Winter Tapestry

By Kathy Lynn Emerson

When Cordell Shelby’s father is poisoned, she is the only one who suspects he was murdered, and she is determined to find his killer. Set during the reign of Mary Tudor, the plot also involves treason, rebellion, and Cordell’s romance with a handsome young courtier named Roger Allington, who tricks her into a marriage of convenience that isn’t convenient at all. Historical Romantic Suspense by Kathy Lynn Emerson; originally published by Harper

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Sep 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781610844444

Kathy Lynn Emerson

With the June 30, 2020 publication of A Fatal Fiction, Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett will have had sixty-two books traditionally published. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries and the "Deadly Edits" series as Kaitlyn. As Kathy, her most recent book is a collection of short stories, Different Times, Different Crimes but there is a new, standalone historical mystery, The Finder of Lost Things, in the pipeline for October. She maintains three websites, at www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and another, comprised of over 2000 mini-biographies of sixteenth-century English women, at A Who's Who of Tudor Women

Book preview

WINTER TAPESTRY

Kathy Lynn Emerson

CAST OF CHARACTERS

listed in order of their appearance

(real historical figures are marked with *)

Sir Anthony Shelby, formerly royal mapmaker to King Edward VI; now in exile in the free city of Strasbourg as a refugee from religious persecution by Mary Tudor, Queen of England

Cordell Shelby, his daughter

*Bess Brooke Parr, sometime Marchioness of Northampton and cousin to Sir Thomas Wyatt

*Kat Astley, Elizabeth Tudor’s lady governor

*John Astley, her husband

Matthew Wood, English merchant in Strasbourg

*John Ponet, formerly Bishop of Winchester; now in exile in Strasbourg and Wood’s houseguest

*Maria Ponet, his wife; a niece of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s wife

*Elizabeth, Lady Clinton, a lady at the court of Mary Tudor

Roger Allington, a young courtier who supported the effort of the Duke of Northumberland to put the Lady Jane Grey on the throne of England in Queen Mary’s place

*Sir Francis Knollys, Roger’s traveling companion

Martin, Matthew Wood’s servant

Honor Eastland, Cordell’s sister

Ursula Ware, Cordell and Honor’s former nursemaid

Jane Hilliard, a maidservant at Shelby Hall

Tom Glovering, steward at Shelby Hall

*Lettice Knollys, Sir Francis’s daughter

*Sir Philip Hoby, a diplomat

*Edward Fiennes de Clinton, 9th Baron Clinton and Saye, Lady Clinton’s husband

James, cook at Shelby Hall

Jaél de Paradis, a girl

Madam Paradis, her mother

Captain Blague, captain of a merchant ship

Margaret Chelden, an old friend of Roger’s

George Eastland, Honor’s husband

Samuel Grimshaw, a Manchester lawyer

Adam Sutton, steward at Allington Manor

Jack, a servant at Shelby Hall

Historical figures mentioned in the story:

Mary Tudor, Queen of England, daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon

Lady Jane Gray, her cousin, currently in the Tower charged with treason

Lord Guildford Dudley, her husband, son of the Duke of Northumberland

Philip of Spain, the prince Queen Mary wants to marry

Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, contender to become someone’s royal consort

The Lady Elizabeth, Queen Mary’s half sister, daughter of Henry VIII by Anne Boleyn

The Duke of Northumberland, deceased—he tried to put Lady Jane on the throne in Mary’s place

The Marquis of Northampton, a former rebel, currently in prison on suspicion of further treason

The Duke of Suffolk, father to Lady Jane and now conspiring again

The Duchess of Suffolk, mother to Lady Jane and cousin to Queen Mary

Sir Thomas Wyatt the Younger, a gentleman of Kent who is fomenting rebellion

Anne Boleyn, deceased, Queen for whom Henry VIII broke with the Catholic Church

Mary Boleyn, deceased, Henry’s mistress, sister of Anne, and grandmother of Lettice Knollys

Chapter One

Yes, his companion cheerfully confirmed, quaffing the dregs in a pewter tankard. The inebriated grin leveled at Sir Anthony Shelby across the rough wooden table bordered on demonic. The venison pasty was poisoned. You’re a dead man, my friend.

Sir Anthony could not respond. His lips and tongue were already swollen to twice their normal size. Through pale blue eyes that bulged and blurred he saw his murderer calmly rise, don a warm cloak, and leave the private room they’d procured as a secret meeting place. No one else would come near until dawn.

The free city of Strasbourg, nestled on the Rhine between France and the German states, was a refuge for Protestant exiles from Mary Tudor’s Catholic England. In this hour just past midnight on the tenth day of November in the year of our Lord 1553, only one of them was destined to die.

His wits scattered by the effect of the poison, Sir Anthony did not fully comprehend the enormity of his betrayal. An attempt to stand left him on his knees, control of both body and mind slipping rapidly away. Only a desperate effort of will gave him the wherewithal to vomit up a portion of the deadly mixture.

After the purging a small measure of sense returned. His enemy was gone, secure in the knowledge that no antidote could save Sir Anthony. The man who had once been a royal mapmaker to King Edward VI accepted that, but he had reason, good reason, to prolong his life for as many minutes as he could. Crawling, he reached the dark, windswept street.

Swirling dust, carried on the breeze, bit into his skin like a thousand points of steel. He blinked, and after a moment Strasbourg’s towering cathedral gave him his direction. Stumbling over the cobbles, stopping to retch with uncontrolled violence, Sir Anthony set out, but for long moments grew confused and thought himself in London. He lost his footing as often as he lost his bearings. And then, his mind temporarily clear, he at last located Matthew Wood’s heavily timbered house with its distinctive enclosed cylindrical stairwell crowding the street. Once inside the plain, substantial structure, Sir Anthony began his grim and painful climb toward the garret he shared with his daughter.

Not London. Strasbourg. Exile. He lurched stiff-limbed up narrow, uneven stairs. In the stinking, filth-clogged streets of London he’d have been robbed ere now, stripped of purse and doublet and the cloak off his back. He’d have died naked and alone, and still not understood his killer’s motive.

Odd. His cloak was missing. Distracted, Sir Anthony stopped halfway up the stairwell, swaying, struggling to recall where he had left the warm woolen garment. Then the brief spell of cognizance continued and he remembered that his wits as well as his strength were being sapped by the poison. The cloak was unimportant. Ignoring a wave of near-intolerable pain he pressed on. He had to reach Cordell with warning of her danger.

Trembling fingers tugged a narrow ruff loose at his throat, one jagged nail scoring the puffy, rapidly reddening skin beneath. His lips and tongue felt big as tennis balls and even with his neck free he had to gasp for air. His hose seemed unbearably tight across rigid thighs, but he no longer had enough control over his hands to loosen the constricting clothing. His leather-booted feet grew clumsier with each step, tripping him when he crested the stairwell.

Cordell looked up from the book she had been reading while she waited for his return and caught sight of him just as he wedged himself upright in the doorframe. He saw color drain from her already pale face as completely as if she had been leeched; his vision blurred before she could reach him; he was staggering blindly by the time she tugged him close to the charcoal brazier that provided the chamber’s only heat.

Tell her . . . something he had to tell her, but what? His thoughts became disjointed and the words of warning were already fading from his mind as he toppled forward, catching himself with hands and knees by instinct before he rolled helplessly onto his back. From a great distance, he heard Cordell’s voice, calling his name, anxiously asking what had befallen him.

Light blue eyes flickered open, pupils dilated. For just a moment he was able to focus again on the face of the daughter he loved as much as if she’d been a son. She’d inherited his stubborn, slightly squared jaw, his coloring, his height, even his quick mind, but silent woman’s tears coursed freely down her cheeks.

Cordell, he whispered, the name recognizable only because she expected to hear it from his lips.

I’m here, Father. What has happened to you?

Painful spasms racked his long, thin frame, preventing Sir Anthony from speaking.

Cordell blinked rapidly, trying to dispel both her tears and the fear growing in her heart. He could not be dying. Not her father. Not in the prime of his life. But she had seen death before:  her mother, languishing with a wasting sickness; the yeoman farmer, Ned Crimson, gored by his own bull; the accidental victims of a dreadful poison as they were carried out of London’s Blossom Inn.

Belatedly, the evidence in front of her broached all emotional defenses and her eyes widened in horror. Terrible as sudden death was, murder was far more devastating. She saw the clear signs now—the swollen lips, the bulging eyes, the twisted features contorted by pain, the rigid way his limbs lay. The symptoms were the same. 

Blessed—or rather cursed to hear her older sister, Honor—tell it, with an inquisitive nature, an excellent memory, and considerable skill as a herbalist, Cordell realized that nothing could save her father’s life. 

No, she said, and again, no, as if by making it an incantation she could somehow stop what was happening.

Just across the corridor servants slept, but she did not call out for help. They’d wake their master and he could do no more than she to aid Sir Anthony. Desperately Cordell tried to think. There was no time to decoct and age the only known antidote. It would avail her nothing to raise the alarm, and alerting others to her father’s plight might do much harm.

In spite of waves of nausea and dozens of dagger-like thrusts that seemed to be attacking his innards, Sir Anthony struggled to speak. Emptying the contents of his stomach had bought him enough time to reach Cordell. Now it remained to make the best use of it he could. 

The words were indistinct, muffled by the swelling and his continuing convulsions, but the name Tom came through.

Tom is still in England, she said, choking back a sob. He was calling for Tom Glovering, his long-time friend and servant. She knelt beside him to smooth sweat-drenched hair away from his brow, brown locks that looked nearly black in the dim light. His skin felt icy, and she thought cold was the next word he said. Darting up and behind the pierced wooden screen that shielded her bed from the pallet Sir Anthony used for sleeping, Cordell seized a warm, quilted coverlet, but when she attempted to wrap it around his trembling shoulders he fought her.

Though blue veins bulged as his hands shook uncontrollably, the chill in the garret was not responsible for his tremors. He had little time left, and although each effort at speech left him weaker, he kept trying. The next word sounded like cat to Cordell but she thought she must have misunderstood again. There was no cat in this house, only an ugly-natured dog named Tölpel.

Gripping his shoulders, she tried to focus his attention on her question. She was shivering herself, in spite of her velvet bedgown, and wondered what had become of Sir Anthony’s thick black cloak. Father, who did this to you?

He no longer heard. The pitiful thrashings suddenly stopped, and the only sound in the chamber was his ragged breathing. With his last reserve of strength he uttered three words, distinct and cryptic:  Die . . . is . . . cast.

*

Gusts of air as chill and damp as those sweeping Strasbourg’s narrow streets caused the woman hidden in the garden behind Sir Anthony’s London townhouse to shudder and wrap herself more snugly in a fur-lined, richly brocaded mantle. She was not accustomed to being cold, or alone, and she had been waiting for hours at one end of a high, clipped hedge planted in cypress. This late in the year only green plants were left. The roses laced into its branches had gone by, leaving dead and neglected stalks.

Like its Catte Street neighbors the house had a narrow gabled frontage and rose upward in tiers, each jutting slightly farther out than the one it rested upon. The plot of ground where Cordell Shelby had planted herbs and flowers was well hidden from the street, fenced in by a stone wall. Rosemary grew in among the rocks and the wide walk between low-growing hedges of lavender had been planted with wild thyme that gave off a pleasant aroma when trod upon. The open beds on either side were raised above the level of the path on oak boards. They, too, had gone untended for some time and had been left uncovered to face the coming winter.

A small, plump woman all in black, nearly invisible in the early morning darkness, let herself into the enclosed quadrangle and latched the gate behind her. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the lack of light. She’d walked all the way from Queenhithe unaided by torch or candle. Only the faint glimmerings from the lanterns householders hung at their doors had lit her way through the dark, dangerous streets. It was far safer that way. She could pass unnoticed.

So, Bess, she said softly, you obeyed my summons.

A muffled sniffle was her only answer.

Katherine Astley moved toward the sound. She was a plain, pragmatic woman of mature years who took no notice of her surroundings once she was safely hidden by the high garden walls. Neither smells nor sounds distracted her attention from the whimpering woman ahead, a woman whose help she needed to protect the future.

For her the future, as well as the past and the present, centered on a slip of a girl of twenty, Elizabeth Tudor, who’d been placed in Katherine Astley’s care as a child of three.  Elizabeth had been born a princess, heralded as the only true heir of King Henry VIII. Later she’d been branded a bastard, unfit ever to rule. Now that Elizabeth’s older half sister sat on the throne of England, Elizabeth’s position was precarious. 

Mistress Astley had dedicated her life to protecting Elizabeth Tudor, and just now the woman in Sir Anthony Shelby’s garden was a key player in the plan she’d devised to keep her royal mistress safe. There was no doubt in her mind about Bess’s affection for Elizabeth. The question was her fortitude. Did she have the patience to work toward a distant goal when others proposed more immediate, more dangerous plots? Bess did not always act wisely, and she was prone to take her husband’s opinions for her own. Fortunately, he was confined in the Tower of London and unable to communicate with her.

How long have you been waiting here, Bess? A pale sliver of moonlight escaping from behind a cloud showed her the sheen of rime on the brocaded cloak.

I came just at dusk and hid myself in this safe corner. I was afraid to venture alone into the streets after dark. There are footpads. And the watch. Bess grasped the outstretched hand with shaking fingers and clung as the wind freshened, slapping icy material against her already chilled ankles.

We’ll talk within. Tom will be asleep above stairs by now, or in a drunken stupor. Either way, he will not hear us.

No one will hear, Bess agreed as the older woman produced a key and unlocked the door to the kitchen. It was only marginally warmer inside. I am not such a fool as to hide here with any within. The family has been at Shelby Hall since September and though Tom was in residence, he has been absent now more than a fortnight.

Mistress Astley’s eyes narrowed as she searched the dark room for a candle. How do you know that? 

Servants’ gossip. ‘Tis said Tom got a wench with child and fled the city so he’d not be forced to marry her. A single candle’s flickering beam revealed appalling changes. A few harrowing months had aged Bess by ten years. The vivacious yellow-haired beauty who’d captured the heart of a middle-aged nobleman at fifteen had become, at twenty-two, a haggard, fearful creature with deep circles under hollow, reddened eyes and a listless way of carrying herself. I’ve much more time for gossiping with the maids now, Kat, she admitted ruefully. In truth, few others care to speak with me at all.

Self-pity serves no useful purpose, Bess.

The old Bess would have argued. This one said nothing.

Your troublesome cousin Wyatt is up to something, Kat Astley told her bluntly. Can you discover what he has planned?

I will not venture into the Kentish countryside. Father still blames his brief imprisonment on me and mine.

It is not Lord Cobham I wish you to seek out but his sister. Your aunt, Lady Warner, has a house in London, in Carter Lane. She is Wyatt’s mother. Learn from her what that hot-headed fool is about.

My aunt will not welcome me, either. Bess began to pace and rubbed her gloved hands together not to warm them but as though she sought to scrub off some foul stain. Warner was removed from his post as Lord Lieutenant of the Tower as soon as Mary Tudor came to the throne last July. He blames me, too, for Will’s involvement with the Duke of Northumberland. Her voice grew petulant. Will was so sure Northumberland’s plan would work, but he has suffered more than anyone for that miscalculation. He lies in the Tower, convicted of treason, stripped of his titles, our marriage declared invalid.

You knew the latter risk when you insisted on marrying a divorced man whose first wife still lived. The glare Kat received gave her hope Bess’s old spirit only lay dormant. Come, m’lady. Give purpose to your life again. Lord knows I have misjudgments of mine own to regret, but I have learned one truth. All plots to disrupt the natural order of things are dangerous. Will you not help me assure that the Queen’s sister has warning of Wyatt’s plans?

If he is planning rebellion and he succeeds—

In God’s name, Bess! Have you learned nothing from recent events? Kat seized her by the shoulder to stop the incessant clicking, over loud in the empty cavern of a room, of leather soles on stone tile. They’ve no hope of success. Think you, Bess. What will happen if there is an uprising in the countryside? What will Queen Mary do first?

How should I—

She will order the executions of Lady Jane Grey and her young husband, Lord Guildford Dudley. Then she will imprison her sister Elizabeth, perhaps order her beheaded, too. Angry now, Bess twisted away, but she did not resume her restless walking. She stared at Kat in fascinated horror as the older woman went on with her list. Then she will execute the conspirators her courts condemned for their part in the Duke of Northumberland’s treasonous plan to put Lady Jane on the throne instead of Mary when Mary’s brother, King Edward, died.  Northumberland has already been beheaded. Lady Jane’s father has been pardoned and restored as Duke of Suffolk. Your husband, Bess, will be one of the first to die. Stripped of the title that once protected him he might even be hanged, drawn, and quartered as a traitor, and his poor, severed head stuck up on a pole at London Bridge.

No!

Never doubt it. You have only one recourse. We must have warning of any new attempt against Mary. Only in protecting her can we keep Elizabeth safe.

But Mary’s death would mean Elizabeth’s succession.

Do you really think Wyatt wants any woman on the throne? Lady Jane would have been a mere puppet queen, married to Northumberland’s son. Wyatt’s first thought, if Elizabeth survives to succeed, will be of a husband, one to be king through her.

Kat watched Bess’s face. Had her words made any impression? Was Bess capable of understanding how important it was to keep Elizabeth free of entanglements and to prevent more violence?

I will do what I can to keep Elizabeth Tudor safe, Bess said at last, so long as it also serves to protect my husband.

With a few terse sentences, Kat gave her the code words and conveyed enough information to ensure the security of any report Bess might make. Only Kat knew all the links in the chain. It was enough for Bess to have one name.

An hour later John Astley woke when his wife slipped into bed beside him. He reached for her in the darkness, fondling her plump, bare shoulder. Kat?  Did all go well?

Well enough, she whispered, and curled herself from long habit into his arms.

Everything had gone according to plan except for Bess’s refusal to leave the relative safety of Sir Anthony’s house before dawn. Kat closed her eyes and concentrated all her energies on prayer. She prayed no one would see Bess creeping forth with the sun and question her presence. Then she prayed that the assurance she’d just given her husband would prove true. Finally she prayed that Sir Anthony Shelby’s mission to Strasbourg might be blessed with like success.            

*

Cordell Shelby sat on the floor of their garret chamber, cradling her father’s head in her lap as hoarse sobs racked her body. She mourned deeply, and had lost count of how many hours had passed. Only when the first sign of dawn light filtered through her window did she realize she must take control of her grief. Much depended upon her now that Sir Anthony was gone. She had no choice but to begin without delay. 

He had not revealed who had poisoned him, but those last three words had provided a motive for the murder. Their enemies must have discovered that he was a spy.

Carefully, Cordell draped the discarded coverlet over her father’s body, then dressed herself quickly. The kirtle was faced with silk but had long, close-fitting sleeves and had been made in padded pleats for warmth. She was glad of it, and the heavy fabric of her over-dress, for never had she felt so cold. The brazier had gone out, unnoticed, but it was deep-seated dread that chilled her blood so thoroughly.

Shoving icy feet into soft leather shoes, she prayed for patience. Finding proof of murder would take time, for no one in this house would willingly help her. They’d not even support her if she claimed her father had been murdered and went to the local authorities, and since she was a foreigner and a woman besides, she had no real hope of convincing any official in Strasbourg to listen. Her only recourse was to find proof against the guilty party and take it, together with her father’s carefully gathered evidence of treason, back to England.

An hour later, when all was ready, she ran screaming from the room. Her loud lamentations produced the desired effect. Two men followed her back upstairs.

Taking a deep breath, Cordell ran ahead of them into the chamber to whip the coverlet off Sir Anthony’s body and turn to study their faces as they got their first glimpse of his contorted face and limbs. My father died of poison, Cordell cried out, narrowing her sharp-sighted blue eyes to catch every nuance of their reaction.

She’d hoped the sudden sight and smell of death would combine with her blunt statement to produce some recognizable sign of guilt, but these were men whose expressions rarely gave anything away, certainly not fear, nor pity, nor surprise. Matthew Wood, his hard, porcine eyes nearly hidden in fleshy pockets, returned her gaze with unnerving intensity, already suspicious because she was no longer dissolved in noisy grief.

Cordell meant to provide further histrionics, but not just yet. Instead she lowered both her lashes and her head and wished she’d thought to leave her hair unbound instead of anchoring it firmly under a white linen coif. Thick, unruly, dark brown tresses would have concealed her expression while still allowing her to see.

John Ponet, he who had been Bishop of Winchester before Mary Tudor took the throne of England, knelt to study the body more closely. A seizure, he solemnly proclaimed, trying to account for the swelling and discoloration. Closing the dead eyes with one fastidious finger he rose quickly and began to brush dust from his long, black, clerical robe. A moon-faced, tousle-haired man of medium height, he was only slightly taller than Cordell. As he patted her shoulder in an affected effort at offering comfort, he looked both puzzled and mildly perturbed.

Disappointed in their reactions, Cordell realized she must now make clear that she had misspoke and counteract, for her own safety, any impression that she’d meant to imply her father’s sudden death a murder. He supped in the city, she whispered to Ponet, an artful catch in her voice. Oh, m’lord, I fear some ignorant person did add poisonous greens into a salad, like that terrible tragedy in London last June. You must remember, m’lord. You were still in England then.

Leaves of wolfsbane had been plucked by mistake for parsley, chopped and mixed with lettuce, and served up to the innkeeper’s guests with dire results. Cordell had no doubt that Sir Anthony had also been killed by this deadly plant. She was equally certain that the poison had not gotten into his food by accident, not at this time of year. Wolfsbane bloomed in summer. The error at the Blossom had been stupid but understandable. In November such leaves would be available only if they had been deliberately saved for the purpose—for murder.

Alas, child, Ponet said in his slow, measured voice. I had troubles of mine own last June and recall nothing of this tragedy, but ‘tis possible such another mischance did occur.

Cordell buried her face in her hands and swayed a little. She’d babbled below stairs that she’d found her father, already dead, after rising and dressing for the day. They might allow some time for the shock of such a grisly discovery to wear off, but soon she’d have to pretend to give way to her grief and weep and wail convincingly.

Just so, child, Ponet continued, warming to the theory and the sound of his own voice. Salad greens, or bad mushrooms. Then he began to speak of God’s will, and the assurance of Heaven for those who had found the one true religion, but Cordell was no longer listening.

Was he telling the truth? Had he known nothing of events at the Blossom? The end of June it had been, and the talk of London until a fall of blood-red hailstones on the sixth of July replaced it as a topic of conversation. Ponet had been at Court then, as her father had, and the young king had been dying. Court had been at Greenwich, not Whitehall, not so far from London but far enough that Cordell had never been there.

Confused, she continued to hide her face. Ponet could be lying. He could have heard all the details of the deaths at the Blossom, from his wife perhaps, and he could have been with Sir Anthony last night, putting poison in the food or the condiments. Still, if he had, why would he even consider her suggestion? He should be insisting that Sir Anthony’s death was the result of a sudden paroxysm, as he’d first surmised.

As if he’d read her troubled thoughts, Matthew Wood interrupted Ponet’s incipient sermon. ‘Tis passing certain this was no accident. 

What mean you, Master Wood? Cordell’s heart pounded much faster. Was he about to confess to the crime, or implicate Ponet?

Her gaze traveled up a barrel-shaped chest covered by a shirt of finest lawn and a plain but expensive black doublet, past heavy jowls partially hidden by a thick brown beard, to a crafty expression which immediately squashed her fleeting hopes. Her suspicions increased tenfold, she looked quickly away, down at her own hands, only to discover that without realizing it she’d been tearing at her narrow white wrist-frills until they were nearly detached from her sleeves. Willing her short, blunt fingers to be still, she waited.

A well-to-do merchant, English by birth but long established in the continental trading city of Strasbourg, Matthew Wood had taken in first Ponet and his wife, who fled their homeland on the day the Duke of Northumberland was arrested, and then Cordell and her father, who arrived two months thereafter. He was motivated not by friendship or by kindness, but by a fanatic desire to restore the reformed church to Mary Tudor’s England. His house and his fortune were at the heart of a plan for rebellion, the plot Sir Anthony had sworn to foil.

Your grandfather was taken in a like manner, he said. I have heard he was healthy at morning prayers and dead in the stable an hour after.

Cordell wanted to argue, but thought better of it. She did not know how her grandfather, Sir Hugh Shelby, had died, for it had been before she was born. Plainly Matthew Wood wished to put a quick end to speculations about poison. She took his convenient tale of a family weakness to be evidence pointing to his guilt. If he had killed her father,

Reviews for Winter Tapestry

[Meme · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

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