The Queene’s Christmas (25 page)

ELIZABETH WISHED SHE COULD ENJOY ALL THIS AS MUCH
as Robin seemed to. She noted that the marks on his neck and wrists had faded fast, as perhaps the terrible memory of his assault and attempted murder had, too. That was what made him so merry tonight, to have back his life, which could have been tragically cut short, she thought.

“It’s most generous of you not only to give me the sleigh ride but to foot the bill for tonight’s fireworks,” she told him. “But then you have always adored gunpowder and explosions of all sorts.”

“Especially the sort we could have between the two of us,” he murmured, leaning close with his big, brown hand on the table beside hers. “Around you, I am but a burning match, my queen, waiting to ignite your—”

“Favorite fireworks on the river. Ah, the first course!” she declared, nodding at Master Cook Roger Stout as he made his appearance at the head of the parade of platters.

The queen tried to smile, to nod and even applaud with the others when a particularly spectacular dish came in. She took a hearty swig of wassail, hoping that would help to lighten her heart. But she still kept envisioning a bizarre peacock, a fox’s head with a gold snout, and Robin trussed like a roast boar instead of the fineries of the feast that were set before the queen.

If the uncovered banquet food came cold, fine, Elizabeth thought, for cold food was the first of the ten traditional courses; the second was hot, the third sweet, and onward through a great array. The red gravies, blue custards, and yellow sauces looked especially festive against the layers of white linens covering the table, which glittered with silver plates and glass goblets. Huge saltcellars in elaborate shapes adorned each table. All the guests soon fell to with their personal knives and spoons.

Accompanied by the wail and beat of music from the elevated musicians’ gallery, sallets came first, some boiled, some compound, followed by a flow of fricassees, boiled meats, stewed broths, and sundry boiled fowls. Then all sorts of roast meats, everything from capons to woodcocks. Wild fowl, land fowl, and hot baked meats such as marrow-bone pie arrived to make the table groan. Next came cold baked meats of wild deer, hare pie, gammon of bacon pie, then shellfish, though not so many dishes of that since the rivers were solid ice.

Among the sweets came candied flower petals, fat green figs from Portugal, dates, suckets, tarts, gingerbread, florentines, and spiced cakes, and the queen’s childhood favorite, figgy pudding, though she merely picked at it now. At last came the annual massive marchpane masterpiece, rolled in on a cart. People stood at their places or even on benches to see a miniature frozen Thames with tiny booths upon it and a replica of Whitehall Palace on its bank side. All of this was washed down with a selection of malmsey, Gascon or Rhenish wines, beer, or ale.

As the tables were cleared and her courtiers lined up for the exchange of gifts with their queen, Elizabeth’s spirits began to sink even more. This was the point at which Ned had always stepped forward to amuse and amaze her guests with quips, jests, or riddles. What a riddle these Christmas crimes had become, she agonized. She could not bear to believe Ned was a deceiver and a killer, and yet a parade of evidence suggested that very thing. On the morrow she intended to send guards out looking for Vicar Bane, but now a whispering Sussex, an ever watchful Simon Mac-Nair, and a gloating Robin were driving her to distraction and—

She almost choked on the last bite of figgy pudding. She had just put her dear Robin in the list of possible villains when she knew he could not possibly be guilty. No, the attacks had been aimed
at
him, and he’d suffered greatly, being mocked and molested.

Putting down her golden spoon and nodding that her place could be cleared, she noted a smiling Simon MacNair working his way through the press of people to stand before her.

“Some happy news, I hope,” she told him by way of greeting as she stood and was escorted to her throne under the scarlet cloth of state.

MacNair hurried behind her, chattering. “Although I have gifts for you from myself and from your royal cousin, the Queen of Scotland, Your Most Gracious Majesty, I wanted to give you another sort of gift, if you would allow it”

“What sort of gift?” she asked warily.

“Sleight-of-hand tomfooleries, Your Majesty. Queen Mary adores them between courses or entertainments, and I thought you might, too.”

“I’m not in the mood for surprises, nor is our court like Queen Mary’s.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” he said, still smiling up at her most pleasantly. “I swear to you there will be no silly dolls or boxes of stones. I offer naught but blessings for the beautiful Queen of England at this start to the new year,” he declared with a flourish as he produced a gold crown coin from midair, one with her likeness on it.

Elizabeth laughed as other crowns seemed to drop into his flying fingers from his nose, his earlobes, and then—with her permission—her chin. Ohs and aahs followed, until quite a crowd had gathered, watching raptly. Soon her lap was full of coins, and she was delighted at their bounty. Was this, she wondered, the gift from him or his queen? Cecil shuffled forward, and Robin leaned in with his hand still on the hilt of his sword, but this clever display seemed harmless enough to her.

“Sir Simon MacNair, you are a man of surprises and hidden talents,” she told him, loudly enough for all to hear. “Imagine, tricks with crowns—and my very image—disappearing and then appearing.”

He only laughed as he seemed to lift a coin from Robin’s pouting lower lip. “And now,” MacNair added as he flapped open a large linen handkerchief, “will not Your Grace wager these coins by allowing me to wrap them in this cloth?”

“Will I get them back with interest?” she demanded, as it seemed everyone in the room leaned forward, breathless to see what the Scot would do next.

“I do promise you it will be interesting.”

All this made her miss Ned dreadfully. Even though voices in the crowd called out such things as “Never trust a Scot'” and “You’ve heard how tight they are with coins—and tight with their Scots whiskey, Your Majesty!” she put the crowns into his hand-kerchief.

Everyone, even the musicians in the balcony, went silent as MacNair knotted the handkerchief, then, holding the ties, swung the bundle once, twice,
thrice
over his head.

“And so!” he cried and untied it with a flourish. “See, Your Majesty, it still has crowns within!”

The queen saw the coins were gone, every last one of them. But within lay two gold-framed miniatures, each of a woman wearing a crown—herself and Queen Mary, only Mary was smiling and Elizabeth looked sober as a Puritan.

Everyone huzzahed and cheered and clapped as MacNair plucked them out and held them up for the crowd, turning so all could see. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether it was a slight or the miniaturist’s failure that Mary looked far better, but she intended to pin MacNair down about it later. Yes, she was certain Mary’s was more flattering.

“And so I ask Your Majesty’s forgiveness for giving my gifts before those of loftier rank, but I could not contain myself,” MacNair said with a deep bow as he produced a purse of coins from up his sleeve and offered them to her too. “I fear, Your Grace,” he added, his voice more intimate now, “that Ambassador Melville would have my head, my position at least, for this, but as he is not here, and it is holiday time…”

“When the cat’s away, the mouse will play, my lord?” she countered, also keeping her voice low. “Do you find it difficult to answer to one who is not here to see the lay of the land, yet to whom you are responsible?”

“How logical and perceptive you are, Your Majesty. I fear that being at best the
aide-de-camp
to those greater than I is my lot in life, however high I rise. I began as the youngest of eight children and so must of necessity make my own way in life. I am envoy for an exacting master and an even more volatile mistress.”

“My cousin Queen Mary?” she asked, fascinated. “And is she volatile, while you call me logical and perceptive? I give you leave to speak freely on this and would count it as a favor if you do so.”

“Your cousin Mary Stuart, Your Grace, is sensitive and sensual, a creature of feelings and emotion. You, I have observed, may feel deeply, too, but your head commands your heart, for your intellect
is
most impressive.”

Again, she found herself liking this man, though she could ill afford to. “I hope, though you are away from your people at this time of year,” she told him, “that you will enjoy yourself among us. Is there aught else you would say before I proceed with the other gifts? For back in the array of them is a fine silver plate for you. And when your messenger Forbes returns from Edinburgh, I shall send him north yet again with a New Year’s gift for my cousin and sister queen.”

“You are ever gracious, and I am grateful,” he said, shifting slightly so that he seemed to block Robin out for a few moments, though her Lord of Misrule was now giving orders for the exchange of gifts. “Just one more thing, Your Grace,” MacNair said, whispering. “As the earl—” here he darted a look at Robin, then back to her—”proved he was not to be trusted by my queen, perhaps he should not be trusted by any queen, even one ruled by her head more than her heart, as queens indeed must be.”

If he meant to say more, it was too late, for Robin turned back and clapped his hands to signal the highest-ranking peers to step forward first. By then Simon MacNair had melted back into the crowd.

As in every year since she’d been on the throne, New Year’s gifts had been showered on the queen, including jewels, uncut or mounted in rings, pendants, or earrings. She received finely wrought saltcellars, ink pots of Venetian glass, and the traditional gifts of garments: ivory-ribbed fans, veils, sets of sleeves, bejeweled stomachers, embroidered smocks, cloaks, ermine muffs trailing silken ribbons, collars, and the new-style wider, stiffer ruffs. Lengths of russet and garnet satin, red grosgrain and taffeta, damask and camlet Scissors, pinchers, penknives, fragrant filigreed or porcelain pomanders, bodkins, ear pickers, tooth pickers, hair crispers, and ornate seals. In turn, according to rank or ser-vice, for each presentation, Elizabeth’s Lord Treasurer gave the giver the appropriate weight of coin or plate.

Many crowded even closer to see what the Earl of Leicester’s gift would be. He held his presentation for last, a set of twelve gold forks imported from Italy.

“What are those?” Kat asked, leaning close.

“Ah, tiny pitchforks,” Sussex put in, “to prick all of us when we misbehave.”

Elizabeth looked up straight into Sussex’s pale blue eyes. “And have you been misbehaving, my lord?” It was so unlike the man to jest that she took it for a clever if circumspect criticism.

“They are all the rage for spearing food,” Robin said, his stance rigid and his tone taut as he and Sussex seemed to square off again. “However, they are so civilized that Ireland, where you’ve been, Sussex, or Scotland, for that matter, will never have them.”

MacNair, political creature that he was, merely frowned from afar at that, and Elizabeth silently blessed him for not jumping into the coming fray. She put her hand on Robin’s arm and smoothly poked him in the ribs so no one could see, while she said quietly to Sussex, “I believe it’s nearly time for the first foot custom, so best you’d go before you put your foot in your mouth instead of over the threshold, my lord.”

Swallowing his stubborn pride, Sussex went out the side entrance behind the screen. He would walk around to the front doors, which had been barred all day, and enter from there.

Cecil edged closer to the queen; by tradition, at ten minutes until midnight, he took out his timepiece and signaled the musicians. They began to play a fanfare. Heads turned toward the main doors. Although the queen felt the first foot custom was mere superstition, it was one many still clung to and one Kat dearly recalled.

The honored “guest” came in precisely at the stroke of twelve, carrying a large silver salver on which sat—under a cover— something traditionally green and growing, such as a potted plant, to symbolize the new year. At court, the first footer was admitted by the monarch, since he or she must accept the gift Supposedly, all sorts of bad luck could befall if the first footer should hesitate or trip. Many English households followed the same custom, but word always spread throughout the kingdom of what had happened at the palace.

Now, in a way, Elizabeth thought as she rose to walk toward the doors, Sussex had become an actor in her play. She had set a possible trap for the molester and the murderer who terrorized her court and ruined her Christmas. She did not mean to make Sussex either scapegoat or sacrificial ram, but she hoped the villain might take advantage of this coming moment: Sussex stood alone with a covered tray. If he were assaulted—and surely, as a military man, he was on his guard—or if something insulting or shocking appeared on his salver, she would go on from there to link it to him or someone else she suspected.

And, but for Vicar Martin Bane, she knew exactly where all her possible candidates for the Christmas culprit were right now. Margaret and MacNair were in her line of sight, as was that damned Darnley, who was hanging drunkenly on an annoyed Giles Chatam, while Ned was safely stowed at Greenwich.

In the hush of the crowd as the new year approached, Elizabeth started toward the doors to open them. The crowd of courtiers parted for her as the Red Sea had for Moses when he was fleeing Pharaoh’s murderous hordes. Though her yeomen guards lined the room, and Robin, Jenks, and Harry came behind, hands on swords, she clutched a fork she had seized at the last moment Inspired by MacNair, she had it hidden up her sleeve, a personal if paltry defense against what might await her on the other side of those closed double doors. She was certain the villain would do something new on New Year Eve’s.