Murder at Hatfield House (10 page)

Not that Feria wasn’t entirely fluent in English. He had been in England with the prince on and off ever since Philip arrived to marry the queen four years before, and Feria himself was betrothed to Jane Dormer, the queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting.

“My lord de Feria,” Elizabeth said with one of her brightest smiles, the smile Kate had seen soften the most prickly of foes. Like her parents, King Henry and Queen Anne, she could charm when she wished—then wield her sharp tongue as soon as she turned away. Elizabeth hurried forward, her hand held out for Feria to bow over. “What a delightful surprise to see you again.”

“And you, my lady Elizabeth,” he answered, “you have only grown more beautiful since I left England.”

Elizabeth laughed merrily. “And you have been gone from our shores far too long. I hope you bring news that my sister’s health has improved of late. We receive too little news of court here and I have been very anxious for her.”

Feria rested his hand over his velvet-covered heart. “Alas, my Jane tells me that though Her Majesty seemed to rally in the cooler weather, she has tired again of late.”

“I am quite sure the news you bring her of her husband will improve her spirits.”

“They are enormously fond of each other, it is true,” Feria said. “Their affection flows even across the sea.”

“Indeed it does. An example of marital felicity for us all,” Elizabeth said, with every appearance of sincerity. Though it was clear to everyone that while Queen Mary was devoted to her handsome young husband, Philip had other matters on his mind. “How do the plans for your own nuptials progress, my lord?”

“Too slowly for me, I confess,” Feria said as Lady Clinton showed them all to their seats around the table. “The queen wishes to be well enough to attend the wedding, and it is my Jane’s hope as well. Pray God that will be soon.”

“Marriage is a most blessed state, is it not?” Lady Clinton said with a wink to Elizabeth, who Kate saw pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh. A maidservant poured some of the sweet Canary wine into the goblets, and others brought in yet more platters of food—salmon pie, lamb stew with cinnamon and raisins, a dish of pears in honey syrup, and a salad of the last of the summer vegetables dressed in fragrant wine vinegar. Delicacies they couldn’t often afford at Hatfield.

But Kate knew she couldn’t be distracted by salmon, no matter how savory and delicious. Elizabeth’s unspoken request had been that she watch and observe, to see what Feria might know of why Braceton was now at Hatfield and what the queen was thinking on her sickbed. So even as she sipped at the fine wine and nibbled at the pears, she surreptitiously watched Feria.

Not that the man gave anything away. He had been in the service of Philip of Spain for too long to easily let his mask slip. The expression on his handsome face was all that was pleasant and amiable as he waited for the servants to depart.

“Indeed, marriage is a most blessed state, my ladies,” he said. “A gift that God has given us to enrich our lives here on earth.”

“Only if one’s chosen partner is agreeable to one’s own heart and mind in every respect,” Elizabeth said. She laughed, but Kate could hear the bitter tinge to those words. Most of the marriages Elizabeth had seen in her life had ended in disaster, even violent death. “All too often in this world such is not the case, and more misery ensues than a person would ever know if he remained in their single state. Though I am very sure you and Mistress Dormer will be most happy, my lord de Feria.”

Unlike his master, King Philip, and Queen Mary.
The unspoken words hung as heavy in the air as the scent of cinnamon sauce, but Feria merely nodded.

“And so we shall be,” he said. “As have Lady Clinton and her husband. But I would most heartily wish the same happiness for you, Lady Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth toyed with a bit of the fine white manchet bread, tearing it to crumbles between her fingers. “I have not yet found any man I could be so fond of, my lord.”

“Truly?” Feria said with a teasing smile. “I have heard it said around court that you will surely soon wed the Earl of Arundel.”

“What calumny!” Elizabeth cried. “The earl is forty-five if he is a day, and a blustery old fool with the draftiest of castles. Who says such a thing?”

“Why, the earl himself, of course,” Feria said. “He is very detailed in his plans.”

Elizabeth burst into merry laughter, Feria and Lady Clinton with her. “Ah, yes, Arundel is ever full of fantasy. I assure you, my lord de Feria, I shall never wed such a one as that.”

Feria turned his goblet between his fingers, seemingly fascinated by the sparkle of the gems set around its base. “Then who would you wed, my lady?”

Elizabeth sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I would choose someone kind, of course, and educated. And well dressed! And a fine dancer. But my marriage is in the queen’s hands, as I told the Swedish ambassador when he dared to approach me directly about a match with his king’s brother.”

“A match with Sweden would be a poor one indeed,” Feria said. “But what of a greater match? With King Philip’s own friend the Duke of Savoy? When that was proffered you turned it away as well, and yet there is accounted no greater or more chivalric knight in all Europe than Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.”

Elizabeth’s face hardened as her laughter vanished. Lady Clinton folded her hands carefully atop the table, and Penelope looked down studiously at her lap, but Kate saw that Feria watched only Elizabeth. It was fascinating, like observing a closely matched chess game. One never knew which way the players would leap. She was learning so much from the princess.

“You know my hesitations about the Savoy marriage, my lord, as I am sure Philip confides all in you,” Elizabeth said. Feria’s glance flickered uncertainly toward Kate and Penelope, but Elizabeth waved away his doubts and switched her words smoothly into Spanish. “You can speak freely, senor. My ladies here speak only English.” She turned to Kate and added, in English, “Perhaps you will play for us while we chat?”

Kate nodded and quickly went to fetch her lute. As she strummed a soft song, she listened to their conversation and found that, though her Spanish was a bit rusty, she understood their words well enough.

“I would be happy if the whole world understood my words,” Feria said. “King Philip is at all times concerned with your well-being, my lady. He advanced the Savoy marriage only to help assure your place in the succession. If the queen your sister was assured you were well-married . . .”

“Yet the queen did not approve the marriage any more than I did,” Elizabeth said, a thread of steel in her voice. “And I shall be honest, as we are in confidential conversation here, senor. I saw how my sister lost the good affection of the people, the most solid protection of any monarch, because she married a foreigner.”

Feria’s jaw tightened, but it was the only indication he reacted at all to her words. “Then who would you choose to marry, my lady?”

“I have no thoughts of marriage at all at present,” Elizabeth answered. “And surely that question is of concern only to myself and the queen.”

“Philip is also most concerned with your welfare, as you surely well know,” Feria said. “When the queen ordered you to the Tower, he worked most diligently to have you out again and invited back to court. He has only wanted to encourage cordial relations between yourself and your sister.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “And I give my most sincere thanks to His Majesty for all his kind efforts on my behalf. They shall not be forgotten.”

“It was only thanks to him, not Queen Mary or her council, that your rights of succession have been assured. . . .”

With those words, Kate saw that Feria went too far. Elizabeth slammed her palms down hard on the table, making the gilded plate clatter and wine slosh in the goblets. “My lord de Feria, we shall be clear about one thing. It was the people alone who have put me in my present position—the people and my birth. So it was with the queen herself. The people supported her rights and raised her to her correct place on the throne when the dukes of Northumberland and Suffolk would have snatched it from her and placed it into the hands of our cousin Jane Grey. Not Philip, nor any nobility of the realm, had any part in my place.”

“My lady,” Feria said, his hands held out as if to placate her. “I meant only that King Philip and the council shall always stand as your friends.”

“My friends?” Elizabeth said. Even in the candlelit dimness of the room her eyes blazed fire. “It was thanks to the kind offices of the council that I have been made a prisoner over and over again these past years. I hope I may know who my
true
friends are.”

“I would offer you a warning, my lady, on letting such anger lead you to seek revenge when you are in a position to do so,” said Feria. “Everyone has great hopes of finding that you are indeed the kind and good princess rumor holds you. Everyone would sacrifice much for such mercy.”

Elizabeth’s shoulders trembled as she drew in a deep breath, as if she tried to rein in her Tudor temper. “My sister was also reckoned to be full of feminine tender mercies when she became queen,” she murmured. “But you may be assured, senor, that I only wish certain of the council members to realize how badly they have behaved toward me when I have been innocent of any wrongdoing. I would pardon all the rest. I do know who my friends are.”

“And I hope you will not trust in heretics, my lady.”

“Heretics?” Elizabeth said sharply.

“Men such as Lord Bedford, Carew, or Robert Dudley. The Dudleys have surely proved they are traitors over and over.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flickered at the mention of Robert Dudley’s name. It had been a very long time since she had seen him, but they had been friends for many years. It was clear she remembered him well. “I shall trust my true friends,” was all she said.

Feria seemed to sense he was defeated. He inclined his head, and asked Elizabeth in English how she fared at her properties with all the foul weather, if she had seen any crop yields at all. After the sweetmeats were served and Kate played more songs, Feria exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and rose to take his leave.

“King Philip wants very much to see you again, my lady, as soon as he is in England once more,” Feria said as he bowed one last time over Elizabeth’s hand.

“I do hope he may be here again soon,” Elizabeth answered with a cool smile. “To see my sister, who I know misses him very much.”

“Of course,” Feria said. “But sadly, if that day does not come soon enough for Her Majesty, I hope you will summon me at once. I am under orders from my master to come to you as soon as may be.”

“How kind King Philip is to think of me,” Elizabeth said as Lady Clinton led them out to the drive, where Feria’s servants waited with his horses to bear him back to Mary’s court. “But I must beg you to wait for my summons. I fear the English people may come to resent any favor I show to foreigners.”

“My lady!” Feria protested. “Surely my betrothal and my many years on these shores might mean I am considered English myself. But I will await your summons. Only remember that I, and my master, are your devoted servants.”

“I will consider all you have said most carefully, my lord de Feria,” Elizabeth answered.

As they waved the count and his party off, Lady Clinton said quietly, “You know he will be writing to Philip before daybreak, telling him how bold you have become in rejecting his overtures.”

Elizabeth tapped her foot on the gravel drive. “Let him write. Philip, and everyone, must know I start as I mean to go on. I only hope it was not too soon to say so.”

“Too soon?” Lady Clinton said. They made their way back into the house, closing the doors against the chilly night. “Whatever do you mean? The gossip has it that the queen is very ill. She never recovered from her false pregnancy, and the sicknesses of the summer hit her very hard.”

“Ill perhaps, but still the monarch—and capable of sending her followers out among us,” Elizabeth said. “Has a man named Lord Braceton called at Brocket Hall?”

“Nay, but we have heard tell of him,” Lady Clinton answered. “Was he not at Bacon’s house of late? I have not seen him here, though my husband has said he is accounted a rather obnoxious man at court. Queen Mary is inexplicably fond of him.”

Elizabeth followed Lady Clinton up the stairs toward the bedchambers, Kate and Penelope trailing silently behind them. “But you have not heard tell of his errand at Bacon’s house?”

“Not at all, but we have seen little of Sir Nicholas or his family since the troubles last year. I have been living quietly here while my husband is in London.” Lady Clinton ushered them into a small but beautifully appointed bedchamber, where a fire crackled welcomingly in the grate and servants hurried about laying out the bed. “I hope this room will serve for the night, my dear?”

“Very well indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I am weary from the journey, and quite looking forward to a night of sleep without worrying about who may burst in at any moment. Penelope can help me retire, I think.”

She turned to Kate, her pale pointed face unreadable. “Kate, could you go to the kitchen and have them prepare a posset to help me sleep? I am sure you remember the recipe.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Kate said, a bit confused. Kitchen matters had never been her expertise.

But then Elizabeth leaned closer and quickly whispered, “See what the servants are chattering about, Kate. I do remember the cook here was always accounted something of a gossip. I fear my dear friend Lady Clinton has not told us quite all she knows from her husband. . . .”

Of course—
the posset was an excuse to spy, as Elizabeth herself could certainly not go marching into the kitchen to chat with the servants. Kate nodded, excited at being given a new errand to perform, and hurried away. One of the maids pointed her toward the kitchen.

CHAPTER 7

U
nlike at Hatfield, where the kitchen was small for the size of the household and everyone was crowded in close as they worked, Brocket Hall’s kitchen was overlarge, almost cavelike. Kate found Lady Clinton’s cook sprawled in a chair by the fire in her stained apron, hair straggling from her cap. A scullery maid was rubbing her feet in their darned knit stockings.