CHAPTER 45
Monday morning, Tom, Ben, and Trumpet went out to the fields to practice shooting at the straw butts in the hollow out of sight of the Inn. The day was cold and overcast, and most of Gray's men stayed snugged up in their rooms, but the lads had had few chances for private talk since Christmas Eve, what with their various Misrule duties and the omnipresence of Prattling Prince Stephen at meals.
Trumpet spread a blanket on the ground, and Tom laid out his pistols, a bag of powder, a sack of balls, the cleaning rag and rod, and a bottle of oil. He and Trumpet each took a pistol and began to prepare them for firing.
"What's to become of Mr. Humphries?" Tom asked Ben.
Ben had gone with Mr. Bacon to the Tower, where Humphries had been taken direct from Whitehall. They'd assisted the sheriff in eliciting a full confession of his crimes, including his attempt to poison Clara.
"Once he started talking," Ben said, "I could scarcely write fast enough to keep up. Frank says it's the release of the pressure of secrecy. He's seen it before. He says it's like a dam bursting. Villains often long to confess, to alleviate the torment that preys upon their minds."
"They know they're about to face their final judgment," Tom said. "They want to spare themselves an eternity in hell."
Ben nodded. "He'll face his trial at the start of Hilary Term. There's no doubt about the verdict: guilty on all counts. They found Shiveley's keys hidden at the bottom of his chest along with a stock of counterfeit coins."
"Now he can dance the hempen jig alongside the Queen of Scots," Tom said.
"Don't be silly," Trumpet said. "Queens don't hang. She'll have her head cut off in the Tower yard, once Her Majesty makes her mind up to do the deed." She took careful aim, holding the pistol in her right hand, arm fully extended. She didn't seem to notice that the tip of the muzzle was wobbling.
Tom was getting used to switching pronouns when thinking about Trumpet. In public, she was he. In private, he was she. They'd let Ben in on the secret as they'd walked home from Whitehall after the excitement on Christmas Eve. So much had happened that evening, this fresh revelation barely earned a grunt of surprise.
Trumpet's shot missed the butt entirely. "It's this blighted pistol." She frowned into the barrel.
"No, it's you." Tom took the pistol from her and reloaded it. "It's too heavy for you. The barrel wobbles and you twitch your wrist before you pull the trigger. Try using both hands."
He gave it back to her then cupped her left hand under her right to support the wrist. His hands were half again as large as hers. The difference pleased him for no reason. "Try that."
She stood with her left foot forward this time and fired again. She was still wide of the mark, but the bullet raised a tuft of straw from the outer corner of the butt. She growled like a kitten and then asked, "How's Clah-rah?" She'd taken to overpronouncing the name in a pseudo-imitation of Stephen. Tom smelled jealousy, which pleased and alarmed him in a discomfiting mix. Things had been simpler when Trumpet had been only a boy.
Ben picked up the other pistol. He made sure the pan cover was shut and the dog pulled back, then took aim and fired. "This one definitely pulls to the right."
"Ha," Trumpet said.
Tom took the pistol from Ben, grateful for the distraction, and began to clean it. He was still sorting out his feelings in this area. "Clara is well. Or she was when I handed her into Lady Nottingham's carriage yesterday."
Clara's fears about losing her livelihood had proved groundless. Far from ruining her reputation, the talent displayed in her sketch and her intimate role in so thrilling a tale made her the most sought-after ornament of the season. After a hissing scuffle in the Banqueting Hall, the queen's friend Catherine Carey, Countess of Nottingham, had borne away the prize. Clara would spend the next month on her estate in Surrey painting miniature portraits of everyone within half a day's ride. She'd earn enough in that month to keep her for a year.
Trumpet sniffed. "By now she's found six new things to worry about. Will they despise her? Will they make fun of her accent? Will they drum her into the forest to be devoured by wolves?"
Ben chuckled. "She did seem rather inclined toward melancholic distress."
"She's a pick-fault," Trumpet said. "A blister. A harpy. Admit it."
"She's beautiful," Tom answered. "I love her madly." He winced as he heard the hollowness in his words.
Trumpet and Ben grinned at each other. "Such conviction," Trumpet said.
"Such devotion," Ben added.
"All right." Tom surrendered. "But she really is beautiful."
"That point was never in dispute." Ben took Trumpet's pistol and started cleaning it. He cast a sidelong glance at Tom. "How did your meeting go? With Frank and his lord uncle?" His brow was creased with worry. Time to let him off the hook.
Francis Bacon had netted Tom right and proper. He suspected Ben had helped him weave that net. Tom had been surprised by the proposal and a bit disgruntled by the conspiring behind his back, but all in all, he wasn't unhappy about the new arrangement.
Lord Burghley had received disturbing news from Cambridge that zealous Presbyterians were planning to hold a secret synod under the cover of commencement in July. His informant warned of plans for overt and possibly violent rebellion against the established Church. His Lordship needed a spy to worm his way into their confidence and identify the chief conspirators. Bacon had recommended Tom for the job. His payment would be continuance at Gray's Inn, guaranteed by a letter from Lord Burghley himself. Not even Stephen's father could undermine that support. He would finish the requirements for his bachelor's degree while he was at it, further bolstering his position.
"Frank was persuasive." Tom shot Trumpet a wry grin. "As per usual."
Ben blew out a sigh of relief. Tom clapped him on the shoulder and looked him square in the eye. "I'm happy. Honestly. It'll be fun, spying on the godly."
Ben scoffed. "I hardly —"
"Relax, camerade. I like investigating. It's lively and you meet all sorts of people. I've decided to become a barrister intelligencer, in special service to the queen. Someday. And this deal solves my main worry: that Stephen would get me expelled from Gray's out of spite."
"How was Frank?" Trumpet asked. "Whenever he mentions his uncle, he looks like a man with his breeches caught in a crack."
"I think he's on probation for something. He doesn't seem to be getting nearly as much out of this arrangement as I am. But you can't say no to the Lord Treasurer." Tom winked at Trumpet. "Think of the fun I'm going to have: weekly letters from dear old Frank, telling me what to think and where to shit and how to put my stockings on." They both laughed.
Ben shuddered. "Stop, stop!" He beetled his dark brows at them. "Call him Mr. Bacon, I beg you, even in your own minds. He wouldn't be happy knowing that you know that we — that he — that I've spoken to you about him in such familiar terms."
"We promise," Tom and Trumpet chorused with fingers crossed behind their backs. Ben groaned in frustration. It was his own fault. His every utterance had begun with Frank says for the past week. Even Tom had never been so besotted.
He was going to miss his friends badly, but he'd be twice damned if he would say it out loud. He took the second pistol from Trumpet, reloaded it, and extended his right arm. He sighted down the barrel and fired. The ball struck an inch to the right of the bull's eye.
Trumpet smirked at him. "See?"
"Huh." Tom squatted by the blanket and started a more thorough cleaning. There must be a bit of gunk stuck in the barrel. He glanced up at Trumpet. "What are you going to do, Lady Alice? With your uncle in hiding, you can't very well stay here."
"Can't I?" Trumpet grinned at Ben, who grinned broadly back. "With you running off to Cambridge, Mr. Whitt finds himself in need of a new chambermate."
"What! When was this little plot hatched?"
"This morning, while you were meeting with Mr. Bacon and Lord Burghley. I went up to your rooms to show you what Uncle Nat sent me and found Ben pac
ing back and forth like a caged bear. He told me about your meeting. He thought you'd accept the bargain, which would leave him without a chum to help him pay his rent. We decided to team up and solve both our problems at once.
"I don't approve of this arrangement," Tom said. "In fact, I forbid it."
"Excuse me?" Trumpet held a hand to her ear. "Did I hear a pig fart?"
Tom bristled, shaking his pistol at the obstreperous trollop. The said trollop stuck her tongue out at him.
"Children, please," Ben said. "You know she has nothing to fear from me."
"She's not the one I'm worried about. I warn you, Ben: she looks completely different wearing only a shirt with her hair hanging down to her waist."
"She's still the wrong shape," he said equably.
"You won't like our chambers," Tom said to Trumpet. "They're drafty and the floors squeak. And there's this smell —"
"We're not moving into your wretched old rooms," she said. "Uncle Nat feels sorry for leaving me in the lurch. I kept my end of the bargain after all. He sent me the lease to his chambers listing me as sub-tenant. Under the name of Allen Trumpington, of course. Ben's going to move in with me."
"Nice, big hearth," Ben said. "And the kitchen fire is always lit. I'll save a fortune on fuel."
"Hm." Tom frowned, pretending not to like it. "I suppose I'll have to allow it." Their solution was brilliant. It would keep Trumpet in London until he came back.
He reloaded the pistol and passed it to Trumpet. "Speaking of fortunes, are you going to be all right? Money-wise, I mean? You can't very well write to your father for an allowance."
"I'll be fine." She flicked him a grateful smile. "Uncle Nat sent me a purse too — of real coins, not false. And I have a necklace of my mother's I can sell if I'm pressed." She tried a new stance, right foot forward, and took aim at the butt. "I'm very resourceful."
Tom heard a world of loneliness under that simple remark. He caught Ben's eye; he'd heard it too. They nodded at each other. She was theirs now, and they would look out for her.
"Without me around, you'll do nothing but study," he scolded. "You'll grow fat and pale and weak from lack of exercise."
"We'll be formidable lawyers, though," Ben said.
"You won't last through Hilary Term," Tom said. "She's the most vexing, nerve-shredding, wit-rattling minx in all of Christendom."
"Why, thank you, kind sir." Trumpet's voice thrummed with that musical quality that got right up into Tom's midsection and played glissandos on his spine.
He growled deep in his throat.
She pursed her pink lips and blew him a kiss. She was playing him like a big, fat fish and loving every minute of it.
Tom was going to be vastly better off in Cambridge. A world of men dedicated to the life of the mind. A bracing challenge for his wits and a restorative vacation for his tangled feelings. No women; therefore, no trouble. He could hardly wait to leave. "Will you still be here when I come back?" He hated the plaintive note that crept in underneath.
"Don't worry." Trumpet adjusted her stance, facing the butt and balancing her weight on both feet. She supported her right hand with her left and sighted down the barrel. She tucked her tongue into the corner of her mouth and shifted the barrel slightly to the left, then held her breath and fired. The bullet flew straight into the bull's eye. She flashed a grin at Tom that made him feel happy from head to toe. "I will always know where to find you."
Historical notes
Bacon wasn't really banned from court, at least not this early in his life. He did annoy the queen & Lord Burleigh with some importunate request around this time. The consensus was that he was too young to be granted the said request. He did make proposals to revise the common law, later in his life. He published a set of legal maxims in 1597 which were still being used by law students well into the nineteenth century. He worked on things for years before publishing, so it's not improbable that he was thinking about these things in 1586. The Queen's fury and his banishment from court are entirely my invention.
Sticklers will observe that I got the Reading schedule backwards. Lent was only for double readers — established benchers reading a second time. First-timers read in August. I made the switch to get Francis's reading closer to the season of Misrule. He really did give his first reading at Lent in 1588, however. Why this exception was made for him isn't known. Strings were pulled, but we don't know whose or why.
I like to use actual historical people whenever I can. Some are unavoidable, like the queen, her chief courtiers, and members of Francis Bacon's family. Others are minor figures, mere footnotes, now, in some book, but once the stars of their own lives.
Here's this book's roster of real persons:
Francis Bacon
Queen Elizabeth I
William Cecil, Lord Burghley
Captain Sir Walter Raleigh
Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex
Penelope Rich, née Devereux, Lady Rich
William Danby, the Queen's Coroner. He makes a cameo appearance in chapter 2.
Elizabeth Moulthorne, surgeon. I found her in Liza Picard's delightful Elizabeth's London. Tracing the footnotes yielded nothing more than her name, origin, and profession. I like her, though; maybe I'll try harder for a later book.
Sir Christopher Yelverton. Member of an important legal dynasty. Heard walking up the stairs in chapter 9.
William Philippes. Francis's close friend and assistant. He was the son of a Customs House official, also a friend of Francis's who probably lent him money in exchange for helping his son into higher social circles. Son's real first name isn't known, so I named him after his father. He was the brother of Sir Francis Walsingham's cryptographer, Thomas Phelippes, who spelled his name differently for reasons known only to himself.
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