The Course of All Treasons

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  This thought made Nick sad, a mood that was completely at odds with the merriment of the people around him, jostling each other in their eagerness to reach the tiltyard and the festivities there, shouting out greetings to those they recognized, the women arm in arm to steady themselves on their high cork-healed slippers, the men slapping each other on the back.

  All were courtiers, all richly dressed in their brightest colors with flowers and greenery adorning their hair, as was the custom on May Day. Some paused to stare at Nick, for he had not bothered to trick himself out with flowers or greenery or even his best shirt and doublet. He had, however, bathed and shaved. That was the best he had been prepared to do when he was racked with worry over John and still deeply perplexed by the strange twists and turns of this recent case, a case he knew had been solved by Annie’s and Stace’s deaths but nevertheless still bothered him.

  Why, then, this deep unease, a feeling that he had missed something? It must be the specter of John’s death that was haunting him, Nick thought. He resolved to try his best to join in the fun of the day, but in all truth, he was dreading it and would have much preferred to be in Bankside just then. Or anywhere else except the court. As with Annie’s sad little funeral, the celebration of Nature’s renewal of life and the hope of a good harvest seemed deeply ironic in view of John’s perilous condition. Nick said a quick Ave Maria that, like the seeds lying in the ground all winter, John would awaken from his deathlike sleep.

  In Moorfields, Finsbury Fields, and Convent Garden, as well as outlying districts of London like Shoreditch where the city had not yet overtaken the countryside, and on village greens all over England, maypoles would have been set up. These giant poles, fashioned out of birch trees, were chopped down by the young men of the village at dawn and trimmed of their branches so they were smooth, except at the top, where they were left leafy and green to symbolize new life. Decorated with flowers and ribbons by young maidens, the pole was then erected in the middle of a green sward by rope and tackle, shirtless young men eagerly showing off their brawn to the catcalling and giggling girls.

  In poorer communities, a cart was used as a throne for the crowning of the Queen of the May, but at the palace, Nick saw that the royal enclosure on the viewing platform for the jousting had been festooned with flowers so thickly that they completely hid the wood beneath. In the center of the stage was the throne, no doubt borrowed from one of the lesser audience chambers, covered in a green velvet banner with the face of the mysterious Green Man worked in silver thread over it. On either side of this throne, and slightly raised on their own small platforms, were two other thrones—one for the Queen, traditionally dubbed Maid Marian for the day; and one for her chosen consort, Robin Hood. Nick would lay his last groat on Essex having been chosen to play Robin Hood for the day, perhaps as a sop to his pride before Elizabeth packed him back to the Netherlands.

  The maypole itself was the tallest and most elaborate Nick had ever seen. He imagined that the Queen’s chief forester had been tasked with finding one of superior stature months ago. Silk ribbons of every hue fluttered from its topmost branches, and like the stage, every inch of the pole had been festooned with flowers. St. James’s Park and the countryside around must have been denuded of spring blooms in order to cover such a monstrosity, Nick thought, thus denying poor villagers one of the only really colorful and beautiful things in their otherwise drab lives.

  Still, Nick thought, it did make a pretty show. He wandered in the direction of the tables spread out along where the barrier for jousting was usually erected and helped himself to the free wine being served in pewter goblets by an army of royal pages, for once all wearing clean livery. Nick noted that a fair number of them had obviously been sampling the wares; the boy who served him belched loudly.

  “Pardon me, Your Eminence,” he muttered. The boy was so far gone in his cups, he had mistaken Nick for an archbishop.

  “You are forgiven, my son,” Nick solemnly intoned, making the sign of the cross over him, then deftly grabbed the wine ewer from him when the lad gagged and turned a faint greenish hue.

  As the pages ranged in age from eight to sixteen, the younger boys had obviously not yet learned that, with wine especially, a little went a long way. Nick suspected that more than a few of them would be discovered puking in the bushes and sleeping it off under the table by the end of the day.

  Perhaps they had the right idea, Nick thought, emptying his goblet and refilling it. He sauntered off, still carrying the ewer, leaving the poor lad heaving behind the table. If he drank enough, there was a chance his bleak mood might improve.

  The tiltyard was full of courtiers now, awaiting the arrival of the Queen as Maid Marian, and her consort, Robin Hood, whoever that might be. After that the Queen of the May would process in and be crowned. Then the dancing around the maypole would begin.

  Nick sat down on one of the top tiers of the viewing stands, blessedly empty, as everyone else had formed up on either side of the entrance to watch the approaching procession. Nick leaned back and closed his eyes. The sun was hot on his face and he felt himself growing drowsy, the buzz of the crowd getting fainter and fainter until it was a distant hum, like bees moving over a lavender bed in a summer garden. Then a trumpet sounded to herald the arrival of the Queen, and he opened his eyes and looked straight at a young man standing at the edge of the crowd. Nick was about to close his eyes again when the young man turned. Nick sat up.

  The man looking back at him was Annie.

  The man started moving away behind the crowd and managed to push his way through the onlookers around the gatepost of the tiltyard. Fearing that Annie was there to assassinate the Queen, Nick sprang to his feet and pursued, fighting against the crowd. Just as he reached the exit, Elizabeth swept through, dressed in green silk worked with silver thread and pearls. On her head was a jaunty hunting hat tilted down over one eye. She carried a silver bow and a quiver of arrows to signify her role as Maid Marian. She was arm in arm with Robin Hood—Essex, of course, trying to look jolly, but his mouth kept turning down when he forgot to smile—dressed in Lincoln green with a sharply peaked hunting cap on his head and also carrying a silver bow and quiver of arrows. Codpiece danced ahead of them, thwacking anyone within reach with an inflated pig’s bladder on a stick and calling out obscene greetings. He was covered in bells and jingled like a purse full of change.

  Cursing the delay, Nick made a hasty leg. Codpiece bonked him on the top of his head. When Nick looked up, irritated, Codpiece winked.

  “Hello, Richard,” Nick said. “Less of the pig’s bladder in the face, if you don’t mind.”

  The Queen’s eye fell on him.

  “Ah, Nick,” she said, stopping. She bent to whisper in his ear, giving Nick the full treatment of her breath, eye-watering from a mouthful of rotting teeth. “Congratulations on resolving our little problem.”

  Possibly not so resolved, Nick thought, plastering a smile on his face for his monarch. Elizabeth was, of course, referring to the death of Annie, a rogue agent and traitor.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” was the only fitting response before so many witnesses. He couldn’t very well tell her that a ghost had just appeared right under the royal nose.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Elizabeth said loudly, plucking a flower from her hat and tossing it to him. What others heard was a much-coveted open invitation into the royal presence; what Nick heard was a command to give the Queen a full report by day’s end, or else.

  The Queen sailed past, inclining her head graciously to her fawning courtiers, each of them eyeing Nick enviously because she had stopped to speak with him and not them. Not only that, but she had given him a favor; in chivalric terms, the flower she had tossed him was tantamount to choosing him to be her knight for the day. The scowl on Essex’s face clinched it. Others in the crowd had understood the implication of Elizabeth’s gesture as well. But before they could latch on to him like voracious lampreys in hopes of the Queen’s favor rubbing off on
them, Nick slipped through the gate.

  To his right was the Old Staircase leading to St. James’s Park. Briefly Nick considered that Annie might have run that way, but then he concluded she would know she’d be much more inconspicuous in the palace complex, with more chance to blend in with other people, so Nick turned left toward the palace. He emerged into the great open road outside Whitehall. No sign of the young man. Nick entered the vast inner courtyard of the palace and looked around. Servants were scurrying to and fro along the gravel paths outside the building that housed the wine cellar and the great kitchens. Nick walked toward them.

  “Seen a young man come this way a few moments ago?” he asked a young kitchen girl carrying a bucket of bloody chicken and duck heads to throw on the midden behind Scotland Yard, the furthest yard to the north of the palace.

  “I wish,” she said with a coquettish grin. Then she spoiled the effect by wiping her runny nose on her sleeve.

  Nick sighed and pressed on. He entered the palace by the door near the wine cellar.

  Instinctively, Nick was making for the river on the east side of the palace. If it were he who was trying to escape, he’d jump into the nearest wherry and be lost in the myriad craft on the river in the blink of an eye. But when he came out at Whitehall Stairs, there were no boats pushing off, only two that were disembarking passengers. Nick asked the same question he had asked the kitchen skivvy. He got only shrugs from the boatmen and blank stares from their fares.

  “Want a ride, mister?” one of the boatmen called.

  Sorely tempted, Nick nevertheless shook his head. The Queen wanted a report on Annie, and now he would have to tell her that he had seen her alive and well. Either that, or he was losing his mind.

  He couldn’t face returning to the tiltyard to watch the crowning of the Queen of the May and the dancing around the maypole, not to mention put up with Codpiece larking about at his expense. What he really needed was somewhere quiet where he could think, so he reentered the palace and made for the room he had been loaned last winter when he was conducting inquiries in a murder investigation. He knew it was likely to be empty, as it was kept for visiting dignitaries and contained such amenities as a fireplace with chairs in front of it, a window looking out onto the Privy Garden, and a four-poster bed.

  As he suspected, the room was unlocked and empty. Thanking God for small mercies, he entered and closed the door. Instantly, a great weight of weariness fell on him. Instead of sitting in a chair by the empty fireplace, he opened the window to let in the soft, spring air, then took off his sword and boots and stretched out on the bed.

  For days, it seemed, he had been keeping vigil at John’s bedside, or accepting the condolences of his neighbors, all the while trying to come to terms with the deep guilt he felt about John being mistaken for himself. If only he had not asked him to stop by Seething Lane; if only he had gone himself. The day John was attacked had been one of the first days of spring weather; the other had been the day they went to the tavern where Annie and del Toro had met, and thence to her secret house. He had taken off the bandage around his head because he’d felt that people were staring at him like Lazarus coming out of the tomb—Lazarus … Annie’s funeral … spring … the maypole with leaves growing out the top … Protea …

  Nick tried to follow his thoughts, but they kept twisting like the woolen skeins in his mother’s tapestry basket, hopelessly tangled. As a boy, one of his jobs had been to separate each strand and wind it back on its corresponding ball of wool: jasper like blood; emerald like new grass, like the new growth of wood and copse. But when he reached out his hand to take hold of one thread, it changed into another color and he had to start again.

  * * *

  Nick was walking in a forest of maypoles, each tree towering into the sky above his head, the trunks smoothly silvered, the tops covered in round balls of wool of every color of the rainbow, loose windings trailing down like ribbons.

  An old woman lying on the ground blinked once at him; Nick tried to wave, but his arm was too heavy to lift. Codpiece stuck his head around a tree, winked as if he and Nick were in on some private joke, and then vanished.

  Edmund walked by, his fingers playing with something on a chain around his neck, but did not say anything, did not even look at Nick. Then he, too, vanished.

  No leaves rustled; no birdsong riffled the air; no brook tumbled over stones. Nick’s footsteps made no sound, and when he looked down, he was not walking on grass but on green silk figured with silver thread. A single daffodil lay beside his foot; he picked it up and put it to his nose. It smelled of sandalwood.

  Then Nick glimpsed a lock of red hair against silver bark.

  “Annie?”

  A low laugh. “Catch me if you can.”

  Nick started running toward a great golden light that glowed brighter and brighter the deeper into the forest he ran. Suddenly, he was on the edge of the forest. He stopped, breathless, staring. Floating in the air, impossibly huge, was a great fiery ship with pennants flying, sails bellied, and tilted to one side as if beating into the teeth of a gale. The flames did not consume it but made it as radiant as the sun. Leaning on the rail, high above him, was Annie, red hair streaming in the wind.

  “Goodbye, Nick,” she called. “Goodbye.”

  “Wait!”

  Suddenly Nick was sinking, water climbing up to his waist, his shoulders, his chin. Desperately he tried to stay afloat, but he felt hands grasp his ankles, pulling him down. The murky green closed over his head and he saw John’s face floating white and bloated, his hair lifting and swaying like seaweed in the current, his eyes open, fixed on Nick as if he had an urgent message to impart. Then, like a monstrous leviathan, the dark hull of the ship passed over them, and everything went black.

  * * *

  Nick woke gasping, drenched in sweat. The room had grown warm, the covers tangled around his legs, the faded tapestries on the bed close and hot and airless. He crawled off the bed and staggered to the window. Opening it wider, he leaned out, drawing in great draughts of fresh air, feeling the sweat cool on his back, his mind beginning to clear.

  The sun had passed its zenith and was beginning its downward descent into the west, its rays striking Nick full in the face, causing him to squint. Beyond the palace, the citizens of London were returning to their homes, tired and happy, thankful that the first day of summer had come at last, praying for a good harvest so they would not starve this winter.

  Somewhere out there in the maze of streets and alleys and low-rent dives, a dead woman moved among the living like a ghost.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Palace of Whitehall, the Great Hall

  Although Nick was tempted to leave the palace and go out into the streets of London to search for Annie, he knew he must show up for the play. The great clock tower in the palace struck six. He had slept through the entire afternoon.

  Praying that the Queen had been too caught up in the festivities to notice his absence, he ran down the stairs and along the corridors to the Great Hall.

  The feasting was over and the servants were clearing the platters of meat and bread when Nick sidled into the hall. He managed to snatch a piece of bread and a leg of duck before a snooty valet whisked the tray away. The kitchen staff were fiercely proprietary about the scraps left over from a feast; they would be shared out in the kitchens, the royal cook getting the choicest bits, then the under cooks and so on down to the lowliest skivvy, who would be lucky to be able to suck the marrow out of a chicken bone picked clean of meat.

  The dais where the Queen and Essex had feasted had been cleared for the play. Elizabeth’s throne had been set in the center of the room before the makeshift stage; smaller thrones for Essex as Robin Hood and the Queen of the May, the pretty fifteen-year-old daughter of the Duke of Somerset, stood to the right of the Queen, with Essex on the end.

  Eating his food, Nick went to stand in the crowd behind the thrones, hoping to remain inconspicuous. He spotted Edmund on the edge of the crowd a
nd nodded to him. Nick was just thinking of moving in that direction when Codpiece popped up in front of him waving his infernal pig’s bladder in his face.

  “Who’s the naughty truant then?” Codpiece said.

  “Shhh,” Nick hissed.

  But it was too late. The Queen had craned round and seen Nick. She beckoned with a beringed finger.

  “Thanks a lot, Richard,” Nick muttered.

  Codpiece gave an elaborate bow and skipped off, grinning.

  Approaching the royal presence, Nick bowed deeply, “Your Majesty.”

  “Where in God’s name did you skive off to?” demanded Elizabeth.

  “Er … I fell asleep.”

  “Nice for some.”

  Elizabeth did look tired; the thick white paste on her face was beginning to crack, making it look like a mask covering her bony, aging face. The flowers on her hat and in a garland around her neck had wilted. Nick had to remind himself that Elizabeth was approaching old age and was beginning to have more and more bouts of crotchetiness as her energy for long public events diminished.

  Nick also happened to know that May Day was not one of Elizabeth’s favorite celebrations. In 1536, when Elizabeth was only three, her mother, Anne Boleyn, and father, King Henry VIII, had been watching the jousts in honor of the day at Greenwich. What poor Anne did not know was that, at that very moment, her personal musician, Mark Smeaton, was being tortured by that odious little toad, Cromwell, to confess that he had been Anne’s lover. Without warning, Henry suddenly got up and left the joust, riding off for parts unknown, no explanation given. It was to be the last time Anne would see him. Shortly thereafter, she was arrested, taken to the Tower, and beheaded. May Day 1536 was the last time Elizabeth had seen her mother. It was one reason that, although she traditionally celebrated the day with jousting, she always appeared restless and did not watch the bouts for long.

  Essex seemed oblivious to this dark royal anniversary and sat slouched in his chair, idly shredding the petals of the flowers that had adorned his clothes and scattering them on the floor like a sulky child. He was chatting in a distracted, bored way with the poor Queen of the May, who kept glancing uneasily at the Queen. She had noticed Elizabeth’s mood but was too young to be aware of the significance of the date and too inexperienced to know how to jolly her out of it. Altogether, it was a sad contrast to the earlier scene in the tiltyard, with the sun shining brightly on the gorgeous court and Elizabeth in their midst, the brightest sun of all. Now the sun had definitely set, and Nick could feel the gloom of night descending.