Murder at Westminster Abbey

by Amanda Carmack

  “If even Queen Mary could give us our due, why must this new queen cast us down? We are of legitimate Tudor blood. She is a mere Boleyn bast—”

  “Catherine!” Frances snapped. In a rare burst of her old fiery temper, she slammed her fist down on the table, making the plates rattle. Adrian hurried to take her hand as her labored breath wheezed in her throat. “You must have a care or you will land us all in trouble—again. And I have not the strength to drag us out as I once did.”

  Something in her mother’s desperate tone pierced through Catherine’s anger, and she spun around to face the table. Frances had indeed grown much thinner in the last few months, her fine gowns hanging on her tall frame, her heart-shaped face sharp-boned and gray-white. Her once-abundant golden hair was thin and brittle, streaked with silver.

  Knowing that her daughters were honored, given their due as great-granddaughters of King Henry VII, would surely have eased her, Catherine thought. But Elizabeth made it heartily clear that she disliked the Grey women, Catherine in particular, and that the rightful favor they were shown by Queen Mary was a thing of the past. This demotion to mere maid of honor was only the latest humiliation, and Catherine was sure it would not be the last.

  “I am sorry, Mother,” Catherine said softly. She hurried over to kneel beside Frances and took her mother’s hand in her own, summoning the copious charm she was known for. Frances’s fingers were cold, her jeweled rings loose. “You are ill today, I shouldn’t give you more worries than you already have. It is just that . . .”

  “That injustices stir your Tudor temper,” Frances said with a hoarse laugh. She gently patted Catherine’s cheek. “It was thus with your grandmother when she saw her brother King Henry dishonor his throne by chasing after Anne Boleyn. And then with me, too, when I was young and stouthearted.”

  “And still now at times, my love,” Adrian said, gesturing at the tumbled plates.

  Frances gave him a fond smile. “And sometimes now. We are Tudors, my dearest Catherine, and our fires will never go out entirely. But you must tread most carefully. Being so near to the throne can be a curse as well as a blessing. Remember your poor sister, your father.”

  “Jane. Yes,” Catherine sighed. Jane, who had been a queen for little more than a sennight. But Jane had no “Tudor fire.” Jane did as she was told, and then scurried back to her books. Jane would not have fought for rights, nor for true love. Not as Catherine would.

  “My dearest,” Frances said, drawing Catherine up to sit beside her. “You are my beautiful angel. But I fear I have given you too much of my own pride. You must learn to govern your feelings. Elizabeth is queen now, and warring with her will avail you nothing.”

  Aye, and that was the gall of it all! That a bastard like Elizabeth should be raised to the throne, while Catherine had naught. “If she would name you her heir, as she should by rights, I would not war with her.”

  “I married beneath me,” Frances said with another smile at her young husband, who had once been her Master of the Horse. A love match it might have been, but a brilliant one, too, for it removed Frances and her family to a place of safety after her husband’s rebellion and traitor’s death. “I can be no royal heir.”

  “Then it should be me,” Catherine insisted. “We are her nearest family, but for Mary of Scotland, and she can never be heir here, not now that she is dauphine of France.” Indeed Queen Mary Tudor had once seemed near to naming Catherine as her heir. If only Mary had lived longer . . .

  “Hush,” Frances hissed. She pinched Catherine’s arm hard with a flash of that old temper. “There are eyes and ears everywhere. You must be careful.”

  Catherine slumped back in her chair, feeling as sullen and resentful as she had when denied a sweet as a child. But this was a thousand times worse, a thousand times more unjust. “I only speak the truth, Mother, and you know it is so. If I have no position at court, what else is there for me?”

  “I should have seen to your marriage long ago, after Pembroke left and annulled your marriage,” Frances said. “Queen Mary would have given permission readily enough, if a suitable gentleman had been found. She may have even let you remarry Pembroke! They say Elizabeth does not wish her ladies to wed.”

  “I am not truly one of her ladies, though, am I?” Catherine said. She snatched up a linen napkin, twisting the fine fabric between her fingers. But the mention of marriage was like a touch of fire under the ice of her discontent. Not marriage to that milksop Pembroke, though. He hadn’t been able to consummate things when he had the chance.

  She thought instead of sweet, beautiful Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, her darling Ned. Those golden days at his estate at Hanworth, the touch of his hand, his secret kisses . . .

  Catherine sighed to remember it all, and the too-quick glimpses she’d had of him at court over Christmas. They hadn’t been able to dance together, not yet. Her mother was right. Eyes were always watching.

  But, aye. Marriage, the right marriage, could be a fine thing indeed. A step toward her rightful place.

  There was a knock at the chamber door, and Catherine tossed away the napkin as a page stepped inside with a bow. “The Spanish ambassador has arrived, my lady.”

  “Ah, the Count de Feria,” Frances said with a smile. “Show him in at once.”

  “Feria?” Catherine said with a spark of interest. In a new court that seemed to turn against her family, only King Philip’s ambassador gave them their due. Feria visited often, bringing news of Spain, gossip about courtiers, and small gifts. And he was handsome and charming, all that a royal emissary should be.

  “My fairest duchess! And Lady Catherine,” the count said as he swept into the room in a swirl of pearl-embroidered black velvet cloak and bowed over their hands. “I trust you are well today? My wife hopes that her jars of comfits have brought you some respite from the chill.”

  “The countess is ever kind,” Frances answered. Lady Jane Dormer, now the Countess de Feria, was still their staunchest friend from Queen Mary’s old court. “We fare well enough. Better for your company today.”

  “I also bear greetings from my master King Philip,” Feria said, producing a letter closed with the royal Spanish seal. “He is most anxious to hear of your health after his dear wife Queen Mary’s death.”

  “We are most gratified by the king’s attentions,” Frances said as Catherine hurried to find a cushioned chair and goblet of wine for the count. “It was fair days indeed when he was among us.”

  “His Majesty will always be most careful of your futures, senora la duchess,” the count said, taking the goblet from Catherine with a smile. “He always remembers his friends.”

  “We have received many moving messages of late,” Frances said. Catherine carefully studied her mother’s smile, and saw the echo there of the old, courtly, dashing Frances, before misfortune and ill health overtook her. The beautiful Frances Grey, who could save her family even from the consequences of treason merely with her charm. “Just yesterday we had a letter from King Henri in Paris.”

  “King Henri?” Feria’s dark eyes flashed, but his smile never faltered. “Surely you must know my master’s friendship will always surpass that of the French king. Henri will look to the interests of his own daughter-in-law Mary of Scotland above all.”

  Frances sighed. “My poor girls. I fear they shall be alone and abandoned in the world very soon. Quite forgotten.” The bells of the Tower rang outside their window, calling for the beginning of the day’s ceremonies. “Their rightful place but a memory.”

  “My master will never abandon them, senora,” Feria said solemnly, his gloved hand over his heart. “As you will see if you read his letter. He has a proposition for you, and for the beautiful Lady Catherine. If you would be willing to hear it.”

  Catherine’s gaze met her mother’s wary one, her heart suddenly lurching with excitement. Surely it was as she had hoped! King Philip
was so much more powerful than an upstart like Elizabeth could ever be. Surely if he stood as their friend . . .

  Anything could be possible. Even a marriage grander than that to any earl.

  “We are always happy to talk to our true friends, my dearest count,” Frances said carefully. “Do have some more wine while I read the king’s letter. . . .”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kate tiptoed to the back of the crowd gathered in the lord lieutenant’s hall, freed of her musical duties for the night. The queen didn’t dance that evening, but instead chose to watch a play before she retired to her bed for one last night in the Tower. Tomorrow she would process through London to her palace at Westminster, close to the Abbey, where she would stay for a few days after the coronation.

  After weeks of dancing and dining until the small hours, tonight was quieter. Elizabeth sat in her high-backed, velvet-cushioned chair set on a small dais where she had a good view of the stage. The tale appeared to be a pastoral romance, Kate thought as she studied the painted scenery of trees and green, summery grass. A story of a lost princess, disguised as a shepherdess, courted by two lovers, one truehearted and one not.

  Elizabeth’s attention seldom wavered from the players. Her usual lightning energy was stilled for the moment. Her jeweled hands rested on the lap of her green satin gown, and she only occasionally reached out to take a sweetmeat proffered by Mistress Ashley.

  Behind her sat her chief counselors, Sir William Cecil in his usual solemn dark robes, a frown creasing his brow as he studied Robert Dudley a few seats away, just to the right of the queen. There was nothing at all solemn about Sir Robert in his purple and green doublet sewn with pearls. He murmured and laughed with his friends, all of them equally richly clad, all of them merry and entirely at their wine-soaked ease, as if all the pageantry was only for their amusement.

  One would never know Sir Robert was in charge of moving hundreds of people, their horses and carriages, through the city tomorrow. He leaned forward with an easy, careless grace to offer Elizabeth a goblet of wine. She smiled down at him from her higher chair as she took it, their fingers brushing and lingering.

  Sir William’s scowl deepened and Mistress Ashley plucked at Elizabeth’s diamond-strewn sleeve to turn the queen’s attention back to the stage. Surely if Sir Robert weren’t already married to his country-mouse wife, Cecil would truly have something to worry about. Kate knew it was said he favored a foreign royal marriage, perhaps to an Austrian archduke.

  Kate went up on tiptoe to see above the heads of the people seated in front of her on their rows of benches. Everyone had their places in strictest order of precedence, the grandest of the great families, such as the Howards, the Sheffields, and the Vavasours, and the queen’s Boleyn cousins Lord Hunsdon and his sister Catherine Carey and their many children at the front, a sea of shining silks and velvets. The lower families stood along the tapestried walls, shifting on their heeled shoes amid the soft rustles of fine fabrics.

  The young maids of honor were arrayed on cushions in front of the queen’s dais, their silver skirts spread around them. Kate glimpsed Lady Catherine Grey there, her golden hair twined with pearls, but her mother, Lady Frances, was nowhere to be seen. It was said her health was failing, and the queen seemed to feel no pangs in excusing her presence. Lady Catherine fidgeted with a ribbon on her sleeve, her gaze restlessly scanning the crowd much as Kate’s did.

  But where Kate studied the gathering to see what she could read in unguarded moments, Lady Catherine seemed to seek one face in particular. And when she didn’t find it, a pout touched her rosebud mouth and she spun back to face the stage.

  Lady Catherine, in her turn, was being watched. Kate saw the Spanish ambassador, the unfailingly correct Count de Feria, sitting with his delegation at the far side of the room. Kate well remembered him from their dinner at Brocket Hall months ago, when Elizabeth was not yet queen and her brother-in-law, King Philip, wanted to secure her future friendship. Feria had lived a life of diplomacy for many years, serving his king in England and the Low Countries, his charming, pleasant smile never wavering, no matter what his thoughts might be.

  It was said King Philip himself intended to propose to Elizabeth soon, and that was why Feria lingered in England. But right now he did not watch the queen, instead eyeing Lady Catherine. For the merest instant, his smile flickered and his dark eyes narrowed in calculation. The unguarded second was quickly gone. He smiled again, and whispered a word to one of his companions. The rest of the Spanish, who still wore deepest black mourning for Queen Mary, did not seem to be enjoying the romantic play at all.

  Unlike their French counterparts across the room. It was said that King Henri, in the privacy of his own court in Paris, declared Elizabeth to be a bastard pretender, and his own daughter-in-law, Mary of Scotland, was the true Queen of England. But his ambassador, Monsieur de Castelnau, had been full of compliments and declarations of affection for Elizabeth from Mary, and he and his fellows seemed to enjoy themselves wherever they went—dancing, hunting, drinking freely of the queen’s wine, spreading lavish gifts in every direction.

  The French also knew a great deal about music, which Kate appreciated. But their merriment was no more trustworthy than the Spanish solemnity, and they sought allies only for their own master’s benefit.

  Kate’s gaze darted around the crowd as she wondered who chose alliances where. The Duke of Norfolk, the queen’s cousin and the highest noble in the land, the leader of the Howard family, sat near the queen with his pretty young wife, Margaret Audley, who was Lady Catherine Grey’s friend. The duke glared at Robert Dudley, whom everyone knew the old families considered the merest upstart, but the duchess seemed to be enjoying herself in her new high position.

  Kate tried to find Mary Everley, yet she could catch no glimpse of her friend. Mary had vanished after dinner and not yet reappeared. Her father and brother sat near the French ambassador, with Lady Frances Grey’s young husband, Adrian Stokes. Kate remembered Mary mentioned her family had once been neighbors of the Greys, and friends with the Seymours. Once the Seymours had been the most powerful family in England, the Duke of Somerset Lord Protector to his nephew King Edward VI, and Lord Thomas married to Dowager Queen Catherine Parr. Then they lost it all in scandal and executions for treason. Now they were trying to rise again with the Protector’s son Edward, Lord Hertford.

  Kate turned her attention to the stage, where the shepherdess princess was dancing with one of her suitors. Kate hadn’t looked too closely at the players yet, being too intent on the audience, but one of them caught her study. He looked rather familiar, the princess’s suitor, even beneath his wig and stage paint, the fluttering ribbons of his doublet.

  Kate strained on her toes to see closer. Could it be one of Rob Cartman’s players, who had come to Hatfield so fatefully before Elizabeth became queen? Her breath caught as she realized that the shepherd was indeed one of Rob’s players, and she glanced around quickly seeking a glimpse of Rob himself, his blond hair or teasing smile. He and his players had gone away after his uncle’s death and Elizabeth’s accession, and she’d heard naught from him since. If he was here, if his troupe had been commissioned to play before the queen . . .

  Surely he must be faring well.

  Keeping to the edges of the hall, behind the thick of the crowd, Kate made her way closer to the stage. As the princess and her suitor clasped hands, she saw they were indeed actors in Rob’s troupe, the former Lord Ambrose’s Men. Yet she didn’t see Rob, even when more of the players twirled onstage to join the dance.

  The actor-princess caught sight of her as she carefully lifted her hand, and his eyes widened. He gave her a quick nod before he was spun away.

  Once the scene changed and a painted castle was rolled onstage, Kate only had to wait for a few more minutes. A small boy, one of the actors playing a minor role, slipped out from behind the stage and rushed to her side to tug at her skirt.r />
  Kate knelt down to hear his whisper. “Be you Mistress Haywood?”

  “I am.”

  “Harry said to tell you we are most glad to see you here, as Rob begged him to get you a message if he could,” the boy said, mentioning one of the actors of Lord Ambrose’s Men that Kate remembered from Hatfield.

  Rob had wanted to talk to her? Then where was he? Kate had the sinking feeling that the handsome actor just might be in some trouble again. She looked to the stage, where Harry, an attractive youth in his lady’s costume, nodded to her. “What sort of message? Where is Master Cartman?”

  “He wants to see you. Harry says he needs your help. He’s at the sign of the Cardinal’s Hat in Southwark, and he dares not leave to come here.”

  “Southwark?” That did not sound like good news at all, if Rob felt he couldn’t leave the lawless district of theaters and brothels beyond the city gates. She herself never ventured there. She almost sighed at the unfortunate knowledge that her instincts had been right. Rob Cartman was too handsome and too impulsive for his own good, or the good of any lady’s heart.

  But if he was indeed in bad trouble, she knew she had to try to help him. He had saved her life once, carrying her to Hatfield House when she was shot with an arrow and almost bled to death.

  “What has happened?” she asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Harry says either he or I can take you there, mistress, if you meet us later by the Cradle Tower gate. He’ll tell you all then.”

  Kate glanced over the boy’s head to meet Harry’s stare. Harry was truly a handsome young lad, still pretty enough to play a princess, with a guileless smile. But in that one instant she saw the flash of stark panic in his eyes. She realized Rob must truly be in trouble.

  The brave, reckless, dashing fool.

  Kate nodded, and Harry nodded back before he danced away.