Finally, the queen nodded. “You were most helpful in those terrible events at Hatfield, Kate. You have a sharp sense of justice, I think, and a willingness to seek it that is most rare. Together we will find who did this to Lady Mary, and why. No one mars my coronation and escapes my justice, I vow it!”
Another sneezing fit followed, and Kate handed Elizabeth a clean cloth as the queen sank back down onto her bolsters. Her cheeks were a hectic, fevered red.
“I can do little until I feel well enough to leave this cursed bed,” Elizabeth said. “You must tell me what you find outside this chamber, Kate.”
Kate nodded. She was eager to start seeking Mary’s killer, but also nervous she might fail. Might disappoint the queen, and herself. “I fear I did discover something else, Your Majesty. Something that is very probably not connected to Lady Mary, but ’tis hard to know yet.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Something else?”
Kate told her of Nell in Southwark, and her sister, Bess, who needed help to find the murderer.
Elizabeth’s scowl deepened. “A red-haired Winchester goose, you say? And killed in the same manner as Lady Mary?”
“I did not see Nell’s body, but Bess and the guard at the bawdy house told me her head was—wounded.” Kate stopped to think about that for a moment. Aye, both women had died from a blow to the head, it seemed. But Bess and the guard had said there was a great deal of blood in Nell’s case. Mary had only the one wound on her temple.
Elizabeth sighed. “’Tis true that there might be a connection, but I cannot see where Lady Mary would have the same false friends as this Nell. Men are ever villainous, though, with no care for the women around them. We females are always in danger, especially ones who are foolishly romantic.”
The queen looked away, and she seemed to retreat somewhere deep inside of herself. To see things in her mind no one else could share. She bit her lip, and for a moment she looked both younger and far, far older than her twenty-five years.
“Your Majesty?” Kate said gently, fearful lest the queen drift too far away into the horrors of the past.
Elizabeth turned back to her, her eyes wide as if she was startled to find herself in her own palace chamber. “Do you remember Lord Thomas Seymour, Kate? Nay, you would not. You were but a child when his wife, my stepmother Queen Catherine Parr, died.”
“I do remember him a little,” Kate said. Though she had indeed been very young when her father was chief musician to Henry VIII’s last wife, Queen Catherine, and then later at the widowed queen’s house at Chelsea, she could remember Lord Thomas Seymour, the younger uncle of King Edward. He would be very hard to forget, a large, loud, handsome man, always lavishly dressed and planning equally lavish parties.
Everyone had been most surprised when Queen Catherine, only a few months a widow, married him. Princess Mary had departed her household amid the scandal, but Princess Elizabeth, barely fifteen, stayed. Yet life at Chelsea, and at Lord Thomas’s estate at Sudeley, had been very merry for a time. Queen Catherine, usually so solemn and studious, learned to laugh, and Kate’s father was kept very busy with his music.
It all ended much too soon. Kate remembered Princess Elizabeth leaving the queen’s household amid tears. Queen Catherine took to her chamber, pregnant and ill by then, and died when the child was born. Kate’s father then wandered from noble house to noble house with his music, until Elizabeth summoned him to serve her in her exile. Kate remembered those short days as golden ones in her childish memory.
But then, when she was a child she knew naught of why Elizabeth left Queen Catherine’s house so suddenly. It was when she grew older that she heard snatches of the scandalous, scurrilous gossip. Lord Thomas had pursued the young princess, had flirted with her, kissed her, even entered her bedchamber in the mornings before she was dressed. Possibly he even schemed to marry her, without the permission of her brother—the king—and his council. It led to his execution in the end.
And Elizabeth never spoke of him.
“You are young, Kate,” Elizabeth said sadly, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “Just as your friend Lady Mary was. And youthful hearts are the most vulnerable. They have yet to learn prudence. I hope you will be cautious.”
Kate was confused. Cautious about what? Was it love that had led to Mary’s downfall? She had yet to find out. “I—I have no thoughts of marriage, Your Majesty,” she said carefully. She forced away a sudden flashing thought of Anthony Elias and his green eyes.
Elizabeth gave a hoarse laugh. “I know. You care only for your music, and that is a fine thing. For I will never easily let talent such as yours slip away from my court. But I fear your friend Lady Mary would have nothing like that to distract her. A handsome man, wise to the ways of the world—what young lady can resist his blandishments?”
Blandishments like those of the doomed Lord Thomas? The Seymours had been too much mixed up in matters of late, and Kate couldn’t yet decipher how they fit into everything. “You think Lady Mary did have a lover, then, an older man leading her astray?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Who can say? I know much about my court, but not yet everything. Nay, not yet. I am disturbed, though, by what you tell me about this bawd with the red hair.”
Before she could say more, Mistress Ashley rushed over. “Your Majesty, Lady Frances and Lady Catherine Grey are on their way!”
“God’s teeth, but I had forgotten about them,” Elizabeth muttered. “It is difficult enough to talk to my cousins when I am well. I am in no humor for them now. Ah, well, I suppose I must have it done with.”
“Shall I go, Your Majesty?” Kate said.
“Nay, nay,” Elizabeth said with an impatient wave of her handkerchief. “You should stay and listen, Kate, if you are to help me discover what happened to Lady Mary. Lady Catherine was her friend, was she not? She may have something useful to say, but she will be too careful in talking to me.”
And she would never notice someone like Kate. “Of course.”
“The Count de Feria also begs an audience with you, lovey,” Mistress Ashley said as she fussed with the queen’s bedcovers. “He has sent several messages today already.”
Elizabeth sighed deeply. “A plague on all ambassadors! He and his master, King Philip, have nothing to say I want to hear. They are all pretty words and false smiles.”
Kate thought of Catherine Grey and the Spanish ambassador whispering together. And Mary with them. “Your Majesty—is Lady Catherine not acquainted with Senor de Feria? They are often seen talking, and only yesterday I glimpsed Lady Mary with them.”
Was it truly only a couple of days ago she saw Mary laughing with Catherine Grey and the Spanish ambassador? It seemed a decade ago.
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, indeed. Very clever, Kate. Feria does seem to think he can gain from Lady Catherine’s friendship, and my silly cousin is all too easily flattered. Perhaps they can be useful after all.”
A footman in the queen’s scarlet and gold livery announced, “Lady Frances and Lady Catherine Grey, to see the queen.”
“Go and seat yourself at my new virginals over there, Kate,” Elizabeth said, letting Mistress Ashley smooth her hair and her fur-trimmed brocade robe. “Play a quiet song, and listen to what my dear cousins have to say. No doubt they will importune me about their position at court again, or try to convince me to send my Boleyn relations away.”
Kate nodded, and quickly went to sit down at the instrument that rested near the bed, half-hidden by the velvet bed-curtains. As she waited for the Greys to be admitted, she carefully ran her fingertips over the cool keys. Despite her nerves at being pulled suddenly into such terrible events, she had to admit she took pleasure in such a beautiful instrument. It was not new, but handsomely restored of polished, burnished wood, inlaid with Queen Anne Boleyn’s falcon badge and newly tuned. Perhaps it had once belonged to the queen’s mother, but no
w it sounded like new.
At last Elizabeth was ready, and she gestured to Mistress Ashley to let her cousins into the chamber. Lady Frances and Lady Catherine made properly low curtsies before Elizabeth impatiently waved them closer. Kate carefully studied them under the guise of her song.
Lady Frances had once been beautiful, tall and slim with her Tudor mother Princess Mary’s red-gold hair and blue eyes. But long years of political turmoil, watching her family torn apart and her eldest daughter, Lady Jane, and husband Lord Suffolk executed, along with ill health, had made her pale and thin, her cheeks hollow. Her fine purple brocade gown hung on her figure, as if she had lost weight since having it made for the coronation festivities.
But her gaze on the queen was steady and determined enough, her fingers curled tightly around her daughter’s hand.
Lady Catherine, on the other hand, was in the full bloom of youth and beauty. Her cheeks glowed pink, and the soft curls of her blond hair bounced under her embroidered cap. Her large blue eyes were wide, studying everything around her in the royal bedchamber. Kate remembered that Lady Catherine had been demoted from her place as Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Mary, and was now merely a maid of honor.
“How do you fare today, Cousin Frances?” Elizabeth said lightly, stifling another sneeze.
“We are well enough, Your Majesty,” Lady Frances answered. She smiled, but her voice was tight. “But we were most distressed to hear that you are ill.”
Elizabeth smiled sweetly, which Kate knew was never a good sign. Sweetness meant she was about to spew fire. “And you came rushing forthwith to assure yourselves about my state of health. Most kind of you, Cousin, to take such an eager interest.”
“We are cousins, Your Majesty. My mother was your own father’s sister,” Frances said. “Nearest of kin. Naturally we are concerned. If only my Catherine could be closer to you in your household, we could be of more immediate assistance.”
Frances tapped hard on Catherine’s hand. The young lady ceased looking around the room to hastily curtsy. “Indeed, Your Majesty,” Catherine chirped. “We wish only to serve you, as family should.”
“I am suddenly peculiarly rich in family,” Elizabeth said. “’Tis most gratifying.”
Lady Frances’s gaunt face hardened. “Lord Hunsdon and his offspring, I suppose, Your Majesty. But as your Tudor kin . . .”
Yet Kate had heard whispers that Baron Hunsdon was “Tudor kin,” the son of Henry VIII and Mary Boleyn, though he himself always claimed otherwise. Of course the Greys would not like that.
“I will let all my relations know how best they can serve me, cousin,” Elizabeth snapped. “Have I not been generous? Have I not gifted you with the Sheen charterhouse to be your London home, though surely you cannot need so very much room? Have I not given your daughters places at my court where they can prove themselves?”
Catherine’s pretty face hardened just like her mother’s, a sudden flicker of tightening bitterness that aged her a decade. But it was quickly gone, hidden behind her vacant smile. Hurt pride could be a dangerous thing, Kate thought.
“Your Majesty has been very generous,” Lady Frances said. “We wish only to serve you as our rank demands, and be rewarded however you see fit. Just as your siblings and your father did.”
“So you shall be,” Elizabeth agreed. But even Kate knew it was doubtful the Greys would be rewarded as they really wished—with the naming of Lady Catherine as Elizabeth’s heir. “In good time. Today, I fear, I must be the bearer of some sad news. You were friends with Lady Mary Everley, I think, Lady Catherine.”
That did catch Catherine’s floating attention. The lady went very still, watching the queen closely. “I am, Your Majesty, though I have not seen her since last night.”
“I fear that is because Lady Mary has suddenly died,” Elizabeth said. Her voice was soft and kindly, but Kate saw that her dark eyes watched Catherine very closely. “She was discovered in the Abbey late last night. Did you know nothing of this?”
Lady Catherine might be a court lady from birth, Kate thought, but she was no stage player. Her large blue eyes grew even wider, and her face turned a stark stone white. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out except a tiny squeak. She swayed back as if suddenly pushed, and Lady Frances had to catch her arm to keep her from falling.
Kate would wager Lady Catherine had known naught of Mary’s death until that moment.
“Dead?” Catherine whispered.
“Was it a fever, Your Majesty?” Lady Frances cried. “Is there a plague loosed upon us, even now in winter? Should we leave the city?”
Elizabeth tapped her fingers thoughtfully on her velvet-covered lap. “There is no danger of contagion, Cousin. Lady Mary met her death by misadventure.”
“Misadventure?” Catherine gasped. “But how—who . . .”
“That we do not know yet, but be assured we will soon discover everything,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps you could be of help, Catherine, since you were her friend.”
Lady Frances looked up from her sobbing daughter with burning eyes. “Your Majesty cannot think that my daughter had anything to do with such villainy! Catherine has only been attending on her duties. . . .”
“Lady Mary confided things in you, did she not, Lady Catherine?” Elizabeth said, ignoring Lady Frances. “You had friends in common as well, such as young Lord Hertford, and the Count de Feria, I think.”
“I—I talk to many people, Your Majesty,” Catherine choked out. “Mary also knew some of them. But it was only to talk of—of music and cards, fashion. Nothing that could h-hurt her.”
Kate saw how even in the midst of stunned grief, Lady Catherine neatly sidestepped the mention of Feria.
“Did she have any romances? Any quarrels?” Elizabeth persisted.
Lady Catherine frantically shook her head. “Nay, Your Majesty, none at all! She wished only to be of service to you here at court, as we all do. She wished no one ill.”
“Well, it seems someone wished her ill, and we had all best beware,” Elizabeth said. She studied Lady Catherine in silence for a long, tense moment before she finally nodded. “You are shocked, Cousin Catherine, and will surely remember more later, which you can then tell us. Go and rest now.”
Lady Frances helped her daughter to her feet and led her slowly from the chamber. Elizabeth watched them go, her fingers tapping again.
“Frances and her cohorts certainly bear watching now,” she muttered. “’Tis bad enough I must bide such foreign vipers in my court, but among my own family, too . . .”
Kate let her song wind to a halt and rested her wrists on the edge of the keyboard, considering all she had just seen. Catherine, silly as she seemed, was indeed hiding something. But what? And what had Mary known of it? “They do say Senor de Feria is fond of music, Your Majesty.”
“So he is, Kate. And you know many Spanish songs.”
“They are always fashionable.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I have heard that the count is hosting a gathering for cards and music tomorrow evening at Durham House. I am sure he would appreciate hearing some of our new English songs. You shall go to the Spanish embassy, and see what they know of Lady Mary’s doings. In the meantime”—Elizabeth broke off on another loud sneeze—“see if you can find that blasted brother of hers. The Everleys seem like the Greys in their constant dissembling.”
Kate nodded, eager to go someplace where she could find real answers. Of course the lion’s den of the Spanish embassy would conceal many secrets. “I will, Your Majesty. And if I could, I would like to visit Mary’s body before it is buried.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Are you quite sure, Kate?”
Kate was not sure about that at all. It would surely be best to remember Mary as alive and laughing, not cold in her coffin. But she had to help Mary however she could now. “Aye, I am sure. I have seen dead bodies before, you kn
ow.”
“So you have. Very well, speak to Robert Dudley, he will know where the coroner had her taken. Then send Sir Robert to me. I am perishing of boredom in here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Kate curtsied and turned to leave the chamber. She glanced back when Elizabeth softly called her name.
“True friends are rare in this world, Kate,” the queen said. “I am sorry you have lost another in such a terrible way.”
Kate remembered Hatfield House and all that had happened there. True friends were indeed rare, and all too often proved false. Mary had helped Kate find her way at court when she was new and a bit confused, a bit lonely. She had made things seem brighter. Even if Mary had embroiled herself in some trouble that led to her death, she had been kind, and she deserved justice. Just as Nell did.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kate answered. “I will do what I can for Lady Mary now, though I fear it will be all too little.”
“You will never be without friends, Kate. I do take care of my own, no matter what my good cousin Lady Frances says.”
Kate nodded, puzzled by the queen’s words. Took care of her own? Kate and her father had always worked for Elizabeth and her family, and God willing, they always would. They were the queen’s “own,” as all her household was. Yet Elizabeth watched her with a still, silent intensity, as if she tried to say more.
But in the end Elizabeth just nodded and waved Kate away. As she made her way down the crowded corridors, she scarcely saw the richly dressed, now idle courtiers as the packs of dogs ran past. She had much to prepare for. She had to find Henry Everley and his cousin Master St. Long, and discover where they were when Mary died. She had to find out who the man with the strange gold eyes was. She had to visit the lion’s den of the Spanish embassy. She had to—horrors!—try to wriggle secrets out of Lady Catherine Grey.
Murder at Westminster Abbey Page 10