The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [42]
Thomas decided not to pursue the subject. “Well, I’m glad he’s expecting trouble. Maybe he’ll catch the joker.”
“Or vice versa.”
“Stop giving out mysterious hints,” Thomas snapped. “Is there something you want me to do? What can we do? Shall we tackle Sir Richard once more again about the letter?”
“No. I don’t think the letter is important now.” Jacqueline drifted toward the door. “I’ve got to get dressed.”
“What in?” Thomas asked curiously.
“Just a little thing I whipped up.” Jacqueline turned her head and smiled at him over her shoulder. “If I do join the society, Thomas, I’ll join the American branch.”
Whereupon she departed, leaving Thomas to ponder this most mysterious hint of all. After some minutes of fruitless cogitation he rang for another whiskey and soda.
Suitably refreshed, he turned to the matter of his costume. He had tried it on before, so he knew its intricacies, which were not many. There were no points to be tied—how the Hades did one tie a point, anyway?—no elaborate ruffs to be adjusted or tights to be smoothed over the legs. The outfit was surprisingly comfortable. Giving his fur-trimmed skirts a tentative kick, Thomas wondered why women were so determined to get into trousers. Skirts gave a feeling of freedom, a lack of constriction…. He tripped, caught hold of a chair, and untangled his shoe from the hem of the garment. Of course it was rather difficult to do anything in skirts. They were suitable only for a leisured progress, a lounging, deliberate pace. The men of the fifteenth century didn’t go to war in their elaborate robes. Romans wore the toga only on state occasions.
Meditating on costume, a subject he knew very little about, Thomas draped a heavy gold chain across his shoulders and studied the effect. Very nice. Too bad that men of his generation couldn’t wear jewelry; it was a human impulse to like glitter and bright jewels. Only in the last century had men been deprived of their peacock habits and forced into somber blacks and grays. Pepys had gloated over his gold-trimmed cloak; the cavaliers had swaggered in plumes and velvet, in lace collars and crimson satin breeches.
Thomas added another chain, studied his reflection complacently, and went on reassuring himself. Tutankhamen’s jewel boxes had bulged. Roman generals wore golden armor. D’Artagnan flaunted the queen’s diamond ring and Porthos his embroidered cloak; male dress uniform, even now, sparkled and shone and dazzled the eye with primary colors. Maybe, Thomas thought musingly, that was what was wrong with the older generation today. Repressing their natural tendencies in order to conform to some neurotic notion of propriety…. Thomas put rings on six of his ten fingers and viewed the posturing image in the mirror with complete satisfaction.
From the shadowy depths the Duke of Clarence looked back at him. Long fair hair flowed from under a gilt coronet. Jewels winked in miniature bursts of color. Velvet smoldered richly; ermined bands stood out like streaks of snow. One ringed hand rested lightly on the hilt of a jeweled dagger.
Thomas felt a small shock. He had not been aware of reaching for the dagger. Odd, how atavistic memories lingered. The hilt had felt right, somehow.
The dagger was a compromise between the sword Thomas secretly yearned to wear and his knowledge that such a weapon would have been inappropriate with court costume. He didn’t think the dagger was out of character. The Duke of Clarence had been a sneaky devil, who suffered—with justification—from feelings of persecution.
The first warning bell echoed down the corridor. Thomas adjusted his coronet and smoothed the long flaxen locks that fell to his shoulders. The wig was the only part of the costume that made him self-conscious, but it would have spoiled the effect to omit it. He turned from the mirror. He had ten