Murder at Fontainebleau

by Amanda Carmack

  Sir Henry, who sat beside his wife but never offered her a consoling touch, nodded. His bearded face beneath his white nightcap was grim. “I fear that must have been what happened.”

  Kate glanced at Queen Catherine’s doctor, Monsieur Folie, who had joined Rob, the Barnetts, Mistress Berry, and her in the room. He had been roused to look at the body, which had been placed in one of the cold underground storage rooms beneath the kitchens, and had then joined the Barnetts. He wore his fine fur-trimmed night robe and a linen cap, but he did not look as if he had just been roused from his bed. He looked most thoughtful, even interested, and Kate wondered what he had found.

  Sir Nicholas Throckmorton had been sent for and had not yet arrived. Kate thought of his general exasperation toward women, from Queen Mary on down, and the way he insisted their foolish behavior made his work in France so much more difficult. What would he say about Amelia Wrightsman turning up so inconveniently dead in the royal pond? Would it even be important enough to make him leave his rooms at such a cold, dark hour?

  Perhaps Brigit Berry was correct, Kate thought, and Amelia had only met with a terrible accident. Amelia had been full of merriment that night, dancing and drinking wine, but her mirth had been frantic, her laughter edged. An accident of this sort made sense, but more than that, it would create one less difficulty in a royal court that was already overflowing with complications.

  Yet something kept tugging at her mind, telling her it was not that simple. The light. The shadow. There was something she could not quite catch hold of, her mind too fuzzy with tiredness and sadness.

  She shivered as she remembered Amelia’s blank eyes, the dried blood matting her hair. Rob put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, and she was glad she had someone to lean on. That she was not completely alone in this strange country, surrounded by people she barely knew and all their secrets. So very many secrets.

  “What would my sister say?” Lady Barnett whispered. “I promised I would keep her daughter safe.”

  Mistress Berry silently handed her the bottle of smelling salts.

  The door suddenly opened and Sir Nicholas appeared there, hastily dressed in mismatched hose and doublet, his hair tangled. Charles was behind him, grim-faced but still dressed in his fine black velvet from the party. Beside him was Toby Ridley. Poor Master Ridley was anything but composed, clad only in his night robe, his eyes feverish in his white face. Charles tried to hold him back, but he surged forward.

  “Where is she?” he shouted. “I must see her!”

  Sir Nicholas gave him a narrow-eyed glare full of disdain, but it was Sir Henry who answered, surprisingly gently. “She has been taken to a suitable place and treated with great decency. Please, Master Ridley, do sit down here with us.”

  “I will not!” Toby cried. Kate could see he was beyond reason, crazed with grief. Another emotion, too, lay beneath the surface, but Kate couldn’t make out what it was. Charles took his arm in a firm grasp and whispered something in his ear as he led him toward the fire. Toby at first stiffened, as if he would snatch his arm away from his friend and fight him, run away, but then he crumpled like a piece of cloth in the winter wind. He suddenly looked very young, devastated. Charles helped him sit down on a stool, and Mistress Berry poured him a goblet of wine.

  “Now it only remains to find out what really happened,” Sir Henry said.

  “We will have to do it quickly, then, or at least agree on a plausible tale,” Sir Nicholas said. “For Queen Mary is on her way here as we speak.”

  “Queen Mary?” Sir Henry cried, leaping from his seat. “What can she know of this sad event already, at such an hour?” He shot an accusing glance at Queen Catherine’s doctor, who merely shrugged.

  Sir Nicholas shook his head with a scowl. “One of these infernal ladies-in-waiting, I am sure. They have nothing better to do than prowl the corridors at all hours, hunting for gossip to carry back to the queen.”

  “But what could be her interest?” Sir Henry growled. “My wife’s niece was just an English visitor, and a silly, insignificant one at that.”

  Kate, too, was rather surprised to hear that Queen Mary herself was on her way to the Barnetts’ rooms before dawn. Yet she could not agree that Amelia was only an insignificant visitor, not with her involvement with a kinsman to the Guise.

  “Queen Mary was very fond of Amelia—you know that, Henry. The queen is a kind lady who takes much interest in her friends.” Lady Barnett sniffled. “Everyone was Amelia’s friend.”

  The door opened again without so much as a knock, and Queen Mary swept in, followed by several ladies, including Celeste. Queen Mary was not yet dressed in her courtly garments and wore only a deep-coral-colored velvet gown trimmed with sable, her auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders. She looked even more beautiful in this simple gown than in her queenly robes, but the usual welcoming smile on her face was absent, replaced by a white marblelike coldness.

  “I have heard of what happened to my friend Mademoiselle Wrightsman,” Queen Mary said, each word clipped and steely. Her amber gaze flickered over the company, touching each person as if to memorize his or her expression, and landed on Queen Catherine’s doctor. Her eyes narrowed. “You have seen her, I presume, Dr. Folie? What news of her are you carrying back to my mother-in-law?”

  Dr. Folie bowed low, his own expression hidden by his cap. “I fear I have not yet had time for a proper examination, Your Majesty.”

  “Then you must make time immediately,” Queen Mary snapped. “I have many enemies creeping around me now that I have lost my husband and am unprotected. Mademoiselle Wrightsman was known to be my friend. What if they attacked her because of that?”

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Nicholas said soothingly. Kate remembered how even he was charmed by Queen Mary’s feminine delicacy, though he was careful not to approach her too closely now. “We are certain Mistress Wrightsman was merely the victim of a sad accident.”

  Mary’s hands clenched into fists, and Kate could see how much she looked like Queen Elizabeth—right before Elizabeth threw something at someone’s head. “How can that be, Sir Nicholas? Why would she be at the pavilion when everyone else was gone? Surely she was lured there! Perhaps they thought she had information about me or my family. Perhaps they . . .”

  She suddenly whirled around to face Toby Ridley, who still sat crumpled on his stool, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. She pointed one slender white finger at him, and he looked up, startled.

  Kate had the unpleasant sensation she was trapped in a scene of a play and could not get out. Mary had Elizabeth’s Tudor genius for setting a tableau, for the drama of every moment, but it was not so amusing in real life as it was on the stage.

  “You pursued her, I know,” Queen Mary said. “And she sent you away again and again. Everyone knows this, Monsieur Ridley. Perhaps you killed her because of this.”

  Toby’s eyes widened in horror. “I cared about Amelia, ’tis true enough. I would never have hurt her!”

  Mary would not relent. “Mayhap you were caught in a great fit of passion—or mayhap you are in the pay of my cousin, or people who would seek to discredit me in her eyes. I know you English are always watching, watching. Waiting to send foul lies back to your queen, to ruin the friendship that should be between us.”

  Sir Nicholas and Sir Henry exchanged alarmed glances, as if this was what they had feared all along here at Fontainebleau. A rupture between the two cousin queens.

  “I would never do such a thing,” Toby cried.

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Henry said soothingly, or at least what Kate assumed he thought was soothing. It sounded more as if he were trying to back away from a mad dog. “I am honored you consider my niece a friend, and truly we will do all in our power to have justice for her. She met with an accident—”

  “Accident!” Queen Mary shouted. “I am no fool, Sir Henry. I have b
een a queen since I was a week old, and even then your England tried to destroy me and my mother. Now pauvre Amelia has paid the price. Either you find who did this, or I will. Even my own cousin’s servants must pay the price for such an evil.”

  She whirled around and left the chamber as she had entered it, like a storm rumbling across the sky. Celeste gave Toby a quick, pained glance and Kate a sympathetic smile, and followed the queen. The door slammed behind them. The royal doctor also swiftly took his leave, and the room fell into a heavy silence.

  Toby broke down into audible sobs, and at Sir Nicholas’s urging, Charles led him away. Mistress Berry mixed some herbs into a goblet of wine and handed it to Lady Barnett, who was sniffling into her handkerchief.

  Rob led Kate from the room, slipping out while the Barnetts were distracted. “Shall I see you to your chamber?” he asked. “I am supposed to meet Thomas.”

  Kate shook her head. “I will be well enough. Thank you, Rob.” She felt too confused, too restless, to be alone in her room, yet when Rob walked away, she wasn’t sure where to go next. Where to look for answers. She longed for a moment alone to think.

  “Mistress Haywood,” Sir Nicholas called, “will you walk with us for a moment?”

  Kate glanced back to find Sir Nicholas and Charles coming up the stairs behind her. Gray-faced and solemn, they both looked as weary as she felt. She longed for her bed, but she knew it would still be long before sleep could find her. She nodded and followed them into an empty corridor.

  “What think you of this sad business tonight?” Sir Nicholas asked.

  Kate was rather surprised he’d asked her—a mere female—her opinion of anything. But, then again, he was facing a serious complication, one where as many watching eyes and listening ears as possible would be an asset. “Mistress Wrightsman was kind to me,” she said carefully. “And Lady Barnett seems most grief-stricken.”

  “It could be a dangerous thing for Queen Elizabeth,” Sir Nicholas snapped.

  “Toby is one of the queen’s own emissaries,” Charles said. “If it was thought he killed one of Queen Mary’s friends . . .”

  “Charles says that a lady can go places where we cannot,” Sir Nicholas said, with great reluctance in his tone. “Queen Mary would be more unguarded with a woman.”

  “Queen Catherine as well,” Charles added.

  Sir Nicholas gave a snort. “Nay, never Queen Catherine. She is never unguarded, perhaps not even in her sleep. But you could be of much assistance to us in this dire situation, Mistress Haywood.”

  Kate nodded. She was not as known as the Throckmortons; people were not as careful in what they said around her, and she was trained to watch and listen closely without being observed. But a woman was dead under suspicious circumstances. Surely everyone would be doubly wary now, and she herself would have to watch her path most carefully. “I could send a message to Queen Mary tomorrow, begging leave to bring some books of music to her.”

  Sir Nicholas gave a terse nod. “That would be best. Queen Mary does like her frivolities. It is best to distract her now, before her accusations damage our delicate negotiations here.”

  Kate remembered being shoved against the railing on the ship, the rush of raw fear, and she swallowed hard before she nodded. “I will do my best, Sir Nicholas. I am here to serve Queen Elizabeth however I can.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Early the next morning, knowing she would never be able to truly sleep, Kate sent a note to Queen Mary’s rooms, asking if she could bring her some of Queen Elizabeth’s favorite songs as a distraction. While she waited for a reply, she dressed and made her way to Lady Barnett’s chamber, her lute in one hand and Amelia’s fur muff, wrapped carefully in linen, in the other. She thought perhaps Lady Barnett would wish to have it back. Or perhaps she would not, now that it was associated with such sadness.

  Mistress Berry had sent a message asking if Kate would play for Lady Barnett, to help soothe her spirits, and Kate found she would welcome the distraction herself. She had snatched only a few moments of sleep after crawling into her borrowed bed. The images of Amelia Wrightsman, her white face and staring eyes, her water-soaked white gown, haunted every dream.

  Just before dawn, a vivid nightmare of Amelia rising from the water and pointing an accusing, bloodstained finger at her made her jolt awake, crying out. She couldn’t sleep again.

  She had stirred up the fire and huddled by its budding warmth as she went over and over all that had happened. She remembered Amelia’s laughter on their long journey to France, her charm, the way she drew everyone close to her, especially men like Toby and Monsieur d’Emours. Her anger and sadness in unguarded moments; the secrets she held in her eyes.

  To distract herself, Kate opened the herbal book Mistress Berry had loaned her, hoping to lose herself in recipes for syrups and scents. She hoped that in looking at sketches of plants she might remember something else.

  By the time the maidservant arrived to bring Kate’s morning bread and ale and help her dress, Kate’s head whirled with sadness and fury as she tried to make sense of it all. But the maid had chatted about what was happening at court in the next few days, and hunts and masques. And the crowds Kate passed on her way to visit Lady Barnett also seemed to be in a different world than the sad one in which Amelia lay mysteriously dead. There were the same smiles and light words as always. She did not see Monsieur d’Emours and his Guise relations anywhere, nor did she see Lord James and the Scots, or Celeste Renard.

  The corridor leading to the Barnetts’ apartment, was silent and empty. Kate knocked softly at the door, feeling choked with sadness and uncertainty.

  Mistress Berry opened the door. She was as tidy and neat as always, her graying hair tucked beneath a snow-white cap, in her hand a small tray that held a variety of bottles and pots. An apron covered her black skirts. But her bright blue eyes were rimmed with red and heavy with tiredness.

  “Ah, Mistress Haywood, thank you for coming. I know the hour is early, and not one of us here has had an instant of rest.” She ushered Kate into the sitting room, which was empty and darkened.

  “How fares Lady Barnett?” Kate asked quietly.

  “She has calmed a bit after I gave her some of my valerian mixture in a bit of wine, but she won’t eat a morsel. Sir Henry left early this morning to confer some more with Sir Nicholas. Perhaps a song could soothe her.”

  Kate nodded and followed Mistress Berry into the bedchamber. The embroidered velvet draperies were drawn over the windows, leaving only the light from the fireplace. Lady Barnett was a small figure huddled in the middle of the large bed, the coverlets drawn around her. She lay on her side, staring with wide eyes into the fire, one hand clutching at the edge of her pillow.

  “Mistress Haywood has come to call on you, Jane,” Mistress Berry said, tucking a shawl closer around Lady Barnett’s shoulders. “She will play the lute for you—you do so enjoy her songs, I know. She’ll stay with you while I fetch some bread and soup for your breakfast.”

  Lady Barnett slowly turned her head to look at Kate, her pretty blue eyes blank for a moment. She bit her lip and nodded before she aimed her stare back at the flickering flames.

  “I will return anon, Mistress Haywood,” Mistress Berry whispered. “If she needs it, mix a spoonful of the herbs in that box into some wine for her to sip.”

  Kate nodded and watched as Mistress Berry swept out of the room, the hem of her black skirts whispering over the rushes of the floor. Kate sat down on the stool across from the bed, tucking the parcel of Amelia’s mud-stained muff beneath her and setting her lute on her knees. She started to play a soft, simple tune as she studied Lady Barnett. The woman did not stir or say anything, but her eyes grew damp with tears.

  Kate swallowed her own threatening sobs and played on, finding comfort in the oft-repeated notes, the way the music slowly wrapped around her like a warm, familiar touch.

&
nbsp; “What did she look like when you found her—my Amelia?” Lady Barnett suddenly asked. She didn’t turn away from the fire and her voice sounded distant, impersonal, as if she asked the plot of a masque.

  “She looked . . .” Kate shook her head as she remembered Amelia’s pale face in the moonlight, her wide-open eyes and purplish lips. Her father had looked peaceful when he died, as if he had fallen asleep and drifted away to be with her mother again, but most of the times she had seen death they did not. Rob’s uncle at Hatfield, her friend Mary at Westminster. It had been fearful.

  “It is quite all right, Mistress Haywood,” Lady Barnett said. She turned her head on the pillow to look at Kate, her expression serious but composed. She looked much like her niece. “I am sure it could not have been tranquil.”

  Kate’s fingers stilled on the lute strings. She took out the linen-wrapped muff and held it out to Lady Barnett. “I found this at the edge of the pond. I know it was Mistress Wrightsman’s.”

  Lady Barnett took it from her and slowly unwrapped it. She gave a small sob and then fell silent, stroking the fur. “I gave her this and a matching hood for New Year’s. How she loved it!” She laid it down carefully on the pillow beside hers. “I was never blessed with my own children, so when Amelia came to us when she was a girl, it was as if I had a daughter at last. Her mother, my sister, was taken much too soon, and I saw her in Amelia. Her eyes, her laugh. The way people were just drawn to her.”

  “I am so very sorry, Lady Barnett,” Kate said gently. “I do fear that when I found the muff, the jeweled brooch was gone.”

  A frown whispered over Lady Barnett’s brow. “Brooch?”

  Kate wondered if she had imagined the jewel when she saw it with Amelia at the party, but nay, it was clear in her memory. A rampant lion, like the ones on the Guise coat of arms, formed in diamonds. “Where the fur is torn there along the back. I glimpsed it when I arrived at the pavilion last night and Mistress Wrightsman greeted me. It was most lovely.”