Murder at Hatfield House: An Elizabethan Mystery

by Carmack, Amanda

  And murder had accompanied his arrival. It had everyone most unsettled, including Kate.

  “Even if it is only a few more men such as him, we will surely be in trouble, Mistress Haywood,” the maid whispered. “I did hear tell that he—”

  “What are you two whispering about there?” the cook shouted from the kitchens, irritation and a thread of fear in her voice. “Get to work right now. There is much to do today, no time for idle gossip.”

  The maid had shoved into Kate’s arms the stack of newly mended, laundered linen to take to Lady Pope and run away, her head down.

  Now the clean laundry lay scattered across the floor. Kate knelt down and tried to gather it, but she found her hands were shaking.

  “My sister, the queen, has no more loyal subject than I,” she heard Elizabeth cry, above the brittle sound of more shattering crockery. “I am sure Her Majesty would never countenance the peace of my home being so vilely disturbed.”

  “My orders, madam, are to search every corner of this house, nay, of this whole foul county, until this heresy is rooted out,” Lord Braceton answered, his voice full of bitter anger. “I explained all this most thoroughly last night. The very fact that I was attacked so near to Hatfield proves I am close to some treason. I will search every room and box in this place—”

  “And I say you shall not!” Elizabeth shouted, her Tudor temper obviously slipping free of her iron control. “My people are as loyal subjects to the queen as I am. They have been searched and questioned over and over, and no guilt has ever been found of them. I will not allow their peace to be so disturbed again.”

  “You will find, madam, that your previous questioners were not as thorough as I am. I will not be swayed by clever or pretty words. The queen and her husband, the honorable King of Spain, are bringing this country back to the true church, and I will assist her in that holy work however I can. And no Boleyn whore’s daughter will stop it.”

  “How dare you!” Elizabeth cried, only to have her words drowned out by a thunderous crashing sound that shook the wooden planks of the floor under Kate.

  Kate dropped the few linens she had managed to pick up, her hands suddenly gone cold and numb. She felt the same anger at Braceton’s crude words as Elizabeth, the same fear wrapped up in fury. How dare such a man say such vile things! How dared he disturb their peace! Even the men who had come to interrogate Elizabeth after Wyatt’s Rebellion never said such things. The maidservant who gave Kate the laundry was right—there was something different about Braceton. Something they all had to be wary of.

  She felt a touch on her arm, gentle and fleeting as bird’s wings, and it made her jump, her heart pounding all over again.

  She spun around to see it was Ned, the mute kitchen boy. But he was actually no longer a boy; now he was a tall, gangly teenager, but still with a young mind, trapped in his own strange world. He watched her from under the shaggy fall of his hair, his brown eyes wide. He held out his hands from beneath his frayed, overlong sleeves and shook his head.

  Kate pressed her hand over her still-racing heart and made herself take a deep breath. Ned never meant any harm. He gave some of the maids the shivers, they claimed, with the way he always watched and watched and never spoke. He slipped around the house like a shadow, doing chores no one else wanted to do. But the cook said he worked hard, and he seemed to enjoy listening to Kate and her father play their music. He would hover in the doorway of their room, refusing to come in but swaying back and forth in time to the tune.

  Now he helped her gather up the scattered linen, still silent as she muttered words of thanks. Once Kate rose to her feet, he gestured that he would take the laundry to Lady Pope, and then he vanished again as silently as he had arrived.

  Kate hurried on her way, now with no chore at all. She could still hear the sounds of a bitter quarrel from downstairs, and her mind was racing. Ned moved around Hatfield unnoticed all the time; what had he seen or heard since Braceton arrived? Could she possibly find a way to do the same? She well knew the value of being quiet and unobtrusive, and she also knew the value of information. Of knowing what might happen next.

  Something seemed not quite right about Braceton’s sudden arrival in their midst. Something beyond the obvious terror of any visit from one of Queen Mary’s men. Why had he appeared so abruptly, after weeks of tense silence from London? Why this man, and not the usual inquisitors the queen sent? Those had been queen’s men too, but also courtiers, smooth and polite, careful in the knowledge that one day the woman they interrogated might be their queen and they would be dependent on her for their places. Braceton seemed to care for none of that. What was happening Kate could not quite fathom, not yet. She had been too isolated at Hatfield of late.

  The murder of Braceton’s servant on the road had changed all that, dragged her into the tangle of politics and the courtly world, whether she wanted to be or not. What would have happened if Braceton had died instead of his servant, as it seemed sure the assassin’s intention had been? The maidservant had said it was whispered Braceton had sent for an “army” to back him up. Would even worse have descended on them if the master and not the servant had died?

  Or maybe, just maybe, it was the servant in truth who was the target. She knew nothing of him beyond the fact that he served Braceton. Maybe he was a courtier in his own right, with enemies himself. She fairly burned to know what had really happened on that dark, rainy road. Her curiosity would always get her into trouble, she feared.

  “Psst! Kate.”

  She twirled around at the sound of the sudden, hissing whisper, which seemed to come out of the very air.

  “Kate! Over here.”

  Then she recognized the voice. It was Penelope Bassett. There was a creaking sound, quickly cut off, and a hand in a frilled white cuff emerged from a crack in the dark paneling, between two tapestries.

  “Come quickly,” Penelope said, and Kate rushed through the opening before it slid shut behind her.

  She found herself in one of the old, narrow passageways tucked behind the plastered walls and wood panels. She’d been in them before once or twice. The servants still sometimes used them. A few trunks and crates were stored there, so thickly crusted with dust they were surely left from when Hatfield was old King Harry’s hunting lodge. But the passages were mostly abandoned, being dim and musty, and inconvenient for such a small household.

  They were no less musty and dusty today, as well as damp from the cold rain outside, but Kate couldn’t help feeling a small, dark thrill at suddenly finding herself closed in its secret space. There was still danger, but there was also a measure of control. And Princess Elizabeth always said one must do what one had to do to stay safe.

  “Penelope, what are you doing here?” she whispered, even though there was surely no one there to hear them.

  Penelope laughed and held her candle higher to cast a gold circle around the narrow passageway with its dingy plastered walls. Her blond hair was swept up atop her head, and her violet-blue eyes sparkled on her heart-shaped, catlike face as if she also felt a dangerous thrill at being there.

  “I was tired of being trapped listening to Lady Pope’s sermons,” Penelope said. “I wanted to know what was going on out there today. Aren’t you simply dying of the suspense, too, Kate?”

  “Aye,” Kate admitted. “I keep wondering when we shall need to flee all over again.”

  A frown flickered over Penelope’s brow, a fleeting dark shadow, and she nodded. “We have had to face doom far too many times, haven’t we? All the more reason I had to escape Lady P’s clutches for a while. I said I had desperate need for the necessary, and came here to hear what was happening in the hall. It took me a while to find the entrance, though.”

  “What have you discovered?” Kate asked, intrigued.

  “Naught as of yet. I found myself quite lost in here. Then I heard you talking to Ned, and I thought perhaps we could find out together.”

  Kate nodded. Having a task to accomplish, a way
to cease feeling quite so helpless, infused her with a new energy. Of course Penelope would find a way to more excitement. Life at Hatfield had been far less lonely since she had arrived there to wait on Princess Elizabeth after her return from the Tower. She was Kate’s first friend of her own age. “We should hurry. I have the feeling that Braceton is not a man who will let the princess argue with him for long.”

  “Indeed not, the brute,” Penelope agreed. “Just like a man.” Still holding the candle high in one hand, she took Kate’s arm with the other and they made their way through the maze of corridors and twisting staircases.

  It was so narrow they could only walk single file, and the walls were so thin Kate could hear the occasional footstep or murmured word from the house beyond. It was all strange and muffled, the darkness thick beyond the small circle of Penelope’s candle. Chests and boxes were also piled up, stored there out of the way. Most of them were plain pine bound with iron, but one was a prettily painted blue chest decorated with twining vines. Penelope shoved it out of their path.

  At last they emerged through another small crack in the wall, and Kate found herself tumbled into the light of the gallery that ran the length of the house above the great hall. Tapestries and paintings hung on the walls, hiding the water stains and cracked paneling beneath. Beyond the carved balustrade that curved to the grand staircase, far below, was the entrance hall. The booming echo of voices told her that was where Braceton and Elizabeth were arguing.

  They stopped next to the wall and Kate watched, fascinated, as Penelope carefully felt around the edges of the rough plasterwork.

  “It must be here somewhere,” Penelope muttered.

  “How do you know about this place?” Kate asked.

  Penelope laughed. “Not all of us are buried in musical scores, Kate. Lady Pope keeps us running from day to night on errands. It’s good to find faster ways to get about. Ah, here we are.”

  There was a small click and the seemingly solid wall eased open a crack. The muffled voices grew louder, clearer, and Penelope and Kate hastened into this next passage and down the secret stairs.

  “. . . you have read the letters I brought, madam, and surely you know you cannot hinder me in my task,” Braceton was saying. His voice was thick with impatience, as if he had said those words before and his control would soon snap if he had to say them again.

  Kate pressed her hand to her lips to hide a laugh. Many of Queen Mary’s men had come to Hatfield in the last months, and none of them had sounded thus. They were too courtly, too cautious of their places, in a way Braceton was not. But Elizabeth had perfected the needle-fine art of hearing only what she wanted to hear, of replying with a swirl of artful words while her meaning became less and less clear the more she spoke. It had driven men twice her age and with multitudes more power to shout with rage. Shout—and then do what she wanted, which was leave her alone.

  But even though Braceton shouted, he showed no signs of giving up and leaving. Those other emissaries had tempered their bullying from the knowledge that one day Elizabeth might be their queen, but not Braceton.

  Kate carefully eased the secret door a little farther open and peered out into the entrance hall. Several trunks stood open on the flagstone floor, their contents spilling out in a jumble of clothes and papers, cloth and parchment all tangled together. Books were tumbled hither and yon, bindings cracked, their pages ripped.

  Shards of broken pottery, carelessly spun out of their wrappings from the trunks, were crunched underfoot as men in dark doublets and brimmed caps marched past carrying more cases. Hatfield was being thoroughly searched—again.

  Braceton stood with his back to Kate’s hiding place. All she could see was his quilted velvet robe and grizzled hair straggling from beneath his fine pearl-sewn cap. His shoulders were slumped, his fists planted on his hips. Last night Kate had been overwhelmed by all that happened—the stormy night, Braceton’s sudden, violent appearance. All she could think was how like an enraged bear at a baiting the man was.

  She saw now how bearlike he was in appearance—a huge, hairy, lumbering bear—especially next to the princess’s delicate figure.

  She came only to his shoulder, small and slight in her plain black-and-white gown, her bright hair drawn tightly back from her pointed face. Her hands were folded demurely at her waist, but she would not back down from the man who loomed before her. She stared up at him steadily with her burning dark eyes, ignoring the other men rushing around her, destroying her house.

  “I have read your letters, Lord Braceton, and I will of course obey the queen in all things,” she said in a steady, cold voice. “But no treason has ever been proven of me or any in my household. That you dare violate our personal possessions thus—”

  “Any of your household, madam?” Braceton roared. Kate flinched, and she felt Penelope stiffen beside her, but Elizabeth was as still as a statue. “What of your head lady, Mistress Ashley? Many heretical tracts and forbidden books were found in her possession and she confessed to her wrongdoings in the Tower. She was a poor guardian for you, as her behavior with Thomas Seymour proved.”

  Kate saw Elizabeth’s lip tremble at the mention of Kat Ashley, who had been her governess and lady-in-waiting almost since birth, a second mother to her. Kat Ashley, who had let Elizabeth nearly be seduced by her stepfather, Thomas Seymour, and almost led them both to disaster. But Elizabeth quickly bit her lip and did not move at all.

  “I am forbidden to contact Mistress Ashley by the queen’s order, and I have not. None of my present ladies were involved in any such doings, and my chief lady is Sir Thomas Pope’s own wife. I told you, Lord Braceton, we live here quietly and calmly.”

  “So quietly that I was almost murdered just outside your own gates,” Braceton said in a cold tone far more frightening than his angry bluster. “My own servant was killed. A sure sign that wickedness lurks in this house, and I will find it and be rid of it once and for all.”

  “I can’t help it if highwaymen and villains lurk on the roads at night,” Elizabeth said. “I have no power to secure this kingdom.”

  “The murderer escaped into your garden!” Braceton said. He gestured to his men, the armed group who had arrived just as the maidservant said they would, and added, “Enough here. I am going to speak to your ladies now. They had all best be where they are meant to be—minding their embroidery as ladies should.”

  The man stalked off, lumbering up the stairs with his servants hurrying behind him.

  Kate felt Penelope gently touch her arm. “I must be away, then,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” Kate whispered back. “Heaven forfend we be doing anything but sitting over our embroidery.”

  As Penelope rushed away, Kate watched Elizabeth moving through the now-deserted hall. The princess picked up a book and gently smoothed its bent cover.

  “You can come out now, Kate,” she called softly. “He should be occupied for some time.”

  Kate gasped at the unexpected words, but knew she should have realized Elizabeth would know she was there. Her life—all their lives—depended on being aware and wary at every moment.

  Kate slipped out of the passage and let it close behind her. She nudged an askew tapestry into place to cover it. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am a poor spy indeed.”

  “On the contrary—you are an excellent spy. I would not have thought of the passages. Foolish of me to forget.” Elizabeth turned the book over in her hands, her ruby ring catching the dull light from the high windows. “Braceton knows nothing of them, I think. But we must all be very careful in the future. How does your father today?”

  “A little better, I think, Your Grace.” Kate picked up a few gowns from the floor, unsure what else to do. She shook them out and folded them. “The wine you sent eases some of the ache in his joints.”

  “I’m glad. Your music, and that of your father, gives me much comfort in these uncertain days. I have so little to offer my friends except wine now. Your talent is great, Kate, greater than
you know. Perhaps you should seek other employment where it could shine.”

  Other employment, away from the princess? From everything she had ever known? “Oh, nay, Your Grace! I am happy here. I only wish to make my music for you, and to remember—remember . . .”

  Kate shook her head, not knowing what to say. What words could express what working for Elizabeth, being with her, meant for herself and her father. It was the glories of the past and the hope of the future bound up all together.

  “You were a child when we all lived with my stepmother, Queen Catherine,” Elizabeth said.

  “I was young, true, but I do remember that time well,” Kate said.

  “Queen Catherine’s household was a place of great learning, of art and music and fashion,” Elizabeth said quietly, her hand slowly smoothing over the book as if she was far away, back in Queen Catherine’s rooms, where there were always books and conversation, music and dancing. Beautiful gowns, laughter, friendship.

  Aye, it had been a place of great learning—Protestant learning. A place where a new, enlightened world seemed possible.

  Kate had been young then, just learning to play the lute and the virginals, yet she remembered it all.

  “It was a very good time, Your Grace,” she said simply.

  “And one that was long ago,” Elizabeth said. She sighed and tucked the book into one of the trunks. “Ah, Kate, I feel so old sometimes, though I am only twenty-four. So weary.”

  “Weary, Your Grace?” Kate cried, astonished. Elizabeth was always such a whirlwind of bright energy.

  “That is why I’m glad to have your music, Kate. To remind me of those days. Even though it would be better for you if you went to another household.”