Murder at Hatfield House: An Elizabethan Mystery

by Carmack, Amanda

  “Indeed, marriage is a most blessed state, my ladies,” he said. “A gift that God has given us to enrich our lives here on earth.”

  “Only if one’s chosen partner is agreeable to one’s own heart and mind in every respect,” Elizabeth said. She laughed, but Kate could hear the bitter tinge to those words. Most of the marriages Elizabeth had seen in her life had ended in disaster, even violent death. “All too often in this world such is not the case, and more misery ensues than a person would ever know if he remained in their single state. Though I am very sure you and Mistress Dormer will be most happy, my lord de Feria.”

  Unlike his master, King Philip, and Queen Mary. The unspoken words hung as heavy in the air as the scent of cinnamon sauce, but Feria merely nodded.

  “And so we shall be,” he said. “As have Lady Clinton and her husband. But I would most heartily wish the same happiness for you, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth toyed with a bit of the fine white manchet bread, tearing it to crumbles between her fingers. “I have not yet found any man I could be so fond of, my lord.”

  “Truly?” Feria said with a teasing smile. “I have heard it said around court that you will surely soon wed the Earl of Arundel.”

  “What calumny!” Elizabeth cried. “The earl is forty-five if he is a day, and a blustery old fool with the draftiest of castles. Who says such a thing?”

  “Why, the earl himself, of course,” Feria said. “He is very detailed in his plans.”

  Elizabeth burst into merry laughter, Feria and Lady Clinton with her. “Ah, yes, Arundel is ever full of fantasy. I assure you, my lord de Feria, I shall never wed such a one as that.”

  Feria turned his goblet between his fingers, seemingly fascinated by the sparkle of the gems set around its base. “Then who would you wed, my lady?”

  Elizabeth sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I would choose someone kind, of course, and educated. And well dressed! And a fine dancer. But my marriage is in the queen’s hands, as I told the Swedish ambassador when he dared to approach me directly about a match with his king’s brother.”

  “A match with Sweden would be a poor one indeed,” Feria said. “But what of a greater match? With King Philip’s own friend the Duke of Savoy? When that was proffered you turned it away as well, and yet there is accounted no greater or more chivalric knight in all Europe than Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.”

  Elizabeth’s face hardened as her laughter vanished. Lady Clinton folded her hands carefully atop the table, and Penelope looked down studiously at her lap, but Kate saw that Feria watched only Elizabeth. It was fascinating, like observing a closely matched chess game. One never knew which way the players would leap. She was learning so much from the princess.

  “You know my hesitations about the Savoy marriage, my lord, as I am sure Philip confides all in you,” Elizabeth said. Feria’s glance flickered uncertainly toward Kate and Penelope, but Elizabeth waved away his doubts and switched her words smoothly into Spanish. “You can speak freely, senor. My ladies here speak only English.” She turned to Kate and added, in English, “Perhaps you will play for us while we chat?”

  Kate nodded and quickly went to fetch her lute. As she strummed a soft song, she listened to their conversation and found that, though her Spanish was a bit rusty, she understood their words well enough.

  “I would be happy if the whole world understood my words,” Feria said. “King Philip is at all times concerned with your well-being, my lady. He advanced the Savoy marriage only to help assure your place in the succession. If the queen your sister was assured you were well-married . . .”

  “Yet the queen did not approve the marriage any more than I did,” Elizabeth said, a thread of steel in her voice. “And I shall be honest, as we are in confidential conversation here, senor. I saw how my sister lost the good affection of the people, the most solid protection of any monarch, because she married a foreigner.”

  Feria’s jaw tightened, but it was the only indication he reacted at all to her words. “Then who would you choose to marry, my lady?”

  “I have no thoughts of marriage at all at present,” Elizabeth answered. “And surely that question is of concern only to myself and the queen.”

  “Philip is also most concerned with your welfare, as you surely well know,” Feria said. “When the queen ordered you to the Tower, he worked most diligently to have you out again and invited back to court. He has only wanted to encourage cordial relations between yourself and your sister.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “And I give my most sincere thanks to His Majesty for all his kind efforts on my behalf. They shall not be forgotten.”

  “It was only thanks to him, not Queen Mary or her council, that your rights of succession have been assured. . . .”

  With those words, Kate saw that Feria went too far. Elizabeth slammed her palms down hard on the table, making the gilded plate clatter and wine slosh in the goblets. “My lord de Feria, we shall be clear about one thing. It was the people alone who have put me in my present position—the people and my birth. So it was with the queen herself. The people supported her rights and raised her to her correct place on the throne when the dukes of Northumberland and Suffolk would have snatched it from her and placed it into the hands of our cousin Jane Grey. Not Philip, nor any nobility of the realm, had any part in my place.”

  “My lady,” Feria said, his hands held out as if to placate her. “I meant only that King Philip and the council shall always stand as your friends.”

  “My friends?” Elizabeth said. Even in the candlelit dimness of the room her eyes blazed fire. “It was thanks to the kind offices of the council that I have been made a prisoner over and over again these past years. I hope I may know who my true friends are.”

  “I would offer you a warning, my lady, on letting such anger lead you to seek revenge when you are in a position to do so,” said Feria. “Everyone has great hopes of finding that you are indeed the kind and good princess rumor holds you. Everyone would sacrifice much for such mercy.”

  Elizabeth’s shoulders trembled as she drew in a deep breath, as if she tried to rein in her Tudor temper. “My sister was also reckoned to be full of feminine tender mercies when she became queen,” she murmured. “But you may be assured, senor, that I only wish certain of the council members to realize how badly they have behaved toward me when I have been innocent of any wrongdoing. I would pardon all the rest. I do know who my friends are.”

  “And I hope you will not trust in heretics, my lady.”

  “Heretics?” Elizabeth said sharply.

  “Men such as Lord Bedford, Carew, or Robert Dudley. The Dudleys have surely proved they are traitors over and over.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flickered at the mention of Robert Dudley’s name. It had been a very long time since she had seen him, but they had been friends for many years. It was clear she remembered him well. “I shall trust my true friends,” was all she said.

  Feria seemed to sense he was defeated. He inclined his head, and asked Elizabeth in English how she fared at her properties with all the foul weather, if she had seen any crop yields at all. After the sweetmeats were served and Kate played more songs, Feria exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and rose to take his leave.

  “King Philip wants very much to see you again, my lady, as soon as he is in England once more,” Feria said as he bowed one last time over Elizabeth’s hand.

  “I do hope he may be here again soon,” Elizabeth answered with a cool smile. “To see my sister, who I know misses him very much.”

  “Of course,” Feria said. “But sadly, if that day does not come soon enough for Her Majesty, I hope you will summon me at once. I am under orders from my master to come to you as soon as may be.”

  “How kind King Philip is to think of me,” Elizabeth said as Lady Clinton led them out to the drive, where Feria’s servants waited with his horses to bear him back to Mary’s court. “But I must beg you to wait for my summons. I fear the English
people may come to resent any favor I show to foreigners.”

  “My lady!” Feria protested. “Surely my betrothal and my many years on these shores might mean I am considered English myself. But I will await your summons. Only remember that I, and my master, are your devoted servants.”

  “I will consider all you have said most carefully, my lord de Feria,” Elizabeth answered.

  As they waved the count and his party off, Lady Clinton said quietly, “You know he will be writing to Philip before daybreak, telling him how bold you have become in rejecting his overtures.”

  Elizabeth tapped her foot on the gravel drive. “Let him write. Philip, and everyone, must know I start as I mean to go on. I only hope it was not too soon to say so.”

  “Too soon?” Lady Clinton said. They made their way back into the house, closing the doors against the chilly night. “Whatever do you mean? The gossip has it that the queen is very ill. She never recovered from her false pregnancy, and the sicknesses of the summer hit her very hard.”

  “Ill perhaps, but still the monarch—and capable of sending her followers out among us,” Elizabeth said. “Has a man named Lord Braceton called at Brocket Hall?”

  “Nay, but we have heard tell of him,” Lady Clinton answered. “Was he not at Bacon’s house of late? I have not seen him here, though my husband has said he is accounted a rather obnoxious man at court. Queen Mary is inexplicably fond of him.”

  Elizabeth followed Lady Clinton up the stairs toward the bedchambers, Kate and Penelope trailing silently behind them. “But you have not heard tell of his errand at Bacon’s house?”

  “Not at all, but we have seen little of Sir Nicholas or his family since the troubles last year. I have been living quietly here while my husband is in London.” Lady Clinton ushered them into a small but beautifully appointed bedchamber, where a fire crackled welcomingly in the grate and servants hurried about laying out the bed. “I hope this room will serve for the night, my dear?”

  “Very well indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I am weary from the journey, and quite looking forward to a night of sleep without worrying about who may burst in at any moment. Penelope can help me retire, I think.”

  She turned to Kate, her pale pointed face unreadable. “Kate, could you go to the kitchen and have them prepare a posset to help me sleep? I am sure you remember the recipe.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Kate said, a bit confused. Kitchen matters had never been her expertise.

  But then Elizabeth leaned closer and quickly whispered, “See what the servants are chattering about, Kate. I do remember the cook here was always accounted something of a gossip. I fear my dear friend Lady Clinton has not told us quite all she knows from her husband. . . .”

  Of course—the posset was an excuse to spy, as Elizabeth herself could certainly not go marching into the kitchen to chat with the servants. Kate nodded, excited at being given a new errand to perform, and hurried away. One of the maids pointed her toward the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 7

  Unlike at Hatfield, where the kitchen was small for the size of the household and everyone was crowded in close as they worked, Brocket Hall’s kitchen was overlarge, almost cavelike. Kate found Lady Clinton’s cook sprawled in a chair by the fire in her stained apron, hair straggling from her cap. A scullery maid was rubbing her feet in their darned knit stockings.

  “Not so hard, girl!” the cook groaned. “You will be the death of me.”

  Kate wasn’t at all sure she could really get any gossip out of such a frazzled group. But then again, it always seemed a little sympathy could do wonders.

  “Excuse me, mistress,” she said. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you when it’s time to retire, but the Princess Elizabeth begs for a posset to help her sleep.”

  The cook groaned, not opening her eyes. “Oh, she does, does she? It’s not enough that we put together a grand feast on only two days’ notice! That we must find cinnamon and almond milk where there is none to be had in the shops. My old bones are weary unto death!”

  Kate wondered if this cook was related to old Cora at Hatfield. “I am terribly sorry,” she said again, most contritely. “I can make it myself, if you will direct me to the herb pantry. It does help the princess to sleep.”

  “Well, if it is for the princess . . .” the cook grumbled. She pushed the scullery maid away and lumbered to her feet. “But I don’t want any stranger rummaging in my pantry, disarranging everything. Hand me my clogs there, girl, and I will make it. But only for her. Not for any of those wretched Spaniards running about. So much to-ing and fro-ing here of late.”

  “That must be a tremendous amount of work for you,” Kate said as she followed the cook into the small herb pantry. Bunches of fragrant greenery hung from the rafters over stone-topped tables, filling the air with their sweet scent. Bottles of fragrant oils were brewing on a ledge and baskets of fresh flowers sat on the floor. “But the princess did enjoy the meal so very much. She said she had never tasted such a prune tart before.”

  A reluctant smile broke across the cook’s face. She plucked down some peppermint leaves and a sprig of lavender and dropped them into a mortar and pestle to grind them together. “Ah, well, I’m glad she liked it then. Appreciates good English cooking and hard work, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed she does,” Kate said. “Has there been more work than usual here at Brocket Hall of late? We haven’t been as quiet at Hatfield as we’re accustomed to, either.”

  The cook shook her head, scowling again. “Usually when my lord is at court, it’s only Lady Clinton to serve, and she gives us much notice if guests are coming. Lately it seems strangers are always thundering up the drive, demanding refreshments.”

  “Are they sent from Lord Clinton?”

  The cook shrugged. She poured in a measure of sweet red wine and a splash of milk, stirring them vigorously with the herbs. “Who knows where they come from. Luckily they soon go galloping off again. But they are up to no good—that I can tell you.”

  “Are they not?” Kate asked in a shocked voice, hoping to encourage more confidences. “Why, mistress, is there something awry in the neighborhood? Some danger we should all be aware of?”

  The cook peered at her with narrowed eyes. “You serve the princess, do you not? You are her lady?”

  “Aye, I do serve her. As my parents did before me.”

  “And you were at the dinner with the Spaniard tonight.”

  “I was. But I heard nothing of any danger there. The count merely presented King Philip’s compliments to his sister-in-law.”

  “Compliments!” the cook snorted. “Of course he would say naught of anything else. But my sister works at Gorhambury House. You know it?”

  “Sir Nicholas Bacon’s house,” Kate said.

  “That’s the one. And a good, generous master he is, if a bit eccentric, what with all those books and stargazing and whatnots.”

  Kate nodded. Sir Nicholas was well-known for his studies of astronomy and astrology. “He is a good friend to the princess.”

  “Then you know how he came by his house.”

  “In the Dissolution of the Monasteries,” Kate said. As so many noblemen’s dwellings were these days, Bacon’s home had once been a religious house.

  “Aye.” The cook studied Kate closely for a long, silent moment, as if she tried to gauge her trustworthiness just by looking. Finally, the old lady nodded. “My sister tells me Sir Nicholas had a visitor from the queen, a most unpleasant sort who tore the house nearly asunder. He claimed he was looking for heretical tracts and books.”

  “Lord Braceton,” Kate said. “I fear he is at Hatfield now.”

  “Then you must tell the princess to have a great care in all her doings with him!”

  “Princess Elizabeth knows nothing of heresy about her person.”

  “Perhaps not. But my sister at Gorhambury heard a most interesting bit of news about Lord Braceton from her friend at a house he visited in Kent in the summer.”

  Ah. No
w she was getting somewhere. Elizabeth was quite right when she said the servants of great houses always knew what was really happening there. Kate nodded and leaned forward confidentially. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed.” The cook glanced around uncertainly. “I should not gossip, of a certes, not in these days. But we do all love the princess here, and she should know.”

  “I will tell only her. If she is in danger . . .”

  “She is always in danger, is she not? And her friends with her. But Lord Braceton’s errand involves property.”

  “Property?”

  “Aye,” the cook whispered. “My lord Clinton is on the queen’s council, and word there has it that the queen seeks to return her own properties that were once seized from the church under her father. And she will urge her ministers to do the same.”

  Kate felt her jaw sag with astonishment. She had heard vague talk that Queen Mary sought to assist England’s return to Rome by restoring the monasteries, but Kate had put little stock in it. None of her men, Catholic or not, would want to give up their own estates. But if the queen could order it . . .

  Utter chaos would surely ensue. There was scarcely a noble family in the country who had not been enriched by the seizure and distribution of church property so long ago.

  “Does Braceton survey the properties to be returned?” Kate asked, confused.

  The cook shook her head. “He is surely as greedy as anyone else. But I have heard tell that if anyone can be proved to be a heretic, their property is forfeit to the Crown and the queen can return it to the Church or gift it to a Catholic subject. If they can seize them fast enough, perhaps they should not even have to be returned to the Church.”

  Kate nodded as the picture became a little clearer. The more Protestant estates that could be seized now, while Queen Mary was still alive, the better. Perhaps this meant that a nobleman in danger of losing his land or the relative of someone Braceton had already robbed was the link to the death of Braceton’s servant on the road. So far the council had blocked Mary’s efforts to requisition the estates of exiles like Elizabeth’s Carey cousins, but what of proved heretics here at home? And the cook was right. If the estate could be seized now, while Mary was alive, and then claimed by a Catholic family, it would not have to be returned to the Church when Mary was gone.