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After dinner, Francis conducted a lively epistolary debate with Anthony. He used up his whole store of farthings tipping the boy who ran the letters from Gray’s Inn Road to Bishopsgate and back.
In the end, Francis conceded the necessity of informing their Lord of Essex of the recent murder. His Lordship expected to be kept apprised of his counselors’ doings, especially while their bid for Attorney General remained in play. The courtesies must be observed, though Francis doubted His Lordship would be much interested in the death of a minor official.
Francis missed having Anthony living in his house. He missed long talks by the fire in his slippers, sipping Jacques’s delicious hot drinks. He missed having his best counselor on the spot, ready to discuss anything that perplexed him. He did not miss the pounding feet of secretaries, translators, and messengers on the stairs or the scowls and scoldings of the benchers, who disapproved of Anthony’s large, active resident staff.
Anthony was happier in his own house near the theaters, though he himself never visited them. One avoided the unwashed masses as a rule. But he enjoyed the vitality of the city and the freedom to host noisy supper parties and the privacy of a busy street. No one noticed individual men coming and going in the general throng. At Gray’s Inn, most people entered through the gatehouse under the watchful eye of the gatekeeper, and several hundred men with briefs to write spent many collective hours staring out of the windows.
The earl replied with an invitation for Francis to come at once if he didn’t mind a bit of clatter. Francis speculated on the meaning of that warning on the short walk down to the Strand.
An usher led him into the hall, whose ceiling rose forty feet above the black-and-white-chequered floor. High windows admitted the afternoon light, but torches had also been placed along the interior walls. His Lordship stood in the center, dressed from head to toe in shining armor. Cool daylight and warm torchlight reflected from opposite sides of his steel suit. He looked magnificent, like a mighty warrior stepped straight out of a painting.
“My lord!” Francis swept off his hat and bowed, his forehead touching his extended leg.
Essex laughed merrily. He was in an excellent humor today. “Rise, my good man, rise.” Then he held out his arms and turned in a full circle. “What do you think?” His voice echoed oddly from inside the crested helmet.
“I think I have never seen anything so wondrous in my life, my lord.” Francis had no need to feign admiration. He took a few steps closer to peer at the engravings. “The artistry is extraordinary.”
Essex nodded. “Jacob Halder. Never fails to satisfy.”
Halder of Greenwich was the premier armorer in England. He doubtless earned his whole year’s wages devising these costumes for the Accession Day tilts.
The armor was made of highly polished steel and fit His Lordship to perfection. Some true master of the art had decorated the front with a smiling sun centered across the midsection. Its golden rays extended up the cuirass, across both arms, and down both legs.
Essex turned again to show off the back, on which the artist had depicted the moon in silver and black. The full moon frowned. A gleaming crystal tear glinted beneath one eye. A silvery web of orbs descending up and down shone bright near the edges, where they presumably received light from the sun.
“Do you apprehend the conceit?” the earl asked, turning around again. His tone held a teasing note. He plainly longed to explain it.
“I’m not certain, my lord.” Francis could readily guess, but why spoil the fun?
“Ha! Well, as you can see, I have the sun on the front and the moon on the back. When I’m riding toward Her Majesty, who will be seated in the gallery with her ladies, the sun blazons her glory. When I ride away, the sorrowful moon appears. She is the sun to me, you see, the source of all light and happiness. When I am forced to turn away from her, all is sorrow and darkness.”
“Artful.” Francis nodded his approval. “Yet sincere. And beautifully executed. I’m sure she’ll be impressed.”
“She’d better be. It’s costing the earth. To be safe, I’ll have a man dressed as a Roman senator explain it to her in verse. Her Majesty will grasp the concept at once, but we mustn’t leave her ladies in the dark.”
“I like the Roman element, my lord. It gives the whole conceit a classical grounding.”
“Dorchester came up with the idea, if you can believe it. The man has parts.” The earl took another slow turn, flexing his wrists and elbows this time. “It feels good.” He raised each leg in turn, testing the knee and ankle joints. He caught the eye of two men in craftsman’s blue livery. “You may take it off now.”
He bent stiffly so they could remove the helmet. Once clear, the earl shook his head. “Ah! Better. It gets stuffy inside those things.”
“I can only imagine.” Francis would never allow himself to be encased in metal, much less invite another metal-clad man to try to push him off a horse with a long stick. But Essex loved jousting, and so did the queen. And so did the crowd that gathered whenever the event was offered.
Accession Day had been such a roaring success Essex had scheduled another tournament to take place on the morrow. He had vowed to tilt against all comers. Every lord with a suit of armor had added his name, including the Earl of Sussex, the Earl of Southampton, and the Earl of Bedford. Dorchester loved armor and pageantry but was evidently less keen on the actual jousting. He would judge instead; truly a better use of his talents.
Francis admired Stephen’s ability to stand his ground, if well to one side. It showed both good judgment and a strong sense of self. His lady wife had doubtless influenced both qualities.
Francis would attend the tournament, but only because it would be noticed if he didn’t. He hated crowds, dust, noise, and violence. But he liked pageantry if it was well themed, so the day would not be wholly without appeal.
Essex said, “I’ll be out of this in a minute. We’ll move somewhere a bit more private to talk. You didn’t come here just to see me in my armor.”
“I’m glad for the opportunity, my lord. I won’t be able to admire the detail from the stands.” Francis clasped his hands before him in a patient posture and turned his attention to the musicians occupying the far end of the hall. Pipes, drums, and a variety of horns produced music suitable for riding around a tiltyard. They would presumably play with greater gusto at the event.
“All done.” The earl gave himself a shake. He wore a short, stiff doublet of a simple design and narrow slops — the sort of thing workmen wore when handling dangerous machinery, only of finer quality. He gestured toward the huge fireplace, where a low fire glowed. Two chairs had been placed beside a small table. Here His Lordship could converse with a guest while remaining accessible to the men preparing for the pageant.
Francis followed him, waiting until His Lordship sat before taking the other chair.
“So,” Essex said, “another murder at Gray’s Inn. Your life is more exciting than mine, Mr. Bacon.”
“Heaven forfend, my lord.” Francis pretended to be horrified. Nothing could induce him to participate in any sort of martial action. That was not his role in the world, thank God. “But, though the victim was a member of our society, the murder did not take place at Gray’s. Mr. Strunk was the Attorney for the Court of Wards. He was found dead at his desk in Westminster this morning, apparently poisoned.”
“Court of Wards, eh?” The earl let out a short laugh. “From what I hear, it’s a wonder more of its officials aren’t found dead at their desks.”
“Indeed, my lord. It does seem that Attorney Strunk pushed some of the wards too far.” Francis summarized the facts, few as they were, ending with the sheriff’s early focus on Tom.
“Ah, that explains your interest. You can’t have your own clerk arrested on such a charge, now can you?” Essex smiled, still in good humor. Though he lolled in his wide chair with his long legs extended before him, a light tension in his pose suggested he might leap up at any moment to stride across the room, issuing orders and taking up arms.
“Strictly speaking, my lord, Thomas Clarady is no longer my clerk. He passed the bar this month.”
“A barrister and still a ward?” Essex whistled. “That is embarrassing. I feel for him.” His Lordship had been thrown into wardship after his father died. As master of the court, Lord Burghley had granted the highest-ranking wards to his own care. Essex had dined every day for many years in that well-ordered household alongside the Earl of Southampton, the Earl of Surrey, the Earl of Rutland — and bent-backed Robert Cecil. That rivalry ran deep.
Francis smiled. “It partly explains his losing his temper on Friday afternoon. But as you observed, my lord, there must be many men — and women — with grudges against the Court of Wards.”
“Hundreds would be my guess. All sorts. But I have every confidence in your ability to find the right one.” His tone revealed his loss of interest in the topic. His gaze shifted toward the armorers, now wrapping each component in linen cloth to prevent scratching before placing it into a box.
He watched them for a moment, then a smile spread across his handsome features. He snapped his fingers in the air. “What about that vacant position? How would you like to be the next Attorney for the Court of Wards?”
Francis startled, so surprised by the suggestion he couldn’t stop blinking for a moment. “My lord, I — I don’t know what to say.”
Essex laughed, not unkindly. “Merely a thought. I can’t pull you from the Attorney General contention until Her Majesty makes her decision.”
“It’s not a bad thought,” Francis said as he worked his mind around the idea. “My father was the attorney for Wards, you know.”
“I did not know. When was this?”
“Oh, long before I was born. Not many years after the court was established in 1540. King Henry wanted a full accounting of his tenants and lands after dissolving relations with the Catholic Church. Vast tracts of lands were released by that act. The crown wanted to ensure it exercised its full feudal rights when those properties changed hands.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Essex smiled wryly. “Monarchs are always hungry for money.”
“They do carry the burdens of the state, my lord.”
“Mmm. Was your father appointed by William Cecil?”
“No, my lord. There was another master back then. Let me think.” Francis cast his mind over the lists of officials of important institutions. “My lord uncle attained that post in 1561, I believe. My father had already been named Lord Keeper by that time.”
“Had he?” The earl’s eyes moved as he calculated something in his mind. “We seem to have skipped right past Edward and Mary.” He waved his hand to signal an end to that brief digression. “Your father was our queen’s first Lord Keeper, then.”
“He had that honor, my lord.”
Essex gave him a thoughtful look. “So there is a precedent. A man might rise from the Court of Wards into the highest legal seat in the land. If we fail to get the Attorney Generalship for you, or even Solicitor General, we could do worse than aim for this other post.”
Francis struggled to return his patron’s cheerful smile. He had never aspired to a place within that institution. He muttered, “I may not be corrupt enough for an office in the Court of Wards.”
Essex laughed out loud, tilting his head back. “We would not be sitting here together if you were, Mr. Bacon. I have higher standards than the Cecils. In fact, I believe I’d make a better master of that court than Robert.”
“I had no idea you were interested, my lord.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? True, Robert has taken on the day-to-day responsibilities from his father. Lord Burghley has grown too feeble for his multiplicity of offices. But I have as much right to be considered for some of them as Robert does. More.”
“That is true, my lord.” In principle, at any rate. Her Majesty would do what she always did: maintain the existing state of affairs until something demanded a decision.
A happier thought struck Francis. “If you were master and I were the attorney, perhaps I could remedy the faults of that court. Perhaps I could restore it to the level of integrity it enjoyed under my father’s watch.”
Essex frowned, nodding as if considering that proposal. Then he winked. “Perhaps not quite that level, Mr. Bacon. I hold up my share of the burdens of the state, as you know.”
“All England is grateful to you for it.” Francis swallowed his disappointment.
The earl nodded, accepting the flattery as simple fact. “I wouldn’t be as greedy as the Cecils. But I wouldn’t mind having the Court of Wards filling my purse.” His gaze shifted toward the fire, which exhaled a faint scent of burning ash wood. Then he turned again toward Francis. “But do I truly want it? Is it worth as much as they say?”
Francis puffed out a breath. “More, I should think. I believe my lord uncle built Theobalds with the gifts of hopeful guardians.” That was Lord Burghley’s palace in Hertfordshire, built to accommodate the queen in splendor.
“Did he now? That sounds promising.” Essex nodded at Francis. “You could do me a favor, Mr. Bacon, if you’re so inclined.”
“Always, my lord.” He could hardly refuse. He owed the earl a few hundred pounds and had no hope of repaying it in the foreseeable future.
Essex knew that. “While you’re poking about among the officials of that court, see if you can find out how much they actually take in — on the side, I mean. Not the official fees. It could help me decide how hard to fight for the mastership when it comes up.” He tapped a finger on the arm of Francis’s chair, eyes sparkling. “Sounding the depths of their avarice could supply me with ammunition as well. Evidence of the Cecils’ gross abuses, I mean. She wouldn’t like hearing about it, but once heard, she would be obliged to consider it when choosing the next master.”
“So she might.” The words came out almost in a whisper. Francis’s breath had frozen in his chest. Had His Lordship instructed him to expose the corruption in the Court of Wards, his uncle’s most reliable source of revenue?
Neither Burghley nor the queen would thank him for that intrusion. He had a simple choice to make. He could please Essex and heap more coals on Her Majesty’s indignation or protect his uncle’s notorious court and come back empty-handed to his only reliable patron.
