The Poyson Garden (10 page)

"By whom? What service?" Ned demanded, his hand on the dull sword they'd used in many a fight scene. He wondered just how much that horse would cost.

"I'm to say as a clown, but--"

He turned away and threw back over his shoulder, "I'm done playing the clown. I'm near a quarter century of age and have no home, no hopes, no patron, no--"

Though he was talking to himself--quite a soliloquy, really--the man kept up. "Just to play at playing the clown, I mean, Master Topside," he amended. "A patron--she wants your wits, your help, and she can pay."

Ned spun to face him. "Who wants my help? Who can pay?"

Pride shone so radiantly on the man's plain face--that was what convinced Ned he spoke the truth--as he said those remarkable words.

"Why, the Princess Elizabeth herself. Saw you in secret at Wivenhoe, she did, and in secret asks you come to her at Hatfield and serve her, if you would, so--"

The man stopped his speech when Ned hooted a triumphant laugh to the skies. He dropped his sack and smacked his hands, one on the other, atop his head. "Serve her? The princess?" he said, his well-honed voice cracking like a boy's. Tears he could not stem blurred his vision. "Elizabeth Tudor--Elizabeth of England? Lead on, man. Can your horse carry both of us?" he asked, but he was thinking this was the best deus ex machina salvation he had ever seen at the end of a play--or rather, the beginning of

another.

But then he thought of an even better denouement, one written especially for his Uncle Wat and Grand Rand.

"Will you wait here just one moment, man? Here, tie my pack on your saddlebags, and I'll be brief. I'd best bid a better farewell to my friends."

He shoved his way back into the innyard, and in his deepest upstage bass, standing directly under their window, he shouted, "Wat Thompson! Grand Rand Greene!"

The bastards rushed out and leaned over the railing as if they all played some fond farewell scene. "You've had a change of heart, my boy," his uncle called down to him. "Of course you and Rand can share--can even alternate--the choice parts and speeches."

"He can have them all--have you too. I just wanted to inform you that the Princess Elizabeth--of England, uncle, the Tudor heir--has sent her man to fetch me to present many a sketch and speech. Heard us at Wivenhoe in secret and singled me out."

They gaped at him, then began to shout down beseechments, apologies, excuses. When Ned only shook his head and waved, Rand started to run down the outer hall.

"And so, farewell," Ned shouted to his uncle with a mocking bow. As Rand thundered down the stairs, Ned pushed his way through the crowd to the man waiting with the horse.

"My uncle intends to detain me by force," he told him. "But if you can get me out of here straightaway, I will serve Her Grace body, mind--and high drama."

When he glanced back to see that Rand had actually fallen down--in the dust their fine mount had made--Ned Topside, alias Edward Thompson, knew this was the finest exit he would ever make in his entire life.

Chapter The Seventh

"So that is Bushey," Elizabeth observed, gazing down the hillside at the shallow valley.

The villagers had spread their harvest fair on a central green framed by its houses and shops. Beyond the cluster of buildings, the brassy reds, bronze, and gold of autumn trees

encircled furrowed and fallow fields, which looked like an irregular chessboard. Though such beauty lay sun-gilded, Elizabeth's mood was dark.

Leaning toward Meg, who rode next to her in the small train, she said, "Since Jenks is not back yet, I'm trusting you and Kat to inquire about Bushey Cot while we are here. Then I will find a way to visit it somehow, the Popes and their people notwithstanding."

After looking ahead at the two guards, Meg twisted in her saddle to glance back at the other two men, the Popes, and Lady Blanche, who rode at the rear with stolid Kat Ashley. "Aye," Meg said, turning back in her saddle, "but I'm having a few second thoughts about that piece of needlework. What if it was meant to send the one who found it on a wild-goose chase?"

"Or meant to snare a silly goose," Elizabeth replied, frowning. She had thought of that possibility herself and was pleased Meg had reasoned it out. It made Elizabeth trust her more. "But we have no other leads right now," she added, "so this is worth the risk."

"But Nettie and that "she" Nettie was so afraid of and those archers in the woods," Meg countered, "they were after folks at Wivenhoe. So why would any of them have aught to do with a place here called Bushey Cot?"

"Because, I fear, it is close to Hatfield, and "she"--or they--are also after me. Surely you realized that."

"You, Your Grace? No. But--"

"I said you must learn to conceal your emotions," Elizabeth cut her off. "I plan," she explained, "to have Ned Topside teach both you and Kat to guard your expressions--facial and verbal--if he comes. But meanwhile you must take your cue from me. Now, try harder, because here comes Sir Thomas again."

"Quite a lot of chatter up here," he observed, shaking his head so his jowls bounced.

"I am asking Mistress Milligrew to buy up whatever herbs at this fair will get us through the winter," Elizabeth informed him archly, looking straight ahead. "I've missed the strewing and scenting herbs I've known at court."

"I've no doubt you miss court--haven't we all?" he muttered. "Just see you do not

cause a stir at Bushey, my lady, and that no one gets so much as a hint who you are, at least not of your accord. It doesn't endear you to the queen when she hears you've been flaunting yourself about, hoping to incite hurrahs--and more."

"And she no doubt hears from some source every move I make," Elizabeth countered.

Evidently deciding not to challenge that, he rode toward the front of the band. Elizabeth looked back, caught Bea's eye, and forced a smile. After all, she would never have convinced Sir Thomas to visit Bushey if it hadn't been for Bea, who was looking for imported dyes for her sewing threads.

But the more Elizabeth considered it, the more Bea's helpfulness and watchfulness bothered her. Besides that needlework from Wivenhoe greatly resembling Bea's style, she was upon occasion absent from Hatfield for several days at a time, including, Kat had said, the day and second night Elizabeth was at Wivenhoe. It was supposedly to visit her sister in Maidstone, which was in Kent.

Still, Bea had never shown the slightest special interest in flowers or herbs, but to embroider them. And she seemed such an ally. More than once she had heard Bea standing up for her rights and privileges, though, indeed, that could have been arranged to get Elizabeth to trust her.

"Never forget this, Thomas," she had heard Bea declare to her husband last month through a slightly open door when Elizabeth passed by in the upstairs corridor. "Queen Mary is ill, and Elizabeth is not. Queen Mary is hated and Elizabeth favored; Queen Mary is older and Elizabeth yet young. Queen Mary--"

"Is queen indeed and has put us in a position of authority here with our orders!" Thomas had thundered. "And see that you bridle your lips, actions, and fond heart, madam, because who is to say if we watch the princess and report on her doings that others are not watching us."

It had seemed so convincing. She'd felt at least pity for Bea ever since. She had scolded Kat next time she referred to her as the Buzzard.

But it was just then, riding down into that shallow valley, with Bea no doubt looking at her from behind, that Elizabeth felt a chill slide down her spine like an icy hand. It feathered the hairs

on the nape of her neck; she shuddered even in her warm cloak and hood. It was as if someone with poison-tipped intent were spying on her as they rode in.

She spun to look back at Bea again. She was watching, but she gave a jaunty wave and spurred her horse to join Elizabeth.

In the village Thomas Pope put out the word they were just passing through to London. He gave no names, but everyone stared at their betters as they strolled the aisles of rickety booths. Besides pyramids of apples, Elizabeth saw piles of scarves and tin trinkets that traveling hawkers had spread on ground cloths. They strolled past a fortune-teller's booth and watched a morality play with puppets. Both made Elizabeth wonder if Jenks had found Ned Topside.

Cider, apple tarts, and sausage pies were everywhere one turned. At first, relieved the food could be not be tainted, Elizabeth ate with relish. But when she realized people were indeed gawking, she had trouble getting the next pie and cider down. Her eyes watered as she recalled her Aunt Mary's saffron cakes and mead. And all this time Meg and Kat were drifting off into the crowd to inquire if someone knew of a place called Bushey Cot.

Yet despite her unease Elizabeth felt proud to be among the realm's common folk, most of whose lives were seldom touched by shifting events on the larger stage. She wondered how she would have gotten on had she been born just plain Bess of Bushey. At least that lass would not have to fear for her very life.

"The cot--I think I found it," Meg whispered out-of-breath as they all took a brief respite before they set out for Hatfield. She showed her some dried and powdered quinces she had bought, in case someone was watching.

"Where?" Elizabeth whispered excitedly, as Meg knelt beside her on a baize cloth spread on the ground in the sun.

"In the deep woods not so far behind us. Didn't see it but heard tell. Used to be a woodsman's cottage, been deserted for a while, until last year."

"Who lives there, then?"

"An old hag, they say. She comes and goes, and they don't know if she's there or not

now. No one goes there much. She keeps folks away, and some of the boys been whispering she's--a witch," she added, wide-eyed.

"The point is, it's a woman and could be our "she,"" Elizabeth said, feeling both relief and revulsion.

"If you try to see the cot, I'm going too," Meg insisted, "'cause they say she keeps a garden."

"All right, then," she said, frowning, "Kat must be the one who draws them off."

But, despite her excitement to be so close to what she sought, Elizabeth saw it would be foolhardy to try to find the cot now. She'd never get near it without the Popes and these guards sticking to her skirts like burrs. Sir Thomas was already ordering the party to remount and head back. She fumed inside, longing for the day she could order people about with a mere glance or snap of her fingers, let alone a warrant or decree.

As they headed home midafternoon, Elizabeth sent a long glance back toward the thick forest surrounding Bushey Cot. If a garden grew there in the dank and dark, what could be in it?

"What's this I hear?" Sir Thomas raged. They all looked up as he rushed into the solar, where Elizabeth sat before the fire at needlework with Lady Blanche Parry and his wife. "First an herbalist and now some itinerant fool added hugger-mugger to your household here, my Lady Elizabeth?"

"That is correct, Sir Thomas," she replied, dropping her work in her lap and placing both hands on the arms of her chair. She hoped she appeared at ease, but she wanted something to grip instead of this man's fat, fleshy neck.

"Ned Topside, however," she went on in measured tones, "is a versatile player of some repute and deserves better than the sobriquet clown or fool. He'll do all sorts of parts for us, cooped up here this winter all cozy together."

"Do not try to get me off the track. Next you'll be putting on airs to appoint a privy council in exile," he raged, pacing before the rain-streaked windows.

Elizabeth had to fight a smile, for he knew not how close he came to her real plans for her newly assembled little staff. She wanted

not gathered herbs but clues, not clever amusements but proofs about the poisoners.

"Her Gracious Majesty will not like this when she is informed, I tell you that plain," he expounded, striding back and forth, his Spanish leather bootheels clicking on the oaken floor.

"Surely," Elizabeth tried to soothe him, as she rose and handed Blanche her sampler stretched on its willow hoop, "my dear sister will not begrudge me a few simple and private pleasures. Indeed, I am going to inform her myself and inquire if I might not visit Kent before winter sets in--to Ightham Mote to see the Cornish family; you remember them?"

"That little place," he said and snorted. "Granted, a family the queen favors for their loyalty, but one that was distantly related to your Howard kin, I recall, so--"

"Her Majesty did tell me I might move about the kingdom if I do so circumspectly, and this would be a brief, private visit. It will give the household staff time to clean out the jakes before winter sets in to keep us here. You, I know, would like a change, too, Sir Thomas. I can imagine how this backwater place wears on a man of action like yourself." He had stopped sputtering at least. He glanced warily at his wife for support, but she offered none.

"If Her Grace gives written permission," he said, "of course I would go, for you are my charge and care." He sighed and leaned on the window ledge to stare out at the vast gray sky. She supposed he fancied he felt the weight of it upon his slumped shoulders.

"Agreed then," she said, moving quickly in for the kill before he could realize how she'd baited and hooked him. "Then I shall send my man Jenks with the request to Her Majesty at once, and we shall eagerly await her response."

She turned to take her sewing back from Blanche but glanced again at Bea's in her lap. The tight chain stitching, the twist of framing leaves--it was so like the style of the other piece. "I hope, Lady Bea," Elizabeth said, "you will be able to join our little entourage if we go to Kent, or will you be seeing your sister at Maidstone again? At least that is in the shire too."

"Her children have been ill--I'm not certain," she

replied, glancing from Elizabeth to her husband and looking rather agitated. "I shall have to see."

"Then I shall go up straightaway and write my letter to my dear sister. Sir Thomas, I would count it a favor if you would send my man Jenks to me to ride to London with it."