The Thorne Maze by Karen Harper Page A

the pox two years ago, the thought of death—anyone’s death—frightened her dreadfully.
    “Stay tight with Meg and come along,” she told Kat, against her better judgment. “Ned, Jenks, on!”
    The two men evidently recalled the maze pattern well from their search of it last night, but Elizabeth knew it best. Increasingly impatient, she took Ned’s torch and walked just behind Jenks, who displayed both torch and sword.
    “By broad daylight tomorrow, you will search each leaf and twig in this maze, as well as look for anything significant which might have been dropped,” Elizabeth whispered to her men. “And that includes searching the grass underfoot, though, sadly, footsteps do not make imprints there. Templar must have found a tell-tale piece of cloth, and it wasn’t from my costume, not a dark piece. Many at court that night wore some dark garment, but for the ten virgins, and who knows but the cloth wasn’t snagged there some other time. It may signify nothing.
    “All right, we’re nearly to the goal,” she announced more loudly, referring to the finishing place at the back of the maze. It was the spot where one knew he’d conquered the labyrinthine paths, but must now turn around to try to find the way out. The compact, square space boasted a stone bench and an old sundial—her father had ordered the latter placed in many a garden—though it only told the time around noon when the sun’s rays could reach it within the depths of these living walls.
    Nothing unusual in the goal, she thought, when their torch light illumined it. But Kat pointed behind the bench, and sang out, “There he is! I told you he came in here!”
    The queen saw the fallen form and rushed to the body.
    Templar indeed, sprawled facedown!
    “My dearest, my dearest!” Bettina cried, sobbing and throwing herself upon him on the ground. “Templar. Templar!”
    The queen knelt beside her and tried to tug her away from her husband. “Meg, you’ve seen bad falls and sudden paralyzing ailments,” Elizabeth said. “Is he badly hurt?”
    But as Bettina rolled the old man over and Meg felt for the pulse at his neck, Elizabeth knew he was not breathing. With her index finger she touched his wrist—cold but not rigid. The torches thrust closer revealed a huge, bloody bruise on his forehead, and the queen glimpsed a thick glaze of blood on the pedestal of the sundial.
    “He tripped, maybe on the bench foot—and hit his head there,” Jenks said, pointing. “I’ve seen death afore, and he’s—bless his soul, he’s gone.”
    Templar Sutton’s unblinking stare silently testified to that truth.
     
     
    Though she hated to do it, the queen finally ordered Ned to lift the sobbing Bettina from her husband’s body. She also regretted having to send for the local authorities, because she didn’t want anyone else probing this tragedy, nor declaring it a murder—which she feared it could well be. Two attacks in two days in the maze, one on her person, the other fatal. It was certain her attacker had not erroneously believed she was Templar Sutton, then finished the job this evening—nor had Templar, evidently, been strangled. ’S blood, even though she must send for the parish bailiff and coroner, she was going to get to the bottom of this double outrage on her grounds and on her terms!
    “Your Majesty,” Jamie Barstow cried as he appeared with another torch, “I came when I heard crying in here, no matter what Lady Rosie said at the entrance. I just wanted to help to—oh, no! Master Sutton?” he cried, gaping at Bettina, then the body. His usual calm crumbled; he looked for a moment as if he’d sob right along with the new widow.
    “Mistress Sutton, I’m so sorry …” he managed before his voice broke.
    “That’s right, you’ve known each other for a time,” Elizabeth said, much relieved. “Jamie, escort Mistress Sutton to her chambers. Take Rosie with you and do not leave her. I will be there when I can, but much must