The Queene’s Christmas (13 page)

They made their own music, for many had strung bells on their reins. The queen, riding sidesaddle on her white horse, had jingling rings on her gloved fingers and bells on the toes of her boots. Even the crunch of the hundreds of hoofs on a dusting of new snow and their mounts’ snorting of frosted air seemed musical.

Twenty of her mounted guards with flapping pennants on poles preceded her, and twenty brought up the rear of the parade. Down the Strand, through Cheapside, and across London Bridge, the yeomen shouted, “Make way for the queen! Make way! Uncap there, you knaves!” When she heard the latter, she sent immediate word for them not to order her people to uncap today, for the wind was chill. Yet most men did, and women cheered, and everyone huzzahed her passage.

Robin rode just behind her bedecked horse, then Sussex and her other earls and counselors—though Cecil had stayed behind to work—then barons like Harry, mingled with her maids of honor and ladies who had chosen to brave the brisk day. Simon MacNair and, unfortunately, Martin Bane were in attendance; Margaret Stewart and her son Darnley, too. Kat had come along, though the queen feared she’d catch the ague and had ordered the old woman bundled to her nose. Her dear former governess was enjoying each event of the season, and that warmed Elizabeth as had little else since Hodge’s corpse was found.

She had brought none of her servants this day, but for Jenks. Of course, some kitchen help had been sent with Master Cook Stout ahead to Greenwich with supplies to pitch tents and pre-pare food and mulled cider for after the hunt.

Elizabeth loved Greenwich, the palace where she had been born, and visited it often, especially in the summer. Graced by two hundred acres of pasture, wood, heath, and gorse, and stocked with deer and other game, the Tudor redbrick edifice lay but a short barge ride east of London on the Thames, or a longer, harder ride ahorse.

But for a few green firs, the trees of Greenwich Great Park stood bare branched, all the easier to ride through and see one’s prey. For some reason, the fox was the traditional St. Stephen’s Day quarry. Perhaps, someone had mused once, that was because its coat was Christmas red and easier than deer or boar to spot against the snow. And, in the tradition of goodwill at Yule and in honor of the martyr, unless the hounds had mauled the beast, the St. Stephen’s Day fox was always let go.

“Were the packs of hunt dogs sent ahead, too, Your Majesty?” Simon MacNair asked, suddenly riding abreast with her.

“The royal packs,” the queen said, pointing back across the river at an island, which was completely iced in, “are kept in kennels directly over there, Sir Simon, which, in this weather, are even warmed. The place is most aptly named the Isle of Dogs.”

“Ah,” he said, squinting into the sun off the snow. Robin and Sussex rode closer on her right side, perhaps to eavesdrop on what the Scots envoy and their queen could be discussing. “But, Your Majesty,” MacNair went on, “to prepare myself for my stay here, I’ve been reading far and wide about your realm, and I believe I saw the Isle of Dogs was named for the ghosts which haunt it yet.

Elizabeth shook her head, but Kat’s voice cut in. “I’ve heard that tale, too, a sad one of lost loves and lives. A young nobleman and his new bride drowned in a marsh there, and their hunting dogs kept barking, barking until their bodies were found. And even now, years after, the hounds still bay, and the ghosts still call them to the hunt”

“There, you see!” MacNair said.

“Kat, I did not think you’d be a purveyor of such stories,” Elizabeth chided. “The night howls people hear on this stretch of river are my hunt hounds, not some phantom menace.”

“But a better story, you must admit, Your Grace,” MacNair said, and she noted that, for the first time, he had used the more familiar form of address for her. Fine, she thought She wanted to win this man over, but even if she did, she knew his loyalties lay with his Scottish queen.

“Since you seem to have a fanciful nature, my lord,” she told him, “after the hunt, I shall show you the old Saxon graveyard in the forest, for small mounds still mark the site. You and my dear Lady Ashley can keep an ear cocked for what those spirits have to tell us.”

They all managed a laugh, and soon the hunt was on.

The hounds, which had been brought across from the Isle of Dogs in small caged carts over the ice, seemed to scent the fox at once. They took off in a brown streak of tails and barks with the hunters’ horses following.

Fox hunts were truly about the ride and the chase, not the capture. Elizabeth loved to ride fast and free and all too seldom did so anymore, especially in the winter. How this custom of fox hunting on the day named in honor of the first Christian martyr, who was stoned to death, had gotten started she’d never know. But at least it got everyone out of the palace for the day. She was even hoping
it
would clear her head so she could decide whether to dismiss the Queen’s Country Players or keep them around with Giles Chatam under close observation. Why not, since the others she suspected of trying to mock Dudley, burn her to bits, and ruin Christmas were all her guests?

She leaned forward, urging her mount on as others tried to stay with her through the trees. If she or someone just ahead— and few dared ride ahead—bounced branches, little cascades of snow flew in their faces. Her horse’s hooves beat faster, her bells rang madly as she pursued the fox and hounds.

Her thoughts pounded just as fast and hard. The murderer and would-be murderer was surely someone who hated Robin and perhaps her, too. The Stewarts did, of course, and MacNair wanted Mary of Scots on her throne. Sussex hated Robin but surely would not want her or Cecil dead, though he could want to throw a good scare into her so that she would heed his advice to marry and produce a Protestant heir.

She could not believe that a churchman like Martin Bane would traffic in murder, though it was obvious he and Grindal wanted to warn her to stop her celebrations at any cost. They might think she was a bit of a pagan herself, but they could never stomach the Papist Queen Mary if Elizabeth were gone. And the handsome, talented Giles Chatam? He might have a motive to harm Hodge, but to sneak out and try to kill his queen, who just might make his career? Or had he learned where the body was and, without realizing they were inside, tried to incinerate even the remnants of his rival forever?

“There!” someone shouted. “There it goes! It’s circling, trying to lose the pack!”

The hunters wheeled about and thundered back toward the river through thicker trees. As they burst into a clearing, they were nearly to the pavilion tents where food and drink were waiting. The fox charged right through, and, though most of the horses were reined in, the hounds and several mounts snagged tent ropes and upturned tables and food. Servants screamed and scattered, then all was silent once again but the distant baying of the hounds.

Elizabeth could not decide whether to laugh or cry. She pulled up and surveyed the chaos,

“It seems even your portable kitchens are in disarray this season,” Harry said, reining in beside her.

“Oh, oh, Your Majesty, sorry, just so sorry!” Roger Stout called to her. The man appeared to be actually pulling his hair out while others bent to retrieve roasts or bread loaves that had rolled into the snow. “And here the gift that boy left for you took a tumble, too!” Stout cried.

“What gift and what boy?” she said, urging her horse closer.

“A special holiday gift for the queen, that’s what he said. Ah, here, a heavy box it is, too, over here where it fell off the table.”

Elizabeth dismounted before Harry could help her down. Jenks suddenly appeared and slid off his horse; Robin on foot, Sussex, and MacNair came closer. Across the way, still ahorse, Vicar Bain watched at a distance as
if
he were hiding behind trees. Margaret Stewart and Lord Darnley reined in. Snow pockmarked from the headlong rush of fox, hounds, and mounts crunched under the queen’s jingle-belled boots as she walked slowly over to the box, a plain wooden one, bound with a leather belt. It looked the mate to Meg’s herb box she’d given up for Jenks to use as a place for Hodge’s mortal remains.

“Shall I open it, Your Majesty?” Jenks asked.

“Of course,” she said, smiling at the little crowd growing around her as more hunters straggled back. “Nothing like an early gift for New Year’s!”

Jenks pulled off his gloves, and his cold fingers were stiff loosening the leather belt. When he opened the box, so many courtiers crowded around that they almost shut out the light, and the queen put up a hand to hold them back.

A piece of paper lay folded across the box’s contents with large-lettered words on it.
“HANGING MEAT, ROAST MEAT, MINCE MEAT,”
Jenks read aloud. “That’s all it says. No, here in smaller words,
Stones for murdering martyrs”

“What?” the queen demanded, her voice shrill. She leaned for-ward to see what the box held, then gasped. It was filled with stones, just plain rocks, at least a dozen of them, rough and bumpy. No, one, near the bottom, was completely covered with gold foil.

“Find the boy who brought these here!” she commanded, and another hunt was on.

Chapter the Seventh

Christmas Tussie-Mussies

Not only do dried garden flowers keep the scent of summer in the dark and dreary months, but they may well help ward off diverse diseases and cheer one’s spirit. In the growing months, gather and dry such sweet-smelling flowers as you favor, lavender and roses, of course, not forgetting to include those which have not only scent and color but curative powers. The latter may include sweet marjoram for over-sighing, basil to take away sorrowfulness, borage for courage, and rosemary for remembrance, especially of joyous Yule-tides past. Gather the dried blooms into small bouquets adorned by lace or ribbons. Strew the crushed or unsightly petals about on floors or table carpets or in coffers for delightful odors during the Twelve Days and thereafter
.

PUT THOSE STONES HERE, YES, RIGHT ON THIS TABLE
carpet so they don’t get chipped,” the queen ordered Jenks. Lugging the box of them, he followed the other Privy Plot Council members into the queen’s chamber at Whitehall before dawn the next morning. Ned quietly closed the door on the yeomen guards as Jenks tipped the box on its side to dump them.

“No, pick them out carefully,” the queen commanded, perching on the edge of her chair, “here where we can see them in window light. I’ll not have mishandled what may have been used to kill Hodge Thatcher, especially that gold-foiled stone.”

“Yet we may be foiled indeed,” Ned whispered to Meg.

“I heard that,” Elizabeth said, “and am in no mood for puns or jests. How I am to smile my way through the holiday festivities this night I do not know.”

“On the other hand,” Ned replied, “since this is St. John the Evangelist’s holy day, we can hope to have our murderer’s head on a platter instead of that boar’s head tonight.”

“If I were Salome,” she muttered, “I would gladly cast off my veils and dance all night to have it
so
, but to the business at hand. Cecil, please take out your sketch of Hodge’s head wound, then each of us must take two stones to study to see if one fits the approximate pattern of the drawing.”

He did as she asked, also producing the boot-print sketch from the scene of Hodge’s murder. Elizabeth took the gold-foiled stone, which was completely covered with what appeared to be the same thin foil that had been on the table at the scene of the murder. Jenks, Meg, Harry, Cecil, and Ned did as they were bidden with the others. Evidently hewn from a larger piece of rock, the stones were of rough, pitted texture about the size of a man’s fist.

“You might know, the boy who delivered these to me at Greenwich escaped just like the fox,” Elizabeth groused, “nor could Jenks locate a site on the grounds which could have provided them.” She shook her head. She’d hardly slept again; a headache as well as a churning stomach sapped her strength and concentration. “But I vow that, whatever it takes,” she added, looking at each of them in turn, “whoever is playing this clever game with our Christmas will be caught and punished.”

“The number twelve here may be significant,” Cecil mused. “Symbolic of the Twelve Days of Christmas?”

“Pray God,” Meg put in, “there are not worse gifts to come.”

“But what’s the flowery smell?” Cecil asked. “It’s not coming from the box, is it? It’s not my papers,” he added, lifting both sketches and sniffing at them.

Elizabeth nodded at Meg to explain.

“No, my lord,” the girl said, patting the thick, brightly hued table rug. “After I make the queen’s sweet bags, pomanders, and tussie-mussies, Her Majesty likes me to crush the rest of the herbs and flowers to strew about. They’ve got to be fine as powder but with a touch of ambergris worked in so’s it won’t blow away right off and lingers.”

As if they’d exhausted conversation, they spent the next quarter hour hunched over stones, hoping they could match a contour or pattern, turning each rock to compare its rough facets from all angles. Most of the stones were smaller than the size of the wound drawn in Cecil’s sketch, and the ones that were large enough had no texture to match it.

“I thought it would be this golden stone, but it doesn’t fit, either,” Cecil said, examining it after the queen finally put it down in frustration.