burial until after Twelfth Day.”
Hodge’s death hardly seemed to stem the eating and drinking, she noted, though the queen’s own stomach had not settled since she had seen the corpse hanging as if it were another piece of Yuletide holly to be cast off after the revels. She merely picked at her favorite dishes and settled instead for the sweet fruit suckets she loved. Her mind wandered from the conversation, even from Robin’s, whom she had more or less forgiven once again for meddling where he was not bidden.
“I believe I will take some hippocras instead of straight wine,” she told her servers, “just to help with digesting all this. The food was fabulous, of course, even prepared and delivered under duress.” She saw their eyes light with pleasure as bright as their new livery before they hurried away.
Elizabeth’s gaze caught Cecil’s. He had not missed that she had hardly tasted the array of dishes. When the hippocras was proffered to her, she downed it, then excused herself early, though she told her Lord Chamberlain to announce merely that she was tired and all could stay at their places. She only hoped, despite the exhaustion of this day, that her master cook, Roger Stout, would have something to tell her about Hodge Thatcher’s motives for possible suicide. She was no doubt clutching at straws, but if she received only one gift for the holidays, she prayed it could be that no murderer stalked her court.
Cecil also excused himself early and joined the queen just as Roger Stout was escorted into her otherwise empty presence chamber. “Will you write down pertinent facts, my lord?” she whispered to Cecil as Stout stopped before the table where his two betters were seated.
He appeared to be both flushed with excitement and drained by exhaustion; she noted well that the new livery she had given him today looked pleasing on him, but for a fresh splotch on the left shoulder.
“Clifford,” she addressed her trusted yeoman guard as he was about to leave the room, “draw up a chair for Master Stout, as he has had a doubly trying day.”
“You are most thoughtful, Your Majesty,” Stout said as he rose from his bow, “and I am most grateful.” When both she and Cecil praised the meal, he told them, “If the many dishes were garnished well, thanks be to George Brooks, Master Hodge’s ‘prentice of long standing. With your gracious permission, I’ll elevate him to the position of dresser pro tem ‘til you name another.”
“That will be fine, Master Stout,” the queen assured him as he sat in the chair Clifford brought from the back of the room. When Clifford went out, the muted sounds of laughter and music floated to them from below.
“And now,” she went on, “will you tell us anything you know that might indicate—despite the bizarre garnishing of Hodge’s body—that the poor man might have possibly done away with himself?”
“ ‘Tis mostly from knowing his state of mind, Your Majesty.”
“Say on.”
“Hodge Thatcher comes from a long line of thatchers, I mean, those who thatch roofs, you see. Not unusual for a name to come from a long-tended family occupation. The thing is, Your Majesty, his father expected him to take over the trade, especially when the old man, his sire, slid off a roof—out by Wimbledon, it was—and broke his back. Can’t move from his waist down, the old man.”
“So Master Hodge felt guilty over disappointing his father?” she summarized. Glancing over Stout’s head she could see a portrait of her own father hanging on the wainscotted wall; she had paid it little heed for months, but it suddenly seemed to be staring at her. When she first came to the throne, she used to be ever aware of it Sometimes the eyes even seemed to follow her around the room. Though her royal sire had more than once declared a woman could never sit on England’s throne, she was certain her father would be proud of her—wouldn’t he?
“Aye, guess that would be part of
Hodge’s death hardly seemed to stem the eating and drinking, she noted, though the queen’s own stomach had not settled since she had seen the corpse hanging as if it were another piece of Yuletide holly to be cast off after the revels. She merely picked at her favorite dishes and settled instead for the sweet fruit suckets she loved. Her mind wandered from the conversation, even from Robin’s, whom she had more or less forgiven once again for meddling where he was not bidden.
“I believe I will take some hippocras instead of straight wine,” she told her servers, “just to help with digesting all this. The food was fabulous, of course, even prepared and delivered under duress.” She saw their eyes light with pleasure as bright as their new livery before they hurried away.
Elizabeth’s gaze caught Cecil’s. He had not missed that she had hardly tasted the array of dishes. When the hippocras was proffered to her, she downed it, then excused herself early, though she told her Lord Chamberlain to announce merely that she was tired and all could stay at their places. She only hoped, despite the exhaustion of this day, that her master cook, Roger Stout, would have something to tell her about Hodge Thatcher’s motives for possible suicide. She was no doubt clutching at straws, but if she received only one gift for the holidays, she prayed it could be that no murderer stalked her court.
Cecil also excused himself early and joined the queen just as Roger Stout was escorted into her otherwise empty presence chamber. “Will you write down pertinent facts, my lord?” she whispered to Cecil as Stout stopped before the table where his two betters were seated.
He appeared to be both flushed with excitement and drained by exhaustion; she noted well that the new livery she had given him today looked pleasing on him, but for a fresh splotch on the left shoulder.
“Clifford,” she addressed her trusted yeoman guard as he was about to leave the room, “draw up a chair for Master Stout, as he has had a doubly trying day.”
“You are most thoughtful, Your Majesty,” Stout said as he rose from his bow, “and I am most grateful.” When both she and Cecil praised the meal, he told them, “If the many dishes were garnished well, thanks be to George Brooks, Master Hodge’s ‘prentice of long standing. With your gracious permission, I’ll elevate him to the position of dresser pro tem ‘til you name another.”
“That will be fine, Master Stout,” the queen assured him as he sat in the chair Clifford brought from the back of the room. When Clifford went out, the muted sounds of laughter and music floated to them from below.
“And now,” she went on, “will you tell us anything you know that might indicate—despite the bizarre garnishing of Hodge’s body—that the poor man might have possibly done away with himself?”
“ ‘Tis mostly from knowing his state of mind, Your Majesty.”
“Say on.”
“Hodge Thatcher comes from a long line of thatchers, I mean, those who thatch roofs, you see. Not unusual for a name to come from a long-tended family occupation. The thing is, Your Majesty, his father expected him to take over the trade, especially when the old man, his sire, slid off a roof—out by Wimbledon, it was—and broke his back. Can’t move from his waist down, the old man.”
“So Master Hodge felt guilty over disappointing his father?” she summarized. Glancing over Stout’s head she could see a portrait of her own father hanging on the wainscotted wall; she had paid it little heed for months, but it suddenly seemed to be staring at her. When she first came to the throne, she used to be ever aware of it Sometimes the eyes even seemed to follow her around the room. Though her royal sire had more than once declared a woman could never sit on England’s throne, she was certain her father would be proud of her—wouldn’t he?
“Aye, guess that would be part of
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