slowly off to the side of the crowd, so they could talk without whispering. “Then I hesitate to tell you what I’ve come for, Your Grace.” Her belly knotted again as he went on. “There is someone come to court to see your chief cook, but I believe you will want to meet the visitor.”
“Stop riddling, for I’ve had enough of that.”
“Hodge Thatcher’s crippled father, Wills, has been brought clear from Wimbledon on a cart with nail-studded wheels on the edge of the frozen river. It seems Roger Stout sent him a message of his son’s sad demise.”
“Why should I see him, the bitter man? Or do you mean he’s asking for his son’s body?”
“I’m afraid so. He’s broken, grieving. Somehow the two men who brought him carried him into the corner of the hall back there,” Cecil said, nodding toward the screened entry to the kitchens, “where he saw the mystery play being performed. But the thing is, he says he sent word to a friend visiting London who used to live in Wimbledon. He asked this friend to go tell Hodge in person that he regretted that cruel note he sent—the one we evidently read last night.”
“Wait,” she said, gripping Cecil’s sinewy wrist “You're saying Hodge was to have a visitor sent by his father, a man who might have arrived the afternoon he was killed and so could know some-thing about his death?”
“That’s it, though neither you nor Ned Topside will want to hear the visitor’s name,” Cecil said, raising his voice to be heard over applause.
“What does Ned have to do with that—or I, either?”
Cecil nodded toward the kitchen entry again. “It seems Hodge’s visitor is the angel in the play. Hodge’s father thought Giles Chatam was playing at an inn and was surprised to see him here at court, but there you are—perhaps a witness, a fallen angel fallen right in our lap.”
She did not laugh at his wordplay as her mind raced. “Then, too, the visitor could have killed Hodge,” she muttered, smacking her hands into her skirts. “I’ll see this Wills Thatcher now,” she added, starting toward the kitchen entrance, “and then the bright and shining Master Chatam after he ascends back into heaven in this mystery play.”
Chapter the Sixth
Mulled Cider
For the universal benefit and general improvement of our country, our love for cider shows the Englishman’s favoring of wholesome, natural drinks, even in a prference to the best beer from hops. To make, put 12 cups Kent cider in a large pan or kettle, add 1½ teaspoons whole cloves, 1½ teaspoons whole allspice, 6 sticks of cinnamon, and 1½ cups of brown sugar. Add 1 bottle of fermented cider, which can be strengthened also by freezing. Bring to a boil, stirring gently to dissolve the sugar. Simmer for a quarter hour to blend flavors, then discard spices. If possible, serve in heated pewter tankards. Makes at least 18 drinks. If served at holiday time, include slices of apples and a piece of toasted bread and drink the toast!
THE QUEEN SAW THAT WILLS THATCHER LAY ON A PALLET in the privy kitchen, his paralyzed legs draped with a woolen blanket. His carriers had put him on a work-table, so that he was easier to see and hear or to keep him off the cold flagstones. Her master cook, Roger Stout, spoke with the wizened old man, and someone had fetched him some-thing to drink. Evidently no one fathomed the queen would come into the kitchens again, for no one so much as looked her way until Harry Carey, who escorted her with Cecil, cleared his throat.
Amidst a gasp or two and quick bows, the place went so silent she could hear something bubbling in its kettle on the nearby hearth. Only Master Thatcher could not bow; Elizabeth’s gaze snagged his before his eyes widened. His face was wrinkled and ruddy, perhaps from being out in the cold all the way from Wimbledon.
“This is your queen, Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth,” Harry announced to the old man, “come calling with her condolences.”
“Majesty,”
“Stop riddling, for I’ve had enough of that.”
“Hodge Thatcher’s crippled father, Wills, has been brought clear from Wimbledon on a cart with nail-studded wheels on the edge of the frozen river. It seems Roger Stout sent him a message of his son’s sad demise.”
“Why should I see him, the bitter man? Or do you mean he’s asking for his son’s body?”
“I’m afraid so. He’s broken, grieving. Somehow the two men who brought him carried him into the corner of the hall back there,” Cecil said, nodding toward the screened entry to the kitchens, “where he saw the mystery play being performed. But the thing is, he says he sent word to a friend visiting London who used to live in Wimbledon. He asked this friend to go tell Hodge in person that he regretted that cruel note he sent—the one we evidently read last night.”
“Wait,” she said, gripping Cecil’s sinewy wrist “You're saying Hodge was to have a visitor sent by his father, a man who might have arrived the afternoon he was killed and so could know some-thing about his death?”
“That’s it, though neither you nor Ned Topside will want to hear the visitor’s name,” Cecil said, raising his voice to be heard over applause.
“What does Ned have to do with that—or I, either?”
Cecil nodded toward the kitchen entry again. “It seems Hodge’s visitor is the angel in the play. Hodge’s father thought Giles Chatam was playing at an inn and was surprised to see him here at court, but there you are—perhaps a witness, a fallen angel fallen right in our lap.”
She did not laugh at his wordplay as her mind raced. “Then, too, the visitor could have killed Hodge,” she muttered, smacking her hands into her skirts. “I’ll see this Wills Thatcher now,” she added, starting toward the kitchen entrance, “and then the bright and shining Master Chatam after he ascends back into heaven in this mystery play.”
Chapter the Sixth
Mulled Cider
For the universal benefit and general improvement of our country, our love for cider shows the Englishman’s favoring of wholesome, natural drinks, even in a prference to the best beer from hops. To make, put 12 cups Kent cider in a large pan or kettle, add 1½ teaspoons whole cloves, 1½ teaspoons whole allspice, 6 sticks of cinnamon, and 1½ cups of brown sugar. Add 1 bottle of fermented cider, which can be strengthened also by freezing. Bring to a boil, stirring gently to dissolve the sugar. Simmer for a quarter hour to blend flavors, then discard spices. If possible, serve in heated pewter tankards. Makes at least 18 drinks. If served at holiday time, include slices of apples and a piece of toasted bread and drink the toast!
THE QUEEN SAW THAT WILLS THATCHER LAY ON A PALLET in the privy kitchen, his paralyzed legs draped with a woolen blanket. His carriers had put him on a work-table, so that he was easier to see and hear or to keep him off the cold flagstones. Her master cook, Roger Stout, spoke with the wizened old man, and someone had fetched him some-thing to drink. Evidently no one fathomed the queen would come into the kitchens again, for no one so much as looked her way until Harry Carey, who escorted her with Cecil, cleared his throat.
Amidst a gasp or two and quick bows, the place went so silent she could hear something bubbling in its kettle on the nearby hearth. Only Master Thatcher could not bow; Elizabeth’s gaze snagged his before his eyes widened. His face was wrinkled and ruddy, perhaps from being out in the cold all the way from Wimbledon.
“This is your queen, Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth,” Harry announced to the old man, “come calling with her condolences.”
“Majesty,”
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