Death at Blenheim Palace by Robin Paige

the Rosamund legends had evolved over the centuries into a fascinating, if contradictory, literary tradition. In ballad and story, Rosamund’s Bower became a palatial establishment of stone and timber, with 150 doors, surrounded by a maze “so cunningly contrived with turnings round about, that none but with a clue of thread could enter in or out.” Some of the tales suggested that the king constructed the labyrinth to barricade the beautiful young girl against his jealous queen and against other rivals—one of whom, Roger of Salisbury, was said to have fallen so desperately in love with Rosamund that he tried to carry her off. Others hinted that Rosamund herself would have been glad enough to escape from the king, but she was now his captive, trapped in their sinful liaison (symbolized by the legendary labyrinth, of course).
    In the legend, Henry’s Herculean efforts to defend his mistress ultimately failed. Eleanor visited the palace at Woodstock. When Henry came to her one morning, she saw that his spur had snagged a golden thread. Following the thread through the maze, Eleanor discovered Rosamund. Shortly thereafter, Rosamund was found dead. She had been poisoned.
    Had the aging, vengeful Eleanor murdered her beautiful young rival? Or had Rosamund been killed by a treacherous servant, or even by the desperate Roger of Salisbury? Or had she—stricken with shame, sick with scandal and disgrace, realizing that she was imprisoned for life—killed herself ?
    Beryl, of course, found these questions deliciously enthralling, for the legends offered a wealth of story material for their novel, some of it wonderfully lurid and exactly the sort of mystery she loved. Kate herself was always more circumspect and tried to keep within the bounds of the believable. If history said that Eleanor had been in Henry’s prison at the time of Rosamund’s death and hence could not possibly have killed her, that settled the matter.
    But Beryl was bolder, and insisted on holding open all the possibilities as long as possible. So what if the queen was shut up in jail? she argued. What makes you think she couldn’t have hired a killer to do the dirty deed for her?
    To which Kate had no immediate answer. In such matters, Beryl was usually right, and Kate usually gave in. For now, at least, they would leave the questions open and see where the story took them.
    By this time, Kate had arrived at the end of the bridge and was setting off along the narrow path that led down the hill to the left, in the direction of Rosamund’s Well. The grass was damp and slippery, and she had to scramble to keep her footing. But the soft gray light was exactly what she wanted, and when she reached the Well, she unfolded her stool, opened her sketchpad, and set to work.
    The spring, she saw, issued out of an ancient, moss-covered stone wall and fell into a square pool, about twenty feet by twenty, set within a paved area. When an observer had described the site some two hundred years before, there had been three pools, and a seat built into the wall, as well as the ruins of an old building and much stone paving. Now, Kate and Beryl had to use their imaginations in order to see what might have been there in Rosamund’s time: a pleasant rustic bower, a paved courtyard, a pear orchard, a fragrant herb garden filled with birds and butterflies, and perhaps a series of bubbling waterfalls, where the waters of the spring danced down the rocky slope.
    The mist swirled through the trees and over the lake, concealing Blenheim Palace on the opposite shore. Surrounded by the gray swirls, Kate could imagine herself carried back to Rosamund’s time, on a morning when two lovers stood in a pleasant garden beside a spring, absorbed in their passion and seeing nothing of the turmoil around them. For a moment, she was swept by Rosamund’s feelings—a tumble of delight, apprehension, and the reckless, headstrong abandonment that comes with passion. And Henry’s—his desire,