The Queene’s Christmas (24 page)

“We will keep searching, Your Grace,” Harry said simply, in effect ignoring Robin’s commands. He gestured to the two men to follow him out.

“Clifford, stay a moment!” Elizabeth called, and the tall yeoman came back in and closed the door.

“Robin,” the queen said quietly so Clifford wouldn’t hear, “I’ve found it best to treat all in my Privy Plot Council kindly and keep my temper on a low simmer so as not to insult or scare off assistance.”

She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake bringing Robin in on all this, but, after all, he had borne the brunt of the attacks and had a right to help defend himself. When she’d told Cecil that the Earl of Leicester was
pro tem
on their Privy Plot Council, he’d nearly had steam hissing from his ears.

“It’s only,” Robin muttered, “that no one but us seems to be able to think for themselves.”

“Unfortunately, the Christmas killer seems to,” she whispered. “Clifford, a question before you go,” she said, speaking louder and gesturing for him to approach. “You delivered Ned Topside safely to Greenwich and put a watch on his door?”

“Just like you told me to afore you accused him down on the riverbank, Your Majesty. It’s a decent-sized room on the second floor, that east wing overlooking the river, and I asked for some wood for the hearth there, like you said. The skeletal kitchen staff will be sure he gets enough to eat, though it’ll be plain fare compared to here. And I told the visiting players he’s indisposed.”

“At least, in a riverside room, he can watch the activities on the ice“ she mused aloud, strangely angry with herself that she regretted sending Ned away A pox on the bombastic meddler and prevaricator—or worse, but she missed him already.

“There’s nothing much on the ice outside of Greenwich,” Clifford said. “The Frost Fair doings are mostly ’tween here and the bridge. No, he’s looking out at not much but snow and your herds of Greenwich deer been wandering out on the river.”

Poor Ned, alone with only deer to oversee at Yule. At least if the phantom struck again while she had him locked up, she would know he was not to blame and could release him. Despite her frustration and anger at her principal player and former Lord of Misrule, that was her hope.

“That will be all, then, Clifford, and my thanks.”

“No thanks from you ever needed, Your Majesty. It’s enough—the best New Year’s gift of all—I can serve and help protect you. We’ll find the vicar soon and have him back here for questioning.”

“See that you do,” Robin piped up, reminding the queen again of one reason she abstained from matrimony. Never would she entrust the power she now wielded or the care she bore her beloved England to a husband, especially one who not only thought he was, but truly was, king of his castle.

Wassail, wassail, all over the town,

The cup it is white; the ale it is brown…

New Year’s Eve had always been Elizabeth Tudor’s favorite part of Christmas. Not only the continuation of wassail caroling but the gift giving, the sumptuous array of food, the first foot custom, and the fireworks …

The cup it is made of the apple tree,

And so is the ale of the good barley.

But tonight she felt tied in knots so tight she could scream. Cecil was standing stiffly by, frowning despite the merriment. Meg had red eyes from crying about Ned, Jenks was testy, and Rosie was sulking over the queen’s continually sending her on distant errands. At the head table elevated on the dais, only Kat seemed to be oblivious to twisted tensions.

So much in the queen’s view annoyed her, but then, she must admit, she was easily annoyed of late. Among her courtiers and guests seated below the elevated dais, Simon MacNair was all smiles and smooth manners as he chatted with Margaret, Countess Lennox, while her son Lord Darnley amused himself by leaning against the wall near the wassailers and ogling Giles Chatam.

The hall was ablaze with red and green torches sweetly perfuming the air, so Vicar Bane, who was still missing, hardly had a shadow to lurk in, should he appear. The pompous prig had now become first on her list of culprits, though she still had devised a way to test Sussex tonight He was vexing her this evening by whispering to almost everyone he met, all while glancing askance at his queen—or perhaps at Robin at her side.

Meanwhile, Robin was sticking too tight, with his hand on his ornate sword, whether to protect himself or her from the next onslaught, she was not sure. Worse, though the Lord of Misrule was expected to give commands for the festive evening, he seemed to think he could also order her about.

Robin rose to his feet and cued the royal trumpeters to herald his words. When their clarion tones died away, the hubbub in the vast hall, stuffed cheek by jowl with peers, nobles, advisors, ambassadors, senior household officials, and servants, slowly quieted.

“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 time, 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
.