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  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF AMANDA CARMACK

  Murder at Westminster Abbey

  “Carmack once again delves into the Elizabethan Age, in all its drama, treachery, and religious mania, with this richly textured second outing for court musician Kate Haywood. . . . In Carmack’s hands, this period whodunit is deliciously detailed but never heavy-handed.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Carmack takes readers from the glittery wealth and luxury of the coronation of Elizabeth I to the tawdry life in the pleasure quarters, each described vividly and accurately. Young Kate is again loyal, clever, and a shrewd detective. The setting and personalities of the time come alive as Carmack weaves a breathtaking mystery with nonstop action and emotional growth for Kate.”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick, 41/2 stars)

  “A very intriguing and suspenseful historical mystery that you will not want to miss!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Kept me turning pages. A great combination of tension and intrigue. The climax was another nail-biting intoxicating ride, and the wrap-up drops a bombshell . . . that had me wanting the next book immediately. Another stellar book in this series that is exceeding expectations. Buy two copies: one for you and one for a friend.”

  —Mysteries and My Musings

  “This is my favorite type of mystery! An intelligent female amateur sleuth solving crimes in the richly detailed setting of Tudor England. Add a dash of romance, a puzzle with a natural yet surprising solution, and pull heavily from historical record, and it’s no mystery why this book earns a well-deserved spot on my keeper shelf! . . . A real treat for anyone who loves historical fiction.”

  —Plot Twist Reviews

  Murder at Hatfield House

  “Meticulously researched and expertly told, Murder at Hatfield House paints a vivid picture of Tudor England and a young Princess Elizabeth. Amanda Carmack’s talent for creating a richly drawn setting, populating it with fully realized characters, and giving them a tight and engaging narrative is unparalleled. An evocative and intelligent read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Tasha Alexander

  “Amanda Carmack writes beautifully. . . . I enjoyed Murder at Hatfield House and recommend it; it is a cozy excursion into Tudor times with a lively heroine.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  “An excellent start to a new historical mystery series.”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick, 41/2 stars)

  “Historical suspense with a solid murder mystery and very enjoyable heroine. Near perfect.”

  —Mysteries and My Musings

  “We see the action unfold through Kate the musician’s eyes, but the most exciting revelation is not the unveiling of the mystery, but the unveiling of Elizabeth.”

  —Heroes and Heartbreakers

  “I enjoyed this novel, with the rich descriptions and the lively and interesting cast of personable characters. I think that this is going to be a great series to follow and I highly recommend it to those who enjoy a bit of history to their mystery!”

  —Sharon’s Garden of Book Reviews

  ALSO BY AMANDA CARMACK

  The Elizabethan Mystery Series

  Murder at Westminster Abbey

  Murder at Hatfield House

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA|Canada|UK|Ireland|Australia|New Zealand|India|South Africa|China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Ammanda McCabe, 2015

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-698-15864-1

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Praise

  Also By AMANDA CARMACK

  Title page

  Copyright page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Excerpt from MURDER AT WHITEHALL

  PROLOGUE

  Nonsuch Palace, 1541

  Amelia was right. He would very much regret doing this.

  As Dr. Timothy Macey, astrologer to King Henry’s royal court, hurried through the night-dark gardens of the king’s pleasure palace at Nonsuch, his mistress’s words rang in his head.

  ’Tis not fitting for people like us to be amid the schemes of people like that, Amelia had cried when she learned what his new business was. It’s not safe, and it won’t end well—mark my words. Look what happened to poor Queen Anne!

  Then she had sobbed, snatched their bewildered little son up in her arms, and dashed into the cottage, slamming the door behind her.

  He had cursed her folly, shouted at her that she knew not what she spoke of and that she could rot in there all alone.

  She had never had a problem spending the extra coin he earned now; that was for certain.

  But he worried now there was some truth to her fearful words. The doings of kings, especially this king, with the blood of so many on his bejeweled hands, should be none of his business. He had seen what happened to those who displeased King Henry Tudor, had seen their heads on pikes. Yet his vast knowledge, hard-won from so many forbidden books, so many long nights over a scrying stone, had made him arrogant. He had thought he was different.

  Only when he read what was written in the stars had he truly seen how far he had come along a dark road.

  He paused at the entrance to the garden maze and peered back at the palace, sleeping with a deceptive air of peace in the darkness. It was King Henry’s pride, his great pleasure palace, meant to outshine any French château or Italian villa with its magnificence. Indeed it was surprisingly beautiful, with its carved towers and pale sculptured friezes, yet it was not finished. Despite the fact that Henry had begun to build it years ago, to celebrate the birth of his precious son, Prince Edward, whole wings around the courtyards were still left hollow, decorat
ions half-painted.

  Yet Henry had insisted on showing the house’s magnificence, bringing his court here with his new queen, the young Catherine Howard—half his age, golden haired, merry, laughing, dancing. Always dancing. The king’s “rose without a thorn.”

  Dr. Macey cursed now to think of her. She had seemed to make his fortunes only a few days ago, when King Henry commissioned him to draw up the queen’s horoscope. No doubt the fat, sickly, stinking Henry was sure the stars would foretell the handsome sons she would give him, the love for him she had in her youthful heart.

  But that was not what was in the future at all. Macey’s hands still trembled on the scroll he clutched, the terrible chart that told the truth of Queen Catherine and her young heart. The blood that would soon taint her white skin and stain the souls of so many around her.

  Nay, he could never tell the king the truth, or anyone else! He was a mere messenger, but the royal rage, so swift and lethal, would surely fall directly on him. Not to mention what would happen if the queen’s lover knew the truth. It had to be concealed, and now, before Macey was caught.

  He looked down at the parchment crumpled in his hands, and the pale moonlight caught on his rings. His night stone, whose power he had treasured ever since his old teacher had gifted it to him so many years ago, and the fine emerald set in wrought gold, a gift from King Henry that had once seemed such a treasure, both glinted in the light.

  Now the emerald was a chain, dragging him down to the waiting demons of hell.

  He heard Amelia’s sobs again, saw her fear-filled eyes. He had scoffed at her, but she was right in the end. His powers should never have been put to the service of a madman like King Henry and a strumpet like Queen Catherine.

  Worse, he had given in to the basest temptation and taken coin from the queen’s lover—a man who was young and hot-tempered and who had killed before without thought or care—and played him off the king. That was what haunted him now, what chased him in the night.

  They would find out what he had done in those papers, for the stars never lied, if they had not already, and they would take their revenge.

  Macey spun around and hurried into the dark safety of the maze. The thick, thorny hedge walls rose around him, blotting out the sight of that cursed house, and only moonlight guided his steps.

  He knew Queen Catherine used the center of the maze for her secret trysts. Where better to hide her secrets, and his own?

  He had sent a copy of the chart to his best student, young John Dee, at Cambridge, instructing him not to read it unless it became necessary. John had the wisdom and discretion of men three times his age. He would know what to do with this knowledge, if need be. This copy, Macey would destroy now, before the king or the others could find him. He would have to draw up a false horoscope for Queen Catherine.

  Suddenly, there was a shout behind him, from beyond the entrance to the maze. Booted footsteps pounded on the ground, and he heard someone call his name.

  He knew that voice. It was Thomas Culpeper, the queen’s young ruffian of a lover. He and his friends Lord Marchand, who had hated Macey since their own days at Cambridge, and Master Dereham, the queen’s secretary, had already paid Macey for his secret knowledge of alchemy. And now he knew he truly was betrayed. They would try to destroy the horoscope and silence him.

  But they still did not know the secrets the stars had told him. If he survived this night, he would make certain they never did.

  He ran faster through the twists and turns of the maze, as the racing footsteps of his pursuers grew louder behind him. If he could only reach the safety of the next turn.

  Yet it was too far away. He couldn’t breathe; his chest felt tight; his legs burned. He tumbled into the maze’s center just as a rough fist snatched a handful of his robe and shoved him to his knees. Pain jolted up his legs as he landed in the mud. The emerald fell from his finger and the paper was snatched away from his hand.

  “Bastard!” Thomas Culpeper cursed. “You will get us all killed. Where is the horoscope? I know you have it; the maidservant who saw you told me.”

  “May God forgive me,” Macey whispered. He had not considered the servants. He thought of Amelia, of their little Timothy’s face. And he feared it was much too late for anything at all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  August 1559

  “Make way, you varlets! Make way for the queen!”

  The guards in Queen Elizabeth’s green-and-white livery galloped along the dusty, rutted lane, pushing back the eager crowds who gathered to watch the queen ride by. They had left the nearest village behind, with its rows of cottages and shops, its stone gaol, but the crowds were still thick.

  Along the road, the royal procession seemed to stretch for miles. Hundreds of people rode with Queen Elizabeth on her summer progress, an endless stream of horses, wagons, and coaches. Baggage carts were piled high with chests and furniture, maidservants and pages clinging to them precariously as they bounced along. The courtiers on their fine horses were a many-faceted jewel of bright velvets and feathers, a brilliant burst of color emerging from the brown dust of the hard, rutted summer pathways.

  None were more glorious than the queen herself. She rode in her finest coach, a gift from one of her suitors, the Prince of Sweden. It was an elaborate conveyance painted deep crimson and trimmed with gilt paint, lined with green satin cushions. Six white horses drew it along, green ribbons braided in their manes and tails fluttering in the wind. Queen Elizabeth, resplendent in white-and-silver brocade, her red-gold hair piled atop her head and twined with pearls, waved her gloved hand at the crowds who clamored to see her.

  “God save our queen!” they shouted, falling over one another, tears shining on their faces. Parents held their children up on their shoulders to glimpse a real queen.

  “And God bless all of you, my good people!” Elizabeth called back.

  Sir Robert Dudley rode beside her on his grand, prancing black horse, almost like a part of the powerful beast himself in his black-and-gold doublet. A plumed black hat trimmed with pearls and rubies sat on his curling dark hair. He laughed as he caught some of the bouquets tossed to the queen, and he leaned into the carriage to drop them in her lap. Elizabeth smiled up at him radiantly, the very image of a summer queen, full of heat and light and pure, giddy happiness.

  Kate Haywood could barely glimpse the queen’s coach from her own wagon farther down the lane, but even she could see the sunburst of the queen’s smile. It had been thus all summer, from Greenwich to Eltham, a procession of dances, banquets, and fireworks over gardens in full, fragrant bloom. After so many years of danger and fear, it seemed summer had truly returned to England at last, and everyone was determined to enjoy it to the hilt. Especially the queen.

  Kate looked down at her lute, carefully packed into its case and propped at her feet. She let the stewards load her clothes chest, filled with her new fine gowns and ruffs, into the baggage carts, but never this, her most prized possession. It had once belonged to her mother, who died at her birth, and she had grown up learning to play her music on it. It was her most trusted companion, and now that she was a full member of the queen’s musical consort, it earned her own bread as well. It had seen much activity in the last few weeks, playing deep into the night as Queen Elizabeth danced on and on—mostly with Robert Dudley.

  Kate flexed her fingers in her new kid gloves. They, too, had seen much work lately, and she couldn’t afford for them to grow stiff. Once they reached Nonsuch Palace, there would be much dancing again. It was said that Lord Arundel, the palace’s owner, was much set on wooing the queen and had planned many elaborate pageants to advance his suit.

  For a moment, Kate thought of her father, content in retirement at his new cottage near Windsor. She received letters from him on this progress, full of his news as he finally had time to work on the grand Christmas service cycle he had longed to finish. He also had words to
say about a kindly widow who lived nearby and who brought him fresh milk and new-baked bread. He seemed happy, but Kate often missed him a great deal. They had been each other’s only family for so long.

  And yet—he had kept her mother’s secret from Kate all her life. And she hadn’t yet been able to bring herself to confront him about that. She didn’t know if she ever could. It made her feel so very lonely.

  Kate leaned farther out of the wagon into the choking clouds of dust to study the coach in front of her. Catherine Carey—Lady Knollys—the daughter of the queen’s aunt Mary Boleyn, rode there with her beautiful daughter, Lettice, the fine new conveyance a sign of their high favor with the queen. Beside them, talking to the ladies through the open window, was Lady Knollys’s brother, Lord Hunsdon.

  He threw back his head and laughed, his red beard glinting in the sunlight, and his sister peeked out the window to laugh with him. She caught her plumed hat just before the wind would have snatched it from her dark hair.

  Whenever Kate saw Lady Knollys, she wondered if her own mother had looked something like her, with her delicate face and shining black hair—Boleyn hair, they called it. Kate’s own mother, Eleanor, was the illegitimate half sister of Anne and Mary Boleyn, a fact Kate had discovered in a most shocking way only a few months before.

  Not that the Careys, or anyone else, ever spoke of that fact or acknowledged it. Though sometimes Kate thought she saw Lord Hunsdon looking at her. . . .

  The convoy suddenly lurched to a halt, startling Kate from her brooding thoughts. She clutched at the wooden side of the wagon to keep from tumbling to the floor.

  “Are we stopping again?” cried Lady Anne Godwin, who sat across from Kate. “We shall never get to Nonsuch at this pace! I vow we could walk faster.”

  Mistress Violet Roland, from her perch on the bench next to Kate, smiled and said, “Of course Queen Elizabeth will wish to stop and talk to the people whenever she can. Most of them will never see such a sight again.”