Death of an Intelligence Gatherer

By Kathy Lynn Emerson

In 1554, scores of English Protestants fled into exile on the Continent after Mary Tudor took the throne and returned England to Catholicism. Sir Henry Ingram and his daughter Cordell were among them, but Sir Henry is not all he seems. When he dies in Strasbourg, Cordell's life is turned upside down. Certain he was poisoned, and that his murder had something to do with the intelligence he was gathering about a plot to overthrow the queen, she is determined not only to complete his mission but also to bring his killer to justice. There is only one problem—as a young woman on her own she does not dare trust anyone, not even old friends. Her journey home is fraught with peril, and once she is back in England, nothing is as she expected it to be.

 

Praise for Agatha Award winning author Kathy Lynn Emerson:

"Highly recommended for readers who appreciate suspenseful historical mysteries." Booklist

"A solid bet for historical mystery fans." Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathy Lynn Emerson
• Release date: Aug 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223735991

Kathy Lynn Emerson

Kathy Lynn Emerson has written both contemporary and historical novels, and has been published in several different genres. She is the author of sixty-four traditionally published works of fiction and nonfiction under several names. She won an Agatha Award for nonfiction for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and received the 2023 Lea Wait Award for "excellence and achievement." She lives in Maine.

Book preview

ONE

The windows in the upper room of the Catte Street house looked south over a half mile of narrow London streets and alleys. There were more than a hundred churches in the city. By day, even on an overcast afternoon, it was possible to pick out dozens of steeples jutting up above the closely packed houses and shops, but on the sixth of July in the year of our Lord 1553, an unnatural darkness obscured the view and painted everything murky gray.

At the first rumble of thunder, Cordell Ingram set her sewing aside and rose from the low bench she shared with her sister to cross the solar. Lightning flashed just as she reached for the shutters, intending to close the heavy wooden panels. It drew her gaze to the upthrust spire of one particular church. A second jagged scar of light illuminated the scene long enough for her to see a spiral of smoke curling with sinister intent around the bell tower. A moment later, yellow flames began to lick their way upward.

When Eleanor joined her at the window, the sisters watched, transfixed, until the spire, weakened by the strike, crumbled at its base and fell with excruciating slowness toward the street below. Eleanor gasped and retreated but Cordell, fearing what a shower of sparks might do to nearby wooden buildings, leaned out into the eerie mist. Unless a downpour followed the lightning, fire would spread rapidly, devouring everything in its path. All of London might burn.

As if in answer to a prayer, the deluge began. As rain fell in sheets, Cordell slammed the shutters closed and latched them, plunging the room into shadow.

Candlelight offered little reassurance while the storm raged. When Eleanor whimpered in fright, Cordell caught her hand and guided her to the padded bench where they had left their needlework. Although Cordell was younger by two years, she was taller and more sturdily built. She wrapped one arm around her sister's shoulders and shifted her position until their heads nearly touched. Locks of Cordell's dark, unruly, unbound hair, wet from the rain, mingled with the lighter-colored strands of Eleanor's neatly combed tresses. That they were seated so close together created the momentary illusion that they each drew comfort from the other's nearness.

Eleanor jerked upright, an expression of distaste on her heart-shaped face. Your hair and clothing are drenched, she complained. Have a care you do not drip on my new silk sleeves. Water will ruin them.

With a sigh, Cordell slid along the bench, putting as much distance as possible between them. Eleanor fussed with the dark green folds of her skirt, adjusting the opening at the front to reveal a forepart of brocaded ivory silk that matched her sleeves.

I thought you were afraid of the storm.

Eleanor sent a nervous glance toward the window. It will pass.

As if to mock her statement, thunder crashed so close to the house that the walls shook. The candles flickered ominously. Cordell held her breath, but none winked out. Rain continued to drum on the roof tiles as she picked up the shift she had been hemming, but she made no attempt to resume the chore. At her side, Eleanor sat stiff as a poker, hands clasped in her lap and eyes squeezed shut.

This was no brief downpour. It went on and on, terrifying in its intensity. Cordell lost track of time and could not help but feel she and Eleanor were cut off from the rest of the world. Her heart lurched when her father's housekeeper, Ursula Ware, burst into the room.

Not fit weather for man nor beast, Ursula declared in a loud, carrying voice. Beefy arms hung from shoulders that sloped forward with age and her face was lined as a prune, but she could move as quietly and swiftly as a cat when she chose to. Butcher's boy says he saw blood-colored hailstones near the banks of the Thames. An evil omen, that is. Means real blood will be spilt soon.

Superstitious nonsense, Cordell said.

She doubted Ursula heard her. Between the rain, the thunder, and the wind rattling the shutters, the noise of the storm drowned out any words spoken more softly than a bellow.

A church burned to the ground. Ursula shouted. You know what that means. It is an act of God when a house of worship is demolished, and a sure sign of more troubles to come.

She set about lighting more candles, grumbling to herself all the while. Eleanor picked up her needle and embroidery frame and resumed stitching. Cordell glared at the shift in her lap, now sadly wrinkled where she had clutched the material too tightly.

She smoothed out the fabric and was searching for her dropped needle when she realized that the storm had abated enough to allow her to hear heavy footsteps approaching the solar. A moment later, her father stepped into the room.

Rainwater dripped from Sir Henry Ingram's cloak to puddle on the floor. When he removed that outer garment, Cordell saw that the clothing he wore beneath it was drenched as well.

Eleanor was on her feet in an instant. Whatever possessed you to come all the way from Greenwich in this weather? she scolded him. You will catch your death if—

She broke off when he stepped more fully into the candlelight. His face was as gray as the stormy sky and his eyes were haunted.

Father? Cordell rose and started toward him. What is wrong?

The king, he said. The king is dead.

His words stopped her in her tracks. Although she and Eleanor lived in the London house or at Ingram Hall in Hertfordshire, Sir Henry had lodgings at the royal court and kept his family well apprised of what took place there. The young king, Edward the Sixth, had succeeded his father, Henry the Eighth, only six years earlier. Since he had not been old enough to rule on his own, a Lord Protector had been appointed to run the country. The duke of Somerset, who had held that post, had later been replaced by the duke of Northumberland, and from what Cordell knew of Northumberland, he would be loath to relinquish control of the government to a new ruler.

What will happen now? she asked.

God only knows, Sir Henry said, for I do not.

Sit, Father. Cordell took his arm and led him to the bobbin-frame chair near the hearth, but there was no warmth to be had from that source. As it was summer, the opening was filled with scented boughs. Ursula, fetch mulled wine. Sir Henry is chilled to the bone. The cooking fire in the kitchen could be revived even if it was down to embers.

I do not understand, Eleanor said when the housekeeper had left the room. What is so uncertain? Surely the king's sister will succeed to the throne.

The rain still came down in torrents, but the thunder and lightning had ceased. It was possible to converse without shouting.

Have you forgotten? Sir Henry asked. Both King Henry's daughters were declared illegitimate and disinherited by their father. Moreover, King Edward, anxious to preserve the New Religion, made a will excluding both Mary and Elizabeth from the succession. He named their cousin, the Lady Jane Grey, to rule after him.

Cordell felt a chill course through her that had nothing to do with the storm. Was that his choice, she asked, or the duke's doing?

She might never have been to court herself, but everyone knew that the Lady Jane had recently been married to one of the duke of Northumberland's sons.

Does it matter? Sir Henry asked. The result is the same. The leading men at Edward's court dare not allow his oldest sister, Mary Tudor, to take the throne. As a devout Catholic, Mary's first act will be to restore that religion in England. She will force everyone to conform and punish those who were most fervent in establishing the reformed faith in place of the church of Rome.

How can she undo what it has taken two decades to build? Eleanor asked.

Catholicism had been abandoned when she was still on leading strings and Cordell was a babe in arms. They had never known any other church than the one Henry the Eighth established in a fit of pique over the Pope's refusal to grant him a divorce.

Sir Henry started to answer but broke off when Ursula returned with a goblet of spiced wine that had been heated until it steamed gently. He sent his housekeeper a pointed look as he accepted the offering.

There are many people who only pretended to change their faith after King Henry broke with Rome. They have clung to the old ways in secret all these years and will not lightly accept anyone but Mary Tudor as her brother's heir.

They will rebel? Eleanor's anxiety caused her voice to rise by half an octave.

Cordell, watching Ursula's face, caught the flash of a satisfied smile before she made her features carefully blank.

I fear so, Sir Henry said. In any case, the best and wisest course is to remain neutral until the succession is an accomplished fact. That is why I left court as soon as I heard of the king's death.

But you have always supported the duke, Eleanor protested. And the New Religion.

I did not approve of all of Northumberland's policies. He sipped cautiously of the hot drink and some of the color returned to his face. However, it is true that I hope to retain my position at court. If the Lady Jane becomes queen, little will change.

The duke will be the real ruler, Cordell said.

Sir Henry nodded. He will continue to run the country, as he has since Somerset's execution. Queen Jane will have nothing to do but preside over a glittering court. A fond smile brightened his countenance as glanced at Cordell. If there is to be a new, young queen, there will be positions open for maids of honor. Perhaps you will be considered for one.

Cordell, watching Eleanor, saw her sister's eyes narrow at the suggestion. A delicately beautiful young woman, she possessed a winsome smile ideally suited to charm everyone she met, but just now it was nowhere in evidence.

Eleanor pursed her lips before bursting into speech. I am the oldest. If one of your daughters goes to court, it should be me.

Sir Henry's face creased into a puzzled frown. But you are to wed George Eastland next month. Maids of honor must be unmarried.

Unable to offer an argument that could counter that fact, Eleanor retreated into sullen silence. Retrieving her embroidery, she resumed her seat in the bench and stabbed her needle into the fabric.

Cordell remained where she was, hovering beside her father's chair. Finish your wine, she urged him. Then change into dry clothes. You will take a chill if you continue to sit here in those wet garments.

He glanced at her still-damp hair and smiled, but he obediently drained his goblet. I will not argue, Cordell. Nor will I hear any argument when I tell you that it is late and well past the time you and Eleanor should already have been abed. We will talk more of the future in the morning.

Cordell obeyed reluctantly. She tried to tell herself that it was just the storm that made her uneasy, but she could not shake the feeling that her father's abrupt and unexpected return to Catte Street was even more worrisome.

TWO

Two hours later, Cordell held herself rigid beside her slumbering sister, unable to sleep but reluctant to make any sudden, restless movement that might wake Eleanor. She had no wish to resume their quarrel.

If only their father had not mentioned that the new queen would need young women to serve her. Cordell had no desire to be one of them, but Eleanor refused to believe her when she said so. The mere suggestion that Cordell might go to court while she remained behind so inflamed Eleanor's jealousy and resentment that reasoning with her was impossible. By the time the sisters helped each other undress and climbed into the bed they shared, they were no longer on speaking terms.

Only after the storm had passed did Cordell slip into a light doze, but it was not deep enough to prevent her from being disturbed by faint sounds coming from the room below. Frowning, she opened her eyes and listened harder and was able to make out the murmur of voices.

The hour was too late for anyone in the family to be up and about and too early for any of their servants to have reason to rise and begin their pre-dawn chores. Careful not to disturb Eleanor, Cordell slipped from the bed and moved toward the door. Belatedly, she remembered she wore nothing but a thin linen shift. With the shutters closed against the rain, there was no moonlight to guide her, but she knew the chamber well. With a minimum of fumbling, she found her bedgown. Decently covered but still barefoot, she made her way to the staircase.

A faint light shone below. She followed it to the small room, furnished with a worktable and several stools, where her father stored his maps and books. The door was ajar, allowing her to see inside. As she expected, Sir Henry was there, but she was surprised to see that the man with him was not one of their servants.

Her father's companion stood beside the room's second door, the one that led out into the small enclosed garden at the back of the house. Cordell could not see his face, but from his stance it was clear he was waiting for Sir Henry, fully dressed in dry clothing and carrying his cloak, to join him.

Father?

Sir Henry turned, a wry smile on his lips. Ah, Cordell. I was about to write a note to leave for you and your sister.

You would have gone away without speaking to us? She glared at the figure in the shadows. When she stepped inside the room, the candles her father had lit revealed that he wore the duke of Northumberland's livery.

I have no choice but to return to court. Sir Henry glanced toward the door and added, in quite a different tone of voice: I feel certain you remember young Roger.

Roger . . . Allington?

The same. He made a mocking bow in her direction and moved into the light. The illumination revealed facial features set in an expression of contemptuous amusement.

Oh, yes, Cordell thought. I remember Roger Allington.

She had been a girl of nine when he joined the household at Ingram Hall. He had been twelve, fresh from the wilds of Yorkshire and arrogant despite his lack of learning and his rough northern ways. He had been sent to Sir Henry to be made into a gentleman. A year later, trained and polished, he had joined the retinue of a nobleman, one who would later be elevated in the peerage and become duke of Northumberland.

Although Roger had changed a great deal in the decade since she had last seen him, Cordell had no difficulty recognizing the scrawny lad she had known as a child. His narrow face and high forehead and his ink-black hair and dark eyes were unchanged. As for the rest, he had grown tall and broad shouldered and had developed impressive muscles and well-formed legs. She had no doubt he was popular with the ladies.

Roger stared back at her, as if he was making a similar assessment of the changes in her appearance. Acutely aware that she was wearing nothing but a shift and a bedgown, she scowled at him and received a grin in return.

It faded when he addressed Sir Henry. There is no need now to write a note to your daughters. We must leave without further delay.

Cordell did not care what happened to Roger, but concern for her father had her clutching the older man's sleeve. You are mad to go out so soon after such a storm, she protested. The streets will be impassable.

Roger made a dismissive gesture. A heavy rain at high tide always causes flash flooding, but since I reached Catte Street unharmed, we should be able to return to Greenwich in equal safety.

Freeing himself from Cordell's grasp, Sir Henry donned his cloak. We need to go, Daughter, and speed is of the essence.

Cordell caught her breath. The fastest route was by water, and that was not safe at all. You cannot mean to shoot London Bridge. Her voice rose in alarm. At high tide, in the aftermath of a powerful storm, men have died in the attempt.

There is no time to argue, Cordell, her father said. We must be on our way.

But Father—

Go back to bed, he said in a tone that brooked no argument. I will send word when I can.

A moment later they were gone.

Too frightened to return to her chamber, let alone sleep, Cordell spent the remaining hours until dawn alternately cursing Roger Allington and praying that he and her father survived the night.

THREE

On the afternoon of the tenth of July, Queen Jane sailed through London on her barge, bound for the royal apartments in the Tower of London to await her coronation. Ursula escorted the Ingram sisters to the Custom House to watch the pageantry.

It was the glitter of the display that struck Cordell most forcibly. Gold glinted in the sun. Jewels flashed. For a few dazzling moments, the ordinary sights and sounds and smells of the river and the city faded away, overshadowed by sheer spectacle.

Under a canopy of state, Lord Guildford Dudley, Jane's husband, stood beside her, resplendent in silver and white garments that set off his fair complexion and pale hair. A tall, handsome youth, at first glance he appeared far more regal than his royal bride. Next to him, she looked small and lost. Although she wore the Tudor colors, green and white, she seemed too young and too slight for the role others had thrust upon her.

Jolted back to reality by that thought, Cordell frowned. The sumptuous trappings were an attempt to disguise something ugly—the duke of Northumberland's scheme to put his own descendants on the throne of England. Jane's title would be meaningless, as would Guildford's. The real power would remain in the duke's hands.

Beneath the cheering and laughter, Cordell heard rumblings of discontent.

That is her mother holding her train, a prosperous-looking graybeard said. "By rights, if the old king's daughters were to be passed over, she should have been queen, not her daughter."

A merchant's wife spoke up, her tone disrespectful. Look there. She is wearing cork platforms tied under her shoes to make herself look taller.

Just a little bit of a thing, said a man in country clothes. The way he shook his head gave Cordell the impression that he thought Queen Jane's lack of stature ought to disqualify her from succeeding to the throne.

Not much like old King Henry in looks, someone else muttered.

And why should she? asked the merchant's wife. Her grandmother might have been his sister, but the royal blood's run thin since then.

There are others with a better claim to the throne, a second countryman opined.

Cordell watched the barges maneuver between the pilings that supported London Bridge. There was little risk to the passengers now that it was low tide. As soon as they passed through, she heard the sound of cannon fire in a salute to the new queen as she and her entourage sailed past Billingsgate. There would be more salvos fired when she disembarked at the Tower.

The low-voiced grumblings grew louder once the barges were out of sight. Following in Ursula's wake, Cordell and her sister braved the press of bodies filling the streets between the Thames and Catte Street. Everywhere there were whispers of support for Mary Tudor. Londoners were not pleased that the duke had tampered with the natural order of things.

Cordell wished she could talk to her father. She had not seen him since the night he left London with Roger Allington. He had sent the promised message to say he was safe, but it had been brief and uninformative. She had to assume he was still at Greenwich, and that his continued presence there allied him with Northumberland. That would be an advantage if the duke prevailed, but if those who opposed him were victorious, the consequences would be dire.

Cordell cared little who sat on the throne and was not especially devout. She just wanted her father to be safe.

By the time the three women reached Cheapside, two heralds had arrived to read the official proclamation declaring Jane queen. Only a few voices were raised with the cry God save her!

When the heralds went on to add that both of Henry the Eighth's daughters had been excluded from the succession by reason of having been declared illegitimate by their father, there was a brief, shocked silence before an apprentice stepped forward to declare, in ringing tones, that Mary was the rightful heir to the throne, not Jane. His master caught hold of him and boxed his ears, calling out for the soldiers who had accompanied the heralds to arrest the lad.

After that, chaos ensued. In the confusion, one of Mary's vocal partisans bumped against Cordell, nearly knocking her off her feet. By the time she recovered, both Ursula and Eleanor were out of sight. Cordell did not panic. She knew her way home, but the crowds in the streets impeded her progress. In company with the other women, she would have had no fear for her safety. Alone, she felt exceedingly vulnerable.

She ignored catcalls, and more than once had to elude reaching hands. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally caught sight of her parish church, St. Lawrence Jewry,