The Playmaker by J.B. Cheaney

Author:J.B. Cheaney
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780307559111
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2000-01-18T22:00:00+00:00

RUMORS SWIFT AND HOT

tarling worried my account of the funeral almost to death, but could make no more sense of it than I. If the cup-and-hand device was connected with Philip Shackleford's house, what interest did my aunt have in it? Or my father, who had carried that very image on his own person? “It's not a symbol of the house,” she decided, “not like a coat of arms. Perhaps it's more the symbol of a society or faction. Perhaps a secret society, like the Knights Templar.”

“Secret societies don't fly their flags,” I pointed out. “Yet they rolled out that grave cloth as bold as the Queen's arms. If it's a Catholic symbol, could it mean that the Lord Chamberlain has papist leanings?”

“No,” she said, quite firmly. “Lord Hunsdon has been the Queen's own man from the very beginning, and true as gold. If he was flaunting that cloth, it would be for some good reason.” But neither of us could fathom what that reason might be.

In mid-July came a report that the Queen had fallen ill in Northumberland. The news varied widely: she was recovering; she lay at death's door; she leapt from her sickbed and danced a reel; she was taken by seizures. Within days, some were saying that she had been poisoned—by a Catholic. I recalled how King John, in the play, had met his end likewise. As I was beginning to learn how art could echo life, the rumors gave me a terrible foreboding. True, Catholics had not threatened the Crown for eight years, or not since their last plot was cut off along with the Queen of Scots' head. But Elizabeth was old—destined to go the way of all flesh in God's good time, and had yet to name an heir. Surely the papists would not let her do so without an attempt to maneuver one of their own into the line of succession, and perhaps even hasten the Queen's end if she took too long to die.

This is what the servants were discussing late one afternoon, in the coolness of the great room. With the mistress and children gone and Master Harry usually out, they had the run of the house and liked to gather during the hottest hour of the day for a cup of ale or cider. Almost the entire household was present—Nell the cook, Tobias the butler, Jacob the gardener, Starling, and me— when Betty rushed in with flushed cheeks, waving her hands excitedly.

“Disporting with the neighbors' footman again!” Nell chided.

“But wait until you hear what he told me!” Betty fluttered. “Such news!” Of course, that got our attention, and she went on to impart what she had learned from her swain: at noon that very day, an apprentice was pushing a loaded wine cart through Ludgate when the little keg on top worked its way to the edge of the pyramid, overbalanced, and fell to the street. There it bounced on the rough cobbles, struck a curbstone, and broke apart.

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