Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

Chapter Twenty

Clarady:

You will have noticed a gap in our correspondence. Your friends prevailed upon me to give you a few days of respite, as they termed it, though I cannot imagine my missives impose so great a burden. I trust your disputation was a success. I expect a full report, including the names of men who argued nonconforming views with especial vigor. As for watchers hidden in the Schools, I have no knowledge of any other agent in Cambridge at this time on behalf of our mutual friend. I merely mentioned it as a warning that we are seldom free from observation and must conduct ourselves with circumspection. A general caution, not a specific one. However, if anyone should invite you on a trip to Rheims, I trust you will decline.

I hope you have enjoyed your interlude of rest and are now fortified to turn your full attention to your main undertaking. I instructed you to start small on an ordinary Sunday, but you have characteristically chosen to jump into the center of the pool. So be it. But prepare yourself.

This will not be like the Easters of your youth. No hot cross buns, no painted eggs. No new clothes. Puritans believe that every day is a holy day. The godly man or woman keeps his or her thoughts turned toward God at all times, on all days, none more than any other. Ranking worship days on some occult scale of holiness smacks of popish snares and illusions, meant to distract the righteous from the true path.

They do not perform special rituals, neither do they wear special garb. This will be difficult for you. I sympathize. I myself will be attending on the queen at Whitehall in a new suit of the latest cut.

But you must restrain yourself. No lace. No feathers. No silk. Do NOT wear the green velvet hat with the yellow band. Yes, I know that yellow is traditional for Easter; that is precisely why it must be avoided. Wear your plainest everyday garb. Brown serge is best. Wear a plain brown hat and keep it on throughout the service. Yes, ON. And I implore you, for the duration of this commission, put aside that absurd earring!

No one will suspect your motives if you fail to conform in every detail; in fact, they will enjoy instructing you. Attempt to look gratified by the simplicity of their style. You will find neither flowers nor candles in a Puritan church. No, not even on Easter. If the pastor is in full harmony with his flock, you may find yourself taking communion sitting together around a bare table. Express a preference for this approach. Refer to it as “decent” and “orderly.” They like the words “plain” and “simple.” Find an opportunity to say, “I find nothing in the Gospels enjoining us to keep a feast at Easter.”

Do not strive at this early stage to impress them overmuch with your fervor. Take only one small step in the desired direction. A small church, a new friend or two; these will suffice for a well-tempered beginning.

From Gray’s Inn, 20 March 1587

Fra. Bacon

Chapter Twenty-One

Tom clapped his arms around his chest and stamped his feet to beat off the early morning chill. The road ahead vanished into a thick gloom, bounded by the dark shapes of tree trunks. Sheep bleated somewhere nearby. The earthy scent of their dung underlay the fragrance of wet herbs and grass. He inhaled deeply. It smelt like spring, which made him feel like traveling. He’d been cooped up in college buildings for too long. It was time to get outside.

He and Steadfast were waiting at the edge of town, out past Emmanuel College where St. Andrew’s turned into Babraham Road, for Parson Wingfield and the rest of the children. Today was Easter Sunday and Tom was going to the sunrise service at Great St. Mary’s with the purest Puritans he could find. He shivered, more from excitement than from cold. Today, he embarked upon his commission in earnest. It felt fitting somehow to push off before dawn, cloaked in a fog, from the safe shores of his college into the unknown. Adding spice, if he needed it — Steadfast’s sister Abstinence would be among the party.

He watched a patch of mist lose its mooring in the long grass and drift across the road, becoming more transparent as it wafted skyward. He could see all the way to the bend in the road now. Then he heard church bells ringing the three-quarter hour.

“If the service starts at six, we’re going to be late,” he told Steadfast.

“My father likes to be a little late. It’s the best way to avoid being early.”

Tom pondered the logic of that strategy. He was diverted by the soft clink of bridle bits and the sight of a brown gelding carrying a man in a brown cloak and a tall brown hat. The man had the Wingfield look, a round face framed by white-blond hair and a wide-shouldered figure. Four children, obviously Wingfields, walked beside the horse.

Steadfast waved both arms above his head in greeting. He beckoned Tom forward with him as he stepped into the road. “Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, Steadfast. Where is your brother?”

“He had his morning chores to do. He’ll meet us on the way.”

Parson Wingfield turned to Tom. “You must be the Thomas Clarady we’ve heard so much about.”

Tom bowed, catching himself in time to bend only his head, not tilting from the hips in a full court bow. Bacon hadn’t mentioned it, but he suspected courtly manners would be considered Romish. “It’s an honor to meet you, Parson Wingfield. I’ve heard many good things about you as well. Your sons admire you greatly.”

“I’m not the one they should admire.” The parson smiled to take the sting out of his correction. “I’m just a simple country parson going to church on a Sunday morning with my children at my side.” He gestured with both hands at his offspring, who had arrayed themselves at nicely spaced intervals.

Three girls and one boy. When Dilly and Steadfast joined them, the numbers would be even. Steadfast introduced them in order of age: the girls were Abstinence, Tribulation, and Obedient; the boy, about ten years old, was named Resolved. The youngest two had stayed at home with their mother.

Tom greeted each of them by name, struggling to keep a straight face as he smiled down on bright-cheeked Tribulation, who looked about twelve. His eyes met each of theirs in turn, but part of his awareness remained anchored to Abstinence. She stood cloaked in a quiet radiance, even in the plain brown garb they all wore. She had an apron over her skirt, clean and white but neatly patched in several places. Like her sisters, her fair head was wrapped in a plain linen coif that showed only a sliver of her golden hair And yet she was far and away the most beautiful woman Tom had seen in months.

He ought to have spoken again with the parson, but he couldn’t help taking another step toward Abstinence. He gave her his best smile, the one that showed his dimple to advantage. She shot him a quick glance before turning her face to look down at her feet with the merest shadow of a smile on her rosy lips.

Glancing up at the parson, Tom caught a gleam in his eyes he couldn’t interpret. Was he glad to see a university man show an interest in his daughter? Or was he on the alert for any hint of improper attentions? As Tom stole another sidelong glance at Abstinence, he understood the genius behind the choice of her name. She was an extraordinary beauty; any man who met her would feel the same attraction pulling at Tom. But even as your body strained toward her, her very name, resounding in your mind, acted as a leash.

The parson nodded at him as if he’d been following his train of thought and approved of its conclusion. “We’d best be moving along.” He waved Tom to walk close by his left side. Steadfast fell in beside him, with Resolved on his left. The girls arranged themselves in order of height on the right.

“We make a pretty picture, don’t we?” the parson asked him. “You’re probably wondering, Clarady, why I choose to visit a church in Cambridge this Sunday, instead of tending to my own flock in Babraham. Never fear; I’ll conduct my usual service later this morning. But since many country folk attend the great town churches on this particular Sunday, I thought it would be well to show them how much we godly folk are like them. Nothing to be feared. Our ways are simple ways; nothing more, nothing less. Some friends persuaded me that, since I have some small renown in this county, I might make a difference, in a very small way, by attending myself.” He gave a diffident shrug.

“More than a small renown,” Tom said. “You’re the most popular preacher in Cambridgeshire, from what I’ve heard. Your sermons are widely quoted in my college.”

“I’m proud to say I have several good friends at Corpus Christi College. In fact, it was chiefly they who persuaded me to join them this morning. With my children around me like a frame, I can show that we are common folk as well, not all fiery young university scholars.” He chuckled. Tom joined in. “By my example, I testify that a man may be godly and still live in the world. No need to shut ourselves away in monkish cloisters.”

“I’m heartened by your example,” Tom said, striving to look earnest. “Although I mean to work hard and earn a presentment to a parish of my own, I don’t relish the idea of a celibate life.” That last part at least was the truth.

“I don’t imagine you do.” The parson’s voice held a touch of wry amusement. “It may be early days, but perhaps not too soon to start thinking about a wife that can stand beside you. ‘An excellent wife is the crown of her husband.’“

Tom’s eyes slid toward Abstinence on the other side of the horse. Her gaze was directed a few feet in front of her, but pink spots flared in her cheeks, betraying the fact that she was listening. A slight curve of her lips told him that she was not opposed to the general trend of the conversation.

She was the perfect wife for a clergyman, already trained to the life and beautiful enough to make fidelity a willing sacrament. For a moment, Tom had a vision of himself and Abstinence, newly wedded, setting up housekeeping in a snug little parsonage. Then he blinked and the world righted itself. He must tread lightly here. He couldn’t toy with a girl like that, a virgin, shy and inexperienced. Especially not right under her father’s nose.

Three men from Emmanuel College joined the party. The children fell back to allow them to converse with their father. They turned on Mill Lane and then onto the High Street. When they reached Corpus Christi, John Barrow, Abraham Jenney, and Diligence came forward. The Wingfield children greeted Barrow eagerly. He seemed to be a family favorite.

Parson Wingfield dismounted. One of waiting lads led the horse off to the college stables. Jenney, his piggy face pink with excitement, reached out to shake hands with the parson. “I am so very glad to see you, Parson. This is a great day for us. A great day indeed.”

“Now, Mr. Jenney,” the parson chided. “I’m just an ordinary man going to church with his family on an ordinary Sunday morning.”

“That’s right,” Barrow said, winking at the children. He shook the parson’s hand after nudging Jenney to relinquish it. “And if we find an extra raisin or two in our buns at dinner, we’ll give thanks for His bounty on even this most ordinary of days.”

Bells all over Cambridge burst into a joyous clamor. It was six o’clock. “Are we ready?” Parson Wingfield beamed at the group, now almost fifteen strong.

The university men fell back, allowing the parson and his fair-haired children to lead the way. They did make a pretty picture: a handsome family of country folk clothed in plain brown, the father and three sons in tall conical hats, the three girls in neat white aprons. They made a sharp contrast to the other people streaming toward the center of town.

Most were dressed in gallant new clothes, gay and bright in yellow and white, festooned with braids and gleaming buttons. Women adorned their hats with flowers; men tucked long feathers into the bands. Everyone wore their stiffest, widest ruffs. The whole town bubbled with joy, friends and kinfolk greeting each other with laughs and kisses, standing back to admire their costumes. Even university men wore their gowns open to reveal their Easter finery.

Tom felt like a crow in a flock of peacocks. He noticed several people scowling at them as they passed. They were like a storm cloud lowering over a dance on the village green. Tom tugged at his earlobe, missing his earring, the golden pearl his father had brought back from the South Seas. Captain Clarady wore its twin, the symbol of their unity, however rarely they saw each other. Tom felt adrift without it.

A hand tapped his shoulder. He turned to see his bedmate Philip, bravely turned out in yellow broadcloth with linings of pale green.

“On your way to Great St. Mary’s?” Philip asked. He surveyed Tom’s sad costume with distaste. “I was sure you’d treat yourself to something new for Easter. Or at least wear those yellow stockings of yours. I would have borrowed them if I’d known. I’ve got these though. My mother sent them to me.” He exhibited a new pair of cuffs, bordered in intricate blackwork.

“Nice,” Tom said. “Your mother’s very talented.”

Philip glanced at the cluster of brown-garbed Puritans and leaned in to speak in a low voice. “Are you sure you want to go with that lot today? You can sit with me, if you like. They’re not —” He shook his head with a sour twist to his mouth. “They don’t really like Easter, you know.”

“I’m where I want to be,” Tom declared loudly, meaning to be overheard. “I’m with my friends today.”

Philip stepped back, affronted. “As it please you.” He turned on his heel and stalked away. Tom saw him wave at a couple of men from St. Catharine’s College and jog up to join them. They’d go to church and then on to some tavern to feast on roast beef and simnel cake. They’d stuff themselves, then spend the afternoon drinking and playing cards, lounging by the windows watching pretty girls who would pretend not to notice them. Perhaps he could catch up to them after this church business was done.

But no. He’d have to play his part day and night now until he succeeded in his commission or failed by being found out. No simnel cake, no pretty girls. Except for one. He shot another glance at Abstinence and caught John Barrow’s hazel eyes watching him.

Tread lightly
, Tom warned himself.
Don’t rock the boat before you’ve left the harbor.

They reached the church and joined the queue of people filing through the tall west doors. Tom reached up to remove his hat as he passed under the arch, but Steadfast caught his arm in motion. He shook his head with a little smile.

Great St. Mary’s was packed with people murmuring in low voices. The altar was so densely decorated with flowers it seemed to float on a pond of rippling color. The Easter candle, four feet tall, stood unlit in the center.

No candles were lit yet, and the sun had barely cleared the horizon outside, so the pews in the aisles were shadowed and dim. Tom loved the soaring sensation of the graceful arches and delicate pillars that enticed you to look up, tilting your head back, suffused with a sense of the infinite. The last time he’d been in so grand a church was last Easter, right here in Great St. Mary’s. He’d come with the pack of lordlings, dressed like an envoy of French diplomats. He glanced at his new company. The contrast could not be more absolute.

They hovered at the back while Parson Wingfield and Mr. Barrow surveyed the pews. They’d come too late to find room for the whole group to sit together. Tom felt awkward and out of place, like a workman called from the fields to his master’s hall. At last it was decided. Wingfield led half the group, including the younger children, into the two pews near the middle on the left. Barrow beckoned the rest into a pew on the right. By good luck, Tom found himself between Steadfast and Abstinence, with Barrow on her other side.

They got settled just in time. Something started a round of throat-clearing, then everyone fell silent. The minister raised the Easter candle and proceeded down the aisle. The Service of Light had begun. The congregation rose with an echoing shuffle and faced the back to watch. Tom’s group turned too — except for Barrow, who stood with his eyes on the altar, a smile of anticipation spreading across his freckled face.

The procession stopped outside the door. The president lit the candle with a prayer. The minister bearing the candle re-entered the church, pausing inside the threshold. He raised the candle and sang, “The light of Christ.” The congregation answered, “Thanks be to God.”

Tom said it too, earning an elbow in his side from Steadfast. “Not yet.”

The procession moved slowly forward, stopping every few yards to repeat the versicle and response. The church began to fill with light as candles were lit with tapers from the Easter candle. The soft glow reflected from the polished wood of the pews and the silks and satins of the worshippers. Tom had always loved this service. It was the essence of spring, the renewal of light and warmth after the cold, dark winter. Primitive, perhaps, but inspiring.