She didn’t quite want to look, but she knew she should study it, to see if there were any clues left there as to its maker. She tiptoed closer and edged the cloth away. It was not quite as hideous as she remembered, rendered more harmless left there in a jumble than it was hanging from a tree. It was small, the face carved crudely of wood and painted with features, but the little silk gown with its lace trim was quite fine. The wig, almost the exact shade of Elizabeth’s red-gold, seemed to be of real hair. But it was the small crown that was most interesting.
It was made of silver wire wrapped in cloth-of-silver ribbon, as so many of the headdresses were for the queen’s masques and plays. The design was intricate, of Tudor roses and various fruits and nuts, trimmed with red ribbon and glass beads, with a band of lustrous sable fur at its base. The silver seemed slightly tarnished, but it was obviously an expensive piece.
Who could have found such a thing?
Kate reached out and lightly touched it. It wobbled and toppled from the doll’s head, making her jump back a bit. Perhaps the thing was just as sinister in the deceptive safety of the palace as it was in the tree.
She turned and rushed away toward the queen’s sitting room, feeling colder than she ever had before.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
St. John the Evangelist Day, December 27
Kate drew the heavy folds of her fur-trimmed wool cloak closer around her as she hurried through the Whitehall gardens toward the building where the Office of the Revels had stored their costumes for the masque. The wind that swirled in off the river was biting, and she was glad she had the excuse of an errand to keep her from going ice-skating with Lady Catherine and her friends again.
But the errand wasn’t a pleasant one. Tucked in the purse tied to her sash was the tiny crown from the horrid hanging effigy. It was a fine piece, much like a headdress the queen actually owned. It couldn’t have been made at just any goldsmith’s; it had to come from someone who specialized in making such headpieces, a tiring-maker who catered to the court and the theatrical troupes.
Surely someone who worked for the Master of the Revels would know which jeweler in the city worked in such a style, and they in turn might remember who had ordered such a thing. It was a small matter, but the only clue Kate could yet think of that might tell them who had had the doll made. The queen had so many enemies—the Spanish, the French, who wanted to see their Queen Mary on the English throne, disappointed suitors, jealous rivals. But this one was getting much too frighteningly close.
The Office of the Revels was very busy organizing all the queen’s Yule events, with pages and servants rushing back and forth carrying gilded props and bolts of glimmering silks. Someone was decorating a large backdrop with a snow scene and a clear blue sky, and the smell of the paint was heavy in the chilly air.
Kate managed to catch a harried-looking man in a rumpled brown wool doublet as he ran past. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said quickly, for she knew very well how annoying it was to be interrupted in the midst of a creative flurry. “But I have come on an errand for the queen. Where might I find Sir Thomas Benger?”
The page became a little more helpful at the mention of the queen, and led her to a small chamber at the back of the office where Sir Thomas was inspecting some of the props for an upcoming masque.
Kate had known him at Hatfield, where he helped Princess Elizabeth keep up a semblance of a royal court in her small household, and he had just become her Master of the Revels, an expensive honor to his purse it was rumored he was halfhearted about at best. But his eye was sharp as he studied the array of helmets and false swords before him.
“Ah, Mistress Haywood! A most welcome distraction,” he declared. “Come in, come in. Does the queen require us to examine another new play?”
“Not at all, Sir Thomas. I hope I bring you very little extra work, for I know well how busy this time of year can be,” Kate answered. “I have a question of my own for you.”
“I will be happy to help if I can.”
Kate unwrapped the little crown and held it out to him. “Would you happen to have an idea of who made this? I know you use many different seamstresses and artisans, but it seems rather distinctive.”
“Indeed. A very pretty piece, though quite miniature. It must be a prop for a play, though such a shame no one could see the intricate work close up from a stage.” He balanced the crown on his palm to study it closely. If he had heard of what happened on the queen’s hunt, the poppet with its tiny crown, he gave no sign. “I do think the threadwork on the wires is rather distinctive. Master Orrens, perhaps.”
“Master Orrens?”
“He works on Monkwell Street, came from France many years ago, I think. He sometimes makes headdresses for courtly masquerades, though I seem to remember he worked more for King Henry’s court. Do you have a new commission for him?”
“Mayhap, if he is really who I seek,” Kate said. “His work is quite lovely.”
Sir Thomas reached for a scrap of paper and his quill. “I will give you his direction. Tell him if he is still working, we would like to have him make some new costumes for the court. Mayhap for the summer progresses.”
“I will tell him. Thank you.” She just hoped he truly was the man she sought, the one who could tell her more about the crown and where it came from.
Kate made her way back to the waterside gallery. She didn’t see Lady Catherine and her friends there, so they were probably still on the river—or in secret romantic meetings. Robert Dudley and his followers were also absent, which meant the queen was still playing primero with him in her privy chamber, as she was when Kate had left. Kate paused to glance out the window at the garden below, and she glimpsed her father walking there with his stick, leaning on Hester Park’s arm as Master Park pointed out a sight in the distance, and they all laughed. Kate smiled to see her father enjoying himself again.
She caught a glimpse of a silver flash against the dark brown of the winter hedges, and turned to see Rob Cartman walking with a lady on each of his arms. One of the ladies was giggling as Rob smiled down at her, and he suddenly twirled them both in a wide circle as if they were dancing in the winter wind.
Kate jerked her head around to turn her attention to the gallery again. Surely what Rob Cartman chose to do with his time was not her concern! She had better business to attend to.
But as she turned away, she saw something at the edge of the walled garden that made her pause. Lord Macintosh, of the Scots Protestant lords, and Senor Vasquez were standing by the stone wall, talking together closely. Their faces were dark, intent, and Senor Vasquez was scowling.
They seemed most unlikely friends. Curious, Kate made her way to the staircase at the end of the gallery that led down into the gardens. It was crowded with courtiers passing the long hours whispering, laughing, and playing cards, and no one paid her any attention. She drew up the hood of her cloak and stayed behind the tall hedge so they wouldn’t see her.
“. . . only a ruddy Spaniard would trust someone like that,” Lord Macintosh was saying. He tried to laugh derisively, but Kate could hear the barely leashed anger underneath. “Smugglers will only see to their own ends. If one thing goes wrong . . .”
“So pay them enough and they will do your bidding, sí?” Senor Vasquez said with a snort.
Kate remembered his glowers at the banquet, his dour attitude in such contrast to that of his friend Senor Gomez. She peeked carefully around the edge of the hedge, but she could see little other than the two men standing close together, watching to make sure they were not overheard. What were a Scotsman and a Spaniard doing together worrying about smugglers, of all things? Making some coin on the side while they were in England?
“There is no one else?” Lord Macintosh said.
Senor Vasquez laughed, a bitter sound. “Do you think one of the queen’s captains would do it, and not go scurrying off to milord Cecil with wo
rd of it? We may be on an island, but even you must know it is no simple matter to find the right kind of ship for our purpose. These arrangements were made long ago, and must be carried out at exactly the right moment. Why else would I come now to this barbaric land?”
Lord Macintosh was silent for a long moment, and Kate carefully edged forward again to study their faces. Macintosh was much larger than Vasquez, and the Spaniard huddled against the cold, but it seemed he was the leader in whatever scheme the two of them were arranging. She hardly dared breathe as she watched them. Even in a court full of whispered secrets, she was astonished at them.
Finally, after a long, tense moment, Lord Macintosh nodded. “I am new to Whitehall, and have only just received word of what must be done. I shall think carefully of what you have said.”
“Do not take too long about it. Time grows short.”
Macintosh scowled. “The lady does not seem enthusiastic. In fact, she has said nothing at all to me.”
Senor Vasquez shrugged. “How can she? She is carefully watched. But she, too, will follow the arrangements. The good of three nations depends on it now. . . .”
“Speaking of being watched . . .” Lord Macintosh glanced over his shoulder, and Kate ducked back around her corner. “I must go now. I will speak to you again soon, senor, but not here.”
“And what I was promised?”
“You shall have it,” Macintosh said, a sneer in his voice.
When Kate peeked out again, the two men were gone. She almost wondered if she had imagined the whole thing—it seemed so very ludicrous. What were a Spaniard and a Scotsman, a Protestant Scotsman, doing conspiring together? She couldn’t fathom how their interests could possibly align.
Of course, she thought, it could have something to do with King Philip of Spain wanting to keep Mary, Queen of Scots, off the English throne. He had no love of the Valois family, despite his new wife, or for France to take over England—it was said he even preferred a heretic queen to that prospect. Yet would he go so far as to enlist the Scottish Congregation lords to his aid?
And who was she, whose consent involved boats and smugglers? Kate’s head whirled with wild thoughts, with fears for Elizabeth’s safety. The threatening notes, the hanged effigy, the strange music, all the new foreign lords crowding the palace corridors—how could they be connected?
Kate shook her head as she suddenly remembered what her errand in the gallery was in the first place, to fetch her lute and some of the music from the chamber where they had worked on the masque. She hurried down the corridor, intent on retrieving them and then finding Cecil to tell him what she had heard.
Her thoughts were spinning as she climbed the stairs back into the warmth of the palace and turned down the corridor. She felt the need to write down all she knew thus far, which was precious little indeed. She needed to see the connections, like the bars of a song.
She turned into the chamber, and saw that it was not quite empty. A tall, lean man in a black-and-dark-tawny-velvet doublet was bent over the table of music. For an instant, she was afraid that it was Senor Gomez, and that he had some part in whatever scheme his friend was concocting.
But then he straightened, and she saw it was not Senor Gomez at all. It was her father’s friend Master Finsley, and in a beam of light from the narrow windows she didn’t know how she could have mistaken him for the younger Spaniard. She had a sudden memory of him from when she was a child, his hair dark, his smile wide as he talked to his sister. He had been a handsome man then, and was still. She wondered why he had never married, what he had been doing since his days at Queen Catherine’s court.
“Mistress Haywood—Kate,” he said with a little bow and a smile. “I was sent to fetch something for Mistress Park, and couldn’t help but look at these. Are they all your own work?”
“Aye, most of it,” Kate answered. She went to his side to glance over the pages scattered over the table, all the odds and ends she had drawn together to help make the new masque. “This song was my father’s, but we haven’t yet used it this Yule season.”
Master Finsley studied the music carefully. “Matthew and I have played many of his old pieces together over the last few weeks, but I cannot remember this one.”
“It is not so very old. He wrote it when we lived at Hatfield. The queen’s Christmases then, when she was a princess, were much quieter, and we didn’t have a chance to play this one. It could be used for dancing.” She remembered the secret manuscript her father had shown her, the one Queen Catherine Parr gave him.
She studied Master Finsley carefully, but she could see only kindness in his smile. He, too, had served Queen Catherine and her Protestant court. He must have seen a great deal in those days.
“You have much of your father’s talent,” he said. “And your mother’s, too. I hope Queen Elizabeth treasures that talent. It is a rare thing.”
“Her Grace has been very kind to me, and to my father,” Kate answered. “I am glad you came to visit him. I know he thinks much about the past lately.”
“We had some fine times together, your father and the Parks and I, to be sure,” Master Finsley said with a laugh. “And I fear we had some dark ones, as well. I am glad to see that promise you showed as a child has come to fruition.”
“I remember your sister from when I was a child, Master Finsley. She was very kind to me. Any seam I can sew now, which I fear is not so great, is thanks to her. She was most patient with my fumbling about with needle and thread.”
He smiled sadly. “Allison was a kindhearted woman indeed. It’s been lonely without her.”
“You never married, Master Finsley?”
“I never met a lady as lovely as your mother,” he said with a smile. “Allison kept house for me, and I had my work for Queen Catherine. It was a most satisfactory life. But I am surprised you have not married yet, my dear.”
Kate laughed. “I, too, have satisfactory work, Master Finsley. It would be difficult to give it up.”
“Very true. I am sure the queen has much use for your talent.” He studied the pages of music again. “Do you perchance have any more of your father’s work? I would love to look at it.”
“I have some,” Kate said carefully, thinking of the hidden pages. “Perhaps we could all meet after the queen’s feast and play some music in my father’s room? I would so enjoy hearing more about your time together in Queen Catherine’s day.”
“I would enjoy that as well.”
Kate gathered up her music and made her way up the stairs toward the quiet corridor where her chamber waited. There was much to be finished before the evening’s revels, and she had to send her message to Cecil. But there was a most unexpected sight waiting for her outside her door. Lady Catherine Grey sat on the floor in a puddle of black satin skirts and the black fur tippet she had worn for skating, sobbing into her hands.
At the sight of Kate, she scrambled to her feet.
“Lady Catherine, are you ill?” Kate cried as she ran to the sobbing girl’s side. Kate glanced quickly around to see if anyone else was there, if anyone had seen the queen’s cousin in such an unhappy state. But it seemed Lady Catherine was alone, and few people ventured very often to such a quiet part of the palace.
“Oh, Mistress Haywood, I am so sorry to im-impose on you in such a manner,” Lady Catherine said with a sniffle. “I just could not bear it. I couldn’t be stared at a moment longer, and I remembered you had a room here. . . .”
Kate nodded, thinking of how Lady Catherine’s life was the opposite to her own. Kate did the watching, but everyone was always watching Lady Catherine, wondering what she was going to do next, what she was thinking of her treatment as the queen’s cousin, if she wanted to be the heir. It must be maddening. “You are not imposing on me, Lady Catherine. I am happy to help, if I can. Here, let’s go inside where you can sit quietly. No one will stare at you there.”
Kate opened the door and quickly ushered Lady Catherine inside. The lady’s pretty heart-shaped face was splotched and reddened from crying, and it seemed she had no handkerchief. Kate found one of her own in the clothes chest, and pressed it into Lady Catherine’s hand before she went to stir the warm embers of the fire back to life. She let Lady Catherine sit down on the stool near the hearth and compose herself a bit before glancing back to smile at her.
“I fear I have no wine to offer,” Kate said.
“You are so very kind, Mistress Haywood,” Lady Catherine said, wiping her eyes. “No one else here at court is like you. No one I have ever known, really.”
“You have many friends, Lady Catherine.”
Lady Catherine bit her lip and stared down at the handkerchief balled up in her hand. “I do know many people, of course. Everyone wants to find favor with a Tudor, even one as out of favor as I am. My mother loved parties, loved people and laughter around her, and I inherited the same from her. I could never do without company. But—friends? I am not so sure, of late.”
Kate sat back on her heels to study her visitor more closely. The Lady Catherine of only a few months ago had been so confidently sure of her position, of her place at the center of her group of friends, but now she had changed. Was it just her mother’s recent death—or something more?
When Queen Elizabeth asked Kate to keep watch on Lady Catherine, Kate had never expected the task to come easily. For Lady Catherine Grey to so eagerly reveal the vulnerability beneath her Tudor glitter. It made Kate feel a sharp, guilty pang to think of using the lady’s sorrow, even to help the queen in these dangerous games of royal heirs and plots.
But Lady Catherine had been a courtier since birth. Her mother, King Henry’s own niece, had been so adept at such games that she managed to save herself and her two remaining daughters, to find favor at court, even after her husband’s execution for treason. Lady Frances Grey had steered her family through the perils of four monarchs, with her charm and beauty always intact. What if Lady Catherine took after her mother in political adeptness as well as her love of parties? What if this, too, was some elaborate masquerade?
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