“Her Majesty is too kind,” I interrupted gently, “but there is no need for an inquest. Peregrine and I took our midday meal on the bridge yesterday. He must have eaten something tainted. He complained of stomach pains on the ride back.”
“Ah.” Though Rochester did his best to conceal it, I could see his relief. He had enough to contend with at court without a possible murder to investigate. “That is indeed unfortunate. It’s never safe to eat at the stalls. The meat: You never know where it came from. Cats, dogs, rats-in times of need, people will cook anything. Poor lad.”
I nodded. I needed him to go. I wasn’t sure I could maintain my composure if he kept talking. “Shall I get dressed?” I suggested.
He nodded hastily. “I’ll await you in the privy gallery.”
As soon as he left, I pressed my knuckles to my temples, staving off a wave of utter despair. Unraveling the bundle of clothing, I found a plain but well-cut wool doublet, breeches, hose, and underlinens.
I washed thoroughly before I dressed and ran a comb through my tangled hair. I needed to see a barber, too. After rubbing the crust of snow and dirt from my boots, I slipped my letter to Kate into my doublet and went to the gallery. Rochester brought me to a side chamber to partake of bread, cheese, beer, and dried fruit. I was grateful he didn’t mention Peregrine again, filling the awkward silence between us instead with chat of the weather and the rarity of the Thames freezing over, until the hour came to join the queen.
It was a long trajectory, through an upper loggia overlooking the barren gardens and several galleries where courtiers congregated to pass the time. As we walked, I asked Rochester about the Spaniard I’d encountered the previous day.
His mouth pursed. “That would be the Duke of Feria. He’s a trusted noble and confidant of-” He stopped himself. “A hard man,” he muttered, “as all these Spaniards are apt to be. I understand he wasn’t helpful to you.”
“He was taken aback.” I realized Rochester had almost admitted aloud that Feria was a confidant of Prince Philip. “I’m not sure how I’d have reacted in his place.”
“A sight better than he did, I’m sure,” said Rochester. “Mistress Dormer was the one who fetched me from the hall, scared out of her wits, while he stood there as if…” He sighed. “I suppose there’s no use stirring up what we can do nothing about.”
“You’re a good man,” I said.
“Somebody has to be” was his reply. “I fear there are too few of us these days.”
I debated for a moment. I had a sudden suspicion about Rochester that I needed to confirm. It was a calculated risk but worth the attempt. He could always refuse.
“I have a missive I must send.” I removed the letter from my doublet. “A friend of mine should be told of my squire’s passing. Could I impose on you to…?”
He came to a halt. “I suppose you’ll want it sealed and sent by courier?”
“If possible. Can you see it delivered to Theobalds House in Hertfordshire?” I did not elaborate; as color crept into his fleshy cheeks, I knew without a word spoken that he had recognized the name of Cecil’s manor. I almost smiled, despite the circumstances.
Rochester looked at me. Still without speaking, he took the missive and tucked it into the large pouch at his belt. “Just this once,” he said, turning to resume our walk. “I ask that you keep it between us. I’m not authorized to use our couriers without leave.”
“I’m very grateful,” I said softly.
In the spacious chamber where I’d selected plum velvet for Mary, the queen and her women sat before the hearth. I bowed on the threshold; the queen rose and came to me. She wore black, her high peaked collar framing her drawn features; she looked tired as she took my hands in hers in a maternal gesture and said, “I am deeply grieved by your loss, Master Beecham. No child should ever die thus.” Her voice wavered. “No child should die.”
“Majesty,” I murmured. “I am deeply honored.” As I spoke, I lifted my gaze to see Lady Clarencieux and young Jane Dormer in the background. They, too, were in black and regarded me sadly. Standing apart, the alabaster hue of her skin in striking contrast to her dark gown, was Sybilla. She inclined her head, as though we had only just met.
Mary said, “I’ve ordered that your squire be interred in All Hallows Church. His body is there; you may go and pay him your final respects later, if you wish. The burial is scheduled for the afternoon. This private mass is for us.”
I recognized this singular privilege. Royalty never attended funerals, much less those of commoners; Mary’s decision to hear a mass in honor of Peregrine was exceptional, a display both of the esteem in which she held me and of her innate kindness.
It brought a lump to my throat as we proceeded into the chapel. The scent of incense lay thick in the enclosed air, and while this private place of worship was not large, a deep sense of intimacy pervaded it. Frail winter light pierced the jeweled stained-glass windows set high in the stone walls, gilding the painted columns of the transept and carved angels entwined above the purple-velvet-draped altar.
I’d never heard a Catholic service before, but as I took my place in the pew and the priest began to recite the litany, the rhythmic cadence of his Latin brought me unexpected peace. I allowed myself to release the fury and sorrow for a few moments and pay homage to the boy I would always remember, my intrepid friend and companion whom I’d not valued as much as I should.
“God in heaven,” said the priest, “those who die will live in your divine presence. We lift our prayers to you and your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, who died for our sins and now lives in eternity. May the souls of our beloved departed ones rejoice in your kingdom, where tears are wiped away and your praises are sung forever and ever. Amen.”
I made the sign of the cross, startled by my instinctual memory of the act. Mistress Alice had taught me in my childhood; she had remained steadfast to the vanquished Roman practices of old, but it had been years since I had performed it. Though it was ingrained into the very weft of our world, the root of hatred and disorder, I’d rarely had the luxury of considering my place in the afterlife; I’d been too busy trying to protect my hide in this one. Still, as the queen rose from her pew and I marked the genuine devotion on her face, I envied her ability to seek solace in dusty, time-honored rituals. No matter how much faith I lacked, I would never forget what she had done for me this day.
Outside the chapel, I bowed again over her hand. “May your squire find swift passage through purgatory into the kingdom of heaven,” Mary murmured and she returned with her ladies to her rooms. I stared after her for a long moment and was about to walk away when the apartment door reopened. Sybilla emerged. She quickly shut the door behind her, with a furtiveness that made me think she was slipping out unseen.
“Shall we walk?” she asked.
We moved into a gallery, where the chill seeping through the walls was smothered by ornamental tapestries, smoke-darkened paintings, and wrought-iron sconces festooned in melted cascades of wax. The evening tapers, now burned to nubs, were being collected by servants to be melted and recast, candles being one of the court’s largest expenses. Icy sunlight filtered through window bays overlooking the gardens; beyond the mullioned panes arched a brilliant cloudless sky-one of those astonishing skies that turned the winter-bound landscape into a glittering wonder and almost made you forget the long, bitter months yet to come.
At length, Sybilla broke the quiet. “Did you keep your appointment?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Although it did not go quite as I expected.”
“Few things do.” I met her violet-blue eyes. Her brow creased. “You seem perturbed. Did you discover something that troubles you?”