The Twylight Tower (6 page)

“Mirrors, sir? I did not take you for a vain man,” Elizabeth said with a smile. Her courtiers knew to laugh, but Dr. Dee only nodded. Leaving everyone except Robin in the courtyard partaking of raisin cakes and ale with the doctor’s mother, Elizabeth preceded Dr. Dee inside as he indicated.

“I hope to experiment with mirrors as signaling glasses across rivers or from ship to ship, Your Majesty,” he explained, his voice becoming even more animated. “I am also fascinated by numerical codes and all sorts of secretive devices of intelligence, you see.”

She didn’t precisely follow him, but said, “A man with so many ideas can be of much import to his monarch and country.”

“Robert told me you were wise in all ways,” Dr. Dee said as he nodded to indicate a room with several shelves of books. “I’d gladly beggar myself for books,” he admitted, while he kept moving his hands together as if he were washing them. “I sense we have a great deal in common, though I am the commoner here,” he added in a quiet voice.

Unsure if he had made a jest, she nodded and walked over to a table with mirrors and prisms and an open book full of scribbles she, who knew Greek, Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish, could not read. “So all of this—your life,” she said, “is to gain outside knowledge, but not to look within.” She held up a strange, concave mirror that made her distorted image lunge at her.

“We must all look within, Your Majesty,” Dee said solemnly, “even when we don’t think we recognize ourselves there.”

“Robin—Lord Robert—tells me you can make people appear to fly,” she said, and put the glass down with a slight shudder. The stupid, curved thing had made her look ugly, as if some darker self were watching her. “Could you make me fly, Dr. Dee?” she asked.

“Only if we have some sort of high ceiling, and if you’re not afraid to fall if something goes awry,” he replied, and glanced at Robin instead of her. The queen thought of poor Geoffrey again and moved
toward the window, where more instruments were displayed.

“Her Majesty is born under the sign of Virgo, the spinster, doctor,” Robin said behind her, “and you know Virgos have their feet planted firmly on the ground.”

John Dee glanced from Robin to her, then back to his former student again. “This, Your Majesty, is a
radius astronomicus
,” Dee said as if to change the subject. He hastened toward the window to join her. “Besides peering up at the stars, one can see miles away on earth with it as if one were close-up. I call it my observation cylinder.”

Elizabeth studied the odd thing, a long tube hanging in a leather sling, its larger of two glass end-pieces aimed out the window. For one moment she wondered if Dr. Dee had been watching her approach with it, but that would hardly explain her odd feelings other times and places of late.

“Look through here, Your Majesty,” he told her as Robin came closer. “There!” Dee said triumphantly when she gasped at how trees across the river leaped at her. “See how close and clear everything becomes?”

“Invisible wires and signal mirrors and magic glasses,” the queen marveled as she squinted to fix her gaze again. “A thousand ideas and possibilities. Dr. Dee, I believe I shall visit you again or send for you some day to come to court.”

MEG THOUGHT KAT ASHLEY LOOKED LIKE SHE WAS SITTING
on pins and needles instead of a bale of straw. They’d talked her into joining them on the sly, since she’d seen Geoffrey Hammet play for courtiers on numerous occasions where they had not and might have something to contribute. If Her Majesty wouldn’t look into poor Geoffrey’s death, Ned, Jenks, and Meg intended to.

They’d even included the twelve-year-old, angelic-faced Gil Sharpe, the queen’s favorite artist, who had helped them investigate a previous murder. No worry Gil would ever talk about their doings, as the boy was a mute. So the servants of the queen’s Privy Plot Council gathered while Her Majesty rode to Mortlake. Jenks claimed this would be the safest place, even if the queen suddenly returned, since she hated how the stables stank.

Actually, Meg did too. She’d known only one other who was more fretted by bad scents than the queen and her—Gil’s mother, Bett Sharpe, who’d been left back in London. Since Gil couldn’t talk, Bett had taught her boy a signal language of sorts, and after two years everyone sitting here was pretty good at it, though never as clever as the queen and Gil, who would rattle on with face and hand signs so quickly no one could keep up.

“The perfect positioning of his lute and the fact he would never steal—and didn’t like to drink that malmsey spilled on him—points to someone else’s hand in this,” Ned finally concluded his lengthy opening statement, grand gestures and all, as if they were an audience.

You might know, Meg thought, the queen’s so-called fool and principal player had taken over this meeting just the way the queen herself did when she called her council to order. Of course, they were missing William Cecil and Her Grace’s Boleyn cousin Lord Henry Carey, now called Baron Hunsdon. But Meg didn’t doubt Ned would try to run things with the lofty likes of them here too.

“What worries me,” Ned went on, “is why Her Majesty—Bess, I mean,” he added, using the name Elizabeth insisted on in meetings when they had solved the earlier crimes, “is so taken with Lord Robert, she’s ignoring facts and proofs about Geoffrey’s death.”

“Mayhap,” Meg put in with a shake of her head, “the queen will only solve crimes where the victim is of the nobility or she herself is threatened, like in the earlier investigations.”

Gil bobbed up and began signaling madly about how the queen had helped save his mother from hanging. He rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue as he mimicked a noose tightening about his own neck. “True,” Ned said. “I know she cares for all of us just as she does our betters, but let’s not get off the subject here, and that is Geoffrey’s demise.”

Jenks frowned and shifted, and Ned kept quiet for a moment as Gil sat back down. It was finally Kat who spoke. “I have found that Her Grace cares dearly for all her people,” she insisted. “I’m sure when you inform her—carefully—of the evidence about the malmsey and stress again the placement of the lute, as
well as anything else you can turn up …” She frowned. “Mayhap Geoffrey’s wife was disgruntled he’d been gone so much and sent someone to insist he come home, and push came to shove up there on that tower walk, or—”

“You mean that someone breached Richmond’s security, stumbled on him playing on the parapet in the middle of the night, and did him in?” Ned countered, his voice incredulous.

“No,” Kat said, angry now, “it would have to be someone clever hired to follow him about who knew his every move and blended in.”

“Oh, pish,” Ned insisted. “If spouses sent hired persons to kill their mates for being at court without them, we’d have a bloodbath here, starting with Lord Robert Dudley.”

Kat rose and brushed straw off her skirt. “You just let me know what you decide to do next. I’ve got the queen’s ladies and wardrobe to oversee, and today or tomorrow my Lord Cecil’s bringing Bishop de Quadra, the Spanish ambassador, to court,” she added. She peered out the half-open stable door like a felon, then darted away.

Ned stood and started to pace as if, Meg thought, he would plunge into another long soliloquy. “Let’s remember that Bess and Cecil—I mean Will,” he said, using the man’s nickname during the queen’s privy investigations, “always stress that the motive to the crime is the key to finding the criminal.
Sui bono,
who profits? Marital desertion aside, why would someone want
to kill Geoffrey? What could he have possibly had that they want?”

Suddenly Ned held up his hand and tipped his head. Meg heard it too, the queen’s bell-clear laugh. Close. Too close. And then Lord Robin’s voice just outside the half-open door.

“Wait until you see this new chestnut Barbary foal, my queen. We’ll have to leave it behind when you move the court to Windsor, but I’ll have him sent to London before the winter roads become impassable.”

“Talk about murder,” Meg whispered. “She’ll
kill
us for going behind her back.”

Jenks, who usually reasoned at the speed horses did, leaped up and grabbed Ned by one arm and Meg by the other. Gil, always quick on his feet, darted after them. Jenks yanked them down the walkway between stalls to an open area and shoved them both up against the railing there. Meg’s breasts bounced so hard against a board she whoofed out a breath; Ned banged his nose and muttered a curse. Meg was considering throwing herself flat on the ground and covering herself with straw until her betters passed, but she saw that stupid Jenks had hauled them right to the place the queen was coming. A mare and obviously new foal stared at them through the widely spaced rails.

“Oh, Lord Robert!” Jenks blurted, sounding very surprised, when Meg was afraid to so much as turn around. “And Your Majesty! I thought maybe Gil could sketch it—the new colt—and I just wanted to show it off, my lord.”

“My thought exactly,” Lord Robin said, staring at the four of them.

“A fine—ah, little stallion,” Ned choked out with a quick look at the colt’s privates as they made their obeisance to the queen. Meg punched Gil in the shoulder to remind him to bow, as he was madly signing something to the queen, who was nodding.

“A fine stallion, but destined to be a gelding,” Lord Robin muttered ominously, staring at Jenks, not the horses.

“We didn’t hurt it.” Ned stammered, “Jenks said that we shouldn’t pet it or anything like that.”

“Meg,” the queen said, frowning, “I don’t believe you’ll find many strewing herbs out here. Unless you’ve taken to gathering horse apples, you’d best—all of you—get back to business, though Gil may return to draw the mare and foal. I’d rather fancy that as a gift for you, Robin.”

“And where were you, lad,” Lord Robin asked Jenks, “when I wanted you in the escort to Mortlake?”

“Didn’t know I was to do more than take the message to Dr. Dee,” Jenks said smoothly, getting on much better, Meg thought, than the honey-tongued queen’s player. Even Gil was doing better than Ned. But Meg could tell, even though the queen had a perfumed glove stuck in front of her nose and mouth, she was not smiling. Meg dropped another crooked curtsy and beat both her confederates out the door.

WILLIAM CECIL ENTERED THE PRESENCE
chamber at Richmond Palace, accompanying Alvaro de Quadra, the elegantly black-clad Catholic bishop, who served as ambassador from the court of King Philip of Spain. He could only pray that the royal rudeness to state business and his own person would not extend to a foreign diplomat. Not that he intended to abet de Quadra’s dedication to coercing the queen to wed a Catholic suitor such as Charles, Archduke of Austria, now that she’d turned down her former brother-in-law, King Philip of Spain. But decorum was decorum and Elizabeth at least used to know it.

True, Cecil trusted de Quadra about as far as he could throw a Spanish galleon, so the man had to be watched. Cecil knew full well that once the bishop
ferreted out the queen’s disinclination toward a Catholic match, he could turn to more dangerous scheming. The man might try to place her pliable cousin Katherine Grey on her throne, or perhaps even champion Mary, Queen of Scots and France.

“Her Majesty will be with us soon, Secretary Cecil, Bishop de Quadra,” Robert Dudley told them as he emerged from the gallery that led to the queen’s rooms. The man almost glittered in his peacock blue and silver-slashed doublet with amethyst buttons and emerald silk stockings that emphasized his muscular legs. “She decided at the last minute to have her teeth scaled,” Dudley added, picking his own with a silver toothpick.

Somehow Cecil managed to hold his tongue; de Quadra slanted one silver eyebrow while a tiny grimace twitched the corner of his mouth. The Spanish ambassador was short and compact, but seemed to exude the presence of a far taller, larger man. Though his words were heavily accented, his English vocabulary was broad. Cecil liked his dry wit, though he’d heard through informants that of late the bishop had been sharpening it on the Queen of England’s reputation. Cecil’s sources said that de Quadra had given credence to the lies that the queen was with child by Dudley, however reed-thin she remained. A damned sheep in wolf’s clothing, Cecil groused silently—and that described Dudley as well as de Quadra.