| |
Tom surrendered to the tide surging past Charing Cross, letting the throng of odiferous Londoners push him onward. At least they were shoving him in the right direction. They had come to cheer the queen as she moved from Somerset Place on the Strand to Whitehall this Friday afternoon. He, contrarily, had an appointment with the Attorney of the Court of Wards in Westminster.
Why that had to happen today, of all days, he couldn’t say. Either the attorney failed to keep up with news of the queen’s movements or he considered his business more important. The latter, most likely. The progress would only take an hour. The business of collecting fees to fill the queen’s coffers never ceased. Tom would add fifteen pounds to her purse this afternoon — his last major fee.
Every church bell from St. Clement’s near the Temple Bar to Westminster Abbey clanged and bonged without pause. Every now and then a great cheer would rise from the crowd. Tom couldn’t see the procession well enough to know why, nor did he care. Buffeted by heedless people and drowned in hellish noise, he had all he could do to stay on his feet.
Most of the crowd turned back at the Holbein Gate, leaving more room to breathe on the other side. Tom hurried down King’s Street to a row of brick buildings opposite Westminster Hall. Court officials occupied the chambers on the lower floors year round, while retainers of courtiers crowded into the upper stories when the queen was in town.
Too bad there wasn’t room for a maze. The yew trees would freshen the dusty air, and the labyrinth would put petitioners in the proper frame of mind for dealing with the court.
Tom made his way to the wide anteroom outside the attorney’s chambers and took a seat on a bench. He merely breathed for a few minutes, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside in the relative silence indoors. The dimmer light and cooler air helped restore his jangled senses.
Then he looked about at the other petitioners, half a dozen or so, seated on benches around the wide space. Some waited for clerks in another court, but most were fellow wards of the queen. He knew them from the many hours spent cooling their collective heels outside these chambers. He hoped he wouldn’t have long to wait today.
He nodded at Dorothy Leynham, a young woman seated next to her uncle, Geoffrey Leynham. The only girl among the regulars, her comely features and colorful garb tended to draw the eye. She smiled back at him with a touch of special interest. They’d met — with her uncle, of course — once or twice at the Antelope or the White Bear after the offices closed for the day. They had found each other good company, the way people do when suffering under the tormenting lash.
The odd fellow with the carrot-orange hair sat in his usual corner. Sometimes he propped his head against the wall and took a short nap. He spoke a dialect so barbarous no one could understand him. If others were talking, he would watch them intently, as if hoping to catch a word or two. He wore the same brown wool doublet and brown velvet cap every day. He must be a ward, but why had he been sent here with neither guardian nor interpreter?
Another cruel trick of the Court of Wards, no doubt, remnant of a custom so old no one could remember its purpose. It would cost the poor fellow, though, one way or another. That part never changed.
Tom pulled his list of charges from his sleeve and unrolled it. Today he would pay the fee for passing the Great Seal. Fifteen pounds! The clerk of the liveries had only taken six for his signature. The oath of supremacy had been cheap at seven shillings. Never mind that he’d already taken the selfsame oath to pass the bar. He could have been seduced by scheming Jesuits from one day to the next.
He’d paid a pound and a half for drawing up this schedule, which he’d checked and double-checked. Ben and Mr. Bacon had reviewed it too. Thirteen shillings for enrolling the decree and another shilling for entering the rates. Three shillings four pence for “expedition,” which must be someone’s idea of a joke. This must be the least expeditious process in all of English law. He’d been at it for weeks already and was scarcely halfway through.
If he could go to one place and pay the whole sum in one swoop, it wouldn’t be so bad. But no, each official had his own little fiefdom whose protocols must be observed. First, you went to a workshop stinking of ink and lambskins to get your roll of parchment. Then you walked a quarter mile through a maze of alleys with wet sheets strung on lines over your head, dripping on your hat and shoulders. You paid a shilling ten pence for a seal on your fresh parchment and staggered off to the next bend in the maze.
“Thomas Clarady?” A clerk stood in the doorway to the attorney’s chamber.
“Here.” Tom rose and let himself be waved inside. The clerk vanished through a rear door set into the oak paneling.
The attorney sat behind a large desk and had two backed chairs for visitors. A portrait of the queen hung over the attorney’s head — a bad copy of one hanging in Whitehall. The artist had probably painted this one from another copy. Still, it brought Her Majesty’s authority into the small chamber.
Tom pulled his purse from his deepest pocket and held it in his hand. “I’m ready to pay for the Great Seal today. Shall we mark it off on our respective lists?”
“Not so fast.” Attorney Richard Strunk hadn’t bothered to rise. Now he held up a flat palm and lifted his upper lip in a supercilious smirk. His brown hair had retreated from the rest of his small features, leaving a pale expanse down to his fleshy nose and his brushy moustache.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected a smirk. “That’s why I’m here today, isn’t it? To pay for passing the Great Seal?”
“There’s the little matter of the king’s fee first.”
“King’s fee? I’ve paid that.” Tom stuffed his purse back into his pocket and unrolled his schedule of fees. He showed the scroll to the attorney, marking the relevant line with his finger. “See? Pricked and dated, eighth of November. Last Friday. I paid the clerk — ah, Boxer, I think it is. Perhaps he failed to register it properly.”
“I doubt that. Mr. Bowcer is quite thorough. Diligent. He wouldn’t be Clerk of the Court of Wards otherwise, now would he?” The smirk widened, revealing a row of tarnished teeth. They could use a good scrubbing with a salted cloth.
Tom would do it for him, and not gently. Or he could punch them right out of that sneering mouth. “I paid it, I tell you. The king’s fee. Right here.” He stabbed at the parchment, knowing it wouldn’t help. All he had was his word, backed by the marks on his private list. There must be an official record somewhere in this office, but short of forcing his way into the rooms behind these front chambers and tearing through the hanging rows of files, he had no way of proving it.
Attorney Strunk held the upper hand, and he knew it. “Eleven pounds, eight shillings, eight pence. The precise amount, please. If you need to exchange some coins, the merchants on King’s Street will likely oblige you.”
Tom’s teeth clenched as he repressed a growl. “I’ve paid it already, I tell you. I won’t pay it again.”
“In that case, I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse.” The attorney’s voice took on a pedantic rhythm. “Fees must be paid on schedule or the special livery cannot be granted. You were informed of this when you began these proceedings.”
“I’ve been paying my fees on schedule.” Tom nearly shouted it. His hands curled into fists. He shook the one clutching his precious parchment at the villain seated before him. “This is extortion, plain and simple. You and that Bowcer will split those eleven pounds between you, won’t you?”
“That is a serious accusation, Mr. Clarady, very serious indeed. And a groundless one, as I’m sure you must know. How would we maintain our positions if we treated the queen’s wards in such a fashion?”
“It’s the essence of your positions!” Tom loomed over the desk, planted his fists on the oak, and roared at the pusillanimous pile of shit. “I won’t pay twice, do you hear me? No more bribes!”
The attorney pushed his chair back. “Now, now, Mr. —”
“You ought to be whipped, every last one of you! I’ll do it myself. I should wring your neck right here and now, you thieving pirate. How dare you ask me for another bribe? I gave you a gift already. Two bottles of excellent Rhenish, which cost me a pretty penny. I didn’t mind at the time. That’s the way things are done. Everyone says it. It will smooth your path, they said. Was everyone wrong?”
Tom forced himself to step away from the desk. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a throaty growl. “You’ve made a mistake today, Mr. Strunk. You’ve tested the wrong man. I have friends in high places. They will hear about your little game.”
The attorney gave a contemptuous snort. “Do you think they don’t know? You’ll pay what I ask or you’ll remain a ward forever.”
Tom wanted to drive his fist into that smug face. But he mastered his rage and opened the door. Then he turned back to stab a finger at the scoundrel. “You’ll get what’s coming to you one of these fine days. And I hope you choke on that wine!”
He strode through the door, promptly stepping on Mrs. Leynham’s skirts. His foot caught in her farthingale, and he had to grip her shoulder to keep from falling. He caught a whiff of her flowery perfume as he righted himself and grinned a sheepish apology.
Her cheeks flared pink — not only from the brief touch of his hand on her tender frame. She and her uncle had moved closer to the door while Tom had been inside, practically pressing their ears to the oak. Well, he hoped they’d heard something to their advantage.
“He tried to extort a bribe from me.” Tom addressed the Leynhams, but he spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Keep your hands on your purses today, my friends.”
“Soft, soft,” the uncle said. “Better to keep these things under one’s hat.”
“Why?” Tom demanded. “If everyone spoke out, they couldn’t keep getting away with it.”
The uncle shook his head. His small round eyes were the color of hazelnuts. “Steady on, lad. Best to play the game the way it’s laid. Cool down is my advice. Then come back and apologize on Monday.”
“Never.” Tom touched his hat to the young woman and turned toward the exit. He caught the eyes of the brown-capped man in the corner and nodded at him, tapping his nose. “A word to the wise, my friend. Watch out for false fees.”
The man said, “Haddaway, mon!” Tom had no idea what it meant, but he nodded as if he agreed.
He wanted a drink, a strong one. Maybe more than one. He rolled up his list and tucked it back up his sleeve. Then he left that den of thieves and walked down to the White Bear, a large inn popular with folks suing one another in the courts of law. Some of the other wards had taken lodgings here.
Sure enough, he found Charles Midley, a ward from Kent, sitting at a table near the front window. His hand curled around a clay mug as he gazed at the traffic on the street. His relaxed posture suggested he’d been sitting there for hours, nursing the same mug of ale. Whatever was cheapest, no doubt. Charles was harder pressed for coin than Tom.
Tom asked a passing wench for a large cup of dragon’s milk, an extra strong ale. “No, wait. Bring two cups to that table over there.” He pointed with his head. He walked over and took a seat without asking. “Thought I might find you here.”
“Where else would I be? Touring the wonders of London?” Charles sounded bitter. The sour humor didn’t suit him. His round face and easy smile had been made for happier times. He kept his straight blond hair trimmed in a line above his clear blue eyes and his beard closely shaped to his jaw. His features were regular — handsome, even — apart from a deepening line of worry crossing his brow.
“What brings you here?” Charles asked. “I thought you preferred the Antelope.”
The wench brought their mugs, setting one in front of each man.
“Too far.” Tom raised his cup. “Dragon’s milk. Thought you could use one too.”
“Thanks!” Charles raised his cup as well, then paused. “What are we celebrating?”
“Nothing. Taking the edge off, if that’s possible.” Tom took a deep swallow and sighed as the fiery drink coursed through his veins. “Ah. That helps.”
Charles drank from his mug and let out a breathy “Hoo.” He shook his head. “If only I could drink this stuff all day long. It smooths out the edges, all right.”
Tom took another sip, then cocked his head toward his companion. If anyone could sympathize with this afternoon’s wrangle, it was Charles. “Afraid I made a bit of noise at the attorney’s office today.”
“That place could use a little noise. Have you noticed how people don’t talk while they’re waiting on those benches? A nod here, a nod there, but scarcely a courteous word.”
“There were words today. That whoreson knave tried to charge me twice for the king’s fee. I refused. Forcefully, I might add.” Tom grinned as he showed his fist.
“King’s fee? That’s more than eleven pounds!” Charles seemed more fearful than outraged. “Has he been asking everyone for that?”
“I don’t know.” Tom’s grin faded. “Don’t pay it if he does. We have to draw the line somewhere.”
“Are you mad? There’s no line. There’s just an endless stack of coins moving from us to them.”
“But it’s wrong,” Tom insisted. “It has to stop. Someone has to say, ‘Hold! No more.’”
“Who do you think you are, King Canute? You can’t stop the tide of corruption by yourself. You’ll only succeed in remaining a ward for the rest of your life. They own us, man. Not just our guardians — the whole cursed court, from the lowliest clerk on up to Sir Robert Cecil and his father, Lord Burghley.”
“That’s the thing,” Tom said. “Does the top know what the bottom is doing? If no one complains, how can they?”
Charles scoffed at him. “They know. Lord Burghley is the most corrupt man in England, and his son is a close second. His Lordship is the master of the court. If he wanted it honest, it would be. Some share of those eleven pounds will trickle up to him, never you fear. And there’s not one cursed thing you can do about it.”
Tom grumbled into his mug. Everyone said the same. He hated feeling so helpless. He took another sip of dragon’s milk, but the drink had lost its magic. He stared out the window at the passing crowd. Some wore brightly colored silk and velvet, probably more than they could afford. No doubt they hoped to be mistaken for courtiers, though you wouldn’t find anyone who mattered walking this far south of the gate. The majority wore the sober black robes of clerks and lawyers, the functionaries without whom no modern nation could exist.
A scurrying mix of fools and scoundrels. Which was which, he wondered? Did they even know themselves?
“Talking about me?” Dorothy Leynham appeared behind them, a flirtatious smile on her narrow lips. Her floral scent wafted in with her, dispelling for a moment the usual tavern stink of stale smoke and beer.
“Naturally.” Tom jumped to his feet. He’d been a gallant once upon a time, and old habits died hard. She looked well today in her lace-trimmed attifet, poised to display her light brown hair. Her round hazel eyes shone as she beamed at Charles. She turned a lesser smile toward Tom, seemingly as an afterthought.
That pricked his pride. He must be getting old. He went to find another chair and set it opposite his.
Charles granted her a weak welcome but didn’t trouble himself to rise. They’d known one another since childhood, according to Dorothy, growing up a mere fifteen miles apart. Geoffrey Leynham served as Charles’s guardian as well, which often threw the young wards together.
“All done for the day?” Tom asked.
Dorothy made a small drama of spreading her dark pink skirts and settling in the chair. “We’re getting close to the end, I think.” She cast a critical eye on the two mugs in front of Charles, then spoke to Tom. “We have a point of conflict about one of my smaller manors. But Attorney Strunk is sorting things out for us.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Tom couldn’t imagine that pasty poltroon being helpful.
“Ah, we knew we’d find you here!” Geoffrey Leynham walked up carrying two wooden cups. He set one in front of Dorothy, then looked about for another chair. No one got up to help him, so he set his cup down, walked a little distance to choose a backed chair, and sat between Tom and Dorothy.
“Have you been out at all today?” Leynham asked Charles. He cast a frown at those two cups as well.
“I walked around for a while. I’m becoming quite the expert on the alleys and byways of Westminster. Perhaps I can find work as a carter or a coachman once I’ve surrendered my lands to the court.” He gave his guardian a look of loathing.
“Now, now,” Leynham said. “It isn’t that bad.”
Charles snorted. “Clarady tells me that whore” — he shot a glance at Dorothy — “that attorney is getting bolder in his demands. Eleven pounds! I don’t have it. I don’t know where I could get it if he asks me.”
“You could offer him that little ring.” Tom nodded at the small gold ring Charles wore on his right hand. “He might decide something is better than nothing.”
“Not much,” Charles said. “This is more sentimental than valuable.” He didn’t elaborate on the source of the sentiment.
“I’ll bet your mother can come up with something.” Dorothy patted his arm, but Charles pulled it away. She clearly liked him as more than a mere neighbor. The feeling, alas, did not seem to be mutual.
“I’ve already written to her. She has a silver mirror with a matching comb. It can’t be worth eleven pounds, but I was hoping it would help with the expediting.”
That got a bitter laugh from Tom. “Expediting. Do they hear the irony when they use that term?”
Leynham gave them both quelling looks. “Honey catches more flies than vinegar, you know.” He shook his finger at Tom. “Threats won’t get you anywhere, my lad. The attorney can delay your case if he has a mind.”
Tom had forgotten about that in the heat of the moment. Any delay at this late date would push his case off until Hilary term in January.
“You didn’t tell me you threatened him.” Charles grinned. “I would’ve liked to see that. A sound thrashing, was it? Or a solid punch on that porky nose?”
Tom chuckled, but his heart was no longer in it. “I offered to wring his neck.”
“We didn’t hear that part,” Dorothy said. “We heard you wishing he would choke on the wine. But there wasn’t any wine in his chamber that I could see.”
“I gave him two bottles of Rhenish,” Tom said. “A very good wine which cost me plenty, from that vintner near Temple Bar.”
“Temple Bar, eh?” Leynham nodded as if making a mental note. “We Kentish folk don’t know the city like you do. Wine is an excellent gift.”
“Not worth eleven pounds, though, is it?” Charles said. “You should write to your mother, Tom. She must have some jewelry.”
“It’s too late for that. Term will be over before I could get a package from Dorset. Besides, my advisors recommend impersonal items like bottles of wine or pairs of gloves. Things the bribee can sell if they want. Jewelry is too easily recognized if it turns up at a pawnbroker’s.”
“That’s a useful observation,” Leynham said. “You want something neutral. Something anonymous. Of course, nothing beats hard coin for that.”
“If you have enough of them,” Tom muttered.
“Ah, Mr. Clarady, you have my sympathy. All our sympathies, eh, children?” Leynham encouraged his wards to chime in. Dorothy contributed another glowing smile, but Charles glared at his guardian from under his blond eyebrows.
Tom wondered how Charles had ended up in Leynham’s clutches. He wasn’t kin and had a mother still living. Hadn’t she bid for her son’s wardship? Charles counted his coins as often as Tom did and with the same worried frown. He had some four hundred and fifty pounds per annum, or he would when he attained his livery. Plenty of funds — if his guardian supported his suit. Leynham must be unwilling to let go of his ward.
Leynham tapped a finger on the table in front of Tom. “There’s nothing for it, my lad. You’ll have to give in and pay up. Make your peace with the attorney. A bottle of Rhenish won’t do it this time. Borrow what you need to pay the piper. Go back with your hat in your hand and eat those hasty words. A hearty slice of humble pie can work wonders, you know. That and eleven pounds, eight shillings, and eight pence.” He grinned as if he’d solved all of Tom’s problems with his stale inanities.
Kneel to that pasty-faced toad? The unfairness of the attorney’s demand — the sheer, brazen greed of it — chafed at Tom’s soul.
And yet he’d heard the same advice from both Francis Bacon and Benjamin Whitt, the two men he respected most. Once you were caught by the Court of Wards, there was only one way out. You had to sacrifice your dignity to win your liberty and surrender your estate to gain it back.
