Murder at Whitehall (16 page)

It seemed to be a sonnet, but not a very good one. The rhymes were strained at best, the images overwrought—a tale of a “silver goddess” who would soon descend from the clouds to save England and bring her into the ways of the light.

“I hope
you
did not write this,” she said wryly.

Rob laughed. “If I had, I would not admit it. Nay, it came with this volume as a sort of key. When Lord Hunsdon was living in exile on the Continent, he searched out and compiled many things like this.”

Kate quickly compared the letters of the terrible poem to the circles, and began to see other words in their place.

An image flashed through her mind, of Queen Catherine Parr's
Lamentation of a Sinner
in its awkward musical setting. The queen had not been a woman known for her awkwardness in anything; quite the opposite. But Queen Catherine had also had to find a way to keep secrets from a most dangerous husband, the king. Perhaps in music, right in plain sight?

“Rob,” she said, excited to have a possible clue to lead them out of confusion. “You are quite splendid!” Impulsively, she went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

He gave her a quizzical glance, suddenly looking rather young and vulnerable. He quickly covered that small glimpse with a smile. “I see I must find strange books to give you more often. Shall we meet later to look more at your music?”

“Of course, I—” From the corridor beyond the large chamber, there were suddenly the sounds of running
feet and a slamming door, reminding Kate that they were never alone at Whitehall, even in their quietest moments.

“Of course,” she said. “But it must be someplace where we cannot be found out. . . .”

*   *   *

Lady Catherine Grey slipped into her tiny chamber and pulled the door shut behind herself, closing herself into blessed, dark silence. Lady Jane Seymour, who shared the space, was attending on the queen, as was everyone else, and surely no one would think to come looking for her for a few moments at least.

Catherine sank to the floor amid puffs of her black and white skirts, and buried her face in her hands. She longed for the comfort of one of her little dogs close to her, or the squawks of her parrot, but she dared not go yet to her own chamber. Her maidservant would be there, and would fuss if she saw that Catherine had been crying.

The queen's servants would be there, too, under the guise of laying the fire or delivering wine. But Catherine knew why they were really there. To watch her, and report her every movement, her every word, back to her cousin. Everyone was always, always watching.

Her head was pounding, one of the sick headaches that had plagued her on and off since childhood, gathering in painful streaks behind her eyes. She dragged the pearl-edged headdress from her hair and threw it across the room.

How had everything that seemed so bright and promising only months ago gone so horribly wrong?
That summer at Hanworth, the Seymour country estate, was so golden. Long days rowing on the lake, having picnics under the trees, playing at primero, laughing with Jane and her family. And at night . . .

Ah, at night her sweet Ned would kiss her under the moonlight, and whisper that he was hers entirely, that their hearts would always be as one. She had dared to imagine life would always be that way, light and bright and perfect.

Now Ned just put her off.
“Nay, my sweet, your stepfather advises we should wait and gather the support of the privy council before we approach the queen,”
he would say when she pressed him.
“I say he is right. We can be together as we dreamed, but it must be in the right way, a way that preserves your royal rights.”

Her royal rights! As if she cared about that. She had cared once, very much. But she saw what “royal right” did to her sister Jane, to her father, and she wanted none of it. She had seen a better way of life, and she didn't want it to end on the block.

And what did her stepfather know! Adrian Stokes had once been her mother's Master of Horse, as Dudley was to the queen. A man Frances Grey married for the protection of his lowly name, when to be an heir to the Tudor throne was a great peril. And married for love. Aye, even Catherine could admit her mother and
Adrian had been much in love. What did he know of maneuvering around the royal court? Her mother would have known, none better, but Frances was gone, and Catherine felt so alone.

With Ned, she had not felt alone. She had felt that the two of them could face anything at all together, and their love would triumph. But now she felt him pulling further away from her, drawn into a world that didn't include her. They even whispered that the queen would soon send him on a mission to France, and he seemed to relish the prospect.

She had tried to fix things herself, and now she feared she had failed at that as well. It had seemed like such a fine idea, to use the schemes of others as they had thought to use her as a mere pawn. By the time they realized they had underestimated her, it would be too late, and she would have what she wanted. So she had allowed the Spanish to think she agreed with their conspiracies, planning to use it for her own ends.

Yet it was all slipping through her fingers, faster and faster, like a silken scarf, and she feared she might end up like Senor Vasquez. She had made a great mistake, and now she was truly alone. Only the musician, Mistress Haywood, seemed to look at her with any kindness now. In her green eyes, Catherine saw some of her sister Jane, a sort of—seeingness. But without Jane's core of cold steel.

Yet even musicians couldn't be trusted now. For was not Mistress Haywood employed by the queen? And the queen was Catherine's greatest enemy.

“Oh, Mother,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

The Feast of St. Thomas, December 29

M
aster Orrens, tiremaker, Monkwell Street, Cripplegate, near St. Olave's Church and the Talbot tavern, just down from the Barbers' Hall
.

Kate glanced down at the scrap of paper in her gloved hand, given to her by the clerk in the Office of Revels, and then up at the street around her. She saw the tower of St. Olave's not far away, old, square, solid stone, darkened with decades of city smoke and soot, rising above a crowded churchyard. She had to be near the place.

The crowd, hurrying on their own errands, jostled past her, and she stepped back into a quiet doorway to get her bearings. It was a typical street, narrow and close-packed with houses, but respectable-looking, as befitted the domain of a merchant who sometimes provided services to the royal court. The shops on the lower stories displayed wares such as fine leather-bound books, silk ribbons, and beautifully wrought brooches and rings. A tiremaker, a man who made finely wrought headdresses for the ladies of the court and for theatrical masquerades, would fit in well there.
The cobbles of the street were fairly clean, and no laundry linen flapped from the upper windows.

Kate was tempted by the smells of candied almonds, cinnamon, and sugar drifting over from a nearby comfits shop on the cold wind. It had started to snow, great, fat, wet, white flakes falling from the slate gray sky, and even her fine new red cloak and fur-edged cap wouldn't keep out the cold. But there was no time to tarry. She had to be back at Whitehall in time to play for that night's Christmas mummers' mask and the dancing after.

She glanced down the street again, and saw one of the painted signs swinging in the wind. The colors of it had faded, but she could clearly see the image of a wirework crown, edged with something that made it shimmer in the gray daylight.

“Kate!” she heard a man call out, and she spun around, so startled by the sound that she almost tripped on the cobblestones.

It was Anthony Elias, stepping out of one of the shops across the lane. He waved and gave her a tentative smile, which widened when she waved back.

Kate wished her heart hadn't beat just a tiny bit faster at the sight of him after so long. He was as handsome as ever, with his glossy dark hair brushed back under his cap, his eyes as green as a spring day in winter. He wore dark, somber colors, as befit an apprentice lawyer, but in finely woven, well-cut wools and a touch of velvet. A parcel was tucked under his arm.

“Kate,” he said as he hurried to her side, dodging
dogs and children as he crossed the lane. “You are looking very well.”

“And you, Anthony,” she answered honestly. He
did
look well—so handsome, as he always had, ever since they first became friends at Hatfield. But something felt different now, some sort of distance.

“I am surprised to see you away from Whitehall,” he said. “It must be busy at this time of year.”

Kate laughed. “So it is. Queen Elizabeth loves any excuse for a revel, and Yule is her favorite time of year. I am just here to perform a quick errand for her. As you must be, for Master Hardy.” She nodded toward the parcel.

“Aye. The Hardys are preparing to go to the country for Twelfth Night, to visit Mistress Hardy's family, and I am to go with them. But business must always come with us.”

Kate thought of the young lady she had seen with Anthony on the day she went ice-skating. Mistress Hardy's niece—pretty, sweet, well-born, suitable to make a prosperous lawyer's wife. “I am sure Mistress Hardy's pretty niece goes with you?”

“It is her parents we visit.” A faint blush touched his cheeks. He hesitated, as if he wished to say something, but then merely glanced away. “You are on errand for Her Grace, you say?”

“To a tiremaker just along the way,” she said carefully. Even though Anthony had helped her before, she wasn't sure how much to tell him now.

“The queen orders new headdresses?”

Kate laughed. “You have become more conversant
on ladies' fashion, I see. Though she certainly never says no to new garments, this time she merely had a question for Master Orrens. She had ordered his wares before.”

“Let me escort you, then.”

“I should not take up your time, Anthony.”

He smiled gently. “I have the whole afternoon for you, Kate.”

Kate considered this. It would be nice not to go alone to a strange shop—and to have a few more minutes with her friend. Perhaps he would see something there she missed. “Then I happily accept your escort. It should not take long.”

They made their way along Monkwell Street, talking of cases Master Hardy was letting Anthony take responsibility for, gossip tidbits from court. Master Orrens's shop, though, appeared to be closed. The window of the lower floor, which should have been open to display his fine wares, was shuttered, and no light shone from the upper windows, either. Yet the doorstep was swept clean.

Kate knocked at the door, and after several long moments there was a shuffling sound, and a scrape as the portal slid open. A maidservant peeked out timidly, her young face freckled under her cap.

“I would like to see Master Orrens, if you please,” Kate said.

The maid's eyes shifted between Kate and Anthony. “He isn't here now, miss.”

“Do you know when he will return? I was sent here
by Queen Elizabeth herself to inquire about a headdress he once made her.”

The maid's mouth gaped from shock. “The queen! He's been gone for days, miss. I don't know when he'll be back, or where he's gone. He said he was going to order supplies, but it's never taken so long before. The cook thinks he has gone back to France, mayhap.”

Kate looked up at Anthony, who gave her a questioning frown. “May we just come in and look around, then?” Kate asked. “The queen is most eager to order more of Master Orrens's work, and I am sure that when he returns he would not be happy to find he had lost the royal patronage.”

“Oh, no, miss! If the queen herself—I should not like to lose my place here, it's the best I've had.”

“I shall be most careful, I promise you,” Kate said earnestly, and at last the maid stepped back to let her enter. Anthony stayed close beside her as the maid led them along a narrow, dark corridor, past the closed door of the shop itself, into what seemed to be an office. It was a small room, stuffy with the window shut and the fire banked, with a table piled up with papers and a couple of stools. Shelves rose along one wall, filled with ledgers.

“What is your name?” Kate asked the maid.

“Mary, miss.”

“Do you know anything about how Master Orrens organizes his records in here?”

“Not much, miss.” Some of Mary's uncertainty had faded into curiosity. “I think he writes about materials
that have been ordered and arrived here, and the sales go in those books.”

“I see. Well, I do not want to keep you from your work. Master Elias and I will just look around.”

Mary nodded, but Kate noticed she hovered in the doorway, her eyes bright as she waited to see what would happen next.

For the moment, that would be nothing. Kate pursed her lips as she studied the dusty piles of papers and ledger books. She wasn't sure where to start looking.

“What are you searching for exactly, Kate?” Anthony asked quietly.

“Someone once ordered a crown that is in the style of Master Orrens, and the queen would like to know who that was,” she answered. “The Office of the Revels gave me his name.”

Anthony gave a rueful laugh. “Rather like the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

Kate laughed, too, and felt her enthusiasm for the hunt rising in her mind. She did rather like a challenge. “We have found other documents with far less clues, I think.”

“Beg pardon, miss,” Mary the maid said. “I don't read very much, but I know Master Orrens keeps records of his materials here. If you know what the crown is made from, perhaps it would be easier to trace the sale in those ledgers?” She pulled out a box overflowing with what seemed to be order sheets.

“Very clever, Mary,” Kate said, and the maid giggled. “I know the crown was silver wire wrapped with gold thread, and the base was of sable and red ribbons,
which cannot be very common. But I don't know when it was made.”

“I know these go back to the 1540s, when Master Orrens came here from Lille. He said his wife kept the records then, until she died of the sweating sickness.”

“Here, Kate, you look through this half, I will do the other,” Anthony said, dividing up the documents.

Kate glanced through them—gold from Seville, silver wire from Amsterdam, silks from Antwerp, pearls and glass beads, furs. Master Orrens's art was not a cheap one. “Do you help make the headdresses, Mary?”

“Oh, nay, miss. I just clean and tend the fires, do a bit of cooking. Master Orrens keeps his workshop in Chelsea now. They're only brought here to the shop when they're done.”

“Chelsea?” Kate asked. She wondered if the workshop was near the palace where Queen Elizabeth had lived for a time with Queen Catherine Parr after King Henry died.

“Master Orrens says there is more space to be had cheaper there. I think when he first came to London so long ago, the workshop was in the garden at the back. He's made pieces for the royal court since King Henry's time, or so he says.”

“Indeed?” A man like that could be very useful, with information going back so far—if he could be found.

“Could this be what you're seeking, Kate?” Anthony asked. He showed her a crumbling document stamped from Antwerp, with the year 1547 at the top. “It is surely something of an unfashionable piece by now.”

“The queen can be most thrifty when it suits her,”
Kate said as she scanned the neat columns. “She would not waste such a quantity of silver and gold wires, I am sure.”

The list also included a fine pelt of sable from Muscovy, which had made the base of the crown as it sat on the poppet's head. There was also scarlet silk, and red glass beads.

“Are all the final sales in the ledgers?” she asked Mary.

“I don't know, miss. But surely the old ledgers would be back here.” The maid dug to the back of a series of shelves and pulled out some heavy, dusty old books.

As Kate glanced through them, she saw that luckily Master Orrens was more organized than his desk made it seem. The ledgers were mostly in order of year, and he was careful in marking who ordered what, and the money they owed for it. It seemed that when a young Master Orrens first came to London, his business was made successful by the extravagant Queen Catherine Howard, who had surely patronized every seamstress and goldsmith in London. She and her ladies had ordered several pieces.

After that, Master Orrens's court orders tapered away sharply, though he still did some work there.

At last, she found what she sought. Master Orrens had made for Queen Catherine Parr one small crown of gold and silver, with red beads and a sable base—meant for a christening gift. It was delivered to the queen shortly before King Henry died. Kate remembered tales of how the queen had loved children, had
longed to have one of her own, but there were no children with the king, and the baby daughter she had with Tom Seymour had died soon after birth. It seemed a sad gift, so elaborate and careful, for a baby not her own. Or perhaps it
had
been for her own child? The longed-for infant?

Kate's thoughts were racing. Where had the crown been all that time? Could it really be the same as the one that appeared on the head of the poppet? What did it mean? And where was the maker now?

Startled by what she had found, Kate carefully put the ledgers back where they had found them. “Thank you, Mary. The queen will be most grateful. I should like to speak to Master Orrens as soon as he returns, if you would be kind enough to send me word. Or if he has indeed returned to France for some reason, as your cook suggested, I would like to know that. My name is Mistress Haywood, and I am at Whitehall until the court moves to Richmond in the new year.”

“Oh, yes, miss, of course. I'm ever so happy to help the queen. I saw her pass by in her coronation procession. All gold and white—like an angel.” Mary frowned, her eyes bright as if she would start crying. “Is Master Orrens in some trouble?”

Kate wasn't sure what to tell her. It was strange the man would vanish now. “I am sure he is not, Mary.”

Anthony walked with her back to Monkwell Street, and they made their way through the lanes back to the river, until the stone walls of Whitehall came into view. They walked quietly, as Kate went over all the
questions that finding the source of the crown had answered—and created.

“
You
are not in trouble, are you, Kate?” Anthony asked solemnly.

She gave him a quick smile. A horse galloped past, bound so fast for the palace that it scattered cursing pedestrians in its trail. “No more than anyone else in London, I am sure.”

“Kate . . .” He paused, and shook his head. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he just smiled ruefully. “I hope you always know I am your friend, and you can call on me whenever you need help.”

“I do know that, Anthony, and I cherish your friendship,” she answered, and found contentment in her own words. “I hope you enjoy your time in the country with the Hardys.”

“And I hope you stay safe with your courtly Christmas. I know how you love the work.” He took her hand and kissed it before he turned and made his way back along the street. His tall figure was soon swallowed in the crowd.

Kate watched until she couldn't see him any longer. But she couldn't stand there for long. The wind was growing even colder as evening moved in, and she had to return the crown to a safekeeping spot. She hurried up the stone steps and through the Holbein Gate that led across the street into the palace itself—only to find Rob standing in the doorway.