The Queene’s Christmas (9 page)

“I did,” he said, turning back, “but assumed it was made by his bumping against or falling on something—a corner of his work-table or a fancy bowl, though I overheard the coroner say it seemed to resemble a fancy sword hilt, one molded or sculpted, but I deemed the latter quite impossible.”

“I appreciate your help and discretion in this delicate matter. There will be nothing more right now,” she told him, as she recalled the constant rattle of Sussex’s ceremonial sword. The problem was, Elizabeth thought, not so much that Master Stout was clever only in the kitchen but that he could not conceive of evil in his narrow realm as she could in her broader one.

The three of them thoroughly searched the room for what might have been used to hit Hodge. They found nothing telltale or unusual on the floor, worktable, or shelves, or even aloft in the hanging kettles and pots she had Jenks peer into while he stood on the very stool the murderer had perhaps used to tie the noose and hoist Hodge.

“What was that low, growling sound?” Jenks cried, looking under the table again. “Not the wind?”

“It’s my stomach,” the queen muttered. “I should have eaten more at dinner, and that hippocras helped me not one whit.”

“This search is a dead end,” Cecil said, “if you’ll excuse the pun.”

“We must conclude that the murderer took the weapon with him,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “If we find it, we may find our man, but exactly what are we looking for? If only we still had the body, I’d take a close look at that blow myself.”

“If you’re up to it,” Cecil said, “we could go look, as the corpse is not far from here. You never asked me where we had the coroner stow Hodge, so I didn’t think you wanted to know. The ground’s so frozen, he can’t be buried until it thaws, though, at least, it sounds now as if the poor wretch
is
headed for a grave in hallowed ground instead of some potter’s field with self-slayers.”

“Then where is he?” she asked. “Surely, not in the palace proper and not in my kitchens!”

“In the boathouse on the riverbank.”

“Is it locked or guarded?”

“A guard would freeze out there. It’s barred and locked, yes, with all your barges off the ice now, but I still have the extra key” he said and, with a taut smile, produced it on his jingling chain of them.

“Bring that largest lantern, Jenks,” she said, redonning Megs cloak, “and, my lord, we’ll need another.” As they went out into the corridor, Stout stood there with a laden tray.

“I’ve been waiting to offer you a late-night repast when you emerged,” he explained, his eyes darting among the three of them in the light of the two lanterns they carried. On the tray were tankards of beer, no doubt much like the ones the staff was enjoying now, and a little plate of cheese tarts—no, they were those lemon custard ones everyone called Maids of Honor she’d passed over earlier this evening.

“I know you like these, Your Majesty,” Stout said, “and you did not eat a great deal at the Christmas Eve feast.”

She merely nodded and, despite their terrible task ahead; reached for a tart Murder or not, she was famished, and it both annoyed and touched her that even her master cook knew that she had not eaten much this eve. Would she ever become accustomed to the way her people watched her every move as if she were the head of a massive family?

At that thought, a shudder swept her. Despite the fact that Hodge Thatcher’s family had obviously hated the Protestant Tudors for “ruining the true church,” as the note put it, Hodge had chosen loyalty to her. Since this was indeed a murder, she must try to solve it for the memory of the man himself and not only to assure the safety of her court or crown. Any crime that struck at one of her people, cook to clerk to courtier, must be solved and punished.

Cecil and Jenks also took a drink and downed a tart—actually, Jenks ate three. When Elizabeth indicated she’d have no more, Master Stout wrapped up the rest of the pastries in a cloth and handed them to Jenks.

“They say, you know, Your Majesty,” Stout said, turning back to her with the hint of a bow, “that your mother when she was maid of honor made these tarts for your royal sire.”

“I’ve heard that, Master Stout, but don’t credit it a bit More like they were concocted by some clever pastry cook who knew he could charge more for them if they could be tied to such a tale. My royal father only favored massive portions, so these are much too dainty and delicate for him—or most men,” she added as Jenks’s big paw managed to crush another tart to crumbs before he could get it in his mouth.

Meg stood at the oriel windows of the queen’s bedroom and watched the moon glaze a path on the white Thames. “It looks pretty but so dreadful cold out there,” she remarked to Ned, who was seated at the queen’s table as he had been yesterday, once again writing furiously.

“Chilly in here, too,” he muttered.

“With this hearth blazing?”

“I spoke metaphorically, Mistress Milligrew—ah, I mean, Your Most Glorious and Gracious Majesty,” he said, looking up. “If you keep up the way you’ve been treating me, I shall dub you ’the Ice Queen and write you as such into the Christmas entertainment I am planning for my troupe’s arrival tomorrow.”

“If I’m treating you cold, it’s only because you’ve treated me that way.”

“Really?” he said, tossing down his quill. “Did it ever cross
your
mind that I might have a few important and weighty things on
my
mind this season? And now, the queen’s off on a hunt for a murderer, and who needs that complication?”

“You’re just angry because you’re not Lord of Misrule this year and can’t get by with all your high-and-mighty decrees as you always have, going about masked, kissing all the girls, the ladies, too —

“Aha! Do I detect green eyes?”

“You’re the one with the green eyes, and you know well enough how to use them. No, I’m not jealous, just in love with a man who, by comparison, makes you look pretty bad. As for
your
foul mood,
you
ought to be happy the queen’s taking your old fellows in for the holidays.”

“Happy as a hawk in a windstorm,” he groused. “One member of the troupe is new and untested, and a bit of a climber, I’m afraid, and I’m going to have to take some of my precious time to keep a watch on him.”

“Hm,” she said. “Takes one to know one, so—”

She stopped talking midthought as Ned rose and came quickly to stand behind her at the window. She spun to look out again so he wouldn’t be pressing her, face to face, against it. He leaned a hand on the deep sill as if to block her in or embrace her, but she saw he was craning his neck to stare out the window at something down by the iced-in barge landings.

“Just keep an eye on him yourself, name of Giles Chatam,” Ned said, his mouth so close it stirred the hair at her temple and warmed her ear.

“You mean he’s a ladies’ man, too,” she goaded, “and you don’t think I’d be safe around him?”

“I mean he’s likely to be disguised half the time because I’m writing him parts where he’s masked and cloaked, dark parts, the villains.”

“While you play the innocents and heroes, I suppose,” she said and managed a laugh. “Best be careful, Ned Topside, queen’s master player, or all your friends will see right through you,” she scolded and, most unqueen-like, pushed him back and darted to the table to read the playlet he’d written.

“I’m going out,” he announced, hard on her heels; he snatched the paper before she could read it.

“But you’re to stay here.”

“I’ll be back directly, but I’ve got to use the jakes and can hardly borrow Her Majesty’s velvet close stool, now can I?”

“How do you know about something as privy as her close stool?”

“Let’s just say,” he muttered, “she’s as good as dumped me in it lately.”

“Ned Topside!”

“Stop fretting. My stomach’s just upset by something I ate at dinner, and it’s ruining my disposition, too.”

Meg wondered if he actually had a wench to meet He didn’t look ill. She knew he was vexed with the queen, but that gave him no leave to ignore her wishes. Hands on hips, Meg watched Ned walk away, open the door, duck under the yeomen’s crossed halberds before they could react, and disappear at a good clip down the hall.

The door to the boathouse moaned mournfully, but the interior provided shelter from the cutting wind as the queen, Cecil, and Jenks stepped inside. The large wooden structure sat upon rows of sawhorses and four-foot stilts along the river bank, but the entrance was level with the smaller of the two barge landings. Not only were the valuable rivercraft being kept under lock and key; the thick double doors were barricaded by a large beam bar the two men had lifted to get in.

Their two lanterns illumined the queen’s massive state barge sitting high on tree trunks where it had been rolled in. Two other passenger barges and several working boats were hulking shadows in the depths of the low-ceilinged building. The single small window at the back overlooked the frozen river.

“Over here, in this far corner,” Cecil said and started away. Elizabeth followed, then Jenks with the second lantern.

Floorboards groaned under their feet; the entire edifice creaked from the cold like old bones. Elizabeth and Jenks slowed their strides when they approached the ten-foot wherry in the corner. A sliver of moonlight sliced across the boat’s prow.

“I had him laid in here like a mummy in a sarcophagus, so we’ll have to unwrap his head,” Cecil said, leaning over the side of the boat.

As Elizabeth stepped closer and looked into the ribbed hull, she wished she hadn’t eaten even one little tart. In this cold, no odor emanated from the body, but the sight of the shrouded form shook her deeply. Cecil’s mummy comparison aside, Hodge was laid out lengthwise in the boat, as if he were about to be launched for a fiery Viking funeral.

“Your Grace,” Cecil interrupted her thoughts, “if you can hold a light for us, we can unwrap the top of his head, keeping his face covered.”

“Yes, good idea,” she said, taking the lantern Cecil held.

Jenks put down his lantern and little bundle of pastries on the wherry’s single seat and climbed inside the hull to support Hodge’s shoulders while Cecil opened the shroud from the top; they worked together to turn the body so that the back of the head was visible.

“Definitely struck from behind and with a downward blow,” the queen observed, her voice sounding as shrill as did the wind through the boathouse chinks and cracks. They all startled at a distant hollow boom followed by a crackling sound.

“Just river ice settling,” Cecil said. “It will be solid soon, but back to business. Hopefully, he never knew what hit him.”

“But we must discern exactly what did,” she said, “for it is our best hope to solve this riddle. There—hold him a moment just like that Yes, I see the shape of the blow.” Holding the lantern in one hand, she rested her other on an oarlock and bent closer. “But his thick, blood-matted hair keeps us from clearly discerning whatever pattern was on the weapon,” she observed. “The coroner at least should have washed his head there. I wish we had some sort of lather to shave that spot for a close look.”

“I could go fetch some and a razor,” Jenks offered.

“No, I think that won’t be necessary. Since the coroner is finished with the body, and we are the ones who will bury him when there’s a thaw, I don’t think anyone will even notice what I intend. Jenks, let me borrow your knife and those Maids of Honor, if you please.”

Both men held the corpse while Elizabeth proceeded to smear the custard filling over the area on Hodge’s head obscured by blood and hair. Carefully but awkwardly, her hand shaking, she began to shave his matted hair away.

“I can do that, Your Grace,” Cecil said.

“Just keep holding him. I’m going to use this cloth to wipe it off, and then we shall all see what pattern of murder weapon lies beneath.”

Her belly cramped from leaning into the boat as well as from her stomach-churning task. At least Cecil’s sketch had captured texture as well as shape: Whatever had hit Hodge from behind had dented in his flesh and skull in a pattern. Within the outer form, there was a sort of band or belt with what might be an insignia in the middle of the band.

“A coat of arms or design, even a short word?” she asked, shifting the lantern to try to make the contours of the wound stand out in shadow. “If only we could read it!”

“As the coroner suggested, made by a sword hilt?” Cecil said. “Or by a large kitchen utensil?”

“That brighter light’s better,” Jenks observed, and Elizabeth nodded until her stomach cartwheeled again.

“What light?” she asked. “No one’s moved a lantern, and the moonlight can’t shift that fast. Could someone have a light outside?”

She tore her gaze away from the corpse. Through the single window of the boathouse, moonlight flooded in. No, it could not be that, she reasoned, for this was golden, warm light, not that of the winter moon.

“Someone must have lit a fire outside on the ice“ she said. “We’ll be seen leaving here and going back to the palace.”

Both men looked up as she hurried to the window, then scrubbed at the swirling frost patterns on it so she could see out. She suddenly recalled how Hodge, lying in the boat, had looked as if he were about to be launched for a Viking funeral.