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It started with the squeak. A tiny sound, like a mouse behind a wall, only it wasn’t a mouse. The pulley high over his head needed a drop of oil, though it wasn’t likely to get it. His torturers were probably half-deaf from the screaming their work induced.
Tom groaned, hearing that squeak, and tried to curl himself into a ball even as his arms were slowly hauled up over his head. He buried his face in the piss-mottled straw, mumbling, “No more. No more.”
This moment of dread — this brief moment before the torment began again — was the worst. They gave him a few moments of rest now and then for reasons of their own. He lay in a heap, panting, grateful for the absence of agony. His wits came back to him, and he knew who he was again. Then he heard that squeak and knew what was coming — and that he was helpless to make it stop.
He rolled over, begging for mercy, thrashing his head against the pillow and releasing the scent of . . . roses? Here? How?
His eyes fluttered open. His gaze rested on a polished bedpost flanked by red velvet curtains. The room was silent, empty but for him. He didn’t know where he was, but it certainly wasn’t Bridewell.
A deep sigh of mingled relief and disgust escaped him. He hadn’t had that dream for months. He hated it. It left him sweat-soaked and shaky. He hoped he hadn’t screamed out loud. It scared people, if anyone was near enough to hear.
His arms had worked their way under the lofty pillows to press against a carved wooden headboard. He lowered them gingerly, bracing for that old ache, but his shoulders had long since healed. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and looked around in absolute confusion.
Where was he?
This room was much bigger than his closet at Bacon House and far better furnished. Painted cloths covered the walls with a soothing green decorated with yellow-and-white fleurs-de-lis. A small table held an ewer and basin along with a folded towel and an ivory comb. A round mirror hung above it. One high-backed chair rested against a wall, its rails and styles carved to match the bedposts.
He swung his legs over the side of the high bed and looked out the diamond-paned window. He couldn’t see much beyond the top of a tree backed by a soft gray sky. He must be on an upper story.
He rose and went to the window, releasing the wholesome smell of dried tansy with each step. This room was well-kept. But who kept it?
He looked out and down and gave a soft laugh. Carts and wagons jostled one another on a wide street while well-dressed men and women on fine horses wove around them. That could only be the Strand. He must be in Dorchester House. And that recognition brought the rest of the day back.
He breathed in a cool sense of peace along with the wholesome smells. He’d had a fright with the sheriff coming to Bacon House and then run half a mile at top speed in a blind panic. Top that off with a heavy dinner and it was no wonder he’d had the nightmare again.
After dinner, Trumpet had charged an usher with showing him to this chamber on Stephen’s side of the house. He’d toed off his shoes, unhooked his doublet, and fallen into a sound sleep the minute his head had landed on the thick down pillow.
Tom wished he could linger in this quiet retreat, but his life was at Gray’s. He couldn’t hide forever. He had to put himself back together and go home.
He washed his hands and face in the basin, then combed his hair and beard and restored his doublet and shoes. He paused in the corridor, looking left and right, trying to remember how to get downstairs. He heard a child shriek with laughter toward the right.
The nursery? He decided to risk a peek.
The door hung wide open, revealing a large room comfortably furnished for the education and care of small children. A bed stood beside the far wall, draped with red woolen cloth. A tall stand held a basin and pitcher with a shelf above it for folded towels. A family of wooden dolls dressed for court reclined atop a large chest. A row of curtained windows sat about two and a half feet from the floor, which was covered in thick rush matting. Every hazard or moveable object had been stowed well out of the reach of a toddler, apart from a set of leather balls strewn across the floor.
A nurse sat rocking a richly carved cradle containing a baby swaddled up to his chin. That must be Stephen the Younger. Stephen the Elder knelt on all fours, waggling his backside while pretending to snarl at Tom. He shouted, “The monster has awoken! Defend us, my lord!”
Two-year-old William squealed and charged at Tom, pummeling his knees with his little fists. Tom’s heart turned a somersault at the touch of his much loved, but rarely seen, son. The boy had green eyes and no dimple, but the shape of his cheeks and nose betrayed his true father — for those who knew to look. Tom and Trumpet had agreed that he should avoid being seen with the child.
He understood it, but he hated that rule more than anything, even more than his wardship. He’d give up everything he ever hoped to possess to live with William and Trumpet as a family. He usually managed to turn his mind away from such thoughts, but the ban made a hole in his heart that ached constantly. Necessity was a harsh mistress.
He blinked away a film of tears and tilted his head back in mock dismay. “Mercy, mercy, my lord, I beg you!” He bent to turn the boy around, stealing a single stroke of the silky sun-yellow hair. “That’s the real monster. See how he glares? Attack him!” He gave the boy a shove, and William toddled gleefully across the room to pound Stephen on the back.
Stephen wagged and roared for another minute, then stood up, lifting the boy into his arms. He gave him a sound kiss on the cheek before handing him to the young usher who had been waiting nearby. “It must be close to suppertime for this bold warrior.”
Tom smiled at his old chum, bemused by the changes time and independence had wrought. He envied him, though he didn’t resent him — a graceful state achieved after many months of wrestling with his baser nature. Stephen had done both Tom and Trumpet a favor by accepting the marriage his parents had arranged. Tom had been eaten up with jealousy at first but came to understand that things could have been much worse — especially for Trumpet.
“You’re a good father, my lord.”
Stephen’s sidelong glance showed he’d caught the slight note of surprise. “My father was such a bad one that I’m determined to do better. I ask myself, ‘What would that hard-hearted old whoreson have done?’ Then I do the opposite.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Your father played with you all the time, I’ll wager. You were so good at thinking up games when we were boys.”
Tom smiled, casting his mind back. “I don’t remember being this young, but I do remember building forts in the sand when I wasn’t too many years older. Dad said we had to keep a sharp eye out for pirates.” He chuckled at the bittersweet memory. “We would splash through the waves, shaking our wooden swords and shouting into the wind.”
“My lady wife has a castle near the sea in Suffolk. Perhaps we’ll go there next summer.” Stephen tilted his head to lead Tom out of the nursery. “You couldn’t find your way out, could you? This house is a maze.”
“I could use a guide, my lord.”
“I’m on my way down anyway.”
They turned back the other way, walking side by side down the long corridor. This area bore little decoration apart from the fine oak paneling and a few clouded portraits.
“Thank you for letting me sleep here for a while,” Tom said. “And for an excellent dinner.”
“My lady wife is an attentive hostess.” Stephen shot him a curious look. “She told me about your predicament. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You did have a powerful motive to murder that churl, from what my lady says. Although she thinks you should go back to Gray’s, and she’s usually right about these things.”
“I’m on my way. It just roused my old fear of being trapped in a jail.” He’d spent a month in this house after the incident at Bridewell. Stephen had been in Dorset, but Trumpet had written to him from the start and told him all about it later. When one lived in a state of extended deception as she and Tom did, it was best to tell the truth as much as possible.
Stephen clapped him on the back. “I fully understand. You’re always welcome here, Tom. I never had any real fun until you came to live with us. That was a gift for me back then.”
They reached a staircase and started down. They descended two flights to reach the ground floor. Stephen led him unerringly to the great hall and on through the screens to the anteroom. He pointed toward the front door, then paused. “Or would you rather go out the back? I could have a wherry drop you at Temple Wharf.”
“Thank you, my lord, but I can walk a few yards up the Strand. I’ll go straight home and seek Mr. Bacon’s counsel.”
“Good plan. He’ll need you anyway.”
“How’s that, my lord?”
“To investigate. That’s what you two do, isn’t it? You run about town asking questions, then he works out what it all means. I’d get right on it if I were you. You won’t be truly safe until you catch the knave who did your murder for you.”
* * *
TOM WALKED INTO THE hall at Gray’s for supper. He wanted a simple, peaceful meal, with no pointed questions about brandy bottles or dead attorneys. He would eat, he would listen to his messmate whine about his ever-nagging wife, and then he would go back to his room and read himself to sleep. He had an English translation of Orlando Furioso waiting for him. Adventure and chivalry would take his mind off his own troubles. The Court of Wards had no dragons to fight, for a mercy.
Roger Maycott was in fine form tonight. “Why must every domestic crisis happen during court terms? I ask you! We’re only here twelve weeks out of the fifty-two. Can’t things fall apart when I’m at home?”
“Evening.” Tom slid onto the bench across from the beleaguered barrister. He nodded at the man on his left, Philip Littlebury.
Littlebury returned the nod, adding a knowing grin. “Decided to come home, eh?”
Tom tucked his chin in surprise. “How’s that?”
“You were seen racing across the field toward Holborn as if a pack of wild dogs was nipping at your heels. That might not be so odd in itself, but the sheriff had just turned up.”
Tom scoffed. “Can’t abide the man. His breath stinks.”
“His jails too, I reckon.” Littlebury nodded as if he knew all about Tom’s situation, which he most assuredly did not. “And here’s another funny thing. Richard Strunk — did you know him?” He pointed a finger across the table at Maycott.
“Not well.” Maycott shrugged. “But if you’re trying to surprise me with the news that he’s been murdered, you’re too late. Everyone already knows.”
“Hunh.” Littlebury grunted. “But has everyone considered that Strunk was Attorney for the Court of Wards and that Clarady here is suing for his livery in the said court?”
“Pure coincidence,” Tom said. What was he getting at?
Servers arrived with bowls of pottage and loaves of bread. Others followed to fill cups with ale. The food might be simple at Gray’s, especially in the evening, but it was always well prepared, and there was plenty of it. They fed two hundred hungry young men twice a day. You couldn’t expect boar’s heads and marzipan at every meal.
Littlebury dipped his spoon into the fragrant mutton stew, but he had more to say about Strunk. “I hear he was poisoned. A bottle of brandy, they say. Seems like a waste. And a point in your favor, Tom. You wouldn’t spend that much money on a drink meant to be spoiled.”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” Maycott said. “You can poison a man just as well with a mediocre tinto.” He tore a loaf into three parts, tossing one to each of the others. Their fourth tablemate was probably supping at the Antelope. He’d fallen in love with one of the wenches and spent every free hour mooning at her like a lovesick calf.
Tom grinned into his own loaded spoon. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Strunk, but he liked the trend of Maycott’s thinking. These two had turned the tragic news into yet another source of supper-table raillery. That wouldn’t hurt him; in fact, it might help.
Littlebury chewed down a wad of bread. “I’d’ve struck the knave on the back of the head. Quick, quiet, and cost-free.”
Maycott shook his head. “You’d be seen coming and going.”
“I’m not so sure.” Tom decided to join in. “That place is a tomb on Saturday. Nobody but old Strunk sitting there in his dim little chamber, scouring the property records for more victims.”
“Sounds like the Strunk I know,” Maycott said. “Or knew, rather. I borrowed money from him once. He heard me bemoaning some debt my wife had incurred and offered to help. He was too eager. I should’ve known. As the weeks ticked by, he kept adding new charges. Asking for this little gift and that little favor. He threatened to tell the benchers how much I owed him if I didn’t pay.”
“Why would that matter?” Tom asked. Everyone owed money to someone around here. Obligation knitted societies together. That sounded like an aphorism, though he couldn’t think who had said it. Some Roman, no doubt.
“I don’t know. The original purchase wasn’t entirely . . .” Maycott wagged his hand from side to side. “Not entirely what you’d call proper.”
Tom drank some ale to hide his frown. What did that mean? Had Maycott’s wife borrowed money to buy stolen goods? Something smuggled, most likely. Lace or brandy — or Catholic impedimenta. Maycott wouldn’t want the benchers to hear about that sort of thing.
“How did Strunk know?” Tom asked.
“Sharp questions, shrewd guesses. You’re probably doing some of that guessing right now, but I don’t have to answer you. I was so grateful for the loan at the time, I didn’t realize I was helping him set his hooks in my flesh.”
Tom shot at glance at their neighbors, who were arguing about something in Latin. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “He tried to charge me twice for the same fee. Eleven pounds!”
Littlebury let out a low whistle. “Who has that much money lying around? A bottle of brandy’s cheap by comparison.”
“True.” Tom sat back up and dipped his spoon in his pottage. He extended his nose over the spoon to appreciate the aroma. Rich meat broth laden with garlic and thyme, balanced by the earthy savor of barley. “I wouldn’t spend that much to poison a rat.”
His messmates spluttered out laughs.
Tom hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Besides, I’d already given him two bottles of good Rhenish. A gift to expedite matters, as Strunk put it. Ha!”
“Expedite his personal matters,” Littlebury said. “I hear he has a mistress near Aldgate who is very demanding. Had a mistress. I wonder if she knows he’s dead.”
There was a cruel thought. But Tom refused to feel sorry for anyone connected to that greedy churl. She’d find out one way or another and move on to another patron.
“He always had the best of everything,” Maycott said. “He has engraved silver bowls and Venetian glass goblets in his chambers.”
So did Mr. Bacon, but he got his the honest way, by inheriting them from his father. Sir Nicholas might well have received them as gifts during his time in the Court of Wards, come to think of it. That silver wheel kept on turning, generation after generation.
“I wonder how many Graysians he lured into his debt?” Tom asked. A short list of alternative suspects could get him off the sheriff’s hook. How could he get those names? Mr. Bacon might know a way.
“More than a few,” Littlebury said. “Have you noticed that no one’s grieving? Sir Avery said a few words at dinner, but nobody stood up to tell a fond tale or say how much he would be missed. I mean, take a look at that table over there. Those are his peers, barristers in their fifties. He sat at that table every day for dinner and supper when the courts were in session.”
Raucous laughter ebbed and flowed from that side of the hall, the sound of men trading bawdy jokes. Not the hushed voices of men who had lost a friend. They seemed as merry as usual this evening, calling for ale and leaning across the table to jab a finger to emphasize some crucial point.
“I wonder if anyone’s gone to tell his wife.” Tom used the last of his bread to sop up the dregs of his pottage. He hoped the servers would bring out something sweet. He wouldn’t mind one of those apple fritters Trumpet had given him at dinner.
“She may not miss him either,” Littlebury said. “He spent more time here than most men with fine manors to call home. More time with those property records, one supposes.”
Tom barked a bitter laugh. “The Court of Wards is ever vigilant.”
“It’s a dirty business.” Maycott drained his cup and signaled to a server to bring another round. Then his dour face brightened. “But a lucrative one. I wonder who’ll get Strunk’s post. It’s in the queen’s gift, isn’t it? I hope it’s another Graysian. If there must be someone to exploit the wards of England, may it be one of ours.”
The usher brought a jug and filled their cups. All three barristers raised them to cry, “To one of ours!”
“Your master should make a bid for it,” Littlebury said. “He’s qualified, if anyone is.”
“Former master,” Tom said. “I’m not a clerk anymore.”
“No offense intended.” Littlebury smiled. “If I could claim a connection with one of the Bacons, I’d leap at it. He kept the sheriff from your door, they say.”
“No doubt he feared they’d make a mess. But he can’t ask for the Wards position, I shouldn’t think. Not while his suit for Attorney General is still pending.”
Maycott grunted in sympathy. “I’m glad my ambitions don’t reach that high. Rich widows and squabbling merchants are good enough for me.”
“Rich widows!” Littlebury raised his cup again. The others echoed the toast.
Maycott said, “I hear the benchers are placing bets on the next attorney. They’re the only ones close enough to make a reasonable guess. I’d bet on whoever has a few thousand pounds to add to Lord Burghley’s treasure chest.”
“It’ll go to the highest bidder,” Littlebury said. “That much is certain.”
“Well, that rules out Francis Bacon,” Tom said with a laugh. “Besides, he’s not venal enough. Or sly enough. I can’t see him sitting there angling for a bribe with a smarmy smirk on his face. And he loathes corruption in the courts. He thinks it makes them inefficient and damages the public trust.”
“Trust!” Maycott made a rude noise. “That’s not a word relating to the Court of Wards. Everyone hates them.”
“Whoever wins the bidding,” Littlebury said, “they should give Tom a nice gratuity. After all, you cleared the way for them, didn’t you, you old rascal?” He chuckled as he dug an elbow into Tom’s side.
