DANGER IN THE WOODS
The lurking figure watched as the girl, the foolish princess in her pretty crimson cloak, stopped at the side door and glanced back over her shoulder as if to make sure she wasn’t followed. The hood didn’t fall back to show her red-gold hair, but who else would be running about in her fine cloak at that time of day? Elizabeth’s tale of being confined to her chamber sick with a headache was patently false.
Just like all her lies, her craven prevarications. She wasn’t worthy of her place, the position she had stolen.
She’d be sorry one day soon, the Boleyn bastard. All her vaunted cleverness couldn’t save her. But for now she had to stay. Plans would take longer to come to fruition than intended—that was all.
The watching figure curled its gloved hand into a tight fist as a wave of cold, bitter frustration washed over it. Once word came that it was Lord Braceton sent to question Elizabeth, Braceton who was lurking in the neighborhood, all seemed set to finally fall into place. Braceton was not the largest prey, but he was assuredly one of those who had to pay. And his downfall would set so many others in motion, like a carefully arranged set of dominoes. It had all seemed so very easy.
Until the arrow went astray in the darkness. A terrible miscalculation, but not one that would be made again.
The girl in the red cloak slipped into the house and the garden was empty again. The drapery swung into place and the figure turned away. Failure again was simply impossible.
Braceton had to go. And Elizabeth with him.
MURDER AT HATFIELD HOUSE
AN ELIZABETHAN MYSTERY
AMANDA CARMACK
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
First Printing, October 2013
Copyright © Ammanda McCabe, 2013
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
ISBN 978-1-10162776-1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Anne, who shared my obsession with all things Tudor!
I miss you every day and wish you could see this book now.
“A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow.”
—Shakespeare
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Sneak Peek of MURDER AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY
PROLOGUE
February 11, 1554
“My lute awake! Perform the last
Labor that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.”
—Sir Thomas Wyatt
It was a frozen gray day. The sun hid behind roiling banks of clouds and sent not even a ray of reassuring light to the earth below, which was eerily silent. There were no shouts in the streets, no cries from merchants selling hot cider or roasted almonds, no quarrels or laughter. The river was empty of boats, and the crowds on London Bridge scurried on their business with their muffled heads down.
The whole vast city seemed to hold its breath, and for a moment the ebb and flow of daily life, the stink and striving and heave of it all, had grown still.
Suddenly the bells of the Tower church and All Hallows Barking rang out in a slow, rhythmic, solemn song and the city lurched back to life. The door of the Tower lieutenant’s house opened and a lady appeared there, soft and quiet as a ghost.
She was small and pale, and shockingly young. The crowd gathered outside gasped in surprise at the sight of her, so tiny in her stark black gown and furred cape, her oval freckled face framed by a fine French hood trimmed with jet beads. She clutched an open prayer book in her hands, which were steady and still.
She did not cry or tremble, but the two black-clad ladies who followed in her train sobbed. Lieutenant Feckenham and his men, Queen Mary’s priest, and other grim officials joined the small procession, and they made their way slowly across Tower Green. The gathered crowd made room for them. No one said a word, overcome with sadness at the girl’s youth and composure. Not even the Tower’s ravens cawed or flapped their vast black wings.
The girl’s lips moved in silent prayer as they came closer to the scaffold built near the chapel. As she glimpsed the church’s open doors, where her young husband had been buried only that morning, she faltered for an instant.
“Oh, Guildford,” she whispered. But then her calm composure returned, and she mounted the steps to the scaffold. A hooded, red-clad executioner waited there near the scarred black hulk of the block, his ax hidden from her view in the straw scattered at its base.
The girl stepped to the edge of the wooden planks and said in a clear, steady voice, “I pray you, all good Christian people, to bear me witness that I died a true Christian woman, and that I do look to be saved by no other means, but only by the mercy of God, in the merits of his only son, Jesus Christ. Now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you to assist me with your prayers.”
While I am alive. Even at the threshold of death, she was staunchly Protestant, defying Queen Mary’s Catholic ways and the priest who stood behind her. Prayers for the dead were futile, according to the new learning. The dead were beyond help.
She gave her gloves and handkerchief to her two sobbing ladies and her prayer book to Thomas Brydges, who had assisted her in the long, dull months of her imprisonment. The ladies removed her headdress and her black gown. Clad in her white chemise, she seemed even younger, purer—more vulnerable. Her waving red-gold hair fell over her shoulders.
She glanced at the executioner, who stepped forward. To him she said, “I pray you, dispatch me quickly.” And as she knelt, she added in the first quavering hint of any anxiety, “Will you take it off before I lay me down?”
“No, madam,” he answered.
She swallowed h
ard and nodded. In one quick motion, she tossed her hair forward and tied on a white blindfold. But then she lost her bearings in that darkness and grasped desperately for the block, her hands fluttering in the air. Her cool composure finally cracked, and she cried out, “What shall I do? Where is it?”
A shudder heaved through the crowd, a wave of revulsion at what was happening to this pale, frightened young girl. At last one of the guards gently led her to the block and laid her hands on it, and she rested her head in its hollow.
“Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit,” she whispered, and flung her arms out to the sides. The executioner, a skilled, experienced man at his profession, swung his ax high and brought it down only once—and it was done.
Jane Grey, sixteen years old and once Queen of England for nine days, was dead.
Her hysterical ladies were carried back to the lieutenant’s house, where they had spent all the months of imprisonment with Lady Jane, and the silent crowds dispersed, their witness done. Jane’s small body remained there in the bloody straw for hours until it could be officially collected and laid next to her husband and her traitorous father under the floor of the chapel.
Only the ravens watched over her, along with a cloaked and hooded figure lurking in the shadows of Beauchamp Tower. Alone and silent, this figure stayed with her like a guardian angel until she was carted away and the gory straw swept up and burned. The block was hidden and the Tower peaceful again—for a time.
CHAPTER 1
Autumn 1558
The horses’ hooves pounded like thunder on the rutted road as the two riders dashed under the low-hanging trees, still heavy from that morning’s rain. The storm had left the lane muddy and pitted, and it was late for travelers. The night was gathering in fast, and all sensible country folk were safe by their own hearths. The wind whipped cold and quick through the branches—winter was not so far off now.
But the riders took no heed of the chill. They had important tasks to perform, for very important people indeed, and they were already delayed. They had to reach Hatfield House by that night, which was why the lead rider traveled with only one servant and had ordered the rest to follow the next day.
“God’s wounds, but this is a foul place!” Lord Braceton cursed as his horse slid on the wet ground. No one should have to live in such a forsaken spot as the damned countryside. It smelled of fresh, cold air and wet leaves, of cows and pigs and peasants, and the night sounds of hooting owls seemed ominous to a man used to the constant shouts and curses of London, the pungent, heavy air of the city.
The forest to either side of the narrow road was thick, full of shifting shadows and sudden sounds. It obscured the pale, chalky moonlight overhead and hid the few houses and cottages from view. A man could be lost in such a rural thicket and never be seen again.
Aye, Braceton thought grimly as he pulled hard at his horse’s reins, making the beast whinny in shrill protest. The countryside was a godforsaken place, fit only for animals and traitors. It was no wonder so many of them gathered here, like a filthy, buzzing hive around their whorish queen.
The only solution to such a dirty, dangerous place was to destroy it and clean it out. That was why he was here. To crush out the treason—and get back to the civilization of London as fast as he could.
He glanced over his shoulder at his manservant. Wat slumped in his saddle, his hood drawn close over his head. The man had been more of nuisance than an aid on this journey, whining and miserable every step of the way. But he was from a good, loyal Catholic family, servants to Queen Mary for a long time, and that was essential to Braceton’s task. Plus, Wat was young and strong, able to carry all the baggage.
“Sit up straight, man!” Braceton shouted. “The faster we ride, the sooner we’ll be safe by a fire with a pitcher of ale.”
“If you can call it safe, your lordship,” Wat shouted back. “There’s been no safe place this whole journey. One cesspit after the other.”
And Wat had failed at his task in almost every “cesspit”—he had been told to make friends with the servants and listen to their gossip. Braceton himself had gotten nowhere with the stony-eyed landowners; no threats or promises could move them to do their duty to the queen. But servants were chattier, freer with their words, and they saw everything that happened in their houses. They could have been an excellent source of information, if Wat hadn’t behaved like such a pouting fool.
But Braceton couldn’t argue with Wat’s assessment of those houses. Dark cesspits of stinking treason, all of them.
And now he was on his way to the greatest pit of all. Hatfield House, the lair of the heretic serpent Princess Elizabeth.
“You’d better be of more use to me in this pit,” Braceton shouted above the wind. “Or the queen herself will hear of your piss-poor behavior.”
The horses swung around a sharp curve in the road, and in the distance Braceton could see the faint flicker of golden lamplight, the dark outline of a roof and chimneys beyond. The gates of Hatfield at last.
But suddenly a sharp, high buzzing sound cut the silence of the night. Braceton twisted around in his saddle just in time to see an arrow arc out of the forest. It glinted silver in the darkness, like a shooting star.
With a cry, Braceton yanked his horse to the side and the creature reared up in the air with a terrified scream. It stumbled in one of the deep ruts and sent Braceton flying off into the mud.
There was a thud on the ground, not far from where he lay in a stunned state, and he pushed himself up. His head was spinning from the fall, and bright spots danced in front of his eyes, but he could see clearly enough to make out the body of Wat sprawled in the road. The servant’s horse was galloping back the way they had just come.
The arrow had landed squarely in Wat’s chest. His eyes were wide and shocked, glowing glassily in the moonlight, and his mouth was wide-open in a silent scream. He had died before he could make any sound at all.
Braceton’s horse followed Wat’s down the lane, leaving him alone with the dead body—and with whoever lurked in the woods. Two more arrows flew out from the cover of the trees, landing in the tree trunk over Braceton’s head and vibrating with the force of the impact.
They could very well have landed in his chest, Braceton realized with horror. And then fury swept over his fear. He was an agent of the queen, curse it! He was here to root out the evils of treason and heresy, and those filthy beasts dared attack him for it!
He lurched to his feet and barreled into the woods as he drew his short sword. He could only see by the moonlight filtering through the branches, and it seemed as if laughing creatures lurked behind every tree and boulder. He slashed out at them, catching only leaves with his blade. Birds took flight from the treetops with terrified shrieks.
At last he saw a flash in the darkness, a whirl of a cloak as someone ran silently away. Braceton ran after that flicker of movement, crashing through the underbrush.
By the time he reached the jagged line where the trees gave way to the park of Hatfield, silent and serene beyond the low rock wall, the person had vanished. If it was a person, and not a demon or a ghost. Braceton’s bearded face stung with sweat, blood dripped from the tiny cuts inflicted by the branches, and his lungs felt close to bursting with the labor of his breath. Golden light shimmered in the mullioned windows of the distant house, as if to mock him.
But he caught a glimpse of something shining stuck on the rough edge of the wall. He snatched at it and found it was the torn, feathered bits of an arrow’s fletching. Whoever had shot at him had fled to Hatfield.
Braceton crushed the feather in his gauntleted fist. That witch Princess Elizabeth would pay for this—and pay very dearly.
CHAPTER 2
“Curses on it all, Kate! This leg is going to be the death of me.”
Kate Haywood smiled at her father as she helped him lower himself into his favorite chair by the fire. The red-gold flames crackled and snapped merrily, valiantly trying to drive the chill away from t
he small rooms at the back of Hatfield House. The wind moaned outside the window and stirred at the faded tapestries on the wall, and the ghostlike sound of it made her shiver.
“Poor Father,” she said as she tucked a blanket around his legs. “Is your gout horrible tonight? I shouldn’t wonder, with this damp, cold weather.”
“It’s bothersome all the time now, rain or shine,” Matthew Haywood answered. “Ah, Kate, it is a terrible thing to be old. Enjoy being eighteen, my dear, before your youth is done and aches and pains beset you. I am falling to pieces.”
Kate laughed and kissed her father’s gray-bearded cheek. “You are not very old, I vow. You just claim you are so you can sit here by the fire and work on your musical compositions with no one to interrupt you.”
“Would that were so.”
“It is so. You cannot fool me.” Kate turned to the sideboard, where their meager plate was stored, and poured out a goblet of rich red wine. “Here, Father, this will soon warm you. The princess sent it to you herself. She says the physicians claim it will strengthen the blood.”
“Mustn’t refuse the princess, then,” Matthew said. He took the wine from her hand and swallowed a long sip. “It’s quite good. You should have some, too. We all need strong blood to survive the winter.”
“We need more than that, I fear,” Kate murmured. She thought of four years before, when Princess Elizabeth and several members of her household were dragged away from Hatfield and tossed in the Tower on suspicion of treason in Wyatt’s Rebellion against the queen. Matthew and Kate had fled and taken refuge at a friend’s house, waiting in daily fear for word of Elizabeth’s fate. Matthew was only the princess’s chief musician, but everyone associated with her was always in danger. The queen hated her young half sister, the Protestant daughter of Anne Boleyn, and would do anything to see her downfall.
But at last there could be no evidence found, and so Elizabeth was released to come home, under the strict watch of Queen Mary’s gaoler, Sir Thomas Pope, and his lemon-faced wife. Matthew and Kate came back to serve her, to bring what merriment they could to the silent house. But every day felt fraught with peril, as if they all waited with their breaths held to see what would happen next.
Murder at Hatfield House: An Elizabethan Mystery Page 1