by Anna Castle
The trio began another round of flirtatious nonsense. Francis gave them half an ear as he watched the young men leaping and pirouetting across the floor. He was more than a trifle annoyed with Clarady for failing to deliver a statement from the limner before the afternoon's entertainments began. He still didn't know whether she had any statement to make. He thought back over the past few days and realized that he hadn't had so much as a glimpse of the lad since Wednesday. What had he been doing all week?
Dancing, he supposed, and fiddling with costumery. This was the fundamental difference between a gentleman and a member of the lower orders: a gentleman kept to his task until the task was done, and done to perfection.
"You don't like my dancing privateer," the queen said.
Francis startled and saw her eyes flash with amusement. She enjoyed catching her courtiers off guard. "I do like him, Madame." He offered her a rueful smile. "I do. He's as personable as he is comely. He's not lacking in native wit, and he displays a readiness to serve, when properly directed."
"But?"
"But he is distractible and oversentimental. More pertinently, I believe he may be withholding the capstone of my construction of proofs, which I would dearly like to have in place before the masque."
Queen Elizabeth laughed, not unkindly, at his confession of unconfidence.
The music rose to a crescendo as the dancers performed a series of somersaults that drove the audience to their feet, pounding their applause. The two men struck their final poses, arms raised, with wide grins aimed directly at the queen. Clarady's eyes slid toward Francis and took on an unmistakably devilish gleam.
The queen laughed heartily and applauded with her hands upraised so they could see. She tilted her head toward Francis and murmured, "You know, Mr. Bacon, I do believe he is."
***
Jugglers appeared to fill an intermission, allowing the audience to mingle before the next performance. Ralegh turned toward Francis. "Your gamble is likely to come to naught, Mr. Bacon. If you know which is your man, surely there are more certain methods of apprehension at your disposal."
"He claims he doesn't know," the queen said. "But that doesn't sound like our Francis Bacon, does it?"
Francis hoped she meant that as a compliment. "I believe that I do know, but belief is not certainty. I am loath to stain an innocent man's reputation with so dark a color as murder without more tangible proofs."
"Do you really think these foul crimes were committed for professional advancement?" Essex asked.
"Do you not believe that a lawyer can be ambitious?" The queen and Ralegh laughed, two adults versus the stripling boy.
Francis admired the way young Essex held his ground. "I merely seek to clarify the basis of the coming test. If ambition is the motive, then I place my wager on the murderer being found among the ancients of Gray's Inn. They have the farthest to climb and thus the most to gain from a ruthless gambit."
The queen said, "Ah, but it's the benchers that are always plucking at my counselors' sleeves, seeking serjeanties and judgeships. They're close enough to smell their prizes; their appetites are fully whetted."
"I'll take that bet, Essex," Ralegh said. "I wager that our man's a bencher."
The two courtiers shook hands. Ralegh begged leave to absent himself for a moment and drifted off into the crowd. Francis caught sight of him a few minutes later in animated conversation with Lady Elizabeth Throckmorton. He felt his stomach tie itself in nervous knots. His reputation was now at stake before the entire court. If nothing came of his unmasking, he'd be a laughingstock.
At least he could trust that the courtiers would maintain a clear line between the wagerers and the wagerees; between the court and the Gray's Inn men. None of these avaricious, novelty-starved noblemen and women would wish to queer their bets.
***
Thomas Campion next took the stage. He sat alone on a stool with his lute. The audience continued its loud chatter for half a minute, but soon he had their rapt attention as he sang "Beauty, Since You So Much Desire," a song of his own composition.
Another success. Francis loved music and wished he could enjoy the song, but he was fraught with anxiety waiting for his masque. He had arranged for the benchers to sit in the front stands on the left of the aisle and the ancients opposite them on the right. That way, all would be reachable by his Wild Men during the performance.
Treasurer Fogg sat arm in arm with Lady Penelope Rich, gossiping comfortably. They had obviously reached an accord concerning her debts to Sir Amias Rolleston. Francis suspected the old gentleman would have to wait a long time to be repaid, but he wasn't surprised that Fogg had sacrificed his client's interests to curry favor with the lady.
Their current accord changed nothing. At the time the murders were committed, Fogg's ambitions confronted seemingly insurmountable obstacles. That he had now scaled those ramparts in nowise altered the past.
George Humphries sat with the other ancients, cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. He looked like a pettifogger, dressed in old-fashioned slops. Francis almost felt sympathy for the man's obstructed life. Almost. If Humphries was the man who had performed these heinous deeds, he deserved to hang, however pathetic his history and his wardrobe.
***
More thundering applause startled Francis from his thoughts. Thomas Campion stood, bowed, and walked off the stage. He was engulfed by a bevy of young women.
The time had come.
Gray's men shifted the props and scenery for the masque onto the stage. A sneeze could bring the whole thing down, but it looked well enough from a distance. It wouldn't do for it to be too professional; they were gentlemen after all, not players.
Cornets rang out, commanding everyone's attention.
"Your moment has arrived, Mr. Bacon," the queen said. "Now we'll see how well you plot."
A tree made of painted pasteboard revolved on rollers hidden under its leafy stand. As it rotated around, Lord Stephen was revealed, standing with one ankle crossed over the other. He was still clad in shades of green but now had a short parti-colored cloak hung from one shoulder and a pair of pistols stuck in his belt. Francis was startled by that last touch. Where had he gotten pistols? From the privateer's son, no doubt. Trust Clarady to produce such a dangerous and unnecessary embellishment.
"I am the law-lorn Prince of Purpoole, a kingdom without law." Delabere recited his lines in a clear, carrying voice.
Ralegh leaned toward the queen, speaking familiarly across her lap. "Why does our law-lorn prince need to be so well armed, Mr. Bacon?"
"To symbolize lawlessness, of course," Essex responded.
Francis shrugged and shot a sly glance at the queen. "It can be difficult to prevent one's lieutenants from improvising in the field."
Queen Elizabeth laughed aloud and then covered her mouth with her hand as poor Lord Stephen was startled from his speech. She waved at him to continue.
He delivered a few stanzas explaining to the assembly how he had come to disdain the law and its practitioners. The law is cruel and unfeeling. No man may trust in it. Francis heard no snickering and saw no open yawns. The conceit appeared to be mildly amusing even to this jaded audience.
Mr. Trumpington, dressed as a woodland courtier in russet and spruce, strode onto the stage, accompanied by two others similarly arrayed.
The prince addressed him. "Tell me, Baron Scoffington, do you know how many lawyers are wanted to light a lanthorn?"
"Why, none, Your Grace, since the aim of a lawyer is to obscure rather than to bring light."
The audience laughed.
"I mean, how many must be engaged?"
Baron Scoffington shrugged. "How many coins have you?"
More laughter. Francis knew that signaled that the general mood was happy rather than that his jokes were clever, but he was satisfied nevertheless.
"But how many are needed to execute the action?"
Before the baron could answer, several Wild Men dashed in from a side entrance
. "Lawyers are trespassing in our woods!" the one in front cried. Francis recognized Benjamin Whitt under the shaggy croppings of moss and twigs, and grinned. His friend's physique was more robust than one would imagine from his ordinary mode of dress. The Wild Man stalking beside him, growling fiercely, was probably Thomas Clarady, though his face was barely discernible under the layers of forest materials.
Soon the cry was general: "Lawyers! Alack! Alarm! Lawyers in the Kingdom of Purpoole!"
A bass drum rolled thunder through the hall as sheets of silver-white lightning — made of sheerest silk — streaked over the stage. The clumps of yew placed around the edge of the stage were shaken vigorously by their yew-colored bearers.
Many in the audience gasped. The mood darkened. Francis stole a glance at the queen. She was smiling. Good.
The Wild Men prowled about the audience, peering into faces. Wild Man Whitt loomed over Treasurer Fogg, growling and shaking his twiggy head.
Fogg shrank back, raising his hands in mock fear. "Oh, spare me, Dread Savage! I mean you no harm! I merely wandered into your kingdom by chance, pursuing this fair lady."
Whitt bowed to the lady. "See you advance no further into our realm, Counselor."
Lady Rich swatted him with her fan and he flinched and slunk away.
Francis could find no fault with Whitt's performance, but he wasn't happy with the result. Fogg had showed no signs of fear or animosity toward the Wild Man; but then, he wasn't the querulous type. Perhaps if the man had been seated alone and if two of the Wild Men had confronted him simultaneously? Now the moment had passed. What a stupid idea this was!
The third Wild Man lunged, roaring, toward Thomas Hughes, who had volunteered for the role. Hughes shrieked in terror, provoking echoing screams from some of the ladies in the audience. Francis felt a shiver run up his spine and was pleased at the effectiveness of this bit of stagecraft.
Now Whitt and Clarady were prancing along the edges of the audience, chanting, "Here, lawyer, lawyer." Francis had acquired that bit of dialogue from the earl's secretary, who remembered it as a feature of the retainers' story. Their tone was menacing. One could have no doubt of their violent intentions should they succeed in capturing their prey.
A shivery silence fell upon the audience. Francis saw faces drawn with tension as the tall youths stalked the hall, stooping and rumbling and baring their teeth. Clarady thrust his hands toward one of the ancients, making snatching motions. The man shrank back until he pressed against the knees of the man behind him.
Clarady twisted suddenly and bent nearly double to snarl into Humphries's ashen face. "I've got a bone to pick with you, Counselor."
The drum pounded out an ominous roll. Humphries shrieked and sprang to his feet, pushing feebly at Clarady, who laughingly let him escape. Humphries quickly found himself surrounded by leering Wild Men, passing him from one to the other, chanting, "Here, lawyer, lawyer."
The audience laughed in relief from the tension. Someone called out, "Lawyer-baiting: a new sport for the Southwark stews." "Cheaper to feed than bears!" another voice cried, and the laughter rose to the painted stars high overhead.
But Humphries didn't hear them. His face was slack with panic as he tottered from one side of the stage to the other, vainly seeking a gap between his tormentors.
Clarady leapt out from behind Lord Stephen's tree and placed himself directly in front of Humphries. He reached behind him— for a knife? Francis felt a stab of sharp anxiety. He wanted no actual violence here in the Banqueting Hall. But no, what Clarady drew forth was a roll of paper, such as artists use for sketching. He unrolled it in a swift motion and held it before the eyes of the trembling barrister.
The effect was breathtaking. Humphries gasped and stopped so abruptly he rocked back on his heels. He stood panting and shaking his head. Clarady stepped to the edge of the stage to display the sketch to the audience. Everyone gasped as though on a single indrawn breath. Francis was as shocked as the rest. Why hadn't Clarady shown him the sketch earlier?
"Bring that to me," the queen commanded in a carrying voice.
Francis trotted down the aisle and accepted the sketch from Clarady with a severe frown, getting only a self-satisfied flick of the eyebrows in response. Perhaps he had been a trifle demanding, perhaps even a little brusque toward the lad in the past week. If so, he had now been paid in full.
He studied the drawing as he quick-stepped back to the throne. The limner had a superlative talent. She had caught Humphries in a moment of exaltation, kneeling over Smythson's blood-smeared body with his knife still wet in his hand.
As he handed the sketch to the queen with a bow, shouts from the stage drew his attention. "I didn't mean to!" Humphries cried. The Wild Men hemmed him in. "I'm not responsible! He should have helped me instead of blocking my way. It was an accident, I tell you!"
"Was Mr. Shiveley an accident?" Whitt's baritone voice rumbled like the voice of doom itself.
"They chose him instead of me. It wasn't fair! He had everything; I had nothing. Why should he be so favored?"
Humphries skittered toward the edge of the stage and then skipped back from the hissing audience. Clarady and Lord Stephen moved together to flank him. Lord Stephen reached toward him. Humphries jerked away, eyes wild. He dodged under Lord Stephen's arm and snatched a pistol from his belt.
"Look out!"
"He has a gun!"
Screams and shouts erupted from near the stage, traveling back in a wave, as those seated in front jumped to their feet and collided with those behind them. The panicking courtiers were hampered by their oversized ruffs and farthingales. Francis saw a roiling sea of silks and velvets falling from the risers, scrambling into the aisles, crowding against the wall. A pair of courtiers swung their fists at two of the Wild Men, who turned to defend themselves.
Humphries stumbled about on the stage alone, waving the pistol wildly over his head.
"Grab him!"
"Get that weapon!"
A shot boomed, echoing through the hall. Francis felt hotness streak past his cheek. He clutched his chest to support his faltering heart.
"'Ware the queen!"
Ralegh and Essex ran into each other in their haste to protect the queen, knocking Francis right into her lap. Essex dragged him to his feet and shoved him aside while Ralegh scooped the queen into his arms to carry her out of the hall.
"Mr. Bacon," she said over Ralegh's shoulder, "do not expect an invitation to dinner on New Year's Day."
Francis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
CHAPTER 45
Monday morning, Tom, Ben, and Trumpet went out to the fields to practice shooting at the straw butts in the hollow out of sight of the Inn. The day was cold and overcast, and most of Gray's men stayed snugged up in their rooms, but the lads had had few chances for private talk since Christmas Eve, what with their various Misrule duties and the omnipresence of Prattling Prince Stephen at meals.
Trumpet spread a blanket on the ground, and Tom laid out his pistols, a bag of powder, a sack of balls, the cleaning rag and rod, and a bottle of oil. He and Trumpet each took a pistol and began to prepare them for firing.
"What's to become of Mr. Humphries?" Tom asked Ben.
Ben had gone with Mr. Bacon to the Tower, where Humphries had been taken direct from Whitehall. They'd assisted the sheriff in eliciting a full confession of his crimes, including his attempt to poison Clara.
"Once he started talking," Ben said, "I could scarcely write fast enough to keep up. Frank says it's the release of the pressure of secrecy. He's seen it before. He says it's like a dam bursting. Villains often long to confess, to alleviate the torment that preys upon their minds."
"They know they're about to face their final judgment," Tom said. "They want to spare themselves an eternity in hell."
Ben nodded. "He'll face his trial at the start of Hilary Term. There's no doubt about the verdict: guilty on all counts. They found Shiveley's keys hidden at the bottom of his ches
t along with a stock of counterfeit coins."
"Now he can dance the hempen jig alongside the Queen of Scots," Tom said.
"Don't be silly," Trumpet said. "Queens don't hang. She'll have her head cut off in the Tower yard, once Her Majesty makes her mind up to do the deed." She took careful aim, holding the pistol in her right hand, arm fully extended. She didn't seem to notice that the tip of the muzzle was wobbling.
Tom was getting used to switching pronouns when thinking about Trumpet. In public, she was he. In private, he was she. They'd let Ben in on the secret as they'd walked home from Whitehall after the excitement on Christmas Eve. So much had happened that evening, this fresh revelation barely earned a grunt of surprise.
Trumpet's shot missed the butt entirely. "It's this blighted pistol." She frowned into the barrel.
"No, it's you." Tom took the pistol from her and reloaded it. "It's too heavy for you. The barrel wobbles and you twitch your wrist before you pull the trigger. Try using both hands."
He gave it back to her then cupped her left hand under her right to support the wrist. His hands were half again as large as hers. The difference pleased him for no reason. "Try that."
She stood with her left foot forward this time and fired again. She was still wide of the mark, but the bullet raised a tuft of straw from the outer corner of the butt. She growled like a kitten and then asked, "How's Clah-rah?" She'd taken to overpronouncing the name in a pseudo-imitation of Stephen. Tom smelled jealousy, which pleased and alarmed him in a discomfiting mix. Things had been simpler when Trumpet had been only a boy.
Ben picked up the other pistol. He made sure the pan cover was shut and the dog pulled back, then took aim and fired. "This one definitely pulls to the right."
"Ha," Trumpet said.
Tom took the pistol from Ben, grateful for the distraction, and began to clean it. He was still sorting out his feelings in this area. "Clara is well. Or she was when I handed her into Lady Nottingham's carriage yesterday."