Chapter 1: Untimely Accident

He looked so young.

He was nineteen, so Edward Hawford, vice chancellor of Cambridge, had said, in hushed tones as he led the way to where Thomas Shawe, student at King's College in Cambridge, had been laid, on a trestle table in one of the side chapels of the lofty College Chapel.

Death had smoothed out the marks of growing maturity, and as I stood gazing down on his face, I thought that he looked no more than fifteen. But nineteen was young enough, too young. His whole life had been before him and it had been cut off because a horse had shied or stumbled and thrown him headfirst into a tree. There were bits of tree bark still in the bloodied dent between his right temple and the crown of his head, mixed with the splinters of bone where his skull had cracked as an egg cracks when struck with the back of a spoon. Around the injury, his hair, which was a striking shade of reddish blond, almost metallic in color, like brass, was matted with dry blood.

My eyes stung and I brushed a hand across them, and beside me, Rob Henderson, my good friend and the queen's good servant, in whose company I had traveled to Cambridge, noticed. "I know," he said quietly. "This is a terrible thing."

When the news of Thomas's accident reached me, I had sought Rob out as soon as I could. He was not at the lodging but my maid, Fran Dale, and my manservant, Roger Brockley, were there and were able to tell me that Rob was at Christ's College, conferring with Hawford, who was master of Christ's, as well as being vice chancellor of the university. Dale was much occupied with some stitchery and she was no brisk walker anyway, but I took Brockley with me, so that I would appear properly escorted, a