“We do have the wives of lots of foreign merchants stay here, since the palace is so near. Dutch, and French Hugenots, people of that sort. But this lady is English. We take her meals up to her, and she says very little. All I know is that she is called Mary. I think it must get lonely there.”
“I daresay it must be,” Kate murmured. She wondered who she could be, an English lady called Mary who played music all day. It would be interesting to meet her. Kate was with people all the time at court, and everyone there had to play music to one degree or another to please the queen. But there were few she could speak to freely, and fewer still whose secrets were quite so intriguing.
“Hester! There you are,” a woman shrieked. She was a portly, red-faced lady dressed in fine green wool and a lace-trimmed cap, but she was scowling under its frill as she rushed toward the maid and grabbed her arm. “What are you doing standing about here when we have so many customers? Take the wine out immediately!”
“Of course, Mistress Fawlkes. Right away.” The maid gave Kate a quick smile and hurried off, closely followed by the landlady. Kate was left alone in the corridor. She could hear the echo of the laughter from the great room, and she knew she should go back as well, but somehow she couldn’t quite make herself move. The quiet was so welcome for a moment. She leaned back against the plastered wall and thought of the lady hidden in her room. What would it be like to run away for a while, to lock a door behind her, pick up her lute, and not have to move? It would be lovely for a day or two, but maybe not for a whole fortnight.
The sound of a door closing at the top of the stairs startled her. She pushed herself away from the wall and glanced up the narrow staircase. A girl stood on the landing above, and even in the dim, dusty light Kate could see that she was pretty, with a pale oval face crowned with a wealth of dark auburn hair worn loose over her shoulders. She was rather tall for a woman, but coltishly slender, a girl on the cusp of being a lady.
She wore a fine gown of peach-colored taffeta trimmed with gold ribbons, and Kate realized she must be the mysterious lute-playing lady. She looked rather familiar, with that burnished hair and pointed chin, but Kate couldn’t be sure she’d seen her before.
The girl, like the maid, looked back over her shoulder uncertainly, as if she feared someone followed her. One of her delicate hands hovered at her throat uncertainly. To Kate’s surprise, a narrow gold wedding band circled her finger. She seemed rather young for such things. Lords and ladies at court, especially the ones who commanded large estates, often married in childhood, but most people did not.
“Are you Mistress Mary?” Kate called.
The girl gasped, and her attention shot to Kate. There was only a glimpse of wide, bright green eyes, and then the girl spun around and fled. There was the sound of the door slamming and the click of a lock sliding back into place.
Kate laughed ruefully. “I didn’t realize I was so very fearsome,” she whispered. She turned to make her way back toward the great room. It would soon be time to return to Whitehall to prepare for the night’s dancing.
Before she could get there, she glimpsed the white fur-trimmed hem of a dark blue cloak rounding the corner of the corridor that led down into the kitchens and vanishing into the warren of rooms behind. It looked like Lady Catherine’s cloak, and Kate could hear the soft, musical murmur of her voice.
Kate tiptoed to the corner, careful not to be seen. What was Lady Catherine doing there? Surely she was not going to the kitchens for a bit of cookery advice.
But Lady Catherine was not there alone. Kate heard a deeper voice answer hers—Lord Hertford’s voice.
“Can we not wait until we return to the palace to talk, my sweeting?” he said. “A public inn is far too crowded.”
“Not as crowded as Whitehall would be! There are ears in every wall there, I vow,” Lady Catherine cried. Her voice sounded thick, gasping, as if she was on the verge of tears. “And we have not truly spoken since you came to Sheen to see my mother before she died.”
“There has been no chance to speak, as you well know,” Lord Hertford said impatiently. There was a rustle of cloth, the sounds of a kiss.
“Nay,” Lady Catherine said after a long moment. “I must know what is happening, Ned. I can wait no longer.”
“Happening, my sweet?”
“I know my mother gave you permission for us to wed, that it was her dearest wish. Yet you have not spoken to the queen.”
“You know that matters are not so simple as that.”
“Are they not?”
“Of course not. You are no mere maid, but the queen’s cousin. Perhaps one day you will be her declared heir. We must tread softly.”
“I am sick unto death of treading softly!” Lady Catherine cried. “We have been in love for so long. I want us, need us, to be truly together.”
“And so we shall be,” Lord Hertford murmured soothingly. It didn’t seem to work, as Lady Catherine gave a choked sob. There was thud, as if she hit him on the shoulder. “Your stepfather advised me to wait to approach the queen until I can gain the support of the privy council. I think he is right.”
“That will surely take ages.”
“But it would be worth it, if we could be properly wed. We must preserve your station, for our children’s sake.”
“It is always thus with you, Ned,” Lady Catherine said fiercely. “So cautious. Station and rank. But what of our love? The days are just slipping away, days when we could be starting our own family. Yet now you must curry favor with every peacock on the privy council!”
“I am not the only one seeking favor,” Lord Hertford said, his tone hardening. “You spend all your time whispering with de Quadra and his so-called secretaries.”
“I must talk to those who would pay me some heed,” Lady Catherine hissed. “You say yourself we must preserve my rank, but the queen cares nothing for it. She dislikes me and my sister, and wastes no opportunity to make that clear. The Spanish ambassador treats me as my family name deserves. And his friends are amusing.”
“They do say all the ladies at court find the new Spaniards, Senors Gomez and Vasquez, most handsome.”
“Why, Ned,” Lady Catherine said with a laugh, “are you jealous?”
“Certainly not. A Seymour jealous of a Spanish lackey?”
“I declare you are jealous. Just as you once were of Lord Herbert.”
“You were married to Herbert.”
“Not really. I was but twelve when my father arranged the match, and not much older when it was annulled. I never cared for him, or anyone, as I do you. But I must be wed soon! I refuse to molder away my youth, as the queen does.”
“And mayhap if we cannot wed soon, you will encourage a Spanish match?”
“I never said that. I merely enjoy their conversation. If they presume more, I cannot help that.”
“And do they presume more?”
Lady Catherine laughed. “Ned, how can I know? I have no interest in politics, you know that. Look where politics got my father and my sister, Jane. To the block. And if we have so little time together, we should not waste it arguing.”
“Now that I truly agree with, sweeting.”
Lady Catherine giggled, and their words were lost in the sound of kisses, the rustle of fabric. Kate carefully backed away and made her way toward the great room again, hardly daring to breathe. Lady Catherine’s marriage, as the queen’s cousin, was subject to the permission of the queen and her privy council, or it could be treasonous. Elizabeth was obviously right to be keep watch on the Greys.
And yet—Kate could not help feeling sorry for Lady Catherine. Nothing there could possibly end happily for everyone involved.
* * *
Mary leaned back against her locked chamber door, and pressed her hand to the nervous flutter of her stomach. She had been seen. If he found out, he would be so angry.
&nbs
p; You must speak to no one but the servants, Mary, and let no one into your chamber. It is of the most vital importance that you listen to me now.
She did listen. What choice did she have? But it grew so lonely sometimes! Her room was so small, so stuffy with the smoke from its one tiny fireplace and the candles that did so little to pierce the wintertime gloom. She could hear the laughter from the great room below, and she longed to join in. It had been so long since she had talked to anyone.
Music was a lovely thing, but after hours and hours of practicing on her lute she longed for something else. Anything else. Maybe even just a new book of songs to learn.
In a small fit of rebellion, she shoved a stack of books off her table and kicked them out of her way. She stalked to her one small window and nudged the curtain open to peer outside.
Below her was the snow-dusted courtyard of the inn, where she could see some of the servants huddling together in the cold wind in order to laugh for a moment without the landlady shouting at them. Beyond the gate she could glimpse the spires and chimneys of the city, looking golden and enchanted in the gray light of day.
When she had lived in the country, she would pore over maps and engravings of London and dream of the day when she would see the great city for herself. She would envision shops full of silks and books and ribbons, the people she would meet, even the queen herself. She had glimpsed such things on her journey, peeking out from her litter to see the sparkling shop windows, the grand palaces along the Strand, the ladies in their beautiful gowns, the handsome young men. She had even gawked at terrible sites, like the heads of traitors staring down sightlessly from the top of the bridge.
But ever since then, London had been only this room.
As she watched the courtyard below, a large group came out of the inn and hurried toward the street. They wore beautiful cloaks of fur and velvet, embroidered doublets and plumed caps. Ice skates gleamed on ribbons tossed over the men’s shoulders, and they were all laughing and merry together. One of the ladies seemed to slip on the snowy ground, and her escort caught her up in his arms.
With them was the lady who had called out to Mary on the stairs, her cloak a distinctive red in the gloom of the day. How Mary had longed to answer her, to ask her questions about life at court! But she had become frightened and run away, and now the lady was gone.
The woman in the red cloak glanced up, and Mary instinctively drew back into her room, letting the curtain hide her from the world outside. She was going to have to be much more careful now. She did not want to get into trouble, not again.
CHAPTER SIX
Kate heard the most wondrous sound coming from some distant place in the palace, a music that sounded almost like that of a lute, but not quite. It was lighter, higher, more resonant, almost like a summer cloud.
She followed the sound as if drawn by a magical spell. The queen was in a meeting of her privy council, so the privy and presence chambers were not as crowded as usual. But the room from where the sweet music emanated, one of the smaller sitting rooms off the waterside gallery, was full—mostly with ladies who had obviously gathered to watch the song’s player.
It was one of Bishop de Quadra’s handsome new secretaries, Senor Gomez. He balanced an instrument in his hands that looked almost similar to the Andalusian guitar Kate had seen a few times, but this instrument was smaller, with a curved body and longer neck. From its six double strings, he coaxed the most amazingly sweet sounds.
Kate lingered in the doorway, listening to the bittersweet song. It sounded like a slow, warm summer’s day, and seemed to push her out of the chilly, drafty winter palace into some distant, sunny grove, filled with the scent of oranges and a balmy, salty sea breeze. It captured what she always hoped to find in a song, a certain mood, a place, a feeling. It was ever elusive, and she longed to reach out and grab it in her hand. She closed her eyes, hoping to hold on to it.
The magical song ended in a long, curling note, and her eyes flew open. She was startled to find herself still in Whitehall, and even more to find Senor Gomez looking directly at her.
He was indeed handsome, in an almost unreal way, like a painting, or like his own song. His eyes were dark and lustrous, unreadable even as he smiled. That smile widened, and she could see why the ladies gathered around him—and why even Lady Catherine Grey, who never lacked for admirers, might enjoy his company.
“Hola, senora! ¿Cómo te va todo?” he said. “Won’t you come in and join us?”
“That is Mistress Haywood, one of the queen’s musicians,” Mary Howard said.
“Ah, then you definitely must join us,” Senor Gomez said, his smile sparkling. “I am very curious about your English style of music. I want to collect some new songs to take with me back to Madrid.”
Kate smiled in return. Music was something she could talk about, while courtly flirtation was still something she could not quite master.
“I can show you an English song or two, senor,” she said, making her way into the room. She could sense some of the others watching her curiously, but she could only see that intriguing instrument. “If in return you will tell me about that song you were playing. It was beautiful. It took me away from the cold winter day entirely.”
“Then it has done its job, I think. It is by Luis de Milán, one of our finest Spanish composers.”
“I have a book of his compositions, but I don’t think it includes that song.” Kate sat down on the stool next to his, studying the guitarlike instrument in his hands, its fine inlaid decorations of strange, pale woods.
He held it out to her. “Have you played a vihuela before?”
Kate shook her head. “A guitar once or twice, but this appears different.”
“It is, a bit. Here, I will show you.”
Senor Gomez leaned close to show her the inlaid frets, the double-strung strings. Up close, he was even more handsome, despite his somber Spanish fashions. He smelled sweetly of cloves and orange, just like the atmosphere of his song. If Lady Catherine was trying to distract herself from the capriciousness of Lord Hertford, she could certainly choose worse. But Kate found herself oddly distanced from him, that feeling of observing a painting growing even stronger.
The vihuela, though, was fascinating. She ran her fingers experimentally over the strings and tried a chord. She got lost in the song.
When she glanced up, she was surprised to see that the light beyond the room’s window had turned brighter. Some of the ladies had drifted away. Senor Gomez’s friend, the other secretary, Senor Vasquez, sat near that window, his head bent over a book. Despite the music and chatter around him, he seemed completely absorbed by whatever he read.
“Does your friend not enjoy music, too, Senor Gomez?” she asked.
He laughed. “He is my cousin, senora; our mothers were sisters. But I fear he inherited a tone deafness from his father.”
She studied Senor Vasquez, whose face looked like an austere, thinner, paler version of his cousin’s. He seemed very withdrawn from everything around him. “I am sure London must be very different from Madrid. But can he find nothing to distract him here?”
Senor Gomez leaned closer to say quietly, “I did think perhaps he had found a fair lady to distract him. I saw him walking with a woman by the river. He had a disappointment in romance at home, I fear.”
Kate smiled. If either of the Spanish cousins looked likely to find an English romance, it was this man. But she had learned at court that everyone could have a secret. “Queen Elizabeth does like to keep a young, lively court around her.”
Senor Gomez smiled. “So I have found, much to my delight. And when I saw Jeronimo with a lady. . . .”
“One of the queen’s ladies?” Kate whispered. She thought of Lady Catherine Grey, and the queen’s suspicions that her cousin kept too much Spanish company.
“A very pretty red-haired lady.”
Not the blon
d Lady Catherine? “Red like the queen?”
“Nay, darker red than your queen. Queen Elizabeth is like a dawn, I think; this young lady was like a deep, rich wine. Changeable, as if someone could be lost in the depths of the color.”
“You sound as if you write music yourself, senor.”
“I do, once in a while. But I fear my cousin would never be a fit subject for the hero of a romantic madrigal.”
“And why is that?”
“When I asked him about the lady, he denied any knowledge of her. I think he would rather go home and become a priest.”
Kate studied Senor Vasquez closer, the pinched contours of his face above his high white ruff. “And then come back to England as ambassador, like the bishop?”
Senor Gomez laughed. “My cousin would make a better cloistered monk than a bishop-ambassador. But I find I would be happy to come back to England again and again.”
“And why is that, senor?”
He gave her a puzzling smile. “It seems a land where a man can make a new fortune, sí?”
“Mistress Haywood,” a maidservant cried as she hurried into the room. “There you are. Her Grace sent for you to meet her at the privy river stairs.”
“Her Grace?” Kate said, surprised. Had so much time passed already, that the queen was done with her privy council for the day? She reluctantly gave the beautiful vihuela back to Senor Gomez, and stood up to shake out her forest green skirts and smooth her hair beneath her cap. She had no idea why the queen would need her at the privy stairs, but she knew she had to hurry. “Thank you for showing me the song, senor.”
He gave her a charming smile. “Perhaps we could play together again soon, Senorita Haywood? I know many Yuletide songs from my homeland you might enjoy.”
Kate nodded. If Senor Gomez was as open as he seemed, he might have interesting information from the Spanish faction. “Perhaps indeed, senor.”
As she hurried out of the room, Senor Vasquez at last glanced up from his book and nodded at her. Kate curtsied, turning her head for a glimpse of the volume’s title. Libro de musica de vihuela. No clue to Senor Gomez’s romantic life or political ambitions at all.
Murder at Whitehall Page 6
