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spreading disease and despair.
    “I remember that as well,” Kate said. “But the queen was not able to come herself this time.”
    “Her health does not permit Her Majesty to travel?” Master Smythson said.
    “It is a difficult time of year for journeys,” Kate answered carefully. It was always dangerous to openly speculate about Queen Mary’s delicate health. “But we are in need of provisions for her emissaries.”
    “Will the princess be wanting supplies for a banquet?”
    “I don’t think so. I believe this will be a short visit.” Please God, let it be very short, Kate added silently. Braceton’s roughness would wear them all down soon, and all their unwary words would go straight to the queen. Braceton had made it clear he was Mary’s servant and no other’s, and that he had no interest in treating Elizabeth carefully in hopes of future preferment.
    “That is a shame,” Master Smythson said as he unlatched the gate set in a low, rough stone wall and held it open for her. “We should all so love to hear your playing again. It is so cheering.”
    “Thank you, Master Smythson. I do enjoy seeing people dance to my songs. Perhaps for Christmas.”
    “May it be a merrier Yuletide than last, I say!”
    Just beyond the wall they found themselves in the village proper. It was not a large settlement, merely one long main street with a few lanes leading off it, lined with double-story, half-timbered shops and thatched-roof cottages set in small gardens. The largest structure was the church, a square, squat building of faded stone built centuries ago, surrounded by a churchyard crowded with tilted, time-worn stones and new crosses. A vicarage was tucked away in the back, shuttered and empty at the moment because no Catholic priest had yet been sent to replace the ousted Protestant minister.
    As they passed the wall around the churchyard, Kate peered up at the old bell tower. When Edward became king, his men had come to break out the stained glass windows and whitewash over the fresco of the Last Judgment that had looked down on worshipers for decades. The screen was torn down and the altar replaced with a linen-draped stone table.
    Kate hadn’t been there to see it, as she had been a child still, living in Catherine Parr’s household at Chelsea, but she could imagine it. She had seen such scenes enacted all over London. She had attended Queen Catherine’s own Protestant funeral at Sudeley when that remarkable woman died too young in childbirth.
    Then Mary became queen, and it all reversed. The screens and statues and vestments were all coming back, but slowly. Scaffolding had gone up around this village church and workers had been there for months, but the windows remained blank. It was silent, empty—watching and waiting.
    But the village wasn’t silent. Kate had half expected everyone to be hiding in their houses, as if Braceton and his accusations had infected everything for miles around. Yet it seemed all wished to take advantage of the rain ceasing. The lanes were still rutted and thick with churned-up mud, but the doors to the shops were propped open, their meager wares laid out in the windows. People were hurrying in and out, their arms filled with packages, their cloaks and skirts tied up out of the mud.
    Kate noticed several people whispering together on the rough plank walkways. They broke off as she came near, watching her approach with curious eyes. Though they gave her polite greetings, they didn’t press her to stay and talk more, didn’t ask questions.
    So the seemingly normal, bustling day in the village wasn’t quite all it appeared—just like everything else. Surely more was known about Lord Braceton than the fact that he had almost run down the midwife in the road. Did they know of his servant’s murder? Did they know who had done it—and why? The servant’s death had infuriated Braceton even more than he already was, and yet everyone seemed intent on ignoring it, on keeping their