuesque, marblelike loveliness. Beneath the gold-trimmed edge of her cap, Queen Catherine’s face was round and double chinned, with a long Medici nose and protruding dark eyes. Beneath her veil, the hair that was visible—parted severely and drawn straight back—was a pale brown.
Yet those eyes seemed to glow with a force of intelligence and curiosity she couldn’t suppress. Her hand, adorned only with a wedding ring and a small emerald on her little finger, tapped impatiently on the arm of her chair, as if she couldn’t bear to be so still. As if at any moment a surfeit of energy would make her leap from her chair and fly out of the room.
Even though they looked nothing alike and many years separated them, Queen Catherine reminded Kate of Queen Elizabeth. There was that watchful wariness, that energy, that spark to be doing things.
Queen Catherine’s dark eyes lit on each individual face as they approached her, her gaze sharp and intent as if she memorized them. Kate felt the cold touch of unease. She knew that no matter what happened here in France, she would do well to stay far beneath the Queen Mother’s notice—if that was possible.
Sir Henry led his wife and niece forward, and they made their low bows. Everyone else in the English group hurried to follow their lead.
Rob held out his arm to Kate to help her rise from her curtsy, and she glanced up at him. He, too, looked most fascinated by the two queens, by the grand stage they had set up for their audience.
“Sir Henry, you are welcome back to our court,” Queen Catherine said, her voice low, almost rough, still touched faintly with the sound of her native Florence beneath the smooth French words. “I fear you will find things very different here now than when you were last in residence. We are in sad days indeed.”
“I am honored to be in France again, Your Grace,” Sir Henry said. “Queen Elizabeth sends her deepest condolences and best wishes for God’s grace on your kingdom.”
“Your queen is most kind,” Queen Catherine said, her fingers still tapping at the chair. Her gaze flitted over everyone else. “I see you have brought newcomers with you as well.”
“I have, Your Grace, with Queen Elizabeth’s compliments.” Sir Henry quickly introduced them all. “And this is Mistress Haywood and Master Cartman, who have entertained Queen Elizabeth at her own court, and who she hopes might brighten your own days a bit while they are here.”
Rob offered his arm again to escort Kate forward. Kate still felt that cold uncertainty and hoped she would not tremble, would not give away even a hint of nervousness. She had been at court too long for that. She forced her back to stay very straight, and smiled as she curtsied again.
As she rose, she found that disconcerting, bottomless-dark gaze of Queen Catherine directly on her.
“You must be the musician my daughter-in-law has told us about,” Queen Catherine said. “She said she enjoyed your English songs very much.”
Kate glanced at Queen Mary, who gave her an encouraging smile. “I am very glad my music pleased Queen Mary, Your Grace.”
“I also enjoy music very much, as well as plays and masques. The troubles of life can be heavy indeed, but a song can carry us out of them for a moment,” Queen Catherine said. “We can use such brightness here to remind us of God’s true blessings in this world as well as his trials. You will play for us?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Whenever you wish. I would be honored.”
Queen Catherine smiled, and it transformed her plain, round face into something transcendentally intelligent. Like her daughter-in-law, she had the trick of drawing a person close, of making her feel she was the most important person even in a crowd.
It was a dangerous trick indeed.
“Excellent! I have a troupe of players from Florence here now. I am sure you would be interested in meeting them. I look forward to hearing how your style of song differs from theirs. And now I do find myself in need of a walk. We have all sat here too long, and I see the sun is out at last.”
As if her burning energy could no longer be contained, Queen Catherine pushed herself to her feet. She took the fidgety boy king’s hand and led him beside her down the steps of the dais. Everyone fell into line quickly behind her, and Sir Henry led Kate and the others into another bow. She held on to Rob’s arm and dipped into her lowest curtsy.
Queen Catherine’s ladies moved past, including Celeste Renard. She nodded and winked at Amelia, who laughed in return. Kate noticed that the ladies were indeed an exceptionally pretty group, all much younger than the Queen Mother and clad in low-cut satin gowns and jeweled headdresses.
The large party made its way down the sweeping double stone staircase into the garden. The day was cold, the wind biting, with a touch of ice as it swept through cloaks, but the sun had indeed come out and beamed down on them with a pale yellowish light. It danced over the white marble statues of classical gods and goddesses that lined the pathway, making them appear to move along with the richly dressed courtiers who passed between them in their furs and velvets. In the distance there was a large glass-still pond with an elegant marble pavilion on its far shore, and for an instant Kate wondered if it was a beautiful illusion.
“Mademoiselle Haywood!” Queen Catherine suddenly called.
For a moment, Kate was sure she had not heard right, until everyone turned to stare at her. Surprised and even a bit frightened, she froze for an instant, until Rob gave her a little push. She hurried to the front of the procession, where the queen walked with her son, and hastily curtsied.
“Y-your Grace,” she said, out of breath.
“Monsieur Charles Throckmorton tells me that, as well as music, you have an interest in the alchemical arts,” Queen Catherine said. “That you are acquainted with the famous Dr. Dee. Is this true?”
For a moment, Kate was almost too nervous to speak. Queen Catherine had an indomitable reputation, even in England. But when Kate looked into her dark eyes, she saw only the light of interest and intelligence.
“I have met Dr. Dee, yes, Your Grace. Queen Elizabeth relies on his wisdom a great deal. He is a learned and interesting man, though I fear I am not knowledgeable about such sciences myself.”
“They do say Queen Elizabeth relies greatly on his good counsel, and I have read some of his writings on the rules of seismography. I would like to know more about him and about the work being done in England.” Queen Catherine lifted her hand, and two men in her train hurried to her side. They were both older gentlemen, with the dark eyes and hair of Italians, but one was clad in the somber black of a scholar and one in a blue velvet doublet. “This is my own astrologer and perfumer, Signor Ruggieri, and my personal physician, Dr. Folie. They have assisted me in my studies for many years. Mademoiselle Haywood knows Queen Elizabeth’s Dr. Dee, messieurs.”
The man in the doublet took Kate’s hand and bowed over it. “Fascinating, mademoiselle. I am Dr. Folie, and have learned much from your Monsieur Dee’s writings.”
Signor Ruggieri said nothing but gave her a small sketch of a bow. She could smell a strange cologne emanating from the folds of his black robe, like oranges and jasmine underlaid with something rougher, more raw.
“Perhaps you would join us in my chamber some evening, Mademoiselle Haywood, when we conduct one of our séances,” Queen Catheri
ne said. “You may learn much of interest. Monarchs must be educated and kind as well as ruthless, don’t you think? It is all of one pattern.”
Interest? That was undoubtedly true. Even in England, there was much talk of Queen Catherine’s studies in the science of alchemy, of her powers and the rituals she had brought with her from Italy. It was a bit frightening to think of, true, but also intriguing. Kate could not believe this bit of good fortune. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
“Mademoiselle Renard will show you the way,” Queen Catherine said. She gave Kate a small nod and continued on her walk, her astrologer, doctor, and ladies falling in behind her, so she was soon lost to sight.
Celeste gave Kate a smile as she strolled past, but when Queen Catherine was out of sight, she leaned close and whispered, “You must be very careful of Signor Ruggieri, Mademoiselle Haywood.”
“The perfumer?”
“Oui. But then, I am sure you already know to be on your guard with everyone. Not everyone is as they seem.”
Kate nodded. Aye, she did know that—all too well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The corridor in the far wing of the palace was quiet as Kate made her way to her chamber. It was late; the evening had gone on long, with card games, wine, and sweet delicacies in Queen Catherine’s rooms, and Kate had been asked to play her English songs again, even as the Barnetts retired early. She felt weary, her mind heavy, but she felt she had learned much about French manners, French relationships.
The only light was from a few torches flickering in the shadows. The air was cold. A sound like a low, harsh sob echoed between the bare walls, and Kate thought of tales of restless ghosts roaming palace halls, touching mortals with their icy fingers. She shivered and hurried her steps toward her own door.
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