Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) (7 page)

So he walked over to the small stone village church where the Queen’s secretaries would set up their office. He spoke to the Queen’s chief clerk, Mr. Hughes, asking for someone who knew Latin but wasn’t too busy. Hughes gestured at the row of men standing at high folding desks, busy writing. Carey walked past them intending to ask one of the greybeards who were experienced and fast, but then he spotted the second-to-last man, a gawky spotty young creature whose worn grey wool doublet was older than he was from its fashion. The boy looked up and blinked at him short-sightedly. On impulse, he stopped.

“What’s your name?”

“John Tovey, sir.” He had a strong Oxford town accent.

“Can you translate this for me?”

The boy took the paper and blinked at it. “This is quite simple. Are you
sure
you need it translated, sir?”

Carey smiled. “You don’t normally work for the Queen’s clerks, do you?”

The boy blushed. “I’m…I’m the priest’s son here,” he stuttered, “I…I came to help to…to…”

The boy’s fingers were inky and had a scholar’s callus on the right index finger, so he probably was a genuine clerk.

Carey fished out another groat, a little less than a screever in London would have charged. “Go on,” he said, “English it as quick as you can. I’m due at the dancing.”

John Tovey nodded, gulped his large Adam’s apple against his falling band, took the documents from Carey and spread them out on his desk in the pool of light made by his couple of candles. The light in the church was poor. What followed was remarkable enough that Carey blinked his eyes at it. The boy simply laid down a fresh piece of paper, picked up and dipped his pen and started scribbling, with his finger tracing along the lines of Latin. No muttering aloud, no scratching out, he just wrote down the English for the fiendish Latin.

Carey looked around at the whitewashed walls and carvings. It had been badly damaged at some time in the past, no doubt at the time of the stripping of the altars. There were headless statues and the windows were boarded up.

“Carey!” boomed a voice behind him and Carey spun to see a large boyish man with a curly red-blond beard and wearing an eye-watering combination of tawny slashed with white. His doublet was crusted with amber and topaz, the white damask sprinkled with diamond sparks.

Carey’s left knee hit the tiles as he genuflected. “My lord Earl of Essex,” he said formally, genuinely pleased to see his lord.

Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, favourite of the Queen, bustled across the aisle to Carey, gesturing for him to stand and slung an arm across his shoulders. Essex was a couple of inches taller and at least a hand’s breadth wider than Carey, who was neither short nor narrow. Essex was a man designed by God for the tourney and he loomed and laughed loudly.

“Sir Robert, how splendid! I thought you were still in Berwick chasing cattle raiders…”

“My noble father ordered me south, my lord,” Carey said and on that thought, he remembered why he had been so anxious to see Essex. His stomach tightened. He had important information for the Earl about some investments of his and what Carey thought had really been going on. Unfortunately the news was very bad and Carey had been the Queen’s messenger of bad news often enough that he was nervous about it.

“I heard about you being in some scandalous brawl in the Fleet Prison,” said Essex. “What the devil have you been up to? Is it true you gave Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage a bloody nose?”

“It is, my lord,” Carey said and told him an edited version of the last few weeks of activity. Some of it made Essex tip his head back and shake the church rafters with his bellow of laughter. John Tovey jumped like a startled cat at the noise.

“But it was the matter that happened later which brought me here, my lord,” he added. “I wanted to talk to you about some lands you’ve bought in Cornwall…”

Essex’s face suddenly shut down, switching from a handsome boy’s face to something quite masklike.

“I don’t own any lands in Cornwall.”

“You don’t?” Carey was shocked. He had been so certain that the code word Icarus meant the Earl of Essex.

“No. There was a man called Jackson hawking them about a few months ago—recusant lands with gold in ’em, he said—but I don’t own any.”

“That’s wonderful news, my lord,” Carey said, smiling with relief. “You were absolutely right not to buy. I was very concerned because the whole thing was a lay to coney-catch…people at Court.” He had been on the verge of explaining his theory as to who had set the lay and why, but something stopped him. Essex wasn’t looking at him and his arm was not heavy across his shoulders anymore.

“Hmm, shocking,” said Essex vaguely. “Well, I didn’t.”

Alternatively, Essex had indeed bought the lands but had heard rumours already about their worthlessness and was lying about it in hopes of selling them on. Carey studied his face. Most courtiers, like Carey, shaved or trimmed their beards short to a goatee or a Spanish-style spade-shape. Essex, blessed with a luxuriant bush of red curls, grew it as nature wished and combed and oiled it every day. It left less of his face to read. For all his easy manner, Essex was a true courtier. Carey couldn’t be certain if he was lying or not.

“I’m sure plenty of men at Court have been caught by Jackson’s Papist lay, but not me,” Essex added.

He had to do it. He had to warn Essex of the real source of the trouble, if only because his own fortunes were still bound up with Essex’s.

“Perhaps Sir Robert Cecil will be disappointed,” Carey said very quietly, in case any of the other clerks working away at the desks by candlelight as the light faded had been paid to listen.

Essex’s blue gaze felt like a blow on the head, but then he looked at the boarded higher windows of the church.

“Yes, he always is, poor crookback.”

Carey said nothing. Essex had been Burghley’s ward as a boy and had grown up with Burghley’s second son, Robert, who had suffered from rickets as a child. It had never been very likely that they would be friends.

“So,” boomed Essex, “what are you here for, Sir Robert?”

Carey paused before he answered because he wanted Essex to help with the Queen’s impossible order. “I’m hoping for my fee for the deputy wardenship,” he explained, “but Her Majesty wants me to do something else first.”

Essex grunted sympathetically enough and allowed himself to be drawn outside the church walls and into the watery dregs of afternoon. Clouds were marching up from the west in great armies which didn’t bode well for the dancing later.

He explained the whole circumstance and Essex shook his head.

“Jesu, rather you than me,” he said. “That’s a nasty matter.”

“Did your stepfather ever tell you anything about it?”

Essex shook his head vigorously. “No, nothing. Wouldn’t even let his first wife be named in his presence.”

“Your lady mother?” Carey asked cautiously. “Did she…er…?”

“You’d think she’d have been jealous of Amy Robsart, as my stepfather’s first love, but she wasn’t. She was jealous, exceedingly. But not of Amy Robsart.”

Carey said nothing. They both knew the woman Lettice Knollys had real cause to hate.

“I’ll be seeing my lady mother later,” Essex said. “I’ll mention it to her if you like.”

“That would be very kind, my lord. I need all the help you can give. But surely the Dowager Lady won’t be coming to Court?”

“No, no, of course not, the Queen won’t have her. But she’s staying in Oxford at the moment so I’ll see what I can do…”

That was hopeful—if the Earl remembered his promise and if he actually kept it. Carey thought of mentioning Emilia’s suit, but then decided not to. After all, she hadn’t yet even offered him a proper fee for the introduction to Essex. There was a nervous cough behind him. Carey turned back to see John Tovey standing there in his worn grey doublet, holding a close-written piece of paper and looking scared.

“Mr. Tovey,” said Carey affably, “Have you finished?”

“Y…y…yes,” stuttered the boy.”D…did you want me to sign the copy?”

Carey shook his head, took the translation and read it carefully; a little to his surprise, some of the Latin had meant what he had guessed it did. As the Earl was still standing there, avid with curiosity, Carey passed it to him and he read it, too.

“It all seems in order, Sir Robert. The jury found it was an accidental death.”

Carey was so surprised to hear Essex say this that he looked carefully to see if the Earl was joking. No, there was no twinkle in the blue eyes, no smile, but no puzzled frown either. Essex saw nothing wrong with the accounts at all.

“Yes, my lord,” he said after a moment’s thought and didn’t say any of the things that had struck him forcibly even while he had been struggling with the Latin. He caught John Tovey’s eye and saw from the terror there that the boy knew who Amy Robsart was and had spotted what he had in the dry legal phrases. So he had better deal with that.

“I must go and meet the Queen,” said Essex. “I’ll do what I can for you, Sir Robert. I’ll arrange for you to talk to my lady mother—I’m sure she’ll be very happy to do it. But best not to mention the…er…the property business to her. She won’t be interested and might take it into her fluffy head to buy some, eh?”

There was an unfilial wink and a laugh and then the Earl turned and strode out of the churchyard, letting the gate bang behind him. Carey bowed to him as he went, honestly impressed at how well the Earl could fake genuine amusement. So that was who had bought up the Cornish recusant lands, was it? Of course Lettice Knollys’ son would have done the business for his lady mother. It made a lot of sense. Carey wondered if Sir Robert Cecil yet knew that detail—he would undoubtedly find out. Perhaps it would be a good idea for Carey to be the first to tell him? Or perhaps not. He would likely be annoyed, and Carey didn’t want Cecil to know how much he knew about the Jackson affair. Though he probably did.

Carey sighed at the weary complexity of Court life and turned to John Tovey, who was still standing there like a post, mouth open, Adam’s apple working every so often. His spots were more visible in the dull daylight, but he had done a creditable and more importantly fast job on the Latin. Carey sat down on the stone bench looking over the churchyard, the only part of the village not being camped on or grazed by the Court or its animals.

“Mr. Tovey, how old are you?”

“T…twenty, I think, sir.”

“Are you looking for a place as a clerk?”

The boy flushed—he was almost certainly not twenty but a couple of years younger at least.

“Er…yes. Yes, I am, sir.”

That was why rootless, penniless, but educated young men would come and clerk for the Queen on progress—in hopes of a cushy office job with perks. Some of them weren’t disappointed.

“What can you do?”

“I…I…can read and translate Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and write good secretary hand and italic as well. I can cast up accounts in Arabic figures and I…I know something of medicine and herbs.”

“Your father?”

“Is…the priest here. He taught me first and then, after I was prenticed to an Oxford ’pothecary, I went as a servitor at Magdalen, though at first they wouldn’t have me.”

“Why not?” There was a pause while the boy blushed ruby red and stuttered.

“I’m a b…b…bastard, sir.”

“Is that all? So’s my father. Did yours acknowledge you?”

“Yes, sir, but he never married my mother for fear of the Queen. She…er…she d…d…doesn’t like priests to marry.”

“Your mother?”

“Is dead, sir. A few years ago.”

“And you want to leave Rycote, seek your fortune?” He must, look at the place!

The boy flushed dark, gulped, and nodded convulsively once.

“Excellent. Would you like to work for me, Mr. Tovey, as my clerk? It would involve coming with me to Carlisle, I’m afraid.”

“Where’s that, sir?”

“A long way north. Next door to Scotland.”

“Oh.” A pause. Then another convulsive nod. Carey stepped closer, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and gripped. “Well then, if your father gives permission, I will be your good lord if you agree to be my man.”

The boy nodded and said “Yes, sir,” firmly enough. They shook hands on it. As it wasn’t a hiring fair there was no need to go and pay fees or sign indentures, though for form’s sake Carey intended to talk to the lad’s father. He hadn’t at all meant to recruit a clerk as well as a henchman, despite his hatred of paperwork. However he had to do something about what Tovey had read and unexpectedly understood. Bribing him sufficiently would cost a lot more than simply paying him wages every so often. And, anyway, if the boy was telling the truth about his accomplishments, he’d be getting a very good University clerk out of it.

“We’ll go and see your father, shall we? Get his permission? Do you know where he might be?”

“In the alehouse,” shrugged the boy. “He won’t care.”

They passed the place on the way back to the orchard and young Tovey was correct: his reverend father was drunk, playing quoits with the blacksmith, the miller, and the butcher. Once he understood what his base-born son was telling him, he was blurrily delighted that Carey was employing the boy without his even having to pay a shilling for the office. Tovey knelt for his father’s blessing and got a wave of the hand and a few mumbles for it.

The boy asked if he could go back to the church to finish some work for Mr. Hughes and be paid for it. This was entirely reasonable and saved Carey from having to find somewhere for the boy to sleep since the clerks always dossed down where they worked. The dusk was coming down fast and the air crisping as he strode to the orchard.

Carey didn’t really want to go and dance, even if there had been any chance of dancing with Emilia again. But he had to, if only to kneel to the Queen as part of the crowd and make sure she saw him. Mistress Thomasina had kindly given him an excellent way of being conspicuous without importunity. But his head was buzzing with the implications of the inquest findings into the thirty-two-year-old death of Amy Robsart. No wonder the jury had taken a full year to report, and had done so in such a way as to satisfy both conscience and, no doubt, covert influence from the Queen, Dudley, and who knew where else? The whole pile of papers must have been quietly buried in the Oxford town muniment room. It was lucky Thomasina had been able to find it and give him a copy. He was a little surprised they hadn’t been burned in a mysterious fire. Did she know what was in them? Maybe not; she wouldn’t understand Latin.