Lady Barnett turned the muff over and examined the tear. “I do not know what she could have put there. Was it an emblem of some sort? A design?”
Of course Kate remembered what it was. Yet something held her back from telling Lady Barnett. She didn’t want to grieve the lady even more by reminding her of her niece’s once-scandalous behavior with d’Emours. “I could not tell. Perhaps it was something from the Barnetts?”
Lady Barnett gave a rusty laugh. “Nay, not my husband’s family. I was a De la Chose through my grandmother, as was Amelia’s mother, but our family has not the money for such a jewel, even if our name is an ancient one indeed. Much older than the Barnetts’.” Reminiscing seemed to give her new energy, and she pushed herself up to sit against the pillows. “Our forefathers came to England with William the Conquerer, and our grandmother was also French, an Orieux. I never knew her, though they say she was very beautiful. Like Amelia. She was the reason why we came to the French court in the first place. French families are indeed fond of such devices, though I do not know where Amelia would have found such a thing. No doubt one of her admirers gave it to her. She had so many!”
“Was there one in particular she favored? An imminent betrothal?”
Lady Barnett shrugged. “There were some who had approached my husband, such as Master Ridley, but Amelia had not made up her mind. She deserved so much, with her beauty and wit. Mayhap even a title!” She suddenly frowned. “Master Ridley seems a good man, but men have been moved to great anger before when ladies turned away their suits.”
Kate thought of Queen Mary’s accusations, her finger pointed at Toby. “I am sure Master Ridley would not have hurt Mistress Wrightsman. It must have been a terrible accident.”
“So my husband says,” Lady Barnett spat out. “He says I must be content it was so, for all our sakes. But I see her when I close my eyes. She calls out to me. . . .”
Lady Barnett’s face crumpled, and tears spilled from her eyes. Kate quickly laid aside her lute and knelt beside the bed. She took the lady’s hand in hers and found it icy-cold.
“If someone did indeed hurt Mistress Wrightsman, they will be found out—I promise,” Kate said.
“Nay, my husband is right. France is a dangerous place. No one knows which way their alliances will fall, where fighting will break out next. Without the goodwill of Queen Catherine and Queen Mary, England would be in much trouble here. We must call no attention to ourselves, not now. But, oh! My poor Amelia!”
Kate’s heart ached for the woman, for her own helplessness in the face of such deep sadness. “Shall I fetch you some wine, Lady Barnett?”
“It makes me feel so tired, so confused. But if it can make me forget for a moment . . .”
Kate nodded and rose from beside the bed. She had just mixed up the powdered herbal potion from Mistress Berry’s box when that lady returned. The sweet scent of the herbs, chamomile, and something darker, greener, just beneath, still lingered in the air, and a few long sips of the concoction did seem to help settle Lady Barnett. Mistress Berry laid her tray of bread and cheese on the bedside table and coaxed Lady Barnett to take a few bites before she fell asleep.
“Did she fare well enough while I was gone?” Mistress Berry asked as she shook out another blanket to lie across the bed.
“Well enough. We talked a bit.” Kate thought of Lady Barnett’s French family, and Amelia and her suitors. “Did you happen to come to France with Lady Barnett long ago? She mentioned a French grandmother Mistress Wrightsman resembled.”
Mistress Berry gave a faint smile and busily rearranged the barely touched breakfast tray. “I did, but my experience as a young lady at the French court was rather different from Jane’s. Or Amelia’s, I would wager. I had little dowry, and not as much beauty. And that was a very long time ago. I am sure it could have naught to do with last night’s sad events.”
Could it not? One thing Kate had learned at Elizabeth’s court was that the past was always nearby. Old slights and crimes, old loves, they were always lurking, ready to roar back into the present.
There was a knock at the door, and Mistress Berry opened it to admit a servant in Queen Mary’s black-and-white livery.
“Her Majesty Queen Mary asks if Mademoiselle Haywood could attend to her anon,” he said with a bow. “And bring her music.”
Mistress Berry glanced at Kate with narrowed eyes. “A royal summons, Mistress Haywood. You must attend at once, I am sure.”
Kate nodded. She looked to Lady Barnett, who still slept, her dreams seemingly peaceful for the moment. There was naught left she could do there.
She followed the queen’s servant out of the room and down the corridor toward the royal apartments, the sweet scent of green herbs clinging to her skirts.
• • •
Queen Mary’s chambers were in a wing of the château far from the English apartments, and looked out from the windows onto long manicured garden beds and straight graveled pathways dotted with marble statues of gods and goddesses and tiny cupids, their arrows pointed at the gray sky. Behind the thick glass, Kate glimpsed a distant vision of the carp pond and the pavilion at its edge.
It looked placid and peaceful, abandoned, in the wintry light.
The room was crowded with the queen’s ladies seated on velvet cushions and low footstools near the fireplaces, their silken skirts spread out around them like flowers. They laughed over their embroidery or books of poetry, dogs scurrying between them, a parrot in its gilded cage by the window chattering and squawking.
Queen Mary herself sat by the farthest fireplace. Her auburn head was bent over an embroidery frame, her own pack of tiny white dogs gathered at her feet, almost invisible against the creamy silk of her gown. She laughed at something the lady beside her had whispered, her heart-shaped face alight.
The atmosphere in the chamber was calm, bright. After the heavy sorrow of Lady Barnett’s room, it was most disconcerting.
Queen Mary glanced up and saw Kate hovering in the doorway, uncertain how to proceed. Her smile turned gentle and she held out her hand. “Mademoiselle Haywood. Welcome. Do come and sit over here, where it is warm. I was glad to get your message this morning, and to see that you have brought your lute. We could all use the cheerful distraction of music today, I do think.”
There was no trace of last night’s icy anger in Queen Mary’s smile. She was changeable, as hard to read as her cousin Elizabeth. It made Kate feel even more cautious. She curtsied and made her way to the fireside. A servant quickly brought her a low stool, and another offered her cakes and wine.
As she settled her skirts around her and set about tuning the lute, she studied the four ladies gathered around the queen, each of them delicately pretty and beautifully dressed.
“You have not yet met my dear Maries, Mademoiselle Haywood,” Queen Mary said, gesturing to them. “Mary Beaton, Mary Seton, Mary Livingston, and Mary Fleming. They all came to France with me when we were but tiny children, and have stayed faithfully by my side ever since. I do not know what I would do without them, though I feel I could not ask them to leave their lives here and return to Scotland, if that was what I chose.”
“Our lives are wherever you may be, Your Majesty!” Mary Seton, the smallest and prettiest of them, cried. “We would follow you anywhere.”
“Anywhere,” Mary Beaton echoed. “Even to . . .”
She shuddered and bent her head back to her sewing. Kate wondered if she was about to say to Spain, or mayhap to Denmark, Sweden, or Bavaria, all rumored to be suitors for Mary’s hand. They probably would follow; Mary’s servants seemed just as devoted as Elizabeth’s own.
Queen Mary hinted at returning to Scotland, and the presence of Lord James at court seemed to indicate she would do just that. But Mary also clearly loved the elegant, sophisticated, pampered yet deceptive life of France. Surely she would say nothing for certain, and Kate had little enoug
h to write to Queen Elizabeth.
And now there was Amelia’s death—and the rumors that Queen Mary had set afloat that the English must have had something to do with it themselves, that it was a bizarre scheme to blame Mary in front of Elizabeth. Kate had been at royal courts and at Fontainebleau long enough to know the great power gossip had. Even tempered steel could not cut it once it took hold.
“What would Your Majesty like to hear today?” Kate asked.
“Oh, more of your English songs, I think. I do so love them!” Queen Mary said. “I feel as if I could know my cousin through the music. I long for the day when we meet in person. I have so very little family left, and family is the most important thing there is. Don’t you think so, Mademoiselle Haywood?”
Kate started playing a lively new chaconne, one of Queen Elizabeth’s favorites. It was a piece she had played many times, and she was accustomed to talking as her fingers plucked at the strings faster and faster.
“Family is indeed a fine thing in life, Your Majesty, though I fear I have none left myself,” Kate said. The song made her think of her father, and a wave of sadness washed over her.
“None at all?” Mary cried.
“My mother died when I was born, and my father, who was also a court musician, died just before Christmas,” Kate said. She kept her head bent low over the neck of her lute and blinked hard to keep back her tears. She knew better than to show anything more than artful, masquerading emotion. “I have no siblings.”
“Pauvre Mademoiselle Haywood,” sighed Mary. Her Maries made sympathetic murmurs. “I, too, lost a parent only months ago, my dearest maman. My father died when I was but a week old, of course, but my mother was like both parents to me. She fought to keep my throne safe, even against people like my own cousin.” Queen Mary’s lips tightened, and she stabbed at her cloth with her needle. “The Scottish lords were most ungrateful to her. What can a land with such rulers be like? Rough and ignorant. We must help them if we can.”
“But the people love you! They speak only of you, long for you,” Mary Seton said. “My family writes that to me so very often. You would transform Scotland.”
Mary looked pensive as she studied an embroidered flower. “Perhaps so. With my cousin Queen Elizabeth’s help, of course. As two queens in one isle, we would have to work together. Do you not agree, Mademoiselle Haywood?”
“I am sure you would have much to share, Your Majesty,” Kate said carefully. “Queen Elizabeth also wishes greatly to be friends.”
Queen Mary gave a small smile. “I am sure of it. I fear it is like my dear maman and the treacherous lords around her. There will always be those who wish us ill, who will try to come between us, and people like poor Amelia will fall victim to such vile schemes.”
The Maries exchanged alarmed glances, but their faces quickly smoothed out to mild smiles. Kate saw the queen’s message. She suspected Elizabeth, but was more than willing to blame evil forces, wrong advice, for any rift—for now.
“But the people, the true people, want only peace and amity,” Mary continued. “I could bring them such. With Elizabeth’s help. Perhaps you would assure her of that, Mademoiselle Haywood, when you return to England with pages of our French songs in your trunks?”
“I am only a musician, Your Majesty,” Kate said, thinking of those same trunks that had recently been searched. “But I will happily pass along any message you care to send with me.”
Queen Mary’s smile widened, and it was like the sun bursting out from behind rain clouds. “C’est bon! Grand matters are better left to men, I always find. Their minds are stronger, more expansive, better suited to such things as battles and treaties. I rely on the advice of my uncles and of Lord James. Yet there are a few things we females understand so well. Small, personal things. Matters of friendship.”
Kate nodded. It was the same as what Elizabeth and men like Cecil and Sir Henry Barnett—reluctantly—said. Women were good for some things: small, personal, secret matters. But she wondered if any were quite so good at secrets as Queen Mary herself.
The queen and her ladies went on to whisper about other things—a planned hawking expedition to some Guise lands, a new fashion in dagged sleeves, a shipment of plumes that had arrived from Florence. Kate played more English songs, listening to it all, letting her own thoughts organize and take shape in her mind. She still did not know what Elizabeth truly wanted from Mary, where she wanted the Scots queen to go or stay, so every scrap of information was to be remembered.
Suddenly, the double doors to Queen Mary’s chamber opened, and Queen Catherine appeared, preceded by only two pages in her green-and-white livery and followed by her beautiful ladies. Kate glimpsed Celeste peeking past the much shorter queen’s black-clad shoulder. Celeste looked pale, dark circles beneath her eyes, as if she had not slept well.
“Maman Queen,” Queen Mary said, her tone startled. She quickly set aside her sewing and rose to her feet, making a small, respectful curtsy. Her ladies hastened to do the same. “You honor me with your visit. If I had known you were coming, I would have sent for more wine.”
Queen Catherine waved her hand and gave a small, tight smile. “It is of no matter, daughter; I was merely passing and thought to stop and invite you to a small gathering at my little dairy, Mi Voie. We could all use a distraction, oui, a bit of merriment in such dark days? That is why I built my little farm. I have made many improvements to the buildings I am sure everyone would enjoy seeing.”
“Of course, Maman Queen,” Queen Mary said. “As you know, I have often expressed an interest in building a dairy of my own. It would be most healthful.”
“I hope you will one day. It does much to make any palace feel like a home.” Queen Catherine’s shrewd, dark gaze swept over the gathering. It landed on Kate, and suddenly she felt as squirmy as a child. “I hope you are keeping yourself busy at such a sad time, daughter. So many losses now, first the king and now your English friend.”
“Mademoiselle Haywood was just showing us some of the English songs,” Queen Mary said. “And telling us news of my cousin.”
“Is she? I, too, would like to hear the new music of England. It would be interesting to hear how their taste differs from that of the French or the Florentines,” Queen Catherine said with a pleasant smile.
Mary glanced at Kate, seemingly uncertain. She did seem younger, much more unsure, around her mother-in-law, though Kate had heard Mary could be rather dismissive of Catherine’s lowly origins when she was not nearby.
“Of course you must send for Mademoiselle Haywood to play in your own chamber soon, Queen Maman.”
“Why not now?” Queen Catherine said. “We are going for a walk in the gardens while the sun is shining a bit. You should all join us.”
“Oh, I fear it would be too cold for me,” Queen Mary said quickly. “I have had a fainting spell only this morning.”
“Your old trouble again, daughter?” Queen Catherine said, her voice soft and full of concern. But her dark eyes did not change.
Queen Mary nodded, and Kate recalled tales of her ill health that had reached even England—stories of fainting and pains in the side that would not go away. “I am well enough now, but the doctors say I should stay by the fire for the time being.”
“You must always follow the doctors’ advice, ma chère. Shall I send Dr. Folie to you?” Queen Catherine said. “He is most wise, I have found.”
“Thank you, Queen Maman,” Queen Mary answered with a sweet smile.
Catherine abruptly turned to Kate. “But what of you, Mademoiselle Haywood? Are you also delicate? Or has the harsh English weather made you hardy?”
Kate was startled Queen Catherine would talk to her directly and for an instant did not know what to say. “Nay, Your Majesty, I enjoy a long walk. Especially when the scenery is as beautiful as here at Fontainebleau.”
“Then perhaps you would join us now,�
� Queen Catherine said. “I am as anxious as my daughter-in-law to hear more of the new English styles.”
Kate nodded with a curtsy as Queen Catherine and her ladies departed as swiftly as they had arrived. As Kate moved to follow, Queen Mary suddenly reached out and caught her sleeve.
“Do not forget, Mademoiselle Haywood,” she whispered. “We females are best at small intimacies and loyal friendships. We must all rely on one another.”
Kate wasn’t sure what she meant by such cryptic words, but she had time only to give Queen Mary a startled nod before she heard Celeste Renard call her name. Mary Seton took her lute with a whispered promise to return it to her chamber, and Kate hurried to catch up with Queen Catherine’s party as they wound their way out to the terrace.
It had indeed become a sunny day, the sun shimmering on the lines of white marble statues along the flower beds, but it was also a chilly one, with a cold wind whistling between the carefully shaped trees. Kate shivered, for she had left her cloak in her chamber.
Celeste handed her a woolen shawl trimmed with fluffy white fur. “Here, Mademoiselle Haywood, you must take this. I have my cloak.”
“Mademoiselle Haywood,” the queen called. “Will you tell me more of your queen’s Dr. Dee? He sounds like someone whose talents I could use here in France.”
Kate thought of the séance she had once observed at Nonsuch Palace, which had been quite chilling. She still preferred the measurable magic of music to the spirits, but she had heard so many rumors that the help of the spirits was what Queen Catherine sought. “I fear I have not seen Dr. Dee at work, Your Majesty. I have only read some of his writings and spoken with him once or twice at Queen Elizabeth’s court. I saw one of his apprentices conduct a séance once, which I confess frightened me.”
Queen Catherine peered at Kate’s face closely with her large dark eyes. Her black veil fluttered in the wind. “It can be most frightening to see the truth hidden beneath our everyday world. But I have always felt that it is better to know the truth. My dear Signor Ruggieri has many gifts, and I value his advice. Perhaps you would join us one evening to hear what he has to say? It might be of interest to your queen.” She waved her closest attendants back and started toward the steps to the garden. “Come, walk with me for a moment, if Lady Barnett can spare you.”
Murder at Fontainebleau Page 15
