CHAPTER 44
Francis Bacon stood a calculated distance from the throne in the Banqueting Hall of Whitehall Palace. He knew the queen had noticed him and that she would summon him for a conversation sooner or later.
He was in no hurry. He loved Christmas at court. He and his brother Anthony had spent many a childhood Christmas Eve in attendance on their father, virtually at the queen's knee. The scene held a powerful nostalgia for him. In truth, he was glad to have a few moments to savor his restoration to his rightful place in society. His lord uncle had reviewed the progress of his investigation and found it satisfactory in the main. The Catholic conspirator, Nathaniel Welbeck, had been identified and his activities stopped. Smythson's murderer remained as yet unknown, but Francis had so narrowed the field that if his little ploy failed this afternoon, a turn in the Tower for each of his suspects would surely do the trick. Lord Burghley had persuaded the queen to allow Francis to return to court for this one day on a provisional basis.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the holiday perfume of cinnamon and cloves lingering after the feast. He hadn't attended the dinner, fearing to overexert himself so soon after his fall. He would stay through the masque to enjoy the fruits of his labors and then slip away home. Mingled with the aromatic remnants of a spicy feast were the green scents of rosemary and yew, shaped into wreaths or draped about the hall with satin ribbons. The walls themselves were made of canvas painted like an enchanted wood, with mossy oaks and flowering shrubs and bashful fauns peeking from the bracken. The ceiling was painted with suns and clouds and stars, day shading into night as the stiff-necked observer scanned from one end to the other. Lustrous hangings of gold and purple silk demarcated the stage at one end. Tiers of seats had been constructed along the walls for the audience.
The spectators were more marvelous to look upon than the decorations. Francis noted that he could easily distinguish the queen's inner circle from the outsiders. The cognoscenti wore stark black and white with accents of silver. Newcomers wore bright colors that competed poorly with the paintings on the walls and ceiling. He himself always wore black with white trimmings, and perhaps a touch of lilac on his hat. Easy, elegant, and expensive without being ostentatious. He might have difficulties with the social niceties sometimes, but his costume was faultless.
His attention turned toward the queen herself. Her Majesty was in splendid looks today. Her gown was black velvet, thickly encrusted with jewels and gold embroidery. Her ruff was a full eight inches of gossamer lace, deftly arranged in figure-eight pleats. It made her regal head seem to float upon a cloud of elfin tracery. One could tell nothing from her complexion, of course, given her liberal use of cosmetics on public occasions, but her eyes were bright and her mood merry.
She was flirting gaily with both Captain Sir Walter Ralegh and Lord Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, playing each against the other in a verbal sparring match. As their monarch and sole satisfier of their vast ambitions, she held them in the palm of her hand. But it was more than mere power that kept these vigorous, thrusting men dancing attention on an aging virgin. Queen Elizabeth possessed a full measure of the Tudor charm, a magnetism that added luster to her innate royalty as a golden pendant enhances the allure of a sparkling jewel.
Francis admired her immensely and felt a powerful affection for her, as deep as his love of England itself. He only wished he could find ways to please her without abrogating his commitment to the truth. Somehow, in his efforts to gain her favor, he always managed to put a foot wrong.
Ralegh and Essex nearly shoved each other down in their haste to go fetch something — a drink or a sugary tidbit — for the queen. She laughed at the sight and took the moment to survey her hall and watch her subjects at play, a smile of contentment curled upon her lips. Her eyes lit on Francis and she crooked her finger at him.
He approached her with the thrill of honored apprehension that always overtook him in her presence. He removed his hat and executed a deep bow. He was pleased to note no ill effects from the inverted posture on his still-tender cranium.
"Mr. Bacon," Queen Elizabeth said with mock alarm. "I believe you've been watching me with your quick, clever eyes. I feel quite exposed."
"You are cloaked in radiance and wisdom, as always, Your Majesty. Although I confess I was admiring the deftness with which you juggle your suitors."
She shrugged one shoulder, like a coquette. "It keeps my wits sharp and my spirits young."
"A sensible regimen, Madame. However, in you, I have no doubt those qualities will never fail."
The queen smiled her acceptance of his tribute. "My Lord Essex gives me to understand that a part of our entertainment this day has a dual purpose. A device of your own creation. A masque for an unmasking?"
Francis looked about, not wishing to be overheard. "May I approach more nearly?"
Elizabeth beckoned him forward. "I love secrets," she whispered, her amber eyes alight. "Tell me everything."
Francis felt a rush of gratification. He was conscious that the most important persons in England were witnesses to the comfortable intimacy he was sharing once again with the queen. He regaled her with his tale of crime and investigation, beginning with his reconstruction of Smythson's murder.
Elizabeth frowned, but not, for a mercy, at him. "I'll box Essex's ears for him. I won't have these idle retainers roving the streets, harrying my lawyers. He'll rein them in, or he'll lose them."
How wonderful to be so certain of one's potency! To know with absolute authority one's place in the world and to be fully empowered to occupy it. Francis had an inkling of the destiny that called to him, but feared there was little hope of his ever attaining it. He explained in detail his methods and his process of ratiocination. The queen did not seem bored, although her eyes did wander once or twice. Alert to the slightest fluctuations in her humor, Francis hastened his exposition, arriving at the nub: the unmasking, shortly to be performed.
"My device may not succeed," he finished, suddenly quite certain that it would not and that he would be humiliated in front of the whole court. Again.
"We shall see," said the queen.
Ralegh and Essex reappeared, each bearing a goblet and a napkin. Francis sidled away from the throne, but Elizabeth checked him with a gesture.
"Stand here by me, Mr. Bacon, to explain the features of interest in your Society's performances."
"Gladly, Madame." Francis regained his place at the queen's right hand, shooting a victorious smile at Ralegh, who was obliged to jostle in with Essex on her left.
A flourish of trumpets signaled the start of the first entertainment. The musicians in the gallery began to play a dance. Lord Stephen and Thomas Clarady leapt out of seemingly nowhere, bounding three feet above the ground, their long legs extended to the full. The crowd burst into delighted applause, the queen included.
Francis beamed. Gray's would have one success, at least. A strong start gained the goodwill of the audience, which might carry them through the masque, whether his device worked or not.
The dancers were as graceful as a pair of well-matched yearlings racing for pleasure across a bright field. Each wore a short tunic and silken hose. Lord Stephen was dressed in shades of green; the privateer's son in sky blue and yellow. Whatever their recent differences may have been, they performed their athletic dance with precision and an attitude of joy.
"They're magnificent," the queen purred. "Can such a pair of virile youths be dusty men of the law? I pray you, Mr. Bacon, tell me everything about them."
"They are first-year students, Madame, and thus perhaps not yet so very dusty. The man in green is Lord Stephen Delabere, heir of the Earl of Dorchester."
"A Puritan." She wrinkled her royal nose.
"The son is not, in my observation. Indeed, I believe his father's severity has led him rather toward the middle road."
"I'm glad to hear it. Catholics may be more dangerous, but Puritans are far the more tedious."
Francis was inclined to agree but refrained, le
st he seem to criticize his own mother. He knew Queen Elizabeth was well aware of that lady's extremist beliefs. He knew she disapproved of them but suspected she would disapprove of unfilial gossip even more.
Informal conversations with monarchs were severely taxing. Sometimes the wisest course was a change of subject. "The other dancer is a boyhood friend of Lord Stephen's: the son of a privateer. His name is Thomas Clarady."
"A privateer's son?" The queen hummed an expression of feminine appreciation that set both Ralegh and Essex on their toes. "Long legs and great loyalty: an irresistible combination. Wouldn't you agree, Sir Walter?"
"So long as the loyalty is less flexible than the leg, Your Majesty," he replied.
The trio began another round of flirtatious nonsense. Francis gave them half an ear as he watched the young men leaping and pirouetting across the floor. He was more than a trifle annoyed with Clarady for failing to deliver a statement from the limner before the afternoon's entertainments began. He still didn't know whether she had any statement to make. He thought back over the past few days and realized that he hadn't had so much as a glimpse of the lad since Wednesday. What had he been doing all week?
Dancing, he supposed, and fiddling with costumery. This was the fundamental difference between a gentleman and a member of the lower orders: a gentleman kept to his task until the task was done, and done to perfection.
"You don't like my dancing privateer," the queen said.
Francis startled and saw her eyes flash with amusement. She enjoyed catching her courtiers off guard. "I do like him, Madame." He offered her a rueful smile. "I do. He's as personable as he is comely. He's not lacking in native wit, and he displays a readiness to serve, when properly directed."
"But?"
"But he is distractible and oversentimental. More pertinently, I believe he may be withholding the capstone of my construction of proofs, which I would dearly like to have in place before the masque."
Queen Elizabeth laughed, not unkindly, at his confession of unconfidence.
The music rose to a crescendo as the dancers performed a series of somersaults that drove the audience to their feet, pounding their applause. The two men struck their final poses, arms raised, with wide grins aimed directly at the queen. Clarady's eyes slid toward Francis and took on an unmistakably devilish gleam.
The queen laughed heartily and applauded with her hands upraised so they could see. She tilted her head toward Francis and murmured, "You know, Mr. Bacon, I do believe he is."