Murder at Whitehall (17 page)

It looked as if he had been waiting there, for he leaned against the whitewashed wall, his arms crossed
over his chest. He smiled and looked deceptively lazy. But she recognized the catlike gleam in his bright blue eyes.

“Out for a stroll with your lawyer friend, Kate?” he said with a laugh. “Nice for some people to have a long pause from working.”

Kate laughed. “Because I see you are practically a slave to duty, Rob Cartman! Have you been lazing here for long, watching all the pretty ladies go by?”

“If you must know, I have been looking for you. The queen wishes to have the new Venetian branle for the dancing tonight, and we have not yet practiced the music. But Violet Green said you left the palace hours ago.”

He had been looking for her? Really? Kate felt a bit nonplussed, and yet strangely pleased, by the thought. “You are quite right, Rob. I should not neglect my first task here at court, to entertain the queen. Let me fetch my lute, and I shall meet you in the musicians' gallery.”

He caught her hand as she walked past, and Kate looked up at him in surprise. His smile turned rueful. “I was worried.”

“Worried? For me?”

“After what happened at the hunt, and with Senor Vasquez—of course I was worried. Were you really out for a romantic walk?”

Kate was tempted for a moment to say she was, partly because she truly didn't want anyone to worry, and partly because, silly as it was, she rather liked it that Rob could be jealous of
her
. But she knew she
couldn't. She had already brought him into the sad matter of Senor Vasquez's death by showing him the music.

She shook her head, and stepped closer to speak quietly to him. “I took the poppet's crown to a tiremaker in Cripplegate to see what they could tell me about it.”

He frowned. “Did they know anything?”

“I did discover something interesting—and strange.” She glanced around at all the people hurrying past. “I will tell you of it in the musicians' gallery, before the others arrive. Have you deciphered anything in the music?”

“I have some ideas, but nothing certain yet. You do get into more complicated conundrums than any play, Kate.”

“Nay, my life is much duller than a play! Especially
your
plays,” Kate said, thinking of some scenes she had seen Rob play out on the stage, of the deaths of kings and tragic romances.

“‘Dull‘ is the last thing I would call you,” he said with a smile. To her surprise, he reached out and softly brushed his hand over her cheek before he stepped away.

Kate was so flustered she hardly dared look at him. Better to go back to what she knew. “I—I shall see you in a little time in the gallery, Rob.”

She hurried up to her room, sweeping off her damp cloak to let it dry over her stool. She quickly took off her pattens and changed into her fine Spanish leather court shoes. She peeked into the small looking glass
that hung near the fireplace, trying to tidy her hair. Not that she cared how she looked when she met with Rob—certainly not.

Kate laughed at herself, and turned away to find the music she needed to rehearse. As she picked it up, she noticed that the stacks of papers and books on her desk were not quite as straight as she had left them.

“Surely not,” she whispered. Perhaps one of the maids had come to tidy, though they seldom ventured so far into the depths of the palace, unless it was to clean out the grate. She shuffled through the music, which she had left in the order of the Christmas festival where it must be played, and found her suspicions all too correct. The pages were out of order.

Someone had been searching through her papers.

*   *   *

Kate hurried up the steep spiral staircase toward the musicians' gallery, her lute in her hands, her heart still pounding with the disquieting thought that someone had been in her chamber. The great hall far below was bustling like a beehive, servants setting up the long table and benches for that night's banquet.

But the gallery itself was quiet, deep in shadows. Music stands and stools clustered in an empty huddle near the railing, and Kate knew that very soon the space would fill with the noise of lutes and tambors. For now, she was alone there—except for Rob at the far end of the long, narrow gallery.

He did not see her yet, and she paused to study him in that rare unwary moment. He leaned against the railing, watching the scene below. He, too, was half
covered in shadows, his golden hair glowing in contrast. He frowned, and Kate wondered what was making his thoughts so serious now.

She had known Rob for over a year, and had seen so much with him—the murder of his uncle at Hatfield, the death of his mistress at the Cardinal's Hat, his time in prison. He had helped her with so very much as well.

So often he exasperated her, made her laugh even against her will when she wanted to be stern, made her see the world in a slightly different light—or he surprised her when he understood so well how
she
saw it. And sometimes she was even startled anew by how handsome he really was.

And how many personas he had, just like characters he portrayed so adeptly on the stage.

He turned and smiled at her, and that moment of seriousness was gone. “Fairest Kate, here you are at last.”

Kate shook off her confused emotions toward him, and the disquiet that had been tugging at her mind since she thought her papers had been searched through. “I still get lost here at Whitehall, I fear,” she said with a laugh. She didn't want to tell him her suspicions, not yet. “Shall we practice the new music for tonight? There isn't much time before the banquet.”

“Of course, though I suspect you know it perfectly already, as you always do.” Rob fetched his own lute, and they sat down together on two stools near the wall, far from the sight of anyone in the hall below.

As they tuned their instruments, she whispered,
“What did you discover on your night with the Spanish, then?”

Rob's expression, his half smile, didn't waver. He bent his head over the lute and whispered back, “That the Spanish, for all their vaunted devoutness, can drink as much strong ale as any Englishman. Senor Gomez seemed eager to forget what happened to his kinsman for a time, which I understand. The tavern made its share of coin that night.”

“A tavern owned by friends of yours, I'm sure.”

“Perhaps. I am lucky to have friends in many places, Kate, as do you.”

Kate thought of some of the unlikely friends she had made in the course of her work for the queen, from Cecil to Mistress Celine, the bawdy house owner. “And your tavern-owner friends did not water down the Spaniards' drink, I suppose.”

“Indeed not. They were very generous. But it seems even the strongest ale cannot quite loosen tongues enough.”

“They did not say what they are really doing here in England for de Quadra and King Philip?”

“Not precisely. Senor Gomez did mutter darkly about the ‘perfidy of English ladies,' before he tried to teach the whole great room a bawdy Spanish song.”

Kate had to laugh at the image. “Are there bawdy Spanish songs?”

“There are bawdy songs in every language. But in between choruses, Gomez did say that if he returned to Spain empty-handed he would not have his promised reward, and he seemed to grow rather angry about that. I think he was worried about more than what happened to his kinsman.”

“Promised reward?” Kate said. What could it be? Marriage to some fine lady? A fortune? Or a bishopric, as he was said to be devout. “For what?”

Rob shrugged. “He would not say, or rather he would not say anything I could understand. I thought actors were cryptic creatures, but they have nothing on the Spanish. He seemed rather fearful that his errand was impossible. I can't help but think it is Senor Gomez who was the better actor of the two.”

“Hmm.” Kate played the first chords of the song the queen had requested for her banquet. It was not much to go on, aside from what she already knew—de Quadra's men could not be merely “secretaries.” Yet there were spies everywhere at court, and they seldom behaved as strangely as Senor Gomez and his late cousin.

“Shall I go out with Senor Gomez again?” Rob asked. “Maybe a trip to the Cardinal's Hat would loosen his tongue a bit more. Celine's girls would be happy to tell you anything they hear.”

Kate kicked out at him with her slipper. It was a soft satin creation, and muffled by her heavy skirts, but he still yowled and winced dramatically. “I think it would
be
you
who lost your wits there. But, aye—if you can talk to them again, you should. You can better ferret out secrets from men like that than I could.”

“Oh, I don't know, Kate,” he answered quietly. “I think that you could discover any secret at all from a man, just by one glance from your green eyes.”

Flustered, Kate tightened her fingers on her lute strings. “Such fustian. You are not on stage now, Master Cartman. Now, shall we play the rest of the song?”

Bringing in the Boar Day, December 30

“T
he boar's head in hand bear I, bedecked with bays and rosemary! I pray you all now, be merry, be merry, be merry. . . .”

The company in the queen's great hall applauded as the servants carried in the roasted boar, borne aloft on a silver platter. It was a large boar, indeed, caught before the royal hunt at Greenwich went so awry, adorned with garlands of herbs and candied fruits, a whole apple propped in its mouth. It was paraded around the hall before being presented to the queen, led by Rob in a fine bright green doublet and feathered cap as he conducted everyone in the song.

Kate clapped along with everyone else, watching the crowd as more delicacies were carried in. She could read no ill intentions in anyone's smiles. All seemed merry indeed. What lurked behind those smiles? Who had been searching through her chamber?

More servants hurried around the room with platters of the finest of the queen's Yule dishes, roasted deer and capon, meat pies and stews, fish dishes that were doubly precious with the river so cold, as well as
the queen's beloved sweets. The last dish brought in was an elaborate subtlety made to look like Whitehall itself, the almond paste formed into bricks and bridges, blue candied sheets for windows.

Kate laughed along with everyone else as jesters from Rob's company of players tumbled and gamboled between the long tables. It was another lavish Christmas display for the queen, with everyone happily flushed with the fine wine that was a gift from the French ambassador, with flirtation and the reckless joy of the holiday. All set up to show that nothing was amiss in Elizabeth's glittering world.

But surely everyone knew all was not well. Underneath all the noisy merriment there was a sword's edge of dark tension, desperation, always hovering just beneath the jeweled surface. Sir Robert Dudley's guards, garbed in his livery, clustered around the queen along with her own servants. She would come to no harm that night. But there was always that shining, sharp blade under everything at court, waiting for those who were not wary to fall down onto it and destroy themselves.

*   *   *

He was going to be so angry.

Mary pulled the hood of her cloak closer around her face and hurried down the torchlit street. The passing crowds jostled her, and she drew away with a surprised hiss. There were people everywhere; rushing past, laughing together on the corners, leaning out of windows to call down to one another. In the flickering
light, they barely looked like people at all, but more like figures in a nightmare.

She had only wanted to be free of that stuffy little room for a while, to breathe some fresh air, see people other than the harried landlady. She'd waited her whole life to see London! Read about it, its grand mansions and vast bridges, the fashions and shops. And once she was there all she saw was the innyard from her small window.

So, what happened when she gathered her courage and crept out the kitchen door just to go for a little stroll? She got lost.

“Fool, fool,” she muttered. Why had she once thought this was such a fine idea? She would surely be lost in this endless maze of stone and wood forever, or if she did find her way back to the inn, he would find out what she had done and would be very angry.

He had been furious that she had even ventured out of her chamber the day the people from the royal court came to the inn's great room, with their furs and their ice skates. This was far more serious.

Mary bit back a sob as she remembered that day, how intriguing it had been. Surely that dark-haired lady in the red cloak would never make such a mess out of just going for a walk! She had looked so calm, so confident. Surely she knew just how to move around London.

“Cor, look what's wandered our way! A soft little partridge,” a man's slurred voice called. He stumbled out of the shadows, a shambling, terrifying giant, and his great paw snatched at the edge of her cloak.

Panic flooded over her, flames against the cold night. “Leave me alone!” Mary cried. She tried to run, but her fine-soled boots slid on the cobbles, and he managed to grab a handful of her hood.

He reeled her in so close she could smell the stale reek of old onions and beer on his hot breath. Mercifully, he was too ale-shot to hold on to her, and she managed to jerk away.

“Don't be that way, you trull!” he shouted.

“Leave her alone,” one of his friends said with a laugh. “There are plenty more Winchester geese to be had.”

Mary kept running, dodging around corners, sliding on patches of frost, not seeing at all where she was going. At last, she tumbled out of the entrance to a narrow alleyway and found herself facing the river.

A pain stabbed at her side, and she had to stop to catch her breath. She studied the dark expanse of water in front of her, the boats bearing their passengers sliding past, the moonlight shimmering on the waves. Surely if she just followed the riverbank, she could find the innyard again. But which direction?

She glanced to her right, and was startled to see the long expanse of smooth stone wall that marked the edge of the queen's palace at Whitehall.

Fascinated, Mary studied the steps that led from the
river to a carved gate, now closed. High above, soft golden light spilled from the windows of a gallery, drawing her closer. She thought she could hear the faint strains of music, some lively dance, and laughter. She imagined the scene that surely waited just beyond those walls. The bright silken gowns and flashing jewels, the handsome young men twirling their ladies around in a volta.

That was the London she had read about in her books, the London she had once imagined she would be a part of herself. Surely just behind those windows there was no loneliness, no uncertainty. She drifted closer, unnoticed in her dark cloak, and dared to lay her hand on one of the cold stones.

A burst of laughter, the splashing sound of a boat drawing up to the water steps, startled her, and she fell back a step. She pressed herself deeper into the shadows, and watched as two men leaped out of the boat to help their ladies disembark.

Mary stared at them, so fascinated that she forgot her fear. They looked like a dream, all velvet and furs and elegance, like princes and their fair princesses in poems.

One of the ladies clung to her swain's slashed-satin sleeve, laughing up at him as he stared down at her with wonder in his eyes, as if he could not believe the glory of what had landed beside him. It made Mary's sadness prick even sharper. She would surely never have that.

The lady caught sight of Mary lurking there, and her eyes widened. Mary tried to draw back, to run away
again, but the lady hurried toward her. She was small, slender as a forest fairy, and just as quick. She held her hand, gloved in pale embroidered kid, out to Mary.

“Please,” the lady called. “Do I not know you? Where have I seen you before?”

“I—I did not mean to . . . ,” Mary stammered.

“I know! It was the Rose and Crown. Are you lost?”

Mary shook her head, frozen.

“Ned,” the lady said. “Won't you escort her back to the inn? It is obvious she is lost and frightened, the poor thing.”

The man, no doubt Ned, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark curls under his velvet cap, held on to the lady's arm. “What if she came here to find us?” he whispered, though Mary could hear him. “To tell someone we were there together that day?”

“Don't be silly! Lots of people were there that day.”

But Mary had seen the look on Ned's face, dark and suspicious, and it reawakened her fear. She spun around and fled again, even as the lady called after her. She ran and ran, past buildings and carts, until at last she recognized the yard of the Rose and Crown, with the landlady, Mistress Fawlkes, lounging in the doorway to gossip with the brewer. “Here! Where have you been, mistress?” she shouted as Mary dashed past her.

She didn't stop until she was in her own chamber. She slammed the bar into place on the door, and dove under the bedclothes still fully clothed. It hardly mattered what anyone, even
he
, would do to her now. She was safe.

And she would never go out alone in the city again.