The Queene’s Christmas
“By my decree, the order of events this eve,” Robin announced grandly, “shall be the banquet, gift giving, and then the first foot custom, followed by fireworks on the Thames—one of my gifts to you, Your Majesty—which we shall all view from the Waterside Gallery. Your Lord of Misrule commands you to eat, drink, and be merry!”
“Did you have to put it that way?” Elizabeth groused, though she forced a smile as he sat back down beside her. “You do know the next line of that, don’t you?”
“We shall not die but live and love, my queen,” he told her and reached under the tablecloth to squeeze her hands clenched in her lap. His heavy touch there jolted her, but she managed not to show it.
“Rest assured of your safety,” he promised, “for I have ordered all dishes not only to be tasted but to be brought in uncovered to-night, even if we eat cold food. There will be no surprises this night but in the opening of gifts.”
“And in that, I pray there will be no more shocks such as that box of stones with its note that said they were for murdering martyrs. Which reminds me,” she said, tugging her hands free and folding them on the table, “that Vicar Bane told my master of the chandlery he wanted red candles because red represents the blood of martyrs.”
“Then it must be Bane behind all this.”
“If so, he’s taken leave of his senses, though perhaps he at first simply ordered Hodge Thatcher not to gild the peacock—a frivolity, of course—and Hodge refused,” she rushed on, thinking aloud. “They may have argued, and it went awry. If Bane can wander into the chandlery, he could certainly drop in on Hodge through that back door to the kitchens. Bane must fear I have ferreted out his crimes—his sins—and so he’s fled.”
“Then we are safe this night and can enjoy ourselves,” he tried again to cajole her. “And if it’s Bane, I should have insisted I be the first footer instead of Sussex, but you were so sure putting him on the other side of that door would prove something.”
“I knew he would be in a like position to you the other night when you were attacked, that is, alone for a moment. If he goes unbothered, it means something. Besides, I’m giving him a second opportunity to bring in a strange item under that cover I must open, and if something is amiss there,” she said, glancing at Sussex, “I can at least accuse him of complicity against us and have him further examined.”
“And if the first foot custom goes awry, will that mean everyone will believe we face a dreadful new year?” Robin demanded, though his tone remained light and teasing.
“I know it’s a risk, but I can’t help that. We may not even reach the new year if I can’t stop these outrages now!”
“My queen, cannot we have some joy of this day? To cheer you, I must tell you what one of your gifts is. I took to heart, as I do all things you say, your Christmas memory you shared the other day.”
She felt her panic mute, her fears momentarily soften. “The sleigh ride with my brother and father?” she asked.
“I’ve had metal runners put on a small wagon bed and lined it with soft furs and pillows. Tomorrow I shall take you for a ride on the river with it, clear to Greenwich, if you’d like, to see the Frost Fair and greet your people, who love you dearly—but never as much as I.”
Tears wet her lashes, and she longed to hug him. “Robin, I thank you. That is so thoughtful and so dear. But if someone’s out to harm you or me, we must take precautions for our safety.”
“Jenks, Clifford, others can ride along. Somehow, with this jackanapes who has been bothering us, I think the farther from Yule food and your royal kitchens we can get, the better off we will be.” He threw back his head and shouted a laugh that made her wonder if he’d been into the wassail.
Though deeply moved by his thoughtfulness, she couldn’t help but fret that Robin could joke about what had happened to him and call it mere bother when he had nearly died. And jackanapes was nearly a term of endearment, something you called a naughty, saucy child. It hinted at capering and jesting, when their enemy was a foul plotter and killer. She was probably just too on edge, she thought, but Robin’s mood reminded her of that bump on his head. Neither was quite right.
Ned judged it to be nearly midnight, but he couldn’t sleep. Unless those ghostly hounds on the isle across the river—and he wasn’t superstitious—were yet baying over the legendary watery deaths of their master and mistress, the queen’s hunt dogs should be silenced. He stopped pacing and looking out.
The full moon in the clear wintry sky shed silver dust on the scene out his second-story prison window. He was being held in a chamber usually assigned to the staff of important visitors in the east wing, which had a view of the forest and, if one looked far sideways, the river flowing in from London. Moonlight etched the skeletons of trees, ice weighed down the river, and snow blanketed the Isle of Dogs, the entire view as heavy and cold as his heart.
“Hell’s gates!” he cracked out to the empty bedchamber they’d locked him in.
He began to pace as he had all day since he’d been left here to rot. At least the queen hadn’t sent him to the Fleet, Bridewell, or some other prison, he thought, trying to buck himself up. He wasn’t of lofty enough rank to be put in the dreaded Tower, but if he’d been any sort of lord instead of her Master of Revels, she probably would have sent him there. He fancied that, if he pressed his forehead to the frosty windowpanes and craned his neck to look to the left, he could see its cold gray stones.
As he passed his tray of bread and cheese and cold sliced duck, he kicked at the table it was on. The single fat candle shuddered but burned on. He could full well picture what queen and court were feasting on tonight under a hundred blazing lights. He could hear the raucous noise, the rollicking music, the jests, of which he was master. Her Grace would be accepting expensive, unique gift after gift and giving her friends and advisors sacks of coins or silver plate in return.
And for her closest servants—well, she’d given them all fine Spanish leather riding boots last year. How rich the creaking, pliant leather had smelled, how very opulent it had been, so what was she giving out, perhaps even right now?
Though his eyes teared up, he sniffed hard to keep from crying. He forced himself back to the window to survey the frozen world outside. Down below, on the ice, he was certain he saw someone move. And not the deer he’d noted earlier, nosing about for water on the banks before settling for eating snow. Was that not a man on a horse, way down here, far from the Frost Fair?
He prayed it could be Jenks or Clifford come back for him, but he knew better. That was the only New Year’s gift he longed for, to have Her Grace forgive his lies and anger and all they had wrought and call him back. But why would someone sent for him dismount out there in the cold and dark?
When he looked again, he saw naught amiss.
He stared out, wide-eyed but no longer seeing. He did want something else besides Her Grace’s forgiveness. He wanted Meg’s smile, Meg’s approval and trust, Meg in his arms again, opening her mouth to his, Meg in his bed.
“Hell’s gates!” he repeated as if cursing would cure his pain. He thumped his fist against the window, then saw something else move outside.
Another rider—or the same—had come up into the trees, but he seemed to have dismounted, to be hunched over. Perhaps a messenger had become ill, or decided to walk the rest of his way in, or his mount had gone lame. Whatever could the man be doing while his horse stomped impatiently, a horse evidently fitted with studded shoes to traverse the ice? It was a little too late to be ripping mistletoe off those huge oaks.
Ned scrubbed at the mist his breath had made on the thick pane, blinked, and stared yet again. No, he must have been totally mistaken, for now no one was there at all.
Chapter the Thirteenth
Figgy Pudding
Chop Yi pound imported, dried figs, and mix with ¼ cup bread crumbs. White manchet bread, preferred by those of wealth or rank, is best, but a lesser bread such as yellowish cheat is fine. Do not serve, at least at holiday tim
e, the coarser breads of black rye or especially oats, favored in rude or rural places. Lightly brown 1 cup of autumn-gathered walnuts and mix with other elements including 1 cup brown sugar, 3 tablespoons melted butter, 4 beaten hen’s eggs, and spices: ½ teaspoon precious cinnamon and ¼ teaspoon nutmeg. To make special for Yuletide tables of rank and honor, add ¾ cup of sugared citrus peels, perhaps left from the making of suckets. Bake for at least 1 hour and serve with cream or hardsauce; the latter made from Madeira or malmsey is best.
ELIZABETH WISHED SHE COULD ENJOY ALL THIS AS MUCH as Robin seemed to. She noted that the marks on his neck and wrists had faded fast, as perhaps the terrible memory of his assault and attempted murder had, too. That was what made him so merry tonight, to have back his life, which could have been tragically cut short, she thought.
“It’s most generous of you not only to give me the sleigh ride but to foot the bill for tonight’s fireworks,” she told him. “But then you have always adored gunpowder and explosions of all sorts.”
“Especially the sort we could have between the two of us,” he murmured, leaning close with his big, brown hand on the table beside hers. “Around you, I am but a burning match, my queen, waiting to ignite your—”
“Favorite fireworks on the river. Ah, the first course!” she declared, nodding at Master Cook Roger Stout as he made his appearance at the head of the parade of platters.
The queen tried to smile, to nod and even applaud with the others when a particularly spectacular dish came in. She took a hearty swig of wassail, hoping that would help to lighten her heart. But she still kept envisioning a bizarre peacock, a fox’s head with a gold snout, and Robin trussed like a roast boar instead of the fineries of the feast that were set before the queen.
If the uncovered banquet food came cold, fine, Elizabeth thought, for cold food was the first of the ten traditional courses; the second was hot, the third sweet, and onward through a great array. The red gravies, blue custards, and yellow sauces looked especially festive against the layers of white linens covering the table, which glittered with silver plates and glass goblets. Huge saltcellars in elaborate shapes adorned each table. All the guests soon fell to with their personal knives and spoons.
Accompanied by the wail and beat of music from the elevated musicians’ gallery, sallets came first, some boiled, some compound, followed by a flow of fricassees, boiled meats, stewed broths, and sundry boiled fowls. Then all sorts of roast meats, everything from capons to woodcocks. Wild fowl, land fowl, and hot baked meats such as marrow-bone pie arrived to make the table groan. Next came cold baked meats of wild deer, hare pie, gammon of bacon pie, then shellfish, though not so many dishes of that since the rivers were solid ice.
Among the sweets came candied flower petals, fat green figs from Portugal, dates, suckets, tarts, gingerbread, florentines, and spiced cakes, and the queen’s childhood favorite, figgy pudding, though she merely picked at it now. At last came the annual massive marchpane masterpiece, rolled in on a cart. People stood at their places or even on benches to see a miniature frozen Thames with tiny booths upon it and a replica of Whitehall Palace on its bank side. All of this was washed down with a selection of malmsey, Gascon or Rhenish wines, beer, or ale.
As the tables were cleared and her courtiers lined up for the exchange of gifts with their queen, Elizabeth’s spirits began to sink even more. This was the point at which Ned had always stepped forward to amuse and amaze her guests with quips, jests, or riddles. What a riddle these Christmas crimes had become, she agonized. She could not bear to believe Ned was a deceiver and a killer, and yet a parade of evidence suggested that very thing. On the morrow she intended to send guards out looking for Vicar Bane, but now a whispering Sussex, an ever watchful Simon Mac-Nair, and a gloating Robin were driving her to distraction and—
She almost choked on the last bite of figgy pudding. She had just put her dear Robin in the list of possible villains when she knew he could not possibly be guilty. No, the attacks had been aimed at him, and he’d suffered greatly, being mocked and molested.
Putting down her golden spoon and nodding that her place could be cleared, she noted a smiling Simon MacNair working his way through the press of people to stand before her.
“Some happy news, I hope,” she told him by way of greeting as she stood and was escorted to her throne under the scarlet cloth of state.
MacNair hurried behind her, chattering. “Although I have gifts for you from myself and from your royal cousin, the Queen of Scotland, Your Most Gracious Majesty, I wanted to give you another sort of gift, if you would allow it”
“What sort of gift?” she asked warily.
“Sleight-of-hand tomfooleries, Your Majesty. Queen Mary adores them between courses or entertainments, and I thought you might, too.”
“I’m not in the mood for surprises, nor is our court like Queen Mary’s.”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” he said, still smiling up at her most pleasantly. “I swear to you there will be no silly dolls or boxes of stones. I offer naught but blessings for the beautiful Queen of England at this start to the new year,” he declared with a flourish as he produced a gold crown coin from midair, one with her likeness on it.
Elizabeth laughed as other crowns seemed to drop into his flying fingers from his nose, his earlobes, and then—with her permission—her chin. Ohs and aahs followed, until quite a crowd had gathered, watching raptly. Soon her lap was full of coins, and she was delighted at their bounty. Was this, she wondered, the gift from him or his queen? Cecil shuffled forward, and Robin leaned in with his hand still on the hilt of his sword, but this clever display seemed harmless enough to her.
“Sir Simon MacNair, you are a man of surprises and hidden talents,” she told him, loudly enough for all to hear. “Imagine, tricks with crowns—and my very image—disappearing and then appearing.”
He only laughed as he seemed to lift a coin from Robin’s pouting lower lip. “And now,” MacNair added as he flapped open a large linen handkerchief, “will not Your Grace wager these coins by allowing me to wrap them in this cloth?”
“Will I get them back with interest?” she demanded, as it seemed everyone in the room leaned forward, breathless to see what the Scot would do next.
“I do promise you it will be interesting.”
All this made her miss Ned dreadfully. Even though voices in the crowd called out such things as “Never trust a Scot'” and “You’ve heard how tight they are with coins—and tight with their Scots whiskey, Your Majesty!” she put the crowns into his hand-kerchief.
Everyone, even the musicians in the balcony, went silent as MacNair knotted the handkerchief, then, holding the ties, swung the bundle once, twice, thrice over his head.
“And so!” he cried and untied it with a flourish. “See, Your Majesty, it still has crowns within!”
The queen saw the coins were gone, every last one of them. But within lay two gold-framed miniatures, each of a woman wearing a crown—herself and Queen Mary, only Mary was smiling and Elizabeth looked sober as a Puritan.
Everyone huzzahed and cheered and clapped as MacNair plucked them out and held them up for the crowd, turning so all could see. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether it was a slight or the miniaturist’s failure that Mary looked far better, but she intended to pin MacNair down about it later. Yes, she was certain Mary’s was more flattering.
“And so I ask Your Majesty’s forgiveness for giving my gifts before those of loftier rank, but I could not contain myself,” MacNair said with a deep bow as he produced a purse of coins from up his sleeve and offered them to her too. “I fear, Your Grace,” he added, his voice more intimate now, “that Ambassador Melville would have my head, my position at least, for this, but as he is not here, and it is holiday time…”
“When the cat’s away, the mouse will play, my lord?” she countered, also keeping her voice low. “Do you find it difficult to answer to one who is not here to see the lay of the land, yet to whom you are responsible?” br />
“How logical and perceptive you are, Your Majesty. I fear that being at best the aide-de-camp to those greater than I is my lot in life, however high I rise. I began as the youngest of eight children and so must of necessity make my own way in life. I am envoy for an exacting master and an even more volatile mistress.”
“My cousin Queen Mary?” she asked, fascinated. “And is she volatile, while you call me logical and perceptive? I give you leave to speak freely on this and would count it as a favor if you do so.”
“Your cousin Mary Stuart, Your Grace, is sensitive and sensual, a creature of feelings and emotion. You, I have observed, may feel deeply, too, but your head commands your heart, for your intellect is most impressive.”
Again, she found herself liking this man, though she could ill afford to. “I hope, though you are away from your people at this time of year,” she told him, “that you will enjoy yourself among us. Is there aught else you would say before I proceed with the other gifts? For back in the array of them is a fine silver plate for you. And when your messenger Forbes returns from Edinburgh, I shall send him north yet again with a New Year’s gift for my cousin and sister queen.”
“You are ever gracious, and I am grateful,” he said, shifting slightly so that he seemed to block Robin out for a few moments, though her Lord of Misrule was now giving orders for the exchange of gifts. “Just one more thing, Your Grace,” MacNair said, whispering. “As the earl—” here he darted a look at Robin, then back to her—”proved he was not to be trusted by my queen, perhaps he should not be trusted by any queen, even one ruled by her head more than her heart, as queens indeed must be.”
If he meant to say more, it was too late, for Robin turned back and clapped his hands to signal the highest-ranking peers to step forward first. By then Simon MacNair had melted back into the crowd.