by Anna Castle
“I offer my deepest condolences, Tom. If there’s anything I can do . . .” An empty offer. What could anyone do at such a time?
Silence fell. Trumpet’s feet shifted in the rushes on the floor. Voices rose from the yard below. Ben cleared his throat with a gulp, then winced at the loudness of the sound.
Francis contemplated the display of weapons on the inner wall — not heraldic, merely those the lads employed in regular exercise, but perhaps more impressive on that account. Both men owned longbows, whose use was still encouraged by conservative men like Ben’s father. Both men owned rapiers, which they were forbidden by the rules of Gray’s Inn to wear in public. The rules did not prevent members from taking fencing lessons, nor indeed from wearing the things as they pleased and paying the fine. Tom owned two pistols, taken from a Spanish ship by his father some years ago. Recently, he had also acquired a longer instrument called a harquebus, which appeared to be a sort of cannon small enough to be carried by a man.
The chapel bell rang the quarter hour, jolting everyone out of their private thoughts. Tom looked at Francis and said, “What’s happened?”
Everyone stared at him blankly. “Tom?” Trumpet peered at him, placing her palm across his brow.
He shook it off. “Go sit down, why don’t you? I’m fine.” She quirked her lips, but went to perch on the edge of the narrow bed with her hands on her knees. Tom said, “When Mr. Bacon came in, he was saying Ben wouldn’t believe what has happened. So what is it?”
Francis waved his hands. “Nothing for you to worry about now. There’s been another murder, that’s all. Ben and I will cope with it tomorrow somehow.”
“I’ll help,” Tom said. “I want to work. What can I do?”
Ben said, “No, Tom. You must go home. You must go tell your mother.”
“Ah, my mother!” Tom clapped both hands to his face in dismay. “She doesn’t know yet!”
“She knows,” Dirimara said, “unless there was a storm. The boatswain found a boat Monday morning that go to Weymouth, where lives his second wife and other wives of our crew. He said he would speak to the wife of our captain first. He would see her yesterday, perhaps the day before. I lost two days in search of you.”
“You should go anyway,” Francis said. “She’ll need your comfort.”
Tom stared at him with narrowed eyes, but his gaze seemed focused inward. Then he turned his face to the window and stared at Bacon’s building across the passage. Finally, he turned back to the others and said, “No. I won’t go. It’s the fifteenth already; term starts in two weeks. I can’t get home and back in two weeks, not and do more than kiss my mother once and turn right around. She has my sisters and their families, as well as her own sisters and Uncle Luke. Her house will be packed with friends and relations and sailors’ families for the next month.” He pounded his fist on his desk. “I mean to stay at Gray’s. I’ll stay the course my father set for me. I’ll work harder than ever and I’ll excel. Mark my words. I’ll be called to the bar the first day I’m eligible and I’ll be knighted before I’m thirty.”
Francis understood what drove his determination. Might his will persist and his hopes be fulfilled! Francis’s father’s death had inspired him to fling himself into the study of the law and made him equally resolved to succeed at court. He hadn’t yet, but he hadn’t turned thirty yet either. He smiled to think that Tom, of all people, could have shown him the silver lining on that omnipresent cloud.
“Let’s have some more beer,” Tom said. “Let’s get this murder business sorted out once and for all.”
Ben asked, “Are you sure?”
Tom rolled his eyes at him. “Of course I’m sure. Do you think I want more deaths on my head?”
Francis agreed. Work was better for a man of Tom’s vigorous nature than lying on a bed in a darkened room. “I applaud your commitment, although I’m not sure what our next step should be. A step of some kind must be taken, however. I’ve had a visitor this afternoon as well, though not as interesting as yours.” He glanced at Dirimara, who had settled on a stool beside the brick-lined hearth. “Mine was one Lady Lambert, whose husband Sir James was murdered in his bed on Tuesday night, in a manner that sounds identical to the other cases we have met.”
“What about the chapel?” Trumpet asked.
“They had no chapel,” Francis said. “Nor was anything stolen other than Sir James’s rosary.”
“Another rosary,” Ben said.
“But no burglary?” Tom cocked his head at Trumpet. Their eyes met for a long moment while they conducted a silent debate. It ended when Trumpet shrugged one shoulder and said, “Why not? Everything has changed.”
“Nothing’s changed.” Tom spoke too loudly.
After a pause, Ben said softly, “I’m afraid that’s not quite true, Tom. At least not for you. You won’t be twenty-one until December. And didn’t you tell me once that part of your estate, when you came of age, would include manors your grandfather bought from the dissolution of Tarrant Abbey?”
“Church properties?” Francis asked. “That does indeed change your circumstances, Tom. You are now a ward of the queen.”
Trumpet nodded. No doubt she remembered some part of what he’d taught them about wardship. Tom hadn’t paid much attention to his studies back then, being distracted by the multitudinous diversions available in London. “Perhaps you should refresh our memory,” she said diplomatically.
Francis nodded. “When King Henry dissolved the monasteries, church lands were sold into private hands under terms of knight service. Originally, such feudal duties obliged the landowner to supply a specified number of knights when called upon to defend the realm. Over time, that obligation was commuted to a monetary payment, which has now devolved to a nominal annual fee, often paid in the form of a New Year’s gift to the queen. The feudal relationship still obtains, however, which means the monarch has certain rights with respect to wardship and the marriages of heirs.”
“Marriages of heirs,” Trumpet said. “Is that why the queen gets to approve my choice of husband?”
Francis flapped a hand at her foolish question. “The monarch’s approval is a matter of course for a person of your rank, my lady.”
A broad smile creased the stranger’s face as he regarded Trumpet with frank interest. “This England is very different from my home.” He had apparently not discerned her actual sex until this moment. That made Francis feel better for not apprehending it earlier himself.
“Never mind that,” Tom said. “What does it mean to be a ward of the queen? I don’t want to get married; not yet. Not for years. I want to stay at Gray’s. She won’t send me home, will she? I can’t miss a whole term!”
“You will stay here, I’m certain —” No, in truth, he could not be at all certain. A man needed a good sixty pounds a year to reside in an Inn of Court with dignity. Tom’s new guardian might put him on a too-tight allowance, forcing him to return to Dorset. Although if the guardian were to alter the ward’s circumstances so noticeably to his detriment, the Master of Wards — who happened to be Francis’s uncle, Lord Burghley — might object.
Francis groaned inwardly. Wardship cases were always complex and acrimonious. He smiled at Tom to excuse the long pause. “I believe you will be allowed to remain at Gray’s in more or less the same condition, although you should probably prepare yourself for some reduction of funds. The queen herself will not be your guardian, Tom. Your wardship is a marketable commodity. Your father’s estate is worth how much? A thousand pounds per annum, wasn’t it?”
“Seven or eight,” Tom said. “What do you mean by ‘marketable’?”
“I mean it will be sold. Wardships are a steady source of income for the crown.” And for Francis’s uncle, who had built his palace at Theobalds with fees from the Court of Wards.
Tom shrugged. “I’ll lose a few hundred pounds, then. There are always fees. But it would only be for a few months. When I turn twenty-one, it will all become mine, apart from my mother�
��s jointure and my sisters’ portions. There are some other small bequests, but the bulk of the estate comes to me.”
Francis pursed his lips and hummed a cautionary note. Ben cleared his throat and got up to fill cups again. Trumpet clucked her tongue and said, “I don’t think it’s always quite so simple.”
“What do you mean?” Tom glared at each of them individually. The Indian, from some partisan impulse, mirrored the look, making Francis distinctly uncomfortable.
He kept half a wary eye on the stranger as he explained. “Once a guardian gains control of your properties, he or she can be difficult to dislodge. In a case such as this, when you have little influence and your guardian will likely be a person of considerable influence, you may be compelled to sue for your rights. As you know, such suits can drag on for years.”
“That’s not fair,” Tom said.
Francis shrugged. Surely the lad had learned by now that fairness and the law were the merest acquaintances. “You might be able to buy it back, but the guardian will demand a healthy profit. I would expect to pay twice his expenditures, which in your case will be a year’s income plus an entry fine of several hundred pounds.”
“So all I have to do between now and December is come up with two thousand pounds in ready money?” Tom sounded as if he believed that was possible.
Francis rolled his eyes at the impertinent tone. He had no responsibility for the outcroppings of archaic practice dotting the landscape of the English legal system. If he had, rest assured, the common law would include more common sense.
“Who do you think will get it?” Ben asked. “And when will the bidding start?”
“It’s started already,” Francis said. “I’m sure someone down there in the yard has already run to Burghley House with the news.”
Everyone turned to stare out the windows as if they could see the rumors flying past. Francis wished he could be the messenger; this plum was very juicy.
Wait — why shouldn’t he be? It wouldn’t take long to dash down to Burghley House. He could drop by Leicester House on the way back and leave a message for his Lord of Essex, or even speak with him, if luck should so transpire. What purpose would it serve for him to sit here with the others all evening? He wasn’t really a member of their intimate circle, and he was useless in matters of strong emotion, as they well knew.
“When?” Tom asked. “I mean, what happens next?”
“Nothing but rumors and letters to my uncle for a week or two until the survey of the estate is completed. Then my uncle will consider all the proposals and grant the wardship to the winner. As for who, it will certainly be a courtier. By tradition, only courtiers can address the Master of Wards on such matters, so they tend to get in first. For an estate of this size, I would expect a member of the nobility to win out. The size of the bribe is important, but other factors such as favors owed and favors performed also have weight.” Francis shifted in his chair, half turning toward the door. “You know, I really ought —”
“Mr. Bacon!” Trumpet scolded, but Tom said, “Go. Get me a good one.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After Bacon left, Tom got up and paced around the room. His heart felt too big for his body. He needed to walk off some of the pressure. He wished he had someone to fight or something big to break, but he didn’t want to alarm his friends. They were already worried enough. He took his lute off its peg and hung it back; he took down a pistol and flipped it in his hand a time or two, then put it back too. He wandered over to the shelves and ruffled through a stack of Ben’s broadsides until he saw an illustration of a mermaid with a beard. That didn’t help at all. His friends watched him in silence.
Then an idea came to him. He clapped his hands together, the smack of sound echoing off the plastered ceiling and walls. “I want a feast! I want a pheasant. A big, fat one, roasted, with four different sauces. And brawn and pigeons and rabbit pie, and —” He snapped his fingers at Trumpet. “Marzipan for the lady. Lots of it, with raspberries and sweet cream.”
The others gaped at him as if he had lost his mind. He put his hands on his hips and scoffed at them. “Have you never heard of a funeral feast? My father’s been dead for . . .” He swallowed hard. “Gone for four days. It’s time for his feast — past time. Let’s go to the Antelope.” He strode to the door and opened it wide.
Dirimara walked out without pause or fuss, possibly thinking the antelope would be on the table instead of housing it. Ben and Trumpet grumbled about like old people while they collected their hats and oddments. What did they need? He would pay for everything. Best to enjoy himself while he still could, hey? He’d leave the bill for his future guardian to settle up.
He herded them down the stairs and through the back passage to Holborn Road. Mrs. Sprye met them as they filed into the tavern. She watched him with concern in her wise hazel eyes as he ordered the best of everything to be served as soon as might be, in the same room they’d used the week before. She led them up the stairs. Tom flung wide the door and ushered his guests inside with a cheery, “Let the feast begin!” Then he closed the door behind them and turned to Mrs. Sprye. “My father’s dead.”
He burst into tears, gushing like a bilge pump. She wrapped her arms around him and held him for a long time, patting him on the back and whispering, “There, there, now, Tom. Shh, shh, shh.” Gradually, the flow abated. Tom stepped back and cleared his throat. He started to wipe his nose on his sleeve, but she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to him. “Keep it. You may need it again tonight.”
He thanked her and shook himself, squaring his shoulders. He found his smile and went in to join his friends, flinging the door open with a flourish. “Holla, ye pampered jades of Asia!”
They laughed far longer than the overused quote from Tamburlaine deserved. He supposed they’d heard him out there sobbing like a girl, but somehow it seemed to have made them feel better too.
Mrs. Sprye said, “I’ll see what I can do about a pheasant.”
“One more thing, Madam, if it please you,” Tom said. “No, two. First, would you send one of your men to Gray’s to invite Mr. Bacon to join us as soon as he returns? Tell him that if wants to be the chief counsel in my future suit against my future guardian, he’ll be sure to accept.” He grinned his cheekiest grin at her and she slapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“What else, Mr. Clarady? Would you like the Lord Treasurer to join you as well?”
“No, Mistress, I imagine he’s busy. But would you have your man go on to Chadwick House to bring back Catalina Luna? Ask her to bring Trumpet’s craftswoman’s clothes, the ones she wore in Cambridge.” He turned the cheeky grin toward Trumpet. “My favorite.”
Mrs. Sprye left, closing the door behind her. Tom’s friends had saved him the seat his father had occupied the last time they’d supped in this chamber. He nodded his approval as he took his place. Ben sat across from him with Trumpet at his side; two better friends no man had ever had. Dirimara sat next to Ben, seeming as much at ease in this well-appointed dining room as he had been in Tom’s chambers. The dark little man had an air of self-sufficiency — quiet, nonthreatening, but not a man you’d choose to meddle with.
Tom studied him from across the table. “Tell me, Dirimara. What can I do for you? You went to some trouble to bring me this hard news, instead of leaving me to hear it through gossip or from some cold authority. It would have been bitter indeed to learn of my father’s death only when my new guardian showed up to throw me out of my rooms.”
“You owe me nothing.” Dirimara rose to his feet and bowed. “I place myself at the service of the son of Captain Valentine Clarady, a man who saved my life when I nearly died from melancholy.”
“Oh. Ha. Well, that’s generous of you.” Tom fingered his earring, but the touch of it made him sad again. “The thing of it is, my friend, I’m not so much in a position to accept your service at the present juncture. I mean to stay at Gray’s until they drag me out in a cart and our chambers are a bit
cramped as it is.”
“I comprehend you. I will feast with you this night and then continue on my own quest.” Dirimara sat down again.
“What is your quest?” Tom asked.
“That is a long story, son of my captain. Not fit for tonight. Perhaps one day I will tell it to you.” Dirimara’s black eyes glittered with some private fervor.
“When did you join my father’s crew?”
“Last year, in a place near the Sea of the Antilles called Maracaibo. That too is a long story.”
Tom met his obsidian gaze again and nodded. They would meet again, he had no doubt, and then he would hear these stories. “You’ll know where to find me.”
The servers came in with wine and cups and plates of bread and savories to tide them over while the main meal was being prepared. Tom waited until they had gone, then raised his cup. “To my father — the greatest privateer who ever sailed the seven seas!”
The others raised their cups and cried, “To Captain Clarady!”
Tom and Dirimara traded stories about the times they’d each spent with the captain aboard the Susannah or in the many ports they’d visited. Ben and Trumpet listened with evident pleasure, asking lots of questions, even about stories they’d heard before from Tom.
During a pause while the servers brought in a course of boiled meats and pigeon pie, Ben asked, “Do you want to talk about the wardship?”
“No. I’ll wait and see who I have to deal with.”
Trumpet asked, “Do you trust Mr. Bacon to look out for your interests?”
“I do,” Tom said, “especially when they march together with his. He benefits from my prosperity in all sorts of little ways, from my tutoring fees to the books I buy for him, knowing he’ll never pay me back. And deep down, in his own way, I believe he cares about my general welfare.”