Murder by Misrule
CHAPTER 5
Saturday morning after breakfast, Tom, Ben, and Stephen loitered in the yard, waiting for Trumpet. The three older lads lodged together in the Gallery, a tall, sagging building across from the hall. The old place was practically crumbling into the ground — roofs leaked, windows stuck or wouldn't close, a moldy smell seeped from the walls — but Tom felt lucky to be there. When he'd first arrived in September, Bacon had housed him above the stables, like one of the servants. He'd seated him at the clerks' table in hall too. Tom had written to his father at once. Captain Valentine Clarady, too canny to settle all of Bacon's debts before getting his money's worth, stopped payments and sent a crisp word through their chain of connections. Suddenly, room was found for Tom in Ben's chambers. With the subtle sense of irony characteristic of Bacon's sense of humor, he found them a third chum: Stephen Delabere.
No matter. Tom had gained admittance to the biggest and best of the four prestigious Inns of Court at the ideal age of nineteen and he would by God stay in until he rose to the top. Or found something better.
Trumpet had missed chapel, which was nothing strange, and breakfast, which was. He lodged with his uncle, Nathaniel Welbeck, who evidently didn't care if the boy flouted the compulsory chapel rule. Being the nephew of an earl, Trumpet had obviously been indulged all his life. He could be counted on to go along with Tom's schemes, though, no matter how risky or irregular they might be.
"Let's go roust him," Tom said. "It's not fair for him to sleep all morning."
They walked around the Gallery to Coney Court and spied Trumpet hurrying across the yard, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders.
"You missed chapel again," Ben scolded.
"Nobody woke me, so I slept." Trumpet yawned hugely.
"We'll wake you in future," Tom promised. "Mr. Whitt here doesn't approve of slug-a-beds."
Ben frowned, although Tom had meant it as a compliment. He admired Ben more than anyone he knew, after his father.
Benjamin Whitt, age twenty-one, was the second son of a middling Suffolk gentleman. His family had high hopes for their investment in Ben's education, for which they were mortgaging a dangerous proportion of their lands. Tom believed it was a safer bet than most speculations. Ben lived to study and had wits to spare. He remembered everything he read and most of what he heard. He could analyze and synthesize simultaneously and at speed. Tom and Trumpet had bet that Ben would be Chief Justice of the Queen's Bench by the age of forty.
"Are we off to Westminster, then?" Trumpet asked. "Let's watch the Queen's Bench today."
"Westminster, yes; courts, no," Tom said. "Let's go find the house where I saw my angela. We can think of some excuse to get inside."
Trumpet rolled his eyes. "It's too cold for a wild goose chase. How about the Court of Requests? We haven't been there for a while."
"No courts," Tom said. "We're free. Let's have some fun. Let's go out to the fields and practice shooting my new pistols."
His father had sent him a pair of German-made wheel lock pistols taken from a Spanish grandee. Pistols weren't especially useful for a student of the law, but then, Tom's father was a privateer. Had he sent him a book, Tom would have hoist the messenger on the point of his knife and demanded to know what had become of Captain Clarady.
"Too drizzly," Trumpet said, snugging his chin into his cloak. "The gunpowder will be damp. Let's go get some pies. My treat."
Tom pretended to be shocked. "What's the occasion?"
Trumpet shrugged. "My uncle's been feeling generous lately."
"Ho for hot pie!" They paused beside the gatehouse, out of the traffic in the yard. Many men were hurrying toward Westminster to argue cases or observe court proceedings; others were returning to their chambers from the hall to spend the morning studying or writing briefs. Most of them wore the long black robes that marked their status. They looked like busy, important gentlemen. Men of the world. And now Tom was one of them.
Stephen glared at his fellows, his narrow lips pressed together in a stubborn line. "No. No pistols. No pies. No courts. We have to find a new tutor. A good one. Else my father will send his steward up to arrange matters and we'll get someone dreadful."
Tom shuddered at the thought. Stephen's father was a Nonconformist and very strict. And a strict tutor would put a damper on their London lives. Fencing, dancing, music, Italian: acquiring these arts of courtesy was the main purpose of enrolling at an Inn of Court. Clever lads picked up a smattering of history and philosophy — the intellectual trappings of a gentleman — with enough law to keep the neighbors from robbing you blind. Stephen's father expected his heir to gain the social polish of London without having any of the actual fun.
On the other hand, Tom was no longer under any obligation to Lord Dorchester or his heir. He could cut loose, hire any tutor he pleased. Or no tutor, for that matter. On the third hand, however, he was not likely to learn much law without help. It wasn't like university: there were no introductory texts, designed to guide the student in baby steps towards mastery. You got thrown straight into the deep, dark sea of the Year Books, which were case reports written in Law French, which was a deranged, unreadable mishmash of Old French and Latin with the odd lump of English bobbing up like uncooked fat in a sour stew. Sort of like the pidgin he'd learned on his father's ship last year, which seemed a mix of every language with a coast. They used it everywhere that sailors put in to shore. But you picked that up phrase by useful phrase: things like "Bring us more wine" and "How much for the whole night?"
He doubted anyone had ever bargained for a whore in Law French. He absolutely needed a tutor. Also, on the fourth and final hand, the best way for him to get ahead at Gray's Inn was to gad about with a lord. He needed Stephen too, at least for a while.
"Fine," Tom said. "We'll find a tutor. And then we'll go eat pies."
Ben said, "We need someone Lord Dorchester will approve."
"Not a Puritan," Trumpet said. "I beg you."
"And not a Catholic," Tom said. "Then my father would object. We Claradys are patriots. We hate Catholics worse than the slithering, slimy sea snakes they resemble. We need a solid middle-way man."
"Someone expert in the law," Ben said.
"Someone who's good at explaining things," Trumpet said.
"Someone with connections at court," Stephen said. "We could do better than Smythson in that regard."
Ben stared across the yard and grinned. "Who is the foremost, up-and-coming legal mind at Gray's?"
The other three shrugged, their faces asking, How should we know?
He pointed his chin across the yard at Bacon's Building. It looked the same as it always did: turd-brown timbers crossing puke-colored plaster. Two stories, slate roof, brick chimneys, big windows.
"We give up," Trumpet said. "What are we looking at?"
"Bacon's Building," Ben said. "Home of Mr. Francis Bacon." He laughed. "And behold the man himself."
A slight figure emerged from the door and paused on the patch of pavement, blinking at the gray morning.
"I wouldn't call him the foremost legal mind," Trumpet quibbled. "Except by his own estimation, maybe. My uncle says he's too arrogant by half."
"If he is, he deserves to be." Ben turned to Tom. "I suspect he'd welcome the fees."
Tom snorted. "I'm sure he would! But he won't take us. He doesn't like to work."
"He's young," Stephen said. "He might understand that we can't study all the time."
Ben said, "He may be the youngest man ever called to the bar. He was only twenty-two."
"He's barely twenty-five now," Trumpet said. "It's a scandal, how quickly he's been advanced. Uncle Nat calls him 'the infant barrister.' He thinks—"
"We could at least ask him," Ben urged.
Trumpet shrugged. "I'm not objecting to Bacon as a tutor. I don't believe that he is the foremost legal mind of our generation, that's all."
"Fine," Ben said. "I'm willing to expunge the superlative. Now, how shall we approach him? He can be a little awkwar
d to talk to."
"Simple," Stephen said. "We send Tom." He grinned his savviest man-of-the-world grin, the one that dropped barmaids fainting into his lap. Tom remembered the rainy day he and Stephen had practiced those grins in front of Lady Dorchester's mirror. "I've heard that Francis Bacon is susceptible to a handsome face."
"I've heard that too," Trumpet said. "My uncle told me—"
Tom groaned. "No, no, no! He doesn't like me."
"Of course he likes you," Ben said. "He recommended you for admittance."
Tom pursed his lips but held his peace. The lads didn't know about the bargain Captain Clarady had struck with Mr. Bacon, and he hoped they never would. He wanted people to think he'd been recommended on his merits. "Steenie should ask. He'd never refuse a lord."
"Me!" Stephen's voice nearly squeaked. "What would I say? I can't ask him. Tom has to do it."
"We'll all go," Ben said. "Tom will speak first." He shrugged. "You're the boldest. And the handsomest. Besides, it's your father who will be paying his fees."
True enough on all counts. Tom made no bones about his looks. He'd gotten used to extra attention from tradesmen's daughters and music masters and matrons who dodged across dangerous thoroughfares to ask directions specifically of him. Often, the Clarady looks were an advantage. But sometimes they provoked envy and sharp little stabs in the back. Quick wits and sharp ears were more reliable in the long run.
They navigated their way through the press of men toward their quarry. Francis Bacon was a man of medium height and slender build, with softly curled brown hair. He was dressed entirely in black — the true black, so expensive to maintain — save for ruffs of snowiest cambric at the neck and wrists. He was watching them cross the yard with an air of expectation.
They stopped two feet away and stood in a line. Tom bowed from the waist. Straightening, he offered his very best smile, the one that displayed his dimple. "I pray your indulgence, Mr. Bacon. We crave a moment of your time."
Bacon's eyes rested briefly on Tom's earring then scanned the other lads until he found Stephen. He smiled warmly, tilting his head. "Lord Stephen."
Stephen flashed a tense smile.
Tom forged ahead. "We were wondering if you might consider thinking about becoming our new tutor since, as you may know, Mr. Smythson has, uh . . ."
"Deceased," Bacon said. "Yes, I know. A terrible tragedy." He seemed genuinely grieved.
The lads bowed their heads somberly to show how respectful they were to their tutor. Tom cast up a glance to see the effect they were having and caught Bacon's knowing eye. He grinned sheepishly. "We really do need a tutor, Mr. Bacon. Lord Stephen's father is very firm on that point."
"The Earl of Dorchester," Bacon said softly.
"We're very little trouble," Ben said. "I can help Stephen and Tom with the elementary exercises and Trumpet practically teaches himself."
Bacon accepted the information with a catlike blink of his amber eyes. His gaze traveled from one lad to the other as if weighing their several qualities. He smiled slightly, more to himself than to them, then addressed Tom's earring. He had the unnerving trick of not quite looking at you when he spoke. "I have considered thinking about possibly becoming your tutor."
Tom drew a breath to thank him, but Bacon stopped him with an upraised finger.
"I decided that I was willing, so I thought about it."
Tom realized he was joking and swallowed a groan. At least the joke was in English. Smythson had sometimes tickled himself pink with obscure Latin puns.
Bacon went on, "The result of my thinking is the conclusion that I will accept the position. On the same terms as Mr. Smythson — plus ten percent — shall we say?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Tom bowed low to hide his expression. The terms were exorbitant, but why bargain? Captain Clarady had returned from Drake's globe-circling voyage with enough treasure to found his own Inn of Court. He would gladly spend his last silver penny to turn his only son into a gentleman. And the fees might help bind Bacon to Tom's success at Gray's.
The other lads added their thanks. Bacon received them calmly. Then he arranged himself in a comfortable stance and said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Let's see what you know."