The Widows Guild: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 3)

  A Francis Bacon Mystery — Book 3

  The Widows Guild

  Anna Castle

  The Widows Guild

  A Francis Bacon Mystery

  Kindle Edition | October 2015

  Discover more works by Anna Castle at www.annacastle.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Anna Castle

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan

  Editorial services by Jennifer Quinlan, Historical Editorial

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9916025-9-9

  Produced in the United States of America

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 29 August 1588

  Francis Bacon sat at a scarred oak table in an interrogation chamber of the Tower, waiting for another prisoner to be brought up for questioning. He devoutly hoped this one would recognize the extremity of his situation and simply take the oath, surrendering a name or two. Then they could release him without further ado. The hope was not unreasonable; about half of the men they’d questioned so far had been eager to cooperate.

  The other half had been hanged.

  The loathsome chore of probing the loyalty of every known recusant Catholic in England had been appointed to Francis, along with seven other commissioners. His uncle, the Lord Treasurer, had offered him the post as a reward for past service — more work being the usual remuneration tendered by Her Majesty’s frugal ministers. Serving on the recusancy commission was an honor, after all; everyone said it. The other commissioners were far senior to Francis’s twenty-seven years, and several of them were knights.

  And the work was necessary. English Catholics had in fact conspired to remove Queen Elizabeth from England’s throne many times since her accession. This summer, the whirlwind of rumors, portents, and warnings swirling through Europe had in fact resolved itself into a real armada: over a hundred Spanish ships carrying an estimated thirty thousand troops, bearing down on England’s sparsely defended coast.

  The valiant English navy — and every Englishman with a boat — had dogged the Spanish fleet along the southern coast for most of July, nipping at their tails, keeping them at bay, while the whole country held its breath in terror lest the fragile defenses fail and ferocious Spanish tercios surge onto their shores.

  Everyone knew King Philip had sent his awesome fleet to kill the queen, convert the populace at sword point, and swallow England into the over-swollen Spanish empire.

  The English defenses had held. They’d driven the armada against the coast at Calais and closed in to strike. Sailors who witnessed the final battle on the eighth of August still spoke of it with a tremor in their voices and tears in their eyes.

  England had won, or so it seemed. Her navy had driven the broken Spanish fleet north into the German Sea, but no one knew if or when or where they might stop to regroup. Drake thought they’d head for Denmark. Lord Burghley feared a landing in Scotland, where they might find friends, land their troops, and invade from the north, where so many English men and women continued to practice the old religion.

  The queen wanted put the crisis behind them and let the people — especially soldiers being paid by the state — go back to their normal lives. She led a triumphant procession to St. Paul’s Cathedral on the twentieth of August to give thanks for God’s mercy in granting them the victory. The battles at sea had ended, but the streets now reeked from neglect. Sick and hungry men trickled in daily from the coasts, struggling to get home.

  People snapped at each other, on edge, everyone’s humors out of balance. The hangings of recusants over the past few days had helped somewhat to purge the city of fear and anger, like the catharsis of a Greek play. At least Francis hoped they served some purpose. There had been so many.

  No one knew where the Spanish fleet was now or where it was going, but the security of the nation depended on knowing; hence the need for this commission, composed of clerks of the Privy Council, officers of the Tower, and experts in the common law. Every recusant — persons who refused to attend the services of the established Church of England — had to be examined. Francis shared the sense of urgency and accepted even the need for torture in times of imminent peril, but after every interview, he trudged home through the filthy streets with his stomach in knots. He knew in his bones that making fresh martyrs only prolonged the controversy.

  “Did you hear Drake’s report?” Sir Richard Topcliffe, Francis’s co-commissioner, sat drumming his fingers on the tabletop in an irritatingly irregular rhythm.

  “No,” Francis said. He had not been in court that day. “But I understand the navy is exhausted and our coffers are empty.”

  Sir Richard said, “Drake wants to send a fleet to strike the Spanish hard, now, in their own ports, while they’re weak.”

  The English were too. Drake would be hard-pressed to man even a single ship. “Did he have any news about the location of the armada?”

  “We’ve seen the last of them,” Sir Richard said. “They’re staggering around the coast of Scotland, is my guess.”

  Everyone had their own guesses. “No word from Ireland yet, I suppose?”

  Sir Richard barked a laugh. “Don’t you trust my judgment by now, Mr. Bacon? I’ve been right about these prisoners of ours nine times out of ten, haven’t I?”

  More like five out of ten; a pathetic score, considering Sir Richard had gathered most of the names on their list himself in his capacity as a pursuivant for the Privy Council. He had spent the last year traveling through the kingdom meeting bishops and justices of the peace to collect the names of those who failed to attend their parish churches on Sunday morning, as prescribed by law. Leading recusants, especially those with known associates on the Continent, were sent to Wisbech Castle in Ely, where they could be securely guarded. Gentlemen who convinced the authorities of their desire to cooperate were confined to their homes until the current crisis had passed. The lesser sort were brought to London and confined in prison cells to await their examinations.

  Lord Burghley, a fellow Lincolnshire man, held Sir Richard in high esteem, but Francis knew him to be the worst kind of zealot. He loved to find men guilty — a dangerous bias when lives were at stake.

  “Praise God for the news,” Sir Richard’s clerk said. He sat at the small table in the corner, unpacking his writing materials with the air of a man who had worked in far worse circumstances than this stuffy, stone-walled chamber. He rarely spoke, but often flashed a thin smile at a prisoner’s reaction to his master’s threats. He was a short, soft-bodied man with thinning hair combed over his balding pate, somewhere between Francis’s twenty-seven years and Sir Richard’s fifty-seven. His accent revealed his Lincolnshire origins.

  Francis unrolled the documents concerning today’s subject, one Thomas Howard of Suffolk. He suppressed a sigh. Would there be any of that surname left by the time the war with Spain had finally exhausted itself? The late and unlamented Duke of Norfolk, another Thomas Howard, had allegedly conspired with the late and less lamented Mary, Queen of Scots to dethrone Elizabeth and return England to the Catholic fold. Others of that family c
ontinued to foster Jesuit priests and disseminate Catholic pamphlets. They had to be stopped, one way or another.

  Footsteps resounded outside the door. Sir Richard rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation. “This one is sure to need stretching — a little exercise on the rack. Not much doubt with that name, eh, Mr. Bacon?”

  “Let us not pre-judge the case, Sir Richard. Our warrant constrains us to ask questions first and use harsher measures only in the obstinate cases.”

  “Ha! You’re too soft, Mr. Bacon, too soft by half. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, I say. Especially the stinking fumes of their idolatrous incense. You can smell it on their skin.”

  The guards ushered in a slight man wearing a dirty shirt and slops. They shoved him onto a stool and left. The man faced his interrogators with wary eyes hollowed by lack of sleep. His gaze shifted from Francis to Sir Richard, then settled on Francis, perhaps because he looked the less frightening.

  Francis was slight, like the prisoner, with softly curling brown hair and hazel eyes. He wore his beard and moustache closely trimmed and dressed in simple yet well-tailored clothes of brown and black. His tall black hat bore only a plain gray band, though woven of silk. His barrister’s gown declared his profession and possibly conveyed an assurance that the law prevailed even here in this fearsome stronghold.

  Sir Richard, in contrast, dressed the part of an executioner, in starkest black with blood-red belt, garters, and hat band. His black hair and spade-cut beard were streaked with white. Thick black brows overshadowed his dark eyes, giving him a hooded aspect. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a large round belly, and used his bulk to intimidate the prisoners.

  Francis spoke first. He kept his tone level to signal the routine nature of the interview and put the prisoner at ease. “Good afternoon, Mr. Howard. We have a few questions to ask you today, nothing more. Then we’ll administer the Oath of Supremacy, and you’ll be returned to your cell to await further judgment.”

  “I’m not —”

  “Wait for the questions!” Sir Richard pounded his meaty fist on the table, making both Francis and the prisoner jump.

  Francis wanted to offer the man a smile, but he had learned not to. It only seemed to frighten them more. “Our pursuivants found a quantity of pamphlets written by Cardinal Allen in your house, evidently intended to be spread more widely. Where did you obtain them?”

  “I never did! I wouldn’t read such trash, nor ever let it into my house.” The man shot a fearful glance at Sir Richard. “I’m not the one you want. Ask anyone. Ask my wife, I beg you.”

  “Ah, yes, your wife,” Sir Richard said. “I well believe she’s the one who bought those scurrilous tracts. Her so-called music tutor has been proved a seminary priest, hasn’t he?”

  “My wife has no —”

  Sir Richard leaned across the table, thrusting his scowling face forward. The prisoner pressed his lips together and began to tremble from head to toe.

  Sir Richard’s deep voice fell into a menacing cadence. “You cannot hide behind your wife, Mr. Howard. She may be as guilty as you — more guilty, most like. Women are weak. They cling to their old superstitions. And they’re sly, keeping their secrets inside their houses. We may not be able to prosecute her, but in its wisdom, the law makes you and she one person, with you the head — a head on a slender neck that can be stretched.” He mimed pulling up a hanging rope. His clerk flashed an eager grin. “We hanged ten of your kind from Tyburn Tree this morning and watched them dance the hempen jig. Deny your foul seditious deeds and we’ll stretch the rest of you too, by my good queen’s virtue! If we must, I promise you, we’ll get a warrant to bring your sneaking, traitorous wife here to answer questions as well.”

  The prisoner wailed. Francis smelled hot piss. He wished Sir Richard would let the poor man speak, not only to get his answers written down but to hear his accent. Something wasn’t right.

  “I’ll tell you anything,” the prisoner said, tears streaming down his unwashed cheeks. “Please, I beg of you, leave my wife alone. She’s a good —”

  Three knocks pounded on the door. Sir Richard called, “Come!”

  A guard came in and sidled up to Sir Richard. He bent his head and murmured, “May I have word in private, sir?”

  Sir Richard pointed a thick finger at the prisoner. “Sit there in your stink and think of every man — and woman — who has ever celebrated the devil’s masses in that secret chapel of yours. Oh, yes! Don’t think we don’t know about it!” He rose, beckoning his clerk to accompany him. They followed the guard out the door, closing it behind them.

  Francis seized the opportunity. He spoke in a low, urgent voice. “When he comes back, I’ll offer to administer the oath before asking any questions. Take it, I beg of you, without fuss or disputation. There’s something odd about this evidence against you, but I’m not sure what it is. Take the oath! And go to church, for God’s sake, your own sake, and the sake of your family!”

  “I swear to you, Mr. Bacon, I have never —”

  Francis held up his hand. “It isn’t so great a burden. Outward conformity is all that is required. Paint an attentive expression on your face and think whatever you like.” He ventured a smile. “That’s what I do.”

  “But, Mr. Bacon, I swear by —”

  “Shh!” Francis heard the latch click and waved the man to silence.

  The other men returned, leaving the door wide open. The clerk returned to his table and began packing up his writing desk. Sir Richard stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the prisoner with a wry grin on his grizzled cheeks. He cut his gaze toward Francis. “It seems there’s been a little mistake, Mr. Bacon. This gentleman here is not Mr. Thomas Howard of Suffolk. It seems the documents were miscopied. By the account of several of his cousins, all of whom are waiting in the yard below, he is in truth one Howard Thomas of Sussex and as good a Protestant as you or me.” He chuckled as if it were a simple comical error, like mixing up the date or putting on the wrong hat, not one that had nearly sent an innocent man down to be cruelly tortured. “You’re free to go, Mr. Thomas.”

  His chuckle rose to hearty laughter as the prisoner fainted into the dirty straw.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thomas Clarady pressed himself against a tapestry worth as much as his father’s annual income, wishing he could slip behind it and escape this stifling chapel. He and his best friend, Benjamin Whitt, had been summoned to witness an event he’d hoped somehow might never take place: the marriage of their mutual friend, Trumpet, properly known as Lady Alice Trumpington, soon to be Lady Surdeval.

  Her groom, Ralph Gumery, the first Viscount Surdeval, must have been three times her age. Or more; thrice nineteen made only fifty-seven. That doddering sack of puss could well be sixty. His hair was still yellow — what was left of it — but his eyes looked rheumy even from ten feet away, and his long nose had a crook in the middle. His spindly legs were too weak to hold him up by themselves; he needed a cane to stand next to his lithesome bride.

  “Does he always look so crabbish?” Tom whispered to Ben.

  “This is his third time around. I suppose the excitement wanes.”

  Ben’s own habitual expression was that of a hound left behind while his pack mates raced out for the hunt. He was comely enough, or would be if he took more pains with his appearance. Taller than most, topping Tom by a good two inches, he tended to stoop to accommodate his companions. Dark brows overhung his sad brown eyes, shadowing the intelligence gleaming within. His brown hair and short beard were always neatly barbered, but he wore old-fashioned flat wool caps. He wore old-fashioned everything, being too thrifty to borrow money for clothes.

  He did provide a countermatch to Tom, who always took pains with his appearance and had no qualms about running up bills at the mercers’ shops. Tom had sky-blue eyes and curling blond hair with a stylishly pointed beard and thin moustache. He would have worn his best yellow silk and green velvet doublet this evening, with the yellow silk s
tockings, if he’d been given any warning. As it was, he’d come straight from pistol practice in his sweat-soaked shirt and dusty slops. He’d been allowed to grab his doublet, so he at least was decent, but he hadn’t even had time to change his shoes and stockings.

  Tom glared at the couple before the altar, gritting his teeth in a futile effort to stop thinking about what came after the wedding supper. He could not endure even the flicker of a shadow of the image of Trumpet in bed with that paunchy, onion-eyed fustilarian. She was beautiful on a bad day, even when dressed as a muddy boy. True, she lacked height and tended toward constant motion, but her emerald eyes shone in a heart-shaped face surrounded by glossy black hair. Her figure curved the right amount in all the right places, and she moved with a catlike grace.

  Today she shone in triumphant splendor, radiant as a goddess, wearing the same pink and silver confection she’d worn on another day of bitter surprises in Cambridge last year. It made her look like an enchanted doll.

  “We must stop this madness,” he hissed into Ben’s ear.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Ben whispered back. “We spent months arranging this match.”

  “The man’s a goblin! He’s got one foot in the grave already.”

  Ben shrugged. “It’s what she wants.”

  Tom snarled but couldn’t refute that argument. Trumpet had always said she wanted a rich, titled husband, old and preferably on his last legs. He’d always assumed she’d been joking. She couldn’t have a very clear idea of what happened on the wedding night or she wouldn’t seem so cursed pleased with herself.

  She flashed him a grin that made his heart dance an antic hay. He couldn’t muster an answering grin; he could only glare at her in dull disbelief. He whispered, “Why did you bring me here to watch this travesty?”

  “What?” Ben’s deep voice sounded surprised. “We thought you’d want to be here.”