The Queene’s Christmas by Karen Harper
“Shall I open it, Your Majesty?” Jenks asked.
“Of course,” she said, smiling at the little crowd growing around her as more hunters straggled back. “Nothing like an early gift for New Year’s!”
Jenks pulled off his gloves, and his cold fingers were stiff loosening the leather belt. When he opened the box, so many courtiers crowded around that they almost shut out the light, and the queen put up a hand to hold them back.
A piece of paper lay folded across the box’s contents with large-lettered words on it. “HANGING MEAT, ROAST MEAT, MINCE MEAT,” Jenks read aloud. “That’s all it says. No, here in smaller words, Stones for murdering martyrs”
“What?” the queen demanded, her voice shrill. She leaned for-ward to see what the box held, then gasped. It was filled with stones, just plain rocks, at least a dozen of them, rough and bumpy. No, one, near the bottom, was completely covered with gold foil.
“Find the boy who brought these here!” she commanded, and another hunt was on.
Chapter the Seventh
Christmas Tussie-Mussies
Not only do dried garden flowers keep the scent of summer in the dark and dreary months, but they may well help ward off diverse diseases and cheer one’s spirit. In the growing months, gather and dry such sweet-smelling flowers as you favor, lavender and roses, of course, not forgetting to include those which have not only scent and color but curative powers. The latter may include sweet marjoram for over-sighing, basil to take away sorrowfulness, borage for courage, and rosemary for remembrance, especially of joyous Yule-tides past. Gather the dried blooms into small bouquets adorned by lace or ribbons. Strew the crushed or unsightly petals about on floors or table carpets or in coffers for delightful odors during the Twelve Days and thereafter.
PUT THOSE STONES HERE, YES, RIGHT ON THIS TABLE carpet so they don’t get chipped,” the queen ordered Jenks. Lugging the box of them, he followed the other Privy Plot Council members into the queen’s chamber at Whitehall before dawn the next morning. Ned quietly closed the door on the yeomen guards as Jenks tipped the box on its side to dump them.
“No, pick them out carefully,” the queen commanded, perching on the edge of her chair, “here where we can see them in window light. I’ll not have mishandled what may have been used to kill Hodge Thatcher, especially that gold-foiled stone.”
“Yet we may be foiled indeed,” Ned whispered to Meg.
“I heard that,” Elizabeth said, “and am in no mood for puns or jests. How I am to smile my way through the holiday festivities this night I do not know.”
“On the other hand,” Ned replied, “since this is St. John the Evangelist’s holy day, we can hope to have our murderer’s head on a platter instead of that boar’s head tonight.”
“If I were Salome,” she muttered, “I would gladly cast off my veils and dance all night to have it so, but to the business at hand. Cecil, please take out your sketch of Hodge’s head wound, then each of us must take two stones to study to see if one fits the approximate pattern of the drawing.”
He did as she asked, also producing the boot-print sketch from the scene of Hodge’s murder. Elizabeth took the gold-foiled stone, which was completely covered with what appeared to be the same thin foil that had been on the table at the scene of the murder. Jenks, Meg, Harry, Cecil, and Ned did as they were bidden with the others. Evidently hewn from a larger piece of rock, the stones were of rough, pitted texture about the size of a man’s fist.
“You might know, the boy who delivered these to me at Greenwich escaped just like the fox,” Elizabeth groused, “nor could Jenks locate a site on the grounds which could have provided them.” She shook her head. She’d hardly slept again; a headache as well as a churning stomach sapped her strength and concentration. “But I vow that, whatever it takes,” she added, looking at each of them in turn, “whoever is playing this clever game with our Christmas will be caught and punished.”
“The number twelve here may be significant,” Cecil mused. “Symbolic of the Twelve Days of Christmas?”
“Pray God,” Meg put in, “there are not worse gifts to come.”
“But what’s the flowery smell?” Cecil asked. “It’s not coming from the box, is it? It’s not my papers,” he added, lifting both sketches and sniffing at them.
Elizabeth nodded at Meg to explain.
“No, my lord,” the girl said, patting the thick, brightly hued table rug. “After I make the queen’s sweet bags, pomanders, and tussie-mussies, Her Majesty likes me to crush the rest of the herbs and flowers to strew about. They’ve got to be fine as powder but with a touch of ambergris worked in so’s it won’t blow away right off and lingers.”
As if they’d exhausted conversation, they spent the next quarter hour hunched over stones, hoping they could match a contour or pattern, turning each rock to compare its rough facets from all angles. Most of the stones were smaller than the size of the wound drawn in Cecil’s sketch, and the ones that were large enough had no texture to match it.
“I thought it would be this golden stone, but it doesn’t fit, either,” Cecil said, examining it after the queen finally put it down in frustration.
“Ned had best not say, 'Foiled again,’ “ she said, wishing she could lighten her mood. Here it was, she thought, the third day of Christmas, and, evidently having opened Pandora’s box, they sat about like lunatics, staring at stones.
Sighing heavily as her gaze lingered on the other sketch, she reached for it and held it up. “I had originally thought we would use this boot print only when we’d narrowed our field of suspects, but I’m getting desperate to save these holidays from further mayhem. Meg, do you have more of the dusting powder from making tussie-mussies for all my ladies?”
“Two bags of it, one even in a coffer in your bedchamber, Your Grace, so things in it will smell sweet.”
“Then if you will fetch it, we shall tread another path.”
As the queen stood, everyone rose. Meg darted off and was back in a trice with a cloth bag as big as an open handkerchief. The powerfully scented dust within made them all sniffle or sneeze.
“What—choo!—are you thinking, Your Grace?” Harry asked and blew his nose.
“I am thinking that no one will suspect aught is amiss if I ask my strewing herb girl to place some of this here and there on palace floors. As I recall, Meg, you spilled a goodly amount last Yule, and we all stepped in it, tracking footprints in and through it.”
“Aha,” Cecil said. “A good idea if Meg can pull it off.”
“But how are you going to get the men we're wary of to step in it?” Harry demanded, before sneezing again.
“I’ll leave that to Meg,” the queen said as he sneezed yet a third time. “Oh, Harry, do go over by the window and breathe fresh air through the cracks. My lord Cecil, please make a copy for Meg of that boot print. Jenks, place the stones back in the box and—oh, Ned, that leaves you. Meg, put some of that dust on the floor, and we’ll test Ned’s print in it to be certain this works.”
She could tell that Ned—her dear, volatile, talented Ned— wanted to protest but dare not. Meg did as she was bid, strewing a bit on the floor before his feet.
“It’s like the conquering hero cometh,” Meg muttered, not looking up at him. “I warrant the Earl of Sussex, Sir Simon Mac-Nair, and for sure Lord Darnley will like the idea of crushed rose petals being strewn under their feet.”
“And what about Giles Chatam, if you suspect him, Your Grace?” Ned asked. “Meg can’t follow him about all day, and I don’t trust him not to harm her if he’s at all suspect.”
“Not to mention how she’ll manage Vicar Bane,” Cecil said, as he came to watch, holding out to Meg the copy of the sketch. “He’ll think such as sweet smells at Yule is right up on the list of sins with snowballing and eating manger-shaped mince pies.”
“Let’s not spend our time worrying about what we can’t do but what we can,” the queen commanded.
“But since you are here now, my lo
“Because I’ve got to talk to Jenks again about the porter’s confession he left his post for a while the afternoon Hodge was killed,” Cecil told him, frowning. “One of the carters Jenks questioned said he came in with barrels of fresh water and no one was at the gate. As for doing your print, man, just pretend this is the epilogue of some play, and in recognition of your talents, your boot print is being preserved for all posterity.”
Clenching his jaw, Ned stepped into the small rectangle of pale powder. He expected it to be more gritty, but he hardly felt a thing except the continued undercurrent of Cecil’s distrust. It had begun when the queen’s wily chief secretary had questioned him, apparently nonchalantly, about why he’d left the queen’s apartments the night of the fire and where he’d gone. It seemed every-thing Cecil said of late had a double meaning that he couldn’t quite decipher but knew didn’t bode well.
“Just walk away now, Ned, naturally, normally,” the queen prompted. Was it his imagination that she too seemed to be watching him like a hawk? “Oh, yes,” she said as he stepped out of the stuff, “that’s a good one. All right, then, this may work. Meg, take what’s left in that bag as well as the other you mentioned and go about your duties, appearing to strew crushed flowers but actually gathering specific prints.”
“I’d best spread this near others we don’t suspect, too.”
“Good idea,” the queen assured her. “It may be tricky, and, of course, the person who made the original may have changed footwear, but the approximate size may allow us to eliminate some from further surveillance.”
“I’ll sweep this up so she has enough powder,” Ned said and moved toward his ghostly print.
“Stay!” the queen said, grabbing his arm. “Ned, you said your uncle admitted that Giles Chatam left the inn the afternoon Hodge was killed, supposedly to see the shops at Cheapside. Because of Giles’s earlier rivalry with Hodge, he must be suspect, especially if the porter left his post for a while when Giles could have hied himself into the kitchens, confronted Hodge, and then killed him. Since you are concerned Meg not tip Giles off or get too near him, I want you to stick close to the company’s new player, both openly, when possible, but also covertly.”
“But I’m needed around h—that is,” he tried to temper his tone, “the Earl of Leicester hasn’t overseen all this before, and he expects my help.”
“I know it irks you he’s changed some of your plans for this evening,” she said, obviously trying to soothe him, “and I’d never ask you to be skulking in shadows if it weren’t necessary. By the way, I think the earl has quite a lovely evening planned for tonight”
“Right,” he told her. “I’ve laid all the plans for that, though much of it will be raucous and impromptu.”
“Ned, don’t fret, for Leicester does seem to be getting things under control.”
Hell’s gates, Ned fumed silently, he was the one about to lose control again. Stalking chatty Chatam was all he needed, especially when he’d like to get rid of him—and of Leicester, illustrious Lord of Misrule—so that he could rule and reign again at royal Yuletide. And to protect his queen, of course, for Leicester had never been worth the powder to blow him up, and she was secretly besotted with the man, he was sure of it. Ned almost laughed at his own mental pun, for Leicester had long been fascinated by gunpowder and had invested heavily in its production. But he summoned up his best acting skills to appear serious and calm.
“Of course, Your Grace, anything to help, but what if Giles slips out on one of his city tours again?”
“Then, if possible, you must follow, for who knows to whom he might lead us.”
Tours of London, in this damned cold! Ned wondered if she—with Cecil’s complicity, of course—just wanted him out of the way. Or had that pompous peacock Leicester asked that she keep the man who knew exactly how to arrange the holiday entertainments out of his hair?
“Meg,” the queen was saying, “after you’ve managed to get a print, and before anyone else can scuff it out”—here, Ned thought, Her Majesty glanced back at him again—“you must compare the print to Cecil’s drawing. You are to try to make impressions from the Earl of Sussex, Lord Darnley, Simon Mac-Nair, Vicar Bane, and my chief cook—just to eliminate the possibility the latter stepped in the cumin accidentally. All of you may go to your duties now, and my thanks as ever.”
When Ned saw that Jenks dawdled, he went out with Meg and followed her down the servants’ narrow back stairs. He’d often used the anteroom just off the last turn before the ground floor for quick liaisons. Hoping no one else was there this early in the morning, he snagged Meg’s elbow, opened the door, and pulled her in after him.
“Hey-ho, what’s this?” she cried as he closed the door behind them.
Fortunately, he thought, the room was deserted, but it was quite dark. Someone had left a single fat tallow candle on the table, nearly gutted out Backing a few steps away from him, Meg stood with the sack of sachet dust held before her breasts like a shield.
“I just need to talk to you,” Ned said. “I need your help.”
“My help? What’s the matter, then?”
“Meg, we're old friends. Those months you were not in the queen’s good graces, exiled from court, I always believed you’d done no wrong—believed in you.”
“Let’s hear it, then, and never mind the buttering up. What have you done?”
“Nothing, I swear to God, that’s just it But because I just happened to leave the palace the afternoon Hodge died and because I was in a fit of anger that Her Grace had put Leicester in my place as Lord of Misrule…” Amazed his voice caught and cracked, he raked his fingers through his hair. “And,” he added, more quietly, “because I had to use the jakes the other night when the boathouse burned, I think she’s vexed at me.”
“Don’t blame me for mentioning you stepped out.”
“I don’t blame you for anything. But I can’t believe Her Grace would suspect me of doing something so horrid to try to ruin her and Leicester’s Yule—”
“There was a murder, Ned. A man’s dead.”
“I know, I know, but Cecil’s been acting strange toward me, and you know how she heeds him. Meg, I’m telling you the truth,” he said as he stepped forward and placed his hands over hers on top of her sack. Suddenly, the flowery scent was almost overpowering, yet strangely seductive in this little room. His pulse pounded, and his knees were like custard, when he’d never had any sort of stage fright, let alone quailed before a woman. And this was only Meg.
Her lips slightly parted, she stared up into his eyes. How could they look so luminous in this dim chamber? He’d long known he had sensual power over this woman and hadn’t really cared. She’d been to him the younger sister he never had, one to tease and take out his temper on. He might be proud of her accomplishments, but he’d never say so. Yet now an alluring woman stood here, one of flesh and blood, and she wasn’t like a little sister anymore.
“Help you how?” she asked so breathily he nearly had to read her lips. “Put in a good word for you with Cecil or Her Grace?”
“No! No, you mustn’t let on that I’m suspicious that they're suspicious. But you must let me know if you hear anything, even if it’s from Jenks, about their moving against me.”
“Your footprint back there—the two of them set you up to make a print?”
“I fear so.”
“I vow, I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“But I can’t betray the queen, Cecil either, certainly not Jenks, even to help you.”
“I’m not asking you to betray anyone, my Meg, really.”
She almost swayed on her feet. He moved his hands to steady her at the elbows. It was as if he embraced her, for the small, sweet sack was the only barrier between them.
“You didn’t—do anything—did you?” she asked.
“Kill Hodge?” he exploded, loosing
“Ned, I’ll think on it and try to do what I can, but I cannot risk angering the queen again. And Jenks loves me, so don’t ask—”
“So don’t ask if there’s anyone else but Jenks who loves you?” He stepped closer again and lifted three fingers gently to her trembling lips. She either pouted or lightly kissed his fingertips. It made him almost tilt into her like a magnet to true north.
“I must be off now,” she said as she took two steps back. “You heard I have much to do.”
“I too, sticking to that new playacting Adonis like a burr. Meg, please just think on what I’ve said, and I beg you not to betray my confidence, that is, both my fears and my utter confidence in you.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said, but they were still parted in the most becoming way. “Have a care, then, Ned.”
“I will, I do,” he whispered. He opened the door and stood back so that she could dart out before him.
At the feast of St. John the Evangelist that evening, Elizabeth found her deep-buried love for Robin Dudley, Earl of Leicester, Lord of Misrule, bubbling to the surface again. Perhaps it was simply the glow of the holiday season, but he was a charming host, regaling everyone with memories of Yuletides past.
He had people laughing as he conducted a lottery with prizes for small token gifts, blindfolding the queen before she picked out slips of paper with names from his fancy, feathered hat Nor did Robin flinch when his archenemy, the Earl of Sussex, drew the lot to present the boar’s head to the queen later this evening, a singular honor. Robin cajoled lords and ladies to be in their best voices for the later singing of the traditional carols. And, after an hour of dancing where he led the queen out onto the floor to stately pavanes and gay galliards, he announced that all would sit in a circle before the burning Yule log and share their best memories of Christmas.