Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1)

by Anna Castle

  Ben and the one called Thrush made pacifying gestures, mouthing words which went unheard. Tom pushed Trumpet toward Ben, who gripped the back of his jerkin and dragged him out the door. Stephen followed them slowly, walking backward, sword raised, eyes clapped on Archer's sneering face.

  Tom was last. He watched his friends exit safely. Then he saw the fourth man struggling to rise from his bench behind the table and couldn't resist the temptation.

  "Please, allow me to assist you." He grabbed the end of the bench and raised it high. The man sprawled into the rushes with a howl of rage.

  "Ay me!" Tom clapped a hand to his cheek in mock dismay and dashed out the door. "Run!" he bellowed at his friends.

  They dodged past a cart and a coach and a pair of donkeys loaded with sacks to the other side of Fleet Street.

  Tom heard a shout from the tavern. "After them!"

  Four of Essex's men dashed across the street, waving their weapons and shaking their fists.

  The lads pelted down Water Lane. They'd be trapped at the river's edge, if they didn't look sharp. Tom shouted, "This way!" and led them into a maze of alleys.

  He and Stephen sprinted ahead of Ben and Trumpet, trying to scout the route ahead. They rounded a curve, then another, and found themselves bump up behind the Essex men. They'd outrun the older, drunker retainers, coming around full circle.

  "Ho, there!" Tom shouted. "You knotty-pated pumpions! You shaggy, mange-raddled curs!"

  "If it's barbering you want, come get it!" Stephen cried. "We'll trim those shrubby excrescences from your poxy chins!"

  Two of the Essex men roared and turned, drawing their swords. Steel clashed as the four men came together. Tom felt power coursing through his veins. Fencing in the classroom was all very well, but this: this was glory.

  He thrust with his rapier and parried with his dagger, giving as good as he got. He twisted to avoid his opponent's blade, bounded in to thwack him soundly on the leg, then leapt away again before the varlet could riposte. These men weren't mature: they were overripe. Youth was faster and sharper toothed.

  He was laughing for sheer joy when he heard Stephen shout, "On your left!"

  Tom shot a glance sideways and saw Ben and Trumpet racing toward them, still pursued by two Essex men. They were running at such speed that they tore right through and past the swordfighters. The Essex swordsmen cursed. "Catch that mouseling and the reeky rat beside him!" They ran after them.

  Tom and Stephen were abandoned for a moment. They looked at each other and shrugged and then joined in the chase, waving their rapiers over their heads and whooping like savages.

  Suddenly a figure appeared at the bottom of the lane. A large, square man wearing the thick chain of a city official barred the passage, flanked by two gigantic constables.

  Trumpet and Ben skidded to a stop in the shit-soaked mud, barely managing to keep to their feet. The man closest behind them was not so agile. He stumbled and slid facedown in the muck. He goggled up at the looming figure, his besmottered face twisted in dismay. He scrabbled awkwardly as the rest struggled to push past one another in the narrow alley.

  Tom sheathed his weapons and leapt over the prone man, barely breaking stride as he scooped Trumpet onto his shoulder. The lads easily outpaced the lumbering retainers, rounding the corner, racing out of reach of the long arm of the law.

  CHAPTER 19

  They ran all the way up Chancery to Holborn and the safety of the Antelope Inn. Tom stopped in the archway and dropped Trumpet from his shoulder. He was panting from running uphill with a nine-stone weight, but no longer in fear of being clapped in Bridewell gaol. He and Trumpet pushed through the door into the tavern. The room was too warm, but it was familiar ground. Safe.

  "A tankard of dragon's milk, if you love me, Dolly," Tom called to the barmaid.

  Dolly giggled at him and he gave her a wink.

  Mrs. Sprye looked up from the table where she sat surrounded by writing implements, scraps of paper, and stacks of coins. She was wielding her peacock feather quill, which meant she was doing accounts. She always said that however badly the sums came out, she could derive a morsel of cheer from the pen.

  Her first glance was one of absent-minded welcome. This was swiftly followed by a glare of outrage. "Trumpet, you naughty child! Have you been brawling?"

  "Only a little," Trumpet bragged.

  Tom looked at his friend for the first time since the affray. One stocking hung loose about his ankle, his shirttails billowed from his hose both fore and aft, and he had a muddy scrape running from his shoes right up the side of his torso and across his cheek. No blood was flowing, however, and nothing seemed to be broken.

  Tom whacked Trumpet soundly on the back and grinned. "The lad's proved his mettle today, Mrs. Sprye! You should have seen him, straddling that foul-mouthed, ginger-haired hedge-pig, grinding his face into the mud. God's bones, it was a treat. Although," he added, speaking now to Trumpet, "we must work on your technique. Fisticuffs are quite a different matter from fighting with weapons. There are tricks you can use to compensate for your slighter weight."

  Trumpet nodded eagerly. "I'm fast, though, aren't I? I got in under his guard. Did you see me? I was dancing circles around that weedy, dog-hearted—"

  "Tom." Mrs. Sprye's tone was severe. "I expect you to look after this boy, not encourage him to go about brawling in the street. In broad daylight!"

  Tom was stung. "It's nigh impossible to brawl in the dark, Mrs. Sprye. And look—" He put his hands on Trumpet's shoulders and turned him full circle. "Scarcely a scratch on him. A bit dirty, true, but I believe that Pygmies can be washed."

  Trumpet and Dolly giggled. Mrs. Sprye growled deep in her throat to express her displeasure. She fixed a steely glare on the boy. "Washing is the least of what's in store for you."

  Trumpet opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "Go on with you! You'll find what you need behind the kitchen. Head to toe, mind!" She pointed an adamantine finger toward the rear door.

  Mrs. Sprye took an aunt-like interest in the younger members of the Inns of Court, whether they lodged at the Antelope or not. She'd been known to patch up evidence of youthful stunts without informing the benchers of the particulars. But she drew a hard line against brawling, drunkenness, and harassment of wenches within the bounds of her own establishment.

  Trumpet was a favorite because he was helping her with researches related to the book she was writing about women's legal entitlements, called The Lawes Resolution of Women's Rights. Trumpet was planning to specialize in widows and heiresses, which he claimed would be a lucrative practice. Tom considered the idea absolutely brilliant. When he'd learned enough law to hang up a sign, he could do worse than join forces with Trumpet.

  Mrs. Sprye turned her attention to the two lidded tankards that Dolly was collecting into one hand. "Cups, not tankards, Dolly. If they want more ale, they can switch to small. Then go make sure that hobbledehoy gets put back in order."

  Tom made a sad face at the smallish wooden cup that replaced his manly tankard but knew better than to argue with Mrs. Sprye. He sat down on the bench behind the table farthest from the door.

  Stephen and Ben came limping in, arms linked across their shoulders. Ben seemed to have turned an ankle. "Ale, Dolly, and it please you," Stephen panted as he helped Ben to the bench at Tom's side.

  "Make it dragon's milk, on me," Tom said. He pouted sadly at Dolly as she set the four small cups on the table and then leered with appreciation as she swung her hips saucily on her way out. She threw a wink over her shoulder, aimed more at Stephen than at Tom. It didn't matter which. She was so full of wenchly delights he was happy just to be in their vicinity.

  Tom held his cup to his nose and inhaled the fumes rising from the double-strong brew. He felt its spirits infusing his own, restoring the balance of his humors. "I like this stuff," he said, smacking his lips. "It's peppery. It gets up the nose and right into the blood."

  "Good," Stephen agreed. He swallowed, c
losed his eyes, and sighed deeply. "Very good."

  Ben only nodded. The lads sat in silence for a while, letting the ale and the comforts of their favorite tavern work their cures.

  Then Stephen clapped his cup on the table and stood up. "Jakes," he said and vanished through the back door.

  Tom watched him go. He shot a sidelong glance at Ben, who was leaning against the wall with his legs stretched under the table, his eyes half-closed.

  "What did you think of those Essex men?" Tom asked, trying for a casual tone.

  Perceptive Ben caught the underlying note. He opened one eye and spoke with measured words. "They seemed much of a type, I thought. Lesser gentry, upper yeomen, in service to a great lord. Like you, I suppose, in some ways."

  "Not like me," Tom said. Too fast: he'd betrayed himself. "For one thing, Stephen's not great. At least, not like Essex. For another, I'm not in his service, not anymore. I have plans of my own. Prospects. Like you. Don't I?"

  "Well, my plans are no secret. A legal practice, perhaps a judgeship someday, if I'm lucky. I don't believe I know anything about yours, as yet." He smiled to draw any barbs that might be couched in that remark.

  "I won't be like those Essex men," Tom said. "Devil take me, but I won't. Idle my days away in some stuffy tavern, waiting for Stephen or some other master to come tell me what to do? Feh. I'd rather follow my father to sea. Except that he won't let me."

  Ben said, "Does he intend you to make a career in the law?"

  Tom shrugged. "He wants me to become a gentleman. He's not clear how. And I'm willing, but not if I have to be like those Essex men. They stank of boredom. Couldn't you smell it? I'd go mad in a month's time."

  Fingering the carvings around the rim of his cup, he shot a sidelong glance at Ben. "Do you think I'm capable? Of passing the bar, I mean?"

  "Yes." Ben spoke without hesitation, looking him square in the face. Tom felt something complicated unknot in his chest. "You have the ability. You'll have to work hard, though."

  "I can work hard. If I know what I'm working toward." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, working up his courage for the most important question. "Will they throw me out?"

  Ben sat straight up and looked around, startled. "The constables?"

  "No, no. Relax, camerade. Will they throw me out of Gray's, I meant. If Stephen asked them to."

  "Oh." Ben sighed and leaned back against the wall. He held his cup under his nose, inhaling the fumes while he thought for a few moments. "They rarely expel anyone, as far as I know, and then only for gross infractions of the rules. It has to be major, like fighting in hall, stealing, religious violations. You know, skipping chapel or singing mockingly in church. Or not paying your dues. Or having women in your rooms."

  "We couldn't fit a woman in our rooms," Tom said, earning a chuckle from Ben. He felt vastly relieved. Those offenses were easily avoided.

  "Although," Ben said, "they do have ways of nudging people out. They don't advance you. They don't call on you for bolts or case-putting. They just ignore you. A fair number of men give up and leave every year. Who knows exactly why?"

  That was less reassuring. Tom had little to do with the benchers, but he did feel a certain coolness from them. From other members too.

  "Would it help if I'd taken my degree? At Cambridge?"

  "If you want to become a clergyman. That's a possibility for you. Many yeomen's sons take that path, through the university and into a living. It's perfectly respectable."

  "A clergyman!" Tom was aghast. That dreadful prospect shook everything into place. If his choices were the church, a lord, or the law, he had no further doubts. "I want to be a barrister, like you and Trumpet. We could form a partnership."

  Ben grinned. "That's not the worst idea I've heard." He stretched out his leg, giving his ankle a tentative turn. "If you want my opinion, Tom, I think you're better off staying at Gray's and refusing to be nudged out, if nudging is applied. Look at Humphries: they'd love for him to go, but he sticks like glue. Study hard, keep your nose clean. Curry favor with the benchers. Maybe a few—"

  "Gifts." Tom nodded. That strategy he understood well. "I can do that." He drained his cup. He felt better than he had all day, apart from the sword fighting, which was pure fun.

  "You can do what?" Stephen asked as he slid back onto his stool.

  "Oh, nothing," Tom said. He had no intention of sharing his plans with Stephen. "I thought I'd try for another round."

  Stephen shot a glance at Mrs. Sprye, who was scribbling away at her book. "She'll never let us. Will she?"

  "We could try Dolly."

  "No luck there either," Stephen said. "She's giving the Pygmy a whole bath, to judge by the kettles of water and brushes being lugged about. I don't envy the lad."

  "You don't?" Tom raised his eyebrows. "Delectable Dolly? Hot water? Lots and lots of slippery soap?" He whistled softly.

  Stephen popped his eyes open wide. "I'm next in line!"

  They laughed together. Tom was glad for the lighthearted moment. Stephen's life would be easier but vastly less interesting. You could almost pity the wanwitted lordling. Almost.

  The door to the archway banged open and the three lads startled. They looked at each other sheepishly; it was only Treasurer Fogg. "Gentlemen," Fogg nodded at the lads. "Mrs. Sprye, my light and joy," he said as he bent to kiss her upturned cheek.

  "Foggy come a'courting, he did ride," Stephen sang, sotto voce.

  Ben and Tom chuckled. Tom wondered why it was the highest poetry when youths and maids fell in love but basest comedy when persons of middle years did the same. Their lumpish figures, he supposed. And their appalling lack of shame.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. He had things to think about, plans to make. What sort of gift might Treasurer Fogg find influential?

  "Look, my love," Mrs. Sprye said. "Mr. Humphries has paid his bill in full. After ten years of delays and excuses. It leaves his chambermate in a bit of a bind, but I can't blame him for preferring lodgings at Gray's."

  Mr. Fogg rumbled his approval. "I've thrown a few of my lesser clients his way. Once I'm on the Queen's Bench, I'll not have time for any but the highest."

  "Don't count your chickens before they hatch, my turtledove."

  "Nor will I, my sweet chuck. I'm merely feathering the basket to keep them warm while I wait."

  They twittered at one another. Tom smiled, eyes still closed. They reminded him of his parents.

  Trumpet returned from his bath. Tom opened half an eye: the boy looked fresh enough to go a-courting. His clothes had been sponged and his cheeks scrubbed pink. He took a stool beside Stephen and picked up his cup of dragon's milk. He took small sips, making a sour face after each one. Tom wondered fleetingly if he should perhaps not have offered such potent liquor to one so young.

  Ah, well. Maybe it would put hair on his chest. Or at least on his upper lip.

  CHAPTER 20

  Francis Bacon paced the footpaths west of Gray's Inn, his thoughts whirling in a noxious cloud of irritation commingled with fumes of aggrievement. All he wanted in this world was peace enough and time, to read and think and write. These were his first, best labors, the means through which he was destined to make his contribution to the world. It seemed little enough to ask and yet proved to be as unattainable as the fabled Northwest Passage.

  First, he had yesterday received another querulous missive from his Lady mother, seeking his advice on her vote at the next meeting of the Andromache Society. They were slated to decide whether to advance the career of Sir Avery Fogg. Lady Bacon insisted on peppering her letters with passages in Greek to conceal their meaning. From whom, Francis could not begin to guess. His assistant read Greek, Lord Burghley read Greek, the queen read Greek. Half the membership of Gray's had some Greek from their time at university. Perhaps she feared the messenger's mule might catch a glimpse and bray her secrets καθ'οδον — down the road — to London.

  He might advise her to abstain, or better, to avoid the
next Andromache dinner altogether. She had recently discovered a new Nonconformist preacher, more fiery than the last one. That should keep her well occupied in Gorhambury. Francis lived in constant terror lest she learn of his banishment from court. He shuddered to think of the hailstorm of importunate letters she would rain upon his uncle on his behalf. Her shrewish nagging did him more harm than good. She resented the way Lord Burghley exploited her sons for services, such as Anthony's intelligence-gathering in France and Francis's management of that encrypted correspondence. Francis also served as an interpreter for French emissaries and prisoners in the Tower. Necessary work, important work; he did it willingly. But it was work with neither thanks nor pay.

  And now he had another letter from Anthony in Montaubon, where he was struggling to defend himself against a charge of sodomy without anyone in England finding out about it. Francis was sick with worry for him. What if the news leaked out before he was restored to good odor with the queen? He would be utterly unable to defend his brother. Helpless. Voiceless.

  Anthony had good friends in France, but he needed money. This was scarcely news. He was chronically short of funds, owing to his extravagant tastes in clothing and generous gift-giving impulses. These were the faults of a courtier; Francis hoped he shared them. One could hardly stand before the queen in last year's shoes. All favors required tokens of gratitude. Keeping up a brave display was challenging since he'd been left with no estate by his father's untimely demise. His three hundred pounds per annum were barely enough to sustain a humble life at Gray's. Sir Walter Ralegh owned hats that cost more.

  This was an old grievance, guaranteed to stir up choler and yellow bile, throwing his humors out of balance. Francis quickened his pace and stepped squarely into a puddle of mud. Splendidus absolute. Mud, he was welcome to, in abundance. Never mind that he could scarce afford to keep his feet decently shod.

  Last, but hardly least, was the note delivered early this morning from Lord Burghley questioning his lack of progress in the Smythson matter. Did he think Francis had forgotten? He had known from the outset that the likelihood of success was slender under the most optimistic of prognostications, yet he demanded results as though he had merely commissioned a new pair of gloves.