Just like me, I thought, but remembered in time not to say so. Such accomplishments would seem very odd in a hired cookmaid.
“Dr. Barley is old and retired,” Ambrosia said, with affection in her voice, “but before he left he told me to keep up the Latin he taught me, and Father lets me read a little most afternoons when we all have some time off. That’s because the university insists on the shop being closed, if the students are to come here. Did you know that was the reason?”
“Yes. Master Jester explained that. I can understand your liking for books,” I said, thinking with sudden wistfulness of Withysham, and those peaceful hours of reading with Meg.
“My father wants me to be happy, really,” Ambrosia said earnestly. “But he wants the business to prosper, too, and to feel safe from poverty.”
It wasn’t my business. The Jesters weren’t my family. I said no more.
On the day when the students came in, Phoebe and I were told to serve them and I tried to seize the chance to talk to them, but Jester caught me wasting time, as he put it, and promised me a drastic beating with a wooden ladle if I did it again. When I told him that my cousin Roger would half kill him if he did, he laughed.
“Masters have rights over servants. Your cousin’s a servant hisself and he knows,” he told me.
One day, I said grimly to myself as I went down the steep wooden stairs on that third morning, one day, please God, may I see Master Jester weeping at my feet and begging my pardon.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, unexpected noises of thumps and bumps and male expletives reached my ears. I started interestedly toward them, rounded an awkward corner where the passageway bent and narrowed, and almost collided with Phoebe as she emerged from the storeroom with a pile of aprons. The living quarters of the pie shop were neatly enough arranged above stairs, where the bedchambers and parlor were, but on the ground floor, the storeroom, which housed the linen and some odd pieces of furniture—Jester put extra tables in the shop at busy seasons—had apparently been pushed in as an afterthought between pantry and stairs. It stuck out into the passage and people were forever bumping into each other at that corner. Whoever had designed the building had been less than perfect at his job.
This time, having edged around Phoebe, I discovered Wat and Jester crossing the passage between the shop and the kitchen and carrying one of the benches from the shop between them. They disappeared through the kitchen, Wat walking backward and being exhorted not to knock into things, and I heard the door to the backyard being kicked open.
Investigating further, I found that early though it was, a cartload of new tables and settles, elaborately carved with leaves and fruit, was being brought in, while the old furniture was being carried out, and that a carpenter was also busy putting up a screen to shield customers in the shop from a view of the kitchen.
“If great folk from the court come in,” said Wat, reappearing in the shop, “we ’on’t want ’em able to look across the passage right to where the cookin’ goes on. They’ll want to eat their pies, Maister says, not watch the maids rollin’ pastry and stirrin’ the cauldrons.”
“No more they will,” snapped Jester, stumping back into the shop. “And they’ll want decent benches to sit on, not ones that put splinters in their fingers. I’ll chop the old stuff up for firewood this very day; useful, that’ll be. What you gawpin’ at, Mistress Ursula? Sometimes you act as if you thought you were a fine lady instead of a cookmaid. Get back inside and start seein’ to they fowl. We got three customers want pies delivered in time for dinner, an’ when I promise to send things round in time, I mean in time!” He sounded thoroughly irritable. I went to work in a hurry.
Sometime later, when I had my hand inside a chicken, trying to get a grip on what seemed to be extraordinarily well-anchored innards, Jester came into the kitchen and said shortly: “You and Phoebe’ll do all the servin’ again this mornin’. One o’ they students just came by and they’d all be in again afore noon today an’ I ’on’t have Ambrosia out there when that fellow Shawe’s there. You hear that, Ambrosia? You’ll stop in the kitchen.”
Ambrosia, who was by the fire, stirring a pan of stock with a long-handled spoon, nodded without speaking.
I did not speak either, but I was thinking quickly. Today I would have another chance to talk to the students. Somehow or other, whatever Jester did to me, I must make use of it.
Time was pressing. The queen would be here in little more than a week. I knew now that Jester wouldn’t tolerate gossip, so there was no question of casually talking to the students, winning their confidence, and dropping a few well-chosen questions in. This was not a prey that could be stalked with too much caution. This time, the huntress must show herself and hope to start the quarry out of covert.
7
Assignation
“ … and if you muddle your lines again, young Morland,” the metallic-haired Thomas Shawe said, swallowing a mouthful of chicken pie and banging ominously on the top of one of the brandnew tables with the hilt of his meat knife, “one of us will do it instead. The name of the lady who is presenting the flowers is Mistress Smithson—Smithson, not Smitherson—and your first words are Your most gracious majesty, not Your m … m … most glori-gracious majesty. You look right for the part but what use is that if you stammer? Why do you stammer? I don’t stammer!” He certainly didn’t. Thomas’s voice was as resonant and unhesitating as though he had spent his life as a strolling player. He waved impatiently toward me as I was handing a supply of pies to Wat at the street counter. “More bread, my wench! Francis Morland’s got to feed his brain!”
“And his tongue!” said one of the others.
I fetched the bread very quickly, only too glad of another legitimate chance to get near to my quarry. As I put it on the table, the youthful Morland was going once more through his speech for the playlet. He hadn’t all that much to say, as the play was mainly action. Apparently, the gang of students—there were five of them—were to be dressed as wild rustics, in green and brown breeches and jerkins, with leaves in their hair and earth smeared on their faces. As soon as Mistress Smithson of Cambridge had presented her flowers to the queen, they would rush up to the dais, pushing aside a few other people, students and townsfolk, who were to be placed there for the purpose of being pushed, and then they would halt, and bow most humbly and Master Morland, who was tall and comely and would indeed look impressive as a leader of wild men or outlaws, would declare that they were dazzled by Elizabeth’s splendor and would never never offer any offense to her person, but, oh, would she heed their pleas and let them take Her Majesty’s handmaiden Mistress Smithson away with them as a keepsake.
It was in my opinion a very silly speech and a reason in its own right for jettisoning the entire performance. Once it was over, Dudley, who would be at Elizabeth’s side, would spring gallantly to the defense of the handmaiden and Thomas would engage him in their brief pretend duel, and while they were thus occupied, the other students, winking and nudging to draw the attention of the crowd to their cleverness, would whisk the lady away into the pie shop where refreshments would await her, and musicians would play to her to soothe her alarm.
No one had suggested that she should take part in the rehearsals. She would be warned—probably on the day itself—of what was to happen and had only to accept events in good part. Even the students, I gathered, had never seen her.
“Your most gracious majesty,” Morland was reciting nervously. “Light of our firmament and guiding star that shines through the leaves of the forest to lead forlorn souls such as we back through the night to our bleak campfires, behold the humblest of your servants, wild men who for their many sins must dwell in the greenwood far from all the comforts of … of …”
“Hearth and home,” said Thomas Shawe irritably.
“… heart and home …”
“Angels have mercy on us all. Hearth and home!”
“… hearth and home and the bright eyes of fair ladies …”
/> I was here beside their table. Roland Jester was busy somewhere else and couldn’t see me. If this wasn’t an opportunity, nothing was.
“I’m not surprised Master Morland is nervous,” I said brightly, acting the chatty maidservant. “What an honor, to perform before the queen’s own self! Aren’t you nervous, too, Master Shawe? Suppose something goes wrong! Suppose the swordfight goes amiss and a blade gets too near the queen? Ooh!” I made big eyes at Thomas. “You could end up charged with treason!”
So much of my work, so often, meant listening to conversations that told me nothing, reading letters of no importance, asking questions that failed to get interesting answers, angling for confidences that no one wanted to make. But now and then—just occasionally—the sweet goddess of luck would smile, and the quarry would not only break from the covert but jump straight into my arms.
I saw Thomas Shawe’s face change. Unexpectedly, the self-confident young cockerel who didn’t stammer and couldn’t understand why anyone else did, faded out. In its place was a youth whose bold talk was for his peers; who used it to hide his secret shyness and doubts of himself. I was suddenly very aware, as I had been with Ambrosia, that I was at least ten years his senior.
“There are times,” he blurted, “when I wish I’d never started this business.”
Carefully, I said: “My cousin Master Brockley, who brought me to Cambridge, has taken service with a courtier—a Master Henderson, who is one of those overseeing preparations for the queen. If you’re worried about anything, my cousin would advise you and help you to speak with Master Henderson if you wanted to.”
Thomas seemed to shrink into himself. “I’ve seen Master Henderson. He’s talked to us all. If I had anything to tell him, I’d have done it then. I haven’t. I’m not worried about anything. At least, not anything serious.” But his eyes were saying otherwise. I kept my own gaze on his face. He stood up abruptly. “We’d better practice the sword fight before we’re too full of food to move. I’ve got permission to use the roped-off space outside, in front of where the platform is going to be, so we can do it properly. We’ll come back to finish eating, but I’ll settle up now. This is on me, lads. What do we owe?”
I told him and he paid. I looked at him again and felt that he was trying to give me an unspoken message but I didn’t know what it was. I wanted to say something to encourage him but he moved off to the door with the others and I could not pursue him without being obvious. Disappointed, I turned to go back to the kitchen. I had heard Roland Jester’s voice in there and knew I must not linger. But as I made to go around the end of the newly erected screen, I heard footsteps behind me and turned around again to find Thomas on my heels, holding out a coin.
“I forgot your gratuity. Here.” Then, with his other hand, he caught my wrist and with a quick glance toward the kitchen, drew me into the shelter of the screen.
“I don’t want to talk to Master Henderson. He’s a courtier.” He looked at me shyly, all his boldness gone. “My family’s got land, enough to let out a couple of farms, but we’re only small gentry—Father calls himself a yeoman farmer. Anyhow, we’re not court folk and I don’t feel easy with them. Master Henderson said we had a responsibility for the queen’s safety and to tell him if anything’s on our minds but I’d be afraid to go to him. I might be all wrong. I want to talk to someone but I might get into trouble for saying things … and I might upset Ambrosia … she and I, we’re …”
With a finger on my lips I signaled that he should keep his voice down. “My cousin is very discreet,” I whispered, “and he knows Master Henderson well, truly. Tell me what the matter is and I’ll pass it on. I’ll say I just heard it from a student. I won’t mention your name. No one would blame you for wanting to be careful, when the queen herself is involved.”
“I suppose that’s so.” Thomas’s expression was wistful. “I’d like to talk to you,” he whispered back. “You’re a woman and it doesn’t seem so official … and I’d like to talk to someone. Only I need time to explain—it’s complicated. Could you get away very early tomorrow morning? Say, at five?”
“Not in the morning,” I whispered. “What about the afternoon?” A din broke out in the street, of clashing staves accompanied by shouts and laughter. The rehearsal had begun. A clerkly man in the usual dark gown, who was sitting by himself at a nearby table and trying to read a book while eating his pie, jumped and tutted, but Thomas flashed a smile at him and reluctantly, he smiled back.
“Pity,” Thomas said to me. “I keep a horse in Cambridge and I exercise it early. My mare’s a placid old nag but she needs her daily trot and canter. But the afternoon might do—say about three of the clock? Tomorrow—not today.” Boylike, he forgot once more to keep his voice down and again I put my finger to my lips. “I’m seeing my tutor in the afternoon today,” he explained in a whisper.
“Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?” I was careful to keep my voice low. “Yes. I think so.”
“By the river? People are always strolling there. We could meet by chance, as it were. Just for a few minutes. You’ll really come?”
I nodded.
“God bless you,” he said. The racket outside crescendoed again and the clerk once more looked annoyed. “I’m sorry about all that noise,” Thomas said to him, letting his voice reach its normal pitch. “We’re a spirited lot, we students.”
The clerkly individual snorted but once more, reluctantly, let himself smile. “I was the same once,” he remarked. “One grows out of it.”
Thomas laughed. Then, with a last nod to me, he hurried out of the shop. No one else needed serving; indeed, there were only three people left altogether, the clerk and a couple of very young students sitting in a corner. Customers tended to take themselves off when Thomas Shawe and his noisy band of friends were there. I picked up some used wooden platters and empty tankards from nearby tables, carried them into the kitchen, and set about washing them. Jester was taking a batch of pies out of the oven. “Anyone out in the shop that wants anything?”
“Not just now,” I said. “Though the students will be back in a little while.”
“They’re more trouble than they’re worth, sometimes,” Jester grumbled. He scowled at the pies, which were slightly overdone, and when Phoebe accidentally clattered her pans, turned on her with a petulant recommendation to be more careful or he’d clip her ear for her. I attended to my washing up, trying not to draw attention to myself.
The rest of the day dragged but at least, at last, I was on the track of information. Next morning, I was up at four and was in the kitchen preparing the stockpot and the bread oven well ahead of Ambrosia, and even of Master Jester, who came downstairs as usual just before five to find half the early-morning tasks already done. He actually raised an approving eyebrow. “You’re up betimes. That’s good. You can take your breakfast sitting down while I get on with killing the capons and that goose that’s just about ready for eating. Here’s Ambrosia. Want your breakfast, girl?”
We broke our fast in comfort for once, joined after a while by Phoebe and Wat, and set about our morning’s chores with all the better will for it. I was tending the stewpot and Ambrosia was out in the shop, sweeping the floor and humming as she worked, when someone pounded on the shutters that closed off the front of the shop from the street.
“Lord save us, who’s that bangin’ on the shutter at this hour?” Jester, who was making out a market list on a slate, looked up in surprise. “Ambrosia!” he shouted. “Go and open up and see who that is!”
We heard Ambrosia pull back the bolts of the shutters and speak to someone. Then we heard her cry out.
Jester dropped his slate, I dropped my spoon, and together we tore into the shop, Phoebe and Wat crowding after us. Ambrosia was standing there, tears pouring down her half-ugly, half-attractive face, and wailing that something couldn’t be so, couldn’t have happened, please, please tell her that it wasn’t true! Beside her, awkwardly patting her shoulder with one hand and clutching his ha
t in the other, was Francis Morland. “I’m afraid it is true. I knew …” He glanced at Jester and started stammering again. “I … kn … knew he’d w … want someone to tell you. So I came. I’m so … so sorry. Something must have frightened his horse, it seems. He … he can’t have known much about it. He was thrown headfirst into a tree. He m … must have been killed at once.”
“Who?” I asked. I didn’t stop to wonder if it was my place to ask questions, but this time no one was worrying about such niceties.
“Thomas Shawe,” said Morland miserably. “Thomas Shawe is dead.”
According to Francis Morland, Thomas had gone out as he usually did, early in the morning, to exercise his mare. “The groom at Radley’s says he always collects her at five, and that this time was the same as always.”
Before half past five, it seemed, she had come back without him, and since his route was known, the groom had gone to search for him. In King’s Grove, a patch of woodland on the far side of the river, he had found Thomas lying at the foot of a tree. The poor boy had now been carried to King’s Chapel, Morland said, and his parents were being sent for.
Ambrosia begged to be allowed to see him but her father would have none of it. “I’m sorry you’re upset, girl. Anyone’ud be upset, hearin’ of a young fellow dead like that. But for all your girlish dreams, he’s naught to you and …”
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