Wills gasped, raising himself on one elbow in an attempt to roll into some sort of bow. He lowered his gaze, yet when he looked up again, his eyes were wide as platters. “I—you, here?”
“Whatever you thought of your son Hodge’s trade, Master Thatcher,” Elizabeth said, loudly enough for all to hear, “he was of good cheer and of much service to me. And he was most loyal. Should I thank you for teaching him those fine traits?”
“I—Majesty—I heard he died. Since then I regretted each hard word ’tween him and me, I did.”
“So it took losing him to make you love him?” she asked.
“More like, it took Christmas, Majesty, my first one alone. I rue each day I didn’t take pride in my boy. Aye, it’s too late to say so to him. But I come for his body now, to bury him at home, near as I can get him to his mother’s grave, though he’ll have to lie in unhallowed ground, a suicide.”
Elizabeth’s eyes met Master Stout’s; few yet had heard that Hodge had been murdered or that his earthly remains were now burned bones and teeth Jenks had raked together and put in a small wooden box. Stout knew these things but had evidently not yet told Master Thatcher.
“Leave us now, all of you but Secretary Cecil and Baron Hunsdon,” she commanded quietly. “Master Stout, see that the men who came from Wimbledon with Master Thatcher have hot cider.”
When the kitchen was quiet and Wills Thatcher, propped yet on his elbow to turn her way, waited, she told him, “Several things I must say about your son, and ask that you keep these confidences—and steady yourself for a shock.” Looking astounded, he nodded.
“Firstly, Hodge did not kill himself over your harsh note, though he did read it. Indeed, he did not kill himself at all.”
“He—ill, or his heart failed? At his age?”
“The thing is, you see, you must not blame yourself for causing his death. Hodge did not die by his own hand. I regret to inform you that your son was murdered, why and by whom we do not know, but I—my people—will discover.”
The old man sank back flat on his pallet. He sucked in a ragged breath and stared straight up at the lofty, soot-stained ceiling. Tears tracked from his eyes, but she sensed he was both relieved and grieved.
“Forgive me for asking such a thing now,” she went on, trying to keep her voice controlled, “but Giles Chatam from Wimbledon—you and Hodge knew him, and you sent him to your son?”
She waited while he composed himself. He struggled to sit, so Cecil and Harry stepped forward from the shadows to help him off the table and into the only chair. Elizabeth sat on a bench facing him. Again, the old man looked stunned at her proximity.
“Aye,” he whispered at last, after a swig of the mulled cider Cecil fetched him. “Friend of the family, Giles’s parents were. His father a glover, kept the whole town in gloves.” Wills sniffed hard, took another sip of cider, and went on, “I thatched their house, and the lads ran about together for years. Both of them had a fanciful side I could never fathom…”
“Take your time, Master Thatcher. So Hodge and Giles were longtime friends?”
“Aye, 'cept when they both fancied the same girl. Had a bad row over that, and she up and wed someone else. Then Giles’s parents perished in a house fire—don’t know how it started middle of the night.”
“A fire? His parents were trapped and died in a fire, but he was safe?”
“He got out somehow, that’s all. Took it terrible they were both lost in the blaze, he did.”
Elizabeth looked at Cecil, but he merely raised his eyebrows; Harry remained unmoved, but she didn’t expect him to follow all this as her brilliant secretary evidently had. Besides, Harry had not almost been roasted alive last night.
“Go on, please, Master Thatcher,” she urged.
“After the fire, we took Giles in for a few years. Hodge had already gone to make his fortune in London. Then Giles left with that acting
“Whatever you thought of your son Hodge’s trade, Master Thatcher,” Elizabeth said, loudly enough for all to hear, “he was of good cheer and of much service to me. And he was most loyal. Should I thank you for teaching him those fine traits?”
“I—Majesty—I heard he died. Since then I regretted each hard word ’tween him and me, I did.”
“So it took losing him to make you love him?” she asked.
“More like, it took Christmas, Majesty, my first one alone. I rue each day I didn’t take pride in my boy. Aye, it’s too late to say so to him. But I come for his body now, to bury him at home, near as I can get him to his mother’s grave, though he’ll have to lie in unhallowed ground, a suicide.”
Elizabeth’s eyes met Master Stout’s; few yet had heard that Hodge had been murdered or that his earthly remains were now burned bones and teeth Jenks had raked together and put in a small wooden box. Stout knew these things but had evidently not yet told Master Thatcher.
“Leave us now, all of you but Secretary Cecil and Baron Hunsdon,” she commanded quietly. “Master Stout, see that the men who came from Wimbledon with Master Thatcher have hot cider.”
When the kitchen was quiet and Wills Thatcher, propped yet on his elbow to turn her way, waited, she told him, “Several things I must say about your son, and ask that you keep these confidences—and steady yourself for a shock.” Looking astounded, he nodded.
“Firstly, Hodge did not kill himself over your harsh note, though he did read it. Indeed, he did not kill himself at all.”
“He—ill, or his heart failed? At his age?”
“The thing is, you see, you must not blame yourself for causing his death. Hodge did not die by his own hand. I regret to inform you that your son was murdered, why and by whom we do not know, but I—my people—will discover.”
The old man sank back flat on his pallet. He sucked in a ragged breath and stared straight up at the lofty, soot-stained ceiling. Tears tracked from his eyes, but she sensed he was both relieved and grieved.
“Forgive me for asking such a thing now,” she went on, trying to keep her voice controlled, “but Giles Chatam from Wimbledon—you and Hodge knew him, and you sent him to your son?”
She waited while he composed himself. He struggled to sit, so Cecil and Harry stepped forward from the shadows to help him off the table and into the only chair. Elizabeth sat on a bench facing him. Again, the old man looked stunned at her proximity.
“Aye,” he whispered at last, after a swig of the mulled cider Cecil fetched him. “Friend of the family, Giles’s parents were. His father a glover, kept the whole town in gloves.” Wills sniffed hard, took another sip of cider, and went on, “I thatched their house, and the lads ran about together for years. Both of them had a fanciful side I could never fathom…”
“Take your time, Master Thatcher. So Hodge and Giles were longtime friends?”
“Aye, 'cept when they both fancied the same girl. Had a bad row over that, and she up and wed someone else. Then Giles’s parents perished in a house fire—don’t know how it started middle of the night.”
“A fire? His parents were trapped and died in a fire, but he was safe?”
“He got out somehow, that’s all. Took it terrible they were both lost in the blaze, he did.”
Elizabeth looked at Cecil, but he merely raised his eyebrows; Harry remained unmoved, but she didn’t expect him to follow all this as her brilliant secretary evidently had. Besides, Harry had not almost been roasted alive last night.
“Go on, please, Master Thatcher,” she urged.
“After the fire, we took Giles in for a few years. Hodge had already gone to make his fortune in London. Then Giles left with that acting
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