Tom walked down to Burghley House on Tuesday morning after breakfast, already enjoying the greatest benefit of a new commission from the Lord Treasurer: release from his confinement in Francis Bacon’s study chamber. The servant who admitted him into the house led him upstairs to a long gallery and left him on a bench. He didn’t mind waiting. Anything was better than sitting at that undersized desk making endless copies of legal maxims.
Another liveried servant stood motionless at the end of the gallery with his arms at his sides. He stared at nothing, seemingly, doing his job by merely waiting. Tom hoped the poor fellow had an active imagination and a beautiful young wife, at least.
The gallery looked across an interior courtyard to another gallery on the other side, marked by a long bank of tall windows whose spotless glass glittered in countless diamond panes. Tom’s arse reposed upon a brocaded cushion while his feet enjoyed the comfort of thick rush matting, which also muffled sounds. There weren’t many. A door closed somewhere in the depths of the house with a soft thud; a coachman cried, “Yep, yep!” to horses somewhere outside. Otherwise, this gallery was quiet and cool, perfumed with rosemary to ward off plague.
Not that such a vile disease would dare to enter these exalted precincts! This house rivaled Whitehall in its appointments. Like the paneling that supported Tom’s back, which he twisted around to admire. The wall was divided into rows of squares, each outlined with carved moldings to add depth. These moldings were painted in bands of scarlet, green, and yellow.
Tom pictured the painter at work, a man at the pinnacle of his craft to win a job in this house. He stood here in this gallery week upon endless week, laying down those unwavering ribbons of color. Did he do all the red lines first, working from ceiling to floor and end to end, before cleaning his brush and taking up a new color?
That seemed far more tedious than making fair copies of Bacon’s maxims. And Tom would bet a pair of velvet slippers that the painter’s master had never told him to hop down to Mr. Cecil’s office to collect a purseful of money so he could spend a week buying drinks for an unruly lot of poets and pamphleteers.
As the fullness of that truth expanded in his mind, Tom realized that his situation could be worse. It could be a lot worse.
A man in a dark red doublet with longish slops leaned out of a nearby doorway. “Are you Thomas Clarady?”
Tom rose. “I am.”
The man beckoned him forward. “I’m Peter Hollowell, Mr. Cecil’s secretary. Do come in. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“I don’t mind,” Tom said. “It’s a pleasant place to wait.”
They went in to Hollowell’s small office. His paneling wasn’t painted, but someone kept it polished to a fare-thee-well. Tom could smell the lemony wax as he entered.
“Sit, please.” Hollowell gestured at a chair as he seated himself behind his desk. “You told the gatekeeper you were here on an errand for Mr. Bacon pursuant to the conversation he had yesterday with Mr. Cecil.”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Cecil has placed this matter in my hands, as far as the day-to-day is concerned. He trusts me, as your master trusts you.” He smiled. “Looks like you and I will be seeing each other every week or so until this matter has been resolved.”
Tom returned the smile. “That’ll make things simpler, Mr. Hollowell. Less fuss.” He hadn’t much wanted to deal with Mr. Cecil directly. Bacon didn’t like him, though he never said it in so many words. But he clearly didn’t trust his cousin and therefore Tom didn’t either. Bacon had his flaws — which Tom could list at length, in alphabetical order — but he was a profoundly honest man. If he didn’t trust someone, there must be a reason.
“I’m glad we understand each other.” Hollowell ran a hand through his light brown hair as he cast a glance at the piles of paper covering his desk, letting out a weary breath. “If you’re thinking you’ve caught me at a bad time, I’m afraid it’s always like this. My master is doing everything he can to relieve my Lord Burghley’s burdens, which means we secretaries have larger loads to shoulder as well. Not that I’m complaining!”
It sounded more like bragging to Tom, but he didn’t hold it against him. Hollowell had probably been angling for this position for years and now must come to terms with the truth of what he’d wished for. “Mr. Bacon and I appreciate everything you do.”
“As we appreciate both of you.”
They beamed at each other for a moment or two, taking stock. Tom knew he presented the perfect image of a gentleman of the Inns of Court. One good thing he could say about his guardian: she had a keen eye for appearances.
Hollowell fitted his role equally well. His clothes were conservative in color and style — dark red with pale red linings and the longer slops that draped almost to the knee favored by older men. But the suit was of the best quality and liberally trimmed with silk braid and brass buttons. He wore his beard in a smoothly rounded point, a style that required regular barbering. He was shorter than average, about Mr. Bacon’s size. Doubtless one of his qualifications. Most lords liked tall retainers, but shrimpish Robert Cecil must prefer ones closer to his size.
Hollowell said, “Mr. Cecil told me you’d need funds for conducting your inquiries.”
“That’s right. I’m kept on short rations these days, and Mr. Bacon never has — well, it wouldn’t be right to expect him to pay the costs of His Lordship’s commission out of his own pocket.”
“Of course not.” Hollowell’s twinkling eyes signaled his complete understanding. “I prepared a purse.” He unlocked a small box and took out a leather sack. “Small coins. Nothing larger than a shilling.” He hefted it in his hand as if judging the amount by its weight. “I suppose Mr. Bacon already has a strategy planned.”
“How not?” Tom chuckled as if the idea of Bacon being in any way behindhand were utterly absurd. “He’ll start at the top with a visit to Archbishop Whitgift. He lived in His Grace’s household at Trinity College, you know, before His Grace became archbishop, of course.”
Hollowell acknowledged the impressive connection with a tilt of his head.
“My job,” Tom went on, “is to go low, so to speak, and find out what I can about the victims. That will mean handing out the odd tip here and there and buying drinks to curry favor with potential witnesses.” He shook his head regretfully.
“A dirty job, but someone has to do it.” Hollowell laughed. “If I could escape for even an hour, I’d go with you.”
Tom grinned. “They’re more likely to speak freely if they’re a little cup-shot. I’ll wear plainer clothes when I visit the victims’ lodgings and talk to the neighbors. I’m pretty good at getting people to spill their little secrets.”
“I don’t doubt it. My advice, which you don’t seem to need, is not to offer a bribe unless it’s absolutely necessary. This purse will have to last you, and you might not find that one crucial witness until you’ve poked around a bit. Also, and I know this doesn’t have to be said — except that it always does — don’t tell anyone about this commission. No chatting with your chums at Gray’s, for example. They don’t need to know.”
“I understand,” Tom said. “Not one word to anyone but Mr. Bacon.”
“We have every confidence in your discretion.” Hollowell gave the purse another little heft, then tossed it across the desk to Tom.
He caught it in his left hand and weighed it in his turn. “Feels like about a pound. That should be plenty.” He’d pocket ten percent for himself, like any civil servant. Tom was well satisfied with this first meeting. He’d made a friend here today, or at least had started in that direction. A potentially useful friend too. “I’d better leave you to your work and get on with mine.” He rose, casting a sympathetic glance at Hollowell’s overloaded desk. “You know, I never thought intelligencing would demand so many documents. I reckoned that sort of information mostly went unwritten.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised at what gets kept,” Hollowell said. “Lord Burghley is a stickler for proper reporting, and Mr. Cecil inherited that trait. But this isn’t all spy work.” He shot Tom a wink. “My master wears many hats, and so, perforce, must I. That large stack there consists entirely of letters concerning suits in the Court of Wards, which have to be read and answered, with copies made, before Michaelmas term begins.”
“The Court of Wards!” Tom gaped at him, then sat right back down again. This man might be a better friend than he’d imagined. “I’m about to embark on a suit in that court myself. I just received my proofs of age from my mother last night.”
A nice fat scroll containing depositions from a dozen people, members of their parish who could swear that Thomas Clarady had met the world on the second of December in the year 1567. Each witness had supplied a brief account of how they were able to remember after so many years. Several seemed to have broken limbs in that same week, but such things did happen.
“Oh my!” Hollowell grimaced in a way that sent a chill down Tom’s spine. “I wish you the best of luck. How did you end up in that unfortunate position?”
“My father died three months before my twenty-first birthday.”
Hollowell winced. “I’m sorry on both counts. Who’s your guardian?”
“Lady Elizabeth Russell. Your master’s aunt, as it happens.”
“Oh my!” Hollowell sat back in his chair, his expression grave. “Oh my!” He swallowed visibly, then rallied. “No, I shouldn’t be so . . . She’s a magnificent lady, truly magnificent, an old friend of the queen, a stalwart. She’s one of our most active correspondents. We must receive a letter from her every other day, sharing her observations about this matter and that, which are often quite astute, as you can imagine given her education, her history, and her position. I feel that I know her, she expresses herself so vigorously.”
The man had started babbling at the mere mention of the lady’s name. That did not bode well, not well at all. Tom said, “She might loosen the purse strings a little. It is my purse, after all. But she does pay all my fees and doesn’t skimp on essentials like clothing, so I suppose it could be worse.”
“Oh yes. Much worse.” Hollowell raised his eyebrows and grimaced. “The stories I could tell you! Well, of course, I couldn’t. Confidential matters of the court.” He leaned forward a little, as if about to confide something, and asked, “How much is this estate worth, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Six hundred per annum, not counting my mother’s portion.”
Hollowell drew in a whistling breath. “That does complicate things.”
“Whether my guardian is good or bad doesn’t matter,” Tom said. “I’m not a minor anymore. I want to manage my own affairs. It’s unfair to make me sue for my own estate.”
“Many people in England would agree with you, Mr. Clarady. Many people. I’m afraid the Court of Wards isn’t popular. Between you and me, I tend to agree. It’s all rather obsolete, isn’t it? This whole business of knight service being attached to one parcel of land and not the one next to it. It’s ancient history.” Hollowell shot Tom another wink. “More work for you lawyers though, eh? Something to look forward to, with the experience you’ll gain.”
Tom wasn’t much comforted. “Do you have any advice for me?”
“Well, let’s see. You said you had your writ de etate probanda — your proof of age. I suppose that means you’re going to sue for general livery?”
“My friend— er, my legal counsel — advised me that general livery takes longer, but I can pay the fees as I go rather than having to come up with a huge sum at once. My mother and I don’t have the ready money to pay for special livery, especially not with Lady Russell soaking up my annual rents.”
“Those are the two thorns of your dilemma, all right.” Hollowell tugged at his left earlobe, perhaps in an unthinking reflection of Tom’s pearl earring, which he would never sell at any price. “Of course, general livery isn’t cheap either. There are about twenty steps to go through, from one office to another and back again, each requiring its own set of fees. All told, you should be prepared to spend about half your annual rents; in your case, then, about three hundred pounds.”
Tom swallowed. Ben had estimated something closer to two hundred. “But special livery is vastly more, isn’t it? And you have to pay it all at once, which I can’t do. I won’t allow my mother to sell any of her dower lands on my account. As far as I can tell, I have two choices: hand the court every penny I can scrape up for the next two or three years or somehow conjure a small chest of gold.”
“Thorns,” Hollowell said, shaking his head. “There is a third option. It’s unlikely to succeed, but it can’t hurt to try.”
Tom scooted to the edge of his chair and clasped his hands between his knees. “I’ll do anything, Mr. Hollowell. Anything at all.”
“Well . . . why not ask Lady Russell to release the monies for special livery from your estate?”
Tom blinked at him. “Wait. You mean, just ask her? Go to her with my hat in my hand and beg for my livery?”
“Why not? She’d want some compensation, of course, but you might be able to pay that over time once you take possession.”
“Is there any chance she’d agree?”
“Practically none, but it is a reasonable first step. You’re a comely man, if you don’t mind the observation. Dress your best and pay her a formal call. Present your case as clearly as you can, showing her you have the maturity and wisdom to manage your own estates.”
Tom scowled. “That’s the infuriating part! You see, my father was a privateer. He was rarely home for two months running. My mother and her steward manage our estates, always have, and they do a fine job of it. I would naturally leave everything in their hands until I pass the bar and establish. When I’m ready to buy a house and look about me for a wife.”
Hollowell had been nodding while he listened, as if judging Tom’s performance. “That makes sense to me. Very well put. But I’d leave out the part about the wife. You don’t want to bring that thought to the front of your guardian’s mind.”
“Don’t I?”
“Oh my, no. She has the right to arrange a match for you, you know, since she is responsible for your future well-being. In loco parentis, as we say. And I don’t need to tell you how lucrative a marriage negotiation can be!” He chuckled heartily.
Tom watched him with a sort of horror. He was nowhere near ready for marriage. He would pass the bar in four or five years, during which time he was obliged to maintain his residency at Gray’s Inn. What would be the point of having a wife if he couldn’t live with her?
Hollowell sighed, signaling the end of their digression into Tom’s personal troubles. “Let’s revisit this topic next time, shall we? Try making that request to get it out of the way. Then if you want to bring me your proofs of age, I could look them over for you. I have no jurisdiction in your case, of course, but I am an officer of the court. Mr. Cecil made me a feodary in my home county of Northamptonshire. I might spot any oddities before you submit it formally.”
“That would be exceedingly generous of you,” Tom said with abject sincerity. “You’ve already given me some excellent advice.”
Hollowell smiled. “What’s a favor or two between us secretaries, eh? We’re much alike, after all. Your Mr. Bacon and my Mr. Cecil are both highly respected counselors. One is a governor at Gray’s; the other the right hand of the queen’s right hand. And here’s the two of us, doing our best to help them keep the ship of state afloat.”
Tom noted the thick gold rings on the secretary’s fingers and the lustrous silk linings peeking through the slashes in his sleeves. How much of that had been purchased with fees from the Court of Wards? They might both serve cousins, but Hollowell’s post was more lucrative than Tom’s. On the other hand, he couldn’t be much more than thirty and he’d already reached the top of his ladder, while Tom’s stretched all the way up to a judge’s bench, if he could keep on climbing.
He rose again and bowed before walking out the door. No, he didn’t want to trade places with Peter Hollowell. But he’d take twenty percent from the purse in his pocket. They’d wring it back out of him again anyway.