by Anna Castle
Tom gulped down his food, got to his feet, and gestured at the stool where Sir Walter had sat. “May I offer you —” He turned to the green bottle before realizing he didn’t have another cup. “Ah.”
Sir Robert waved a hand, rejecting both offers. “I won’t be a minute. But please sit and enjoy your drink.”
Tom complied, noticing that it put their eyes at a more advantageous level.
Sir Robert smiled, or rather his lips turned up. “Mr. Grenville’s death has reminded me of the excellent work you did for us two years ago.”
Strictly speaking, Tom had been working for Mr. Bacon, not Lord Burghley or his son, but he had shared his findings with this man. He could guess where this was going and was fairly certain he wouldn’t like it.
“I understand you were one of the first to arrive at the scene of the supposed accident.”
“Yes, sir. My lady Alice sent for her betrothed, Lord Dorchester, but the messenger found me first.”
Sir Robert met that tired lie with the minimal response. “Mmm.”
Tom remembered that Sir Robert knew Trumpet had been involved in the affair two years ago. Having a brain nearly as good as Francis Bacon’s, he could easily deduce who she had really sent for when she stumbled across a fresh corpse.
He’d been making other deductions as well. “I believe Mr. Bacon has questions about Sir Walter’s assessment of the situation.”
Tom shrugged, pretending indifference. “He always has questions.”
The thin smile again. “I haven’t come here out of mere curiosity, Mr. Clarady. It’s my job to stay a step or two ahead of problems that might disturb the queen or unbalance the court at a time when critical decisions are being debated.”
“I understand, Sir Robert. But Mr. Bacon has no interest in Arthur Grenville’s death.” Or so he had said.
“We both know that’s not true, is it? He wouldn’t visit the midwife while she was laying out the body from a lack of other entertainments.”
“Of course not.” Bacon had visited the midwife? Why not tell him about it? He must not have learned anything useful, or he would’ve sent Tom to follow up. On the other hand, he might have learned something disturbing and not yet steeled himself to face up to it.
Tom knew better than to lie to a man with Robert Cecil’s gifts. However, he could stall with the best of them. “I couldn’t discuss Mr. Bacon’s preliminary thinking without his permission, Sir Robert.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to. But you pursue your own questions from time to time, as I recall. Make your own observations. You’re free to share those, I should think.” Sir Robert paused to give Tom time to absorb that. Then he made his offer. “I will pay you ten shillings a week to be kept apprised of developments in the matter of Arthur Grenville’s death.”
A smile slid across Tom’s face before he could stop it. Coins were much better than uncertain promises. Although this particular man was in the position to do him a substantial favor. “There is a favor I might ask, now that you mention it.”
“Oh?”
“I plan to sue my aunt for livery of my estate when I pass the bar and can argue the case myself. The fees, as you know, are considerable.”
“Nothing can be done about the fees,” Sir Robert said. “The Court of Wards has its own protocols, long established.”
“I understand that, sir. But your lord father is the Master of the Court. Your good word would go a long way toward smoothing my path through those protocols.”
Sir Robert gazed at him, or rather continued to face him with his eyes open. But a screen had been drawn against his thoughts. His gaze was neither hard nor cold, neither threatening nor stubborn. It revealed nothing, like looking into the eyes of a cheap painting. Then he twitched his lips. “Well, it’s years away yet. Let’s see where we stand when we get there.”
Another vacant promise. “On second thought,” Tom said, “I’ll take that angel.”
Sir Robert chuckled and reached into his purse. He took out a shiny gold coin but held on to it, displaying it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He had long, pale fingers, adorned with several small rings. “Have you made any observations thus far?”
“I have.” If Sir Robert knew about the midwife, he probably knew about the wounds. Why else would Bacon visit her but to verify his assistants’ descriptions? Tom held out his hand. Sir Robert dropped the coin into his waiting palm and Tom tucked it into his purse. “First, the reason Lady Alice sent for me was the wound on Mr. Grenville’s head.”
“They say he struck it against the brick wall.”
“No, sir. Not possible. There was a gash right here” — Tom tapped his own forehead — “about the width of the end of a brick. A gash, not a bruise, with red brick dust around it. But there were no loose bricks in the vicinity. I looked.”
“He was struck. Deliberately?”
“I don’t think it’s possible to hit a man with a brick by accident, Sir Robert. The second thing was that we could see at once the body had been moved. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled out a piece of paper, dipped his quill in the inkpot, and made a rough sketch of the wall, the tree, the body, and the ladder. He studied it for a moment and added the cap. “I’m not perfectly certain about the position of the hat. Lady Alice said it was lying on his face, partially covering it.”
This was giving away a little more than Bacon had, but only a little. Besides, Bacon must have gone to the midwife soon after telling Tom and Trumpet he had no role and wasn’t interested. He deserved to be a little behindhand.
Sir Robert picked up the sketch to study it, smiling with genuine approval. “This is very helpful.”
“Keep it if you like it, sir.”
Sir Robert shook his head and put the sketch back on the desk. “No need. The wound and the ladder suggest an act of murder followed by an attempt to conceal that act. Do you agree?”
“I think it’s the only possible conclusion.”
“Then why didn’t Sir Walter reach it?”
Tom startled at the question. “I can’t answer that, Sir Robert. Perhaps you could ask him. Maybe he did see what I saw, reached the same conclusion, and then took the next logical step.”
“Which was what?”
“There’s nothing to investigate, sir. No threads to pull on, no trail to follow.”
“Have you questioned the orchard men?”
“Of course,” Tom said, mildly offended. “I asked everyone I could find. This must have happened after six o’clock on Midsummer Eve, remember. The workmen had all gone off to their own celebrations.”
“And the brick was presumably returned to its place.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“In which case, Sir Walter would conclude that it was better to let the queen, and everyone else, believe it to be an accident.” Sir Robert nodded. “Well, I prefer to know the facts; then I can determine how to work with them. If you come up with anything else, send me a note. I’ll meet you here.” He looked around the office, no doubt recording every detail in his capacious mind. “It’s very quiet.”
“There isn’t much call for the dogs’ pedigrees.”
“I suppose not. I prefer birds of prey myself.”
That came as no surprise. No strength required, just patience and cunning; perfect for a small man who would look foolish on a big horse with dogs barking all around him.
Sir Robert moved toward the door, then stopped. “Good to have this little chat, Mr. Clarady, and be reminded of your qualities. I’d like to maintain this connection.”
“Nothing would please me more, Sir Robert.” Tom rose and bowed. Then the door closed, leaving him alone again. He watched the small but powerful secretary through the window until he passed out of sight, then addressed a loud complaint to heaven. “God’s great dangling testicles! How do I get into these things?”
He’d just agreed to let wily Robert Cecil question him whenever he liked about whatever he might learn in the matter o
f Arthur Grenville’s death. He’d already learned things he wished he could forget. If he spoke amiss, he’d bring the wrath of Sir Walter Ralegh down upon his head. But he wasn’t sure he was up to fending off Sir Robert’s sharp wits and shrewd guesses. He felt like a juicy pigeon caught between a stalking tiger and a circling hawk.
FOURTEEN
ON FRIDAY EVENING, Francis Bacon sat again on a hard bench waiting for a feast to commence. This time, however, the seating plan had been arranged by a person who liked him. Not only was he near the top of table on the bride’s side of the dais, his supper companion was Michel Joubert. Lady Alice must have seen them conversing in the Presence Chamber. He appreciated the gesture, as well as the subtle reminder that the ladies sitting on their poufs kept their eyes and ears open while they sewed.
“Did you watch the bridal procession?” Michel asked.
“Only the first one.” The bride and her train of gentlewomen had paced solemnly around the Great Court, passing through the gate to circumnavigate the fountain in the Middle Court. They came to a stop before the steps up to the chapel where her groom awaited her, flanked by his gentlemen. “I didn’t see you inside the chapel.”
“Alas, I could not squeeze myself in, so great was the crowd. Did you witness the whole ceremony?”
“The vows, the rings, and mostly importantly, the signing of the contract afterward.” Francis raised his cup to acknowledge the most important component of a successful alliance.
“Ah, yes. That is the way of le mariage in France as well. But look!” Michel held up a bright copper penny. “I caught this from the groom during the second procession. It will bring me good luck, I hope.”
He twitched his dark eyebrows suggestively at Francis, who smiled into his cup. “You won’t need luck tonight, my friend. Not if the rest of the wine is as good as this first bottle.”
“Good wine, do you say?” A melodious woman’s voice sounded over their heads. Lady Penelope Rich had materialized behind them. She gestured toward the empty space on Francis’s left. “May I join you?”
“By all means, my lady.” He slid closer to Michel to make room for her skirts.
A waiter brought her a cup filled to the brim. She tasted it and murmured, “Mmm. It is good.”
Francis asked, “Have you been introduced to Monsieur Michel Joubert, my lady? He is the secretary to Monsieur Chaste, the new ambassador from France.” He leaned back so they could face one another.
“I have not had the pleasure.” She held out a hand covered in embroidered ivory kidskin.
Michel puffed a kiss a quarter inch above its surface. “It is a great honor to meet the famous Lady Penelope Rich, sister of that most excellent soldier and leader of men, my lord of Essex.”
“Any friend of Mr. Bacon’s is a friend of mine, Monsieur — and of my brother.”
They beamed at one another. Francis enjoyed the rare sensation of being surrounded by friends. “What good fortune to find you seated with us, my lady.”
She gave him a dry look from under her well-plucked brows. “Not luck, Mr. Bacon. I tipped the usher to move Lady I-Don’t-Care somewhere else.”
A tantara of horns announced the arrival of the wedding party. Boys in dark red livery entered first, followed by girls in pink dresses, followed in turn by half a dozen gentlewomen of the Privy Chambers arrayed in silver and white. Behind them came the bride on her father’s arm. Francis had never seen the Earl of Orford before, or didn’t remember doing so. He rarely came to court, preferring a life at sea.
Murmurs arose at his entrance. Lady Rich leaned toward Francis, pitching her voice so Michel could hear her too, “Well, it would appear she comes by that dramatic coloring honestly.”
Lady Alice — Lady Dorchester now — and her father had the same heart-shaped faces, vivid green eyes, and ink-black hair, though His Lordship’s short beard and moustache were streaked with silver. Both were short of stature but had the same erect carriage and martial stride.
Stephen walked close behind them. Though a head taller than his new father-in-law, he managed to seem to be in their train rather than of their party. Half a dozen lords followed him, including Sir Charles Blount, Lord Admiral Howard, and Sir Walter Ralegh. The procession moved sedately up the hall, separating into two groups to go around the upper table to their appointed seats. The newlyweds sat side by side in the center, with Lord Orford next to his daughter and Lady Stafford next to the groom. She must be filling in for the dowager Lady Dorchester, who reputedly never left her house.
“I believe every lord in Dorset is here today,” Lady Rich said. “Most impressive.”
“Is that so?” Michel studied the peers ranged along the dais. “Do tell me which is which, Mr. Bacon.”
Francis obliged, pointing with his chin. It was a compliment to Stephen that so many great ones had consented to attend. By tradition, he was their lord, but the character of the new earl must be known by the men of his own county. They probably didn’t want to miss the chance to begin shaping the soft clay of his malleable nature to their own ends. Stephen was lucky to have attached a woman with Alice Trumpington’s steel.
“I like the matching costumes of the bride and the groom,” Michel said. “But is not the combination of red and pink somewhat unusual?”
Lady Rich shot him a swift grin. “That’s oxblood and carnation, if you please, Monsieur, with ivory pricks and bronze embellishments. Her Ladyship told us in gushing tones that His Lordship designed their costumes himself. Note how the brim of her hat is exactly the right width to support her garland of white roses, which echo the purity of his tall white feathers.”
“Oh, does that represent purity? I had thought another symbol appropriate to this joining. Note, my lady, how his feather stands up so stiff and straight, while her garland creates a nice round hole.”
Lady Rich swatted at him with her fan. “Monsieur Joubert! If I weren’t a married woman, I would be mortified!” They all laughed. This feast was already more fun than the last one, and they hadn’t even started the first course.
Ushers began to circulate through the great hall with parcels wrapped in fine linen, handing one to each guest. Francis’s parcel bore a small tag with his name written on it. These gifts had been assigned individually.
He loved presents. He untied the bow eagerly, unrolling the wrapping to reveal a pair of exquisite black gloves made of the finest Spanish kidskin. He balled up the linen wrapper and tossed it toward the front of the table where the servants could collect it, then held the gloves to his nose. “Civet.”
“Very masculine.” Michel’s pair were a silvery-gray. “Mine are scented with civet as well.”
“Mine are rose,” Lady Rich said, displaying a pair of scarlet gloves that matched her overgown. She stripped off her old pair to try on the new ones. “A perfect fit! My estimation of Lady Dorchester grows by leaps and bounds.”
Francis tried on his black gloves, which also fit to perfection. “I don’t usually wear black gloves.”
“They make you look very Italian,” Michel said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me that!” Francis resolved not to wear them in front of his mother.
“Oh yes,” Lady Rich said. “Thoroughly Machiavellian. The gloves of a wise and crafty counselor.”
“A counselor with neither brief nor patron,” Francis said.
“Not so, Mr. Bacon.” Lady Rich smiled at him. “Not so.”
Before they could pursue that fascinating theme, servants appeared in droves, collecting the wrappings and setting forth the feast. The three friends gave the supper their full attention for a while, spooning special tidbits onto each other’s plates, passing dishes around, summoning the waiter to refill their cups or ask for a different wine.
Lady Rich sampled the latest offering, a sweet red hollock. She set her cup down and leaned across Francis to include Michel again. “The gentleman on my left says he has it on the highest authority that Lord Orford haunted the Bay of Biscay fo
r an entire month to capture ships bearing cargoes of delicacies for his daughter’s wedding supper.”
“Oh, my lady, you fill my heart with sorrow!” Michel pretended to be dismayed. “I hoped to find a new friend for France at that table tonight.”
“This is Spanish wine, mon ami,” Francis said. “You needn’t despair of Her Ladyship’s friendship yet.”
“Aha!” Lady Rich gave him a coy look. “Then you assume the lady is the one to be cultivated?”
“But that is obvious, my lady Rich,” Michel said. “At least in this case. See how the bride watches the servants and the guests, making sure all is well, while her husband stares into the air as if he does not know how he came to be here?”
Lady Rich chuckled. “He does seem to be somewhat overwhelmed. I also notice that his bride never looks at him beyond the merest flick of her eyes.”
“To see that he is still there, perhaps,” Michel said. “And not fled in terror.”
The three friends grinned at one another, enjoying themselves at the groom’s expense. Then Tom emerged from the flow of gentlemen servers passing behind the great persons on the dais. His impeccable black garb stood out amid the colorful costumes of the others, making him look taller and more distinctive. Such a contrast to the garish young man Francis had first met so many years ago!
He had made one independent sartorial choice, decorating his black hat with ribbons of white and purple, the colors of Gray’s Inn. Not oxblood and carnation — not Stephen’s colors. A small declaration of his preferred allegiance.
Tom leaned forward to pour wine into Stephen’s cup from a silver pitcher, whispering something in his ear that made the new groom laugh. Stephen grinned and visibly relaxed. He flicked a neutral smile at his wife, then turned toward Lady Stafford with some pleasantry that made her embark on a lengthy speech.
Tom filled Trumpet’s cup without looking at her, or she at him. He moved on to her father, who stopped him with a look of surprised delight, no doubt to say something about the late Captain Clarady.
