Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (8 page)

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 unimpressed.

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.

Tom swallowed his disappointment and went to help the maids. Stephen and Ben set the fainted girl's farthingale aside like a fallen log. Then they lifted an unfainted one to her feet by grasping her firmly under the armpits and hoisting her straight into the air, letting her skirts swing free so they could land her at a level. Ben tugged her doublet straight while Trumpet gave the rear of her skirt a quick dusting. They repeated the process for the other girl.

Tom got an excellent view of the interior of a fashionable lady's nether garments as he knelt to help the fainted girl, who raised up on her elbows, blinking herself back to the world.

"Forgive me." He reached for her hand. "I know it's not the time. But are you using metal bands in your farthingale instead of canes?"

She growled at him, outraged.

Stephen and Ben bent to apply their maiden-raising method once again. "Possibly not the best time to exercise our perceptive capacities," Ben remarked.

Tom shrugged. "I have three sisters in Dorset." He grinned apologetically at the maid, displaying his dimple. "They count on me to keep them abreast of changes in fashion."

The girl glowered at him as she found her feet. She huffed and she grumbled, but she gave him the name of her mercer.

The chamberer returned. He shot a repressive glare at the maidens as he beckoned Stephen forward. The others fell in behind as he walked erectly up the gallery, glancing neither right nor left. They turned a corner into an older part of the building where the ceiling was lower and the floor changed levels every few yards for no apparent purpose. Here courtiers stood in nooks and recesses, conversing in tight whispers. Eyes darted suspiciously at them as they passed.

They arrived, finally, at a wide recess backed by a narrow slit of a window. A young woman with burnished hair and flashing dark eyes perched upon an invisible seat, her skirts spread wide around her.

Stella!

The chamberer bowed to her and vanished. Lady Rich's overgown was black taffeta embroidered with gold thread. A string of gold beads outlined a deep slash in her voluminous sleeves, which revealed a lining of gold and white floral-figured silk. Her ruff was as wide as the chamberer's, trimmed with inches of delicate lace. She was exquisite. Her features were fine; her brow clear and high. Her mouth was round and slightly tensed, as though she were preparing to tell you something that she knew you would not like to hear.

Stephen performed a full court bow, sweeping off his hat, extending his pointed toe, and touching his forehead to his knee. The others followed suit.

"Lord Stephen." The lady's voice was mellifluous, like honeyed wine from the sun-drenched Canaries. "Have we met?"

"No, my lady." Stephen stood to face her, peer to peer. His father outranked her husband after all. Never mind that his father was a religious zealot who never left Dorsetshire and her brother was the rising favorite of the queen. "May I say that I have long desired to meet the renowned and magnificent Stella of the sonnets? And now that I have, I understand the vain imposturance of mere words. The futility—" He stopped abruptly, clamping his lips together in a pained grimace.

Lady Rich made a small humming sound, like a soft coo. Tom kept his face pressed to his knee, although he could feel the blood draining into his head and was finding it difficult to breathe. He waited until he saw Trumpet right himself before straightening. As he stepped discreetly to one side of the recess, Lady Rich scanned him up and down with a look so hot it lit a fuse of alarm that raced up his spine and exploded in his brain.

He had come expecting a dove and had encountered a tigress.

He could feel his ears pressing back into his skull and struggled to maintain his calm. He flicked a glance at Trumpet, whose down-turned face was almost covered by the feather in his hat. Stephen seemed bedazzled, swaying slightly from side to side. Ben stood as stiff as a statue, his cheeks as red as oxblood.

The lady seemed pleased by their responses. "I was intrigued by the message my steward received from your tutor. What question could inspire him to such reckless subterfuge?"

Reckless subterfuge?
Hadn't Bacon just written her a note in the usual fashion? There were definitely things he wasn't telling his assistants about this Smythson business.

The lady was waiting for an answer. Tom poked Stephen in the ribs then snapped back into his impassive pose.

Stephen inhaled sharply. "Reckless, yes, thank you, my lady. I wonder too, my lady. But first, I pray you'll accept a small token—" He snapped his fingers several times. Tom handed him the fan.

Lady Rich unwrapped it, passing the gauze to the gentlewoman who stood beside her. This woman was dressed in dark gray with a plain collar and cuffs. She stood with her hands folded at her waist and had the abstracted air of a person who does not speak a single word of English.

"A fan." Lady Rich twitched her lips. "It's a routine gift, but perhaps Marguerite will like it." She passed it to her waiting woman without a glance at either woman or fan. Tom felt a pang: half a sovereign gone, with so little result.

"And now your question." It was a command.

"Yes, my lady," Stephen said. "We are assisting Mr. Bacon in his investigation of the death of Barrister Smythson. Perhaps you —"

"The lawyer? The one that died on Queen's Day?" She sounded affronted, as if Smythson had deliberately spoiled her holiday. "No one could talk of anything else for the whole evening. It was boring."

"Yes, my lady," Stephen said. "Excruciatingly boring. I myself can scarcely bear to speak of it."

"What have lawyers to do with me?" She said the word
lawyers
as one might speak of vermin that had died in one's servants' quarters.

"Yes, my lady. I mean nothing, of course. I mean, of course, nothing. To do with you. The idea is unthinkable. I have no interest in lawyers either. Who would? One spends the obligatory year at an Inn of Court, for the polish, you know. A smattering of this and that. My father thinks it wise. Your own brother — well. Naturally, I far prefer hunting and dancing, the theater and, er—"

He broke off and flashed a glance at his friends for support. Trumpet's feather bobbed as the boy stared straight down at his feet. Ben made a gurgling noise deep in his throat.

Tom took a step forward and bowed again from the waist. He tilted his face toward Lady Rich in a pose more complex than anything his dancing master had ever inflicted on him and said, "My lady, we are informed that you were having a portrait painted that day, in a chamber near the fateful spot."

"In the morning. I attended the tournament in the afternoon."