by Anna Castle
"You must rest." Ben glared at Tom and Trumpet as if they were putting Bacon's health in jeopardy on purpose.
"Soon." Bacon patted his hand. "I am satisfied in my own mind that we have reached the truth of the matter, aside from the essential datum of the murderer's identity. We have at least narrowed the field. But even if I could remember and the limner would speak, a sketch made by a Fleming whose current address is Newgate Prison and the memory of a man who has recently suffered a severe blow to the head might not be considered sufficient evidence to dislodge a senior member of an Inn of Court. I would be happier with a confession before witnesses: the more exalted the witnesses, the better."
"But how?" Trumpet said. "And where? And when?"
"You have a plan." Tom noted the smirk on Bacon's face.
"I have, indeed. Where? In the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall palace, before the queen and all her court. When? On Christmas Eve. How? In the spirit of Misrule, we'll use the masque for our unmasking."
CHAPTER 42
The following week sped past in a blur of activity. Not, strictly speaking, for Francis since he spent the whole week in bed, but for those whom he directed in writing and staging his new masque. It needed to be both witty and fresh so as not to bore Her Majesty, but it also needed to recreate the atmosphere of Essex's pageant so as to stimulate a fearful memory in the man who murdered Smythson, and thus provoke a confession.
The method was not unlike the old belief that a murderer would be exposed by fresh blood flowing from the wounds of his victim. However, Francis's version was based not on foolish superstition, but on the clear-eyed observation of human behavior under duress.
He fervently hoped it would work.
His first task was to write a letter of exquisite politeness to the Earl of Essex, begging him to forgive the impertinence of performing a pastoral masque so closely related in theme and setting to His Lordship's inimitable presentation on Queen's Day. He wrapped the letter in another of even more sensitive construction to his uncle, begging him to forward it if he considered it acceptable. Francis stood on the brink of restoration to the queen's good graces. He had no intention of undermining his path at this point.
The earl graciously responded by sending his secretary to call upon Francis in his chambers, where he was told the whole story, in confidence and for His Lordship's ears only. The secretary promised to ask the earl to send at once for the two retainers. Assuming they could still identify the man they had chased after so many weeks, their testimony would be a vital support for the case against him.
Protocol having thus been satisfied, Francis summoned his creative team. Thomas Hughes, whose play, The Misfortunes of Arthur, would comprise the centerpiece of the evening's entertainments, and Thomas Campion, a first-year student with a gift for composition, were assigned to the design and execution of sets and costumes. Francis felt secure enough confiding a part of his intentions to these two men since both were far too junior to be dreaming of Readerships yet.
Benjamin Whitt served throughout the week as an able lieutenant, a trusted confidante, and an unfailing pillar of support. He quickly learned to emulate Francis's epistolary style and took some of the simpler correspondence upon himself. He spent the better part of the week closeted in Francis's chambers, to their mutual refreshment.
Francis kept the lash applied to Mr. Clarady's back, urging him daily to obtain a statement from the limner. Francis found himself enchanted by the richness of nautical vocabulary, which he elicited from a stableman who had served at sea, and amused himself by speaking to the privateer's son in his native idiom. He fancied it kept the wind full in his sails.
***
If Tom was told to 'clap on more sail and put his back into it' one more time, he would overpower Ben and wring Mr. Bacon's scrawny genius neck. He swore to himself that he would not return to that Chamber of Taunts until he had Clara's evidence in hand.
And possibly not then.
He had Stephen to contend with as well, who kept hounding him for help with his costume. He was playing the Forlorn Prince in the masque. Tom had his own role to prepare for as a Wild Man. His dialog consisted solely of grunts and roars, but the fittings were time consuming. And the costume was itchy.
Tom wanted their performances to be memorable as much as Stephen did. He welcomed the dance rehearsals as a release for his rising anxieties. He even found Stephen's self-centered stupidity refreshing after being badgered at regular intervals by men with razor-sharp wits. But he had no time for foolery, and he couldn't explain why he had no time, so he took to rising at first cockcrow, dressing by the glow of the embers in the hearth, and taking his meals at the Antelope.
The only person of his acquaintance who did not make tormenting him a daily ritual was Trumpet, who was burdened almost to breaking with his own troubles. His uncle was missed; questions were asked. Welbeck had sent a letter that could be shown about, claiming an urgent call from an aged relative in Derbyshire. Even so, Trumpet was dancing as fast as he could to avoid being pressed for details or trying on costumes in front of anyone.
He and Tom had taken to spending their scant free time in Trumpet's chambers, feet resting on the warm bricks before the hearth, in companionable and much-needed silence.
Between dashing about town like a dowager's footman, fetching materials and delivering messages, Tom tried everything he could think of to persuade Clara to unburden her secret to him. Nothing availed. He had never in his life met a female so resistant to his wiles. Had his dimple disappeared? Had his curls wilted? Had his legs grown thin?
But no, she seemed fond enough of him still. She was willing to snuggle and listen to his poetry, which she claimed to admire. She was stubborn, that was all. He would get nothing from her as long as she remained in Newgate. At least his daily visits — and daily bribes — protected her from the worst of the prison's abuses.
His first plan for freeing her had been to somehow oblige Treasurer Fogg to unwrite his writ. Tom was prepared to threaten the man with cold steel if necessary, but he was nowhere to be found. His clerk finally admitted that Fogg had gone to Kent to visit his elderly mother. Tom considered this highly suspicious. Why should a mother need visiting at this precise moment, however elderly? Surely a man might visit his mother after Christmas as easily as before.
On Friday, men began returning to Gray's, filling the yard with restive horses and the hall with hungry travelers. Gray's had the honor of entertaining the royal court on Christmas Eve only every fourth year, alternating with the other Inns of Court. Even those men who preferred to pass the holiday in the peace of their country homes were not so careless of their careers as to miss an opportunity to spend an afternoon in the presence of the queen.
Tom's frustration mounted. Not knowing where else to turn, he confided the whole story to Mrs. Sprye over a pot of spiced cider. She gave him her full attention, anger drawing sharp lines from nose to chin.
"This can't be allowed to continue," she said. "Not that I'm convinced Sir Avery is your man, mind you. The sorry truth is I'm not convinced he isn't. He'll be back tonight, but this can't wait. That poor woman must be released at once."
She gave Tom a letter addressed to Justice Roger Jarman of the Old Bailey. Tom found the man dining at an ordinary near the prison and sent for a jug of claret for him to drink while he read.
"Hm," Justice Jarman said. He folded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve. "Mrs. Sprye makes a pretty case, doesn't she?" He smiled as at a fond remembrance.
Her letter did the trick. As soon as the judge had finished his meal, he walked with Tom to his chambers in Newgate and stirred up a bustle among his clerks that swiftly produced a stack of documents, signed and sealed.
Clara was released within the hour.
CHAPTER 43
Tom oversaw the packing of his gifts and escorted her home. She clung to him as they exited the prison, her steps faltering as if she had spent seven dark years strung up in a dungeon instead of a scant six days
in a relatively clean and well-upholstered cell. He had lived in far worse conditions on his father's ship, and he was the captain's son. He felt somewhat abused by her lack of gratitude. His discontent would grow until his eyes fell upon her face. Those sapphire eyes! Those velvet lips! How could any man resist them?
He all but carried her up to her room, where, at long last, she produced a sketch of such graphic power that Tom was shocked anew by the raw horror of the act of murder.
He thanked Clara with a heartfelt kiss. He would have thanked her more thoroughly, but she wanted to be alone. He wasn't altogether unhappy to be sent on his way. Rescuing damsels was less satisfactory in reality than in song.
He rolled the drawing up and tucked it securely into his sleeve. His duty now was to go forthwith to Mr. Bacon's chambers and deliver this crucial and most damning piece of evidence. On the other hand, Bacon had treated him most unfairly in the past week, nagging at him with those irritating little nautical quips. He'd taken Ben away from him too, just when he needed support and guidance the most.
Tom smiled wickedly to himself. Why spoil the effect of the master's masque?
CHAPTER 44
Francis Bacon stood a calculated distance from the throne in the Banqueting Hall of Whitehall Palace. He knew the queen had noticed him and that she would summon him for a conversation sooner or later.
He was in no hurry. He loved Christmas at court. He and his brother Anthony had spent many a childhood Christmas Eve in attendance on their father, virtually at the queen's knee. The scene held a powerful nostalgia for him. In truth, he was glad to have a few moments to savor his restoration to his rightful place in society. His lord uncle had reviewed the progress of his investigation and found it satisfactory in the main. The Catholic conspirator, Nathaniel Welbeck, had been identified and his activities stopped. Smythson's murderer remained as yet unknown, but Francis had so narrowed the field that if his little ploy failed this afternoon, a turn in the Tower for each of his suspects would surely do the trick. Lord Burghley had persuaded the queen to allow Francis to return to court for this one day on a provisional basis.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the holiday perfume of cinnamon and cloves lingering after the feast. He hadn't attended the dinner, fearing to overexert himself so soon after his fall. He would stay through the masque to enjoy the fruits of his labors and then slip away home. Mingled with the aromatic remnants of a spicy feast were the green scents of rosemary and yew, shaped into wreaths or draped about the hall with satin ribbons. The walls themselves were made of canvas painted like an enchanted wood, with mossy oaks and flowering shrubs and bashful fauns peeking from the bracken. The ceiling was painted with suns and clouds and stars, day shading into night as the stiff-necked observer scanned from one end to the other. Lustrous hangings of gold and purple silk demarcated the stage at one end. Tiers of seats had been constructed along the walls for the audience.
The spectators were more marvelous to look upon than the decorations. Francis noted that he could easily distinguish the queen's inner circle from the outsiders. The cognoscenti wore stark black and white with accents of silver. Newcomers wore bright colors that competed poorly with the paintings on the walls and ceiling. He himself always wore black with white trimmings, and perhaps a touch of lilac on his hat. Easy, elegant, and expensive without being ostentatious. He might have difficulties with the social niceties sometimes, but his costume was faultless.
His attention turned toward the queen herself. Her Majesty was in splendid looks today. Her gown was black velvet, thickly encrusted with jewels and gold embroidery. Her ruff was a full eight inches of gossamer lace, deftly arranged in figure-eight pleats. It made her regal head seem to float upon a cloud of elfin tracery. One could tell nothing from her complexion, of course, given her liberal use of cosmetics on public occasions, but her eyes were bright and her mood merry.
She was flirting gaily with both Captain Sir Walter Ralegh and Lord Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, playing each against the other in a verbal sparring match. As their monarch and sole satisfier of their vast ambitions, she held them in the palm of her hand. But it was more than mere power that kept these vigorous, thrusting men dancing attention on an aging virgin. Queen Elizabeth possessed a full measure of the Tudor charm, a magnetism that added luster to her innate royalty as a golden pendant enhances the allure of a sparkling jewel.
Francis admired her immensely and felt a powerful affection for her, as deep as his love of England itself. He only wished he could find ways to please her without abrogating his commitment to the truth. Somehow, in his efforts to gain her favor, he always managed to put a foot wrong.
Ralegh and Essex nearly shoved each other down in their haste to go fetch something — a drink or a sugary tidbit — for the queen. She laughed at the sight and took the moment to survey her hall and watch her subjects at play, a smile of contentment curled upon her lips. Her eyes lit on Francis and she crooked her finger at him.
He approached her with the thrill of honored apprehension that always overtook him in her presence. He removed his hat and executed a deep bow. He was pleased to note no ill effects from the inverted posture on his still-tender cranium.
"Mr. Bacon," Queen Elizabeth said with mock alarm. "I believe you've been watching me with your quick, clever eyes. I feel quite exposed."
"You are cloaked in radiance and wisdom, as always, Your Majesty. Although I confess I was admiring the deftness with which you juggle your suitors."
She shrugged one shoulder, like a coquette. "It keeps my wits sharp and my spirits young."
"A sensible regimen, Madame. However, in you, I have no doubt those qualities will never fail."
The queen smiled her acceptance of his tribute. "My Lord Essex gives me to understand that a part of our entertainment this day has a dual purpose. A device of your own creation. A masque for an unmasking?"
Francis looked about, not wishing to be overheard. "May I approach more nearly?"
Elizabeth beckoned him forward. "I love secrets," she whispered, her amber eyes alight. "Tell me everything."
Francis felt a rush of gratification. He was conscious that the most important persons in England were witnesses to the comfortable intimacy he was sharing once again with the queen. He regaled her with his tale of crime and investigation, beginning with his reconstruction of Smythson's murder.
Elizabeth frowned, but not, for a mercy, at him. "I'll box Essex's ears for him. I won't have these idle retainers roving the streets, harrying my lawyers. He'll rein them in, or he'll lose them."
How wonderful to be so certain of one's potency! To know with absolute authority one's place in the world and to be fully empowered to occupy it. Francis had an inkling of the destiny that called to him, but feared there was little hope of his ever attaining it. He explained in detail his methods and his process of ratiocination. The queen did not seem bored, although her eyes did wander once or twice. Alert to the slightest fluctuations in her humor, Francis hastened his exposition, arriving at the nub: the unmasking, shortly to be performed.
"My device may not succeed," he finished, suddenly quite certain that it would not and that he would be humiliated in front of the whole court. Again.
"We shall see," said the queen.
Ralegh and Essex reappeared, each bearing a goblet and a napkin. Francis sidled away from the throne, but Elizabeth checked him with a gesture.
"Stand here by me, Mr. Bacon, to explain the features of interest in your Society's performances."
"Gladly, Madame." Francis regained his place at the queen's right hand, shooting a victorious smile at Ralegh, who was obliged to jostle in with Essex on her left.
A flourish of trumpets signaled the start of the first entertainment. The musicians in the gallery began to play a dance. Lord Stephen and Thomas Clarady leapt out of seemingly nowhere, bounding three feet above the ground, their long legs extended to the full. The crowd burst into delighted applause, the queen included.
Franc
is beamed. Gray's would have one success, at least. A strong start gained the goodwill of the audience, which might carry them through the masque, whether his device worked or not.
The dancers were as graceful as a pair of well-matched yearlings racing for pleasure across a bright field. Each wore a short tunic and silken hose. Lord Stephen was dressed in shades of green; the privateer's son in sky blue and yellow. Whatever their recent differences may have been, they performed their athletic dance with precision and an attitude of joy.
"They're magnificent," the queen purred. "Can such a pair of virile youths be dusty men of the law? I pray you, Mr. Bacon, tell me everything about them."
"They are first-year students, Madame, and thus perhaps not yet so very dusty. The man in green is Lord Stephen Delabere, heir of the Earl of Dorchester."
"A Puritan." She wrinkled her royal nose.
"The son is not, in my observation. Indeed, I believe his father's severity has led him rather toward the middle road."
"I'm glad to hear it. Catholics may be more dangerous, but Puritans are far the more tedious."
Francis was inclined to agree but refrained, lest he seem to criticize his own mother. He knew Queen Elizabeth was well aware of that lady's extremist beliefs. He knew she disapproved of them but suspected she would disapprove of unfilial gossip even more.
Informal conversations with monarchs were severely taxing. Sometimes the wisest course was a change of subject. "The other dancer is a boyhood friend of Lord Stephen's: the son of a privateer. His name is Thomas Clarady."
"A privateer's son?" The queen hummed an expression of feminine appreciation that set both Ralegh and Essex on their toes. "Long legs and great loyalty: an irresistible combination. Wouldn't you agree, Sir Walter?"
"So long as the loyalty is less flexible than the leg, Your Majesty," he replied.
