Kate remembered being pushed into the mud of the maze, the feeling of hard hands shoving at her back—the fear that a dagger would land next. But then she remembered Violet’s tears, Master Green’s protests of innocence, and she knew she had to try.
She knocked again at the door. No one answered, but she thought she glimpsed a whisper of movement behind the one small window.
“Please, madam, I mean you no harm! I only need to speak to you for a moment. It is most urgent,” Kate called. She held up her hands to show she carried no weapons. “It concerns young Master Macey.”
The movement fell back from the window in a blur, and Kate waited, holding her breath. At last there was the clatter of a bar being dislodged, and the door opened a couple of inches.
A woman peered out, scowling. Her face was deeply lined, sun-browned, the wisps of hair that escaped from her cap gray streaked, but there was a glimpse of old beauty in her eyes, in her long neck. Beauty that was enough to captivate a king’s astrologer? Kate wasn’t sure.
Kate peeked past her to see a small sitting room, sparsely furnished with only a stool and two tables. A row of pottery, painted with small blue flowers, was lined up on one of them.
“What do you want to know of him?” she demanded, her voice hoarse.
“I know you deliver meals to him, as you do to the gaol and much of the village,” Kate said.
“Aye, so I do. What of it?”
“He has gone, and I must speak to him most urgently. I was hoping perhaps he had told you where he might be going.”
The woman’s suspicious expression crumpled into something terribly like despair. “I had hoped you were coming to tell me where he was.”
Kate was confused. “You thought I would know where he was?”
“Aye. You are from the queen’s court, are you not?” She gestured to Kate’s finely cut gown. “I saw you in the village with that grand queen’s man Cecil.”
“Then you know what happened at Nonsuch?”
The woman almost spat on the floor. “That cursed place! It has held naught but wickedness since the first stone was set. First it took Timothy, and now . . .” She choked off the last words, and her thin, twisted fingers clutched at the doorframe.
So this was Dr. Macey’s mistress, the woman Dr. Dee said was left behind at Nonsuch when he had vanished. “And now your son. Aye? Master Macey is your son?”
A smile touched her face. “That he is. My name is Amelia Macey, as I call myself now. I raised him myself after his father vanished without a word. Dr. Dee sent money later, so I could find him tutors to teach him what I could not. I knew his father would have wanted it thus, even as I knew I shouldn’t let such wickedness into our lives again. Better he should have been an honest digger of ditches than end up like Timothy! And now look what has happened. I was right.”
Kate glanced back over her shoulder to see the curious glances of the people who passed by the tiny cottage. “Perhaps you should let me inside, Mistress Macey, so we may talk further. I promise, I wish only to help you and your son. That is the queen’s wish as well.”
Mistress Macey sniffled and frowned, but she did open the door wider to let Kate slip inside. The cottage was small and spare but spotlessly clean, scented with summer flowers in those pottery pitchers. No hint of alchemy.
“Then you know the work your son does at his cottage?” Kate said. “And that was why you thought I might know where he is, since I came from the court?”
Mistress Macey’s face crumpled again. She looked almost as gray as her linen cap. “Aye, he’s been working for high-up men, dangerous men. I’ve warned him time and again that it’s most perilous to meddle with such matters. Look what happened to his . . . his father.”
Aye, look what happened to Dr. Macey. Look what could happen to anyone at court if this killer was not found. “I only want to find Master Macey, to talk to him on the queen’s behalf. So many people are in danger now, including him. Do you have any idea at all where he might have gone, if he wished to hide for a time?” Or if he intended to flee justice . . .
Mistress Macey scowled. “He does have a wife in London.”
Kate was surprised. She had heard no hint of other Macey family before. “A wife?”
Mistress Macey gave a distinctly disdainful snort. “Aye, a strumpet who worked in one of those Southwark brothels. I told him not to marry the likes of her, but he never listens to his old mother. He might have gone to her, I daresay.”
“Where does this wife live in London?”
Mistress Macey shook her head, closing her eyes as if she could not bear the matter for another moment. “How should I know? ’Tis the devil’s lair, London. But my son needs to be saved from its evils, if he still can. I was so happy when he said some nobleman was setting him up for his studies here in the country. I was so sure he would move back for good . . .”
Was this nobleman Sir Robert Dudley, then, who had been at the cottage the night Kate followed Constable to its door? Why, then, would he want her following Constable? She pushed down her impatience. It was obvious she would learn little more from old Mistress Macey. But she knew exactly where she might find a former Southwark whore who had married an alchemist.
“I will look there, then,” Kate said. “Thank you for your help, Mistress Macey. The queen will be most grateful.”
She turned toward the door, but Mistress Macey suddenly grasped her sleeve. Her grip was surprisingly strong, the light in her faded eyes desperate.
“Just find my boy; I beg you, my lady,” Mistress Macey said. “He is all I have left. His soul is still redeemable, I am sure. Please, find him!”
Kate swallowed hard. She had seen so much desperation lately. For love. For too much loss. “I will find him, Mistress Macey, I promise.”
She just hoped neither of them would regret what they learned when she did.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Nearly there now, Kate,” Anthony said. “Aldgate is just ahead.”
Kate nodded eagerly. Her backside, even seated on the padded Spanish saddle and through the layers of her wool riding skirt and petticoats, ached terribly. Even though she had long lived in the country while Elizabeth, an avid horsewoman, was a princess in exile, Kate had never quite trusted horses. They seemed large, unpredictable creatures. Riding so quickly from Surrey to London, without the leisurely pace of the queen’s court, hadn’t made the journey any more comfortable.
But Anthony had. She’d told him all she had learned of the old tale of Dr. Macey and the new one of his son, and everything she still puzzled over. He told her tales of Master Hardy’s more colorful patrons and of his life in London, which made her laugh as the rutted country lanes fell behind them.
His life and budding career sounded interesting, useful, and one day she was sure he would be more prosperous, with many influential patrons.
Now the roads, which had been nearly empty for so long, with nothing to see but hedgerows and gates to distant houses, grew crowded. More and more people, on foot, in carts, and on horseback, joined in the steady streams flowing toward London, the center of the kingdom. Their shouts and cries, the clatter of their wheels, pounded at her ears in a tangled cacophony like no other music she knew.
She felt the excitement growing within her as the walls of the city came into sight. She glanced over at Anthony just as he smiled at her, and she saw he felt it, too, the love of life in the city. The pulse of life all around them.
The river of humanity narrowed through the gate, past the guards that patrolled the city walls, and then rushed onward, everyone intent on their own business, just as Kate and Anthony were.
They turned their horses down a narrow lane, and the hazy sunlight grew even dimmer by the tall, close-packed houses of timber and plaster. The peaked rooflines nearly touched above their heads, and at eye level the shop windows were open and the counters spread
with fine wares.
Ribbons of every color, embroidered kid gloves, glinting gold and silver jewelry wrought in shapes of flowers and birds, beautiful leather-bound books. Kate was tempted to stop and look, to admire the beautiful artistry, but she knew there were far more vital errands to be done that day.
She urged her tired horse to follow Anthony’s a bit quicker, but the crowd on the street was too thick. She drew in a deep breath—and choked. Weeks in the clear country air had made her forget quite how London really smelled, especially in summer! The latrine ditch along the middle of the street was nearly full, with the miasma of rotting vegetables, horse droppings, and waste buckets tossed from the open upper windows, combined with the rich sweetness of roasting meats and sugared cakes at the taverns, cider and ladies’ perfumes. Beggars pressed in close to the side of her horse, drawn by her fine clothes, only to be pushed back by Anthony, who had slowed his horse and rode protectively near her.
It was almost too much to take in, like a piece of music she had not quite deciphered, whose notes escaped her grasp.
They soon reached Master Hardy’s fine house in Cheapside, where they were to lodge while Kate looked for a clue. It seemed Master Hardy’s messenger had arrived ahead of them, for as Anthony lifted her down from the saddle in the stable courtyard behind the tall house, the door opened and Mistress Hardy herself appeared.
She was a lady beyond middle age now, but lovely still, with bright blue eyes, fine white skin, and graying pale curls peeking from beneath her lace cap. She wore a stylish dark blue silk gown that went with her pretty house, a ring of heavy keys at her belt and a smile on her lips.
“My dear Mistress Haywood!” she cried, bustling forward in a rustle of silk skirts and the rattle of the household keys at her waist. She took Kate’s arm and led her toward the house. “How very tired you must be after such a rushed journey. Men can be so very ridiculous sometimes. Come inside at once; have a goblet of wine and sit by the fire. Though it is a warm day, is it not? Perhaps you would prefer a lemon ice—it is quite the newest thing here in London . . .”
Kate had to laugh as Mistress Hardy bore her into the house, found her a cushioned chair, and poured her a goblet of light wine as she asked after Kate’s father and all the merriment at court. It was an hour before she left to see to the supper preparations and Kate could speak again to Anthony.
“Are you certain you won’t wait until tomorrow to begin such a search?” he asked cautiously, ever the lawyer even now. “Mistress Hardy is quite right; you must be tired.”
“Indeed not.” And Kate found to her surprise that she was not. Instead, she felt a new energy coursing through her. Surely the answers to her questions had to be near now. “We have no time to lose now. And I think I know where to begin. . . . ”
* * *
Kate strode across London Bridge, moving through the dark shadows cast by the tall houses quickly in her borrowed boy’s clothes. She’d long ago learned that in a doublet and hose, with her hair tucked up tightly beneath a cap, she could go places unnoticed as she never could in skirts. It was also much easier to dodge around puddles and avoid the worst muck of the streets.
Anthony had only laughed when she appeared in her manly garments, when she had been afraid she might shock her respectable lawyer friend. They had secretly left the Hardys’ house and now strode together over the crowded bridge.
But he still insisted on moving along the outside of the walkway, protecting her from any falling chamber pots, which secretly made her want to smile.
The last time Kate had crossed London Bridge, it was winter, with ice clogging the river below and snowflakes drifting down over the masses of people who had gathered to celebrate the new queen’s coronation.
Now the sun had crept from behind the clouds to beat warmth onto the stone and timber thoroughfare, and the heat intensified the smells. The sour tang of the water, the smell of spicy ginger cakes from the bakeshops, and the thick woodsmoke from the blacksmiths’ chimneys made the air feel like a thick, damp blanket.
Everywhere people jostled and shouted, merchants crying out their wares from the open windows, the whole city hurrying on their never-ending business as Kate had to go about hers.
They soon passed under the arch of the bridge that led to the river’s south bank. There were only a few traitors’ heads on the pikes high above, staring down endlessly at the city with their empty eye sockets. The queen’s reign of many months had been peaceful thus far—but Kate well remembered Cecil’s warnings of Elizabeth’s circling enemies, just like the black-winged birds wheeling over the river now.
She thought of Master Green waiting in the Tower and shivered despite the heat of the sun. Would there soon be yet another head up there?
Kate led Anthony along the narrow path beside the river, past the wherrymen waiting for passengers to row back to the north bank or downriver to the grand houses of the Strand, past women doing their washing in the waves and mud-lark children searching for tidbits they could sell. Though it had been months since she had gone that way, she still remembered the direction.
They turned onto a narrow, muddy walkway between the leaning, close-packed buildings that lined the water stairs. Anthony’s handsome face looked doubtful, yet still he followed her as they emerged into an open lane.
As it was still afternoon, Southwark was much quieter than the bridge and the more respectable streets around the Hardy house. The streets of Bankside wouldn’t truly come alive until dark, as Kate remembered, when the bear pits, taverns, and brothels opened and patrons poured across the river searching for such illicit pleasures.
Right now, most of the shutters were closed up tight. An old woman drove along a flock of shrieking chickens, and a rickety cart rolled past. A young maidservant fetched water from the public fountain, yawning into her apron. Kate went past them all and turned down Carter Lane, where a cluster of old, precarious-looking buildings huddled around a small courtyard.
It was somewhat above the lowest order of Bankside bawdy houses, with the midden of the house’s trash out of sight behind the building, but the sign swinging in the slow, hot breeze left no doubt of the structure’s real purpose.
The Cardinal’s Hat, read the painted letters, below a distinctly phallic depiction of that scarlet headgear. One of the windows above was open, and a woman’s pale face stared out as she lazily combed her bright yellow hair.
An enormous dragon of a man guarded the front door, his beefy arms clad only in stained shirtsleeves crossed over his burly chest. His head was bald, closely shaved to only a dark shadow of stubble, and he stared out over the quiet street with blank eyes.
Mad Henry was still at his post, then, Kate thought. She could only hope Madame Celine was as well. Celine knew what happened with people of every sort throughout London.
“This is the place,” she said. She took a step toward the Cardinal’s Hat, but Anthony’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“You know people here?” he asked, his voice shocked.
Kate suddenly wondered if he knew the Cardinal’s Hat in some . . . intimate way. She found she did not like that thought at all, but there was no time to dwell on it now. She would simply have to ask him later. In a subtle way.
“I have a friend here,” she said. “She helped me in some matters for the queen last winter. I am sure she can help us find what we seek now.” She shook away Anthony’s restraining hand and hurried to the door, waving at the burly guard. “How do you do, Mad Henry?”
“Back again, then, are you?” Mad Henry said, as if Kate had been there only a day before and not months. He didn’t uncross his arms, but his eyes, black and bottomless under bushy brows, sparkled. “Celine’ll be right glad to see you again. She says she never thanked you enough for finding out who killed our Bess and Nell during the queen’s coronation.”
“If it wasn’t for Celine’s help, I never would have,” Ka
te answered. She still shivered to remember those days, when someone marred the celebration of the queen’s ascension to the throne by cruelly murdering red-haired women. Bess and Nell had lived there at the Cardinal’s Hat. Nell was Rob’s mistress. “I am glad to see you and Celine are still here.”
“Where would we go? Countryside is too quiet for the likes of us.” Mad Henry glanced past her to Anthony, who stood silently at her shoulder. “Haven’t seen him here before.”
Kate felt an unaccountable satisfaction that Anthony probably did not frequent brothels. “This is my friend Anthony. He is helping me look into a matter for a—a friend, and I have hopes Celine might be able to help us again.”
“She’ll be glad enough to pay you back.” Mad Henry pulled open the heavy door and shouted, “You, lad! Come show these important guests to Madame, and be right quick about it!”
A page boy scrambled up from his place by the front hearth and sketched them a quick, awkward bow. Kate and Anthony followed him up a narrow, creaking wooden staircase and along the winding corridors of the Cardinal’s Hat. The doors to the many chambers were closed and all was quiet within as without. The warm, stuffy air smelled of cheap tallow candles, stale perfume, and sweat.
From behind one door came a moan and a giggle, but everyone else seemed to be sleeping. Except Celine herself, the owner of the Cardinal’s Hat, who never seemed to sleep.
“Mad ‘enry says important guests for you!” the boy cried as he threw open a door at the end of the hall.
“I got no time for such things now,” a disgruntled voice said. “Not until tonight.”
Kate stepped into the room, a small closet that held only a writing table and a few stools but was more luxurious than the rest of the space, with cushions and yellow draperies. Two open windows let in the hot breeze as the woman laboring over ledgers at the table glanced up.
Celine looked no different than she had in January. Her face, only lightly creased with age, was free of white paint and kohl at that hour, and her improbably orange-red hair sat braided atop her head. She wore a loose green gown over her stays and petticoat and held a quill pen in her hand. She gave a fearsome scowl as she looked up, but just as Mad Henry’s had, it turned to a smile.
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