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  tions might be required, but England’s Majesty was to be obeyed unquestionably.

  And so the Stoeks got ready as best they could amid endless speculation as to what the summons meant. Joan had a new gown made, with a lace bodice and long, flowing sleeves in green and vermilion, and Matthew a new suit, including a handsome velvet doublet with pearl buttons that a gentleman might have envied. Matthews neighbors and apprentices were equally excited, for somehow the news had spread as such news must in a small town, even though Matthew and Joan had resolved to be discreet about their journey.

  The arrival of the coach and the retinue of armed riders on the day indicated did little to satisfy the curiosity of the townsfolk as to why the Stocks were bound for London again and in such style. And despite Matthews popularity with his neighbors, a good many evinced signs of jealousy at these honors conferred so mysteriously on one of their own—one whom they had known all of his forty years, boy and man, apprentice and master, and now chiefly as prince of Chelmsford’s clothiers and constable extraordinary.

  A large crowd had gathered around the coach and in front of Matthew’s shop. The narrow street was virtually7 impassable. Of course many in the crowd asked where Matthew was going and why, and to each he answered “London.” But he said nothing about the Queen, although the finery of the coach and the presence of the mounted troop gave ample warrant that the excursion was to be no ordinary one.

  When the preparations were completed, Matthew turned his keys over to his young son-in-law, Will Ingram. Joan had her own words of counsel to Betty the cook and the several maids of the house on domestic maintenance during their absence, however long it should be. For neither knew that. Nor did they explain to their daughter, Elizabeth, and their son-in-law that the Queen’s bidding might also involve some danger. Matthew and Joan had included that possibility within their speculations.

  It was a torturous ride, the journey to London. The great square coach rumbled over the rutted road, churning up immense clouds of dust, and even the thick cushions of the seats could not

  spare them the tedium or discomfort of travel. Mercifully, their journey was broken by a night in a wayside inn, but although their jolly, unctuous host set an excellent table and their chamber was ample, warm, and relatively free of vermin, Matthew and Joan slept restlessly, preoccupied with visions of royal reward or censure. Then, even as the fledgling day began to assert itself against its mighty opposite, they were rousted, clothed, fed, and coached again, moving along a broader road now but one congested with carts, wagons, horses, and poor folk afoot, streaming toward the metropolis like flotsam on a great river destined to empty itself in the sea.

  About midday they passed through the city gate and now found themselves on so crowded and narrow a cobbled street that the coach could move only by fits and starts, with the captain of their troop making himself hoarse in commanding and cursing that a way should be made through the throng in the Queens name.

  It took the better part of the afternoon to travel through the city and come to their destination: Whitehall—that glorious palace fronting on the swan-strewn Thames, the greatest jewel among the palaces royal.

  Joan was hardly surprised to find that Whitehall was more like a small city than a mere manor with many rooms and an elegant front and that its maze of galleries, apartments, and chambers had been designed for use as well as show. Upon their arrival, they were provided with a young man and woman in royal livery to attend to their needs, and the Stocks were also directed to their place by a gentleman usher in a black robe and bearing a wand of office, who, having assured himself that these were indeed Matthew and Joan Stock of Chelmsford, dispensed with the courtesy of identifying himself and bore them off with conspicuous dignity and authority. Of the purpose of their visit or of their audience with the Queen the gentleman usher said not a word. Nor did he give any indication when the mystery of their summons would be resolved. It was plain from the expression on his face that he thought they should be content with the quarters assigned, the honor of being lodged in the palace, and the distinction of having conversed, albeit briefly, with the gentleman usher himself.

  Then he shut the door on them, leaving the female servant to unpack Joan’s things while the male counterpart performed a like service for Matthew.

  Meanwhile, Joan walked over to the window and looked out. It was a crisp October day, and above the city fleecy white clouds scudded along. Joan could see across the river to the low marshy ground of the Bankside and beyond to St. Pauls. She could see London Bridge and the solemn square Tower. In midstream of the river a flock of swans cruised in princely dignity, and at the rivers bend floated a handsome barge manned by doughty oarsmen doubtless transporting some luminary of the court, perhaps to the very palace where she now was.

  How her heart thrilled at it all!

  She was about to invite her husband to share her view when her attention was drawn to movement below her.

  Beneath her window was the palace garden, an artful arrangement of walks and arbors, flower beds and fountains, all laid out in geometrical perfection. A group of young women, all very elegantly gowned, moved slowly down a path. They were obviously enjoying the fine day, and all seemed involved in a common animated conversation, except for one who, no less comely or finely arrayed, lagged behind.

  It was in keeping with Joans curious nature that she should give her attention to the straggler. Was it lost love, a quarrel with her royal mistress, or some female complaint that caused such untoward melancholy? Joan wondered. While her companions stepped within doors, the girl lingered by a fish pond and stared for a while into its depths. Intrigued, Joan continued to watch. Then, suddenly, the girl looked up at Joan’s window and, Joan felt a wave of apprehension—a sudden chill in the marrow—and with that second sight that had been both bane and blessing of her life, she knew it was someone’s death the girl contemplated in that solitary stillness.

  Joan withdrew from the window, aware of having intruded upon the girl’s privacy. Turning, she saw that the servants had gone and Matthew was stretched out on the bed like a gentleman of leisure, his hands behind his head. His eyes were closed but she knew he was not asleep. The satisfaction on his face made her sure of that. He said, “Can this be believed, Joan?”

  “Can what be believed?”

  “Why, our being here, in Whitehall. And I nothing greater than a clothier of Chelmsford.”

  “And the constable,” she felt compelled to add, for her dignity’s sake as well as his.

  She was about to tell Matthew of the young woman she had been observing when a knock came at the door. It was not the stern gentleman usher whom she half expected but a more amiable personage she recognized as being in Sir Robert Cecil’s household. He announced that supper would be served shortly and that they were to join Sir Robert, who very much desired to speak with them both.

  The apartment where they were to sup was in another wing of the rambling edifice, and Joan and Matthew were pleased to be led there by a guide. The chamber had a high ornate ceiling and a bank of mullioned windows along one wall that showed the day in its decline. A table had been laid, at the end of which sat Cecil himself. The Principal Secretary had already commenced eating, for which he at once apologized. “I missed my breakfast. And was nigh unto death for hunger. Pray be seated. Don’t stand on ceremony. The food’s blessed and cooling apace.”

  By the settings Joan surmised that she and Matthew would be the knight’s only guests. A file of servants now entered bearing meat and drink. As their plates were filled, Joan glanced sideways at Cecil and felt as always the powerful attraction of his personality.

  Small and hunchbacked, he somewhat resembled an old child with prominent forehead, long, narrow face, and pointed beard. His eyes were dark and unusually alert, full of a suppressed merriment that could sometimes shift suddenly to black melancholy. He had small white hands, yet rather long fingers, and he ate delicately, picking at his food despite his claim of having been too f
amished to wait their coming.

  She noticed that Matthew did not ask why they were here. Nor did Cecil mention it. Cecil spoke of various matters, deliberately, it seemed, skirting that which was uppermost in her mind. The knight asked them about the suitability of their quarters and whether their journey had been a pleasant one. Matthew complained about the condition of the roads, and Cecil admitted it was a national scandal.

  But what could be done? Weren’t such matters within Gods province? As long as roadbeds were earthen, they would be subject to drought and wet, ice and sleet, not to speak of the constant abuse by man, beast, wagon, and, yes, coaches with their great wooden wheels and immense weight. ‘The Romans built roads of stone,” Cecil remarked casually between mouthfuls. He concluded the conversation with a description of some of Whitehall’s sights that should not escape their attention, but, of course, Joan’s mind was elsewhere. And, strangely, more than once on the young woman she had seen that afternoon in the Queen’s garden, the young woman who had meditated upon death.

  Then the supper was done and it seemed to Joan that surely Cecil would now reveal the purpose of their coming. Would she return to Chelmsford as Lady Joan, worthy wife of Sir Matthew, or was some less glorious reward in the offing for services rendered? And finally the Queen’s Secretary spoke to the question, and she was free from bondage to speculation.

  “I know you have been wondering about Her Majesty’s summons—what it portends,” Cecil began amiably when the servants had cleared the table and the three were alone. Outside night had come. In the several hundred little panes of the mullioned windows as many images were presented of themselves and the room they sat in, illuminated only now by the candles on the table and the fire on the great hearth, which the last retreating servant had taken care to bank high before his departure. “I did not intend to burden you with fears—or with great expectations, but discretion is always advisable in these matters. And talk always better, too, on a full stomach.”

  Cecil asked them if they had ever heard of Sir John Challoner and when they said never, he told them that this same worthy knight’s niece was one of the Maids of Honor and then he began an account of the man himself.

  “A soldier of considerable merit, with some four or five Irish expeditions to his credit and a reputation for ferocity. His title— baronet—is hereditary, the family being old Saxon blood. His seat’s in Derbyshire—or was, I should say. A castle called Thorncombe. The gentleman is twelve months dead and buried.”

  Cecil had recited these few facts as though he had been reading

  Sir John s history from an invisible scroll suspended above the table. Now he paused, and his eyes took on a faraway look as though the same scroll had been removed and replaced with a private vision of the hills and dales of Ireland, the field of battle, the clamor of trumpets. “It is reported he endured every hardship of the camp. Ate raw beef at midnight and lay upon wet corn, drinking water, vinegar, and aqua vitae rather than good ale or wine. In times of greatest extremity he made a meal of horseflesh and once, according to the same report, spent a whole night waist-deep in a ditch surrounded by the bloody corpses of his comrades. He fought bravely against Tyrone, Connor Roe, and other rebel chiefs, and spent so much time in the field that it is said he knew every rock and rill in Munster, and Leinster too. Hacked and hewed the enemy with such fury at the English defeat at Armagh—”

  Cecil paused; a servant had entered to inquire whether Sir Robert wanted another stoup of wine. Cecil waved him away with an expression of irritation at the interruption, and when the door was closed again he continued his narrative, promising them that he would presently come to the nub of the matter.

  “Late in the summer of last year a musketball penetrated Sir Johns leg armor. Gangrene set in below the knee, and a five-shilling-a-week surgeon, newly impressed, no doubt, and resentful thereof, required half-dozen chops with a meat cleaver to remove the rotting member. It was thought best that Sir John retire from the field. Outfitted with a wooden leg, he decamped and returned to his ancestral seat—Thorncombe, as I have already said. It was there it happened.”

  “The strange death you spoke of?” Matthew asked.

  “Yes. A drowning. On the day of his homecoming. He had gone out upon a lake next the castle. In a boat. His servants tried to revive him, but to no avail.”

  Joan said, “Sir Johns death seems lamentable but hardly sinister. Many a man has fallen into a river, pond, or lake, never to rise therefrom.”

  “True, Joan,” said Cecil. “Many have gone to God or the devil in the manner you describe, but few drown and rise of their own strength. The servants found their master sitting bolt upright.”

  loan agreed that altered the case.

  Matthew asked if there had been a coroners verdict.

  ‘There was,” answered Cecil. “Death by misadventure. In want of hard evidence to the contrary. Sir John was dead for a fact; that his death was wrought by another was too much in doubt to pursue.”

  “Very strange,” murmured Matthew.

  “I assume this niece you spoke of believes otherwise than what the jury found,” Joan said.

  “An excellent surmise, Joan. The mouse’s nose is in the trap, for Mistress Frances Challoner has complained to the Queen, who has promised to look into the case.”

  “Which looking my husband is to do,” Joan said.

  “Right again! The trap is sprung!” Cecil smiled broadly.

  “But I have no authority outside my own parish,” Matthew protested.

  “You'll be Queens officer—her agent,” Cecil said. “It is for that purpose you have been summoned—you and Joan. Now you know the smattering of facts I have and the general character of your mission, the more particular details of which I will leave to Her Majesty to explain when you see her tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Matthew asked.

  “About nine o’clock. I will bring you to the Presence Chamber myself. The audience will be brief, never fear. Her Majesty has a full schedule during the day and must play host to the Spanish ambassador toward dinner hour, a very slippery fellow indeed. But, pray, don’t tell him I said that if you happen to meet him.”

  Cecil laughed at his own jest and Matthew joined in, but Joan sat still and unsmiling. She thought it very unlikely that she would meet the Spanish ambassador or any other such personage. On the other hand, they were to meet the Queen, and on the next day!

  For her that was quite enough excitement. Though she began to wonder if the Spanish ambassador spoke English and what she should say to the slippery gentleman if he addressed her.

  Raising a white hand to suppress a yawn, Cecil rose from the table to signal that their interview was over. “Sleep well, the both of you. Some of the beds in the palace are no better than a brothels— for sure maiming of the backbone, that is. I trust the gentleman usher has done well by you.”

  Joan assured the Queens Secretary that their chamber was quite comfortable. Matthew said he had already tried the bed and found it good. Then Cecil bid them good night again, and the gentleman of Cecils household who had shown them the way to his master’s apartment returned to lead them back to their own quarters and wish them a peaceful repose.

  It was now past nine o’clock, and since it had been a very long and tiring day, Matthew and Joan prepared for bed without further ado, washing their hands and faces in a silver bowl engraved with the royal arms, and then wiping themselves with towels of such wondrous softness that Matthew swore he had never seen the like. These rituals observed, they dressed in their nightgowns, prayed as was their custom, and then, candles extinguished and kisses exchanged, they succumbed to a sleep that even their anxiety about the morrow could not stay or disturb.

  Mistress Frances Challoner was a tall, well-featured young woman of eighteen years with hair the color of flax and skin so compounded of red and white that it put to shame all sunburned beauties of the court. Betrothed to a young man of her own choosing (a great rarity, thatl), heiress to a castle
and lands appurtenant, endowed with an income of a thousand pounds a year in her own right and therefore possessed of such gifts as to cause any other mortal nothing but envy of her lot, she was at that moment engulfed in a gross melancholy of so malevolent a force that even the prospects of marriage to the man she loved could not assuage it.

  She had deliberately slowed her pace to let her companions go before her, finding as she did their company irksome like the buzzing of a fly around the face.

  They were giggling and chattering, behaving quite indecorously, considering their station as the Queens Royal Maids and daughters of some of England’s most illustrious families. And all these offenses when Mistress Frances was preoccupied with solemn thoughts—of her uncle’s murder and of all those other tragedies of her personal history that the murder seemed to aggravate like salt in a wound.

  Her father had disappeared in an Irish bog when she was hardly out of her cradle, leaving her his name, a dim recollection of his

  face, and an embittered widow for her mother. Then, when Mistress Frances was twelve, the mother had died. Her uncle, Sir John Challoner, had been her only close relative, and since he was a bachelor gone off to the wars most of the year, the girl was a virtual orphan. She would have suffered she knew not what fate had the Queen not made her a royal ward. But her uncle, whom she had seen but twice in her life when he had come to London and for whom therefore she had no great affection, had had nevertheless no little value to her as a symbol of the ancient blood that coursed through her veins and separated her from the rout of young women of prominence, some of whose families were relative newcomers to gentility, much less nobility. And so it was not grief for a dead relative that prompted her melancholy, but a sense of injustice done upon her as his heir. Since she was the last of her race, the burden of defending Challoner honor had fallen upon her delicate shoulders, and she was determined to defend that honor in any way she could.