Page 20 of A Murder on London Bridge
Anne’s discreet knock drew an immediate response. The door swung wide, releasing a tide of candlelight and perfume. The withdrawing chamber was warm with fire and roses, a chamber intended for confidences rather than grandeur.
At its center sat the queen—Catherine of Braganza. She was smaller than I imagined. A silver-grey gown enfolded her like mist, a rosary gleamed between her fingers. A lace veil softened the frame of her dark hair, but her eyes—solemn, watchful—pierced the air. She looked serene, but the stillness was strained, as though she endured much and dared not falter.
Two ladies flanked her. One, tall and fair, stood with the stiff hauteur of a woman accustomed to being feared. The other, a younger, round-faced beauty with lively eyes, seemed more anxious to please than to command.
Anne curtsied low. I did my best to follow, only to catch my heel in my skirt. My stumble drew a smirk from the tall blonde, though the younger lady’s lips curved in a sympathetic smile.
“You are come at last,” Catherine said. Her Portuguese accent softened her words, giving them a lilting, slightly broken rhythm. “I wait and wait. They tell me you are sick. Still with fever?”
I bowed again, my cheeks burning. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am recovering.”
Her hand fluttered dismissively. “It is good. You are here. That is enough.”
Relief flooded me as she gestured toward a low stool at her side. I obeyed, perching nervously while the blonde lady sniffed faintly.
“You will keep me company,” Catherine said, lowering her voice. “I do not like to sit alone with … gossips.” Her eyes flicked toward the blonde, whose expression tightened.
She leaned nearer, her rosary clicking softly. “They speak too much. About me, about my faith, my place. Too much. You—” Her gaze probed mine. “You do not talk.”
“No, Your Majesty,” I whispered. “Never.”
Her lips softened into the faintest smile. “Good. You are friend.”
I dared a glance about me, seeing the queen’s withdrawing chamber with new eyes. It was not vast like the echoing galleries I had passed through, but intimate, even heavy with presence. Dark oak panels were softened by hangings of crimson velvet worked with golden thread, and the glow of a great hearth painted everything in shifting light. A Turkey carpet muffled footsteps, and stools upholstered in green damask stood waiting for the ladies who lingered at the edges, watchful yet silent.
Above Catherine’s chair of state, a canopy fringed with gilt tassels proclaimed her rank, though the crucifix and jeweled rosary in her hands spoke more plainly of her faith. The air was close with the mingled scents of beeswax, rose water, and smoke, and though the chamber was meant for repose, I felt the tension of a place where confidences might be shared—or betrayed.
A cold shiver ran through me. Whatever masquerade or dream I had clung to, it was slipping fast. Hard as it was to believe, I was in the seventeenth century, at the very heart of Catherine of Braganza’s court, and there was no waking from it. But why?
My thoughts flew at once to the murdered antiquarian, to the cryptic manuscript hinting at a conspiracy against the queen. Iffate—or madness—had hurled me back here, perhaps it was not an accident at all. Perhaps I had been set down in this world precisely to learn what that manuscript could not tell. Who plotted against Catherine and why?
The danger to me was real enough, but so was the opportunity. If I could endure the charade long enough, I might uncover the truth of a treason whispered three centuries later—and perhaps make sense of Merton’s death.
My moment of introspection was broken by the blonde lady who pitched her voice just loudly enough to carry. “Her Majesty grows more fluent each day.” She spoke sweetly, but the corners of her mouth curved in a smile that was anything but kind. “Why, soon the court may even follow her prayers in Portuguese.”
A ripple of polite laughter stirred among the ladies. Catherine’s lips pressed into a thin line, her rosary beads clicking faster between her fingers. She answered in careful English, her accent heavy but her tone sharp. “Better prayers in poor English than sins in perfect speech.”
The blonde flushed scarlet but quickly masked it with a brittle laugh.
“Lady Castlemaine,” Catherine said flatly, turning away, “tires herself with wit. She thinks she is clever. She is only… tiresome.”
Anne leaned close to me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Lady Castlemaine is Her Majesty’s Lady of the Bedchamber.”
I blinked. If I remembered correctly, Lady Castlemaine had also been the king’s mistress.
Anne nodded almost imperceptibly, reading my astonishment. “Aye. His Majesty would have it so, and Her Majesty had no choice but to accept. The appointment was pressed upon her from the first. Castlemaine herself demandedit, and the king insisted. The queen wept and prayed, but in the end she was forced to yield.”
I glanced at Catherine, sitting small but straight beneath her canopy of state, her fingers moving restlessly over the rosary. The humiliation must have been galling. Her husband’s mistress not merely flaunted in public but installed in her very household, bearing the title of lady of the bedchamber.
Anne’s grey eyes narrowed. “And so she struts here as if she were queen herself. It is a cruelty Her Majesty bears every day.”
The younger woman leaned close to me with a quick smile. “Her Majesty is well used to such company. Do not let it trouble you.”
Anne bent discreetly at my side. “That is Lady Frances Stuart. She is unmarried.”
Lady Frances was all soft curves and golden curls, her cheeks prettily flushed, her eyes bright with youth. She could not have been more different from the haughty Castlemaine.
Anne bent a little nearer, her voice a hush meant only for me. “The king dotes upon her—calls herLa Belle Stuart. Yet she will not yield to him, not even for the crown itself. Many say she guards her virtue more fiercely than a fortress, though she toys with his affection all the same.”
