CHAPTER 2
Queen's Day was the most glorious day so far in all of Tom's nineteen years. He and his fellow law students had skipped chapel and dined early in a Holborn ordinary to make sure they arrived at the Whitehall tiltyard in time to claim choice positions at the rail. They'd just watched the Earl of Cumberland fling the Queen's Champion clear off his horse in a masterful display of jousting prowess. Now the Earl of Essex was performing a pastoral pageant, complete with Hermits, Shepherds, and Wild Men.
Tom tried to listen to the earl's poetry, but his eyes kept shifting toward the magnificent personages seated near the queen in the gallery overlooking the yard. He felt a bit of a bumpkin not knowing which was who, but in fairness, he'd only been in London since Michaelmas. Today alone, he'd seen two earls and Captain Sir Walter Ralegh, who sat astride a silver stallion below the gallery, guarding the queen.
Not a bad start for a newcomer. By this time next year, he'd know them all. And some of them might know him.
Someone important could notice him today. Such things happened. He knew he looked gallant in his emerald velvet and canary silk, his short beard trimmed to perfection. Tom stood tall and squared his shoulders. He drew in a deep breath to swell his chest, inhaling aromas of dust, spilt wine, and horseshit. He set his fist on his hip to draw attention to the coiled hilt of his new rapier. The pose pushed back the drape of the sleeveless black gown that declared him a law student at one of the prestigious Inns of Court.
He had truly arrived at the center of the world, in his rightful role as a gentleman, new-feathered though he might be. These robes proved his status. They also got him in nearly everywhere. Nobody minded law students poking in to see what was happening. The robes were as good as a letter of marque.
Thirty minutes later, Tom's pose had wilted. His tummy was rumbling, his head was wobbly, and they were nearly out of wine. The young Earl of Essex, dressed as an Old Knight, stood alone on the platform beside a taffeta shrub, intoning a polymetrical paean to solitariness. The other players were long gone. Tom knew that a love of poetry was one of the marks of a gentleman, but he had to struggle to pay attention.
"This meter has too many feet," he muttered. "Makes my brains itch."
That earned a chuckle from his diminutive friend Trumpet. "It's that bumpity French style: bum, tee rum, tee rumpty rumpity REEDLE dum."
Trumpet, properly known as Allen Trumpington, claimed to be seventeen, but Tom thought fifteen nearer the mark. The boy had black hair and green eyes that tilted up at the corners, pixie-like. He had a tragic wisp of a moustache of which he was perversely proud, often patting it as if to make it grow. The other students at Gray's Inn teased him about his stature and his love of study but scrupulously avoided mention of that pitiful moustache.
Every man was entitled to his illusions.
The earl ended his last alexandrine verse with a flourish and a bow. Applause rose from the crowd. The queen sent a silken scarf by way of a footman to reward her courtier.
Tom passed the wineskin to Trumpet, who shook it, frowned, and passed it on to Stephen.
"Why are you giving this to me?" Stephen reached over Trumpet's shoulder to hand it back to Tom. "Get some more, Tom. Before the next tourney starts."
Tom rolled his eyes at the tone of command. He wasn't Stephen's retainer anymore. He was Francis Bacon's much-avoided, semi-pseudo-apprentice. But he wouldn't mind another skinful of wine himself. He looked about for a vendor.
Stephen Delabere was the eldest son of the seventh Earl of Dorchester. He had sandy hair and amber eyes. His chin was too narrow and his nose was too sharp, but he was handsome enough for a lord. Years ago, Tom's father had lent Lord Dorchester a large sum on absurd terms to buy Tom's way into a noble household. Captain Valentine Clarady was a privateer and proud to serve queen and country by raiding Spanish ships, but he wanted more for his only son. So Tom had left the rambling manor on the Dorset coast where he had grown up surrounded by adoring sisters and aunts and guests from all the Seven Seas: merchants and sailors with parrots and adventurous lords. Even blackamoors with rings in their noses. The earl's household had paled by comparison, but Tom made the best of it. He quickly learned to manage the malleable Stephen so as to let his noble master-cum-playmate shine while he quietly got what he wanted.
"Didn't you like the earl's poetry?" Stephen asked, a trifle worried. "I thought it was rather fine."
"The poetry was magnificent," Tom assured him. "I loved the poetry. Except for the meter. That meter made me dizzy."
"The meter was a bit strained," Stephen said. "But some of the lines were good. 'Envy's snaky eye'? That was brilliant." He narrowed his eyes and lips and thrust his head forward, trying to look snaky. It made him look drunker. "Nor envy's sssssnaky—"
Trumpet talked right over him. "I kept hoping the Wild Men would come back and trounce those pribbling Hermits."
"I hated the Hermits," Tom said. "For one thing, if they're so devoted to hermitation, why do they go about in a group?"
That got a laugh from Ben, who had watched the whole performance with the abstracted gaze he wore when puzzling out some legal jim-jammery. Benjamin Whitt was taller than Tom and Stephen by a good three inches and older by two years. He had dark eyes and a long face, like a melancholy hound. He always wore brown on brown with dabs of beige. You would look at him and think, "What a sad, dull fellow!"
And you would be wrong.
"It was an allegory," Ben said. "The Wild Men show our savage side: Man as Beast. The Hermits illustrate the virtues of solitary contemplation. The Shepherds exemplify the pacifying nature of, er, Nature. The deeper message—"
"Hang the deeper message!" Tom crowed. "I wanted a sword fight." He glanced up at the courtiers in the gallery and struck an oratorical pose. "I submit to you that shepherds and savages, while all very well in their way, do not belong in a tourney. They are not justly joustly. Not—"
He was interrupted by a small, scruffy boy, who had somehow materialized in front of the rail to tug at Tom's yellow silk sleeve.
"Stop that." Tom twitched his sleeve away from the urchin's dirty hand. "Be off with you!"
The boy stood his ground. "I've a message for Thomas Clarady. That's you, ain't it?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Your master sent me. Francis Bacon, he said he was. He wants you, quicker than quick, no matter how drunk you be. I'm to show you where and get another ha'penny. He said, 'Tell him not to quibble.'" The boy did a fair impression of Bacon's precise enunciation. "What's quibbling, master? Some lawyer trick?"
Tom growled under his breath. He had half a mind to say no, but Bacon could have him tossed out on his ear whenever he pleased. His father was at sea again and wouldn't learn about it for months, by which time the damage might be unfixable.
He was spared the indignity of obedience by Ben, who admired Francis Bacon beyond all comprehension. "We'd best go at once," he said. "He could be in trouble."
"If he's fallen into the Fleet, you're fishing him out." The Fleet River was the sewer of west London. "He's probably just short of coin for a wherry."
They grabbed the other lads and began working their way through the crowd toward the gate. They followed the boy down King Street to a side street, down an alley, and into a lane lined on both sides with tall houses. At the juncture, Francis Bacon paced back and forth, clasping his hands tensely at his breast.