The Queene’s Christmas (18 page)

“Just thinking too much,” he told her, squeezing her shoulder. “Shall I buy you ale or beer?”

“Mulled cider, if they have it. Hod”

“I intend to bring back the tapman I talked to the other day about Giles.”

He walked through the smoky common room with its mingled smells of wet wool, burning firewood, and four chickens sizzling on a single spit over the flames. His stomach growled in anticipation of the feast tonight with its roast suckling pig. It was not half as crowded here as it had been the other day, and he spotted the tapman easily at the counter amidst the few customers. The fat, jolly man went by the sobriquet of “Duke” since in his youth he’d been footman for the Duke of Northumberland.

Ned ordered two mulled ciders and tipped Duke extravagantly before the man realized who he was.

“Eh, you again, then? Still looking for your actor friends?”

“Looking for some information, if you’ve got the time,” Ned told the nearly bald man. Duke had such a bull neck it looked as if his head were set directly on his huge, rounded shoulders. Every time he nodded it seemed to be in danger of rolling off.

“Why not?” Duke said and left his fellows to follow Ned. “If a man can’t take a whit of a respite at holiday time, however much debt he has or problems, too, what’s the point of things?” Duke guffawed as if he’d said something hilarious. “This your wench, then?” he asked as he saw Meg waiting on the bench. “Red-haired like the queen herself, eh?”

“Meg’s a close friend of mine,” Ned told him, and Meg nodded vigorously. “And we're here,” he went on as the three of them huddled on the bench, Meg squeezed in the middle, “to inquire if you can give us any information about the handsome, young blond actor who was with the players.”

“Wet behind the ears, he was, I could tell, but smooth.”

Hell’s gates, Ned thought, that wasn’t much help and seemed slightly contradictory.

“Clever like,” Duke tried to explain, rubbing his bearded chin, “and real int'rested in everything 'bout Londontown, that’s what he called the city.”

“Yes, I’ve seen he was interested in everything.”

“Good 'nough actor, I warrant, but kept running out and 'bout between the short plays they did, used this hearth right here for a stage, they did.”

“But how was Giles clever?” Ned pursued.

“Tried to make a good impression, least 'bout one thing. Boasted he was going to see Whitehall Palace soon, not only from the outside but inside, too. Had a friend who could get him in, leastways far’s the kitchens.”

Ned and Meg gave each other a pointed look. “Did he say who his friend was?” Meg spoke up before Ned could.

“No, and wasn’t like to be the queen, was it? Why, I could of thrown the Duke of Northumberland’s name at him—see, I was once his footman, missy,” he said to Meg, “looked fine in liv'ry, too, ’specially new liv'ry at Yule, I did.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did,” Meg told him.

“But I was too busy that day, not like now,” he added with a nod at the sparsely populated common room. “ ’Sides, I been in a few fancy kitchens myself. Naw, just give me the small hearth here with the spit aturning at Yule, my wife in our warm room upstairs, and I’m content, no more court life or fetching and scraping for my betters in a rabbit warren o’ rooms, e'en castle or palace, not me.”

Duke leaned contentedly back against the wall behind the bench and belched as if to punctuate his thoughts. This time, Ned’s gaze snagged Meg’s and held. He wondered if she was thinking what he was, that there was some lure to the life this man described, even so crudely.

“We’d best get back,” Meg mouthed.

Ned nodded. They finished their cider and thanked the man; Ned donned his own cloak this time, and they started out But in the small entry hall, before they stepped into the cold world again, Ned blocked her in against the closed door.

“I’ve got a sprig of mistletoe in my jerkin,” he said, amazed his voice was so rough.

“You already got what you came for,” she countered, “more goods on Giles. Are you the one who’s been taking the mistletoe off the kissing boughs I put up?”

“Not I—just this one. Do I need to get it out? I can’t be seen giving you a Christmas kiss back at Whitehall if I don’t want Jenks’s fist in my face, peace on earth and goodwill to men this time of year, or not”

“No, we can’t have that,” she said with a sigh.

He moved quickly before she changed her mind. It was just a way of thanking her for sticking with him in this, he told himself. Just a cheery, holiday, one-time thing… a sort of good-bye since she was to marry Jenks, and the queen sometimes talked about having a wedding for them soon. It was just…

Meg gave a little moan and seemed to sink into him. His hand left the door latch to tighten around her waist; his other hand steadied her chin. They melded together, for much longer than he’d intended or expected. And yet it seemed to go so fast, the deepening kiss and the way they clung to each other, mindless of the place or time or who they were.

It was another loud guffaw from Duke, talking to someone in the common room, that brought Ned back to reality. He lifted his head, and Meg stepped quickly away from his embrace. Though no one was so much as looking at them, another man laughed at something Duke had said, and “That’s a good one!” floated to them.

Quickly, Ned hustled Meg out the door. The queen would not think it one bit humorous if they didn’t get back soon.

“My lord Harry,” Elizabeth said to Baron Hunsdon the moment she’d heard all Ned and Meg had to tell, “please find the Earl of Sussex and escort him to my presence forthwith!”

She felt somewhat relieved that Giles Chatam’s suspicious activities might help exonerate Ned, but her principal actor still bore watching. It seemed to her he was trying too hard to make Giles look bad. Meanwhile, the Privy Plot Council members still sat around the table in the queen’s privy chamber. Cecil had reported that the twelve stones had indeed come from the palace’s foundation, Jenks had said he’d turned up no sign or word of a fox killed at Greenwich, and Meg and Ned had come back brimming with news from their joint investigation.

“But what about Giles?” Ned asked now. “I thought, that is, Meg and I thought—”

“I will look into his actions, too, I assure you,” Elizabeth interrupted, “though I don’t think a frontal assault is the way to deal with him. On the other hand, Sussex understands the old saying, ’Might makes right’ “

“Sussex may head a powerful court faction,” Cecil said, “but he dare not defy his queen.”

“Let us hope,” she muttered.

“Perhaps,” Ned put in, “just removing Giles Chatam from among the mummers tonight and sending him away from court—”

“Ned, enough!” Elizabeth commanded and sat in the chair at the end of the long table so fast her skirt whooshed air. She intentionally did not bid the others to sit again. “And,” she added, pointing at him, “don’t be confronting Giles Chatam on your own until we at least arrange for someone to overhear what he may say.”

“But I would report back faithfully what he said and—and I ask your permission to take my leave now,” he added hastily, no doubt, she thought, when he saw the look on her face.

“All of you but Cecil may leave,” she said, “but remember to keep a good eye out at the Feast of Fools for anything untoward. And if I manage to shake any confessions out of Thomas Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, I will let you know.”

When everyone did as bidden, Cecil said, “I note you didn’t tell them you’ve secreted Clifford and Jenks in the kitchen for this evening. Do you still mistrust Ned?”

“I cannot afford to trust anyone—present company excepted, my lord—until we find and stop this Christmas-plot culprit. I cannot believe Ned would stoop to murder, though he is entirely capable of the cleverness of the assault on our traditions. He was livid when I named Leicester Lord of Misrule. Perhaps in passing through the kitchens that day he happened upon Hodge, they argued or there was an accident—and then he’s been forced to hide what he’s done ever since. In my heart I cannot fathom Ned a killer, even accidentally, but as queen I must be ruled by my head.”

Instead of tempestuous Ned, she pictured her volatile Robin again, so handsome, so intense. She wearied of holding him at arm’s length. She cherished the ride on the frozen river with him today, even though they’d argued. Sometimes she thought that if only she had a husband to help bear her burdens—but
if
she had a husband, then England had a king, and kings had a way of ruling over queens, too, so…

A sharp knock on the door shattered her musings.

“The Earl of Sussex awaits,” Harry announced, sticking only his head and shoulders in. “And,” he added, whispering now, “he’s just returned to the palace.”

Sussex had obviously come in great haste. When he swept off his cap to bow, Elizabeth saw that his boots—those boots that were the exact size of the probable murderer’s—were mottled with melted snow. His hair was still mussed, and he nervously smoothed it more than once. His gloves were yet stuck in his belt, and his cheeks were burnished like two autumn pippins.

“Your Majesty, ah, what is the cause, and what may I do to help?” he inquired as he rose from his bow.

“Perhaps much. I have it on good authority you have been abroad this day, and as I’ve been no farther than the river, I’d like to hear all you’ve seen and done in my city.”

“Ah, all I’ve seen and done in the city.”

“Cecil, is there an echo in here?” she asked. Sussex shot Cecil a sideways glance. ’S blood, the queen fumed, but Sussex looked guilty of something, like the boy who stuck his thumb in a pie and pulled out a plum. But whether Sussex was a good boy or not remained to be seen.

“Someone saw me, I take it,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Perhaps a little bird told me,” she said, glaring at him.

“And you want to know if people are in a festive mood, or the condition of the snowy streets, or—”

She smacked the arms of her chair with her fists and jumped to her feet. Sussex stepped back so fast he nearly tripped. “Don’t fence with me, my lord,” she commanded, pointing her finger at him. “I may be a woman, unskilled in the military maneuvers you have practiced and perfected, but I am your queen. And I want to know why you went out today to meet someone you could well have spoken to in the warmth of this palace!”

“Ah—Vicar Bane? I stopped to wish good Yuletide cheer to Bishop Grindal, and Bane happened to be there, that’s all. Is Bane back already—and, ah, mayhap mentioned he spoke with me?”

“Yuletide cheer was it? You stopped to wish Bishop Grindal good Yuletide cheer? I suppose you were simply shopping for New Year’s gifts at St. Paul’s Walk, too?”

“I—yes. You had me followed, Your Majesty? But what have I done to deserve—”

“I am asking the questions, Sussex, though you are doing a pitiful job with the answers.”

His ruddy glow went white as bleached linen. Damn, but she’d be distraught if a powerful peer of the realm had caused this upheaval at court, let alone committed or ordered a murder. And all because he so hated his rival Leicester, his promotion and position?

“Did you see anyone else I would know on your goodwill jaunt, Sussex?” she went on. If he lied about seeing Giles Chatam and passing him a note and money, she must have Sussex more thoroughly questioned.

“Ah, yes, I saw someone else, but it’s a private affair.”

“Shall I tell your lady Frances of that? A private affair?”

He blanched again. “Not that sort of thing, Your Majesty, I swear it”

“And I swear to you that this is serious business to me and I must know it all.”

“I saw the new actor, Giles Chatam,” he blurted.

“Aha. A private affair. Meaning?”

“It’s a sort of Yuletide secret, Your Majesty.”

“Cecil, this is a man who can command an army but cannot command himself in my presence!” she cried, looking to her chief secretary and then back at the shaken but defiant Sussex. “I cannot afford secrets, man! Why did you meet and bribe and pass orders to an itinerant young actor you surely could not even have known before a few days ago?”

At last, Sussex looked shocked. “Is—is something wrong with him? I overheard he was going to be at St. Paul’s.
Ah, he
loves to wander the
city
, Your Grace, and I said he should look me up.”

“Obviously! Because?”

“I had a poem for him to recite to someone special on New Year’s Eve, a poem I wrote myself, for, as you know, speaking is not
my forte
. I can fetch you the rough copy of it from my chamber where I have it hidden. A gift for my lady wife, as were the finely wrought flagons I bought from a vendor who was highly recommended to me.”

Elizabeth sank into her chair again. The anger ebbed from her; she felt deflated. All that could be true, of course. She wanted to believe him. Still, he could have handed the poem and money to Giles Chatam here at court. And since when was he in so tight with Bishop Grindal, or was it Bane he really went to see where they would not be seen talking—perhaps plotting—together? She supposed neither of the churchmen could stomach Leicester’s growing power any more than Sussex could.