by Anna Castle
The buttery itself was a smallish room whose door was split in half. The bottom half was always closed to prevent students from wandering in and helping themselves. You asked for what you wanted through the open upper half.
The walls within were lined with racks holding barrels of various sizes. Great hogsheads on the bottom row were filled with the small ale that was the staple drink of the college, brewed on the premises and served in pitchers at every meal. Rundlets on the next row held beer, purchased in town, for those who wished to pay for that more popular drink. One rack held casks of wine — the cheapest sack and Spanish tinto — also to be paid for out of your own purse. Any man who wanted wine of better quality could hie himself to a vintner in the town.
The screens passage was quiet in mid-afternoon, as Tom had hoped. The butler quirked an eyebrow at him as he approached. Tom asked for a cup of beer, saying, “I wanted a quiet moment to look at my account, if I may. Make sure I’m keeping up.”
“Now that’s what I like to see.” The butler was a tall man with long limbs well suited for his job, which consisted largely of reaching for things in his small domain. He pulled the buttery book from the shelf at his elbow and opened it on the wide ledge over the bottom half of his door. He entered the beer at the bottom and turned the book around for Tom to read. Then he twisted on his tall stool to grab a wooden cup and fill it from a cask.
Tom studied the rows of entries. Most were written in a hasty scrawl and the butler seemed to have adopted the headmaster’s slapdash approach to names. Tom’s occurred twice as ‘Claraday,’ once as ‘Clattery,’ and possibly once as ‘Catterpole,’ unless that was someone else. He had quite a few entries since he liked to treat the sizars to an extra bit of something now and then. A gentleman was known by his generosity. Bacon had advised him to keep his accounts current so as not to attract negative attention, so he took a moment to double-check the Catterpole and Clattery entries.
That settled, he started to broach the topic of Leeds’s death when the butler beat him to it. “You’re one of Leeds’s boys, aren’t you?” He shook his head, his long face a portrait of seemly grief. “A sad business.” He leaned an elbow on his counter, ready to gossip. No need for subtle strategies here. “You’re the one what found him, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Tom matched his sorrowful expression but knew what was expected. He told his story yet again, emphasizing the more horrible bits. The butler’s eyes gleamed in appreciation for the tale.
Tom let a moment of silence go by, then pointed at another entry in the book. “I’d like to pay these charges of Diligence Wingfield’s too.”
“Nice of you,” the butler said, making the appropriate notations.
“Poor Dilly,” Tom said. “He drank what was left of Leeds’s wine that day and knocked himself flat out.”
“Oh, those sizars!” The butler flapped his hand in disgust. “They’re always snuffling up the leftovers. Even that Diligence, who’s normally a useful lad. Willing to do a little extra sweeping up now and again, in exchange for a treat or two. Like the others in that way — always hungry! You’d think we never fed them.” He fixed Tom with a stern eye. “We do; don’t think we don’t. They get as good as everybody else.”
“I never doubted it. To be honest, I don’t see how a boy his size could put himself under the table with what was left in that jug.”
“Leeds’s jug? Nor he never did! Leeds liked his wine weak, sweet, and spicy. Every Monday morning while he worked on his book. I mixed it myself.”
“What kind of spices did you use?” Tom asked. One man’s spice was another man’s poison.
“Honey, pepper, and ginger, which wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The butler glared at him sharply. “I’m not sure I like the trend of your questions. What business is it of yours anyway?”
Tom held up a pacifying hand. “No business whatsoever. I like the little shaver, that’s all. Everybody always pushes him around. To be honest, I’m wondering if he added something to that wine himself, in which case, perhaps I ought to have a word with him. Dilly was dead to the world. I had to walk him around the room for a good while to wake him up.”
Now the butler looked concerned. “We don’t want that sort of thing here. No, indeed. Although, I wouldn’t have expected such antics from a Wingfield. Precise, they are. Puritans.” He mimed a spit. “Mind you, their father’s a preacher.”
Tom clucked his tongue. “What could lay a boy out like that?”
“Well, let me think.” The butler tapped his lip while he thought. “Valerian might, if you used enough of it. The cook takes that to help him sleep. Poppy juice would do the trick too and quicker, but we don’t keep that in store here.” He stabbed his long finger at Tom. “Poppy has its uses, but it’s not for you youngsters. Best nip that in the bud at once.”
Tom agreed. Francis Bacon took poppy juice sometimes for excessive mental strain. The one time Tom had tried it, it made him woozy and left him with the devil of a headache. “When did Dilly fetch the jug?”
“Right after breakfast, same as usual.”
“He came to this window and asked you for it?”
“Why would he ask?” The butler sneered. “I’m busy, especially at that hour, but not so behindhand I can’t remember a regular order. I fix Mr. Leeds’s jug after sending out the breakfast ale. I set it out there, on the corner.” He pointed at the long table against the wall.
“So it would stand there and wait for Diligence?”
“What else would it do? Dance a little jig?” He wobbled his shoulders in a sort of sitting jig to illustrate. “Not that I would notice. I’ve got my hands full at that time of day.”
“Do lots of men want extra drink after breakfast?” Tom was surprised. He could barely stay awake during the morning rhetoric lectures as it was. More ale would drop him snoring under the bench.
The butler looked at him as if he were an especially annoying idiot. “I do more than serve drinks and keep track of students’ accounts, mind you. I keep track of most of what comes in and goes out of this college. Everything has to be paid for and written up in my books.”
Tom grinned admiringly. “I don’t know how you do it. I guess that’s why everyone says you’re the best college butler in the whole university.”
The butler accepted the praise with a lopsided smile. He looked pointedly into Tom’s empty cup. Tom asked for another round and added, “Won’t you join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The butler refilled Tom’s cup and poured one for himself, noting both against Tom’s name in his book.
Tom sipped his drink. “Do you usually work on the accounts after breakfast?”
The butler blew out a noisy breath. “Not hardly! That’s when all the senior Fellows want to settle up, especially first Mondays. I’ll have three or four of ‘em lining up out there.” He jerked his chin at the tall table. “Always in a hurry and a few shillings short. Especially Mr. Barrow, with his crowd. Half of ‘em scholarship boys, each one a different account. And always a little behind, between you and me. Then there’s Mr. Jenney.” He broke off with a scowl.
“He was here?”
The butler rolled his eyes. “He’s here every Monday, first through last, badgering me over every jot and tittle. If you’re asking if I noticed when Diligence took away that jug, I did not. I had Mr. Jenney standing right where you are now, pestering me about a so-called missing payment, when I can’t very well write down what hasn’t been sent, now can I?”
Tom shook his head. Any one of the senior Fellows could have meddled with that jug while the butler’s attention was occupied. He’d probably learned all he could here. He drained his cup and shifted his weight to signal his intent to take his leave.
The butler didn’t notice. He was warming to his theme. “Then, mind you, on top of all the usual first Monday bustle, here comes the headmaster himself, breezing past the rest as if they were ghosts.” The butler shot Tom a sly grin. “Bet you can’t you guess what he was after.�
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Tom shrugged. “I can’t imagine.”
“Blanchet and dried safflowers. I ask you! Does this look like the kitchen?”
“What’s blanchet?”
“The finest of fine white flour. We don’t have much call for it here.”
What could Dr. Eggerley want with flour and herbs? It was an oddity, and Bacon had taught him to pay special attention to such things. “Why would he come himself? Why wouldn’t he send his wife?”
“Send? Mistress Superbous, the high-handed Queen of Corpus Christi College? Nobody sends her! She comes sailing in here every Monday morning, skirts as wide as that passage, pushing Fellows out of her path. She comes in and tells me — me — to make certain we’ve stocked wine enough for her table. She expected me to drop everything and run down to the wine cellar to make sure her precious rundlets of Rhenish were stored properly. On a Monday morning! As if I didn’t have sixteen balls in the air already.” He glowered at Tom as if he were the one who had ordered the cursed Rhenish and cast it carelessly into the cellar. “Not to mention that they’re not supposed to use college stores in the master’s lodge.” He jabbed his finger at Tom for emphasis. “That’s why they put in their own cellar in the first place. She’s supposed to buy her own. Treats the college like her private estate, she does.”
Tom had evidently struck a very sore nerve. He wished he hadn’t finished his beer.
“Headmasters with wives,” the butler rattled on, scowling darkly. “A college is no place for a woman. The queen don’t like it, and neither do I. No good can come of it, no good at all.”
***
Tom enjoyed having a woman in the college, though he wasn’t fool enough to say it. The butler held traditional views about celibate scholars, hardly surprising for a man in his trade.
He returned to his rooms. The study chamber was empty except for Diligence sitting at his desk, writing in the small cloth-bound book he treated as a great secret. A diary, most likely. All the godly folk kept them. Tom pretended not to know about it.
“What ho, Dilly!” Tom grinned as he walked to his own desk. He sat on his stool and starting flipping through his commonplace book, pretending to be reviewing something while watching Diligence out of the corner of his eye. After a minute or two, the boy closed his book. Tom was prepared for the stealthy glance that came next and carefully kept his eyes on his own desk. He counted to thirty and then yawned and stretched noisily. He stood up and ambled over to lean against the wall by Dilly’s desk.
“How’re you feeling, Diligence?”
The boy looked surprised at the question. “I’m fine, Tom. How are you?”
“I meant after your ordeal on Monday.” He made a sour face. “That foul wine.”
“What wine?”
What wine? “The wine from Leeds’s jug. It put you out cold. Don’t you remember?”
Diligence shook his head. “I remember throwing up out the window with you and Steadfast holding me.”
“That’s all? Well, I guess some things are best forgotten.” Tom clapped the boy on the shoulder. “I’m more concerned about what got into that jug in the first place. I’d hate to think the butler was getting careless.”
“Our butler? I like him. He hardly ever yells at us and if he does, he makes it up by giving us a bit of extra cheese or something.”
“I like him too,” Tom said. “You brought the jug from the buttery yourself, didn’t you?”
“I always do. The butler leaves it on the counter and I fetch it on my way back from breakfast. I leave it — left it — on Mr. Leeds’s table.” He cast a sad glance at the unoccupied table in the center of the room. Or was it a worried glance? Surely he wouldn’t have drunk the wine if he’d seen anyone tampering with it, but he might not have understood what he saw.
“Did you see anyone handling that jug before you collected it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Moving it aside, perhaps, to make room for something else.”
Diligence frowned down at the surface of his desk as if reading something written in invisible ink. Then he looked up at Tom, blinking his pale blue eyes. “I never see anything, Tom. I just do what they tell me.”
Chapter Nine
Francis Bacon granted himself a moment to stretch his arms and flex his fingers. He’d been writing for a solid hour, drafting and then making a fair copy of a letter in French for Sir Francis Walsingham to send to the Secretary of France concerning Her Majesty’s religious policies. The letter was satisfactory, he deemed, and had one or two well-turned phrases. He was especially pleased with the conceit of the queen not caring to open windows into men’s souls to view their innermost beliefs. Outward conformity in support of national unity was all that she, in her infinite wisdom, required.
He wished the radical Protestants in Cambridgeshire could understand that simple truth; but then he would not have this commission that kept him in weekly contact with his powerful uncle.
He sanded the letter, folded it, sealed it, and dropped it into the basket of mail to be delivered. He picked up the next one to be read and sighed as he recognized the angular strokes of his mother’s handwriting.
Lady Anne Bacon was a woman of strong opinions freely expressed. She kept a sharp eye on the doings of her youngest son, especially since her eldest, Anthony, had escaped her supervision by moving to the south of France. Normally, Francis made an effort to deflect her attentions, but she knew more about religious nonconformity in England than anyone else he could consult without risking questions. Her views were more aligned with the zealot Clarady had been sent to catch than with those of the established Church of England, although she knew better than to flaunt them in public.
Francis didn’t want her to know about his commission, which she would not support, but he did want whatever information she had that might help him identify the seditioner. He’d come up with a pretext which was plausible enough, given that religion was her favorite topic.
He slit the seal and unfolded the letter. It began, as usual, without salutation. Her letters always seemed to pick up in the middle of some ongoing argument.
“I am glad to learn you are recovered from your recent distemper. You overindulge and then refuse to moderate your sleeping habits. Awake until all hours musing nescio quid (I know not what) then lying in bed until noon. This hampers the digestion and leads to a souring in the belly.
As for your proposal that Gray’s Inn seek a new chaplain from your father’s college: I consider it a sound plan that will strengthen connections between our family and the Inn; a desirable result. I wonder, however, if the temper of Fellows from Corpus Christi would accord well with certain persons who continue to obstruct the right reformation of the Church. You know of whom and what I speak.
I will consult with your stepbrothers concerning likely candidates. The best man will combine a steadiness of temperament with excellent learning, inspired preaching, and above all, strong commitment to our right and just cause.
It continues cold and sharp here, but I am in good cheer and comfort. I send you a brace of woodcocks and a bundle of coleworts picked this morning. Have the cook prepare them with a sufficiency of broth and a minimum of spice. See to your prayers twice daily; you are too often neglectful in this duty.
Do not share my letters with your servants. Burn this.
Your mother,
A. Bacon
6 March.”
She’d accepted his pretext. Good. He hoped she wouldn’t find it necessary to write to the current chaplain at Gray’s. Luckily, she didn’t like the man; he wasn’t fervent enough for her tastes. She would take up the task of replacing him with enthusiasm. She could find out many things beyond Clarady’s reach, such as discussions among the gentry about which Fellow should be granted which living on what grounds. The local lord usually wanted a parson who reflected his own views. Lady Bacon also read every Calvinist tract written at home or abroad. She would know if anyone at Corpus Christi Coll
ege was publishing works on the Continent that were prohibited at home.
Francis rose to toss her letter onto the coals smoldering in his hearth. He poured himself some wine, added a splash of water, and returned to his desk. The next letter in the stack was from Thomas Clarady. He read through it, then took a fresh sheet of paper and penned his response.
“Clarady:
Consider envy as a motive. Colleges are rife with it, although it may manifest itself in subtle ways. A busy and inquisitive man is commonly envious, sniffing about for signs of unfair advantage. What did Leeds have that might inspire envy? Who among his colleagues might be thus inspired?
Look for conflict among the senior Fellows. Not intellectual conflict, you’ll find that in abundance. Focus on contention for privileges, offices, or other special benefits. Some fellowships are better than others, but all provide support for only two or three years inside the college. Not, perhaps, sufficient motive for murder. A benefice — an ecclesiastical living — is another matter. Some livings can be very comfortable indeed. The richer the town, the richer the church; the richer the church, the better the living. Some parishes also provide an opportunity to gain influential patrons for whatever causes one might choose to advance.
The prospect of an especially good living might inspire a man to take extraordinary measures, but that decision generally lies beyond the walls of the college. The benefice is usually in the gift of the local landowner. Negotiations can be complex.
This is a worthy avenue for exploration nevertheless. Learn what you can, but without drawing too much attention to your questions.
From Gray’s Inn, 5 March 1587
Fra. Bacon.”
Chapter Ten
Tom’s next Latin lesson with Christopher Marlowe was on Friday morning after the rhetoric lecture. He left the hall a few minutes early to take a brisk walk, stretching his legs and getting his blood up. He was determined to get straight answers this time.