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fetch some spices. I think some mulled wine would do us all good tonight. I feel a headache coming on and I must retire to rest for a time.”
    “Of course, Your Grace.” Kate tucked away the coins and watched as Elizabeth unfolded a cloak and handed it to her. She recognized it as the same red velvet, satin-lined and fur-trimmed cloak she’d worn the night she and her father fled ahead of the queen’s soldiers.
    “And if you happen to hear any bits of gossip . . .” Elizabeth said with a wink.
    Kate tugged the hood of the cloak over her head to cover her laugh.
     

CHAPTER 4
    “M istress Haywood! It has been some time since we saw you here. I fear the new lute strings have not arrived from London yet.”
    Kate turned to find Master Smythson, who ran the largest of the village shops, hurrying toward her along the lane. Or hurrying as fast as the muddy ruts would let him. The hem of his cloak was as flecked with dirt as hers was, his round, lined face red as if he had walked a long distance. His breath was labored as he rushed to join her.
    For an instant she wondered what he could have been doing outside on such a chilly gray day, a fair distance from the village. But then she shook her head, feeling foolish. The dark atmosphere at Hatfield had infected her with suspicion of everyone. Master Smythson was merely an aging widower who had run his shop well and efficiently for many years, with nary a whisper against his honesty or loyalty.
    But loyalty to whom? In these complicated days, it was impossible to tell.
    “Master Smythson,” she said. “It is good to see you again. I fear things have been so busy at Hatfield I’ve had no time for outings. I can wait for the new strings. The last ones you so kindly procured for me are of such fine quality they still sound most excellent.”
    “I am glad to hear it, Mistress Haywood. With this foul weather we’ve had few deliveries from London.” Master Smythson shook his head. “I fear we shall see yet another bad harvest if the rains do not cease.”
    “I fear you may be right.” Together they turned toward the village, picking their way between the deepest of the puddles. “We must hope for better days soon.”
    “Indeed we must.” Master Smythson studied her carefully from under the brim of his hat, but Kate had learned her lessons well from Princess Elizabeth. She merely smiled at him blandly. “So if not for the strings, what brings you to the village today, Mistress Haywood?”
    “Princess Elizabeth has sent me on a few small errands,” Kate answered. Then, because she knew how quickly gossip spread through the neighborhood, she added, “We have visitors from London, emissaries of the queen.”
    “Ah.” Master Smythson’s bushy brows rose and he nodded. “We did hear tell of riders late last night. Old Mistress Regan was out to deliver a baby and claims they nearly ran her down on the road as she walked home. A strange business. Were they not expected, then?”
    “The princess has many people who call on her with court business,” was all Kate could say. She thought it best not to mention the murdered manservant, but to wait and see if the villagers knew something of it she did not yet know.
    But Master Smythson said nothing of the murder, or of the attacker who had escaped into the woods. “Indeed, indeed. We all remember when the queen herself came to Hatfield.”
    Kate remembered that visit too. It was the spring after Elizabeth had been released from house imprisonment at Woodstock and returned to live at Hatfield. Queen Mary had determined to make a show of how the sisters were reconciled, and had arrived with a large, gaily dressed retinue amid blue skies and brilliant sunshine. There had been a grand banquet in the gardens, exchanges of gifts and embraces. Kate and her father were kept busy playing dances and madrigals.
    But that seemed long ago, and that elaborate rapprochement had turned quickly sour, as did the weather, ruining harvests and