Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (9 page)

"Yes, my lady. We were so fortunate as to glimpse you sitting in the gallery with the queen." She closed her eyes in a slow blink, accepting the tribute.

Tom righted himself and strove to breathe normally. "Yes, my lady. Your limner remained in the chamber. I later saw her at the window. We would like to speak with her, if we can find her."

"My
limner?
This was worth risking the queen's wrath?" Her interest in their visit was extinguished like a candle flame in a gust of wind.

"Yes, my lady. Or, well, no, I don't know about the wrath. But I beg you, my gracious lady, would you be so kind as to tell us her name?"

Her eyes went flat. "Why would I want to know that?"

***

They had almost regained the top of the stairs and a clear shot to fresh air and freedom when Lady Rich's waiting woman caught up with them. She spoke in rapid French, which Trumpet, astonishingly, seemed to understand. The boy listened with an ear cocked, face averted, as if concentrating on catching every syllable. The others could do nothing but stand and wait. Tom and Stephen had had French lessons in Lord Dorchester's household, but their skills were no match for a fluent speaker. Law French sounded like English tied in knots and hung upside down in a high wind. Real French was altogether different.

When the woman left, Trumpet translated. "She said, let's see: 'My mistress says to tell your master she also can be indirect. Of course she knows the name of the limner she sat with for so many weeks. She is a Fleming, a widow, called Clara Goossens.'"

She pronounced it the way the Frenchwoman had:
Clahrah Gohzenz
. It sounded foreign, smooth, like clean pebbles in the mouth. Trumpet chuckled. "She didn't seem to know we were here about the murder. She added, 'Her fees are very reasonable, but he should make haste because the limner will certainly raise them when my mistress's portrait becomes admired.'"

CHAPTER 13

They found their way out of the gallery and back to the courtyard without any further mishaps with important personages. Ben breathed a sigh of relief. "So that was the famous Stella."

Trumpet said, "What do you think of your goddess now that you've seen her up close?"

"She's magnificent," Stephen said, but he didn't sound convinced.

"She's terrifying," Tom said. "She raised the hair on the back of my neck just by looking at me. And Captain Ralegh didn't even remember us." Trumpet offered him a sympathetic pout.

Ben clapped Stephen on the shoulder. "If they're all like that, my lord, your father may have the right idea about court."

They walked through the gateway and stepped into an impromptu parade. Term had ended. The law courts at Westminster were closed for the Christmas vacation. It was time for the men of the law to play.

Church bells clanged, filling the air with joyous noise. The street before them thronged with lawyers: students throwing their flat caps in the air; barristers in black robes, kicking up their heels to display parti-colored stockings; serjeants in gowns tufted with silk and velvet. They formed a veritable river of lawyers, like a school of trout heading for the sea. The lads laughed at a trio of portly judges dressed in ankle-length gowns of murrey with snug white coifs tied under their chins. They'd linked arms and were pacing a stately
cinque pas
down the center of the street.

"Hey ho!" Tom shouted, throwing his cap in the air. "We're free!"

Five full weeks until the start of Hilary Term. Five glorious weeks of Christmastide in London, during which all students were obliged by the rules of Gray's Inn to remain in commons with nothing to do but amuse themselves. The lads joined the stream heading north, past Charing Cross and onto the Strand. The crowd thinned as members of the legal community filtered into taverns along the way. Tom and his friends took the shortcut across the fields.

The queue into the hall for dinner was longer and rowdier than usual since men who usually dined in their London homes had come to celebrate the end of term. The lads worked their way to their usual seats at the top of the second table.

Tom flapped his napkin open and eyed the expanse of pristine linen. He sniffed the air. Even a whiff of food would be welcome. He wondered what the cooks would give them for the end-of-term feast. Saturday was a fish day, but even so, there might be venison or beaver. Although in truth, he could eat his own weight in stockfish today. Talking to famous ladies was hungry work. "I'm ravenous."

"Me too," Stephen said. He pinched a morsel from the loaf of bread set in the center of his plate.

"Best pace yourselves," Ben said. "There's bound to be lots of announcements today."

"What's to announce?" Tom asked. "Term is over."

Ben started to answer, but Treasurer Fogg stood up from the center of the bencher's table and raised his hands for silence. The murmuring ceased at once. Everyone was eager to get past the prologue and on to the meat.

The treasurer smiled down at them. "Welcome, Gentlemen, members of the Society of Gray's Inn, the largest and most illustrious of our Inns of Court!"

Cheering and applause.

"I promise to be brief."

He broke his promise. He began at the beginning, reminding them of the origins of the Inn. He rehashed famous cases and sketched the biographies of prominent members. Tom could feel the strength drain from his body, sapping his attention. Soon all he could hear was the growling of his own belly.

The hall grew noisy as men shifted on benches and shuffled their feet in the rushes on the floor. Fingernails tapped on wooden plates, coughs rose up in one corner and traveled across the hall. Tom could see servers peeking impatiently around the screen. A group of students under the south windows were tossing wisps of rushes at one another in open warfare. Trumpet slumped on his bench with his eyes glazed as if under a spell. Stephen finished his loaf and started stealing pinches from Tom's. Tom slapped his hand and moved his loaf to the far side of his plate.

"Gentlemen, please!" Treasurer Fogg bellowed. "Two last announcements and then the feast may begin."

"Thank God," Ben muttered. Tom grinned. Ben normally had a boundless appetite for words.

"First," Fogg said, "as you know, we benchers have the sorrowful duty of naming a Reader to take the place of the lately departed Tobias Smythson. May God rest his soul in peace."

An echoing murmur arose from the tables.

"After due consideration, we have determined that the next Lent Reader will be Mr. James Shiveley." A tall, long-limbed, red-headed man stood and made a bow.

Tom lifted his hands, ready to applaud, when cries arose from the ancients' table.

"What?"

"Not so!"

"Unfair, unfair!"

Two senior barristers sprang to their feet, waving their hands, remonstrating. Others remained seated but raised their voices toward the benchers' table on the dais. Francis Bacon looked as though he'd been slapped.

Tom leaned across the table toward Ben. "What's wrong? Don't they like Mr. Shiveley?"

Ben shrugged. "I was expecting them to name Mr. Bacon. I think he was too."

One of the ancients slapped his palm on the table and shouted, "No, sir! I must protest!"

Trumpet flinched. "My uncle thinks he should have been next. He's talked of nothing else all week."

Mr. Humphries lumbered to his feet. "If I may speak, Mr. Treasurer, I would like to point out that I myself am senior to all of these men and that, unlike some I might name, I have never failed of continuance in commons."

"Only because you can't afford to eat elsewhere," someone sneered.

Humphries flushed and sputtered, struggling for a retort.

"You should be content that we chose any of you ancients," Treasurer Fogg said. "Were we not shorthanded, we would more properly nominate a bencher for the Lent Reading."

"One named Avery Fogg, I suppose." Nathaniel Welbeck rose from his seat.

More cries of protest broke out. Even Bacon leaned forward, gesturing with a long, pale hand to emphasize a point that couldn't be heard over the cacophony of voices. Fogg stepped down from the dais to shake his finger in Welbeck's empurpled face.

Trumpet groaned and lowered his forehead to his empty plate. "We'll never get any food."

"I don't understand why they're so upset," Tom said. "What's so important about being a Reader?"

"It's essential," Trumpet said, sitting up again. "It's the next-to-last step on the climb to a judgeship."

Ben said, "Here's how it works. We're students, yes?" The others nodded. "Six years after we enroll, we are eligible to pass the bar, subject to the approval of the bench. Five years after that, if we behave ourselves, we are allowed to argue cases in the Westminster courts."

"Eleven years!" Tom was horrified. "We'll be old men!" He'd expected to become a barrister in two or three years. Five, at the outside. As long as he lived at Gray's, he had the right to wear the robes that proclaimed him a member of an Inn of Court: undeniably a gentleman. But someday he would surely want to live somewhere else. If he were a barrister, his status would be assured. If he weren't, who would he be?

Ben grinned at his dismay but mistook the cause. His worries were the opposite of Tom's: he had breeding but no money. "It's not that bad. We can write wills, advise about investments, counsel persons considering a suit at law. A man can earn a handsome living without ever passing the bar. At any rate, once you pass, you're eligible to Read. But then you have to wait your turn."

"Readership is a bottleneck," Trumpet said. "That's why there's so much contention. They can call a dozen men to the bar at once, but only two can Read in a year."

"Luckily," Ben said, "not everyone wants to Read. A man can do very well managing the legal affairs of his own county or maintaining a London practice. But you have to Read if you want to be a bencher at your Inn, and you have to be a bencher if you want to be a judge."

"And then you have to wear one of those idiotic little coifs," Tom said, startling a blurt of laughter from Stephen. "Did you see those three this morning?" They hummed a galliard, mimicking the dancing judges with their fingers on the tabletop.

The fracas at the ancients' table was winding down. Bacon had settled once again into his habitual slouch and was picking discreetly at his bread. Treasurer Fogg returned to the dais and raised his arms, gesturing for silence. "I thank you for your patience, Gentlemen, and beg you to forbear a minute longer while we turn to a happier theme. We must elect a leader for the season that is now upon us."

Tom groaned. "Can't we eat first?"

Fogg donned an impish smile that sat unnaturally on his stout cheeks. "Christmastide is here. We need revels; we need dancing; we need gaiety. We need a leader to guide us toward those timeless ends. In short, we need a Prince of Purpoole!"

Cheers shook the roof beams as caps flew into the air. This was the real signal for the end of term: the election of a Court of Misrule to devise the festivities that would occupy the Society until Lent.

"Have we any nominations?" Fogg cried.

Ben leapt to his feet. "We have, Mr. Treasurer. None better. One of our newest members is the scion of one of our oldest families: Lord Stephen Delabere, son and heir of the seventh Earl of Dorchester."

Tom and Trumpet pounded cupped palms together. A howl of disappointment sounded from one of the other tables, but Stephen was the ranking member of the new students. There really was no contest.

Treasurer Fogg bowed low, extending a surprisingly well-formed leg. "My Prince, I salute you. May we be informed of the composition of your court tonight at supper?"

Stephen stood and granted him a regal nod. "You may be so informed after dinner, Mr. Treasurer.
If
we ever get to eat."

Laughter ensued. Servers, who must have been faint with the postponement of their own dinner, dashed out from behind the screen with jugs and platters and trays before Treasurer Fogg could once again open his mouth.

***

The boys conferred as they devoured courses of stuffed mackerel, salad, spinach flan, and almond leech. By the time the cloths were withdrawn, they were ready.

Stephen walked up to the dais and spoke quietly for a moment with the benchers. They nodded at him and settled themselves comfortably with cups of wine. He stood with admirable poise in front of the whole assembly. "Esteemed members of Gray's Inn: I am honored to be elected as your prince. I promise that I will serve you to the utmost of my abilities."

Cheers and cries of "Long live the Prince!" followed.

"Now I will announce my court. First, I am informed that I must select a member of the bench as my Counselor in Chief. Since provisionary benchers are allowed, I appoint Mr. Francis Bacon as my Master of Revels."

That startled a laugh from Bacon, who had apparently only been half listening. For a moment, he looked like a boy, still a student with a taste for fun. Tom liked him for it.

"Next, I must have a Lord Treasurer, a man who can be trusted to manage the enormous sums of money needed to make my reign memorable. I name Benjamin Whitt to hold my princedom's monies, for that he himself have none."

Cries of sympathy mixed with the laughter as Ben rose to stand beside his prince.

"Since we are under constant threat of invasion and affront from members of those outposts of villainy, Lincoln's Inn and the Middle Temple—"

Boos and hisses rose from the audience as the names of their rival Inns of Court were mentioned. The Inner Temple was, by long tradition, an ally of Gray's.

Stephen held up his hands for silence. "We require a bold and intimidating Captain of the Guard. I name Allen Trumpington to be my shield of strength, for that he himself have none."

Trumpet bounded up to the dais and paced back and forth, glaring fiercely at the ancients. Tom laughed out loud. It was like appointing a kitten to guard the bears.

"Last and least," Stephen said. "In these perilous times, a wise ruler retains a minister to warn him of machinations at home and abroad. I name Thomas Clarady to be my Master of Intelligences, for that —" He stopped and gave the audience a meaningful look.

As one, the Society chorused "He himself have none!"

Stephen made a clowning face at Tom, who was well pleased with his post. Everyone knew that the real Master Intelligencer, Sir Francis Walsingham, had over and again saved England from those milk-livered, pox-marked Catholic conspirators. The position was one of the most important in the kingdom.

Stephen raised his arms high and shouted, "Let the revels begin!" He waved a hand at the minstrel gallery over the screen and music filled the hall.