Murder at Fontainebleau by Amanda Carmack Page A

Amelia cried. “You have never loved at all. You are just a—”
    â€œBe silent!” Sir Henry called. He held up his hand, and their slow procession drew to a halt.
    For a moment, Kate was confused by the sudden call for silence. Then she smelled it—the sharp, metallic smell of smoke on the clear, cold breeze. At first it was a mere whiff, as if from the chimneys of a village nearby. But it grew heavier, too thick, tinged with something darker.
    Her throat tightened, and she froze.
    Sir Henry and the guards at the front dashed ahead, and Monsieur Domville and Toby Ridley edged around the ladies to ride after them, then drew their swords. Kate instinctively followed, shaking her dagger from its sheath under her sleeve until she could grasp the twisted steel hilt.
    The narrow lane turned a sharp corner into a clearing, which had been hidden and blocked by the thick curtain of trees. Kate gasped, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth, at what they found there.
    It was a farmhouse, or once had been. It was now a charred, smoking ruin, the roof collapsed, the walls blackened. There was no sign of life, not even a chicken or milk cow. Only a crudely drawn cross of Lorraine in red on the one still partially standing wall, along with the outline of a lion. The emblem of the Guise.
    Amelia, who had come up beside Kate, screamed, and Kate whipped around to reach for her hand.
    She saw what had made Amelia scream, and nearly cried out herself. Two men were hanged from the bare, skeletal branches of a tall tree at the edge of the clearing. A rough sign dangled from one of them with large black letters that spelled out HERETIC . She remembered what they had heard at the inn, about Catholic churches pillaged and Protestants killed in punishment. It made her glad to be English, with a queen who cared not to open windows in men’s souls, as Elizabeth often said.
    She looked back to Amelia and wondered if the flighty, frivolous lady was going to faint. But MistressWrightsman did not look on the edge of hysterics at all. Her delicate jaw was set in a hard line, her eyes cold and angry.
    â€œCome. We must be away from this place,” Sir Henry said. He spurred his horse around and galloped back to the lane, where the others waited. Lady Barnett was tearful, demanding to know what was happening, but her husband ignored her. Mistress Berry offered her a vial of smelling salts.
    â€œAre you quite well, Mistress Wrightsman?” Kate asked quietly.
    Amelia gave her a hard, bright smile. “I am, Mistress Haywood. You will have to learn that things like this happen all the time in France. But we must keep moving forward, must we not?”
    She jerked her own horse around to follow her uncle, and Kate rode to catch up with her.
    â€œIt is a sad thing indeed,” Monsieur Domville said solemnly. “But surely they were breaking the law of the land. These Huguenots think they can do as they like, but they must learn to keep the peace. It is a very dangerous thing to make enemies of the Guise and their friends.”
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, they were Huguenots,” the landlady at the inn said with a scowl. She waved to a maidservant to continue pouring ale into the traveling party’s pottery cups. The maid sniffled; her eyes were red, her plump cheeks blotched, as if tears were a common thing withher. She stopped only when the landlady gave her a stern glance.
    Mistress Berry, calm and expressionless, handed Lady Barnett a vial. Lady Barnett had been crying as well, and Mistress Wrightsman’s cold anger had quickly faded once they were on the road again, and she had almost fainted in new hysterics. Her swoon had led them to find an inn to rest for a time. The ladies looked a bit restored now beside a warm fire, with spiced ale and a hearty stew to warm them. It was a prosperous establishment, clean and well furnished, with an elaborate cross prominently displayed on the