Page 38 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Lady Halloran,” he said. “Her Majesty requires you.”
Hollingsworth’s glance held mine for a heartbeat. “Let me know if her summons changes our path.”
I inclined my head. After he melted away toward the inner court, I followed the steward through a hush of paneled corridors to a small closet near the Queen’s privy chamber. Catherine of Braganza stood by a narrow window, hands laced at her waist, looking out on a sliver of garden already loud with sparrows. She turned when the door closed. There was worry behind her serenity, and something flintier beneath that.
“Yesterday … you say I must watch what I eat, what I drink,” the Queen said, her voice low but steady. “You say Lady Margaret—her death, no accident. You wish to know more.” She lifted her hand, a quiet summons to honesty. “Now… tell me. What you find?”
Amazing how in her halting English she managed to convey so much with but a few words. However it was communicated, though, she was the Queen, and those were commands. “After Lady Margaret’s death, I searched her chambers,” I began. “Thefirst thing I found was in the grate. Something had been burned there, though not completely. Only one fragment of writing remained—the letters ‘…quith.’ I thought it might have been part of a name.Asquith, perhaps.”
The Queen’s gaze sharpened, though she said nothing.
“Then I came across a slip of paper. It was an assignation—‘by the stairs near the buttery’—but with no date given. It was signed onlyN.A.Again, I thought of Nathaniel Asquith.”
“Go on,” the Queen said.
“Later, I discovered Lady Margaret’s journal, hidden among her things. She saw Benedict Asquith’s ledger. Although the book was filled with initials, she said they could easily be read by one who knew his circle. He recorded meeting dates, places, words spoken of action against Your Majesty. And she wrote…”—I steadied myself—“‘…if I carry this to Her Majesty, my fortune is made. None but I can tell her, for none but I have seen it…’”
Her Majesty pressed her fingers together until the knuckles blanched.
“One set of initials wasG.P.,” I finished. “I believe that to be Gabriel Parquier. Alongside Nathaniel Asquith, they form the pattern Lady Margaret traced.”
The Queen’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the air. “The journal? You have it?”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “I… I thought it best to have someone keep it safe.”
“Who?”
I faltered.
Her eyes narrowed, keen and shrewd. “Lord Hollingsworth?”
My surprise must have shown, for she allowed the faintest smile. “I have spies too. Those I trust. They tell me who speaks to my ladies.” She paused, her gaze distant. “Lady Margaret—shewish to marry Asquith. It bring her death.” Her voice softened, almost breaking from its careful control. “Poor girl.”
For a moment she stared past me, as if seeing Margaret’s face still among us. Then her hands tightened, white at the knuckles, before she released them with sudden resolve. “We go to the King,” she said. “You will speak.”
“Your Majesty,” I began, because it was not polite to contradict a queen, “I’m not?—”
“You will speak,” she repeated, gentle but firm. “The King hears my fears often. He is weary. He must hear the same words from another mouth. Come.”
So we went. No procession, only the Queen, myself, and the steward walking at a pace that meant there would be no time for trembling. The King received us in an antechamber drowning in tapestry and light. His eyes quick and amused as if life were a diverting play and he’d had the good fortune to be seated in the front row.
“Madam,” he said, and bent to kiss Catherine’s hand. “So early. Ought I to be flattered or afraid?”
“Afraid,” she said dryly. “But flattered is good. Lady Halloran will speak.” She pointed a finger at him. “You listen.”
His glance flicked to me. It was not cruel, only curious.
He stood in his shirtsleeves, the picture of careless ease, and I was struck—against my better judgment—by how very attractive he was. Charm seemed to rest upon him as naturally as breath. Little wonder women found it so easy to fall beneath his spell.
Given he was the king to command, I provided the skeleton of what I had told Catherine. I gave him every fact as I knew them. The ledger kept by Benjamin Asquith. The pattern of meetings. The pamphlets that called the Queen a Jezebel and worse. The name of Parquier placed over it all. While I spoke, he paced. When I named men, he stopped. When I finished, he smiled with a softness that made me want to shake him.
“My dear Catherine,” he said to his queen, “England breeds pamphlets the way spring breeds lambs. Half the realm calls you a saint and the other half calls you a witch depending on which dinner they wish to be invited to.” He held up a hand to forestall her retort. “But—” The word hung there, careful. “Daggers are less amusing than dinner invitations.”
Catherine’s chin lifted a fraction. “She’s not wrong, Carlos.”
Carlos? His name in Portuguese. The intimacy of it startled me. Affection, even fondness, lay beneath the simple word. Curious, really, given his well-known fondness for other women. But then, kings and queens were not like ordinary couples. Different rules applied.
“No,” he said, the playfulness fading from his eyes. “She is not.” He turned to me again. “I will have Her Majesty’s food and drink watched from kitchen to table. No plate to pass unattended, no cup without a loyal taster.” He glanced at the steward. “See it done. Speak to May, the Queen’s chamberlain, and to the Queen’s own women.”
