Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (17 page)

“The first one clearly refers to himself,” Francis said. “He’s the one serving two masters: me, or more accurately, my lord uncle, and the religious zealots whose trust he must win. If one of us is right, the other must be wrong. In order to be faithful to a government which must seem very remote, he must deceive the good folk with whom he spends his days, talking, sharing meals, singing psalms. Such communities can be all-embracing. I believe he hates me, sometimes, for seeking their destruction.”

“That’s not what you seek,” Ben said. “You’re trying to protect them.”

“He sometimes loses sight of that distinction. In the second verse, I believe he sees himself as Satan, striving to cast out a fellow demon.”

“That’s mad!” Trumpet cried. “Thomas Clarady cannot possibly believe he’s the devil!”

Francis held out a pacifying palm. “I don’t mean he thinks he is possessed. He uses the reference metaphorically. He means that he, a member of the godly community, must destroy the said community in order to save it. He’s talking about betrayal. He may have meant to quote Matthew 24:10: ‘And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another.’“

“That sounds sad,” Ben said, “but I find it less troublesome.” He rose to collect their empty mugs and returned to his stool. “Tom is unhappy about his deceptive role; that’s good. I’d be more worried if he weren’t. Perhaps the quotes are a way of displaying his new knowledge, to impress you with how hard he’s working.”

Francis said, “I hadn’t thought of it from that perspective. Perhaps they were studying Matthew last Tuesday and those verses gave him a compact way of expressing his distaste for his duplicity.” He pinched the pleats in the ruff on his left wrist while he reconsidered the last few letters in this fresh light. “It fits. It’s cleverer than Tom’s usual —”

“Have you both taken leave of your senses?” Trumpet began to pace the room from door to window and back again. “If Tom wanted to express anguish, he would write, ‘I feel anguished.’ He might try to turn it into a badly rhymed poem, but he would not send Bible verses.” He stopped in front of Francis’s desk and stabbed his finger at the stack of letters. “Those later lists are completely out of character, and that last letter is disturbing and strange. How can you let him think of himself as Satan?”

Francis leaned back in his father’s oversized chair, even though there were two feet of polished oak between him and the angry lad. “You are blissfully ignorant of the centerpiece of Puritan devotion, Trumpington: the close examination of one’s own inner being. Every misstep, however slight, every lapse of prayerfulness, must be confessed and repented before your peers. That’s what study groups do, in addition to detailed analyses of biblical texts. Tom spends a substantial portion of his days knee-to-knee with his fellow devouts, the Good Book open on their laps. He’s expected to be ruthless in his self-examination, stinting nothing. Yet all the while he must conceal the monstrous truth that he joined that candid and welcoming society with the intention of exposing their leader and breaking them apart.”

“That’s horrible.” Trumpet frowned while he absorbed this revelation. “I didn’t realize it would be so hard. It’s as if he were wearing a disguise, like a boy actor dressed as a woman, but here the audience is allowed to prod and peer inside his doublet during his performance.”

Ben busied himself measuring ale into their mugs.

“That’s an odd analogy,” Francis said, “but yes, I suppose it is something like that.”

A silence fell, broken only by the pat of Trumpet’s footsteps on the rush matting as he resumed his pacing, this time with his hands behind his back. After a few minutes, he stopped again in front of Francis’s desk. “You should bring him home for a few days. Easter term ends next week. We’ll go to the theater, do some shopping on the Bridge. We’ll take him to his favorite brothel. That’ll bring him back to his old self!”

“That’s a good idea,” Ben said. “It would give you a chance to speak with him in person as well. Surely that would be useful at this stage.”

“Not useful enough.” Francis thought about another stack of letters, at Burghley House on his uncle’s desk. “We cannot afford the delay. Tom’s commission has ramifications spreading far beyond Cambridgeshire. My lord uncle is bracing for reprisals from King Philip if Drake succeeds in his raid on Cadiz. The drumbeat of threats from Spain grows louder every day. Our Lords Lieutenant have been advised to look to their counties’ defensive capabilities. And yet only last week we learned of a skirmish in Suffolk between Puritan preachers and the bishop’s officers that resulted in many able-bodied men being clapped in the local gaol.”

“Where in West Suffolk?” Ben’s family was seated in that county.

“Bury St. Edmunds and environs. Villages have been split in two by these zealots. They’re calling for actual separation from the established Church. They think the Catholic threat was extinguished with the execution of Mary Stuart and want to push the Reformation forward. But Catholics on the Continent and at home are more desperate than ever. Between them, they’ll tear our country to pieces, dainty morsels for Spain to swallow up.”

Trumpet slapped his hand on the desk, making Francis jump. “Those things are hypothetical. Potential, not actual. Tom’s peril is real and immediate. He’s losing his mind. Can’t you see that? Tom despises those people. He doesn’t want to become one of them; he wants to stop them.”

“Quite so,” Francis said. “And in order to stop them, he has to become one of them.”

The friends fell silent again, their faces drawn with distaste.

“Can’t you bring him home, even for a few days?” Ben asked.

Francis held up his hands in appeal. “Absence would give the leader time to reflect on Tom’s involvement with the group. And Tom would lose the rhythm of his deceits and be more likely to slip. He might even lose the trust he has won through much pain and effort. Time grows short; we cannot afford such a setback.”

“So you’re going to leave him there,” Trumpet said. “Let him flounder.” He folded his arms and glared across the desk.

“Worse than that, I think.” Ben shook his head. “You’re going to push him farther in, aren’t you? Regardless of the harm it may do him.”

Francis met their stony faces with resignation. He’d hoped for their approval. Now he wondered if he would be able to earn their forgiveness. It would seem the spymaster’s job could be as lonely as the spy’s.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Clarady:

You have been chosen to excise the cancerous gall gnawing at the body of our Church. “Make speed, haste, stay not.” 1 Samuel 20:37-39. Press harder to gain admittance to the inner circle. Show them they can trust you. Join in their demonstrations of faith.

From Gray’s Inn, 2 May 1587

Fra. Bacon

Chapter Twenty-Six

Thomas Clarady walked along the hedgerow on a perfect day in early May, a bounce in his step and a smile on his lips. The sky was as blue as a Wingfield’s eyes and the breeze was sweet with the scents of growing grass and apple blossoms. He breathed deeply, glad to get beyond the stink of the town and stretch his legs.

Today was the last of the Rogation Days, when rural parishes went out together to walk their bounds. Before the invention of legal documents, people confirmed property boundaries by going out as a group to make sure the markers — posts, stones, and trees — had not been moved by storms or greedy landlords. The ancient practice still made sense; sometimes lawyers had to call upon ancient memories to supplement gaps in manor accounts.

Tom remembered racing the other boys in his Dorset parish to be first to stand on the boundary rock and get himself whisked with the willow branch. The custom was meant to fix the boundary in the boy’s mind. Mostly it just gave you a chance to show off.

No such prinkum-prankums went on today. The children from Sawston parish, whose fields they circled, were subdued, even a little glum. Their parents marched doggedly along with scowls of irritation on their sunburnt faces. They owed their collective ill humor to the presence of Parson Wingfield, who had brought his entire flock from Babraham to admonish the people of Sawston for their superstitious practices.

The two parallel processions paced beside a rock wall topped with pink stonecrop and snow white saxifrage. The flutes and horns and drums of the Sawstonites competed against the psalm-chanting of the Babrahamers, punctuated by the rhythmic preaching of Parson Wingfield’s booming voice. They came to a stop at a juncture marked by a well-weathered post. The rector of Sawston’s church pronounced his words, speaking quickly as if to get the thing over with.

“Listen to that Romish pretender,” Steadfast said, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the Sawstonites. “Burbling Latin gibberish at the crops to make them grow.”

Tom laughed out loud but cut himself off with a quick glance at his companion. He’d grown accustomed to the Puritans’ capacity for blatant rudeness but still wasn’t sure when they were joking. They didn’t do it often.

Steadfast’s lips quirked. Tom had gotten it right this time. He stored up the phrase “burbling gibberish” for his next report. He’d gotten the sense lately that Mr. Bacon believed he had genuinely converted to the Puritan creed; proof of the success of his performance and as good as actual praise, which he would never expect from his exacting spymaster.

The role grew easier as the weeks went by and his new community drew him ever closer to its bosom. He’d proved his loyalty in public several times now. Last week, he, Steadfast, and three other godly lads had snuck out at midnight to cut down the maypole in Little Shelford. Afterward, they’d gone on to Babraham for a late breakfast in the parson’s home. Abstinence had served him hot bread and fresh butter with her own two hands, first among the rest.

Today, he’d spent most of the morning walking with the Wingfield boys, Steadfast, Diligence, and Resolved. Like them, he’d kept his eyes on the parson, his favorite candidate for chief seditioner. Parson Wingfield was a hot one; a hot as they came. He made no bones about his disdain for the Book of Common Prayer and the rituals of the established Church, trusting his congregation to follow his lead. And follow they did. He brought the whole congregation — and himself — to tears of pure religious passion by preaching from the depths of his own heart. His message was seductive, if not quite literally subversive.

The man stood at the center of the godly community in Cambridgeshire. Tom had visited the church in Babraham at least once a week, usually catching the parson’s fiery sermon even when he and Steadfast had been to hear the competition at another church five miles away. Preachers staggered their services to support this very habit. Then there were the Monday potluck suppers, the Wednesday evening study circles, and the Thursday morning early prayers. All in all, Tom had many opportunities to observe the traffic flowing through that plain white church. He’d recognized many men from the university and often seen horses in the yard that looked as if they’d come a distance.

He always remembered to check the knots, especially long reins neatly gathered up. He sometimes thought he’d looked at every knot within five miles of the Cambridge market square. Still no joy.

Today, he’d watched many men stroll up to greet Parson Wingfield and exchange a few words. They’d walk and talk, sing a hymn or two, then turn off at the next crossing path. Tom fixed every face in his memory while Steadfast supplied their names, assuming Tom was impressed by his father’s popularity. And indeed, Parson Wingfield drew followers like honeysuckle drew bees. Had they come to pay their respects on a fine afternoon? Not likely; few men would walk all the way out here just to disrupt a harmless tradition, and none of them was accompanied by wife or child.

Tom wished he could hear their talk but felt safer hanging back with the other boys for now. He had to admire the cleverness of the arrangement, holding private meetings out of doors under the eyes of two whole parishes.

***

At the next junction, John Barrow, who had been walking beside the parson for most of the morning, dropped back from the front row to fall into step with Tom and the Wingfield boys. His freckled face had picked up a touch of color from the sun. He draped a friendly arm over Tom’s shoulder, slowing the pace until they lagged a yard or two behind the others. “How are you, Tom?”

Tom was used to this question by now and knew how to answer it. “I’m struggling.” He grinned ruefully. “The fellowship makes me stronger.”

“A burden shared is a burden halved,” Barrow said.

“A day like today is worth a week of divinity lectures, if you want my honest opinion.”

“Your opinion is valued, Tom, never think it isn’t. You are important to us.” Barrow’s wide smile invited confidence. “Anything special you need to get off your chest?”

Tom felt a stab of alarm. What could he mean?

Before he could think of something neutral to say, Barrow added, “I know you’ve been working with Abraham Jenney lately. He’s as sound as a bell on matters divinical, but he can be a bit, well —”

“That he can.” Tom mustered a grin and got one in return. “I’m grateful he has time to tutor me, honestly, I am. I’m learning a lot. But I don’t think he’s ever wrestled with anything worse than a tendency to fall asleep when reading.”

“He does seem to be lucky that way. Though I believe I’ll be a better pastor to my flock for having strayed from the fold a time or two.” Barrow winked and clicked his tongue. “There’s no shame in feeling these impulses, Tom. The shame lies in surrendering to them. It’s a hard fight to win on your own though.”

Safe ground. Tom remembered the morning after his night in gaol, when they’d met Barrow’s lightskirts in Petty Cury Lane. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “But it can be awkward in study group, with men who hardly ever even look at a woman . . .”

Barrow chuckled. “I thought that might be it. I’ll confess something to you, Tom. That’s my biggest challenge as well. Marriage is the surest cure, but what do we do until then?”

“Phew!” Tom let out a breath in a noisy rush. “I feel better for saying it out loud. Every week, I tell myself, this week I will be chaste. But somehow by Friday, I’ve fallen into sin again. Next week, I say; not this one.”

“‘Grant me chastity and continence, but not yet?’“ Barrow quoted. “It isn’t easy to resist the lure — or should I say, the allure — of a willing woman. Or a pink scarf in an upstairs window.”

A chill sliced through Tom like an icy rapier. Too stunned to speak, he struggled for some response that wouldn’t betray him further.

Barrow watched him out of the corner of his eye for a long moment. Then he relented, granting him a wry half smile. “That signal is known only to a select few. She usually has the sense to choose senior Fellows who will be on their way in a year or two.”

Tension flowed out of Tom’s body as he realized Barrow must be among the select. “I promise you right here, right now, Mr. Barrow, I will give her up, just as soon as —”

“As soon as you can break it to her kindly. I understand. It isn’t easy.” Barrow clapped him on the back. “Don’t wait too long, my friend. She’s a snare.”

How would he know about the scarf, if not from experience? That was an interesting item Tom could add to his next confession to Bacon. He wondered if he could find a verse about snares anywhere in the Bible.

Barrow nodded toward the Wingfield children walking together in the middle of the group. “I know something else that might help. There’s a pretty girl up there who’s been wanting to walk with you all day. You’d be hard-pressed to find a godlier lass.”

***

Abstinence. Every time Tom looked into those sweet blue eyes, he fell into a vision of a rose-covered cottage with her at the gate, holding a baby with the Clarady dimple in its cherubic cheek. She was built for marriage and children and making a man happy. He couldn’t look at her without being filled with lusty thoughts, but she was innocent. Besides, how could you court a woman while working to send her father to the Tower?

“There you are, Thomas Clarady,” she purred as Tom matched his pace to hers. “You’ve been avoiding me today.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I think you like my brothers better than me.”

“No,” Tom said with perfect sincerity. “I do not. Besides, you’ve spent half the morning walking with John Barrow.”

She smiled and ducked her head, tucking the pink tip of her tongue between her lips. The gesture was demure and enticing in a stroke and never failed to set his heartstrings thrumming. “My father thinks well of him, so I am courteous, as I hope I am always obedient.”

“I thought your sister was Obedient.”

She frowned. Tom chided himself.
Don’t make fun of their names.
However absurd they might sound to outsiders, these people took their names very seriously.

The parson called out, “Exaltation comes!” and they all began to sing, “For exaltation comes neither from the east nor from the west nor from the south.”

Tom joined in with gusto. He loved singing out of doors, especially walking along a grassy path under a clear sky, and even more especially with a beautiful girl walking beside him. Her hair smelled of rosemary and oil soap. The exercise under the bright sun had dampened her linen partlet so it clung with admirable fidelity to the upper curves of her breasts. Sometimes their shoulders touched; sometimes the back of her hand brushed his. Once she tripped on a tussock and stumbled against him. He had to place his hands firmly around her slender waist to set her aright. She rewarded him with that head-ducking smile and a teasing glimpse of her tongue.

Intelligencing had its good days and its bad, Tom had learned. This was one of the best.

They paused at the corner of the field while Sawston’s rector said his piece. Parson Wingfield launched into an
ad extempore
discourse on Deuteronomy. “He made him draw honey from the rock, and oil from the flinty rock.” The Sawston musicians tried to drown him out, but they hadn’t the strength left in them.

The procession moved on to the end of the field where a boundary oak stood, covered with the green fuzz of newly sprouting leaves. It had probably been planted when these fields were first laid out. Now its trunk was lumpy with galls and twisted with age, host to plantations of moss. Its wide-spreading limbs overhung a regular resting place on the road; the ground beneath was muddy and well trampled. Other evidence of horses lay scattered here and there in odorous clumps.

The Sawston party moved on after a cursory marking of the tree, eager to lose their uninvited entourage and take refuge in the Saracen’s Head tavern. Parson Wingfield stopped under the tree, removed his tall hat, and mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. His followers took advantage of the break to pass around a jug and air their own overheated pates.

Tom saw a man on horseback leaning forward in animated conversation with another man standing beside the tree. He recognized the horseman as Simon Thorpe. What could he be doing way out here? He wandered over to ask him. Abstinence wandered with him, as naturally as if she were his girl already. Steadfast followed them.

The two men barely glanced their way, they were so intent on their talk, which did not sound friendly. The stranger was a prosperous yeoman, solidly framed with a neat brown beard. He was dressed for Rogation Days, not for labor, in green hose and a doublet trimmed with red braid. His garb was festive, but his face was dark with anger.

“Hallo, Simon,” Tom called cheerily. “Come out for a breath of country air?”

“That’s
Mr. Thorpe
to you, Clarady. Must I remind you that I am your tutor?” His whiny tone undermined his message. The man simply lacked authority. “I am conducting college business.” He flicked a glance at Abstinence and sniffed. “I don’t care to know what you are doing.”

The yeoman made a sour face. “They’re here to heckle us as we go about our own parish affairs. Best to ignore them. And don’t change the subject, Thorpe. Our matter is far from settled.” He tilted his head to direct his talk to Tom and his friends. “Why don’t you zealous busybodies sing a psalm about greedy bursars extorting fines from honest tenants a full six months before their lease expires?”