Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (19 page)

Her eyes popped open. She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Me? No! Why? Do I need to?” She glared at him as if he had accused her of whipping her daughters with a cat-o’-nine-tails. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? That Puritan hussy with the outlandish name — Absurdity or Incontinence or what have you. She’s no good for you, Tom. She’s about as innocent as a tiger, and her father is practically destitute.”

Tom wrapped his hand around her head, twining his fingers in her thick red hair, and kissed her soundly. He let her be first to end it, then smiled into her eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and meant it. Crow’s-feet were nothing. He liked all kinds of women, especially the kind that would lie abed naked with him on a Thursday afternoon.

He couldn’t break it off with her now after he’d made her feel old-ish and unlovely. Next time. Or the time after that. He hadn’t made Barrow a specific promise, and what Francis Bacon didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Clarady:

Our mutual friend is impatient for results. We still do not know whether the synod is planned for July or September, nor do we have any knowledge of the proposed agenda. We hear rumors of a secret assembly in Warwickshire planned with similar intent; this cancer in the body of our Church is spreading. Time grows short. Our friend’s resources are stretched thin. He will need weeks to coordinate a response sufficiently finely tuned to extract the principal malefactors without casting the whole county into disarray.

You must move more quickly. Hasten your way into the inner circle. Your supposition regarding Wingfield seems sound. If he is not at the center of the web, he is near it. Do not let your friendship with his children deter you. Measures can be taken to protect them. Study Job: “Remember, I pray thee, whoever perished, being innocent? Or where were the righteous cut off?”

Use your influence with the Wingfield children to contrive an invitation to dinner. Listen for talk of “a church within a church.” This is one of their more pernicious strategies, to establish their presbytery within our established episcopacy. They will divide the churches of England into separate islands of conformity and nonconformity, laying their eggs in our nests like cuckoos. “They hatch cockatrice eggs, and weave the spider’s web: he that eateth of their eggs dieth, and that which is crushed breaketh out into a viper.”
Isaiah 59:4-6
.

Press harder. Work faster. You must snare the instigator before he drags your friends to their destruction.

From Gray’s Inn, 13 May 1587

Fra. Bacon

P.S. There is a new instrument for writing called a pencil. They may have some at the university bookseller’s. They’re square and somewhat messy but more portable than quill and inkhorn. See if you can acquire one. It may facilitate the recording of notes when away from your desk. The lists are good. Keep sending them. Daniel 10:21: “But I will shew thee that which is noted in the scripture of truth.”

P.P.S. While I appreciate your heightened sense of discretion, I beg you not to use Law French as any sort of code. At least I think those were attempts at Law French. That specialist language is not suited for general purposes, nor do you have even the most basic understanding of its grammar. Plain English will do for your letters, with care in their handling.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Tom hunched in the privy in the corner of the Babraham churchyard, scribbling names on a folded sheet of paper with his new pencil. The wooden shed was well built and thus dark; the merest slivers of light slipped between the boards. He could barely see the gray lead lines forming under his instrument, but the notes were mainly an aid to memory to help him write up his report that evening. Overall, he was delighted with the pencil. It saved him having to compose a little ditty to fix each name in his memory.

The names were those of men from outside Babraham who had attended Parson Wingfield’s service today — important because it was Whitsunday. Anyone who would forgo the traditional plum rolls and morris dancing to sit in a plain white box listening to a thundering sermon against idolatry was most likely a dedicated Puritan.

Sitting in the midst of the Wingfield children, as usual, Tom had gotten the names of the newcomers from Tribulation, the most ill-named of the Wingfield children. Diligence truly strove to do what was asked, Abstinence had yet to grant him even a small kiss, and Steadfast’s unwavering strength defined his every act. But Tribble was a giggly, rosy-cheeked gossip. She’d leaned against Tom’s shoulder throughout the service, whispering vivid descriptions of each member of her father’s congregation.

Most were university men, but they were still a more diverse group than he would have imagined a month ago. Men came far and wide to show their disdain for this important holiday. Men whose fathers were of many sorts and occupations: the fervent weaver, the bitter bell-ringer, clerics, lawyers, and prosperous mercers. Even some gentlemen’s sons chose to ride to humble Babraham.

Some of these men were no more committed to the complete Reformation than Tom was. They were there to ogle Abstinence, no question. He refolded his piece of paper to expose a blank quarter and began a new list:
Men who attend the parson’s services merely to admire his daughter.
He wrote furiously, pencil lead crumbling away from the leading edge of his script. If they thought they could impress Abstinence by wearing silk ribbons and plumed feathers in their hats, they had another think coming. The only way to impress a godly woman was through righteousness, and that meant rigorous, daily study of the Word and constant struggles with your inner demons.
Constant.
Calvinism was a man’s religion, not a game for prancing, lace-wristed, feather-wagging fops. They fooled no one by turning up on Whitsunday. They’d be off to the taverns as soon as they realized their adored one would grant them not so much as a blink of her heavenly eyes.

He finished both lists and packed his paper and pencil back into his purse. He couldn’t dally overlong or his friends would worry about his digestion. He joined Steadfast beside the path to the parsonage. They stood together in silence, watching Parson Wingfield shake hands with the worshippers as they exited his church. After exchanging a few words, men drifted over to the group near the Cambridge road while women and children gathered on the opposite side of the churchyard.

Another excellent way to spread the word about a secret meeting. All the parson had to do was lean over the clasped hand and murmur, “Tuesday week, Adamson’s barn,” and the job was done. Tom wondered if he should have waited to jot his notes so he could come out the front door and shake hands like the other men. Would he have been given the message too? He hadn’t on previous occasions. Either they didn’t trust him yet, or there wasn’t any message. He wished he could get closer. Parson Wingfield was the leader, he was almost certain of it. But Francis Bacon and Lord Burghley needed something more solid than a twinge in Tom’s gut.

The last couple left the church and separated to join the chatting groups in the yard. Parson Wingfield stood for a moment on the porch, hands on hips, surveying his flock with a satisfied air. His gaze turned at last toward his children and Tom. He stepped off the porch and strode toward them, arms wide.

“I almost thought you were one of mine, Thomas. You fit so well among my brood. Fair hair and shining faces. Why don’t you join us for dinner today?”

***

Parson Wingfield waved at the group of men chatting beside the road, then turned and walked toward the parsonage, his family trailing behind him. They were soon joined by four Cambridge men: Abraham Jenney, John Barrow, William Grady, and another man from Emmanuel College — Mullen or Miller. Tom felt a powerful sense of kinship to both the Wingfield family and his university brethren. He had learned that one of the strangest aspects of intelligencing was how you could feel so strongly connected to the group you intended to disrupt.

The parsonage was a rambling cottage, two stories tall at one end with small windows scattered at irregular intervals. A thatched roof hugged the upper contours like a thick gray blanket. The front door opened into a long room with a table set ready down the center. Savory aromas of roasting fowl and freshly baked pies made Tom’s belly rumble.

Mrs. Wingfield stood beside the wide hearth stirring something in a big iron kettle. She looked up as they entered and set her spoon in its holder. Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped forward to be introduced to Tom.

Her given name was Sybil. Unlike her namesake, she spoke nary a word. She was a mousy being who kept her eyes on her husband. The Clarady smile couldn’t work on a woman who wouldn’t look at him. Tom was spared the labor of finding a topic to draw her out when the parson drew her aside for a whispered consultation, after which she vanished through a rear door.

“Shall we sit?” Parson Wingfield gestured at the table with outspread arms. “My wife informs me that dinner is ready to be served. She herself is fasting today. A penance.” He beamed at them and moved to the head of the table, from whence he directed the seating: the man from Emmanuel College, Barrow, Abstinence, and Diligence on his right; Jenney, Grady, Tom, and Tribulation on his left. Steadfast sat at the foot. The middle children — Resolved, Obedient, and Prudence — acted as servers. Humility, the youngest, pattered after his mother as she brought dishes from the pantry.

As Tom took his place on the bench, he found himself directly across from Abstinence. He couldn’t have chosen a better seat. Every time he raised his eyes, he met her heavenly visage.

The parson led them in a lengthy prayer, after which the children brought forth an astounding assortment of dishes: three pigeon pies, mutton in pottage, roast rabbit with asparagus, a great bowl of stewed greens, loaves of dark bread, and a large cheese tart. Tom had been girding himself for a lesser meal. Now he grinned at the plenitude being set before him.

The parson noticed. “My parishioners bring me these tokens of appreciation on Sundays. They vie with one another to prepare the most attractive dish. I try to discourage them but without raising up more strife.” He raised a finger and quoted, “‘If a wise man contends with a foolish man, whether the fool rages or laughs, there is no peace.’“

“Amen.” Tom tucked into a slice of pigeon pie. He wished his college had such contentious cooks. This pie was as juicy as could be and liberally laced with parsley and minced mushrooms.

Conversation ebbed and flowed as they focused on the food before them. Tom kept his ears pricked for coded directives from Parson Wingfield, but he seemed to be absorbed in reviewing his sermon and its reception.

“We had a goodly number,” Jenney said. He nodded his head, his sausage curls bobbing. “I was surprised to see so many university men today. And rather more from the surrounding parishes than I expected.”

“Especially on one of their heathen holidays,” Tom said.

“Oh, come now, Tom,” Barrow said with a wink. “I can easily see you as a youngster, hop-step-hopping in a pretty morris dance. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy them!” A broad grin creased his freckled face.

Tom grinned back to show he could take some teasing. “I loved all the pagan holidays; the more wanton the celebration, the better. I was a foolish boy, no question. But when I became a man, I put away childish things.” He glanced at Abstinence, who blinked approvingly, slowly lowering her lovely lashes and raising them.

“I strive to convey that message to my congregation,” Parson Wingfield said. “By showing them my own struggles, I hope to strengthen them in theirs.”

“You certainly succeeded with me,” William Grady said in a blatant effort to curry favor. As if it would help. His beard might look full and curly from the front, but seated next to him, Tom could see how weak his chin was. Practically nonexistent. He was short too. His children would be dwarves with necks like turtles. Was that what Abstinence wanted? He sincerely doubted it. Let him save his watery-eyed adoration for some lesser object.

“— in July,” Jenney said.

Tom’s attention snapped back to the conversation.

“We know we can count on you,” Barrow said, speaking to Grady and the other man from Emmanuel College.

Jenney’s pig-snout nose flared. In excitement? Tom mentally kicked himself in the arse. What had he missed? Could he assume from the fragment he’d heard that the meeting was set for July? Jenney had named the month. Did that make him the organizer?

The chinless Grady said, “I’ll do anything I can, short of promising our chapel. I’m not sure our head would go that far.”

“He must be pressed,” Jenney said. “We need support from within the university. Our headmaster is useless. His only god is Mammon.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Barrow said. “The services in our chapel —”

“The services in our chapel are a scandal!” Jenney cried. “Nothing but book prayers, as if we were a college of illiterates.” Bright spots burned in his cheeks and tears slicked his black eyes. He speared a piece of rabbit with the point of his knife and contemplated it as sadly as if it had once been kin.

“Our chapel is too small anyway,” Tom said. He hoped they would think he was only pretending to know what they were talking about, not that he actually did know. How could he know? No one had told him anything yet. He itched with impatience, longing to take a bigger step forward yet fearing to risk too much too soon.

He glanced at Abstinence to see if she was impressed by his boldness. She was busy brushing breadcrumbs from her chest in soft strokes of her thumb, causing her full breasts to bobble under her partlet. Time stopped until the crumbs were gone and she once again took up her spoon.

William Grady emitted a sigh. Tom’s nostrils flared. He nearly bared his teeth at the clown.

“— Emmanuel. We want to be in town, close to the official functions.”

God’s bollocks! He’d missed something crucial again. Worse, he hadn’t caught who’d said it. Someone opposite: Barrow, Jenney, or the man from Emmanuel. Or the parson?

Fragments, cursed fragments! He couldn’t write a report full of crumbs. Bacon would rightly demand to know what was wrong with his wits. He wouldn’t understand about the thumb and the partlet and how a ripe breast in motion draws a man’s attention like a fish on a taut line.

But if Tom filled in the gaps with guesses, he might send the wrong man to the gallows.