by Karen Harper
Old advice he’d heard as a child from other anglers came back to him. Don’t tense up. Don’t look down. Remember to breathe. If only he could find a window open at this height. Otherwise, sliding down that distant drainpipe would be the only option.
The late-afternoon traffic in the street below began to make him dizzy. Foot travelers, carts, horses, wagons, people with supplies for the palace, streamed by. Down the way he noted the guards on the palace gate where Cecil had gotten him in when he came back to London with high hopes just a fortnight ago. Now he was high, but his hopes were—
“Look! A lad up on the gate! Look, Evan!”
Others gazed up, gawking, pointing, calling out to him. Their voices blurred. Were they saying “Jump” or “Don’t jump”? The guards on the gate looked his way. Though they didn’t leave their posts, he assumed they would summon someone, and soon Cecil would have him caged again. He tried to anchor his back and shoulders to the wall to risk motioning the crowd away, but their noise and numbers grew. Did they think he was performing for their pleasure?
And then he saw a man looking up at him from the sea of faces. It was the one he’d been sure was after him in Dover, even in London. A swarthy man—perhaps the Italian in the Riverside Inn at Mortlake—staring up with a smirk that seemed to scream, I’ve got you now! Could he be the fire-mirror murderer, meant to torment and threaten Gil to silence—or kill him—and he’d simply missed so far?
“But you said young Percy Mooring died,” Elizabeth protested as old Beeson led her around the edge of the town green toward the church.
“Aye, but you can still pay your respects,” he told her. “He’s in here, his mortal remains at least, and a lot can be read from that.”
“His tomb, you mean?” she asked as Jenks leaped ahead to open the church door Beeson headed for. “With an epitaph perhaps? How did he die, Master Beeson?”
“When you see it all, I’ll tell you all,” he said, and shuffled inside.
It was dim within the church, lit only by natural light from narrow windows. A chill seemed to seep from the cold stone bones of the arches and pillars. Creeping in from somewhere, a draft breathed in their faces to stir hair and garments. She saw few memorials carved into the paving stones to signify crypts beneath, and fewer effigies on graves above the flagstone floor.
But one ornate and grand tomb stood out. In finely carved stone, it was the life-size effigy of a boy, lying on his back and staring upward with his hands stiffly pressed together in perpetual prayer. As with many of the fine tombs in St. Paul’s and Westminster in London, the figure was painted in lifelike colors. A long Latin inscription snaked around the big black stone casket on which the effigy lay as if it were a bed.
“That,” Beeson said, and his voice echoed strangely as they approached the tomb, “is how much they loved him.”
“‘Percival Mooring, departed this mortal life at ten years of age,’” she translated the Latin script. “‘Died defending his home which was under attack’? A mere boy defended Cuddington, Master Beeson? Will you tell us the story you promised?” she asked, gripping the ornate iron rail which encircled the monument.
“You asked, milady,’bout the man-made hillocks and remnants of stones. The lad loved to play gallant knight and soldier. So his father built him three small stone towers, he did, two on gentle rises and one in the meadow. Master Percy pretended to guard Cuddington manor house—this was e’en before they knew the king would take it. And on the very day the king’s men rode in to tell the Moorings all must be swept away, Master Percy threw stones at one of the royal surveyors striding around the grounds.”
“The king’s men surely did not hurt the boy!” she cried.
“Of course they did, though not the way you mean. See, in throwing stones, he tumbled down and broke his neck. I think that broke Master John’s spirit to fight back, though he cursed the king, and Mistress Malinda threw her mirror at them and cursed them too.”
“Threw her mirror?”
“Oh, aye, bad luck, curses on them, you know. She was the loveliest of women, though my wife used to say all she did was comb her long hair in the sun and look into that mirror.”
“And the mirror broke to curse the king?”
“No, saw what happened myself, I did. It landed in the grass and didn’t break at all.”
“But all the Moorings are dead now, are they not?”
“So’s I heard. The daughter not so long ago, maybe two years, the others earlier, and none of them but the boy buried here. Should have been interred in the church at Cuddington, course, but that was …”
“ … To be torn down,” Elizabeth finished as if in chorus with him. She gripped the metal railing around the monument even harder. “Such tragedy,” she whispered.
“My lady Bess,” Jenks said, his voice somber, “you don’t think the so-called running boy in the woods could be related to this dead boy Percy do you?”
“I told you, we are putting stock not in ghosts but in reality, man.”
“What running boy?” Beeson asked. “Never heard of no running boy ghost round these parts. If there be ghosts, they’re over there at Nonsuch, on the site of the old Cuddington church with its graves disturbed. Read more of those Latin words there, milady.”
With a shudder that was not from the physical chill of this place, Elizabeth read the rest of the script on the tomb, translating it aloud for everyone: “‘Beloved son, not even to lie with his ancestors in the Cuddington church to be torn down.’ Oh, look,” Elizabeth said, “they’ve carved a dog at his feet on this side.” She turned the corner of the rectangular monument. “And who is this little boy here at Percy’s feet opposite the dog—his playfellow?”
She had to squeeze her skirts between the church wall and the monument to see better. It was so dim here, yet even as the others pressed closer, she recognized what the carving depicted.
Both hands flew to cover her open mouth. What a fool she’d been! This was not the statue of another boy. Why hadn’t she thought of this possibility?
“If you mean the dwarf,” Beeson said, edging around behind her, “that’s the children’s playfellow, Dench Barlow. I know I told you to keep clear of Nonsuch forest, but Dench lives out there somewheres, has for years. Never was quite right in the head since young Percy got kilt and Cuddington ripped down. No one’s seen him much in years,’cept recently.”
“You’ve seen him recently?” she blurted before she realized she should not have put it that way.
“I heard,” Beeson said, “he played a drum and cavorted for a few coins with a traveling players group what’s been in the area off and on.”
Gil froze in fear. Master Giorgio had sent someone to silence him about the way he and some other Italian artists rigged mirrors not only to copy paintings but to create realistic portraits from life. Their secret was to have been shared with Gil only after he took a blood oath never to reveal it to others, but he’d fled before that, and—in trying to overhear information for the queen—he’d seen how the so-called camera obscura with its mirror and darkroom worked. And so this man must be an assassin sent after him.
At that instant, as the swarthy man began to push his way through the crowd, a hay wain, probably carting its pile of feed for the royal stables, passed under the gate. It was going the wrong direction, but Gil saw it as his only chance.
Feet extended, he threw himself out and jumped into it.
Despite the amount of hay, he landed hard on his back. He sucked in a huge breath of chaff and dust. Trying to ignore the pain in his bad leg, he rolled out of the wain and bolted back the other way, pushing through people, though the gate. Behind him, some laughed, some cheered.
He turned toward the river, for the crowd coming up from the public landing was thicker. He plunged through them, hoping, if the man gave chase, to lose him. The Thames could take him upstream to Mortlake if he could find a boat to hide on.
Panicked, he darted into a narrow passage between two buildings
near the public-landing stairs and threw himself behind a large wooden rain barrel, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. At least it would soon be dark, one hour, two at the most.
He caught his breath, and his heartbeat slowed. The sounds of the street were muted here, so this would make a good place to stay until night fell. Some small craft plied the river at night with lanterns on their prows. He’d try to catch one heading upstream toward Richmond and hope he could tell when they passed Mortlake in the dark, lulled by the river, rowing on and away … .
He jerked awake. He must have dozed, how long he didn’t know, but it was sometime between dusk and dark. What had awakened him? Surely not just the distant cries of ferrymen tying up for the night or the thinning rush of passersby. He stretched his aching legs and arms and back.
Then he heard a shuffling sound nearby, coming closer. He stopped breathing. Whatever it was, it was not a rat or some stray cat, but bigger. Wishing he had a weapon, he felt behind the barrel but touched naught but grit and grime. Nothing nearby, not even a stick. He could jump up and bolt again, but the passage narrowed beyond and might even lead to what scared him most—a dead end.
The moment they returned from Cheam’s church, Elizabeth had Clifford order partridge pie, cheese, and bread sent up to her and Rosie’s chamber at the Black Swan. But so far only Clifford and Jenks were eating. She and Rosie were both so nervous they could barely stomach even the sugared wine the innkeeper had sent up gratis. But the cider was so far out of season, it would have knocked them all on their ears. Indeed, Elizabeth felt so shaken, she might as well have been as drunk as Henry Heatherley.
“At first light,” she told her crew, “we’re going into the huntpark forest to find this Dench. He could well have a motive for revenge. And I want to take Beeson with us, even if he can’t see farther than the length of his own nose. We will describe the terrain to him, and if we can find Dench, having Beeson with us may keep him from trying to flee.”
“We get anywhere near him, we’ll get him this time, Your Grace,” Jenks vowed, his mouth full of food. “Can’t get far on those little legs.”
“He has before,” she countered. “I can’t believe, cannot believe, I didn’t realize that the running boy could be—especially with those squat legs—a dwarf! I’ve seen dwarfs at court, especially those my father favored.”
“Well,” Clifford put in, “I saw the running boy and didn’t think of a dwarf either. And if he’s been working for Giles Chatam—”
“Exactly,” Elizabeth said, hitting the table with her fist so hard the pewter plates rattled. “Even if Dench lit one or more of the fatal fires, it doesn’t clear Giles of collusion. And if Giles is possibly linked to Katherine—’s blood, I shall forgo this disguise and question Giles and Mistress Dee tomorrow too.”
“And what about that magic mirror of Mistress Mooring’s?” Rosie put in.
“It was hardly a magic mirror,” the queen chided.
“It didn’t break when she threw it,” Rosie protested.
Elizabeth just shook her head. It reminded her of Dr. Dee’s tale that Katherine had found his stolen mirror lying unbroken and unscratched in a patch of violets, no less. Oh yes, she was surely going to question both Giles Chatam and Katherine Dee again.
“Clifford and I,” Jenks said, spearing another chunk of cheese with his knife, “will be taking turns sitting outside your door in the hall tonight, Your Grace.”
Still mired in her own thoughts, she merely nodded. “I wager that dwarf Dench has been playing with fire, though at whose urging we are yet to determine.”
“And if he thought he was playing with fire, he’s not seen nothing yet,” Jenks said. “Not with Lady Bess Smythe and her folks on his tail, I’ll tell you that.”
Ordinarily, the queen would have laughed, especially since the plain-minded Jenks had turned a clever phrase. But even though they now had more answers, a knotted web of possibilities was yet to be unraveled.
Gil figured he couldn’t afford to wait to see who peeked around the barrel and trapped him here. He shoved himself to his feet and tensed to run or fight.
Just a bulky form at first, but yes, the swarthy man! How long had he been searching for him?
“Stop, Meester Sharpino!” he cried in English heavy with an Italian accent. “I will hide you from zee queen’s guards. I have message and money for you from zee maestro!”
He also had, Gil could see, a dagger in his hand.
Hoping in this dry stretch of weather that the rain barrel might be nearly empty, Gil managed to tip it and roll it toward the man, who went down like a bowling pin. Trying to keep to the far wall, Gil edged past him and fled toward the street, even as the man tried to grab his leg.
No, he was cut—his ankle bleeding on his bad leg. It pulsated with pain, hot, then icy cold, as he ran toward the waterfront. Good thing it was dark, for he might be leaving a crimson trail for the man to stalk him like a wounded deer.
But he was determined to get to the queen. If he died bleeding at her feet, maybe she’d at least know he was no fire murderer.
Gil knew supplies for the palace came day or night to this landing, some surely from the upstream countryside. And at night, they must make their way back to reload. Dragging his leg, trying to swing it forward with both hands at each step, he looked desperately for any sort of craft which seemed to be setting out. He dared not even take time to look back.
The big horse- and foot-ferries were moored for the night, but barges and wherries still had boatmen in them. Yet it seemed nothing was setting out, or even ready to cast off. Yes, there, an empty lighter that unloaded the large barges. And the boatman had unwrapped the mooring line and was ready to pole out from the landing while two younger, big-shouldered crewmen hunched over, awaiting his orders to row.
“Help me, I beg you!” Gil cried. “A thief robbed and cut me and means to kill me—back there … .”
As he glanced behind him, he saw that the swarthy man was close. No knife in sight now, but the look on that foreign face must have decided the bold English boatman. In an instant, the lighterman lifted and swung the pole to send the Italian tumbling into the Thames with a splash.
“I kin see yer bleeding, my boy,” the boatman cried. “Shall we summon the constable or a leech then?”
“I just want to go home—to Mortlake in Surrey!”
“Come on then, climb aboard.”
The pain in Gil’s leg was so excruciating he almost couldn’t manage the climb, even with the boatman’s help. As he sank to his knees on board and clung to the side of the lighter, he scanned the inky Thames where his pursuer had fallen. Nothing but ripples, soon erased by the wake of their craft. He wondered if Italians could swim, for he saw nothing else but black water, and then nothing at all.
For the first time in weeks, a spring storm rent the Surrey countryside. Elizabeth and Rosie awakened to the rumble of thunder and flash of lightning.
“’S blood,” the queen muttered as they hastily dressed, “we’re going after Dench anyway. This has got to let up.”
The worst of the weather had retreated as they set out, though without Beeson, who had said he wasn’t well. But he’d come to the door of his son’s house to give them some parting advice. “His place won’t be easy to spot. It’s always deep in the woods, though he moves about from time to time, he does. So can’t really tell you where to look. Closer to Nonsuch than to Cheam prob’ly, always was.”
“Is it a sort of hovel?” Elizabeth had asked. “Partly underground? One greatly disguised by trees or sod?”
“Not Dench,” Beeson had said, rather proudly, she had thought. “Strange, you know, but you’ll have to look up to find him. Little as he is, he has more in common with the squirrels in the trees than with the foxes in their dens. He’ll be off the ground a ways in a sturdy tree, a little place built with boards and ropes.”
“With ropes …,” Elizabeth kept muttering to herself as the four of them rode into the damp, drippin
g forest, where she’d been on many a hunt before. She could not believe that a dwarf could climb trees, or palace walls, but perhaps with help from ropes—and someone else.
“He’d be easy to flush out in the winter without all these leaves,” Jenks observed as they scanned the trees above. “We ought to send to London for your yeomen, surround this place, and flush him out.”
“From treetop level?” Elizabeth challenged. “He’d just stay put. And why didn’t he strike at us before this spring, if he’s lived here for years? We’ve had tents in the meadow every time we’ve come to Nonsuch. Perhaps I should leave the two of you to search for Dench, and Rosie and I should ride to speak with Katherine Dee and Giles—if we can find him and his troupe. I’ll bet that night my yeomen guards found him in the forest here, the rogue had been meeting with Dench.” She halted her horse and sucked in a breath. “Clifford, do you recall that the yeomen guards who brought Giles in for questioning that day mentioned he was in the part of the forest nearest to Mortlake?”
“That day he was supposedly practicing his lines? Right,” Clifford agreed. “And we now know that Dench was in his employ as a drummer by then. Let’s try that section of forest. At least it’s on the way to Mortlake, where you would question Mistress Dee.”
Despite the hope of that lead, they were a sodden, sorry group after they’d scanned the thick trees for another hour. Rain dripped off their noses and down their necks. And then Rosie pointed up and cried, “What’s that? If he’s living like a squirrel, that looks like a big squirrel’s nest!”
“Keep your voice down,” the queen ordered as she rode closer to get the same vantage point Rosie had. “Yes, I warrant that is it.”
Despite her desperation to find Dench, a glimmer of sympathy shot through her. To be so small, to have to look up to everyone, except one’s playfellow Percy, and then to lose him … Her brother’s face flashed through her mind. How she had missed him when he died, and still did. That longing for him had made Gil even dearer to her, as if she could have Edward back to help and encourage.