The Queene’s Christmas Read online

  Both royal Tudor and Stuart blood—for Stewart was the Scots’ version of Queen Mary’s Frenchified Stuart—ran in Darnley’s veins. At the prompting of his parents and without Elizabeth’s permission, the comely twenty-year-old Darnley had courted the newly widowed Queen Mary in France, before she returned to Edinburgh. Distantly related to Elizabeth, Darnley was a dissolute weakling. If he were king, he would sap the power Mary of Scots would need for any bid to seize her rival Elizabeth’s crown and kingdom.

  Elizabeth lowered her voice and tried to look morose. “I am deeply grieved the Scots queen, my dear cousin, does not think to take that which I have so lovingly offered and advised.”

  “How could she, Your Majesty,” MacNair put in, “when the earl wrote privily to her he was not worthy of her?”

  “What?” she demanded. “I have made him worthy of her, said he is worthy of her!” She felt her skin flush hot. Over anyone else, friend or foe, she could remain calm, but not over this freebooting blackguard she had long loved. Now Robin had defied her again when she had told him to keep clear of this business, that she and Cecil would handle it. But no, he had gainsayed her and jumped in with both feet as if he were bidden to make royal decisions here.

  “You wrote her privily, in effect warding off her affections?” she cried, striding to Robin and hitting his shoulder with her balled fist. The wretch stood his ground.

  “I was surprised, too, Your Grace,” MacNair went smoothly on, “since it has long been noised about that the earl has a curtained painting of Mary Stuart he dotes on. I hear ’tis in his privy rooms at Kenilworth, near the corridor on which hangs a smaller one of Your Most Gracious Majesty.”

  Elizabeth was so furious her blood rang in her ears, thumping with the beat of her heart She steadied herself as she had countless times ere this and said in a well-modulated voice, “Thank you, Sir Simon, for delivering this letter and for your additional information. I assure you I shall read most carefully my cousin’s thoughts and respond to her in kind. Farewell for now. Leicester, you may stay.”

  When the door closed on the Scot and the queen heard her yeomen guards move back into their positions outside, she said calmly to Cecil, “Please ask Ned Topside to join us for a moment, my lord.” He nodded and complied instantly, going out the back way by which she had entered.

  “Topside?” Robin said, fidgeting and moving toward the other door as if he would flee. “What has he to do with any of this?”

  “I won’t even ask you about the portrait of her you have hanging in your rooms while the smaller one of me is in the corridor. I am wearied to death with your caperings, to put it prettily, my lord. I give you an earldom, but you presume to play king.”

  “Hell’s teeth, Your Grace,” he exploded, “you’ve been using me as a pawn to be taken by a foreign and enemy queen, so I thought I’d at least ascertain what the woman looked like. It’s a poor portrait of her, especially next to any of you, including this one!” he cried and yanked a locket on a chain out of his doublet He tried to pry it open with some difficulty.

  “Never mind trying to make amends,” Elizabeth insisted. “It’s probably rusted shut from disuse if it hides my likeness!”

  “If it is rusted shut, it is from my tears. You no longer love me as you once did—at least said you did!”

  “And now I want nothing but silence from you! You were to keep to the side in my dealings with Mary Stuart, not get your sticky, greedy fingers into the Christmas pie like Jack Horner in the corner,” she told him, wagging her finger as Cecil knocked once and entered with Ned.

  “You called for me, Your Grace?” Ned said. He and Cecil looked almost as nervous as Robin.

  “Master Topside, I regret to inform you that there is someone else I must appoint as Lord of Misrule this year, one who believes he can go his own way, so he will be perfect for the part. And you shall be his aide.”

  Ned looked confused, hurt, then angry. “But I—things are already greatly planned, Your Grace, and I was just about to visit my former colleagues, the Queen’s Country Players, at the Rose and Crown, as you said I might, to invite them to help me with a play.”

  “You may still do so, but you will be assisting the new Lord of Misrule, especially at the Feast of Fools, where he will rule indeed.”

  She glanced at Robin, then away. He had gone from deathly white to ruby red. And he had not yet learned when to keep his mouth shut.

  “You first raise me to the earldom, then offer me to your cousin queen, then make a laughingstock of me?” he demanded.

  “When people remark that I keep my friends so close, Cecil,” she said, turning to him, “I merely smile and nod, but the unspoken truth is, of necessity, I keep my enemies even closer. Ned, you may fetch your players, but be certain, if you stage a play, that the Earl of Leicester as the new Lord of Misrule takes the part of buffoon—or villain!”

  “Holly and ivy, box and bay, put in the house for Christmas day” The queen’s maids of honor and ladies in waiting chanted the old rhyme as they decked the halls where kissing balls hung from rafters and lintels. “Fa, la, la, la, las” echoed in the vast public rooms of the palace. But the queen’s mood was still soured as she watched all the frivolity. Truth be told, she’d like to feed both Martin Bane and Robin Dudley a big bowl of mistletoe berries.

  “It’s not really true, is it?” Rosie’s voice pierced the queen’s thoughts. Four of her maids were standing close, looking at her on the first landing of the newly garlanded staircase.

  “What was that again?”

  “It’s only a superstition about the holly berries, isn’t it?” Rosie prompted.

  Anne Carey, wife of Elizabeth’s cousin Baron Hunsdon, came to the queen’s aid. “Obviously,” Anne said, “it’s pure folk custom that these more pointed holly leaves are male and the more rounded ones female.” It was traditional to count whether more sharp-leafed or smooth had been gathered each year; whichever kind was in the majority supposedly decided whether the husband or wife of the house ruled the roost in the coming year.

  “I shan’t leave to chance,” Elizabeth said, “who commands this dwelling or any other palace for the entire year. I don’t give a fig how many sharp leaves of holly are hauled in here, a woman rules.”

  She basked in their smiles and laughter. They made her feel better, and she was greatly looking forward to the awarding of the new liveries to the kitchen staff. Finally, she began to buck up a bit.

  With her main officers of her palaces, the queen processed toward the vast kitchen block. Behind her came the four chief household officials, the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Steward, Treasurer, and Comptroller, with some of their aides, laden down with piles of new clothes. She had sent for her former groom and favorite horseman, Stephen Jenks, because anytime she chose to leave her yeomen guards behind, she felt better with him in tow.

  The royal kitchens of the Tudor palaces actually held three staffs that occupied separate areas. The hall kitchen served minor courtiers and household servants who ate in the Great Hall; the lords’ kitchen provided for the nobles who sat just below the dais in the Great Hall; and the privy kitchen fed the queen and whomever she chose to have dine with her. This particular set of liveries was going to her privy kitchen staff.

  The mere aroma from the open hearths and brick ovens pulled the queen fully back into the mood for Christmas. The bubbling sauces, spitted roasts, and plump pillows of rising dough being kneaded for pastries and pies made her nose twitch. In a long line stood her staff, Master Cook Roger Stout to lowest scullery maid and spit boy. The fancy livery was for those of the highest echelons and those who served at table, but everyone would receive at least a piece of cloth or a coin. Most gifts were given on New Year’s Day, but the household staffs needed their new garments now to look their best these coming Twelve Days.

  Elizabeth went down the line from pastry cooks to larders, confectioners, boilers, and spicers, giving a quick smile and word of praise to each with the varied gifts. “Is that
everyone?” she asked the beaming Stout as he sent his staff back to their tasks. “I see there’s a doublet left”

  “I reckon it’s for Hodge Thatcher, Your Most Gracious Majesty, as I noticed him missing. If he’s nodded off, I’ll skin him.”

  “More like poor Master Hodge is busy putting the skin and feathers back on the peacock for tonight,” Elizabeth countered.

  Hodge Thatcher was Dresser of the Queen’s Privy Kitchen, which meant he “dressed” or ornately arranged the fancy dishes, especially for the feasts. It was no mean task to garnish and deco-rate soups, meats, and pies. On occasions when she entertained foreign ambassadors, he’d turned out many a finely refeathered roasted swan with the traditional tiny crown upon its head. For this evening he must reaffix the roasted peacock’s iridescent coat and prop up the fan of feathers. She’d seen Hodge at that task once years ago, when he first came to serve in her father’s kitchens. She glanced over at the hatches through which he inspected all food before it was carried upstairs to her table, whether she was eating in public or in private.

  “His workroom is by the back door near the street, is it not?” she asked. Carrying the doublet herself, she strode down the crooked corridor while Stout and her entourage hurried along behind.

  “Ah, yes, what a fine memory you have, Your Majesty,” he cried, sounding out of breath, “for his is the last door before passing through to the porter’s gate and so outside the walls. Allow me to ascertain if he is within and announce you,” he added, but the door was narrow, and the queen poked her head in ahead of the others.

  “He’s not here,” she declared at first glance into the dim room, lit by a single lantern on the cluttered worktable. She saw that the small area served also for storage; pots and kettles, spits and gridirons hung aloft on hooks and hoisting chains.

  Then, amidst all that, the queen saw bare feet dangling head high. She gasped as she gazed up at a bizarre body, a corpse, part man, part bird.

  Chapter the Second

  Roast Peacock

  Take a peacock, break its neck, and drain it. Carefully skin it, keeping its skin and feathers together with the head still attached to the skin of the neck Roast only the bird, with its legs tucked under. When it is roasted enough, take it out and let it cool. Sprinkle cumin on the inside of the skin, then wind it with the feathers and the tail about the body. Serve with the tail feathers upright, its neck propped up from within, and a lighted taper in its beak. If it is a royal dish, cover the bird’s beak with fine gold leaf. Carry said proud bird to the table at the head of a procession of lower dishes for to be sampled first by the monarch. Ginger sauce is best served with this fine and fancy bird.

  AT THE SIGHT OF THE HANGING BODY SOMEONE CURSED; a few shrieked. The queen continued to stare up at the partly feathered corpse, which seemed to have grotesquely taken flight.

  “Hodge? What the deuce!” Stout cracked out behind the queen as Jenks drew his sword and rushed past her. He looked behind the door and under the long table. As more people tried to enter, shadows from the single lantern danced and darted.

  “No one’s hiding here, Your Grace,” Jenks said, standing at her elbow and sheathing his sword.

  “Your Majesty,” came her Lord Chamberlain’s voice behind her, “you must come out, and we will see to this—this great misfortune.”

  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.