The Queene’s Christmas (5 page)

Ignoring him, the queen pronounced, “Master Hodge is dead, whether by his own hand or someone else’s is to be seen. My Lord Chamberlain, send for Secretary Cecil and get everyone out of the room and doorway, for you are blocking what little additional light seeps in.”

“Cecil, Your Grace?” the man repeated like a dimwit.

Elizabeth finally managed to pull her gaze from the terrible tableau. “Yes, send for Cecil, and now,” she commanded, turning to face the wide-eyed, whispering group. “I do not want this noised about, to sadden or panic my people in court or city at this happy time of year. But leave me now, for I shall take a brief moment to mourn.” Indicating only Jenks and Stout should stay, she closed the door herself.

“Let’s get the poor wretch down first,” Stout cried and reached for the crank on the wall that worked the chain pulley.

“Wait!” Elizabeth ordered. “Touch nothing yet, as there may be clues or signs of what has happened here, even in this grit under our feet.”

“For some specialty like the peacock or boar’s head, Your Grace,” Stout said, staring at the floor, “he did some seasoning as well as dressing. It’s probably just sugar or ginger.”

“Jenks,” she said, “fetch that lantern closer, and Master Stout, leave us and try to be certain untoward rumors of this do not spread—and keep your people at their tasks as best you can. I am relying on you.” Nervously clutching the new doublet he had been given, her master cook hustled out.

Poor Hodge was attired, as far as the queen could tell by staring up into the shifting shadows amidst hanging vessels and utensils, only in his breeches and shirt. His arms hung at his sides; four neatly arranged, plucked peacock fantail feathers protruded from under each armpit. And, though the man’s contorted face showed, his forehead and hair were covered by the sleek blue-green body and drooped head of a peacock whose roasted carcass sat yet upon the worktable.

The queen’s neck ached from staring up, but she felt awestruck by the bizarrely dressed corpse. In lantern light, the feathers gleamed and glistened; the body seemed to sway. If it was not a reflection from the peacock’s coloring, the little she could glimpse of Hodge’s face and back was not only contorted but bluish. She wondered if, beneath the collar of his shirt and draped peacock skin, the man had a noose around his neck, which had choked breath and life from him.

She noted a tall stool tipped against the wall. Had Hodges hanged himself by stepping from it, or was there some other explanation—and hence a Yuletide hanging of a far different sort than she had hoped for on this day?

“I guess he could have committed suicide,” Jenks whispered as if he had heard her thoughts.

“If he didn’t,” she replied in hushed tones, “in the strange way the body is displayed, we’ve got both a murder and a mystery. Someone may have meant to take not only poor Hodge’s life but the joy of our court Christmas.”

Ned Topside was glad to escape the palace to clear his mind and try to rein in his temper, but the cold air felt like a blow to his spinning head. No one had seen him lose control—at least only one, and that was settled.

“Watch where you’re going, dolt!” he exploded at a man who bumped into him on the Strand. The lout was carrying a pitifully small Yule log and must already have drunk a good cup of Christmas cheer. Damn the capering numbskulls in the street who seemed so happy when he was at his wit’s end.

He’d show Elizabeth Tudor a thing or two about replacing him as Lord of Misrule, and with her fair-haired boy Leicester, no less! He’d get back at her in spades for this last-minute trickery, after how well he served her. Now he was caught in the box of having to ask his old companions to play at court but admitting he was no longer the favored Lord of Misrule, and he had no idea how to save face by playacting any different.

And now, a pox on it all, he’d just learned his uncle and his troupe of players had left the Rose and Crown for a better situation at the Lamb and Cross, an old pilgrims’ inn hard by St. Paul’s, and that was a good walk in this cutting river wind when he’d told the queen he wouldn’t be gone long. Hell’s teeth, what did it matter now, since on a woman’s whim she’d put the preening Earl of Leicester in his place to make all the final Yuletide decisions?

Ned tied his cloak tighter around his neck and heaved the last of the capon drumsticks he’d filched from the palace kitchen into the middle of the street, where two dogs leaped on it, growling at each other. Ned wiped his hands on his handkerchief and hurried on.

Meg Milligrew had vexed him today, too, he admitted, kicking at a pile of refuse, then cursing when it dirtied his boots. Well might she resemble the queen, because she was acting as haughty, and without the excuse of being royal.

“Out of my way there!” he commanded a group of unruly urchins in his best stage voice. Why should they be allowed to bat their bladder ball in front of busy citizens as they passed through narrow Ludgate? Where were their elders? Did no one teach the youth of England to be responsible anymore? He used to have to toe his father’s and his uncle’s lines when he was a lad.

Ned could see the new roofs of St. Paul’s in the distance. After a fire three years ago started by a lightning strike, the grand city cathedral had had its huge roof newly rebuilt. The Catholics, Protestants, and Puritans had all claimed it was God’s warning to at least one of the other groups. The queen wanted “freedom of conscience” for her people, but she also wanted public loyalty to the Church of England. At least she didn’t imprison folks and burn martyrs at the stake as her demented half-sister had. Women!

Still seething, he located the Lamb and Cross and entered the warm, crowded common room. As his eyes sought a familiar face, the mingled scents of food and fireplace assailed him. Why weren’t people at home on this Christmas Eve day? Then, above the noise of talk and laughter, he overheard a snatch of conversation: “… and good speeches in tha’
Cloth of Gold
play today, eh?”

“Excuse me, my man,” Ned interrupted the stranger, “but can you tell me where to find the actors of that play? Are they still hereabouts?”

“Being feted by the host, ri’ o’er there,” the man told him with a nod, sending a blast of garlic breath his way.

Despite his foul mood, Ned’s heart beat harder as he made his way over to the table in the corner. Yes, his uncle, Wat Thompson, was there, and Grand Rand, as he used to call the pompous jackanapes Randall Greene, to whom his uncle inexplicably gave all the good parts—inexplicably until Ned discovered they were lovers. That was something no one could know, lest they be arrested and worse as sodomites. How Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, got away with his male lovers at court was beyond him. The queen knew of it but for some reason looked the other way when ordinarily nothing escaped her notice.

“Ned!” his uncle cried, rising, when he saw him coming. “Well, I’ll be hanged! My boy, it’s been far too long!”

Ned felt his throat tighten. He’d come far from his rambling actor’s days, but those times had not been all bad. He hugged his uncle and even shook hands with Rand Greene.

“I hear you did
Cloth of Gold
today,” Ned told them and struck a pose as his voice rang out. “ ‘And can our dear English King Henry not make France’s
Francois Roi
look the very shell of a man?’ ”

“ ‘For our fair English shall e'er outmatch any man with French blood in his veins,’ “ his uncle picked up the next line, and they clapped each other on the shoulders.

“And the lads?” Ned asked, referring to Rob and Lucas, who had played the girls’ parts.

“This is young Rob grown from a stripling,” Uncle Wat said, indicating a curly-haired young man, stuffing himself with bread sopped in gravy.

“No stripling but a strapping lad,” Ned said, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

“Lucas left us when his voice changed, but we have a new lad, Clinton, from Coventry, who’s always sleeping, that one. But how and why did you find us, my boy?” Wat asked, shoving over on the bench so Ned could sit, too. “Still in Her Gracious Majesty’s Ser-vice, her principal player, are you not?”

“I am and more. These past six years she’s held the throne, I’ve been her Lord of Misrule, too, though I’ve agreed to counsel my Lord of Leicester on how to handle the task, just for this year. So as not to humble his lordship, I’ve agreed to dub myself his aide, but the major decisions are all mine.”

He looked from man to man as he spoke, trying to assess if they were following him—and believing him. They were the most rapt audience he had ever seen. And now, he thought, for the end of this little play, where he would summon the
deus ex machina
from heaven itself for their small-encompassed lives.

“And so, I’ve told Her Majesty—just for this special Twelve Days of Christmas—I’d like to try to work my old troupe into an entertainment or two for the court”

Amidst the smiles, cheers, and backslapping, Ned nearly cried. He knew how they felt. He recalled the elation of that day the queen, then princess, had invited him into her household because she favored his voice, wit, and charm. She always was one to take a fancy not only to talent but to form and face, so at least he felt safe asking these men to court—excellent players but no genius or Adonis here to usurp his place.

“Shall we come with you right now?” Uncle Wat asked. “We have but one more performance on the morrow, and they will surely understand we must leave by royal command.”

“Come tomorrow after the play, uncle, and by then I’ll have found a cubbyhole or two for you in the servants’ wing. You understand, the palace is quite full up at Christmas. You must come to the servants’ door off the street near the kitchen-block porter’s gate.”

“We will be there with bells on,” Uncle Wat declared and stood, wmdmilling his arm to someone in the crowd. “In the excitement of seeing you and this thrilling invitation, I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Ned asked and followed his uncle’s gaze to see a tall, square-jawed, blond man with clear blue eyes shouldering his way to them through the crowd. He was one of the handsomest men Ned had ever beheld, and at that moment, with a sinking feeling, he discerned who he must be.

“A new player in the troupe?” Ned asked, his voice catching. He’d learned, last time he’d heard from them, that they were searching for someone well turned out to take his place, but…

“Giles Chatam,” his uncle said, talking out of the side of his mouth, “our new man from Wimbledon. All the ladies love him, and he’s the consummate actor, too, if a bit ambitious. You know, refuses to be kept in his place.”

The smile and welcome Ned gave the man was some of the most difficult acting he had ever done.

“But what’s the dreadful message here?” William Cecil asked as he gazed up agape at the hanging corpse decked out in a fowl’s coat and feathers. “Do you plan to summon the coroner, Your Grace?”

“I must, if only to have poor Hodge declared officially deceased and, on the official examination of the body, get a second opinion about whether this could be foul play.”

At her inadvertent pun, the queen’s gaze caught Cecil’s. He shook his head as if in warning; she bit her lower lip.

“A second opinion?” Cecil said only. “Then you mean that in the midst of all your public activities, you, with our help, intend to investigate this? Your Grace, we have the Scots envoy MacNair hovering so he can report your every move to his Catholic queen, several ambassadors in town who will be at court, Bishop Grindal coming tomorrow for the service, a feast and public celebrations on which hangs the goodwill of the court and people…” His voice trailed off before he added, “In short, this seems a dreadful joke indeed, and much more than poor puns on hangings and foul play are afoot here.”

“I’ll fetch the coroner forthwith, Your Majesty,” Jenks said so loudly behind his betters that they startled.

She had almost forgotten Jenks was here, but she could hardly ignore the fact that surely word of this would spread. They must act in haste to gather evidence before they sent for public officials. And she had an appointment soon with the ever disgruntled Earl of Sussex, which she wanted to keep. She intended to tell him she expected him to get on well with his rival, the Earl of Leicester, at least during this holiday season.

“You may send someone to fetch the coroner, Jenks, but not forthwith,” the queen said. “We may eventually have to summon the constable, too, though their investigations aren’t worth a fig unless they can find eyewitnesses to interrogate. They seem to trample some clues and ignore or misinterpret the rest.”

“Which, I warrant,” Cecil put in, “we’ll need to search out should you decide to pursue this, or perhaps to summon the Privy Plot Council.”

“When you came in, you, as usual,” she told her trusted Cecil, “asked the right question first, my lord. What indeed is the message here? Though it is a mortal sin to take one’s own life, and I am deeply regretful if Hodge was somehow so desperate he did so, I pray, despite the bizarre trappings, this can be proved self-slaughter. If not, the message, at the very least, is that someone dangerous and demented has come to spend Yule with us.”

“These back chambers are close to the porter’s gate and street door,” Jenks said. “I suppose some stranger could have come in.”

“We’ll question the porter, of course, but random chance is highly unlikely. Jenks, fetch more lights in here,” she said, and he hastened to obey. “Cecil, I have promised an audience to the Earl of Sussex and must keep that appointment. Besides, it will allow me to see how quickly news of this has flown about our court.”