by Anna Castle
That was like her father too. Johannes Vanderporne had always been ready to meet the world, wrap his arm around its shoulders, and invite it home for supper. He had been a student of Pieter Brueghel the Elder in his youth and had gone on to become a sought-after painter of portraits. Their home had been a comfortable disorder of paint and canvasses, apprentices and clients, with artists visiting from all across Europe.
Clara had been the only child to follow in her father's craft. She learned to make pencils and paints, how to stretch a canvas, how to draw, how to arrange a sitting client. Sharing a talent and a love of art, Clara and Johannes had been closer than most fathers and daughters. His world had been her world. Then he died, killed by his own recklessness. Stumbling home from a party late at night instead of sleeping in the stable with the other benighted guests, he fell into a ditch swollen with rain and drowned. A carter fished him out the next morning.
Her world collapsed in the space of a week. Johannes left his family a pile of debts secured by uncollected fees. Few of his clients had the decency to pay their bills, and the family had no money to hire lawyers to sue them. They sold everything except the paint box and easel that Clara refused to part with. Clara's mother had gone to work in a brewery, taking in mending to occupy her evenings. She'd worked herself into an early grave.
Now Clara never looked too far ahead. She knew how quickly disaster could lay waste to a life. She was safe and mostly content, and that was enough. She didn't need handsome young gentlemen singing under her window.
She wouldn't mind a friend, though. Perhaps Tom could give her sketch to the authorities without risking her direct involvement.
Clara cleaned her hands on a scrap of linen. She pulled her easel over to the window and clipped a fresh sheet of paper onto it. If she drew Tom's face, the act of making lines, of rubbing in shadows, might help her decide whether he could be trusted. She closed her eyes for a moment to summon his image then opened them and began to sketch. His face was almost rectangular, with a strongly rounded chin. His brows and mouth formed straight lines, framing his well-formed nose and his wide-set eyes. She thought in some moods he might look severe, but she doubted such moods came upon him often. He was a man of choleric humor: made for sunshine, laughter, and good fellowship. After he spoke his words of love, he had smiled at her, showing a dimple in his cheek that melted her heart.
She would like to see that dimple again and bask in the warmth of his open smile. She rose from her stool to walk around the easel, studying her drawing from various angles. It was a good face. A trustworthy face.
Clara decided that if she ever saw Tom again, she would show him the sketch she'd made of the murderer. Then she sighed and smiled sadly to herself as she rolled up his portrait. She wasn't likely to see the golden-haired youth again.
CHAPTER 11
Francis Bacon had a quiet word with Sir Avery Fogg before supper. The meal was tench in jelly, onions boiled with sugar and raisins, and eggs in broth. He gave most of his share to George Humphries. After the cloth was withdrawn, Fogg rose and announced the case to be put: a rematch between Benjamin Whitt and Nathaniel Welbeck in the matter of the bastard's inheritance.
Whitt stood in the aisle between the long tables. He had an array of papers laid ready on the oak that Allen Trumpington and Thomas Clarady sifted briskly through when called upon, presenting him with the relevant note at the critical moment. They sat on the edges of their respective benches, leaning forward, ready to support their spokesman. Lord Stephen leaned back with his arms crossed to signal his nonparticipation. Francis was surprised to observe that it was Clarady who supplied the needed term — twice — when Whitt stumbled on a phrase in Law French.
After his pupils had thoroughly demolished Welbeck's defense and received the thundering applause they deserved, Francis summoned the under butler to order a jug of malmsey for his pupils and another for his messmates. Their astonished response to his largesse was not altogether flattering.
Humphries remarked, with a characteristic lack of civility, "If we were benchers, we would never have to pay." To Francis's best knowledge, Humphries had never treated his messmates to wine.
Welbeck accepted a cup with ill grace. "Perhaps they should nominate your new pupil for Reader. He's old enough. About your age, isn't he, Bacon?" He laughed heartily at his own joke. Humphries snickered along with him.
Francis gave him a withering look.
Shiveley said, "They're a fine group of men, Bacon. A credit to our Society."
"I wanted to honor them." Francis raised his cup. "To the queen, to England, and the future of Gray's Inn!"
The others followed suit. An innocuous enough toast, and the wine was not half-bad.
"I also wanted to share a cup or two with my messmates in remembrance of Tobias Smythson," Francis added. "I find myself thinking about him often since his death."
"To Smythson!" Shiveley raised his cup and they drank again.
Francis let a silence develop as each man savored the wine and relaxed into the familiar mellowness of the hall on a dark autumn evening. Men's voices rumbled in the background. Yellow candlelight reflected on the oak paneling. A servant fed the fire from a basket of staves. Most members would pass the hours before bedtime here in warmth and fellowship. A group in one corner was reading through the play to be performed before the queen on Christmas Eve. They'd chosen The Misfortunes of Arthur by Graysian Thomas Hughes. Francis was charged with devising the masque for the interlude— a tribute to his talents. He'd hardly given it a thought, however, being occupied with more serious matters. He couldn't give it up now, though, without risking more censure for being unreliable and lacking holiday spirit. He ought to be grateful they allowed him this small involvement in the court's festivities. He could write the masque even if he couldn't watch it be performed.
"Who's getting Smythson's chambers?" Welbeck asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
"It's not decided," Shiveley said. "I myself have put in a bid."
Chambers were typically leased for long periods. When the lessee died, the chambers reverted to the lessor, which in this case was the bench. Since the Inn was desperately overcrowded, desirable chambers such as Smythson's were hotly contested.
"Have you?" Welbeck's eyes glittered. "So have I."
Humphries grinned suddenly, hunching his shoulders with a private joke, but said nothing.
Francis wasn't interested in the question of chambers. He already inhabited the best lodgings at Gray's, courtesy of his father. He supposed that Smythson's rooms would go to whomever had the most compelling combination of seniority, influence, and cash. Since Treasurer Fogg was, he believed, the last of the benchers with third-floor rooms, Smythson's first-floor address would most probably soon be his.
He let that topic die. A short time later, he asked, as though the thought had arrived in train with other matters, "What do you suppose Fogg meant about 'encroachments' in his eulogy? Did he and Smythson ever oppose one another in court?"
"Not in court." Welbeck smirked. "In courting. Something you wouldn't understand."
"Why not?" Francis asked, puzzled.
"A matter of the heart, Bacon." Welbeck patted himself on the chest. "A conflict de amore. In short, a woman."
"Ah. The Widow Sprye." Francis enjoyed the look of thwarted malice on Welbeck's face. "I merely thought the subject too inurbanus for a eulogy." Absurd how people assumed that simply because Francis declined to spend his leisure time chasing prostitutes around the city that he was wholly ignorant of the earthier passions.
Everyone knew that Avery Fogg was involved in an affaire de coeur with Mrs. Anabel Sprye, proprietress of the Antelope Inn in Holborn. She was well-endowed in every sense of the word: voluptuous, influential, and rich. Fogg's wife had died many years ago; his children were grown. He was free to court handsome widows by the dozen, if he so desired. The widow in question seemed not averse to his attentions. Fogg was more often to be found in her well-ordered establishmen
t than in his own chambers.
"Smythson was courting Mrs. Sprye?" Shiveley asked. "I never heard that. I don't believe it either. He wasn't the type. He was too—"
"Cold? Limp? Lacking the sensual spark?" Welbeck prompted. Humphries guffawed loudly. Shiveley frowned at his lack of delicacy.
Francis reviewed his memories of Smythson in the last month or two. He had noticed, now that he was reminded of it, greater attention to grooming than had been customary for the man. Thrice-weekly visits to the barber instead of once; a fashionable new hat that accorded ill with his outdated doublet. Francis suspected that he would have better advanced his cause with Mrs. Sprye if he had spent the money on a set of leather-bound Year Books. She knew more about the law than many a judge in Westminster.
"It's not implausible," Francis said. "Men his age often conceive a longing for the comforts of a woman's care."
Welbeck barked a laugh. "A woman's care! How delicately you put things, Bacon. As if he had developed a passion for possets and broidered cushions for his gouty knees."
"Possets!" Humphries chortled. "A man with Smythson's money could have possets brought to him in bed around the clock."
Welbeck helped himself to another cup of wine. "I suspect Smythson's interest in the delectable Widow Sprye had less to do with her personal charms and more to do with the influence of the Andromache Society."
Francis laughed. He might well be right. His mother was a member, along with her sister, Lady Russell, and a dozen equally formidable women. The Andromache Society was a group of widows who met once a month for a private dinner at the Antelope. Their collective influence at court surpassed that of any courtier other than his lord uncle or the Earl of Leicester. Rumor had it that no man could attain a judgeship without their approval.
"He wanted her influence, not her favors." Francis nodded. "Surely Mrs. Sprye is too wise a bird to allow herself to be netted for such unflattering purposes?"
Welbeck said, "She's a woman, isn't she? She was probably stringing Smythson along to keep old Foggy on his toes."
Francis wondered if that was a mixed metaphor. The French puppets, called marionettes, were made to dance by pulling on strings. They did seem to dance on their toes. Not strictly mixed, then, but still not a pleasing turn of phrase.
"Disgraceful," Shiveley said. He was entering into his middle years and had lived a bachelor life. He tended toward the prudish. "Think of the example it sets the young students." He nodded toward the table where Whitt and his friends were playing primero.
"Yes," Welbeck said, affecting an expression of concern. "Because none of those round dogs has ever wooed a wench under false pretenses." That elicited a fresh snicker from Humphries, who was unlikely ever to have wooed any female under any pretenses whatsoever. "My nephew tells me that Delabere and Clarady have left a trail of broken hearts through every bawdy house from Westminster to Smithfield."
Francis smiled serenely at the intended slight to his pupils. Their extracurricular activities were no concern of his. The money for the wine had been well spent. Fogg's temper was notorious and the man was as territorial as a mastiff. Jealousy was one of the commonest motives for murder. It might well inspire the sort of frenzy that had left its marks on Smythson's body.
He must pay a call on Mrs. Sprye. Why would a woman of her wit and influence tolerate the clumsy courting of Tobias Smythson?
CHAPTER 12
Saturday dawned clear and cold with a sharp breeze from the east. The lads warmed a basin of water at the fire in their chambers and washed and dressed with especial care. They were going to court this morning to meet with Lady Rich. Even Ben had brushed his "best brown" doublet and hose until they were almost furry. Tom loaned him a pewter brooch for his hat but could do nothing about the drabness of the overall theme. Well, Ben could stand at the back. They needn't all be peacocks.
They met Trumpet in the yard and exchanged a round of compliments. Tom was wearing his best clothes, the green velvet peasecod doublet and short melon hose with the yellow silk linings and stockings. He had wanted to buckle on a pistol opposite his rapier, but Stephen had declared it one touch too many.
Stephen was never wrong about fashion. He glowed in orange-tawny satin with linings of saffron sarcenet. His ruffs and cuffs were trimmed in a full inch of cobweb lace. Naturally, he also wore his sword. As a lord, he had a right to it.
Trumpet was bright, as usual, in scarlet and cream. He favored the longer galligaskins, imagining they made him look taller. They really just made him look old-fashioned. He wore a wide-brimmed hat with a long, drapey feather that kept falling across his brow.
Tom had found a fan at the White Bear in Cheapside made of iridescent peacock feathers set in a carved cherry wood handle. Even Lady Rich might not wholly scorn it. He'd had it wrapped in gauze and now carried it tenderly in his hands. He had been keeping his eyes open for golden-haired angels everywhere they went and had even startled a few women by leaping in front of them with his hands clasped in supplication. Alas, none had proved to be his angel. He fervently hoped that Lady Rich would help them find her.
They entered Whitehall Palace through the Court Gate. The distinctive aroma of the court struck them at once: the civet and rose perfumes of the courtiers; the lavender and rosemary strewn among the rushes on the floor; and underneath it all, the rank stink of overused privies.
They were met at the entrance to the Great Hall by a gentleman wearing a ruff so wide and so stiff that he was forced to turn his whole torso in order to look to the side. The visual effect of the lacy frame was striking, but it must be desperately uncomfortable. Tom preferred his own ruff, four inches of softly pleated cambric. It finished his costume elegantly without bunching up under his beard or prickling the back of his neck.
Stephen introduced himself with his full titles. He informed the chamberer, in haughty tones marred by only the slightest quaver, that they had come to court by invitation for an audience with Lady Rich. The other lads stood one step behind him.
The chamberer studied them with narrowed eyes, as if calculating the cost of their garments. He then performed a finely calibrated quarter-bow to Stephen, bending neatly at the hips. He led them at a brisk pace out into the courtyard, across the Preaching Place, through an arch, up a stair, and into a wide gallery running above the Privy Garden. The walls between the tall windows were hung with gold and silver brocade that gleamed in the weak December sun. The ceiling was painted blue with silver stars. The floor was covered with plaited mats that cushioned the sound of their footfalls. Men and women stood or strolled about the gallery in small groups, dressed in the uttermost finery, murmuring in low voices as they watched each other watch each other.
"Wait here, my lord." The chamberer gestured at a section of untenanted wall and minced away. Tom was glad to have time to absorb the exalted surroundings before meeting the goddess Stella.
"Have you been here before?" Trumpet murmured to Stephen. He allowed his feather to obscure half his face, as if sheltering in its protective cover.
"Never." Stephen echoed the hushed tone. "I was presented to the queen at Longleat on one of Her Majesty's progresses. My father hates to come to court. He says it's nothing but sin and wastefulness." He sighed, gazing wistfully at the elegant persons arranged through the gallery. Some of their costumes were worth more than a knight's annual income. "This is much better than Longleat."
"This is real." Tom was awed by the whole experience: the chamberer with his fantastical ruff, the gilt brocades, the haughty courtiers, the woven mats. "This is Whitehall, camerades. The center of the world. This is where history is made."
The others nodded their wholehearted agreement. They stood together in silence, soaking up the radiance.
Stephen stood ramrod straight with his shoulders squared and his chest thrust forward to emphasize the lines of his padded doublet. He lifted his chin in a gesture Tom thought of as the "Chin of the Earl." He tapped a beribboned foot nervously as he pretended to be unimpress
ed.
Tom tried to adopt a nonchalant pose, with his left fist set on his hip behind the hilt of his sword. He hoped they looked like men with vital intelligence from faraway places and not like students on an errand for their tutor.
Three young ladies-in-waiting clustered together by the centermost window, whispering behind their hands and giggling as they shot glances in the lads' direction. They were as cute as bunnies, all round and wiggly, about fifteen years old — Trumpet's age. They were dressed identically in silver and white.
Tom was engaged in a winking match with one of them when Stephen whispered, "Look sharp!" He tilted his head toward the staircase.
Tom saw Sir Walter Ralegh's head rising, rising, as the man himself mounted to the topmost step. Two Ralegh sightings in one month! His sisters would never believe him.
Today, Captain Ralegh was dressed for the outdoors in a leather jerkin and tall boots. Perhaps he had come to accompany the queen on a hunt. She would surely not wish to squander such a fine day inside. He strode down the gallery with a loose, confident grace, as if he owned the palace and everyone in it. Lions walked like that, prowling the avenues of their bosky kingdoms.
The trio of maids stood on their toes, fairly quivering in excitement. Ralegh's eyes turning toward them as he walked. One of the maids risked a smile. He flashed her a grin so feral and so masculine even Tom felt a thrill.
It was too much for the maiden. Her eyes fluttered up as she fainted backward with a high-pitched sigh, bearing her companions down with her. Their farthingales bounced from side to side, ballooning up from the slender figures lying prostrate on the floor, revealing the sensible red wool petticoats beneath. The two unfainted ones struggled vainly to right themselves.
Tom wanted to help them, but Ralegh was approaching. He bowed, making a leg, and offered up a tentative smile. Ralegh passed him by without a flicker of recognition.
