***
More thundering applause startled Francis from his thoughts. Thomas Campion stood, bowed, and walked off the stage. He was engulfed by a bevy of young women.
The time had come.
Gray's men shifted the props and scenery for the masque onto the stage. A sneeze could bring the whole thing down, but it looked well enough from a distance. It wouldn't do for it to be too professional; they were gentlemen after all, not players.
Cornets rang out, commanding everyone's attention.
"Your moment has arrived, Mr. Bacon," the queen said. "Now we'll see how well you plot."
A tree made of painted pasteboard revolved on rollers hidden under its leafy stand. As it rotated around, Lord Stephen was revealed, standing with one ankle crossed over the other. He was still clad in shades of green but now had a short parti-colored cloak hung from one shoulder and a pair of pistols stuck in his belt. Francis was startled by that last touch. Where had he gotten pistols? From the privateer's son, no doubt. Trust Clarady to produce such a dangerous and unnecessary embellishment.
"I am the law-lorn Prince of Purpoole, a kingdom without law." Delabere recited his lines in a clear, carrying voice.
Ralegh leaned toward the queen, speaking familiarly across her lap. "Why does our law-lorn prince need to be so well armed, Mr. Bacon?"
"To symbolize lawlessness, of course," Essex responded.
Francis shrugged and shot a sly glance at the queen. "It can be difficult to prevent one's lieutenants from improvising in the field."
Queen Elizabeth laughed aloud and then covered her mouth with her hand as poor Lord Stephen was startled from his speech. She waved at him to continue.
He delivered a few stanzas explaining to the assembly how he had come to disdain the law and its practitioners. The law is cruel and unfeeling. No man may trust in it. Francis heard no snickering and saw no open yawns. The conceit appeared to be mildly amusing even to this jaded audience.
Mr. Trumpington, dressed as a woodland courtier in russet and spruce, strode onto the stage, accompanied by two others similarly arrayed.
The prince addressed him. "Tell me, Baron Scoffington, do you know how many lawyers are wanted to light a lanthorn?"
"Why, none, Your Grace, since the aim of a lawyer is to obscure rather than to bring light."
The audience laughed.
"I mean, how many must be engaged?"
Baron Scoffington shrugged. "How many coins have you?"
More laughter. Francis knew that signaled that the general mood was happy rather than that his jokes were clever, but he was satisfied nevertheless.
"But how many are needed to execute the action?"
Before the baron could answer, several Wild Men dashed in from a side entrance. "Lawyers are trespassing in our woods!" the one in front cried. Francis recognized Benjamin Whitt under the shaggy croppings of moss and twigs, and grinned. His friend's physique was more robust than one would imagine from his ordinary mode of dress. The Wild Man stalking beside him, growling fiercely, was probably Thomas Clarady, though his face was barely discernible under the layers of forest materials.
Soon the cry was general: "Lawyers! Alack! Alarm! Lawyers in the Kingdom of Purpoole!"
A bass drum rolled thunder through the hall as sheets of silver-white lightning — made of sheerest silk — streaked over the stage. The clumps of yew placed around the edge of the stage were shaken vigorously by their yew-colored bearers.
Many in the audience gasped. The mood darkened. Francis stole a glance at the queen. She was smiling. Good.
The Wild Men prowled about the audience, peering into faces. Wild Man Whitt loomed over Treasurer Fogg, growling and shaking his twiggy head.
Fogg shrank back, raising his hands in mock fear. "Oh, spare me, Dread Savage! I mean you no harm! I merely wandered into your kingdom by chance, pursuing this fair lady."
Whitt bowed to the lady. "See you advance no further into our realm, Counselor."
Lady Rich swatted him with her fan and he flinched and slunk away.
Francis could find no fault with Whitt's performance, but he wasn't happy with the result. Fogg had showed no signs of fear or animosity toward the Wild Man; but then, he wasn't the querulous type. Perhaps if the man had been seated alone and if two of the Wild Men had confronted him simultaneously? Now the moment had passed. What a stupid idea this was!
The third Wild Man lunged, roaring, toward Thomas Hughes, who had volunteered for the role. Hughes shrieked in terror, provoking echoing screams from some of the ladies in the audience. Francis felt a shiver run up his spine and was pleased at the effectiveness of this bit of stagecraft.
Now Whitt and Clarady were prancing along the edges of the audience, chanting, "Here, lawyer, lawyer." Francis had acquired that bit of dialogue from the earl's secretary, who remembered it as a feature of the retainers' story. Their tone was menacing. One could have no doubt of their violent intentions should they succeed in capturing their prey.
A shivery silence fell upon the audience. Francis saw faces drawn with tension as the tall youths stalked the hall, stooping and rumbling and baring their teeth. Clarady thrust his hands toward one of the ancients, making snatching motions. The man shrank back until he pressed against the knees of the man behind him.
Clarady twisted suddenly and bent nearly double to snarl into Humphries's ashen face. "I've got a bone to pick with you, Counselor."
The drum pounded out an ominous roll. Humphries shrieked and sprang to his feet, pushing feebly at Clarady, who laughingly let him escape. Humphries quickly found himself surrounded by leering Wild Men, passing him from one to the other, chanting, "Here, lawyer, lawyer."
The audience laughed in relief from the tension. Someone called out, "Lawyer-baiting: a new sport for the Southwark stews." "Cheaper to feed than bears!" another voice cried, and the laughter rose to the painted stars high overhead.
But Humphries didn't hear them. His face was slack with panic as he tottered from one side of the stage to the other, vainly seeking a gap between his tormentors.
Clarady leapt out from behind Lord Stephen's tree and placed himself directly in front of Humphries. He reached behind him— for a knife? Francis felt a stab of sharp anxiety. He wanted no actual violence here in the Banqueting Hall. But no, what Clarady drew forth was a roll of paper, such as artists use for sketching. He unrolled it in a swift motion and held it before the eyes of the trembling barrister.
The effect was breathtaking. Humphries gasped and stopped so abruptly he rocked back on his heels. He stood panting and shaking his head. Clarady stepped to the edge of the stage to display the sketch to the audience. Everyone gasped as though on a single indrawn breath. Francis was as shocked as the rest. Why hadn't Clarady shown him the sketch earlier?
"Bring that to me," the queen commanded in a carrying voice.
Francis trotted down the aisle and accepted the sketch from Clarady with a severe frown, getting only a self-satisfied flick of the eyebrows in response. Perhaps he had been a trifle demanding, perhaps even a little brusque toward the lad in the past week. If so, he had now been paid in full.
He studied the drawing as he quick-stepped back to the throne. The limner had a superlative talent. She had caught Humphries in a moment of exaltation, kneeling over Smythson's blood-smeared body with his knife still wet in his hand.
As he handed the sketch to the queen with a bow, shouts from the stage drew his attention. "I didn't mean to!" Humphries cried. The Wild Men hemmed him in. "I'm not responsible! He should have helped me instead of blocking my way. It was an accident, I tell you!"
"Was Mr. Shiveley an accident?" Whitt's baritone voice rumbled like the voice of doom itself.
"They chose him instead of me. It wasn't fair! He had everything; I had nothing. Why should he be so favored?"
Humphries skittered toward the edge of the stage and then skipped back from the hissing audience. Clarady and Lord Stephen moved together to flank him. Lord Stephen reached towa
rd him. Humphries jerked away, eyes wild. He dodged under Lord Stephen's arm and snatched a pistol from his belt.
"Look out!"
"He has a gun!"
Screams and shouts erupted from near the stage, traveling back in a wave, as those seated in front jumped to their feet and collided with those behind them. The panicking courtiers were hampered by their oversized ruffs and farthingales. Francis saw a roiling sea of silks and velvets falling from the risers, scrambling into the aisles, crowding against the wall. A pair of courtiers swung their fists at two of the Wild Men, who turned to defend themselves.
Humphries stumbled about on the stage alone, waving the pistol wildly over his head.
"Grab him!"
"Get that weapon!"
A shot boomed, echoing through the hall. Francis felt hotness streak past his cheek. He clutched his chest to support his faltering heart.
"'Ware the queen!"
Ralegh and Essex ran into each other in their haste to protect the queen, knocking Francis right into her lap. Essex dragged him to his feet and shoved him aside while Ralegh scooped the queen into his arms to carry her out of the hall.
"Mr. Bacon," she said over Ralegh's shoulder, "do not expect an invitation to dinner on New Year's Day."
Francis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.